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The hardest part of adjusting to this new life is the early rising. Nikolai insists upon it, although businesses like theirs operate well outside the 9-5, somewhere between totally 24/7 and late starts/late nights. His reasoning is that their brothers in Moscow and St Petersburg are ahead, and Vladivostok even more so, so if the London Vor want to cooperate they need to be up early. It isn’t so bad. Papa had always woken up with the birds too, and part of Kirill’s motivation for lying-in was only to ensure that their paths crossed as little as possible. Now that he is gone that isn’t an issue. Besides, there’s more time this way. Time between the international phone calls and the rest of the London branch waking up and demanding attention. Time before the bars open. Time when Kirill doesn’t feel pressured to get smashed so he can bear to let some tart paw at him in public.
Most mornings they go to the gym, just him and Nikolai. The old Kirill – the one that existed pre-Nikolai – would have laughed in your face if you’d suggested pre-dawn workouts. It would have been “I am going to bed, Блядь.”[1] Now he doesn’t even consider sleeping over seeing Nikolai when he isn’t thinking business. When there’s a chance of seeing what he likes to think is ‘the real Nikolai’. The one that nobody, apart from maybe that English bitch, has ever seen.
They go to a tiny spit-and-sawdust fighting gym long owned by an affiliate, but it’s all theirs for a couple of hours before sunrise. Weights first. Nikolai is smaller, but still the only person in the world Kirill would trust to catch 140kg over his throat. Like this morning as he goes for a personal record, Nikolai standing behind his head to watch the bar. He fixes his eyes on the sharp cut of Nikolai’s jaw, just visible from the bench. Unracks the weight. Does not look away as he brings the bar down to his chest, not even when it sticks at the bottom and he thinks he will drop it.
“Come on, Kirill,” Nikolai says, “Weight is nothing. Just push.”
He’s not worried, although the pressure in Kirill’s head is so painful he’s sure blood is going to start spurting from some orifice or another. If anybody else told him to ‘just push’ right now, he would fuck them up. Anybody but Nikolai. “I am pushing, дебил!”[2], is all he says.
“So, push harder.”
Nikolai doesn’t even twitch, let alone take the bar from him. Of course he doesn’t – even when Kirill feels weak, his Kolya always has faith in him. That’s all he needs. All he has to do to finally bring the bar back up is reach towards Nikolai. He gets enough practice at that in all his dreams.
Nikolai is congratulating him, but Kirill isn’t really listening. He’s watching Kolya’s eyes, so beautiful when they aren’t cold and distant. When they’re really looking at him. He jumps up and drags Nikolai into a half hug before his expression can freeze over again, then bounces whooping around the weight room. Not that he really cares about the record; this is Nikolai’s hobby, not his. He’s capering like a fool because it will drag a reluctant smile out of his stoic Siberian. Besides, there’s no one else around to witness the king playing the jester.
“You are fucking дебил,”[2] Nikolai says as he strips the bar, but there’s no sting in the words. He’s smiling too much.
Sparring next. For all Kirill’s brute strength, they both know deep down that Nikolai could drop him in seconds, even if Kirill pretends otherwise. Nikolai must like to pretend otherwise, too, because he never ends the fight early. He’s a creature of habit in this respect. There is a complicated dance they perform every morning, round after round until the other members start to arrive. Circling each other, anticipating every familiar strike and grab, pulling their punches so that neither of them will be bloodied for their first meetings. Kirill thinks he could perform his half alone from memory. It’s a beloved tradition, not least because they’re both shirtless and breathing hard, a sheen of sweat covering their tattoos. It makes it easier to picture them in other situations later.
The very best part of the morning comes last. It’s such a rough place that not only is there no sauna, but the shower room is just one big tiled space with lime scaled showerheads on the walls and a rusted drain in the centre of the floor. Kirill is used to luxury, but this is one of the primary attractions of this particular gym. The routine it affords. Nikolai will take the shower at the far end of the room, where the steam is thick enough to hide him from the door. Kirill does not blame him for being jumpy in public baths. That incident is never mentioned directly – not when they’re both sober, anyway – but he can habitually take the next closest shower to make sure he has Nikolai’s back. Or at least he can tell them both that.
