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You are a lucky man Bachelor Dankovsky.
Lucky that I somehow still allow you to have power over my brother and me. Lucky that I have enough patience left for you to nestle yourself into my side, piss-drunk. Lucky that my apartment is only down a short hallway through a back door at my bar.
I suppose I’m lucky too, in some regard. My brother is still here, his grief for our fallen daughter quelled by a new one made of flesh and blood. I suppose having someone to take care of is easier than taking care of yourself. When I spoke to you about it, he said the same but with raised eyebrows and a pointed look. Not sure what that was about.
Petyr seems to be coping better than I had thought even though I haven’t seen him as much lately. I am angry, but for once I cannot express it. I look to my brother for counsel, for shared mourning. But his grief is one of resolve and growth. You and Grace showed him kindness and love when I could not bear to let myself have the same. I’m not sure that I can. I feel like I am chained to this feeling that cannot be resolved with action. Will you baptize me the same way, hold me the same way you held him, just for that one night?
I’m lucky too, in how three weeks after she’s fallen you still crawl the Broken Heart every night. The company is nice enough, even if you have to be scraped off the counter and put to bed at the end of it. You only knew her for 12 days. The paramount of our lives became your muse, to which I’m grateful. but I do wonder how you really, truly saw her. Did you really know her Dankovsky? Do you mourn her, or did you mourn the life you had wasted on an unattainable goal?
in your eyes I see my anger reflected back to me. Your nails leave crescents on my arms as you speak to me. Be it your drunkenness or mine, I admit my dear that I don’t recall a word you said. I feel it though, the way your irises shake as you look through me, your brow fraught and wavering. Your anger left you starving for an outlet. Your anger left me starving.
you always had no issue staring at people's eyes until they looked back. It doesn’t surprise me then that when I look back into your shaking eyes that you look away and your nails stop pulling at my skin. I wont relent to you, Danya. I know eventually you’ll look at me from your peripherals and your gaze will soften, and you’ll look at me from under your eyebrows rather than wide-eyed and manic. And you do just that, as if on cue. I reward your bravery with my hand over yours. Where has your fire gone now? Are you still hungry?
Your eyes dance from my eyes to my lips, to our hands interlaced.
Played like a fiddle, you are, Bachelor Dankovsky. Even since university, your tells haven’t changed. Always the sheepish one, feigning innocence and embarrassment. As if the time we were together didn’t prove otherwise. I see through you, Danya. Your eyes now flickering rather than shaking I know your brain is still alight. Perhaps it is not your intention to be put to bed tonight, at least not the way you have the past few weeks.
To my surprise you stand up first, letting go of my hand and smoothing your vest in an attempt to make yourself a sliver more presentable. As if it doesn’t seem like it's only the two of us here. I stand beside you and you meet my eyes, only for a second, like you’re keeping me in check. As if the walk to the backroom apartment isn’t just across the bar. I walk you there as if we’re continuing a business discussion.
A weaker man may have fallen for you, Dankovsky. A man more capable of loving another person rather than a concept. How insatiable you can be, Danya. Was a fling with my brother and the doting of two excuses for doctors not enough to satisfy you? Perhaps they didn’t make enough of a mess of you for your liking. Was Burakh too sweet, too gentle? Rubin too submissive, Petyr too equal? Have you been chasing what we had in university since we parted? Not many men understand what you need. Maybe not even me, but at the very least I understand what you want.
You can walk through my apartment like you’ve been here a million times, like you’re following stage direction. You can count your steps as you toss your coat aside, as you sit on the edge of my bed and sway your hips as you pull your pants down. You can count the seconds it takes you to undo each button on your shirt, rehearsed and recited. I’ll stand over you all the same, not hovering, but not yielding. I'll be patient as you fold your clothes and set them on the ground.
I have to hold back a laugh as you look up to me, those beautiful brown eyes all big and framed by fluttering lashes. I recognize your game Dankovsky, a game you play so well, one that wiser men would lose themselves in. You truly have always been one of my favorites, Danya.
I stronger man wouldn’t have given in, wouldn’t have brought a hand to your throat and up your cheek. Perhaps I’m not so strong after all. Certainly not after bringing a thumb to your lips, which open oh so easily. What am I to do when you wrap your mouth around my thumb and paw at my belt? Perhaps I’m not so patient either.
