[elvedon]

You’re blooming at the mouth again. A field of red, your hands catch like tinder. This messy hunger dissected on the table with open eyes. To say you gave a name for the rain.

Ana Carrizo, “A Field of Red” (via elvedon)

[sovietniik]

bratvaborn​:

he and natalia have become the pair of  jewels in the nightingale’s crown. the ballet pulls crowds every night, and here, in the aftermath of hours of hard work, he is bathed in the adoration of patrons and audience members alike. he flits about the crowd, accepting gratitude, adulations, sometimes flowers from women, and propositions from those whos wallets as thick and heavy as the diamonds around their necks, or, on occasion, their wives’. 

there is a respect for his art form here, the audience dresses themselves in their finest silks and feathers to watch it, and the volki weave between them in their black suits and steel-capped boots with their cigarettes smoking from the corners of their mouth. jaehyun knew they were here, he knew vladimir operated this place like he did the garnizon, the racetrack, the boneyard. normally he did not bat an eye for the wolves, they all looked the same in their inky dark coats, but for a few he knew by name. 

the flyer in the sovietnik’s hand lauds his name as the principal daseur noble - yason yi - but the name he knows him by is his own, brought with him on the boat from his homeland and as he stands beside him, arms crossed and expression resolute, it spills out laced in aleksei’s accent. “i have been better, aleksei. much better.” he looks him over, up and down, the slashes of black kohl that delicately lined his eyes on-stage making his gaze appear intense, swan-like, and absolutely disapproving. 

“i had assumed you were dead.” his tone was more amused than kind. it had been barely gone wartime the last time they had seen each other, and jaehyun had been thin and recovering from the wound in his thigh. time had made him bigger, stronger, healthier, sucessful again. it bought him a certain amount of smugness to face the man who had so disappeared off the face of the earth now. “turns out you were just running.” coward. “though what from, i could not say.” 

he maintains that cold neutral face , mouth still in that flat line , even in the face of such disapproval .     ❛ in that case it seems my death has served you well , ❜     aleksei manages dryly as he holds up the flyer . jaehyun ’ s made his mark on the masses in a year . how does it feel to be worshipped ? and how much has the year changed them ? aleksei knows he is still conniving at best and depressed at worst , with a dash of cruelty to go along on the side . from what he can see , jaehyun is —

best not to go there , maybe , before he thinks himself into circles . jaehyun strings together some words when he could have just called him a coward with much fewer . aleksei is holding a flyer , one that presents the other as the principal danseur noble . the last thing he is thinking about his year away as someone else , or going back to his flat and the stack of paperwork sitting on his desk , ordered into neat yellow folders . he is thinking about the clear sense of displeasure he can see in those pretty eyes , the kohl eyeliner that underlines it in bold .  surely the volki look like a flock of crows amongst these prepossessing , feathered birds.

against his better judgment – against any judgment , aleksei looks over his shoulder , purely on instinct , and makes a decision that he will probably come to regret later down the line . when he is held up against his tapestry of numberless mistakes to see how he sizes up , he hopes whatever god he doesn ’ t believe in that is up there doesn ’ t pick this one . he ‘ s done worse things . several , in fact . so , against his better judgment , aleksei doesn ’ t end the conversation with a polite nod . he continues .

     ❛ if only the truth was as exciting as running ; it was , unfortunately , simply a matter of business . ❜     his voice stays low, because even with veiled comments , aleksei would rather deal in a currency of secrecy . a beat stretches between them as he considers his next words . 

     ❛ but perhaps it is worth mentioning — ❜     he folds the flyer , tucks it into his breast pocket and delivers the following as if it isn ‘ t a blow :     ❛ that even if i had stayed , things wouldn ’ t have evolved differently . ❜     aleksei , in fact , envisions they would be much the same as they are now . just . . . one night meant to scrub himself of some wrongs , never to be thought of again , even now , a year later .

[seascalled-deactivated20210706]

timestamp  :  late afternoon

location  :  the volkov estate

tagging  :  @sovietniik​

“     durak  neschastnyi  !     “     her  grip  upon  his  ear  is  firm,  a  rough  guide  as  she  marched  onward.     “     is  your  intention  to  explore  the  wonders  of  sepsis,  huh  ?  hiding  a  cut  that  deep,  eblan. have  you  even  cleaned  it  ?     “     her  voice  is  a  torrent,  anger  roiling  with  concern.

the  room  she  comes  upon,  the  room  she’s  always  vaguely … vaguely,  thought  of  as  aleksei’s  haunt  is  surprisingly  (  if  only  for  a  moment,  consideration  blinded  by  the  white  heat  of  reaction  )  bare. clasped  fingers  release  as  she  walks,  with  a  newly  donned  focus,  a  practiced  sort  of  calm  clapping  over  tense  features,  toward  the  bathroom  to  root  out  the  paltry  reserves  of  bandages,  alcohol,  iodine.

“     sit.     “     eyes    set    ahead,    her    only    indication    toward    him    is    a    swift    flick    of    her    hand    in    the    general    direction    of    his    bed. 

[sovietniik]

     ❛ oi , i have already treated it well enough ! ❜     aleksei says as he is far less requested and far more dragged to his residence at the estate . his words are heated with his truculent defiance as his body recoils at the uninvited touch .     ❛ do not treat me as if i have zero medical knowledge , vesnaya . ❜     she pushes into his supposed room , one wherein which the decor reflects the fact that the sovietnik hasn ’ t used it since it was afforded to him . he doesn ‘ t much appreciate the demanded ‘ sit ‘ either , despite her assiduous actions that she meets with a great level of efficiency . if aleksei cooperates , it is only because of the undeniable knowledge that this encounter would have had to happen eventually despite his utter avoidance of it . 

( it is less that aleksei forgets he is human and more that there is a sort of casual ignoring of such matters — the strained hope that refusing to acknowledge his own humanity would somehow spare him of its consequences . )  

currently , a small blossom of blood has bloomed across the snow threads of his shirt , betraying the site that sits underneath of where the bullet grazed him . a sliver of shrapnel has already been removed and aleksei has wrapped it in a handkerchief for the time being . his keen eyes watch as the medik searches the reserves .

