|Fickle (fickle) wrote,|
@ 2010-08-28 14:20:00
|Entry tags:||friends: gifts, friends: vostok|
keep fighting, always
Title: Masochism Tango
Characters: Aleksei Volkov, Ivan Lukyanov
Word Count: 1, 064
Summary: Hearts need blood to beat and Aleks needs Lukyanov. Warnings for graphic violence/masochism tango-style relationship.
There was leather under his lips and he couldn’t taste it because what tastebuds had been in his tongue were destroyed now. It had been the iron that took them from him, heated so that it glowed hatred-hot and brighter than blood; he’d opened his mouth to it, stuck his tongue out on command because it was that or have it pressed to his mouth and then his tongue, have it force his lips open after scarring him, wounding him, too badly to talk. And Aleks had needed to still be able to talk so that he could with his cauterized tongue, too thick to form the words properly, still spit defiantly, “Sosi ebanataya suka!”
Spit. Hah. He hadn’t been able to, he’d slurred the wounds, they had been too complicated for his wounded mouth and swollen tongue to navigate but Lukyanov had understood him, kicked him in the teeth for it. Or maybe it had been the tone, or just the timing. Nobody said anything good after having a hot iron held to their tongue. Even if they’d cooperated. Collaborated. But it had been the smarter choice and Aleks had always known how to choose the lesser of two evils.
So he chose the grit and the blood, rough stone against his cheek scraping it open as a teeth-slamming kick caught him in the gut and opened up a freshly-healed wound again; his world grayed and Aleks passed out to sound of the muffled screaming (his own tongue got in the way, gagged him as surely as the rags had).
He kissed the boot that had kicked him and took some satisfaction in letting his blood drip onto it, ruin the leather’s shine. Lukyanov was talking again and Aleks couldn’t understand him; his head still rang and the language that Lukyanov spoke was his mother tongue. His mother’s tongue. Aleks’ tongue still felt too thick in his tongue, a useless roll of muscle that had been stuffed between his teeth to silence him.
Russian. Lukyanov was speaking in Russian and Aleks had sworn at him in Russian and inside his head, Dr. Alex Walker observed detachedly that Aleks must be suffering head trauma of some sort if he had lost the ability to process Russian. But Aleks didn’t think that was the case. It was just the ringing in his ears that made it difficult to understand Lukyanov. If head injuries could make Aleks lose his languages, it would be English that Aleks forgot or French, his most recent acquisition (not that he knew more than a handful of phrases anyway, just enough to interact with his patients and Francis).
When did Luky get so tall?
Oh. He wasn’t tall. Aleks was on his stomach on the floor.
Lukyanov had paused and was looking down at him as if he expected Aleks to say something. Admitting that all he’d been able to hear for the last few minutes had been a buzzing noise would be a waste of effort so instead, Aleks forced his mouth into a smile, coughed up a sticky flow of blood over his tongue, onto the leather he’d just touched his lips. “Ya tebya lublu’.”
He made the words as sweet and mocking as he could, given his uncooperative tongue and the pain that even the shallowest of breaths caused him. His arms weren’t broken but trying to move his spine sent stabbing hot pains through him, so he stayed on his stomach and craned his head back, ignored the dizziness that threatened to send another wave of nausea through him so that he’d choke on his own vomit. “That better, Luky?” Still mocking but the sweetness was gone now, replaced by unadulterated hate. His eyes were dark with it even though the way he peeled his lips away from his cracked teeth resembled a grimace more than a smile.
He spoke in English, as crisp and polished as he could make it with a tongue that did nothing but eat through him with pain. Lukyanov would understand that, Aleks was feverishly convinced, even if to his own ears, the words sounded like a choking man cursing his own death. Half his teeth were numb and his tongue felt fat, grotesquely pressing against the roof of his mouth.
The next kick sent a red slash through his mind, silent agony that drowned out everything, and it was only when the red faded to grey that he realized he’d been trying to scream the whole time, a horrible stifled keening that was animal in its wordlessness. He hadn’t been trying for words; there weren’t any, his mind couldn’t find them.
He’d come to Russia to say goodbye to himself and he’d found Luky and he’d found his heart and if he was going to die here, on this floor, cracked and beaten and bloodied, he would still die complete. Whole.
He wanted to tell Lukyanov that, explain that it didn’t matter what Lukyanov did, that Lukyanov was alive and the guilt, the burden of having responsible for Lukyanov’s death was gone. Lukyanov could try to break Aleks apart if he wanted, drive a thin metal bar into the gaps between his joints and lift them apart, but it was Luky and Aleks, for all that he was in pain and half-delirious with fever, felt more alive than he ever had in Canada.
The long years in the Canadian winter, his life as Dr. Alexander Walker, all of that felt like a dream now, less clear to him than his teenage fantasies of living in a house on the beach in America. His heart had stopped when he left Russia because he’d left his heart with Lukyanov and now Aleks was back and Lukyanov was back but what Lukyanov had given Aleks in return was a broken heart. It beat in stutters and pulsed black blood through him, but it was a heart and it filled the hollowness inside Aleks with hate, anchoring him to this reality.
Lukyanov hurt him and Lukyanov hated him and Aleks hated him right back but for the first time in nearly a decade, Aleks felt alive.
He was born here and he’ll die here but it’s only ever been in Russia (around Luky) that Aleks has ever lived.