Weapons Practice

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian managed to keep his expression composed, though he was fairly sure that Isaev's seemingly-casual words were another innuendo.

Isaev was good at that.

Among other things.

He nodded, to Ocelot first, then Isaev. "That sounds good," he said, then saluted the Major briefly before taking his leave. Isaev followed.

As they walked to the north artillery range, boots crunching in the gravel, Kassian glanced at the young lieutenant sidelong. It had only been yesterday morning, when they'd been at the range, practicing. He recalled the way Isaev had watched him.

It felt like a lot of things had happened since then.

Sleep had barely been one of them.

Kassian wondered, briefly, if he was too old to be doing this. An affair with a hot-blooded young officer had not really been on his agenda when he'd arrived here not even two days ago.

Ill-advised, perhaps. Or even reckless. But part of him didn't care. There had been too few good things in a life whose canvas had been painted in blood and shrouded by loss.

This was a good thing, and Kassian felt willing to let himself enjoy it, until...

...

He let his mind skip over that part.

They arrived at the range and headed to the lanes. "All right," Kassian said as he looked down their lane, automatically judging the distance. "Before we start, you should know I'm not very good at this."

Comments

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei stood quietly, listening. Irinarhov's voice was low and soothing, but not intentionally so. He was just speaking from experience, with thought, careful to get the words right.

His hands were warm and strangely uncallused, likely because he spent all his time waiting for a single shot, and not firing rounds all day. They had a lot of tensile strength, though narrow and artful, and not the workmanlike hands he would have expected from a gritty career field killer.

Artists' hands, Andrei thought, but it was fleeting, as he was engrossed in the Captain's words. His voice was almost mesmerizing. Isaev was beginning to feel very warm and relaxed, and his lips lost all their tension.

His concern over his slip of the tongue seemed irrelevant now, in this state of tranquility.

As Irinarhov touched his palm, he shivered, and didn't restrain the response. The Captain's words were erotic, no question, his voice and the slow, deliberate caress of his hands more so still.

But Irinarhov wasn't trying to stir his blood, he was trying to teach him something. Andrei willfully focused on the pleasant sensations and ignored the steady pulse of chemistry, twitching between them like an underground river.

It all made sense until the end.

Andrei frowned, but kept his eyes closed. He was very aware of a slight silence after the Captain's last words. He felt Irinarhov's finger tracing figures against the sensitive underside of his thumb.

"I don't think I know what you mean, comrade," Isaev said, hesitantly, with a slight smile. "By making love."

Had he been soft with comrades? Of course...but sex was sex. No matter how much affection there was after the fact. Khui, even if you kissed a comrade, even if you kissed him when you were done and you didn't have to. Or...what? The closest thing he could think of, was that time when Ilya was ripping drunk. He'd whispered words Isaev knew he hadn't meant while they lay in a bunk together, lips pressed against Andrei's cheek, stroking his hair with absent fingers.

That had felt...different.

But Ilya had been out of his gourd, and Andrei doubted he remembered a moment of it.

"I don't think I have."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian murmured, a slight noise of encouragement.

"It's not something that happens every day, comrade," he said, quietly. "Or with just anyone. Or even immediately, between lovers. It takes time, and experience, but it's something that can be learned."

He let go of Isaev's hand with a final caress, and began to work on the other.

"Just like shooting. You're not born with a gun in your hand. Unless you're Major Ocelot, I suppose. But it's something that if you take the time to feel, to let yourself experience, and try to listen to both the gun and yourself, you'll start to learn. It's like starting to pick up on the nuances of a language that you already know how to speak. The understanding is deeper. Fuller."

Finally, he shrugged and opened his eyes. Isaev's face looked serene, he thought, nearly angelic. Demurely lowered lashes and slightly parted lips, cheeks rosy from the cold.

Andrei Isaev was a beautiful man, Kassian thought, and not for the first time.

Kassian dropped his gaze, lest he be caught staring into Isaev's face like a pining schoolgirl.

He released the final pressure point on Isaev's palm. The lieutenant's hands had relaxed nicely and felt supple underneath his fingers.

