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“Got anywhere I can sleep?”
“Need you out there, not here,” Grief said, waving at the door with the back of his hand. “Out there with that poor boy and his cut up gut.”
“Come on, I need sleep. Look at me, Grief.” Artemy took his hands from his aching stomach and spread his arms. On display in the cold of the warehouse, Artemy let himself feel the pains of the day and sagged where he stood. “You want me to walk across town like this? Hm? I’ll die before your man does if you make me go now.” An exaggeration, yet Artemy kept thinking it as if he knew for certain: it’ll kill me, it’ll kill me.
Bad Grief hung his head to the side and regarded his childhood friend from head to toe. He clicked his tongue and prepared his words on a sharp inhale.
“You do look like absolute shit. Dirtiest in my den, even” Grigory conceded. “Have you missed the steppe that much? When you got off the train, did you roll in the dirt?” His finger swirled through the air. “Blood and dirt, that’s what your kind are made of; and you more than most. But sleep here among thieves… You’d sleep in our rags, schoolboy? And if you would, I don’t know if I’d let you,” Grief dropped his hand to his thigh and scratched the outside seam of his pants in a disinterested display. “There’s worse than thieves around today; can’t have just anyone getting comfortable here.”
“Bullshit. You know me,” Artemy snapped and stepped toward Grigory where he lounged on his throne of wooden crates.
Grief only looked through copper lashes, pinning Artemy with a glance and a close lipped smile.
“I know you,” Artemy insisted.
“See to my dying man and I’ll know you’re still my pal,” Grief bartered. For all that he’d been given a small provision of food and a scalpel (if that rusted toothpick could be likened to a surgeon’s tool), Artemy felt his friend’s mistrust like a chill.
Blowing a defeated breath from his nose, Artemy hunched again and hugged one of his arms across his body. He glanced around, at the thieves pretending not to listen as they played dice among the product and trash, the bride feigning disinterest at Grigory’s knee; at the disturbing black figure of Grigory’s unmoving shadow. It stood frozen by Grief’s side, contrapposto and teasing.
For a moment Artemy considered simply laying down on the blankets at Grigory’s feet and seeing if he’d be kicked for it.
The unkindness he’d been served in the last several hours- a shocking reception compared to the one Artemy had imagined arriving home to- was eating at him. A man could only take so much isolation and delusion.
With the sorrow of his father’s murder still fresh as salty tears in Artemy’s mouth, he tried one more time to compel Grigory.
“Khayaala, just an hour. Let me lay down?” he pleaded quietly beneath the noise of the breeze against the corrugated tin roofing and the murmurs of the others in the warehouse. Artemy sought his friend’s eyes but was denied them. “If there was ever love between us once, let there be some now.”
Grigory hitched his sharp brows higher and grinned at his own knee, withholding his gaze from Artemy’s like dangling meat at a pitiful dog.
“Oh, love?” Grigory lowered his voice, speaking just between the two of them, performing just for Artemy. He plucked the harmless word from Artemy’s mouth. Finders keepers. “You know, you can buy things with Love.” Bad Grief always found a way to get paid in advance.
“I knew you were going to say that,” Artemy sighed.
“Oh really? Reading minds now, are you?”
Artemy scoffed softly- no, but he really had known.
Grigory sat up and looked at something above Artemy’s head. The surgeon glanced back and saw a storage loft. A crooked ladder led up to what Artemy could only guess was a sleeping den; all the privacy a rat could want. Blankets draped from the crates in the loft and there was a soft glow from a lantern out of sight. Looking at his friend once more, he met Grief’s expectant gaze.
The terms were set. Sleep for sex. Neither of them had to spell it out.
It wasn’t a high price, not if he and Grief were still friends, just as they had been in their youth: greedy eager boys playing at criminals.
After a single nod from Artemy, Grigory motioned for him to lead the way.
Turning from the throne of broken goods, Artemy briefly met the eyes of the bride who sat by Grigory’s knee and paused. Her pale painted face and far seeing eyes belled a quiet homesickness in Artemy’s stomach (maybe that was his hunger). She had surely overheard their transaction, and she looked on placidly, blinking slowly at Artemy like a cat. Then she shifted, jutted out her chin, and sunk her shoulders forward and inch. Her quixotic mouth bared into a smile- like she couldn’t pretend her indifference any longer- she found him amusing. Artemy supposed that was better than disgust.