I can bring my hand to your throat again and hear you whimper my name like clockwork. I can push you by your throat and pin you to the blankets and you’ll bare your soft underside each time. It's admirable how much your body has changed since last we laid together. Bonier now after the plague, hairier, more sinewy. I can hold you down by your throat and straddle over you and watch how your ribs heave with each breath. How scars, new and old, move and stretch like canvas over your frame.
At a glance, you seem made of marble, but I know you yield like flesh.
I'll kiss around your forehead, eyes, nose, throat, down, down, down. I want to carve a makers mark into you, but it’s not yet the time. For now, all I can do is fit my fingertips under the hem of your breeches. As soon as they’re weaselled off you part your legs oh so graciously. It feels like not a day has gone by since last we were together like this. of course here more than anywhere else your body has changed, Your hair coarser and your cock heavier. Your lips are parted and glistening for me; I truly cannot hide how my breath stutters and my mouth waters. I may have control here Danya, but it would be disingenuous to say that I am not brought to my knees only to please you.
You aren't looking at me as I wrap my arm around your hip and spread your thigh with the other. what a chorus you sing when I bring my mouth to you. it's exciting, to explore how your body has changed like this. So familiar, but still so new. I wonder if you like it differently now. If men that had you during our time apart changed your tastes. Even in town, you’ve slept with three before coming back to me, though I surely cannot be one to judge. But of course, familiarity is preferred, right? I suppose I must be doing something right from the way you’re damn near tearing my hair out to use my mouth.
Would sweet old Artemy let you do this to him? I’m sure he would be happy to oblige. But did it feel the same? Would he know to dig his nails into your thighs until it drew blood? It is his blood right, is it not? Would he even think of causing pain for the sake of pleasure? Of course not. I know you'd enjoy his physicality, but he would never dare leave even a hand mark on a sweet thing like you. His duty to you does not extend so far, the hands of a surgeon are far too gentle. I know he would wrap his big hands around your middle and eagerly tend to you, good enough, but never satisfying.
Looking up and into your eyes watching me, I know he could have never brought you to this state. He could finish you off sure, but never the way you want. Your thighs feel like they could crush the sides of my skull, but I would let them. I could suffocate buried between them and die a happy man. I won't relent until the heartbeat on my tongue stills and the vice around my head is released. I'll let your grip soften and tremble as I kiss up your thighs, but I know my job is not finished. It pains me to abandon my station between your legs, but I'm sure you'll find it in your cavernous heart to forgive me.
Your eyes meeting mine when I turn back to you pulls the breath from my lungs. You meet my eyes now, blinking slowly and flicking to the object in my hands. You extend your hand to my hip as I get closer and pull off my trousers. Now it is your turn to be impatient I suppose as you rip the strap from my hand and get to work on fastening its buckles around my thighs. All in due time Danya. I'll let you tighten the leather too much because you are oh so dear to me and I could never have the heart to tell you to go easy. A man could lose himself to you, truly.
You gasp as it enters you and I gasp as though I can feel it all the same. It's been a while, I realize, since I shared this with someone whose body was similar to mine. Crafted like a work of art, loved wholly. Perhaps I am too sweet in how I raise your ankles above your head, how I let my necklaces swing over you. You affirm me of this by leveraging your hands on my back to pull me deeper. I can only amend my mistakes by returning that pressure and watching as your head falls back and is pushed up and up and up to the headboard.
Does it take you back Danya? A mirror image of our university days. You’ve grown into quite the man since then. Your face was softer back then but the way your brows worry and your mouth hangs open is oh so familiar. Who else but me could bring you to this state? Surely you went to Stanislav expecting to be well and roughed up. Big man, bigger cock, tough exterior. I thought the same once. Sorely mistaken. For once a man that wants to be bent over more than you. I was happy to oblige him, but I wonder if you felt the same. I'm sure he let you ride him, his face, or his cock, but was it really what you wanted? Did it sadden you to see the man who could obliterate you be so utterly submissive? Maybe you could coax him atop you, but I fear he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He could fuck you sure, but he wouldn’t have it in him to ruin you.