When the hot water hits Nikolai closes his eyes and tips his face back into the spray. Kirill immediately abandons his shower gel and lets his eyes rake over his body. Beautiful. Forget about lightning, Kolya - his Kolya - is the embodiment of a Siberian storm. He is everything a man should be, everything Kirill wishes he could be. The sleek hair, water-darkened to gun-metal, the strong jaw, the fine features. Powerful lines of muscle beneath skin so fair and smooth it could be carved from fucking marble, dozens of royal blue tattoos that tell his story in pictures and poetry. (Kirill doesn’t recognise most of the poems. Although he can’t appreciate the words, he appreciates the way this line skims Nikolai’s shoulder blades, that one fits around his wrist like a chain. That’s fucking poetry.)
Nikolai turns a little, and Kirill has to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat. The church on Nikolai’s back is scored through with scars. Crossed out. God may not protect him, and Kirill knows that he is not capable of protecting anyone, but at least his steppe wolf knows how to take care of himself.
Nikolai can stand like this for twenty minutes, easily. Kirill has plenty of time to watch him, not even pretending to wash. He never opens his eyes. Never. Today, as Kirill is running his gaze along him, skin flushed and imagining what it would feel like to trace every scar and tattoo, Nikolai’s eyelids flutter and flicker open. His eyes snap to the side. Kirill is caught completely off-guard. Nikolai sees him – he knows Nikolai sees him – and he’s biting his lip like a bitch and looking at him in a way that nobody looks at their business partner, their friend, their fucking brother. None of the things Kirill pretends they are.
Kirill turns his head to the wall and studies it as he washes his hair, slightly too violently. Immediately, he knows it’s a mistake. Betraying his true emotions. Nikolai would have smiled, guileless, and deflected with an easy joke, some clever comment. Probably turned it around somehow. Fucking, fucking idiot. The lines of grout start to blur a little, and Kirill tries to pretend that it’s the steam. There’s silence save for the pitter-patter of running water and his own stuttered breathing. Nikolai is staring at the side of his head in his peripheral vision. Kirill doesn’t have to turn around to know that he will be wearing that cold, calculating, expression that he hates. The one that reminds him of his papa. His face burns.
They finish their showers in silence. Kirill wants to launch into a denial, but how would that look? He might not be as clever as Nikolai, but he is not stupid. Even he realises that an unprompted: ‘Hey Nikolai, I’m no fucking faggot!’ would only make it worse.
It's moot anyway, because Nikolai won’t acknowledge him. He just dresses robotically and marches out to the car with his hair still wet and his eyes fixed on the horizon. Kirill can almost see the machinery whirring behind them. He’s forced to jog after his ex-fucking-driver and throw himself into the passenger seat or face being left in the carpark. Even worse than getting the silent treatment, he doesn’t dare to throw his arm around Nikolai’s shoulders, pat his face, even thump his back. It feels wrong, abnormal. It is abnormal, essentially an admission that something has happened.
The silent car ride gives Kirill time to think, something he avoids at the best of times. How is the king so stupid? How is the prince of the fucking педики[3] still so bad at lying about it?
It’s almost unbearable to have Nikolai so close, and yet suddenly so distant. He wants to apologise, to promise to be better, stronger, if Nikolai would only promise to forgive him. To not tell. For the love of God, not to leave him alone again. But he doesn’t. He is a Vor, and Vor do not beg. Vor do not cry. Vor are not afraid of anything. He repeats the words like an internal mantra, not even looking at where they are going.
The car stops, and Nikolai gets out. Kirill looks around uncomprehendingly. Nikolai’s street, outside his shithole apartment. What the fuck are we doing here?
Maybe Nikolai has brought him here to slit his throat. Maybe he has told the others already, somehow, and they will all be waiting for him inside. If he’s lucky, the gun will only be of the tattooing variety. Maybe he can adjust to life with сука[4] written on his forehead. Kirill does not move. There’s a long pause, and then Nikolai is tapping at his window, face fixed in that patient, half-mocking little smile he sometimes adopts. He turns and disappears back up the path, beckoning to Kirill behind him like he’s calling a dog. Kirill’s stomach lurches. He slams the dashboard. Takes a shuddering breath. Gets out. Follows.