"Try it," he said, covering Isaev's hands his own. "Take your gun out again. But don't worry about firing it right away. Just hold it. Like a lover, comrade. I'll help you, if you want."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Irinarhov hadn't said to open his eyes, so Andrei assumed it wasn't essential. His hand dropped to his holster and retrieved the pistol, slipping his finger into the triggerguard and wrapping his hands around the stock.

It felt sure and cool, less unyielding somehow. That was what Irinarhov had wanted, he thought. For him to relax and feel the weapon like part of him.

"All right, Kasya," he intoned, gamely. "Guide me. Show me how you do it."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Without another word, Kassian gently guided Isaev. He pointed him in the direction of the target, then stepped close.

Their difference in height made Kassian too slight to be able to stand fully behind Isaev while guiding his hands, so he pressed against his side instead.

Covering Isaev's broad hands with his more slender ones, he gently threaded his fingers.

In small increments, he guided Isaev's hands over the gun with slow, gradual motions.

Nothing to imbalance, or endanger.

Nothing that would belie the weapon's deadliness, or make it seem a toy.

No, he showed Isaev what he loved about guns, the power and the deadly strength. His fingers guided Isaev's to the shark's fin point of the bladed front sight, then down to the generous bowcurve of the trigger guard. He brushed Isaev's thumb against the Red Army star decorating the grip panel, and traced the narrowing line of the muzzle.

The Makarov was a solid, reliable weapon. Elegant, in its simplicity. Even Kassian, who usually had as little to do with handguns as possible, began to feel a kinship with the handgun.

Finally, he let go, though he stroked his hands up Isaev's forearms in parting.

A man's relationship with his weapon, Kassian felt, was ultimately only between himself and the gun.

Kassian pulled away slightly, to let Isaev focus, but he laid a hand on Isaev's back, just once, to let Isaev know he was close.

"When you're ready," he murmured, "open your eyes, and shoot."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei felt the Captain's hands leave him.

He took a breath and his eyes swept open. He sighted quickly and instinctively.

Don't deliberate, Irinarhov had said.

He caressed the trigger slowly and squeezed with a slide of his finger.

He heard the hammer strike, the report, but didn't even try to gauge where it struck.

"That felt good," he said, quietly, rubbing the muzzle absently. "Natural."

There had been no second-guessing, no re-sighting.

He pulled off his beret and hung it on a freestanding nail. The wind ruffled his hair, and it felt liberating, for a moment.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

"Good," he told Isaev with approval. "That's exactly the way it should be."

He felt the impulse to reach out and touch him.

Just a simple touch, on the back of Isaev's arm, or perhaps his elbow. Or, if they could have been assured they would be unseen, he would have probably run a hand through that thick sheaf of hair.

But he did not. At this point, it would be a distraction. So he simply learned back against the wall, relaxed and satisfied, and watched Isaev shoot.

That hadn't been so bad, he thought. As unconventional as the lesson had been, he thought it had made a difference. The rest would come with time.

Kassian removed his own beret, and ran a hand through his hair.

Isaev was right: he did need a haircut.

Briefly, Kassian's mouth tugged back into a smile.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

After a few minutes of targeting, Andrei turned back to the sniper, setting down his spent Makarov without reloading at once.

"See?" he said with a lopsided smile. "You're a great mentor. If anyone failed to improve under your instruction, they have only themselves to blame."

He crossed back toward Irinarhov and braced his hands against the wood planks of the shooting shed, caging him casually against the wall. He didn't press in, didn't violate the Captain's territory, though he could have, and he doubted anyone would be observing.

The artillery range was deserted at midday, with no scheduled training or practice times, and soldiers heading to mess.

"Especially if you used the technique you used just now with me."

Isaev let his eyes look the man over, slowly, curiously.

Irinarhov's hair was still black, or at least very dark. The silvering at his temples did not overwhelm that. It was tousled in spurs and burls that attracted Andrei's attention strangely, and made him want to coil it around his fingers. Kassian had a handsome, well-worn look. Something like a favored novel, whose cachet increases with age and patina, as the leather rubs smooth and shines in places, and little nicks add their dimension.

