The shagging room

Chapter 1

Since no one was surprised by his antics anymore – and even though it had earned him a couple of weird reactions or stares, Timur now felt quite at ease randomly sketching people within Rainbow. Mark had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the whole doing; he even thanked Timur a few times for allowing him to scroll through his messy scribbles. Others were still disturbed by his gaze, which he understood, and thus he decided to work more... discreetly, as of lately. He got so good at keeping his drawing habit secret, some never even noticed.

--

Timur flops down on one of the changing room benches, drenched in the sweat and mud of the afternoon practice, and he's soon hurrying to unclench his many layers of gear in order to rush under the warm stream of a shower. He's lucky; Aleksandr is late, and the man takes the longest showers, much so that the Spetsnaz's barracks had already got hot water cut more than once.

Timur grabs a deliciously dry and most of all clean undershirt, and as he reaches into a nearby basket to get fresh sweatpants as well, his eyes come across Maxim and Shuhrat talking at the other side of the room. He overhears them speaking about some assault rifle attachment stuff, but he's not really interested in the topic. It turns out that his two teammates, still focused on their discussion, are oblivious to Timur while he gets a premium, undisturbed view of Maxim's lower back when the man props his foot on his bench and leans forward to remove his boot. Timur freezes unconsciously at the sight, and he knows there's no going back when he immediately relishes in the sight of the few centimeters of skin between the hem of the shirt and the thick belt. He reaches discreetly for his sketchbook when Maxim, still facing the opposite way, makes a move to remove his top. Timur feels his throat going sore - it's the stupidest idea, really, but as the others are still busy talking, this might be the best opportunity for him to... immortalize the sight, something he has been thinking about for an embarrassingly long time now.

Timur makes a conscious effort to sit back and have a relaxed stance on his own bench, ready to come up with any kind of excuse to explain that's he's not sketching his half-naked teammate. He lets his eyes wander for a bit, not even noticing how his hand started to move on its own. He has just enough time to roughly put down the outline of Maxim's body before the piece of clothing is coming off in front of his eyes.

He watches as strong hands are making the telnyashka roll up first from the wide hips, to the waist and the very muscled back, and Timur absentmindedly draws without even checking the canvas in his lap, rather letting his eyes wander over the masterpiece of a man standing before him. He takes it all into account; the broad shoulders, the dip between the shoulderblades when they move as the man tosses the shirt aside, the spine framed by powerful muscles that dance just fine under sweaty skin. Timur notices Maxim has a nice tan, more pronounced on his arms – but still, his skin contrasts surprisingly compared to the Uzbek standing next to him when usually, Shuhrat has the darkest skin tone from the team. Timur wonders if Maxim actually spent his summer hunting shirtless, and the mere thought of it both amuses him and wakes up something in him he'd rather not deal with right now.

His gaze is fixed on Maxim's lower back again, hips nicely yet frustratingly still hugged by the gorka pants the man is wearing, and it physically hurts him to stop staring and check what he actually ended up drawing while paying – well, too much attention. He glances at his sketch, so far, so good – Timur corrects some wobbly lines, but his observation has been rather successful, prompting a precise drawing. He slightly sharpens the outline of a long, wiry scar on the right shoulder, and peeks up again as he hears shuffling.

Timur sees that his two teammates apparently decided to settle down on their bench to continue their discussion, shower long forgotten. They're arguing now, which is great because they are both very busy with proving right over attachments for weak guns – why even bother, when you can put a .50 cal bullet in someone's head from afar without checking twice for the kill – and Timur has a perfect angle to sneak a peek at Maxim's torso and it's perfect. From his point of view, somehow, the bleak neon lights make the shapes stand out even more, and it's like admiring an ancient greek statue carefully placed under a certain kind of light for everyone to enjoy every single detail.