As soon as he is through the door, it is kicked shut behind him. Kirill hears the lock snick automatically, although at least Nikolai’s many bolts and chains aren’t in place. He hadn’t seen Nikolai in the unlit entryway, but now the Siberian is between him and the exit, herding him towards the centre of the living room. Kirill swallows. He glances around frantically for an escape route, but he has been here often; there are no other doors. When he looks back, Nikolai is right behind him. His face is impassive again. Kirill shouldn’t take this, should threaten him, remind him who’s in charge. Except Nikolai seems to feel neither fear nor doubt, and even if he did, Kirill has known which of them is really in control since almost the day they met. He’d just been hoping that Nikolai didn’t.
Kirill steps back involuntarily, but Nikolai closes the distance, not letting him have any space.
“Look at me, Kirill,” he says, almost kind. Coaxing. “Look at me.”
Kirill shakes his head like a child and keeps backing away until he feels his shoulder blades hit something hard. There’s the sound of the things on Nikolai’s mantle place falling over, a bottle hitting the floor and bouncing. Nikolai doesn’t flinch.
“Come on, Kirill,” he says, “For me.”
Kirill breaks. “K-Kolya…,” he half sobs, then stops, chelsea boots blurring before his eyes. He’s thought so long about all the impossible things he would tell Nikolai, how it would play out. Now he’s almost forced to speak, he has no words. Nothing that won’t incriminate him more, anyway.
Nikolai searches his face for a long moment. Then he reaches out to run one tattooed thumb along his cheekbone, and Kirill dare not breathe. He has only ever seen this kind of tenderness from his father, usually after a beating.
“Kirya,” Nikolai murmurs. “You have such a loud mouth, but now you are silent?” His fingers slip down to Kirill’s jaw and begin gently tilting his head back.
Kirill flinches. This is it. Nikolai is finally going to demonstrate that Sasha isn’t completely full of shit, and he really can snap a neck with his bare hands.
It doesn’t happen. Instead, he tsks softly and steps in even closer, until their chests almost touch. “It is alright. Look at me, Kirya,” he says.
Kirill’s eyes snap up to meet Nikolai’s against his will. He’s so hard to read – he always has been – but Kirill does not think it’s wishful thinking that makes Nikolai’s eyes look a little warmer again, like the frost in them is melting. He is not imagining things when Nikolai slides his hand up to cup his face. Nor when he smiles, and it isn’t cruelly patronising anymore. Maybe a little sad, which Kirill can’t explain, but he’ll take that over hostile. His heart is beating so hard he thinks it might give out. Nikolai’s skin is warm, but beneath his palm Kirill is burning.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Nikolai says, bringing his other hand up and placing it tentatively at the nape of his neck, “Is it?”
This is not possible. It is not possible. Nikolai is not a queer, because Nikolai is a real man. A real vor. Kirill knows this. He knows this, but it doesn’t stop him leaning into the touch just slightly and giving Nikolai a tremulous smile in return. One that feels so brittle it might smash if he drops it, but a smile nonetheless.
“Да.”[5]
If he has misjudged this, if this is a test he has failed, he might as well take whatever he can get before Nikolai kills him. He does not care anymore. He has many faults, but the fear of death is not one of them.
Then the hand against his face is gone, leaving a Kolya-sized print that is freezing cold in its absence. Kirill doesn’t have long to miss it before there is a hand at each of his shoulders, pushing him gently downwards. For a moment he doesn’t understand, then he resists. He wears the stars – proof that he will not kneel to any authority. Proof of who he is, who his family have always been. Kirill’s jeans are suddenly too tight. They are proof that he is a bad liar, and he wants this as much as it disgusts him. He can’t look at Nikolai, who is keeping up the gentle but insistent pressure on his shoulders. He kneels.