Isaev frowned, cupping Irinarhov's jaw to lift it. His thumb eased over the rise of the Captain's cheek and gently stroked at the slight crow's feet that fanned faintly outward from the corner of his mica-dark eye.

Weathered, his skin, from elements and events. Darkened slightly by the hot sun of summers past that would never fade, roughened edges at each feature. The peculiar alchemy of life had minted him in the intractable gunmetal steel of experience and hard-won survival, instead of sleek and fallible silver of a well-fed, well-bred young officer.

The slight stubble that stained his face was fresh, had grown in since that morning.

Andrei let his hand wrap around Irinarhov's throat, feeling his pulse, steady and unapologetic against his palm.

"Age will not wither him," he murmured absently. "Nor custom stale his infinite variety."

The Captain seemed to be settling into the squad with the same ease he employed in becoming part of the brush. He seemed tolerant of his brother Ocelots, despite their bombast and ego, perhaps even growing fond. Young bastards all, and yet, Kassian Irinarhov had been a young bastard once.

"I wonder," Isaev said, slowly, "What we would have made of each other, had you met me when you were my age."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian felt comfortable in Isaev's proximity, which still surprised him. Usually, he preferred distance from his comrades and rarely touched them, nor did he like to be touched.

Somehow, it meant too much.

But the lieutenant's bare hand on his neck and the close press of arm against chest felt strangely relaxing and natural.

He tilted his head to look up into Isaev's young face, wondering what it was about him.

"I don't know," he said, thoughtfully. Kassian paused for a few moments, thinking. "When I was your age, the war was just ending. Those weren't good times."

His gaze went more distant and searching, settling at a spot over Isaev's shoulder.

"I might not have even noticed you, and if you'd made advances..." He shook his head. "I think you would have startled me."

It was strange to think of it in such a way, to divorce himself from his past. To think of himself a somehow independent of the actual events that had happened to him. An Odysseus, lost and struggling to return home.

Mouth twitching, Kassian met Isaev's luminous gaze once more. "I wasn't always this talkative and outgoing, you know," he said, dark eyes gleaming. He reached out and slipped a hand around Isaev's side, where it seemed to fit naturally. It wasn't the worst thing that a hapless passer-by could accidentally notice, after all.

"I used to be quiet, believe it or not." He smirked and let his thumb idly rub Isaev's side. "I even kept to myself."

Even with the hyperbole, Kassian knew he was portraying his younger self as a shy young man, tentative and hesitant from lack of experience.

The truth was deeper.

He'd carried a pain then that had burned at his core, and made him at turns violent and headstrong. Unwilling to interact with others, lest he lash out.

It had mellowed with age, of course, though he knew it coiled within him still.

Isaev must have seen something in his gaze because his brows pulled together in question.

"I was angry," he explained, but left it at that.

There were some things he just didn't like to dwell on.

Shaking his head, he nudged Isaev fondly. "Seriously, Lieutenant, I wouldn't have known what to do with you then. You're already a handful now. But..." He trailed off, and let himself reach up to run his fingers through Isaev's spun-silk hair. "I'm glad we met, nonetheless."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Isaev turned into the caress indolently, like a lion, but kept his eyes riveted on Irinarhov.

"I would have tormented you," Andrei said, solemnly.

The man's glancing touch on his side was confusing and pleasant. He couldn't decide whether to take it as the quietly adoring affection of an older brother or the restrained caress of a lover. Everything about Irinarhov felt stolen, somehow, like something he'd never been meant to have.

"Whether or not I intended to," Andrei added darkly, running his thumb along the slight ridges of the Captain's larynx, the delicate, vulnerable place. "And I would have probably wound up with a black eye. Or a bullet in my head, if what you say about yourself is true."

It was true. A younger Kassian Irinarhov would have caught his eye as someone who needed a sound fucking-with. A sullen little prick with a chip on his shoulder, resistant to his charms. It could have been an ugly hostility between them.

Andrei gave a gentle squeeze, feeling the taut muscles that flanked Irinarhov's throat,

"What were you so angry about, Kassian Irinarhov?" he asked quietly. "And where did it go?"

