Underworld

Between the painkillers they’d given him at the hospital and the alcohol Kirill had been pouring down his throat for the past six hours Nikolai could hardly stand.  Kirill was slumped heavily against him, barely conscious.  However much Kirill had insisted Nikolai drink, he had drunk even more himself. 

            “Let me see what they did to you,” Kirill muttered, pawing Nikolai’s jacket open, trying to unbutton his shirt.

            “Don’t,” Nikolai warned.  “Someone will see.” 

Undressing his driver in public wasn’t going to do anything to squelch the rumors about Kirill’s sexuality and it wasn’t going to enhance his authority as the new head of the London branch of the vory v zakone now that his father was gone.  Since Nikolai was planning to stay in the shadows and control things behind the scenes he’d need to restrain Kirill’s tendencies towards self-immolation for at least a little while. 

But would anyone see?   

            Nikolai glanced around.  Where were they anyways?  Huddled against the ancient stone walls of an alley, they were more like winos than leaders of the underworld.  There was snow on the ground mixed with broken glasses and trampled confetti.  There was no one to see, so when Kirill started in again Nikolai didn’t bother stopping him.  He lay back against the grimy stone wall and let Kirill pull open his shirt, trace the bruises and the rows of stitches that covered his body with fumbling hands, grope at him like a virgin schoolboy with his first woman.

            “Happy now?”  Nikolai asked flatly.  “These were meant for you.”

            “It was my father, I had nothing to do with it,” Kirill protested for the hundredth time that night, a hot rage burning through the haze of vodka and champagne.  “I wouldn’t have let him do that to you, the son of a bitch…”

            Nikolai pressed a finger to Kirill’s lips.

            “Shhh,” he whispered, sliding his hand on the back of Kirill’s neck, pressing his forehead to the other man’s.  “I know it was your father and not you.  I know you would not do that.” 

He knew just how to play Kirill, how to bind Kirill to him, how to frustrate him while he believed he was being comforted, soothed.  Kirill sobbed and hid his face against Nikolai’s bare chest.  Nikolai stroked his hair.  Drunk as he was, Kirill would remember tomorrow that he had needed to touch Nikolai so badly he was whimpering like a child.  He would remember and the shame would make him that much harder on himself, that much easier for Nikolai to control.

Still, there was a price for the control Nikolai gained.  There was a price for everything. 

Kirill nuzzled against him, nuzzled against the purple black bruises on his chest and stomach.  He began kissing a ragged line of stitches.

Nikolai winced.

            “Lay off, you’re hurting me,” he said.  “I just got out of the hospital.”

            “I’ll be careful, gentle…” Kirill pleaded.  His hand caressing a sore and scarcely closed wound on Nikolai’s side and making him gasp in pain. 

“Enough,” Nikolai said, coldly pushing Kirill away.  “You’ll open the stitches.”

Kirill looked up at him, a dangerous sneer twisting his face. 

"Are you thinking about that woman?"  He asked.

"I’m thinking that I’m hurt and you’re drunk.  What woman?"

"The Englishwoman, the little blonde bat on the motorbike."

Anna. 

"Her?”  Nikolai said, careful to remain calm, to remove from his voice anything resembling concern or fear.  “She was just a midwife, she was there to look after the baby.” 

"You kissed her.  I saw you kiss her.  Do you want her?  I can get her for you."

Nikolai shook his head. 

"Leave her alone,” he said.  “She doesn't matter.  Let her take care of the child, that's what women are good for.  You and I have more important things to do."

"When my father told me how he had set you up, we argued,” Kirill said purposefully.  "He said I shouldn't trust you, that you showed too little of yourself, that you’re ambitious, that you ask too many questions..."

"Listen to me, Kirill,” Nikolai said, drawing Kirill back to him, back against his battered body.  “Your father was wrong about a lot of things.  He thought you were a queer.  When I told him about the lies the Chechen was spreading about you, he never denied them.  He said he was to blame, that it was his fault for bringing you to London."

He could feel Kirill’s hands against his chest clenching into fists. 

            “You see,” Nikolai whispered.  “Your father was wrong about you, he was wrong about me.  He made many mistakes and they’ve caught up with him.  His time is over now.  You had best to forget him."

Kirill looked at him with animal longing.  "Like you've forgotten the midwife?"  He asked.  Kirill might be a fool, but he wasn't so stupid.  He could be used, but he’d take his pound of flesh in return. 

"Yeah,” Nikolai said.  “Like I've forgotten the midwife." 

Then Kirill smiled with gritted teeth, snuggling possessively against Nikolai who for a moment remained tense and unyielding with disgust and anger but then, relenting, embraced the drunken man, burying his face in Kirill’s shoulder. 

He may as well give his tenderness to Kirill, there was no one else. 

Nikolai had left behind everything good and decent.  He had left Anna on the banks of the Thames river, a child in her arms, and gone with Kirill into the darkness.

It was just the two of them now, he and Kirill, bound to each other.

Above him, the dark sky was turning blood red.  The end of the world?  No, only the first day of the New Year.  Anna was gone for good.  Kirill lay in his arms, dead weight, finally passed out.

"You are my underworld," Nikolai whispered.  "You are my Hades, and I am yours.”