by Leather Alex
Yesli ti smozhesh, vozmi,
Take if you can,
He is out there. Cuffed on the balcony the same as that night. My
green-eyed devil, a beautiful and broken man, both deadly weapon of
the enemy and loving sex slave, the sound of the last ever so
ridiculous, at least referring to Alex Krycek...
I have always loved him. I am sure he has returned it with the same
intensity—just in his peculiar way. His eyes have always convinced
me of this.
We have tortured each other for years—the difference is, he did it
under pressure, I did it willingly. We just haven't slept together—
since I took him that night on the balcony. And we haven't kissed.
For seven years.
I kiss him often in my dreams. His body trembles in my arms the same
as the old days when he was just my subordinate in a cheap suit I was
so eager to strip off each time we made love; he pants and offers his
neck to my teeth, his skin to my flogger, his warmth to my cock.
Reality—of the remote past, of the few months allowed to us—and
dreams have mixed in my mind already a long time ago, still I see him
clearly as if it had happened yesterday—his dark hair on the
pillow, soft, pink lips parted, chest lifting with deep breath, love
radiating from his velvety eyes, serene jades telling me he is one
with me deep inside his sinful body. I will never be rid of those
green eyes, of the glances thrown at me from under the veil of dark
lashes. They haunt me mercilessly; the worst in the evenings when I
am alone. Sometimes I let him take me over, I let him join the
shadows created by the candlelight on the walls, come in my room and
lay his hands on my tired, heavy shoulders. It seems so real that I
can feel them. And this will never leave me—even if the reality
does.
I stand up and head for the balcony doors. I slide them open and he
raises his eyes. They are beautiful and empty—in the past, I would
occasionally get a faint glimpse that let me know what was going on
within him, but not now. He doesn't even look afraid as he was five
years ago.
What are you trying to preserve if you are bleeding inside, boy? I
thought you were more clever than Mulder.
I uncuff his only arm—it is so strange now, in particular when I
touch his artificial one—and drag him inside. Roughly. Violently. I
punch him. He stumbles. I kick his ass so he stretches on the floor.
I beat him. Hard. Still the curled up body on the floor doesn't bring
me any satisfaction, although I thought it would. His hoarse screams
of pain still shred my heart. Screams and thuds; the only sounds in
the room as I mercilessly drive blow after blow into his body. His
only hand clenches at his stomach, and I aim my next kick for it.
Sorry, but I don't need it as much as you do... I never understood
what drove you there, why you, a young promising agent just out of
Quantico, wanted to writhe in pain. Now I do.
I squat down in front of him. Grab his collar and pull him up against
the wall. His face isn't blank any more, yet it still only shows
pain. Pain, without which you would look at my face, but never into
my eyes.
He watches me, then spits in my face:
"Is this your idea of a romantic date? What will I have to do at this
candlelight dinner? Serve as a footstool? Crucifix maybe? Don't see
the nails."
This time it gave me satisfaction. Krycek flinched and rolled in a
ball.
I grab his arm and yank him up.
"Nobody's coming here," I hiss at him. Once awakened, the anger takes
some effort from me to cease. We stand face to face, me pinning him
against the wall. Krycek's gaze flashes to the table, then back to
me, and I manage to catch the glimpse of surprise and disbelief in
his eyes. Still, he says nothing.
Ever since I decided to bring him to the apartment the next time he
showed up at the FBI, I have been thinking about this moment, when we
meet, face to face, a thick layer of betrayal and pain between us. I
couldn't foresee his reaction, still I had been thinking of how to
talk to him. Right now we're here eyeing each other and all the
versions I had thought of earlier have just vanished. I don't know
what to do, what to say. He's still watching me.
Then he turns his eyes away. No... no, just not that. I panic. The
whistle of my chance rushing past is almost audible, and something
must be done, anything, so that all I have been yearning for doesn't
disappear into thin air... I hug him. He doesn't fight it but doesn't
respond either. I enclose him, so warm, so soft, so close and alive,
in my arms, one around his shoulders, another around his waist,
sliding lower and lower until it rests on his black denim clad butt.
"If you want to fuck me, do that. Just..."
He doesn't know how to continue. If pride would allow me I would have
moved my hand back up to his waist.
"Just... you don't need candles to screw me."
"Maybe I do," that was quite easy to say not seeing him. "Agent
Krycek."
I feel his tiny movement in my arms. Probably he got the meaning.