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

"I don't think it's gone," Kassian murmured.

Deliberately, he closed his eyes.

His blood stirred a little as Isaev stroked his throat. The tensile strength in Isaev's fingers sent a small thrill through him. Those broad hands were so strong. Kassian had no doubt that Isaev could kill a man, crush his larynx, simply by squeezing.

The brutality of it was interesting, a marked contrast from the surgical precision of a bullet.

Kassian decided that, someday, he'd like to see Isaev kill a man with only his bare hands.

He tilted his head back, to expose his throat fully.

"It just wore away a little, over time," he told Isaev. "Like a stone in the sea."

Shrugging, he continued to let his touch linger at Isaev's hip. "The war..." he started to say, but fell silent after a moment.

It was actually much more than the just the war, though that was a large part of it.

His father. The war. The needless deaths. The cruelty. The things he had done, the things that were done to him.

The people who had died.

The people that should have.

The paths not taken.

The paths that were stolen.

The opportunities that were forever lost.

Kassian was not a man who dwelled on regret, however. In most things, he simply accepted what was, and then moved on.

"A lot of things made me angry," he finally said, after a silence. "Too many things, really. But in the end, I knew they could rule me, so I just decided not to let them have that power."

And for him, it had been as simple as that. An act of will, a set-in-stone decision. After deciding, he had just lived his life according to the way he'd chosen.

It was something of a matter of ego that he thought he could control his fate merely by controlling himself.

The strange thing was that it usually tended to work.

Though not always.

There were exceptions.

Like in Isaev's case, who had somehow defied his self-imposed rules.

Though he really wasn't too broken up over that one.

"I wouldn't have killed you for tormenting me, Isaev," he said, as an afterthought. "You might have gotten me mad enough to punch you, sure, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "Back then, I reserved bullets in the head for much worse things."

He opened his eyes and met Isaev's liquid gaze, his own steady, and somber.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei liked the throb of Irinarhov's pulse under his fingers. It was steady and resolute, like the man himself. It made him want to change it, make it race. Not still it.

"I think your anger would have excited me," he murmured. "We might have had a good fistfight."

But even as he said it, he wondered about the source of Kassian's fury.

"Maybe we should practice," he breathed, softly, exploring the length of the throat he was offered with his palm, and then, without even thinking, his mouth. "You may wind up hating me some day, Kasya."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

And then, just like that, Kassian was hard.

He might as well be twenty, given the rate at which things were going.

There had always been something about Isaev's insolence and his baited, heated words that got to Kassian on a primal level, and triggered his fight-or-fuck instinct.

He didn't even know what it was about Isaev, or why, but he was starting to like it.

A lot.

Kassian reached out to lock his hand around the back of Isaev's neck, arching his throat against that warm mouth, not really caring right then who might see.

"Why is that, Isaev?" His words turned low, near harsh. "Are you planning to break my heart?"

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

"Are you planning to give it to me?" whispered Isaev, laughing softly.

His stance was wide-set as he leaned in, pressing the Captain up against the wall.

He had no intentions of doing anything to Irinarhov but this.

Andrei's lips moved over the rough skin of Irinarhov's throat, the mount of his adam's apple.

"You know I would never betray a comrade," he murmured. "Especially not a comrade Ocelot."

Irinarhov had been trying to get a rise out of him, almost certainly. Mocking him, and that was fair play.

Isaev let his forearm lay flat against the wall, shoving his knee between Irinarhov's thighs, and now there would be no explaining their proximity to anyone who happened to blunder in. And it wouldn't need explaining.

"You won't ever hate me for anything I do to you," Andrei hissed smoothly. "I promise you that much."

I was angry.

Like the men Andrei had seen all his life, from the backseat window of his father's black car. It was a justified anger, but no less black for the fact. No less violent or destructive.

Isaev felt a chill of foreboding. He knew he was part of that anger- not by what he'd done, but by where he came from. Irinarhov seemed oblivious to where it came from, but Andrei had a fairly good idea. Or perhaps he was simply reticent to discuss his past. Andrei could certainly identify with him there.

