When all that I've known is lost and found

[chesspolitik]

As Anatoly very carefully made his way through the well-worn path, he thought that Cassie would be rather proud if she knew he was actually out of his hut. She might be less pleased if she knew he was a shade drunk, but that was neither here or there. The important thing was that he was out, actively seeking company from a real person and not the vodka.

He paused in front of Roger's door, suddenly feeling a little anxious. What if he wasn't there? What if he was? The truth was that social situations left him uneasy, something that he hadn't properly realized until now. At home, Molokov had controlled every situation and often given him talking points. Here, he'd allowed Lex to do much the same. Now he had neither and he was realizing this had to change if he wanted to have friends at all.

Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he raised his fist and knocked. "Roger?"

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[chesspolitik]

"Good," he breathed, barely remembering to speak in English. It struck him again as he looked into Roger's beautiful blue eyes that the only thing he and Freddie had in common was a face. In words, personality and deeds, they were worlds apart. As he turned his head to press a light kiss to Roger's hand, he knew who he thought was the better person.

And then there was no more conscious thought at all, as he reached for Roger's other hand and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. He could have been overreaching, but he didn't think so. Tonight, they were both on the same page.

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger tried to tell himself that it was a cultural thing -- that the lips on his hand weren't meant to make heat spark and uncoil in his the way they just had, but by the time he'd rationalized it away, those same lips were on his palm and Roger was a goner. His eyes closed for half a second as he pictured sharp color spiraling from the point of contact and when he reopened his eyes, Anatoly was still there, still brushing his lips against Roger's palm.

The other hand found its way to Anatoly's cheek, and he searched his eyes for a moment before closing his own and stepping in the remaining distance to watch the way that mouth whispered warmth into his palm.

[chesspolitik]

Anatoly's head was spinning, but whether it was the vodka or Roger, he couldn't say. Whatever the reason, it wasn't about to stop him from needing Roger, wanting him.

He exhaled slowly and turned his head to leave soft feather-light kisses against the hand caressing his cheek. He brought Roger's hand to his chest, holding it tightly, and if his hand was trembling a little, he didn't notice.

"Roger," he whispered, his accent emphasizing the Rs more thickly than usual. He leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, first one side than the other before finally meeting his lips.

[one--song.livejournal.com]

The recitation of his name gave him pause, even as his breath was hitching from the desperately needed contact to his hand. Once he was being kissed, though, his brain stopped working. He went absolutely still fir the first few moments, memorizing the feeling of it after thinking about it for so, so Goddamn long. It was perfect. Literally perfect. And no amount of atmosphere could fuck it up for him.

Nothing, of course, except his own crippling self-hatred.

"Anatoly," Roger said, moving a hand to his shoulder to steady him back a step. "Ple-- Just... Are you sure?"

[chesspolitik]

Anatoly blinked at him in surprise, his brain taking a few moments to shift gears. "I'm sure," he said without hesitation. "This might be the only thing I feel sure about right now."

He knew that if he put deep thought into it, he'd hesitate and the moment would be lost. Maybe this was for one night only, maybe it was would be for me and the only way he'd know is if he took a chance.

He'd been so careful, and had gotten nothing but loneliness and grief. So he'd be reckless - what was the worst that could happen?

"Please Roger," he said, locking eyes with him. "I don't want to be alone. I want - I want this. You. Please."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Oh God. It was like something erupted within him, and in a single spread of warmth inside, he was kissing Anatoly again, but with such gusto that it may have been read as desperation. A hand secured itself at the back of Anatoly's neck and as his lips rolled over the Russian's, he was struck again by just how fucking much he wanted that and for just how long.

[chesspolitik]

Anatoly leaned into the kiss, relieved that Roger wasn't making any further protests. He wrapped one arm around Roger's waist, noting how much lighter he was than Lex then immediately pushing that comparison back to the darkest recesses of his mind. His other hand wound itself in Roger's curls, marveling at the novel sensation.