Maybe he's afraid I've planned one more payback. But I do not intend
to hurt him. He has been waiting out there for something else... and
this seems impossible for him to believe. Once more I look at Alex.
His eyes are turned away from me.
"My boy. I still remember. Couldn't forget." As I let the words pass
my lips, my hand caresses his butt with fondness—which can be
interpreted as desire if needed, and suddenly I feel a stab of guilt.
I can't even show him a little gentleness.
I sense his muscles contracting in my arms.
Once, we used to be so close.
I put my hand on his head and caress his short hair.
"You are supposed to hate me," I hear his soft whisper.
"Yes, I am."
"You are asking me to join you for a romantic dinner," it's not a
question; not a statement either.
"Yes, I am."
He lowers his lashes; gives me a quick glance and hides behind his
eyelids. One second passes, and another, and more.
Then his good arm touches my chest. And after all the time passed I
recognize my lover, my dear Alex again. Only he could touch like
this—timidly, lovingly, so close to the very heart. His palm lies
on my broad chest and I cover it with mine.
He sat in front of me, glass of champagne encircled by his only hand.
Candlelight played on his pretty face, making the shadows of his
lashes darker, the glitter of his eyes more alive, the green more
intense. Like the materialization of dreams. "For old times, Alex," I
raised my glass. He said nothing, just the clink of our glasses
shattered the silence.
We had nothing to talk about. I watched his face like a piece of art.
He let me do it like a well-taught whore.
Spooky shadows were cast upon walls like masks in a ritual murder;
they didn't move. Yesterday they were alive, laughing at me with
Alex's face, today they have died. How could I feel two hands on my
shoulders... he has only one.
My wildest dreams are coming true and I'm sitting here with Alex
across the table, alive, breathing, blinking his eyes, bowing his
head, drinking champagne. Somehow I don't feel the orgasmic pleasure
I thought I would. I'm trying to recall my memories and daydreams but
he's too real here in front of me. And I feel strange. He doesn't
ooze danger—I'm not afraid—nor is he any more that beautiful
innocent-looking young man who knew how to blush... I still wonder
how he managed to do that... a man whom I supposed to be the essence
of male beauty fallen into my rough hands, well past their prime, a
man who turned from my gentle lover into an enemy thug within a
single night. Now... nothing good or bad exists around him when I see
him in front of me. He's somehow beyond it and there's no difference
between nanobots and cherry jam on his erect nipples any more.
He lifts the champagne flute to his lips and takes a sip. I've never
seen a more beautiful mouth on a man than his. Such a small, delicate
Cupid's bow. I wonder what has been done with it... what else has he
licked like he licks his lips in a sensual appeal... how many screams
of pain have been drawn over them... how many drops of vodka were
left on their wet, smooth surface in autumn evenings spent drinking
at the bar... how many times this softest skin was broken to let the
crimson blood spill over it... how many times his pink tongue licked
them seductively before this mouth was invaded with a male organ...
And it doesn't matter to me any longer. I wonder if I will ever
understand him and I know I won't.
I stand up to start the CD. I feel his eyes following me, but that is
already a familiar feeling. When the disk begins playing, I walk up
to him and hold out my hand. Krycek rises from the chair. He puts his
real hand on my shoulder and I take his fake one in mine, and wonder
why we never danced when he still had both hands. Probably because I
never thought all would be over that fast.
I feel like an old romantic idiot. I wonder what he could be thinking
right now. However, Alex lays his head on my shoulder, and I hold him
closer to me.
Candles silently burn; it is so quiet. With the last notes of music I
lift him in my arms and head towards the stairs. It's like a way of
light leading up; a tiny candle is lighting each step I'm going to
take with my precious load.
He put his only arm around my neck. "Why are you doing this," I heard
his husky low voice, almost a whisper, breathe into my ear, "We are
like a mockery. It seems as if one of us were going to die." I wished
I could order him to shut up. I couldn't.
"I'm not Sharon, Walt. Don't do this to me. Please." His voice
slightly cracked on the last word. Nothing was left for me to do
except to put him back down on his feet; I lowered myself with him,
when he sat on the steps, but he turned away from me. His hand was
grabbing the stair and I saw it clenching.
"Alex."
"I want to go."
I seized his shoulders and turned him toward me. Green eyes glittered
dark in the candlelight, full of tears, before he managed to close
them; one lone drop escaped yet, fighting its way through the thick
lashes.
Then I kissed him. His lips were dry; I didn't remember his taste and
flavored them like mad, pushing my tongue into his hot, wet mouth.
