#artem-amorum

[rasputinz-blog]

Solitude

((In which Rasputin takes a walk to gather his thoughts, and ends up discovering something frightening about himself (also, in which there are a LOT of cameos)))

Solitude is an integral part of a person's sanity, whether they are outgoing or reserved, social or unsocial, friendly or aloof, dependent or independent. A person can be standing with a group of their closest friends and think, with no explainable reasoning, I need to be alone. Being companionless in one's own room, under the stars, by the sea, in the rain, or in any sort of special quiet place, can help bear the weight of a thousand crushing thoughts and concerns. To sit in silence and listen to the sounds of the world turning around you can calm the turmoil that is churning inside your mind.

Solitude is necessary for everyone, and it was the exact necessity that Rasputin was relieving as he walked alone down the smaller roads of New York, one hand holding a lot cigarette to his lips, the other flexing repeatedly in his coat pocket.  His breath felt thick in the chilly New York air, the condensation from his breath mixed with smoke as it enveloped his head momentarily before rising and disappearing into the night. 

He normally went out of his way to avoid smoking, but tonight was different. He still had bandages wrapped around his entire body from the explosion in the lab a while ago, and he was only partially healed. Grigorii had been reluctant to let him go, worrying that he would open up the wounds or tear the many stitches, but Rasputin had needed fresh air and some time alone, as he'd felt he would implode if he did not fulfill the need.

However, the longer he walked, the more he realized that Grigorii was most likely correct. His wounds pained him, as well as his heart, which had chosen a terrible moment to act up. He knew his heart condition wasn't fatal, or anything he should worry about; he'd had it checked many times due to Grigorii's constant concern. All it really did for now was cause him some pain every so often, and fresh air and a bit of time away from others usually soothed that pain.

As he emerged onto a busy street, full of lights and bustling civilians, Rasputin's eyes wandered upward, his pale blue-green eyes reflecting the bright signs of the buildings and the headlights of the cars. His feet moved as if they had a mind of their own, carrying him through the crowds of people and down the street, his gaze analyzing each person he passed. Two boys, one of which looked very excited, and the other very irritated. A blonde guy with sunglasses (at night?) with a cheerful-looking black haired girl clinging to his arm. A stern looking woman with a very flamboyant man bobbing along after her. A boy with a fedora, black hair, and a grim expression, with a blonde girl who looked worried as she whispered continuously in his ear, holding him. Everyone seemed to come in pairs of all shapes and sizes. They all passed him, hints of their conversations reaching his ears. Something about a demon with no face (what?). Something about a baby girl named Emma (normal). Something about arrows and love (Cupid?). Something about a murdered father (revenge, even). They seemed like very peculiar subjects to discuss on an evening walk through New York. He could not retain the information as it ran through his mind, and he forgot it all almost immediately after the people had gone by. He didn't have the energy to think about more things, with his head so full already.

There was one couple that did stick with him for a little while, though. Two Japanese men, around his age. One was tall, with dark hair and a childish appearance. The other was shorter with brown hair, more mature-sounding... but rather irritable sounding as well. They had paused at a crosswalk with Rasputin, and as glanced tiredly at his watch, he could have sworn he saw the two kiss out of the corner of his eye. When he looked up again, they were back to their previous positions, the brown haired one swatting the other with a book and blushing furiously.

How pathetic. That was hardly an acceptable reaction to being kissed. Rasputin rolled his eyes, but something inside of him stirred unsettlingly, and for some reason, the image of his best friend popped into his mind. Why? Why did this couple remind him of James? Why did he suddenly have the urge to contact him? What was going on?

Swallowing, he watched the two men as they took each other's hand and crossed the street. His own left hand, his prosthetic hand which had been malfunctioning all day, clenched again, closing on the empty air. It made him feel lonely, in a way he'd never felt before. At that moment, he wanted someone beside him. He wanted... James. But why James? Why did he feel so desperate for the feeling of James' hand in his own? For the warmth of his body against his, the softness of his... lips...

His eyes widening, Rasputin stumbled and fell backwards and he uttered a startled yelp, his hands flailing for a grip. As he fell, he heard the clang of metal against metal and a woman's shriek as his arm crashed against the single leg of a table, throwing it over.

Ow... shit. Shit! He could feel the splitting pain as the wounds all over his torso smarted, possibly opening up again. He gasped, his breath coming sharply. He had to get home to Grigorii. After apologizing breathlessly and shakily to the woman he'd scared, he took off running back down the path he'd taken, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his teeth bared in a grimace.

He turned out of the crowd and made his way down the lonely street, and his arm started to jerk involuntarily as it malfunctioned again. He let out a groan of frustration and agony, the arm giving one more jolt and then falling limply to his side. Thankfully, his leg hadn't failed him in a long time, and was working perfectly fine. His mind buzzed on with perplexing and terrifying thoughts of his best friend, his face screwing up in fear and confusion.