     ❛ its hardly distracted me from work , rendering your coddling entirely unnecessary . ❜

[chevalicr]

                   REASONABLY, aristarkh knew it was only a matter of lucky chances until the conflict ground its way back home. until the consumptive disease that shook the empire ( that cough and sputter of a dying man ) would spill all over his bussiness. the business.because there’s not much of a bloody difference, innit, who’s getting paid on the finish line, not when the check is signed in shrapnel & bullets, delivered in a hail of fucking fire. that sort of remuneration really levels the playing field. he’d expected… christ, he doesn’t know what he expected, now, trawling his body like a dead-weight all the way to the volki’s safehouse, one palm pressed in a garrotte over his thigh—but he imagines it was invincibility.

                he overestimated how little they care for neutrality, dear old georgians. how little they mount for anything but the tally of wounds, the body count laid in different uniforms, so that by the time he was kneeling before some impromptu rebellion leader, barrel shoved in the hollow of his nape, by the time he said, wait, fuck, i fought for your foreign king, your people’s man that was neither slav nor much of a man at all, hold up       by that point, it was a hair’s breadth too late. well, almost. money is money regardless of who you buried; whom you’d like to. he still landed the bargain. shook hands with his teeth still clamped on the wooden spoon, as some old wise-woman tried to pry the iron pellets from his flesh.

               took him three bloody weeks to reach moscow. he’s estimating, oh, some three more days and volkov will get him before the blood infection will. so he drags himself to the volki hideout the moment he’s off the train. as decent a place for wound-licking as any: he’s stashed the medicine he needs, and, if the gods of fortune feel like overcompensating today, no one will be there. but luck comes up short, this month, doesn’t it just? he can smell the aired rooms the moment he enters, right after cracking the keyhole with the back of his dagger. second sign someone’s been up: the windows tilled open in their ceiling gullet, peering down at him like eyes. the winter air cleans out his head, wafts through the dust he’s stirring up when he limps over the stairs, not bothering to play silent footsteps. whoever is in the back will be either glad to see him, either murderous. there’s nothing he can do to swing either option, in this state. hisses through his teeth, once, when he moves the wrong side of his body reaching for an armchair. he collapses into it like swimming back for air. splays his hand on his leg, a pisspoort attempt at stamping out the bloodflow, and breathes against the rhythm of his pulse. catches it, breath and heartbeat, just in time for the sovietnik to come down.

                 ‘ if you’re here with some dě́vuška, afraid you’ll have to move the fucking to another day. i‘ve got vladimir’s metal shipment. ’ve also got, as it turns out, half of it lodged inside me. ’

                                                                                                                    @sovietniik​​

[sovietniik]

he ’ s having a difficult week .

well . difficult might be an understatement , but this was supposed to be the smetana on top of the blini ; something bright and shiny to talk himself out of a bad mood . this was supposed to be a victory , of a personal sort , both for the volki and for aleksei , a way to eke himself back into the good graces of vladimir who still seemed bitter about the fact that aleksei had taken him up on the year undercover . . . despite being the one to offer it to him.

SO - this is karl alesnarovich, and he is currently hemorrhaging his way to the end from a bullet in his body , if not already dead . aleksei wishes he could say he felt a little tug of regret as red ichor bubbles from past his teeth and lips and gracelessly onto his chin , his neck , his pristine pressed shirt with detailing on the collar . karl smells very suddenly of piss — aleksei isn’t sure if it ‘ s because a bullet struck his in the bladder or if he was so terrified of death his body reacted without realizing . or it is the biological function of dying . it is a three — sided coin flip , the way the sovietnik sees it .

not too far away from this is the wide eyed aksyonov lavrenti yurievich , face ashen at the sight of his fallen comrade , hands tied tight behind the back of the chair .     ❛ wait , ❜     aksyonov says , and nothing else — and aleksei almost snarls at that . no ‘ i ' ll tell you what you want to know ‘ ; no ‘ please ‘ ;  no  ‘ i have a lot to live for , i ’ m very handsome , look at my cheekbones, i ’ ll make it up to you . ‘ just a soft ‘ wait , ‘ as if that is enough to make any real difference to aleksei . at his feet , where karl has crumpled to the ground like someone smashed him into pieces with a sledgehammer , his body makes a little gurgling noise . spittle now joins bubbling blood . his eyes twitch . aleksei casts his gaze down . maybe he isn ’ t dead , but aleksei spares another bullet for the time being . his gaze returns back to aksyonov , eyebrow ticked up in wait .

it is then that the difficult week gets its final flourish . the crux of the shit biscuit . 

downstairs , the door opens ; the both hear the crack of the keyhole . for a frozen moment , aleksei wonders if they ’ ve been somehow found , if their rival bratva brothers have come to free alesnarovich and yerievich from this interrogation of his . inconvenient if true , though aleksei is already tallying this up to be a wash . alesnarovich is on death ’ s doorstep and yerievich is dumb as a brick . downstairs , the invasion continues , slower than he would a expect a rescue ; a heaving , like a dead animal being dragged . aleksei decides he might as well investigate ; feeling relatively comfortable turning his back on the two . ( if yerievich hasn’t found a way out of his binding by now there is no hope for him .  ) mausesr trained forward , the sovietnik steadily advances forward to the top of the stairwell and it is little more than kontrabandist ‘s words that keep him from shooting on site .

his eyes narrow and realization strikes like a clock. the volki are quite certainly expecting a metal shipment any day now , but not here . there is a boyevik stationed at the warehouse two streets over , waiting in the cold there , password and everything . aleksei keeps his pistol trained on the aristarkh , doubts this is a view the is unfamiliar with .

     ❛ you’re in the wrong warehouse, zubkhov . ❜     he says , doing a stellar job at concealing what a fucking idiot he thinks aristarkh is for the mix up — never mind the weeks this job has added to the other ‘ s life . he can ‘ t help but stop the sarcasm that seeps in as well , allowing a quip to push past his lips .     ❛ i would not presume that we are close enough for you to ask me such things . if i want to keep fucking my dě́vuška i will . ❜

a thump , a groan from beside him ; aksyonov finally begins struggling at his bonds , finally having found the will to fight back . because what better time , than after your comrade has already taken a bullet because of your failure to comply , your unwillingness to share a few names , no ? shifting focus from one inconvenience to the next , aleksei strides over to his captive with an exasperated sound . he undoes the rope and pushes the c96 into the small of the man ’ s back — detects him go shock - still at the feeling of it , as if genuinely surprised such a thing would happen . did he , what ? think aleksei had just forgotten about him ?