He shook off thoughts of white linen tablecloths and chandeliers, carpeted walls and carved Tsarist ceilings.

He immersed himself in cold winter air and cordite, rough weathered wood and the Captain's hand fiercely cupping his neck.

The hand, he realized with a pulse of indecent arousal, that Irinarhov used to pull the trigger of his rifle. A hand that had brought death to hundreds of men.

This was reality now. Not that.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

"All right," Kassian said, voice already blurred ragged. One hand dug into Isaev's neck and the other into his back, forcing him closer. "I imagine that if I end up hating you, Lieutenant, it'll be entirely my fault."

He twisted his head to bring his mouth down to Isaev's, and kissed him with brutal need. An undercurrent of emotion surged within him, vehemence that hadn't been there last night.

Kassian didn't know if it just the talk of anger, or Isaev's goading words, or if pretense had been stripped far enough that he finally could be honest.

He dug his teeth into Isaev's lower lip, biting down hard enough to draw blood. The taste of it made him tremor.

Kassian pulled back then, and drew in a deep, harsh breath.

He searched Isaev's face with the gravity of a collapsed star.

"What are you doing to me, Dasha?" he asked, in a serrated whisper.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei staggered back, managing an uneven smile.

"Cardiopulmonary Resusitation," he murmured, breathlessly. "I think it's working."

He'd felt something subterranean, that time, like a sea monster surging beneath the placid waves of Irinarhov's persona. Startling, to touch that, even for a moment, and Isaev wasn't sure what to say.

"You should let more of that anger out," he said, after a moment, raising an eyebrow. "I can take it. Just don't ruin my face, comrade."

He tasted the coppery tint of blood.

Isaev touched two fingers to his mouth and stared at them in wonder.

"Khui, Irinarhov. You're a vicious bastard."

He shook his head, smiling ruefully.

"I guess that makes two of us."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Slowly, Kassian steadied his breathing. He ran his tongue over his lips, and found he could still taste Isaev there.

He shivered.

"I guess it does," he said, voice still strained. His gaze dropped for a few moments while he did nothing but breathe. It was like a mantra for him, breathing, a technique to help him focus.

To let the anger abate.

Now was not the time.

His chest rose and fell steadily while he sought his center. It was harder than he thought. His heart still thrummed in the cage of his chest like a slumbering beast awoken.

Finally, though, he lifted his gaze. His eyes were still dark, but now constant. "That's what I like about you," he said. His voice almost sounded normal. "One of the things, that is."

His own look turned rueful. He felt like somehow, they'd crossed an invisible border and now stood on unmapped terrain.

There was no going back, he sensed.

Though he didn't think either of them wanted that.

After a moment, Kassian reached out to catch Isaev's arm, this time gentle. He gave it a little tug, to draw Isaev toward him, if he was still willing.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei moved closer, letting himself resume some semblance of his former position, but keeping his distance from Irinarhov slightly, while his mind unwound this tangle of weaving.

He was slightly stunned by Irinarhov's abrupt pitch into brutality. It was such a departure from the quiet, smoldering man he'd been watching, but smoldering was an operative word, wasn't it, in the way that an ember could roar toward flame, given the right set of catalysts.

Given oxygen. Given fuel.

For a moment, Isaev felt the shadow of doubt cross over him.

Had it been wise, rousing the wolf through the bars of the cage?

His tongue ran over his lip, nursing it absently. It had hurt, but he adrenalin of the moment had blunted the pain, and transformed it into something like a thrill.

It had made him want to strike back, hard, but he'd checked himself. As he always did.

Holding Irinarhov's throat was one thing, even easing his fingers over the deadly strikepoints, as if to demonstrate how much care he was taking with fingers that could hurt him badly if he was inclined. That had been affection, oddly expressed. But Andrei had been warned not to tempt his conditioning, even in jest.

Or at play. Whatever twisted kind of fun they'd veered into, here, in the target shed. A game they both seemed eager to test.

Irinarhov had let Andrei touch him, without fear. Like Ilya did. Trusting him, like a comrade.