His arm clenched on my back, grabbed on to my shirt for dear life...
I felt him trembling in my arms... I believed it was passion until
his hand tore the shirt on my back, and his bared teeth clenched.
With a wild growl he threw back his head, rolling it from side to
side; sobs mixed with screams of savage pain racked his body and low,
animal-like sounds broke free of his throat, taking me by surprise. I
enclosed him in my arms, but even with no intentional resistance from
his side it was still nearly impossible to hold the man.
It took a long time for him to wear himself out and only then he
slowly pressed himself to my chest. "I thought I could do it... but
it's too much. It's way too much... I have to... I've got nothing...
I'm so afraid of the darkness..." he sobbed. I understood what he was
talking about, and it revealed once again he was as far away from me
as one man can be from another. One more slap in my face. How can I
ever possibly feel anything except hate for a man who betrays
humanity, who does things which don't have a statute of limitations,
things which only a human is capable of? I should have shot him. But
I couldn't. Maybe his looks, along with his air of vulnerability
protected him from being killed. Maybe he used it.
"I could get you into the witness protection program."
A bitter laugh. He pressed still closer to me, "You don't
understand."
Again I was holding an enemy—an enemy not just mine because if he
was, then it would be easy—in my arms, and the only thing I could
do it was to kiss him again. To kiss away the tears from his
beautiful eyes.
They snap open. The vessels in his eyes are red; he looks older than
usual. "I can't believe you care for me," he says softly. I caress
his cheek and he leans into my touch, the tiny smile on his face
reminding me even more of a boy than when I first saw him.
My devil. My green-eyed nightmare.
"Let's finish our little journey," he says at last and stands up. "I
don't very well remember where your bedroom is, so you take the lead."
What can be more intense than to feel the weight of your one and only
in your arms, to watch that face while you're carrying him like a
sacrifice to an altar where you're the god, a gift to claim as yours.
I hear his steps behind me instead. I don't dare turn back because it
seems if I do, there will be no one, just trembling shadows from the
candles. Hell-bent, I can't resist the urge yet and take a glance
behind, and there is a dark figure in black following me, head
lowered. He feels still unreal here on the stairs, like an evil
ghost. I want to touch his warm flesh; his broad masculine palm
disappears in mine. He raises his eyes and I wonder if that is what
he wants.
I open the bedroom door. I have done a good job, I must admit,
although not really according to my taste. But it's for him. I even
bought black silk sheets... He used to like black.
I turn to Alex and see he has already started unbuttoning his
shirt. "Let me, Alex," I stop him. This I want to do myself.
The leather jacket feels so good in my hands. I take off layer after
layer... not that he has much... his G-string is tiny, and I release
his genitals to fall in my palm.
I had forgotten how he looks here; when I see his uncut cock again it
seems familiar almost like we haven't been parted at all. I slide my
hands up his thighs and cup the round butt cheeks. His body is
fleshier than when I last saw him naked or how it has impressed in my
dreams and reveries. I didn't bother to strip him then... that
night... when I left him on the balcony. I wonder if he would have
survived if I hadn't taken him inside... Maybe... maybe I would have
found just his dead body upon returning from the Bureau.
He was so cold. I wanted to warm him up, and I needed him. Wordless,
animal-like sex, rough power, physical prevalence over a man whose
frozen limbs almost refused to serve him. He forgot we were enemies
and tried to curl up in my arms. I hadn't forgotten. He paid for this
little attempt to wake the sweet torture of my memories and his
previous Walter in my chest, yet I hurt myself more. Raw pain in his
eyes. I never want to see that again.
Maybe he was only seeking warmth. My broken boy.
His arm... Good he can't read my thoughts. He looks like a cripple
and he is one. There is nothing I can do about it. Still, I love him
even more, maybe because it makes me feel he needs it... His chest is
hairless as always, but two ugly scars have appeared on it. Cigarette
burns on the small of the back. Traces of multiple tortures. They
weren't there when I knew him before. His fingers are loosening my
tie. He kneels in front of me, naked, unbuttoning my shirt... and he
isn't aroused even a bit.
His flesh looks white against the black sheets; battered pale male
body. I can't want him any more just because of his body... there
must be something else about him... I have nothing common with his
twisted, wicked brain. Neither with his cruelty, cowardice and
immorality. Yet there is something I can't name... something that
makes me not believe my own eyes, my own ears sometimes... which I
cannot explain. The same as his amazing trust in me. He is so
vulnerable like that, his vulnerability always waking in me both the
need to take care of him and violence because I know there will never
be such a possibility for me... and he suffers most beautifully.