     ❛ downstairs . hands stay up . ❜

they leave karl to take his last breaths , rattling in that winter moscow air , while aksyonov is all but pushed down the flight of stairs . hand on shoulder , he is roughly sent to his knees in front of aristarkh ; given a moment to hear that click of the hammer . it is a shame that the kontrabandist is probably the last face he  ’s going to peer up at before being laid out cold ; were the sovietnik in his place he might even ask for the bullet.

     ❛ anyway — ❜     aleksei continues pointedly to zubkhov , tip of his gun finding its happy home in the back of askyonov ’ s head .     ❛ — would you like me to call a medik or is the intent here for me to watch you dislodge those bullets from yourself ? because i would much rather let the sepsis take you and just deliver the body to vladimir ‘ s doorstep . ❜     he would do it too and then only gesture vaguely in the stead of an explanation to the pakhan , say something like ‘ your metal shipment, have at it . ’

[sovietniik]

pakhans​:

𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴      𝙸𝚂      𝙰      𝙱𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁      𝙰𝙽𝙳      𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙶𝚄𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚁𝚈      𝚆𝙰𝚁      .      &.     there     is     always     something     burning     inside     him,     a     house     or     an     organ.      so     the     black     smoke     curls     up     his    throat,     causes     eyes     to     briefly     tear,     makes     him     ruminate     of     heaven     or     purgatory     ;     wherever     there     will     be     nothingness,     a     false     sense     of     serenity.      but     the     clock     still     ticks.      bloody     gauze     smolders     ‘pon     misused     ashtray.      he’s     torn     his     stitches     once     again     &.     fresh     pink     blossoms,     stains     stark     fibers     as     the     pigment     deepens.      but     the     world’s     shown     him     worse     :     electroshocked     cells     /     drowned     countenance     /     fragmented     bones.

the     devil     leans     back,     tousled     countenance     momentarily     stripped     of     its     standard     mint     condition.      tie     unnoosed,     dress     shirt     creased     &.    misbuttoned,     digits     pass     through     outgrown     shards     and     present     a     crew     cut     past     due.      bitter     stare     scrutinizes     documents     scattered     across     desk     surface.      but     the     threshold’s     presence     is     soon     altered,     sanctioned     sovietnik     come     to     shatter     stern     composure.

drink.      there     is     much     in     the     command     that     vlad     deliberates,     line     of     sight     obscured     by     crystalline     bottle.      like     its     distilled     contents,     his     glass     is     not     half     full     nor     empty,     but     simply,     in     the     moment,     nonexistent.      ❛      you      can      make      demands      ,      ❜      he     proposes,     gaze     dark     &.     ever     narrowing,     ❛     when      you’re      behind      the      desk      .      ❜      sniper     seizes     vodka     by     the     neck,     plants     it     before     comrade     with     purposed     clink.      ❛     if      there      is      any      justice      in      this      world      ,      𝚒      𝚊𝚖      𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢      𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍      .      ❜      a     flicker     at     edge     of     mouth,     graveled     intonation     retains     pursuit.      ❛      and      we      both      know      how      likely      that      is      .      ❜

what did he say ? too stubborn . jaw clenches with a click at the sight of the fresh blood , coupled with the flippant talk of poison . aleksei will court death all he wants , but like any lover he turns jealous soon as someone else seeks out the comfort of her embrace .  vladimir equates justice with his own decay , but aleksei seems to be the only one who sees the stones on the scales don ’ t  quite balance out . that ‘ s some blind frivolous bullshit that has more place in petrograd than in moscow —  vladimir is so quick to forget the poison he brings upon himself ( aleksei doesn ’ t , aleksei can ‘ t , he remembers both the pipe and the honey yellow smoke sharper than the night that follow its discovery . he forgets the rest ) . truly ,  the world doesn’t need to poison vladimir , the sovietnik muses over the rim of his glass , the wolf is doing fine all on his own —

— but it is too early in the evening to talk of such truths , too far along in the fight to send in such rogue soldiers . aleksei is too awake ( albeit tired ) , too sober ( he ’ s fixing that ) , too . . . detached ( never changing ) . it is easy enough to say that he is not one to talk — the monsters shaped like piles of bottles tucked under his bed indicate he is doing just fine picking his own poison and his sudden, brief departure from moscow a year ago perhaps suggests he actually has no right to comment on the nature of vladimir ‘ s decay — but these things are neither here nor there are ? such matters are a whole year in the past and this isn’t france , no matter how much vlad ‘ s shoulder seems to think it is . it is a a new day , a new revolution , a new revolution every day by the looks of it . they are certainly mortal , they ’ d choke on their halos if their were anything more , but they are also more than the what is below their feet . they are the new regime that is just around the corner and that horizon is what their eyes should be turned to . so instead , decidedly , aleksei starts digging a grave for these other matters , certain he and vladimir will bury it in professionalism and allow their hunger to take precedent . he finishes off his entire pour of a sudden , tosses it back , feels it skip his tongue and go straight to his blood as any good vodka should. he continues the sentiment that has been put out between him , despite the thing coiled in his chest .  

     ❛ if there was any justice in the world , sovietniks would receive notice every time their pakhan was administered stitches , perhaps even told why . seeing as I have receive neither and am likely to receive neither you’re probably right - no justice to be found here. ❜

the words unspool outwards like a red thread. the firewood nearby seems to snicker in response as it pops and cracks. perhaps that thing coiled in his chest is a snake . after all, words flick sharply off fangs like poison. were you to reaching into his mouth and grab his tongue, would you not find it forked ? said snake sits coiled , black scales shimmering in that dying fire, blue eyes shards of glacier. aleksei takes another crystalline tumbler , the low - light igniting its sharp edges as he pours two glasses this time . two swift strides and he steps behind the desk as he is challenged , sets the drink back on top of the papers where the bottle was mere seconds ago . it is an excuse to take a closer look at the hand .