He was still in that state when he burst through the front door, letting out a choked cry for Grigorii as he staggered to the wall and clung to it for support. He was utterly panicked and disoriented, and the old butler saw it immediately on his usually calm and collected boss. Quickly and without asking, the man gave his aide, helping him to the couch and inspecting his wounds. Feeling a fever coming on, it wasn't long before Rasputin fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams complex and convoluted and filled with James' face.

[rasputinz-blog]

The Morning Routine

((RasputinxJames fic. Just fluff and immaturity. c: ))

James was out of control.

That was all Rasputin could think as he rolled over in bed, groaning as the light of the "5:00 am" on his high-tech alarm clock shone into his drooping, exhausted eyes. It was unfortunate that he hated the morning so much, and that James himself was a morning person. His spouse was up before the sun every day, and it drove the man out of his mind.

"I hope you know that I despise you and your energy," he grumbled, his face buried in his pillow, as James stepped into the shower. He hadn't bothered to close the door; neither of them really cared about privacy in the shower anymore.

"I hope you know that two o' clock in the afternoon is not an acceptable time to wake up on weekdays," the smugness in his tone made Rasputin want to grind his teeth with frustration. He was more bossy than Grigorii, and that was saying something. "I want a divorce," he called, his head pounding. A minor hangover. Hangovers happened almost every morning, although they were much less intense now that James was here to make sure he didn't get carried away with his drinking.

"We aren't married, you lazy ass." there was an audible smile in his tone. He was used to this behavior. The only answer to come out of Ras' mouth was unintelligible gibberish and a sigh as his eyelids fell and he drifted back into sleep.

It felt as if no time had passed when Rasputin felt the soft brush of lips on his own, rousing him from his doze with a smile. His eyes fluttered open, but he didn't manage to get out a greeting before a piece of buttered toast was forced unceremoniously into his open mouth, causing him to choke and splutter and fall off the bed as James blithely trilled, "no sleeping in, time to get up," and walked out the door.

The fucking prick.

Why the HELL did Rasputin even love this guy?

Quickly chewing and swallowing, Ras sprang out the door after him, grabbing him from behind and shoving the toast in his face. The two grappled for a moment, James elbowing him in the stomach and Ras ruffling his hair. "DAMN it, Ras, now I have to comb it again! Some people actually have to go to work, you know!" and the man was back in the bathroom, this time with the door shut.

Because of their bout of wrestling, Rasputin now had plenty of energy, and he bounded down the stairs. When he reached the bottom he snatched the remote for the stereo off of the stair's banister, turning on one of James' Michael Jackson CDs. He quickly flipped through the tracks until he got to the song "Bad."

"Perfect," he mumbled as he moonwalked backwards through the door to the dining room. Grigorii was waiting there, standing in front of the table, which was set with plates of eggs and bacon (the toast was probably on the floor upstairs), with bowls of fruit on the side. James' plate was empty, as he had already eaten. 

Rasputin hardly had enough time to finish one egg before James was back downstairs. The man paused at the bottom, confused for a second by the music, but he rolled his eyes and smirked when Ras came dancing through the door, doing a smooth Michael Jackson-esque spin when he reached him. A mischievous look on his face, he moved very close and murmured seductively, "how about you stay home and we can mess your hair up again," the corners of his lips curled upward. "It would be a lot more fun than clockmaking. Wouldn't you rather have fun with your cute boyfriend than labor over clocks all day?"

He could see James' pupils dilate very slightly, but then he lifted his hand to Ras' face and pushed him away. "No, I have to work. You stay here and continue with whatever you've been doing in the workshop this past week, I'm sure your client is getting very impatient."

Unfortunately, he was correct. The client had in fact called just the night before to ask when it would be done.

Before Ras could stop him, James was out the door and down to the driveway, fiddling with his keys. Desperately, he followed after him, rambling on, "Come on, I can take you out dancing! You can lead this time! We can watch your favorite movie? I'll order us a steak dinner!" until the slimmer, more cultured man reached up and pecked him on the lips to shut him up, their fingers intertwining.

"No, I'm going to work." his voice was soft, but stern. He had a small smile. "Have fun with your tools." He tried to walk away, but Rasputin's prosthetic metal hand (which James was still unaware of) gripped him tightly, not letting him go. "Rasputin, I have to go, I'm going to be late!" Turning with an irritated look on his face, he stopped when he caught a look of his captor's face. Ras could make very persuasive puppy-dog eyes when he really wanted something.

"Just one more kiss?" he pleaded quietly.

James sighed. "Is this really going to be a daily thing?" He pursed his lips, and then groaned. "Fine, just one more, and then I really have to go, I'm--"

He never got to finish his sentence, though, as Ras had yanked him back, catching him and kissing him passionately. He tensed up for a second, surprised, even though he had been warned. Then he relaxed, and pressed closely against his best friend and lover, his heart beating rapidly. Among Rasputin's bubble of happy feelings and emotions, one single thought flitted through his head. 