Grigory’s hand on Artemy’s shoulder turned him away from the bride and toward the ladder which he climbed with pained care.
The den had several bed rolls on the floor, some laid flat and some were shoved aside. An empty morphine vial clinked, disturbed by Artemy's boot as he stepped deeper into the loft. A paper wrapped fish lay on a crate as if on a dinner table. The lantern burned weakly where it stood aside on the floor in what would have been the darkest corner.
Finding a suitably clean rag, at least cleaner than his hands, Artemy wiped the dirt from his palms. He rolled up his sleeve to check a cut on his forearm and found it bloody, but sticky and coagulating.
Despite feeling Grigory join him in the loft behind him, Artemy continued picking through the mess of blankets and pitiful goods. A bottle of water thunked to the floor when Artemy shook out a blanket and he knelt down to pick it up. First he swigged a mouthful. While he swished the water through his teeth, he poured a splash on the rag and used it to wipe grime from his cut. Artemy wanted to clean his cuts properly, wanted a change of clothes, wanted a bed-
The floor creaked and Grigory knelt behind Artemy and pressed against him, back to chest.
“Hurry now; I’m afraid you’ll pass out before you make good on your word,” Grief said by Artemy’s ear, yet he sounded unrushed.
Artemy spit the water aside, now pink with the blood from his mouth. His lip stung where it had been split on a man’s fist that morning. He drank down the rest of the water as he felt Grief crowd him from behind and the thieves hands palmed at the shape of his torso. It felt an awful lot like being frisked.
“You got big,” Grief mumbled as if to himself. Something about it made Artemy prideful. They’d grown- Artemy into his broadness and Grigory into something sharpened by hunger and cleverness. They were young men now (but some things never changed).
The cool air of the warehouse hit Artemy’s stomach when Grief pulled up his leather smock and his layers beneath. Artemy dropped the empty water bottle aside- it thunked and clattered to a stop on the wooden boards- and grabbed the hand that was determined to expose him to the chill and pushed it away.
Grigory’s hand was back in a moment, tugging on Artemy’s jacket. “Take this off, it’s filthy.”
“Are you crazy? Take off yours,” Artemy countered.
Grigory leaned back and shoved his own jacket off and to the floor, then continued his stubborn pulling.
“You’ll be warm soon enough, take it off,” Grief persisted. He was quick with the buttons and Artemy let Grief draw the jacket from him this time, if reluctantly. He was left in a woolen sweater and a long sleeve undershirt beneath that.
Artemy grunted when he was suddenly forced to his hands and knees by Grigory’s crowding. Without the jackets, Artemy could feel just how slight the other man was, plastered against Artemy’s back in a pantomime of fucking. Grief was smaller than him, but strong like iron, and Artemy bowed to his smothering.
Anchoring an arm around Artemy’s waist, Grief hitched himself close so that his thighs pressed into the backs of Artemy’s. Hands palmed at the planes of Artemy’s chest and he admitted, inwardly, that it was a relief to be touched without violence for a moment. Grigory wasn’t gentle with him, no, but there weren’t accusations or fists or knives on Artemy’s skin which was a welcome change.
“Hardly feels like you, Cub,” Grigory said, his sharp chin hooked on Artemy’s shoulder. “Not with all of this.” He squeezed the flesh and muscle of Artemy’s side.
“Come on, Grief,” Artemy coaxed. He balanced on one hand, reached back with the other, and grabbed at Grigory’s hip. “What is it you want? Let’s get started.”
“We are started, dear,” Grigory laughed into Artemy’s neck. Then he rose up and pressed his hands into Artemy’s shoulders.
Artemy struggled against the weight of his friend before he realized he was meant to bow to the floor. He did so with a groan of exertion, let go of Grigory’s hip, and lowered himself until his temple and shoulder pressed into the floor of the loft and the worn blankets beneath him. By no means was Artemy flexible, and he felt a strain in the back of his thighs and in his tired back.
“That’s more like it. That’s what I like to see.”
“I wanted rest, not more work,” Artemy complained. Grief still pressed on his shoulders and Artemy felt Grief rubbing off against his ass.
“Oh hush, you know what I want.”
