Trying to regather his thoughts was like putting the ephemeral fluff back on a dandelion.
Andrei felt the Captain's hands clutch into his sleeves and the flesh beneath, felt the sniper's brow, warm and solid against his own, the heavily bossed ridge of bone above his eyes bespeaking his maturity, like a second year dog.
And Irinarhov's body was actually shaking; shaking- after all that impassivity, when all day he'd been making Andrei wonder how a stone statue could actually walk.
Excuse me, Captain, but how does a man of granite fire a Mosin-Nagant, anyway?
Andrei was aware of how inauspicious it would look, should anyone enter the room- himself, collapsed back against the lockers with his smartly uniformed legs braced apart, and the sullen, suspicious new Captain, holding him as tenderly as a woman, for the sake of fucking-your-mother.
All right, he allowed, not like a woman.
No, there was nothing remotely feminine about Irinarhov's gentle grasp, which hinted constantly at the strength behind it, nor his heavy, low breath against Andrei's throat, nor the scent of him, fresh sweat and cordite, with a slight musky cigar-sweetness.
"I don't understand," Andrei said, lifting his head away from Irinarhov's, looking him artlessly in the eyes.
He touched two fingers to his mouth, which was well-kissed and flushed, but not bruised or swollen. The hallmarks of passion, to him, were obvious. They were brands of need and urgency, written on skin by the instruments of ardor.
When you were soft with a comrade, it was because you were lazy, or feeling particularly affectionate, like half-grown cubs in a wolfpack, nibbling at ears, forgoing the mischievous teeth of rougher play.
"I don't get kissed like that very often," he remarked, vaguely.
It was the last thing he would have anticipated from a man like Irinarhov.
Someone so damaged, where did he come by this approach, which smacked of...romance and devotion?
Andrei smiled, confusedly, a crooked twist of his full mouth that was meant to be disarming and open.
"You're a contradiction in every way, Captain Irinarhov. I trace your lines again and again, and I can't make sense of them. And I'm no shoddy student of man."
He hesitated, letting his hand find the Captain's hair, his arm wrapping around him loosely.
"Where do you squirrel away that naivety, comrade?" he asked, frowning. "How is it it's still intact?"
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Andrei felt the Captain's hands clutch into his sleeves and the flesh beneath, felt the sniper's brow, warm and solid against his own, the heavily bossed ridge of bone above his eyes bespeaking his maturity, like a second year dog.
And Irinarhov's body was actually shaking; shaking- after all that impassivity, when all day he'd been making Andrei wonder how a stone statue could actually walk.
Excuse me, Captain, but how does a man of granite fire a Mosin-Nagant, anyway?
Andrei was aware of how inauspicious it would look, should anyone enter the room- himself, collapsed back against the lockers with his smartly uniformed legs braced apart, and the sullen, suspicious new Captain, holding him as tenderly as a woman, for the sake of fucking-your-mother.
All right, he allowed, not like a woman.
No, there was nothing remotely feminine about Irinarhov's gentle grasp, which hinted constantly at the strength behind it, nor his heavy, low breath against Andrei's throat, nor the scent of him, fresh sweat and cordite, with a slight musky cigar-sweetness.
"I don't understand," Andrei said, lifting his head away from Irinarhov's, looking him artlessly in the eyes.
He touched two fingers to his mouth, which was well-kissed and flushed, but not bruised or swollen. The hallmarks of passion, to him, were obvious. They were brands of need and urgency, written on skin by the instruments of ardor.
When you were soft with a comrade, it was because you were lazy, or feeling particularly affectionate, like half-grown cubs in a wolfpack, nibbling at ears, forgoing the mischievous teeth of rougher play.
"I don't get kissed like that very often," he remarked, vaguely.
It was the last thing he would have anticipated from a man like Irinarhov.
Someone so damaged, where did he come by this approach, which smacked of...romance and devotion?
Andrei smiled, confusedly, a crooked twist of his full mouth that was meant to be disarming and open.
"You're a contradiction in every way, Captain Irinarhov. I trace your lines again and again, and I can't make sense of them. And I'm no shoddy student of man."
He hesitated, letting his hand find the Captain's hair, his arm wrapping around him loosely.
"Where do you squirrel away that naivety, comrade?" he asked, frowning. "How is it it's still intact?"