Nikolai undoes his belt, and Kirill has to lean back to avoid the heavy silver buckle. Then Nikolai has his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion, and Kirill is face-to-face with the evidence that the Siberian very much wants this too. Kirill whimpers, looks shamefully from Nikolai’s cock to his face. His eyes are closed; he’s evidently not about to force anything. Kirill almost wishes he would - it would be so much easier. This way neither of them can have any doubt as to whose decision this is. Kirill wants to hate him for that. It would be so much less painful that hating himself. Instead, he shifts forwards slightly on his knees and wraps one hand around Nikolai. He has no idea what he’s doing. Finally he leans forwards and lets his tongue flicker against the tip, glancing upwards to gauge Nikolai’s reaction. A strong hand in his hair, pulling him forwards, is his answer.
Kirill takes Nikolai’s cock into his mouth, as much of it as will fit, and hollows his cheeks like he’s seen women do for him. Nikolai groans. That’s all the encouragement Kirill needs. He bobs his head backwards and forwards, so eager to please that he makes himself gag and has to pull back for a moment, disgusted with himself. He wraps a hand around the base of Nikolai’s cock instead and concentrates on the head, his other hand palming himself through his jeans.
“Fuck Kirya,” Nikolai breathes, and despite himself, Kirill’s chest puffs out with pride. He’s never heard any whore draw words from Koyla before, and he’s watched him at every opportunity.
Nikolai’s hand suddenly tightens in Kirill’s hair. He begins fucking his mouth like he is just some cheap whore. Kirill’s shame comes rushing back. The grip on his hair hurts, and he is struggling to breathe, and these things combine with the sounds Nikolai is making so that Kirill thinks he is going to come without anybody even having to touch him. Above all he hates that he loves this. The pain, Nikolai’s hard body, deep voice, and smoke-and-cologne scent, the way he is out of control and fully in Nikolai’s power. It’s intoxicating. He whines.
“Kirya, Kirya, fuck …. Kirya!” Nikolai pulls Kirill close and holds him there as he comes down his throat, thighs trembling slightly against Kirill’s shoulders.
When he finally lets go, Kirill falls backwards and hangs his head, gasping. His mouth tastes wrong, and he is still on his knees. He can almost feel his father’s gaze, although Semyon has been in protective custody for months. Nikolai is silently straightening his clothes out. Even though Kirill will not look up, he can picture everything from the outside. The king, kneeling before his subject. Nikolai looking down at him shivering on the floor. The image sends a pain through Kirill’s chest, not through his heart, but through his stars. They burn, all-consuming.
Kirill has to get out. He moves to stand up and bolt, but the motion rubs his erection against the inside of his jeans and draws a desperate whimper from him. He drops back onto his knees. There’s no way Nikolai didn’t hear that. Fucking proof that he enjoyed it – he enjoyed being fucked like a bitch. His eyes are swimming with tears again. He wants a fucking drink. Before he can try to escape again, Nikolai’s hand is back in his hair. Gentle this time. Smoothing it back then letting his fingers tangle in the curls at the nape of Kirill’s neck, which won’t lie flat no matter how much product he uses.
Kirill is instantly paralysed, although there’s no physical force holding him in place. He breathes hard, eyes fixed on Nikolai’s shoes.
“Kirya,” Nikolai says, voice quiet and coaxing. “You are ok, да?”[5]
Kirill doesn’t want to acknowledge what he has done. He wants to stay here until Nikolai goes away. Preferably until the world goes away, too. But he is weak. He meets Nikolai’s gaze, because Nikolai wants him to. Offers a watery smile. As if by sheer force of will he can make this situation even slightly ok.
“Да,”[5] he whispers.
Nikolai smiles in return. It’s like the sun coming out from behind storm clouds, this first truly familiar expression since they got here. Not Nikolai’s usual, patient smile, or his mocking smile, or any of the other faces he wears when Kirill is being an idiot and he is humouring him. It’s … affectionate. The smile he usually saves for when he thinks Kirill is too drunk to remember it. His eyes look more blue-green than grey. Almost kind.