     ❛ drink . ❜     he repeats , firmly . what he means is rest . he does honestly believe there will be few nights such as these in the future .     ❛ forgo that it is my business to advise you — would you deny the request of an old friend ? ❜

[yuliannas]

                WHEN :  morning - december , 1920                 WHERE : the garnizon 

            light  has  only  begun  to  stream  through  the  windowpanes  of  the  garnizon ,  and  already  she  is  at  work .  she  knots  an  apron  once ,  twice ,  around  her  waist  (  it’s  more  for  show  than  anything  else -  she  dirties  her  hands  in  other  ways ) .  she  pulls  a  ledger  from  beneath  the  bar  and  opens  it ,  deciphering  her  own  code   -  some  numbers  are  above  board ,  while  others  lie  in  the  margins ,  hidden  as  shipments  &  transactions . 

           no  staff  ,  yet  .  this  is  yulianna’s  time  to  take  stock  of  the  day  before  it  begins .   the  only  living  presence  beyond  the  cats  that  yowl  in  the  alleyway ,  is  the  little  girl  that  sits  in  the  center  of  the  garnizon’s  main  room .  it’s  a  rare  sight  to  see her  here ,  but  babulya  has  business visiting  her  sister .  little  girls  &  long  train  rides  make a  terrible  pair , and  so  katya  holds  a  rag  in  one  hand ,  and  palms  a  snifter  ever - so - carefully  in  the  other . it’s  of  little  consequence ,  but  the  blue - eyed  girl  treats  her  job  with  the  utmost  care ,  running  the  rag  in  small ,  repetitive circles  across the  glass . 

      the  door  of  the  garnizon  squeaks  open ,  but  yulianna  pays  it  little  mind .  her  establishment  is  not  quite  her  own ,  &  it  is  not  unusual  for  the  morning  hours  to  see the  place  inhabited  by  volki .  whoever  has  stepped  through  the  door  has  clearly  caught  the  attention  of  katya ,  who  has  abandoned  her  glass on  the  floor  and  waits  by  the  door  expectantly .  she  clears  her  throat ,  prompting  yulya  to  lift  her  eyes  from  the  yellowed  pages  and  view  the  familiar  face . 

             ❛ katyenka - ❜  it’s  a  half  -  whisper , accompanied  by  a  raised  brow  and  an  indication  with  her  head  that  the  girl  step  away  from  the  door . 

          then ,  to  aleksei ,  she  shakes  her  head .  she  raises  a  brow  at  him ,  too .  if  the  two  were  not  so  well  acquainted ,  it  would  look  as  if  she  were  scolding  a  sovietnik .  perhaps  she  is . 

                 ❛ she  expects  a  plum  every time  she  sees  you .                                             -   -  -  i  blame  you  for  that . ❜

@sovietniik​

[sovietniik]

it is not that he doesn ’ t hold a distaste for the merchant , it ’ s simply that , knives are for those special kind of people he despises . rivals . tsarists . gogol apologists . this man gets the bullet in between the eyes for negotiating outside of his pay grade ( poorly , to be fair here . never say that aleksei didn ‘ t award moxie ) and he is dead before he hits the ground . deader than a doornail . deader than dead gets , or , as dead as dead gets . the body won ’ t be hard to be rid of , but eyes everywhere , so the shestyorka pups best be quick . the yowling alley cats that have taken up audience are their problem too . is it wrong of aleksei to wish for a tea ? tea with no milk or sugar ( one cube on good days and this is not one of those ) , just something to keep him going ?

in the end , he leaves the man in the alley with his comrades , face down , pale and still . aleksei hadn ’ t bothered to close his eyes : most men die with their gaze unseeing , wide open , looking out at the world . in his experience , that is . aleksei can ’ t say he feels bad . what a fool ; what an imbecile ; what a deserving end he ’ d met . it could have been a heart attack . an overdose . a stroke . a stroke of bad luck , maybe . it happens . moscow streets have seen worse , have held a worse hand and have been playing from said shitty draw for the last decade . some might even call getting shot point blank in an alleyway luck . 

the garnizon , next on his itinerary for this morning , is around the corner . his gloves , coal dark leather , from a world of aristocracy that feels like a life time away , are now speckled in blood and viscera . they are slipped into his pocket as a small guardian greets aleksei at the threshold of the pub . the sovietnik has no qualms paying the toll , though there is a slight hitch in his eyebrow at the proprietress’ tone that follows . 

     ❛ if i didn’t know better i ’ d say you were scolding me. ❜     from his pocket he procures the jewel of a fruit purchased from the stand that neighbors his flat , the skin of it cool thanks to the the metal of the handgun it ‘ s been nestled next to the whole morning . aleksei offers it to the child .     ❛ she ’ s only right to hold me to my word . ❜     unlike certain unfortunate merchants , the young girl understands what she is owed , asks for no more , no less . the sovietnik places a second plum — not as cool , this one has kept his leather wallet company instead — on the counter in front of yulianna . one for her too , of course . his reach reveals that the starched cuff of his shirt has caught a spatter of the dead man and aleksei tugs the sleeve of his coat to cover it .

     ❛ i ’ ll be out of your hair in just a moment , ❜     niceties seem to come easier to him when they aren ’ t a necessity the room demands .     ❛ Just here to reference some of last months ledgers , yulianna — ❜     they ‘ ll be in need of amendments since this mornings events , different ones than the one ‘ s he ‘ d woken up to , but amendments nonetheless , ❛ and perhaps some tea, if you have any amongst your shelves . ❜     a craving that hasn ‘ t really gone away upon stepping onto the property . 

it is then that aleksei considers katyenka , enjoying her plum , as he waits for the ledger ; the way the young girl walks about the garnizon as if it is her tiny kingdom . once or twice she steps near the door he ‘ s entered from and it is by the third time that aleksei pointedly clears his throat . he doubts his tendency to treat all children as small adults passes on to yulianna and while aleksei himself might have allowed his own child to wander out into the alleyway with such a sight to behold waiting for them — with the belief that whatever they would witness out there would build character , strengthen their stomach — out of friendship he offers :

