Not all of them who wore the red beret had run the gauntlet, though it seemed like Isaev had forgotten.
Kassian tried, briefly, to picture himself doing so and found both utterly ridiculous and...painful. Shameful. Well-nigh unbearable. He found that his jaw clenched just at the thought.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out, willing himself to relax. In his mind, he hadn't really earned the right to force Borishnakov to make a spectacle of himself. He hung back, certain that Charushkin and the other one, or someone else, would gladly step up to the occasion.
While he might be drunk enough to make advances on Isaev - though there was still a part of him that couldn't quite believe he had - he wasn't that drunk.
He wondered if it would be easier, if he were a younger man, born twenty years later, the same age as the others. Kassian tried to picture it, but he just couldn't.
Twenty years ago, he'd been in the war. He'd killed men. Been wounded. Watched comrades die by the hundreds. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.
It was a bleak and distant place in his mind, one he thought about only rarely. There was no point. He had fought, and others had died. He hadn't. End of story.
But like an old scar, it pulled at times. Inflamed to the point he noticed.
It made him different than these men, a gap that had nothing to do with age.
Kassian eyed Isaev. As much as attention naturally flowed away from Kassian, as if reflected by his avoidant will, it flowed toward Lieutenant Isaev, like the draw of a sun.
Everyone's friend, he thought.
He wondered what he'd been thinking earlier, but stopped short of having second thoughts. He'd made his choice, and he'd staked his claim. Maybe it was too reckless.
It had taken him months to get close to Vitya, but then again, that was after a lifetime of near-solitude. Seven years passed, and now this thing with Isaev had happened in a day. What did it mean?
Kassian sighed inwardly. If he was sure of one thing, it was that he did not know.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-09-23 03:27 am (UTC)Not all of them who wore the red beret had run the gauntlet, though it seemed like Isaev had forgotten.
Kassian tried, briefly, to picture himself doing so and found both utterly ridiculous and...painful. Shameful. Well-nigh unbearable. He found that his jaw clenched just at the thought.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out, willing himself to relax. In his mind, he hadn't really earned the right to force Borishnakov to make a spectacle of himself. He hung back, certain that Charushkin and the other one, or someone else, would gladly step up to the occasion.
While he might be drunk enough to make advances on Isaev - though there was still a part of him that couldn't quite believe he had - he wasn't that drunk.
He wondered if it would be easier, if he were a younger man, born twenty years later, the same age as the others. Kassian tried to picture it, but he just couldn't.
Twenty years ago, he'd been in the war. He'd killed men. Been wounded. Watched comrades die by the hundreds. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.
It was a bleak and distant place in his mind, one he thought about only rarely. There was no point. He had fought, and others had died. He hadn't. End of story.
But like an old scar, it pulled at times. Inflamed to the point he noticed.
It made him different than these men, a gap that had nothing to do with age.
Kassian eyed Isaev. As much as attention naturally flowed away from Kassian, as if reflected by his avoidant will, it flowed toward Lieutenant Isaev, like the draw of a sun.
Everyone's friend, he thought.
He wondered what he'd been thinking earlier, but stopped short of having second thoughts. He'd made his choice, and he'd staked his claim. Maybe it was too reckless.
It had taken him months to get close to Vitya, but then again, that was after a lifetime of near-solitude. Seven years passed, and now this thing with Isaev had happened in a day. What did it mean?
Kassian sighed inwardly. If he was sure of one thing, it was that he did not know.