That – that motherfucker sits with his legs spread apart of course, hands lazily clasped on his lap as his head is turned towards an increasingly frustrated Shuhrat. He even has a delicious, sly smirk on, undoubtedly angering the Uzbek even more. Timur's grip on his pencil tightens when his gaze is inevitably drawn to the two thick scars adorning – that's not supposed to be a fitting word – Maxim's lower belly. The first, the older one, runs across his hipbone and disappears under the hem of his pants. The second, that has always fascinated Timur, seems huge as the man lays relaxed, snaking around his bellybutton and up towards his abs, the stitch marks still imprinted and the sight oh so painful – Timur, for a short instant, wishes he could run his hand, his tongue, soothing and feather-light, across it. He blinks twice forcefully as he draws his eyes upwards, following the trail of dark hair along the chiseled abs until his eyes meet the broad chest.

And while he himself clearly isn't anything to scoff at, Timur can't help but ogle freely yet again while his hand runs blindly across his sketchbook. He easily memorizes everything as he slowly drags his eyes upwards: the muscled pectorals, the collarbone and strong arms, the square jaw covered by uneven stubble, more scars striking clear lines on the jawbone, on the lips and on the nose, the greyish blue eyes – oh.

The eyes. He sees the eyes so well, because Maxim is staring back at him, and the scarred mouth now displays a lopsided smile. The argument seems long finished, Shuhrat is gathering his stuff to head to the showers, a detail that Timur managed to miss entirely, and waves absentmindedly as he exits the room. The Uzbek completely misses how nobody notices him, because Timur is still staring, and Maxim is staring back at him.

Timur thinks he's safe, when the object of his staring just gets up and puts his gear in his locker; but he knows he's doomed when suddenly Maxim, very much shirtless now, approaches him while eyeing the sketchbook in his lap.

"Can I see it?", he asks simply when he steps in front of him.

There is no way he can escape now. If Timur refuses it's suspicious, if he accepts then, well. He'll think about the consequences later.

"Yeah, here."

Timur hands the other the sketchbook, closing it in the process as if maybe, Maxim would forget to open the latest pages. His brain shuts off, and he rubs his right eye without thinking, massaging his own brow for comfort.

Maxim skims through the pages, and a pang of pride swells in Timur's chest as he reads genuine amazement on the other's face at some pages. He can guess which ones; some landscapes, some gestures drawings he knows he worked well on, some he even had time to properly colour. But the feeling of pure dread soon come back as he spots a blank page, meaning that Maxim has reached the latest sketches.

Timur didn't draw the face – he doesn't need to, he knows it by heart, every detail of it. But anyone blessed with eyesight would recognize who the surprisingly precise and detailed body belongs to.

He braces himself for the shocked insults, maybe even the slurs, and he is the most surprised to hear what actually comes from the smart, scarred mouth of the other.

"Impressive stuff, you're talented, really. But you forgot a scar, here."

And before Timur has anything to say in his defense, Maxim haphazardly tosses the sketchbook back onto the bench. Timur loses all trail of thought in such a short amount of time that Maxim has to tap his finger on his own chest, showing a faint scar across it, to regain Timur's attention.

Timur can only stare dumbfounded at the tiny scar, almost impossible to spot unless somebody is as close as he is now – which is very. He finds himself surprised that his hands aren't shaking yet, with him being so close to the broad chest he was ogling mere seconds ago, and time suddenly feels streched out, almost still. He nods wordlessly, and Maxim glances down for a second, flashing a cheeky smile, before turning away. Timur sees him remove his trousers, launching them in the dirty laundry basket and trade them for clean sweatpants. Maxim puts the fresh clothes under his arm, but Timur doesn't even have the brain capacity to process the short glance at the fantastic ass he just got. He's extremely, extremely busy with telling his lower brain to calm the fuck down.

"You might want to take care of your boner as well, I also got distracted by your pretty eyes, but I'm not blind!" says Maxim, a smile audible in his voice, before disappearing behind the door.

Timur peers down at the still very muddy gorka pants he wears, only to be greeted by an obvious bulge. The heavy fog that was clouding his brain finally lifts, allowing him to notice the pressure in his lower belly coming back full force; and at this point he thinks he might die of spontaneous combustion.