Not like I do. None of the men in this town know what you really want. How easy it is to draw you to a whimpering mess, wetting both our thighs, clawing at my arms. I can bring a hand around your throat and wring a whistly ‘Andryusha’ from it. You truly are a piece of art, Danya. I could be mean, tell you how much of a slut you are, how easy you are, and so on. But the way the vein in your forehead bulges when I say your name oh so softly makes me want to sing your praises. So I shall. You are mine and mine alone. I am yours. I rejoice to tell you how good you are for me; such a good boy, I know baby, that’s it, you’re so good for me, are you gonna cum for me, baby? you’re so pretty when you cum, so beautiful Danya-
I can feel your body tug enough to force my rhythm to falter and realize how close I was just from where the strap rubbed against me. In some undeserved poetics, I cum alongside you, my face smushed into where my hand is clamped down on your throat. I release my vice grip to work my way into your sweaty hair and kiss you good and messy. Still folded in half I realize, trapped under my arms, I pull back and grab under your knees to slowly bring your legs back down to the bed.
You look completely ruined. I hope you’ve achieved your goal for the evening. You seem mighty pleased with yourself, sleepy eyes, and a cheeky smirk as you run your hands across my arms. Temping enough for me to lean forward and offer the most chaste kiss I've ever granted somebody. It only serves to widen your smirk and I've well and truly embarrassed myself. My head feels cloudy as you beckon me back when I leave to fetch a cloth. A stronger man indeed, Bachelor Dankovsky.
I’m quite lucky my hangover isn’t as bad as I had anticipated. The sun filtering in through the small basement window is enough to wake, but not enough to make my head pound.
When we spoke in the bar you seemed close to tears. By the end of the night, you were smiling up at me like you’ve never met the grief that’s plagued you this past month. You kissed me back like I was the sweetest man you'd ever met. Did we ever kiss like that before? I don’t really recall. We were ‘something’ in university, but what was it truly. I felt like I was floating through it. Too distracted by the excitement of a new life and future that lay before my brother and me. What had it meant to you, Danya? Was it ever what you needed?
Was last night what you needed, Bachelor Dankovsky? Am I still what you need?
I can sit here in bed and smoke a cigarette and pretend we’re in this moment forever. Like we haven’t both lost everything our lives have led up to. Last night it felt like that. Just two bodies sharing in each other. But what happens now? Will you return to the Capital? Will you settle down with Burakh? He's nice enough, he'll treat you well, I'm sure. I could, I think. I’ve wanted to, but I'm not sure I know how. Was I ever good for you? Am I just like those men that would make you drink and then paw all over you?
Do you carry your grief even in rest? You look so thin in the morning light. This town has ruined you. Your ribs heave even as you sleep. If I put my hand on them, would it be a comfort? Is there comfort in touch still? After everything?
The constellations of moles on your back are warped from how your skin clings to your spine. I can trace my fingers along them like how I saw them so many years ago. I could never forget them. It's still you, isn’t it Danya? After everything. The pretentious dandy whose school counsellors said I was a bad influence. Still, you sacrificed your time, your grades, your health to be around me. And all I could manage to be for you was an occasional fuck. Did you think we were more? Did I? When I chased my brother's dream with him, were you left behind? Somehow it still brought me back to you, and the three of us can forge our dreams together once again.
If I put my arm around you, would you think I was seeking to use you again? We never truly ‘cuddled’ in university. I admit I'm not so used to it, but I've the urge to see if it will quell how your chest heaves. But I don’t wish to overstep any boundaries, not with you. so instead ill sit here, finish my cigarette, and watch how the sun pierces the dust to envelop you. Your eyes always looked so beautiful in the sun. The number of times I've painted them, never showing you nor anyone else. My works could never do justice to the real thing. All I can do is capture that moment and ache that it is gone.
You move, and the dust through the ray of light becomes turbulent. You are no longer a picture but a moving image. There is warmth across my chest as you fold your arm over me. I hold my breath and watch the dust still as your ribs press into mine. I press my nose to your hair and allow myself to exhale.
I am a lucky man to know you, Bachelor Dankovsky.