     ❛  i would also advise the two of you to use the front entrance for the next hour . ❜

[sovietniik]

kolkuh​:

he  is  quick .  pride  is  not  the  right  word ,  but  there’s  a  certain  contentedness  he  finds  in  providing  a  mercy .  pain  is  unneeded ,  at  least  in  this  case .  nikolai  looks  up  slightly  at  the  toast  if  you  could  call  it  that ;  death  does  come  for  everyone  after  all .  glass  is  raised  slightly ,  though  not  high  and  triumphantly ,  just  enough  of  a  forward  motion  to  differentiate  it  from  a  normal  swig .  it’s  a  thought  he  has  maybe  not  had  explicitly ,  but  he’d  prefer  a  death  similar  to  the  one  he  gave  the  knife  fighter ;  quick ,  clean ,  with  no  waiting  for  it  to  come .  give  him  any  day  over  the  deaths  he  waited  for  in  france   (   he’s  still  haunted  by  the  underground  darkness ,  different  than  even  the  darkest  rooms  he’s  found  in  moscow ,  though  he  avoids  them  like  the  plague .  the  feeling  of  heavy  weight  on  his  entire  person ,  waiting  for  air  to  run  out   ) .

he  hums ,  a  low  thing  without  much  meaning ,  considering ,  thinking .  it  was  never  an  active  avoidance  of  meals ,  though  he  was  unsure  if  many  understood  that  nor  could  he  find  the  exact  words  to  explain  properly  the  way  that  task ,  among  others ,  simply  failed  to  cross  his  mind .  it  would  only  resurface  later ,  prompted  by  a  stomach  growling  as  loud  as  any  wolf .  or ,  the  alternative ,  someone  asking  him  and  he  has  to  consider  when  the  last  time  he  had  sat  down  to  have  a  meal .  the  vodka  came  from  a  posed  question  from  the  barmaid ,  the  cigarette  from  habit  in  the  space  more  than  anything  else ,  but  a  meal  …   after  it  was  done  ?  yes .  since  he  woke  this  morning  ?  no .

‘   i  had  dinner  last  night ,   ’   he  answers .  it’s  not  an  argument  nor  rebuttal ,  in  the  same  way  that  alek’s  question  was  not  an  interrogation ;  the  fact  is  cold ,  lacking  the  inflection  his  words  had  before  the  war ,  so  it  would  be  easy  to  be  mistaken  for  such  a  thing .   ‘   i’ll  make  sure  i  eat  something  at  the  estate ,   ’   he  means  the  words  as  he  says  them ,  but  the  likelihood  of  it  sticking  is  another  question .

perhaps it is not an argument , but to aleksei , it sounds like an argument — and if anyone is to know the shape of such a thing , it would be him . he ‘ d spent several years in the wake of a revolution that is just a dress rehearsal for the one to come studying them at a university in petrograd  , and then even more years using such arguments to walk the tightrope of servicing the wolf of his employ and heeding the personal beliefs he ‘ s gone as far as to feed a man rat poison for in front of the duma . he is more than familiar with the silhouette of such a thing , and yet , nikolai doesn ‘ t skirt the question quite out of dissent , it is clear the matter sitting down for a meal is simply not a priority . and aleksei gets that . his own body is not so different . he doesn ‘ t presume the same affects the younger man , but aleksei all too often feels betrayed by the humanity of his own organs ; angers at his flesh and blood when it won ‘ t function at the efficiency he expects it to ; wants it all be an industrial machine that can churn on dark oil , something that will chew up and spit out steel on the bare minimum . as he said — grace in efficiency . expects of it himself , expects it of others .

     ❛ you would do well with the revolutionaries , they too forget to eat ; more important things to do , they say . ❜  

chair scrapes across wooden floor like a gate unlocking , though aleksei stays seated . he pulls his leather gloves from his pocket and re - dons them .     ❛ i intend to head to the estate — ❜     the invite is implicit , or at least aleksei thinks it is . the spy does not utter words he does ‘ t want those in attendance to be a part of .     ❛ —  i need to review some accounts with your brother and i could do with a bite before business . ❜     and no , his words do not belay the knowledge that reviewing these accounts is bound to be an acerbic affair if this last month of interactions with the pakhan is anything to go off of ; something biting and harsh sitting just beneath the ribs of professionalism. aleksei intends to turn his lapels up against it with a stoic demeanor and march onwards like it is no more than a winter wind .     ❛ i ‘ d appreciate the company . after your vodka , of course — though not so much your cigarette . if you ‘ ve inherited your brothers love of lucky strikes . . . i see me cutting this short a charity . ❜

[rafikecoyote]

mb: Danny Ocean & Rusty Ryan

[sovietniik]

fxghtclxb​:

There were actions that were normally taken– giving the pen back, apologizing, attempting to meet his silent gaze with a likewise one riddled in shaky confidence– but to withhold the item from Sorin could only be an act performed by someone who found themselves to be his equal. Light annoyance aside, he returned Aleksei’s comment with a lazy drop of his wrist onto the silver cigarette case nestled against his shirt pocket, the smoke from his own cigarette soon joining the gray wisps already congregating within the pub. “I was not aware that a simple question will lead to such a scolding. Your use of words have always captured my attention, but your tone might need a touch of polishing.”  At the mention of the journal, Sorin scooped up the leather book and flipped to the first page, extending it out to the other. Several unique symbols followed with dot dash tallies lined the paper, each done with a careful scrawl that hinted at careful consideration for each marking. “What do you make of this if you found it laying around? I’m curious.” 

the way aleksei sees it , there ’ s no need for veneer amongst comrades .

