ofkontra:
he’s had his share of appalling manners, truly a given in the field. there’s little to be said for propriety, and even less for politesse, when you’re dealing crates that could earn you ten years in the katorga. he’s never been one for the lion’s share of talking, now, never one for the waltz required by companionship. this, though, was just fucking snappy. ari has drunk, and fought, and fucked his fill of snotty brats, exactly this common type—half-twisted sparrows, a twig’s consistency to their bones and a holy rage within. he’s glad to be shod of it, right now ; glad it’s not the kind of relation he needs to cultivate, to preen.
when he watches the medik catch fire over thin air, he thinks, well, you’re nothing new, tyke. this sort of greeting, non-sequitur that it is, yeah? it doesn’t make him balk as much as intended. if anything, ari only tips his head back, amused. but it won’t be to be shooed off like that, would it, now? as if he’s barged right on into their fucking boudoir. ‘s a bloody free city, hm, ain’t that supposed to be the point to all of this? the carnage cabaret, the swinging gallows? aristarkh can set up watch on whatever end of the canal he fancies. all the more since he’s not a stranger to the medik ; all the more since he has a genial request to make. you know what, he’s gonna shove a pigeon up his ‘ no, fucking hell, come off it. he bleeds out his fury like a medieval cure, a razor edge to his teeth. by way of reply, the kontrabandist barks a laugh out. then, and only then, he swings a hand to the horizon, all the force of a punch to the pointing.
‘ i was, in fact, mate, meeting a connection on the banks, and was gonna ask for your assistance. but do entertain me with your outbursts, hm? i imagine this trigger happy temper is really sought after in the volki. you’re, what, all of ten years old? built a safety net yet, have you? certain of your reputation enough to pull this shit? ’
he cuts through the distance. puts the force in his step so as not to put in his fist, a switch-flick on the energy surge. they’re kept balled at his sides, temptation out of reach. it never serves, does it, beating whelps to a pulp. same-side partisanship, and all that sort. the kontrabandist only stop smiling when he’s up in their face. near enough to see the cold splatter red veins on their cheeks. near enough to pull out the joints in their neck, if he reached ; if he deigned, dared, slipped. call it whatever. a verb is only measured against intention, and right now, he’s got nothing in him for this boy.
‘ you’ve got to afford these indulgences, mal'chik. right now, unless you’re someone’s brother or someone’s bedpan, all you’re working to is a broken jaw. ’
“Assistance? From me? Aren’t I lucky; what I wanted in a silent night became some lackluster mission with various side quests. If only you were a loutish character from a book and I could pray that the author grows tired of your storyline; that is the only thing that could conceivably make you disappear tonight.”
Perhaps the cinnamon tea would have saved him from an argument that stemmed from his own bad attitude, but the poor thing must’ve been poured down the drain by now and damn near as frozen as the Moscow air. His previous breaths left soft puffs of condensation lingering along his cheeks like a frosty little cloud, but the hulkish figure of the man all but dimmed what little light there were keeping his vision clear. Konstantin didn’t flinch at the proximity of the other; lord knows what the men in Butyrka would do if they spotted a drop of fear-- well, he did know, didn’t he? A smudge of fear was enough to intimidate, to harass and manipulate until the cunningness of those who prided themselves in their intimidating biceps crumbled under a single bacteria that nibbled through their crafted flesh like it was a sugary treat.
“I do not think men like you would normally argue with ten year olds; is this how you find your joy? Besides, we’re all someone’s brother in the eyes of the Lord,” he made note to peer up at the heavens with a wistful (slightly sarcastic) sigh.
A blast of cold air temporarily deafened their conversation as the leaves upon the trees applauded their amusing exchange of temperaments. If it wasn’t for the mountain of a man standing before him he may have been blown back; thank goodness for his bad attitude, eh? Nevertheless, the medik reached up and brushed his chestnut hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear when the ribbon he wore failed to corral the strands.
“This whole time you still have not clarified how I may be of service? If it’s only a temporary burst of violence you seek, I personally would not practice mutilation on someone who may hold your life in their hands in the future--unless you prefer the fresh relief of death, I suppose. Many do. I do not judge; I get extra practice, after all. ”