But had it been the impetus to ignite Irinarhov's timber empire? Something had kicked up long settled dust on the shallow grave of the Captain's soul.

Something had nudged the shaggy fur of slumbering lupine rage, visceral and primal, the response of an injured beast who had been vainly trying to lick its own wounds in hibernation.

It was cathartic, healthy, to give that voice and expression. Andrei knew that, and had encouraged it.

And yet, he felt uneasy somehow, at the thought that the wolf might be for him, scenting him in the air, even as it nosed his hand and licked it, absently looking around for the source of his misery, with an urge to tear its throat out.

He was the huntsman's son, after all. The puppy of the hounds that had dogged the bright young fox to the ground, and minted a steel-eyed wolf. Innocent in action, but complicit by birth.

Irinarhov didn't know that Isaev was worthy of the rage he felt. Although maybe he unconsciously saw it anyway, when he looked at Andrei. It was guilt by association, and Andrei couldn't have denied it, if Kasya had looked him in the eyes and asked, eyes dark with the Volga-deep sorrow that Isaev knew lay beneath bitterness and fury.

The fury of a wounded animal was one hundred times more profound.

The fury he'd seen before in comrades, in workers, in soldiers. And now, in the Captain. Men of his age had born the brunt of the hardest times. The CheKha, the gulags, the starvation and desolation.

Isaev had not. He'd been born with a silver star in his mouth. In the place of rage, he had only this thorned and aching empathy, and a sorrow that was too old for him.

He could never stand hunting. His father and Lasha had hunted bears and wolves. He was never there when their hunts concluded. He had gone and sat in the still, dark banya when they returned, head in his hands, eyes watering quietly without acknowledgement.

And yet it had been easy to kill a man, his first time. Andrei knew that men were not the blameless souls that animals were.

He was an assassin, a man who killed mercenaries and soldiers who asked for death and brought it themselves.

He wasn't a killer, not a real killer. Not like his father, like Illarion.

Blood on his lips, drawn in retaliation. The affronted demanding satisfaction, unwitting.

The suffering he'd seen but never been able to touch, held away from the mud and blood. Reparations.

The angry young man Kassian Irinarhov had been. Cold Mother Russia had denied her son the shelter of her arms.

"Do you want me to hold you?" Andrei asked, quietly.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

He blinked, but then shook his head slightly.

It was an odd concept, though he was struck by the offer.

His eyes searched Isaev's. He saw a new wariness in them that wasn't there before. A caution. Isaev was wondering how far he'd go. What he was capable of, maybe.

Kassian didn't fully know where his aggression had come from. Leftover things, talk of the past. Misplaced anger, perhaps.

Or maybe it was the implicit invitation in Isaev's words. The way he'd goaded Kassian.

It was as if he'd asked to see it. Like he'd given his permission.

Kassian's brows creased.

But perhaps...

...perhaps he'd gone too far. Acted too aggressively.

It had been somehow too easy.

But at the same time, he didn't feel he'd wronged Isaev. He didn't feel the need to apologize. It was just that there was something else between them now, some factor he couldn't calculate.

A sudden shift in the breeze that caused the shot to hit off center.

He drew in another breath, and then let it out. His heartbeat steadied.

Kassian still didn't know what this was between them - and it didn't help that it seemed to keep changing - but he found it compelling.

"Just...come here. I won't hurt you," he said, softly, though his gaze went to the bloodied mark on Isaev's lip. Evidence, he thought, that his words could be no more than lies.

He wondered he'd violated the trust between them.

"I won't," he repeated, even more quietly.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid of what it does to me.

"I'm afraid of hurting you, Irinarhov. That we'll destroy each other for the sheer pleasure of it."

Andrei pressed into Irinarhov, seizing his jaw in a manacle grip.

"I've bled for you, now, comrade," he murmured in a low voice.

He placed his mouth over Irinarhov's, forcing his sullen lips apart.

Tasting copper.

His hand stole down to his waist and freed his survival knife with a casual motion.

"Do you trust me?"

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian held Isaev's gaze with dark eyes, calm and unblinking.

His heart beat as steadily as it did when his finger closed on the trigger.