Artemy fidgeted, trying to make himself comfortable in the compromising position. Unhappily, he pressed more weight into his cheek to ease the strain on his back. The blanket beneath him smelled of stale sweat and cigarette ash.
“You want to see that I’ll do all you ask,” Artemy grumbled. He’d known that he might have to submit himself when he’d made the trade.
“Almost right. But it’s good to see that you haven’t squandered your good sense with those books in school.” One of Grief’s hands slid up into Artemy’s hair. The way he ruffled the dark blonde waves was friendly and reassuring. “I want to get to know you again, Cub.”
Artemy expected it when the hand curled into his hair and pulled. It was petulant, more like the wrestling of children than the wrath of a criminal. It was achingly familiar- Artemy’s mind flooded with the countless tumbles and scrapes they’d given each other as young teens, boyish and tactile. If that’s what Grief wanted, Artemy could give that to him. He could do that- he had missed that.
This time, when Artemy reached back, he took a fistful of Grief’s vest and hauled him off. It cost him in effort, but it got the reaction Artemy hoped it would. Grief rolled aside snickering and Artemy rolled with him. They tangled across the blankets, boots scraping up the bedrolls, and hands pulling at clothing- not so much to undress but to pull or shove each other one way or another. Despite thumping his head on the floor and being scratched on the jaw by Grigory’s nail, the wrestling struck a chord in Artemy- Safe. Home. No longer the kind of fighting he’d been bearing all day.
The thought of the dead men at the train station flashed to Artemy’s mind, causing his stomach to sink like a stone for a breath.
In his guilty distraction, Grief got the upper hand and forced Artemy onto his back and sat astride his hips. Artemy was thoroughly exhausted and didn’t resist. Grigory panted through a wide grin above him and he fisted the chest of Artemy’s sweater in possessive triumph.
Chin resting on Grief’s shoulder, the white mask of Grigory’s shadow pinned Artemy with its black stare. Each eye looked so much like the mouth of a gun barrel.
Artemy closed his eyes and wished to be swallowed by the floor, by the mess of blankets around him. Yet as he imagined the fabric engulfing him, it felt too much like pawing at an endless stage curtain, slippery and tricky. He longed to sleep away the visions of the theater.
Again, again. Another encore.
“Time disguised how acutely I missed you, Cub,” Grief drawled from above. “It’s coming back to me now, all the love you say we had.” Artemy took Grief’s amused and easy voice as a way back from the confusion.
Play the part.
It was so hard when he was so tired.
Carefully, Artemy peered through one eye at his friend.
The white masked Tragedian was gone and only Grief sat above him in the low light of the loft. His weight felt real and grounding. Artemy relaxed beneath him.
“Thank you,” Artemy whispered to the cool air.
Grief looked genuinely confused, eyebrows reaching for his hairline.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Artemy grabbed his friend by the shoulders and pulled him down to press their mouths together, nevermind that Grigory tasted like cigarette ash. He wound an arm around Bad Grief and hauled him in close.
“Feel that?” Grief hissed, breaking from the chap lipped kiss.
Like a cat, Bad Grief stretched and rocked his weight against Artemy’s lap to emphasize his point. He caught Artemy’s eyes with his and watched Artemy’s face, catching the moment Artemy realized he was half hard- they were both hard- and they were pressed together, albeit clumsily, through their pants. Grief rubbed against him again, precisely this time, and Artemy exhaled like a gut punch through his mouth at the feeling of friction against his cock.
Artemy shoved his free hand into the front of his trousers and fondled the warm flesh, sweeping his dick from the leg of his pants and up toward his stomach to better receive Grief’s weight. He removed his hand and, giving his friend a nod, wrapped his arm with the other around Grigory.
They moaned together this time, both of them slack mouthed and curling into the sensation.
Grigory leaned in, pressed their temples together, and panted against the shell of Artemy’s ear. Artemy propped his feet on the floor for leverage. Their clothing rustled softly each time they rocked against one another. Tension coiled warm and tight under Artemy’s belly button every time he pushed and pushed.
Working a hand between them, with the ease of a pickpocket, Grief palmed the shape of Artemy’s cock through the leather of his trousers.
“Oh, Cub,” Grief said, low and drawn out. Artemy snorted at the dark ceiling above them, already knowing that filth was about to pour from Grigory’s sharp mouth because of course - “You did get big.”
