Prelude to the Second Weltkrieg - Part 5: Russia

Midnight

Ilya took another carriage to his home, this time warmed by the vodka and his thoughts, which raced around inside his head, circling and circling, generating friction and heat in their constant rubbing against one another. There were so many possibilities open to him now, open to Russia, he saw. He knew he was incredibly fortunate to be able to sit at the table with great men like Aleksander Kazembek and Boris Savinkov – men who would decide the future of Russia. His may have been a small voice at that table, but it was, he thought, a respected one. And tomorrow he'd have a chance to use that voice.

He found his home well-kept, a fire in the living room and another in his bedroom. Mila, the one servant they could keep only part-time, had received his telegram and done a decent job preparing the home for him. He went through the house and checked to ensure nothing was missing, found Svetlana curled up in front of the fire by his bed, a half-eaten can of fish Mila had put out for her nearby. The cat was not excited to see him though, and in truth he was not excited to see her either. He was, on the whole, too excited for any one thing to excite him further.

He stalked the house, double, then triple-checking that everything was as it should be, not because he expected to have missed something, but just to give his body somewhere for the energy in his mind to go. All he could think of was all the steps that the democrats' foolish political maneuver had opened up. Within months surely they'd be able to complete the economic reforms they'd started. All it would take then would be to finally get President Kornilov on board with the war plans and the real work could begin. The different combinations and permutations of that work spread out inside his mind in a vast network of possibilities, each one more exciting than the last, spiraling into an infinite realm of opportunity.

No matter how hard he paced though, no matter how much of the mental infinity he tried to drain out physically, he could only feel his physical energy grow, almost in tandem. He paced by the telephone, eying it warily. Once. Twice. He couldn't even make three. He rushed to it, asked for a number from the operator and felt his throat jump into his mouth.

"Hello?" A voice, distant and tinny, came in the other end.

"You're awake. Painting?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want to come over."

"Very well."

"I'll be there soon."

He knew he would be plenty warm even if he walked, so he did. It was only fifteen minutes to the small row of fashionable apartments just north of the river. He was so excited he even took his fur hat off for the last few blocks. A light dusting of February Moscow snow drifted onto his head, but wherever it touched, he was convinced it melted right off him. There was no doorman this late, and he had a key. He bounded up the stairs two at a time until he came to a stop.

Apartment 501.

He knocked.

"Ilya. Come in."

"Thank you. I... I had to see you. Tonight."

"Of course. A drink?"

"No. I don't want a drink. I want you."

Dmitri was lithe, angular, mostly hairless. He painted half-naked, his studio constantly hot being on the top floor and his keeping a roaring fire at all times. Ilya's cock grew hard just looking at him sometimes. When he was excited, he knew. This was one of those times.

"I can see that," Dmitri smirked. "Let me have a drink first at least." He poured himself one and Ilya watched. Dmitri took his time, pouring the drink, swirling it, smelling it. Then he drank it with a slow, rhythmic gulping. It wasn't a long drink, but Ilya had almost never experienced a more agonizing wait. Still he waited, knowing the agony, the internal excitement, the physical burbling of desire inside him – they were all parts of the joy of the eventual release. He watched Dmitri put the empty glass down, and waited for the painter to slowly saunter by him, taking his hand only at the last minute to lead him into the tiny partitioned area that served as a bedroom. The warmth of his lover's hand was the only thing that matched the fire inside him. A fire only Dmitri could ever help him put out.

And then he did.