For once, this is not what Kirill wants to see - he does not want pity, or condescension. He knows full-well the kind of power over him he has just given Nikolai. And yet he can’t look away. Because what he sees doesn’t quite match what he expects, and that traitorous part of him that got him into this mess is lighting up with hope. What does it even matter anymore? He feels like he might shatter at any moment. It might be madness, wishful thinking, alcoholic dementia, but this isn’t how you look at a cheap whore, it is? You don’t stroke a whore’s hair, after.
You don’t fall to your knees in front of a whore and pull her into a kiss.
Kirill stiffens, almost pulls away in shock. He’s doesn’t really know how to do this, either. None of his father’s girls ever offered pointers. Nikolai doesn’t seem to care. He has one hand still in Kirill’s hair, the other wrapped possessively around his waist so that their bodies are pressed together, pushing under the hem of Kirill’s shirt. His mouth tastes of mint, smoke, vodka. Of Nikolai. Kirill shivers. Shivers again when Nikolai pushes his tongue into his mouth, apparently unconcerned by what Kirill’s just swallowed. When they break apart, Kirill regrets the loss of contact and tries to follow Nikolai. The Siberian chuckles and holds him back with a hand at his shoulder. Before Kirill can remember to be ashamed, Nikolai is undoing his fly and pulling him out of his jeans.
He almost comes at the contact, again. It’s just a handjob, not any different from the hundred times Kirill has thought about Nikolai and touched himself before he can sleep. Except it’s not the same thing at all. Nikolai’s long, strong fingers are far gentler than Kirill had been expecting. Than he had always imagined. More skilled, too. He strokes Kirill slowly, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the sensitive head on the upstroke.
“Good?”
It’s the single greatest thing Kirill has ever felt; he thinks he’s going to burst with it. If it’s a genuine question he is too far gone to answer verbally. He couldn’t admit it aloud, anyway. He just nods frantically between the needy little whines he can’t seem to hold back. Nikolai purrs, and draws him into another long kiss. He nips at Kirill’s lower lip and continues to stroke him almost languidly.
It’s Nikolai’s free hand that’s really driving Kirill wild. When he tires of running it through his hair, Nikolai begins working it under his shirt, pulling Kirill in close and squeezing him as if he can’t get enough of him. His fingertips trace Kirill’s tattoos, his ribs, the dusting of hair across his chest and stomach. They glance across his nipple, apparently by accident. Kirill tenses, surprised. Nikolai does it again, deliberately this time, then pinches it. Kirill yelps, and when Nikolai leans in to kiss him again he can feel that the Siberian is smiling. He decides that he will have time to be angry about that later, maybe. For now, he is occupied.
It occurs to Kirill that Kolya might have a sadistic streak. Every time he gets close, Nikolai seems to know and stills his hand for a moment to kiss along his jaw or nibble at his earlobe. He can’t stand it. Every muscle is his body is tensed, his skin is on fire, and he wants to come more than he has ever wanted anything in his life.
He resorts to an English word he uses so seldom he has to concentrate, “Please, Kolya. Please. I need to – I want – “
He can’t bring himself to finish, but Nikolai tightens his grip slightly and increases the pace. “Да, Kirya,” he says.[5]
He lets Kirill bury his face in the crook of his neck and holds him close as Kirill’s eyes roll back and he comes across his hand and both of their shirts, seeing stars of a different kind. Whilst Kirill focuses on remembering how to breathe he pulls back slightly to rest their sweat-slicked foreheads together, and then when Kirill sits back, Nikolai presses one more kiss to his lips. Sweet now – full of promises. Then he’s standing up and moving away.
“Where are you going?” Kirill is instantly almost frantic.
Nikolai walks back into his line of sight and has the audacity to smirk. “We must clean up. We have meeting in twenty minutes. Давай!”[6] he throws a wash cloth at Kirill’s head.
Kirill catches it, blinks, and follows him. As always.
From the day they met Nikolai has upset the regular balance of his life in London, his routines and his charades. This is one more strange turn in a series of bizarre events that Kirill cannot begin to predict. Maybe he doesn’t mind so much - he can adjust.