Artemy shivered despite himself, feeling base and indulgent.
“I want to see.” Grief wormed out of Artemy’s hold and sat up. His brassy hair was disheveled- more disheveled, and there was a blush of arousal on Grief’s face and neck, red beneath the little scarf tied around his throat, and drowning his watery freckles. His hands went right away to the buckle of Artemy’s trousers.
“Greedy,” Artemy smirked.
“You do know me,” Grief said, pouting with false endearment.
The buckle jingled. Grief flicked the buttons of Artemy’s pants open with ease and slipped his hand inside. Through the linen of his underwear, Grigory gave him a generous squeeze.
Artemy’s palms fell heavily to grip Grigory by the thighs at the sensation.
“So warm, like you’ve got a fever. Are you burning just for me, Cub?”
Grief was eating up the moment, the moan stuck in Artemy’s bobbing throat, the way he throbbed in the other man’s grip. There was heat in Artemy’s face. He panted into the cool air.
“Have you seen the others yet?” Bad Grief suddenly asked. “Gravel? Stakh?” Artemy shook his head, caught off guard. “So I’m the first?” That pleased Grigory; one canine caught his lower lip as he smiled. “So you’re mine, then. Truly, this is priceless. What a welcoming party, indeed.” As he spoke he rubbed Artemy’s dick, slow and patient, enjoying some ego trip. The friction from his underwear and the stroking had Artemy shuffling his feet and pressing his shoulders into the floor beneath him.
Grief stroked up his length and pinched the sensitive head and Artemy coughed out a moan- he’d been trying to stay quiet-
From the talk in the warehouse below them came a round of chuckles. One of the men stuttered out a lewd joke- and moaned back at Artemy, girlish and high. This sent another round of laughter among the seedy crew below.
Seeing the flame of embarrassment wash across Artemy’s face, Grigory merely rolled his eyes.
“We’re all degenerates here, dear,” Grief assured him in a low voice and gave Artemy a wink.
The talk and joking below had grown in volume. Telling the gang to shut up, shudker! would merely make their sex easier to overhear- it was no use.
Instead of wallowing in embarrassment, Artemy forged on and moved his hands to Grigory’s belt. The leather strip was tied instead of buckled and Artemy tore the knot loose with a tug that jerked Grief in his lap.
“Oh , so eager!” Grief teased, laughing.
Artemy freed Grigory’s cock from his trousers, spat on his hand, and fisted the length of him. He jerked his friend quickly, with roughened determination and little grace. The treatment was more than acceptable to Bad Grief, who leaned back on Artemy’s knees and moaned.
“Ah, you fucker-” Grief choked out, caught by enough surprise that he had to resort to true vulgarity. However, the thief’s faculties restored themselves quickly and he was back to his prose. “Darling, is this how it was in the army? You must have learned to be quick with those noble, terrible soldiers, too. Your hand feels like a vice and I admit I love it. Hold me tight, Cub- yes, like that-”
On the throne of Artemy’s lap, Grief tipped his head back and groaned towards the dark ceiling. His throat bobbed around a swallow, pressing against his scarf. If he’d been close, Artemy would open his mouth and drag his tongue along the slender column of Grief’s neck, suckle and bite at the warm pale skin. Artemy’s mouth watered at the thought. As it was, he admired the way Grigory managed to lounge back on Artemy's thighs without falling over in his pleasure.
“How do you know just what I’ll like? You always know, Cub, in your way. I’m so glad to- ah - be reminded of your special talents for the flesh. Like you’ve looked at my blood and found what makes it burn.”
Artemy stared up at his friend, breathing hard. His own cock was somewhat neglected against Grigory’s pleasure slack palm.
“Grisha-” Artemy hissed, slipping a syllable in among Grief’s rambling.
Drawn by the sound of his name, Grief lolled his head forward and regarded Artemy with a heavy lidded gaze. The black of his pupils were swollen and hungry. He flickered a look at his lap.
Artemy flinched when Grief tipped forward and dropped over him- and opened his eyes to find Grief propped above him on one hand beside Artemy's head and a straight arm, boxing Artemy in and pinning him with a dark and lustful look. Artemy’s hand stuttered and paused on Grigory’s cock- wondering if he’d just been too familiar.
