The Groznyj Grad Living Novel

Andrei glanced up, grinning at the sound of Sergei's voice.

"God love your fucking mother, Sasha. Have I told you lately how much fucking unbounded joy you bring me, bratanya?"

It was true. He did adore Sasha. Never a bad fucking thought, never a dark moment. The kid was a rare breed indeed.

Isaev identified with Sasha on several subtle levels- mostly on the front of outlook. Perhaps they weren't exactly the same- Sergei was a doe-eyed idealist, Andrei at best a skeptical opimist- but they shared an instinctive propensity for shunning the more self-sabotistic elements in Russian life, including fatalism and drink.

Yes, he was a cynic. He was prone to playfully sardonic observations.

But cynicism was not fatalism, in Andrei's view, especially if even your cynicism was something to be cynical about, and ultimately at the mercy of good humor.

Much like Gurlukovich, Andrei was not particularly fond of being inebriated. No one ever noticed how little he actually imbibed; he'd learned well at political parties in the shadow of his father, how you always kept your liquor in check, while maintaining the illusion that you were matching your companions drink for drink.

Then you could drink them under the table...and into disadvantage. It was a parlor trick, but one that required charisma and extroversion to pull off. Sleight of hand and mouth.

There was no need to put anyone at disadvantage here, Ilya had pointed out, when he'd wryly confessed his perfidy one night.

You hate not being in control of yourself, Ilya had said. It's not about anyone else.

It was true, he didn't. He had to hand it to Imanov, that degree he'd nearly earned was not useless.

Sergei, on the other hand, was probably light handed with his liquor for more ingenuous and altruistic reasons.

While on some level Andrei would have liked to have had the luxury of innocence, with his whole mind he adored the satisfaction of Knowing. So he vicariously enjoyed Sergei, and made every effort to ensure that nothing blighted his innocence too badly or abruptly.

"You take them, Sasha," he said, nodding. "You set everything up. I don't want this poor bastard to get held up waiting for me to change." He grinned obscurely. "Besides, we wouldn't want to keep the Major waiting."

And I don't mean Ocelot, he thought, wryly.

"You know how impatient he gets," he laughed, turning back as he reached for his uniform where it hung over the locker door. "I'll be along, right behind you."

As he pulled on and belted his breeches, he noticed Matvei, approaching Irinarhov obliquely, a certain look on his face.

Andrei frowned.

It wasn't exactly unusual for his friend to be pleasant with comrades, but...Matvei had made it clear in no uncertain terms that Irinarhov was not a comrade of his, not until he earned it.

Much as he disliked mistrusting a brother, he couldn't help but think Charushkin had ulterior motives.

However, they were unknown to him, so there was nothing for it.

His eyes narrowed briefly as they cast over Matvei, but then he shrugged and turned back to his locker, flipping the long ends of his hair out from under the neck of his shirt before he began buttoning it.

Irinarhov could take care of himself. Andrei shook his head, ruefully.

He had no idea why he felt so compelled to protect someone so much older and wiser.

It seemed ridiculous, now, as he thought of it.

The Captain had been through a lot of shit. He could handle the likes of Matvei Antonovich.

Irinarhov told Matvei to go on ahead, and Andrei grinned to himself.

That's right, he thought, you'll catch up to him. Make him wait for you. He's not your commanding officer.