Alexei's eyebrows arched in mild surprise. My place?
he echoed, and then his expression settled into one of happy bemusement. Alright, Yaza. Whatever you need.
Thanks,
Yazov muttered, and slid down against the faux-leather front passenger seat. With Alexei beside him he was well and truly able to relax into the confidence of knowing his back would be watched… which was the first time in three years that he had felt able to do so.
He was asleep before Alexei pulled out of the parking garage.
Sometime later, Yazov woke to Alexei calling his name beside him. The Sakha knew better than to try and shake his shoulder or arm to wake him, and so Yazov's mind swam up into the realms of consciousness slowly. His neck ached from where he had been leaning against the headrest of his seat at an odd angle, and his mouth tasted like soured artificial milk.
You need a shower,
Alexei observed. C'mon.
Yazov, for once content to be led, followed Alexei into the service tunnel of the Brezhnevka-style1 apartment building that led to the back door. Alexei tapped his wristwatch against the lockpad to let them in. After swearing at the broken elevator—Alexei: The goddamn blue-balled cock-sucking shit-eater landlord doesn't fix anything in this shitfuck roach motel of a building!
—they took the stairs up to the fourth floor and went down a long, dingy hallway to reach the tiny, windowless corner studio where Alexei rested in his off-time.
A draft hit them as soon as Alexei opened the door. I'm sorry about the temperature,
he said. If I had a bigger power allotment I would get another space heater, but as it is I'm saving up to have the walls properly insulated.
It's better than being in a cell more than three kilometers undersea,
Yazov said, and shuddered at the memory that suddenly planted itself in the forefront of his mind: his metal cell, four paces wide and four paces long, creaking and groaning as the crushing pressure of the ocean threatened to crumple it up like a tin can. The cold metal leeched every bit of warmth from his body, and there had been no bed, no toilet, no nothing. Just the constant refrain of tortured metal that might crack and break and kill him at any moment.
For three years he had lived in that cell…
Yazov stifled a flinch when Alexei touched his arm, then grimaced; he was usually better at hiding those reactions.
Hey… you okay?
Alexei asked.
Yazov jerked his arm away from his childhood friend. I'm fine,
he said as he kicked his prison-issued, soft ankle boots off with more vengeance than was truly necessary. His eyes followed Alexei's gesture to the nearby shoe rack, where a pair of tapochki2 in his size were waiting, but he didn't move to put them on. Where's your shower?
Alexei's expression was one of carefully curated good cheer; he had always been able to tell when Yazov was lying. In the far left corner, in the alcove behind the stove. I'll thaw some pelmeni for us while you get clean, eh?
No, I want…
Yazov began, but trailed off. He couldn't say it. He couldn't even meet Alexei's eyes, much less get his tongue and vocal cords to cooperate and voice the damned request. He huffed and stared at the ratty blue couch that Alexei had gotten secondhand; Yazov could remember carrying it up the stairs with him, swearing at every corner they had to turn, just a few months before he had gotten caught, sentenced, and taken below… That felt like something from several lifetimes ago, not just a measly three and a half years.
Yaza?
Alexei asked.
I already told you I'm fine,
Yazov snapped.
Alexei might have possessed clairvoyant abilities, or perhaps telepathy. Does 'fine' mean you don't want to shower alone?
he asked. He cocked his head to the side; the gesture was birdlike, certainly, but only if you were thinking of raptors.
Yazov briefly considered punching him then, but there was no pity in Alexei's brown eyes. Instead, their gaze had sharpened upon Yazov, now as piercing as knife blades and far too knowing—and perhaps a little bit hungry, too. Perhaps.
Yazov smiled up at Alexei. The expression wouldn't have looked out of place in a carnivore's cage at feeding time, but the Sakha seemed more fondly amused than alarmed.
Alright, fine… I'll shower with you like when we were kids,
Alexei said.
Yazov immediately stripped off his shirt, pants, and briefs and tossed the clothes into the corner—like the boots, they were prison-issued; they could be burned for all Yazov cared. He was careful to avoid taking in Alexei's reaction to his sudden stripping, or what reaction the sight of his naked body provoked in his friend. Naked, he turned and padded across the cold laminate floor to the curtained washroom area.
You came at a good time,
Alexei said, his voice as warm and jovial as ever… and avoiding the subject of Yazov's behavior. There might actually be some hot water at this time of day.
Good,
Yazov said as he turned the knob in the stall to start the shower. Water spurted from the showerhead—cold at first, but it warmed quickly. Let's use it all and make your upstairs neighbors freeze their balls and tits off.
Alexei chuckled. You're such a prick.
Selfishness is a good survival trait in prison,
Yazov said, voice bland. He faced the wall and rubbed the chunk of soap from the dish against a washcloth to work up a lather, suddenly feeling awkward and over-vulnerable. He heard Alexei's footsteps behind him and tensed up in spite of himself. It was an effort of will to remain pliant and calm as Alexei cupped the side of his face with one hand and turned his head so that their eyes met.
Yazov, what are you not telling me?
the Sakha asked. He had disrobed sometime before following Yazov into the shower stall.
Words crowded Yazov's throat, threatening to choke him. There was a lot he wanted to say. There was even more that his pride and stubbornness refused to allow him to say. Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore and simply let himself list towards Alexei. His friend caught him, pulling Yazov against his chest and letting him lean there.
Those were the longest three years of my life,
Yazov said, so softly that he knew Alexei could barely hear him over the noise of the water. It fucking sucked. And I… and I really… I really fucking…
What, Yaza?
…I missed you, Alyosha,
Yazov sighed, letting the phrase wrench itself free from his soul and take flight into the steam billowing around them and fogging the small mirror. It was, perhaps, the truest thing he had ever said. The tension flowed out of him there. He leaned against Alexei under the spray of warm water, eyes closed, breathing out the last dregs of stale, recycled prison air from his lungs.
After what could have been either roughly two minutes or a blissful eternity, he felt a warm mouth press a gentle kiss against his temple. When Yazov didn't move away, Alexei kissed one of his closed eyes, then the bridge of his nose, then leaned their foreheads together. Water streaked both men's faces like tears as they breathed.
I missed you too, Yazakha,
Alexei murmured. You have no idea how much I fucking missed you.
I think I know,
Yazov whispered back, and brought their mouths together.
1 Concrete panel housing that was built en masse in urban centers of the real USSR from the 1960s onward, initially under the direction of General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev. There are many different styles of brezhnevka. Contrast with Stalinkas and Khruschyovkas, which were the preceding types of mass produced, Soviet-style urban housing.
2 Many Slavic cultures (ethnic Russians among them) utterly abhor the idea of wearing shoes inside the home. Tapochki are soft slippers that one wears in the house after removing one's outdoor shoes in the entryway.