     ❛ a scolding? I truly envy you if that ‘ s your definition of such a thing . would you rather have me bat my eyelashes next time ? ❜     candor only lightly mocks as the cigarette slips between his lips .     ❛ if the words do the trick, why bother with the tone? ❜     

there are few things that sorin could have said that would have caught his attention quicker . a code ?     ❛ what ’ s this now ? ❜     this sovietnik has an insatiable hunger for such things , a mind for them too — a sudden gleam in his eye — he takes no shame in saying he’ll bite immediately at the prospect dangled . 

he leans in for a closer look a the journal presented . he doesn ’ t know if this is sorin ’ s attempt at cryptography or if the brigadier has stumbled upon an encrypted correspondence and just decided to share ; aleksei gives an unbiased answer either way . the spy starts with the dots and dashes , setting the symbols aside for the moment . for the tallies — if there are only ten symbols achievable with the system, the chances of it being an alphabet are less likely ( — binary though … he ’ ll put a pin that possibility ) . his first instinct is that they represent the integers 0 - 9 … either that or they ‘ re being used here to keep track of large sums because of the ease the grouped numerical system provided for such matters —

     ❛ at first glance , i ’ d suppose i was looking at either coordinates or an inventory list . ❜     

he points at the dot tallies to indicate that ’ s what he is talking about first . he supposes they could each signify a callsign as well , but , well , it is piss poor cryptography if they do . aleksei will give the intelligence of this esoteric cryptographer the benefit of the doubt for now and assume that they don ‘ t . 

     ❛ i ’ d also assume whomever wrote this was  french or possibly a spaniard , that ’ s how their generals mark down tallies and keep count  — unlike our hatch marks . it ’ s a good way to throw unwanted hounds off your scent if this is yours . ❜     

his gaze moves to those symbols, working to crack them.     ❛ is it yours ? or did you find it ? ❜

[sovietniik]

     when : evening , — of december 1920 .      where : lobby of the nightingale       who : @bratvaborn​

gone for a year , back again . he ‘ s returned to moscow with a plethora of feelings , packing them up tightly and storing them away to be examined and processed at a later date , later being entirely undefined . a month goes by , settling slowly into a routine that has thrown every other day into chaos , all aleksei seems to summon up is a feeling of precision . a greater level of restless , too , somewhere in the neighborhood of simmering but not quite .

he rises with this precision . he speaks to others with the grey of it coloring his voice because it is fine and well to be the apex predator amongst the bratva of russia but aleksei refuses to have it let him grow complacent ; insists on still sleeping with one eye open . he dons a well-known bitterness like a familiar coat . bitterness , because even though plans for the volki ’ s moscow are starting to come to fruition , the bend of his bones under such emotion translates to vigilance . 

that vigilance is what he is acting on while he accesses the vault at the nightingale . quick job , but one that needs to be done . aleksei does a cursory inventory sweep of their assets to ensure they are intact after witnessing a cremation — it is the gold really that he is worried about , with its low melting point ; he doesn ’ t care much for any ashy traces of the body other than filing these sights away for a critique on clean up jobs . the door shuts heavy behind him , locks resolutely in place , as aleseki ascends from the catacombs of the volki ’ s own creation . when he exits into the lobby he is able to lose himself to a swathe of spectators — post - performance crowd — stars still shining bright in their eyes because of the heavens they have seen played out on the stage . there is casual halo of glamour to the sphere of the space , a kind that aleksei seems to avoid ever since his winter palace days .

the sovietnik manages to palm a flyer to see what has just let out when some one sidles up to him . he is intending on getting in and out and is not in the mood for conversation and aleksei fully intends on looking up and saying so . 

he feels his mouth press into a flat line on reflex at the sight of a familiar gaze , expression falling back on the cold neutral face he uses whenever he has to deal with difficult politicians .     ❛ jaehyun , ❜     he greets,     ❛ how are you? ❜     it’ ‘ s not quite a ‘ i will not be discussing our last encounter ’ but it is close enough to it that he is sure the sting of his intent is felt .  

[sovietniik]

     when : dawn , — december 1920            where : stables , the volkov estate       who : @bloodtorn

aleksei wants natalya dead .

there ’ s no two ways about it . it is a simple truth . he ’ d put her in the ground himself if he was allowed such a thing , but for two whole years vladimir has been unwavering in his sentiment . while the pakhan ’ s reasoning for his inability to kill the former handmaiden is understandable ( and something aleksei intends to carry to the grave ) aleksei he makes no allusions that such a sentiment passes on to himself . the sovietnik has so plainly stated his opinions of keeping such a liability around , done the cost benefit analysis of it all ( the cost being : the volkovs lives , the benefit being . . . nothing ) . so even now , when he finds her in the stables as warm dawn breaks over moscow sky , he does nothing to hide the winter of his discontent at her presence . she is either too blind not see their hatred or stupid enough not to care ; surely she knows and yet like a leech she clings .

natalya is by the horses , and the small mercy of this cold morning is that he isn ‘ t here for them . aleksei enters the stables and strides by her without much acknowledgement , wool coat drawn around his dark turtleneck tight . another night slipped away working late at the estate . morning is here and aleksei intends on returning to his flat — but there is some business to take care of first .  in his leather - gloved hand he holds a small wrapped  parcel of of fish , twine tied ,  brought in by the cook from the morning market . not for the horses of course , they will get fed by the stable hands — aleksei is instead here for the hellions that live up in the rafters . gray - silver , demon - eyed cats that will surely find a way to his flat across the city demanding payment if he doesn ’ t handle them now . aleksei doesn ’ t understand how they know the location of where he is when he is not here , or how they find him , or precisely at what point they became friends  . 

( it is no doubt because of the fish he ‘ s taken to giving them every few mornings . )

the cut gets laid out on the steps of the ladder to the wooden slats above .  silver ears peak out in curiosity from a bed of threadbare hay  . the girl , unfortunately , is still living and breathing in the same space as him . aleksei , deciding to no longer spare her of his directness , speaks up . he doesn ‘ t turn to her as he addresses her , eyes still trained on the loft above . his lips are pressed into a thin line , a knife ‘ s edge to cut and measure his harsh words upon . 

     ❛ i ‘ ll be honest , i did not expect to see you still here upon my return - do you intend on staying much longer ? ❜     

he wants her dead . . . but in the absence of that , he will just as gladly see her gone  . 

[endless-unfolding]

Kill what you can’t save what you can’t eat throw out what you can’t throw out bury What you can’t bury give away what you can’t give away you must carry with you it is always heavier than you thought.