Grief thumbed the waist of Artemy’s underwear down in a quick jerk, exposing the heated skin of Artemy’s length to the cold. The sensation made him wince but his cock jump at being bared.
“You haven’t touched yourself,” Grief observed, tilting his head like a cat and searching across Artemy’s flushed expression. “You could have.” He tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth and a satisfied smile spread on his mouth. Close like this, Grief spoke quietly between them. “But you knew. That’s it- you knew I’d want to have a say about it, didn’t you? About how you’re meant to come- if I want you to come.”
Artemy felt his whole body twitch. He hadn't known he was doing just that: waiting for Bad Grief to choose for him. There was relief at being caught. He ached for the finish and the dead-to-the-world sleep that comes after.
Grief laughed at the plaything lying beneath him. Artemy throbbed and pleaded with his eyes, still discouraged to make much sound. He felt the cloth of his underwear hitch snugly beneath his balls and Grief settled deeper into Artemy’s lap.
“Together, Cub,” Grief whispered with his smile. “With that big gorgeous hand of yours, that brutal beautiful fist.”
Artemy glanced between them and then back at Grigory’s face as he gathered their pricks together in his palm. He inhaled at the feeling of rigid warm skin pressed up against his own.
“Good,” Grief sighed, letting the weight of his head hang and draw their faces closer.
Artemy squeezed and stroked them from root to tip, wringing a fat bead of pre from his own dick and a groan from them both. His chest felt swollen on his breath, his head was dizzy with pressure. He gripped Grigory's thigh with his other hand, hard enough to mark.
“Make us come, would you, Cub?” Grief mumbled. Artemy felt the way his friend tensed in his lap, thighs flexing and pressing into the sweet grip on his prick.
Artemy nodded once and stroked them in earnest. Grief’s spine curled, fucking into it as if he couldn’t stop himself- quick little jabs of his hips. It was rough and nearly too dry; the hurt was good, Artemy thought in a haze. The sweet friction rubbed at him until he was sure-
Grief came first, hot as blood, and grinning. His come pulsed across Artemy’s knuckles and between his fingers. It streaked Artemy’s cock and slicked his palm and the surprise of it choked him. The suddenly wet clutch of his hand felt like a slippery dream.
Artemy couldn’t see. He came, gasping at the air between them and shivering.
When the ringing stopped in Artemy’s ears, he found himself watching Grigory extricate himself from Artemy’s lap. The air was cold on Artemy’s wet hand and his dick. He felt exposed to the sky, caught with his belly up and ripe for cutting. The heat in his face was fading fast. Artemy grunted as he sat up, feeling weak in his core. The exhaustion returned to his bones in full force.
There was little peace to be had while Grief was still with him. The man insisted on filling the quiet as he knelt to the side, closing his pants.
“Will you greet the others similarly?” Grigory wondered. Artemy wasn’t quick enough to untangle the notes of bitterness in his friend's voice. “Gravel? Stakh?”
“I don’t…know,” Artemy mumbled. Blearily, he reached for the corner of a tattered blanket and wiped his hand. He looked down at his own body and winced at the sight of come staining the bottom of his sweater. With a finger, he swiped away what he could and damned the wool to a wash- eventually. He proceeded to tuck himself away.
“Oh, it’s useless talking to you now, I see,” Grigory observed with a sigh. He reached out and pushed Artemy by the shoulder and watched him sway with fatigue. “Well, have at it then. You’re such a man.” Grief snickered to himself. “They come and go, don’t they? Go to sleep, that is.” He was likewise loose-limbed and slow to rise. When he did, he nudged Artemy’s coat toward him with his boot and shrugged into his own.
With his arms stuck into his coat, Artemy paused. “What is it?” he asked, glancing sideways at Grigory. “Something wrong with Lara and Rubin?” he wondered, slow but not completely forfeit.
“Shut your eyes, Cub,” Grief said.
Artemy would have to question Grief about it- later. He closed the toggles of his jacket, comforted by the weight.
Now he was ready to sleep. Artemy cast about and saw a rolled blanket suitable for a pillow and he half crawled, half slid to it. The ladder creaked behind him as Grief made his exit from the stage. Artemy’s eyes were already closed when he rested his head on the blankets, and the world narrowed down to his rumpled resting place on the floor. Sleep arrived quickly.