I strip. His eyes are riveted to my erect cock, and his hand touches
his own. Feeling the only thing I want is to sink my dick into his
warm flesh, I get on the bed pulling the man of my dreams down with
me. Our naked bodies touch each other, and my hands are everywhere on
him... everywhere but his mutilated arm. I feel uneasy about it, not
realizing he has noticed, until I feel the stump touching my side,
shame and pain barely hidden under the challenge in his huge eyes.
I've always hated it when my little one showed he was stronger than
me. The only argument I use is my ex-Marine physical prevalence; I
lift him in my arms until he straddles my lap, warm thighs touching
the thick curls of my crotch, his genitals resting against my hard
rod. I gently touch his stump and put it on my shoulder as if it were
an arm. Avoiding each other's eyes we lie down; our bodies entangle
on the black sheets, his pale limbs spread, and I ravish his mouth
again.
His body in my arms drives me crazy. My cock, pressed in between his
ass cheeks, is dripping with pre-cum and I spread it on his soft
skin; then I slide my hand a bit further. And find him limp.
"Alex?"
He says nothing, just bends his head to my palm on the silk surface.
I watch his calm face for a moment, then slip my fingers between his
cheeks, beginning to play with the tiny asshole. He used to respond
to this.
"Walter, take off the sheet," he whispers at last. I probably look at
him like I'm stupid, because he adds "Can't fight the past, I see my
blood on it. I'm sorry."
There go my good intentions. As I pull the sheet off the bed I see
him leaning against the windowsill. His face is blank again and I
wonder what kind of memories these might be.
Black sheet changed for a white one, we get back on the bed. This
time he kisses me first, licking his way down to my throat and biting
it lightly. The touch of his stubble on my chest makes me shiver. It
has been so long since the last time. I put my hand on his dark bent
head, caressing the thick hair, shoulders, his damaged body as if I
could erase the past, turn the time back, make his injuries vanish.
He obediently allows me to roll him on his back and to take his face
in my palms. How can I hate him? He is still so beautiful, so loving.
I bend my head to kiss his nipples, his chest, rising with slow
breath, and the thin line of hair leading from navel to his cock.
When I open my lips to take it in my mouth, he stops me. "Don't,
please. Just fuck me, Walt."
I look at him to read his face but all I see is just his beauty and
my lust for him. Blinding lust.
"Do you want it at all?" I ask.
"I used to be sexy," he says, with a flicker of either laughter or
irony flashing through his eyes.
"I will not take you if you don't want it."
"Wouldn't that be a waste of time and energy?" with a movement which
reminds me of a professional striptease dancer, he throws his leg
over my head, encircling my waist and pulling me down on him. His
hand touches and caresses the short hairs on the back of my neck.
"Do you want it?" I ask him again. Probably I need to hear him state
it. Words, the form of communication which can be trusted the least.
Haven't you taught me that yet, Alex?
"Would you let me go if I said no?" he teases, white teeth
glittering. All those years I felt a burning need to smash them with
my fist. Only in daytime though.
"That would be a huge mistake," his legs wrap themselves even tighter
around me adding more force, and his single hand pulls my head down.
We lose the eye contact and I hear his soft voice at my ear, "I need
you deep inside me. I want to become a ring, a hole for your cock,
Walt. Nothing else."
His words go straight to my dick.
"I'm going to fuck you, boy," I say, "Now."
Leaning on my arm, I reach for condoms and lube in the drawer of the
bedside table. I would've preferred to shoot into his warm bowels but
a man like him could be carrying anything. Sheathing my hard rod in
rubber, I watch Alex. He hasn't forgotten how we used to do it. Down
on his back, he takes the lube and spreads his legs, all open in
front of my eyes. Alex's asshole is really beautiful—like a tiny,
shy, pink rosebud. He bites the KY in his teeth, squeezes out some
lube and applies it to himself, two fingers slipping inside, out and
around, until the crease is all wet and he lifts his knees, pulling
them to his chest. A hot, throbbing wave of desire surges through my
body, down my spine and directly to my groin at the sound of his
hoarse voice, in between whisper and scream, "Make... love to me,
please".
Placed himself at just the perfect angle for the fuck, he looks as
open, as vulnerable as I never thought I'd have him again; I position
myself between his legs and take the offering.