Margaret Atwood, from “November,” You Are Happy (Oxford University Press, 1974)

[sovietniik]

kolkuh​:

mutual  smoke  begins  to  create  a  haziness  within  the  small  space ,  but  nikolai  hardly  minds .  if  he  searches  for  it ,  aleksei  will  not  find  a  single  drop  of  blood  nor  any  matted  fur .  the  shot  was  taken  at  a  distance ,  to  avoid  any  entanglement  with  desperate  steel   (   despite  nikolai’s  personal  feelings  on  far  shots ,  feeling  that  perhaps  those  who’s  deaths  he  gave  deserved  to  be  looked  in  the  eyes   —   it’s  part  of  a  greater  superstition ,  one  that’s  mingled  too  long  with  faith  for  kolya  to  tell  the  difference ,  bastardized  by  personal  anxieities ;  the  death  he  gives  should  belong  to  a  soul ,  it  would  be  terrible  luck ,  for  both  himself  and  the  departed ,  for  him  to  give  a  death  that  was  not  their  own   ) .  the  disposal  was  clean ,  body  in  the  canal  as  prescribed .  everything  was  by  the  book ,  if  there  were  such  a  text  on  these  matters .

‘   wouldn’t  have  been  able  to ,   ’   nikolai  replies ,  setting  his  glass  down  and  looking  over  to  aleksei .   ‘   rifle  work .   ’   he’s  short  and  to  the  point  with  his  words ,  though  he  appreciates  what  he  believes  is  well  meaning  concern  from  the  other ;  it  was  hard  for  him  to  tell  exactly  these  days .  he  relies  on  old  memories  of  what  things  used  to  feel  like ,  but  he  knows  he’s  not  the  only  one  who’s  changed  in  some  essential  way .  it  would  be  very  possible  that  the  feeling  he  remembers  as  one  feeling  has  been  rewired  to  be  something  new  and  strange  while  he  was  not  paying  attention ,  when  he  could  not  pay  attention .  the  world  had  changed  and  most  of  his  energy  had  been  put  into  keeping  up  with  it .

the short replies are enough to paint a picture of a body - bullet hole the size of a pebble imbedded in their head , death rattle caught in throat - sinking heavily to the bottom of the murky canal . there is a mercy to such action  , and while aleksei can find it in himself to muster up the taste for a fight that includes a greater offering of broken bones and dripping sweat ( should a life not be struggled for ? ) , they ‘ ve both lived through a war that handed power to generals far too flippant with the lives in their care to turn their heads away from such means themselves . it is far holier to set honor in one eye and death in the other . there is mercy in efficiency , its own sort of grace . 

and with that same efficiency , aleksei closes this chapter of the conversation . packs it up neatly with words that drop like stones ; they sink like the body he speaks of through the haze of cigarette smoke that spiderwebs through the air of the garnizon .     ❛ he will find more peace at the bottom of the canal than what we would have allowed him up here . if death must come for all us , may we all die by a skilled hand . ❜     swift. a far greater dignity than bleeding on the streets or on a dirt mound for those who did not know the cost of a life . 

     ❛ but what of you ? have you eaten since , nikolai ? ❜     kolya he should say , but his tongue has never curved around nicknames well , a language his formal demeanor is uncomfortable speaking . instead aleksei says nikolai with he same familiarity he would use the sobriquet . his eyes are on the drink in the wolf pup ’ s hand , gaze clocking that weariness that grips him . it ’ s not an interrogation , though aleksei seems to fall into those naturally because of who he is . all that bitter black tea he ’ s had over the years has seeped into his bones and his words.     ❛ whether you have a stomach for it or not , i advise it ❜     his words are prompt - addressing the rebuttal he is so used to hearing even before it slips past nikolai ‘ s lips and is given life in the cold air between them .     ❛ — in case you were planning on pretending you have no stomach for it . ❜     a twitch at the corner of his mouth , the slight tilt in his constants , no more than that . just enough for nikolai to know he is teasing about this benefit of the doubt ; enough to let him know this is a non - negotiable of course ; enough to let him know that they ’ ve run this race before and aleksei is well aware of the obstacles he ’ s bound to encounter .

[sovietniik]

     when : early evening , — december 1920      where : the fruit and vegetable shop       who : @maryasky​

the flat itself is falling apart . peeling pastel floral wallpaper , creaky wooden floors , a leaky kitchen sink that would keep him up all night if he was the sort to get a decent night sleep ( he isn ’ t , so instead it will keep him company . ) the length of the room is twice its width , giving it the impression that he is living in a hallway . aleksei has always been ambivalent about his living quarters despite an upbringing that never left him wanting for anything , so this does not bother him much . spartan is just fine with him . he ’ s moved in with one suitcase and one suitcase only , and the only thing he ‘ s managed to unpack in the day he ‘ s been here is his ashtray . the ceramic dish teeters precariously on the window sill now as aleksei enjoys the swirl of nicotine in his lungs ; smoke curls into the sky like a chimney . the  same window sill , with chipped green paint , oversees the fruit and vegetable shop of one marya sergeyevna and this is the only reason aleksei is putting up with this place .  

from here , he can just make out the dark mahogany locks and slender frame of the medik in the crosshairs of his vision . the sovietnik ’ s head has made a home for the hum of his suspicions ; most days he hears that wasp nest sound somewhere in the back of his mind . it is a white noise that bleeds into the cacophony of the rest of the world and there is a comfort in it , he ‘ s found . a reminder that he is still alive and alert , at least for another moment . aleksei is SUSPICIOUS of everyone and marya is no different . there ‘ s blank spaces in the history of her . the medik is just one of the changes that has occurred in his absence, and aleksei can only stand a state of ignorance for so long . he decides if he has to buy a flat now that he is back in the city , it might as well be the flat across from marya ’ s fruit and vegetable shop . two birds with one bullet , as the saying goes . the sovietnik is certain only good will come of such proximity and observation : he will either identify and isolate a weakness or they will grow closer because of it . besides , if his pakhan insists that he stay in one of two locations to preserve the secrecy of his identity , then aleksei will make the most of it . 

he stubs out his cigarette when it ’ s burned down and without much more ceremony than that, he grabs his jacket and descends to the street ; the movement not unlike lucifer descending from heaven - it ’ s a stroll , not a fall .

aleksei finds the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables pleasant ; something to be enjoyed for its sweet effervescence .     ❛ marya , ❜     he calls out for her attention as he makes his way to the storefront . they ’ ve passed before in the hallways of the volkov estate . he knows those sharp , bright eyes will recognize him .     ❛ it ’ s not my intention to disturb you, but i thought i would come over and say hello . . . seeing as how we are to be neighbors - ❜     

he points to his little green window across the street . he offers no smile but his voice holds a semblance of kindness . . . and it simply is a semblance , just barely the real thing . because here is the thing : aleksei petrov does not believe in KINDNESS  - but he believes in SURVIVAL , and there are moments such as these that he finds that in order to ensure one , he must succumb to the other . a fucking tragedy, really. he looks at marya down the slope of his nose ; a cat wondering if he’s staring at a mouse - will there be a chase ?