He found the casual brutality of Isaev's grasp actually comforting. Perhaps the constant give and take between them was no more than their mutual need to find equilibrium.

"Absolutely," he said, with a somber conviction.

His gaze edged down to Isaev's knife, but only for a moment.

He met the lieutenant's eyes once more, his gaze clear and direct.

Kassian stole his arm around Isaev's waist again, quietly possessive.

"This is what trust is, Isaev."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei paused.

"You're right," he said, after a moment.

He quietly slid the knife back into its sheath and moved his hand back to Irinarhov's shoulder.

He had intended to slice off a lock of the Captain's dark hair, for no reason he could justify, other than that it would be something to carry with him.

However, his sense came flooding back at Kassian's calm and sonorous voice.

His words, sincere.

No anger now. Had it ever been there?

Yes. The blood on his lip was proof of that.

But it had evaporated, somehow, leaving only Irinarhov's standard quiet intensity in its place. Returning to its subterranean well.

"So was I good pupil, Kassian Irinarhov?" Andrei asked, insouciantly, feeling the protective stricture of Irinarhov's arm coiled around him like a sated python.

It was pleasant, he thought. Manful and unquestioning, something he could relate to in a lover.

"Better than the last?' he said. "Or just better at pleasing my tutor?"

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

"Yes," Kassian said, thoughtfully. "Good pupils teach their instructors something, and I think I learned something today."

With his other hand, he touched Isaev's brow with the gentlest of fingertips.

He met Isaev's gaze squarely.

"I don't need anything from you other than what you can give me," he told Isaev.

Kassian spoke with all the gravity of a solemn oath sworn in the ancient stories, promises between brothers-in-arms, spouses, lovers.

He held Isaev's gaze for several beats, then ducked his head a little.

It had felt like something that needed to be said, given what had passed between them.

But once it was out, Kassian felt better. He gave a small, contented sigh and nodded, his hinted smile twitching.

"Maybe you can teach me how to be a better tutor, as well," he murmured, letting his hand drop away from Isaev's face to rest lightly against his chest. "I think the key to learning is listening. Not just to the instruction, but to...everything. Guns, people, yourself."

He let out a light snort, and shook his head. "More things you probably already know."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Isaev tilted his head, regarding Irinarhov for a moment.

"I learn things every day."

A pause, and he took hold of Kassian's scarf, pulling it idly from the neck of his field tunic and wrapping it slowly around his fist.

He tugged gently, pulling Irinarhov toward him, letting his lips hover near his ear.

"I learned some things last night, too."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian turned his head to let his lips brush against Isaev's, though he did not linger.

"Oh?" he murmured, wryly. "I'm sure that's an arena where you have much more experience than I do."

He shrugged after moment. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Kassian let his hand settle at the small of Isaev's back, savoring the warmth between them. It felt...right. Strange, given how little time had passed, but he wasn't going to fight it.

Slowly, his look turned more thoughtful. "And...tonight?" he asked, more solemn now than playful. "Will you come?"

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei surreptitiously eased his hand down Irinarhov's thigh, his thumb grazing the inside. It was a leisurely action, but loaded with intent.

"Try to keep me away," he said, in a low voice.

His lips twisted into a smile and his eyebrow raised exaggeratedly as Irinarhov's words sunk in.

"Are you calling me a whore, comrade?"

He laughed quietly.

"Or a degerate?"

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

Kassian's eyes fluttered shut at Isaev's touch, but Kassian snorted lightly at his words.

"No," he said. "I'm not calling you that. I don't say things that mean something else."

He spread his hand wide against Isaev's tailbone, and drew him closer. "Believe me, comrade," he said, voice perfectly solemn and earnest. "I appreciate your experience. All of it."

Kassian opened his eyes to regard the lieutenant, mouth quirking.

"And if you didn't come, I think I'd have to find you."

He let his head lean back against the fence, and drew in a long, slow breath. This was something he could get used to, he thought, and knew he probably had already started.

His gaze drifted up to the darkening sky.

"Looks like a storm," he murmured.

He shivered, but not from the cold.

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei laughed quietly.