He is quite loose. Don't tell me, Alex, it's from experiments
performed on you. I enter him slowly, inch by inch, savoring the
sense of becoming one with him again. He looks at me the same as in
my dreams, his dark hair almost black on the pillow, his lashes a
veil of sinful desire... and dreams don't come true.
We are just having a fuck. I need more, impossibly more.
Alex watches me as I'm riding him, then throws his head back, baring
his throat, squeezing and massaging my cock with his tight, trained
ring and meeting my violent thrusts. It's obvious he's doing it for
my pleasure, not for himself. So uncommon for Krycek. Doesn't fit him
at all. Maybe that's another reason why I love him. Something he
hasn't told anyone... maybe I'm one of the rare ones to love him
enough to sense it.
We're connected in the closest way possible for us.
Sad yet overwhelmed with my revelation, I bend forward to kiss his
delicate lips, slightly apart and wet, as if knowingly seducing, and
give him a couple of light strokes; his body arches under me and I
recall Alex doesn't understand gentleness. Shoving all my thick
length into him hard and brusquely I watch his eyes open wide. A gasp
escapes his chest. He always liked it rough, but it seems now it's an
even greater pleasure for him. His hand starts stroking his semi-
erect cock and I push my rod into his juicy, spread ass giving way to
my most primal instincts. A raw need to subdue and use the body
offered to me, to prove and enforce the law of my cock on him. The
flesh is sliding apart in my way, caressing, accepting and welcoming
me here, the same as Alex's dick, hardening in front of my eyes. My
balls are slapping against his naked ass and I double the savage
force I'm plowing the little hole with, shaking him with my thrusts.
His eyes are closed, he's breathing heavily. I'm taking the devil up
the ass. I've entered my tormentor deep into his bowels, this Satan
with an angel's face moans with the forbidden pleasure of submission
and it is the wildest turn-on.
Driving into him for the last time, deep and relentless, I shoot.
When I open my eyes I see him jerking, eyes closed, white teeth
biting into the lower lip. I have to withdraw; he whimpers a little
but doesn't protest. And at this moment, my mind free from lust and
crystal clear, I can't see him as Krycek any more. Just Alex.. my
Alex, and I love him more than my life. I did everything to make it
good for both of us, but he gave it all back to me. I bend over him
and put my arm under his crippled body; he shivers when my chest
touches his stump. I enter three fingers into his still wet, open
hole and start moving them. Teeth release the pink lip they had been
torturing, and my mouth claims it, a tender piece of Alex's damaged
skin. Separating our lips I meet his eyes, almost black with the
arousal. "Walter," he moans, his hoarse voice more sexual, more
sinful and more mature than I have ever heard it. My boy... my man
once again in my arms.. We are looking in each other's eyes while I'm
fucking him on my fingers and slowly Alex's breath becomes deeper and
faster, he jacks more violently. I catch a tiny whisper from his lips
before he comes. "Rape me, love". I might be mistaken. He comes,
shooting all over my stomach and chest.
Relaxed but obstinate his arm pulls me closer and he bends the head
on my shoulder, holding me tight.
I stroke his damp hair, his face. I could have told him. Still I
didn't. That wouldn't change anything. Just empty words, hurting in
our hungry souls.
I meet the morning with Krycek in my arms sleeping like a little kid.
I always thought he should be having nightmares, but his sleep is
sound and calm; there is so much I don't understand about him. My
ignorance and his secrets, my constructions and his mute acceptance
prove once again I'll never get to know the truth. Maybe I could even
be afraid to. Like I will never admit he might be stronger than me,
not even to myself. He's my little one. My boy, so serene in my arms,
his warm body pressed against mine. His body and my body—that's how
we can meet, two strangers, two halves of one heart.
I pull the sleeping man closer to me. A man whom I can never save
from his fate—because he doesn't want to be saved. He walks into
the darkness with his head held high, with the ease of a child
crosses the border I can't, appearing in the light for tiny moments
like this one. Lying, cheating, betraying, blackmailing. Looking at
me with his impossibly beautiful eyes and allowing me to read his
love in them. Each time he swells yearning, desire and pain in me,
and then he disappears and might never come back. Not because he
wouldn't want to.
Maybe this was my last chance. Not to save him. Not to tell him
anything. It's too late. He's gone. Just to be with him. To breathe
the same air he does. To hold him in my arms letting myself imagine I
can protect him from something. To take him and to feel with each
cell of my old body he loves me the same as in the remote past I
would give anything to revert. I could've saved him then. Maybe.