     ❛ - seems i have every excuse to visit now. ❜

[1038276637]

Bastille day (2016)

[sovietniik]

     when : evening , — of december 1920 .         where : pakhan ‘ s office , within the volkov estate         who : @pakhans​

there comes a moment , every so often , where the light of a blue moon cuts through the windows of the volkov estate and the volki find a peaceful night . tonight , there is quiet . the job is done . aleksei has proven it . it has all gone off without a hitch . he is here to report their success – and to have a drink .

the door to the pakhan ‘ s office is closed . it is just the two of them , dying fire in the hearth of the office , the night growing old . vladimir looks tired . aleksei feels tired . gone for a year , back for a month , the sovietnik notes the pakhan ‘ s office is the same . the pakhan himself is too . aleksei recognizes vladimir , it is a recognition of something of himself in him that ties the two together . hunger , the desire to become bigger and more than the skin and bones that form the basis of your construction , your matter – aleksei forged himself armor from it , made himself anew as a creature of equal parts iron and equal parts stone . for as long as he can remember , vladimir has too . two of a kind , separate and the same , bound by that shared starvation . 

and though that hunger gnaws , with teeth all of its own , there is no denying they are both bone weary — both of them too stubborn to pause and damned if they give in to sleep . aleksei provides an alternative , rest , for the mind if not the body , his personal answer to this moment of respite . . . before one of them just decides to call it a night and crawl into the fresh earth of their grave .

     ❛ drink . ❜     

heavily , he sets down a bottle of vodka on the desk in front of the other ; squarely atop the very papers vlad is observing , not very much caring if it obstructs his view . the papers will be there in the morning . this moment of peace most likely will not . aleksei holds a freshly poured glass for himself in his right hand . 

     ❛ we don ’ t know when we will get our next night of quiet . with any luck , it won ’ t be for a while . ❜     the stoic man says as he moves to his seat . he settles in and raises his glass . 

     ❛ can you remember the last time you had a drink without checking twice to see whether or not your glass was poisoned ? budem zdorovy . ❜     

[fxghtclxb]

setting ;; the garnizon, 18:15 PM who ;; open

It took him almost two decades to realize that he worked best when he was intense pressure; it felt like controlled chaos in a sense, allowing him to align his priorities in a mental task list filled with parentheses, scratch outs, and occasional commentary that wasn’t very noteworthy when visited for a second time. Pen took to paper when his thoughts became too cluttered for cigarettes and alcohol to fix, though more often than not his scribbles were lost in translation, too difficult to decode, or sacrificed to the fire that fueled his next nicotine hit.  As he leaned back against the wall to stretch out his legs, Sorin finally relieved his hand from the clutches of his disorganized thoughts and placed the pen back down along the spine of his notebook. His meal was mostly forgotten, as was the wine glass that trembled with each footstep that strained the floorboards beneath him. He lifted his drink first, taking a sip that, unfortunately, did not come with an epiphany he very well hoped for– though his spontaneous decision saved its delicate body from getting knocked over when an absentminded patron bumped into his table.  Once his fountain pen made contact with the floor, several things happened at once:  -The patron made a low noise that sounded slightly like a sharp inhale caught in his throat when he spotted his misdeed, regret already coiling his brows into furrowed little nubs  -The object happily rolled itself to kiss the toe of someone else’s shoes, as if waiting for attention from a person who would give it a moment’s rest during normal sleeping hours  -Sorin lazily crossed one leg over the other, catching the individual’s gaze momentarily before it flickered down to the pen next to their feet, then back up again. He silently waited for a response, noting that something so insignificant as picking up an item off the floor could speak volumes on the personality of a person. Slowly, he raised his glass to his lips once more. “I fail to align my taste with the likes of lamb today. What do you recommend?”

[sovietniik]

there are others , perhaps , who would have flinched beneath the eyes of sorin lazareseu - - but aleksei has perfected the art of visual flaying , the separating of skin from bone with nothing more than a calculated flick of the iris from one point of the face to another . a thousand eyes have stared up him , a thousand daggers , a scrutiny under which he still managed to convince kings to break their crowns . aleksei notices the pen that rolls to the toe of his boot , notices the pointed gaze of his comrade . without much trouble , the stoic man plucks up the writing instrument like he is pulling a daisy from the earth and pockets it . it is his now . sorin should have been swifter if he really wished for its retrieval and now , if he wants it back , he can ask for it nicely and alekei will consider the plea .

he does not give the pen a second thought after that . aleksei opts out of a chair, instead choosing to perch against a panel of wall near the brigadier . a cigarette emerges from the pocket of his coat, and matches follow soon after . cheap medication for a weary mind . 

     ❛ i am of the opinion that if you can not come to a decision about your food on your own , perhaps you should starve . a little hunger might do wonders for your uncertainty . ❜     words his father said to him in his youth and words aleksei repeats now , paying homage to a body too buried in the earth to hear them . his utterances do not hold nearly as much malice as they could though . they sting , but do not stab and , from aleksei , there are few better indicators of camaraderie . his hawk - like gaze falls onto the carefully guarded notebook by the other ‘ s side , and the sovietnik is immediately struck curious of its contents . it is foolish to write anything down in their line of work and he knows sorin is more than well aware of this . so what is this ? recreation ? he gestures lightly to it with his cigarette .

     ❛ don’t tell me you’ve taken to journaling . ❜