Yes. This would definitely be a daily thing.

[rasputinz-blog]

Explosion

((Second fic I've written! This one's much darker, sorry. I was in a bit of a bad mood earlier and I took it out on Rasputin.

In which Rasputin has an accident in the lab.))

Shit, fuck, Tvoyu mat', ebanatyi pidaraz, golubaya bl'yad!

A steady stream of curses rolled off of Rasputin's tongue as he shifted on the floor, pushing himself up tediously on trembling arms. All he could hear was a loud ringing in his ears. All he could see was the shadow of a bright light. All he could feel was pain. His senses were dulled from the explosion, and the world was coming back into existence much more slowly than he would have liked.

It wasn't as if this were the first explosion that had occurred in his lab. It had happened a few times before, he had just never been caught in the heat of it before. It was totally random and unexpected; there had been absolutely no warning, other than a small "ping!" noise. He had been experimenting with a missile for his latest fighter jet model, trying to boost the fire power up as high as it could go. Obviously, he had gone too far. Shattering glass, a deafening boom, a blast of flame, an suddenly he'd found himself flying backwards through the air, crashing hard into the opposite wall and leaving a dent. Luckily, he'd been wearing his goggles; he would most definitely be blind now if he had gone without them. However, his torso wasn't as fortunate. Shards of glass peppered his flesh, his toxic blood soaking his white lab coat and his Metallica shirt. He felt dizzy, both from the shock and from the rapid blood loss.

Although he hadn't heard or seen his approach, suddenly Grigorii was by his side, looking panicked as he took his boss by the shoulders and looked into his eyes, calling out some unaudible things. Rasputin's head lolled from side to side, his sight confused with vivid colors and double-vision. In his stupor, he could only manage to slur out a couple sentences, such as, "Is Cheapskate okay?" and "where's James?" as if his friend had been present.

Stimulated by his master's inebriated muttering, Grigorii's face grew serious. Ripping the Metallica shirt off (he knew Rasputin would be upset about it later, as it was his favorite shirt), he carefully examined the embedded glass. There was a lot. It was enough to kill his boss if he didn't do something quickly and proficiently.

"Do not move, Mr. Zaleskii," he ordered sternly, as if to a toddler, as he rushed off to get bandages to bind the wounds after extracting the glass.

Rasputin sighed, his head flopping back against the wall. Through his double vision, he occasionally caught a glimpse of the damage the lab had taken. It would be expensive and time-consuming to repair it. He wondered how many of his important tools and projects would need to be replaced, or thrown out.

Sitting there with his stomach, chest and upper arms just as holy as Swiss cheese, he was beginning to feel nauseous at the prospect of it all, mixed with the bright lights and vivid colors. Was he going to die? It didn't seem unlikely to him. But who would be at his deathbed?

Before he could even start to rack his muddled brain for an answer, Grigorii was back, an without a word the butler started working, pulling out glass shards with tweezers and then dabbing at the wounds with some stinging, burning liquid. Rasputin didn't have enough strength to do anything more than groan in pain and turn his head away. "Grigorii... is my experiment...?"

"Destroyed, yes," Grigorii answered callously. Another groan rumbled from Rasputin's throat, and he closed his eyes. "I must have gotten the calibrations wrong... a minor mistake, which led to a dire consequence. Shit... this is going to back up business a lot. I'm going to need to pull some strings, or my client--"

"Please, Mr. Zaleskii," Grigorii interrupted, wrapping a bandage tightly around his chest. "I must concentrate, and it would be much easier if you would remain silent."

Although he would have normally argued, Rasputin understood that now was not the time. Therefore, he tried to focus on other things...

Immediately, his gaze locked on his left arm. The mechanical prosthetics were completely exposed, the artificial skin, sinew, and tendons melted, some of it plastered against the contours of the metal pieces. The ring finger and little finger were dysfunctional; they hung limply at awkward angles. The rest of the arm- the three other fingers, the metal beams of his forearm, and the elbow joint- scraped noisily against each other and moved with difficulty. It must have somehow disconnected from the nerves in his brain somehow. It would be just as much a pain to repair as it had been to build (then again, he had been in literal pain from the loss of his arm when he'd built it). He would need a high power vacuum and tweezers to remove the melted skin, and he would need surgical tools and...

Fuck.

Looking down and seeing the atrocious state of his body, his skin and flesh mangled, his arm destroyed, his mind disoriented...

Suddenly, he knew who would be at his death bed.

Would James cry for him?

No, he wouldn't die. He would survive. For the company, for Grigorii, for James. Even if nobody else cared, they were the only ones who really mattered.

Finally, Grigorii finished binding him, and he carefully helped him up, half-carrying and half-dragging him up the stairs to his room and laying him on his bed. He would be calling the hospital now, but as Rasputin lay there, all he could do was sit and think of James' worried face as his eyelids drooped, and he fell into a deep sleep...