I would give anything to regain my green, naïve, sweet agent, who
blushed when I first told him to pull down his pants but was so
skilled at sucking cock, and who swore eternal love to me.
I believe in dreams.
He believes in darkness. And now this is the crossroads of the good
and the evil where we meet... shortly... to continue each our own
ways. Where my heart breaks.
Last minutes of his warm, naked body next to mine, touching mine, the
way it should have been. It's so unfair to wish the time would stop,
but we all still have moments in our lives when we wish it would
happen.
It is time to get up, soon we have to leave for the Hoover. I wake
him and the look of his eyes, just opened, the sleep still hiding in
his heavy eyelashes, is all I need. Yet we are enemies today.
We take a shower; separately. Get dressed. He is smart enough to keep
his mouth shut about yesterday. It is time to leave, when I remember
I have left Doggett's last report upstairs where I was reading it
while Krycek slept soundly on my shoulder. I go up.
When I return downstairs, I see he has emptied the leftovers from the
champagne bottle in two glasses and passes me one.
"Walter," the first seal of silence is broken, but he never does
anything half-way. "For all the words I will never say."
I take the glass from his leather-clad fingers.
Champagne in the morning is drunk by aristocrats and degenerates;
people who don't drive anyway. I think we belong to the second set.
We raise the glasses and empty them.
I look at him through the glass pattern. Then turn it into hundreds
of small crystal shivers on the hard floor, sparkling in sunbeams. I
grab Krycek by the collar, shove him towards the table and bend him
over among glasses, candelabras, and bottles. He gasps as I yank his
pants down and my cock, hastily slicked just with some saliva, breaks
into the tiny hole. It doesn't really matter what will happen later.
I do him bareback. Just this once. As he moves I slap his ass hard
enough to make the pale skin red and Alex draws sharp breath. He
begins to jack himself. I'm sure his asshole is hurting under my
assault, it must be, and I groan with pleasure as my cock stretches
it; I plow the man through the table, delivering him a hard spanking.
Krycek is moaning and screaming—I never could tell whether his soft
screams are of pain or pleasure, nor can I now; his hand is moving
rapidly in front of him, until he yells desperately, wordlessly and
stills if not for the force of my thrusts shaking his bent frame. I
feel the contractions of his muscled ring around my cock and pause,
breathing deeply, to look at him before grabbing his hips and pulling
him towards me, on me, sheathing myself deep in his hot, moist
channel. Again. And again. I drive him hard on me, ram my rod hard
into him, I ram as if I would take everything from him, as if I could
take him in a deeper way than just this. Being in his flesh is not
enough; I jerk up his jacket and shirt and grab his warm body. With
each thrust my cock slams in to the hilt, in the depths of his
bowels, closer and closer to the edge, to flooding the man in leather
jacket bent in front of me, to proving he's mine once again. Mine.
Once. Again. With a roar I explode, shooting, emptying my load deep
inside Alex for what seems like ages. He is receiving my life fluid,
and I feel he's doing it knowingly as his hand touches mine. It means
something to him, too. I feel a bit surprised about it when I lay my
head down on his lithe body to rest. And why? It's so natural.
At last he speaks. "No one has ever prepared something like that for
me. Like last night... thanks."
I just caress his bare back as an answer. His simple, soft "thanks"
is worse than if he would've pushed the button. If he would've left.
Just if he would've left.
I thought there is nothing for me to lose when I was buying the black
silk, lighting the candles, opening the champagne.
"I would be the happiest man in the world if you could understand
me," he continues.
Me too, my little one. Just that is never supposed to happen.
Yesli boishya—ubei.
Vsyo, chto ya vzyal ot lyubvi—
Pravo na to, chto bolnyei.
No ya ostavlyayu sebe
Pravo na strashniye sni,
Pravo goret ot vesni,
K nyebu idti po zolye.
("Agata Kristi" Sni
(Russian transcription))
Kill—if you're afraid.
All I have taken from love
The right to the painful is.
Still I leave for myself
The right to the horrible dreams
The right to burn from the spring,
To walk the ashes to heaven.
("Agate Christie", Dreams;
translation from Russian)
ust as that night five years ago I am alone in my apartment but not
the only one at my home. So much has changed during these years, and
still—nothing. I light the candles, put a bottle of champagne,
glasses—two of them—on the table and sit down—looking at the
candlelight playing on the walls. It is so quiet.