"You're too smart to tease, Kassian Dmitrivich. Arguing semantics while I palm your goods."

He was right, though. The sky was darkening, and the clouds swelled overhead.

"Maybe we should get back...Although I suppose we'd be dry here."

The idea of misbehaving here in the lean-to of the range while the rain drummed down around them in torrents did appeal to his sense of aesthetic.

"We can go," he said. "If you promise, someday, to teach me something about what you do. Not just shooting, Kasya. Show me your specialty."

He paused, giving the Captain a dark smile.

"I'm speaking ballistically, of course."

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

"Shooting people in the head?" he asked, brow arching.

Kassian's look flashed equally dark, sharp and predatory, though only for a moment. Then it smoothed, tempered by ease and wryly-won humor. "I can do that, if you'll teach me about your specialty. Slitting throats."

His method of killing was distant, and necessarily detached, but he found the closeness of Isaev's work strangely alluring. Perhaps part of the appeal was that it was the opposite of what Kassian did.

Kassian had been trained in hand-to-hand, of course, but he had never taken to it. It had always seemed too...personal.

"But we don't have to go. Not right away," he said, letting his hand curve lower, to Isaev's muscular backside. "But there is one thing..."

His gaze dipped briefly, almost demure, before he met Isaev's eyes again. "I've always wanted..."

He trailed off, hesitating, but then he shook his head. Kassian leaned closer, lips brushing Isaev's ear. "Just...kiss me in the rain, comrade," he whispered, voice fervent. "So I know what it's like."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

Andrei smiled broadly.

"Slitting throats isn't what I do, Irinarhov. You must think I'm a cossack."

Of course, there were times when every one of them had. But of all the methods available, Isaev found it the most distasteful.

He leaned in, strong fingers cupping the rough lines of Irinarhov's jaw.

"No," he whispered, "Where I 've been at work, you won't see blood. Not a drop."

He breathed, softly, absorbing the closeness, the tension of holding himself away.

"I deal in weaponless handcraft," he murmured. "Every candle I've snuffed has been pinched by these fingers."

Andrei let his lips ease against Irinarhov's, closing his eyes.

"Not rope," he intoned, "and not blades."

His hand massaged the Captain's jaw and throat, urging him to part his mouth.

"My specialty," he breathed, "is cardiac arterial tamponade."

He felt the responsiveness of Irinarhov's body through his uniform, like a nuclear core dangerously close to implosion.

He shuddered, gratified enough to smile.

Andrei lifted his light eyes, not bothering to hide his youthful joie de vivre at the weather, at the moment.

"...But I think I can stop your heart another way, comrade. A sweeter way. Shall I try?"

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

"Do it," he goaded.

Kassian had to admit that it aroused him to hear Isaev talk so casually about killing.

He pictured those broad hands curled around a man's throat, just as he held Kassian now. If Isaev chose, he could kill Kassian instead of touching him.

Another candle snuffed.

He wondered what was wrong with him, to find such stimulation in murder, but even as he considered it, he decided it didn't much matter.

If the army had turned him into a feral sociopath, then he supposed he was in good company.

For a moment, he speculated about the man against him. Isaev was young and cocky, though charming and clearly popular. But Kassian wondered how many of Isaev's comrades sensed the savagery behind eyes that were clear as water, and framed by tousled hair.

He tremored against Isaev's weight, under the touch of those assassin's fingers.

"Do it," he murmured, again. "You've got me, Isaev."

His body arched, muscles going taut. "Do what you will, comrade."

[andrei-isaev.livejournal.com]

"It's raining now," Isaev murmured.

He kissed the sniper, hard at first, bruisingly.

Then slowly, his grip relaxed and his mouth gentled in its caress.

Suddenly he felt a rare warmth toward Irinarhov, and a rare desire to let him know it.

[capt-kasya.livejournal.com]

A particular slow sense of satisfaction settled over Kassian, as effortless and welcoming as sleep. He could not deny how significant Isaev had become to him, even in their short association. It was not something that happened to him often, but as Isaev's mouth grazed his own, he realized this was something he could get used to.

Maybe he already had.