Man, This Is Getting Long
Jan. 28th, 2012 11:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustLackadiasy Nostalgiac, Part Three
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
1926
Cold, rainy weather, typical for the season; every part of Viktor ached, though not as badly as every part of him would ache, in future. But sometimes—most-times, in fact—it was better, by far, not to know these things beforehand.
In other news, there also appeared to be something going on between Atlas and Mordecai, Mordecai and Mitzi, maybe even between Mordecai, Mitzi and Atlas all at once—more than Viktor was privy to, or wanted to be. Since seeing Mordecai less and less often made him antsy, he tried his best to keep himself too busy to wonder why he wasn't being invited along on these little excursions, wherever Atlas was sending Mordecai to do...whatever. Not as though Mordecai didn't know his way around a bag of quicklime, after all, and that trench-knife Viktor had given him--his own, once, and in no way an item of sentimental value, except in that Mordecai had first asked him nicely for it, then shown his gratitude in some fairly elaborate ways after Viktor had simply shrugged, and said: Take, sure—is no use to ME--was good for jointing all sorts of meat.
So it did surprise him, if pleasantly, to let himself into his apartment and find Mordecai already there waiting for him: Perched on the bed, fully dressed, looking fixedly “out” the window even though its blinds were still securely drawn. When Viktor coughed, his pince-nez caught the light from the hallway as he looked 'round, lighting them up like a pair of silver dimes to hide his eyes, though—oddly enough—Viktor didn't spot either hand heading towards one of his hidden guns. Not like the Mordecai he'd come to know, to be so...indifferent?...to potential danger, for all he might admit, if pressed, that he'd long ago ceased to register Viktor as any sort of real threat.
“You vait for me,” Viktor observed. “Could haf turned the light on, if you vanted.”
“I didn't want to waste electricity.”
“Chah, Atlas pay for that. Is no problem.”
“Yes, well.” Mordecai turned his gaze back on the window, face settling again like a mask, stiff and white. “Perhaps it might be better not to...”
But here his voice died away mid-sentence, abruptly gone from waspish to silent, with nothing in between. While Viktor narrowed his own eyes, trying to connect what he had, in order to figure out the second half of that observation: Better not to waste Atlas's money, better not to boast about it? Better not to—
(take that for granted, from now on)
—was what he would figure out, eventually. Long past the point it mattered anymore.
Viktor just shrugged again, however, and sat down on the bed, which squealed out its usual protest. Telling Mordecai: “Is good to see you, you know, alvays. I don't like it vhen you stay avay.”
“Well, it's not as though this is the only place we have to...do this in. I do have an apartment too, you know; you could come there, if you wanted.”
The very fact that this was the first time Mordecai had ever made such an offer, in four solid years of—whatever this was—immediately raised Viktor's hackles.
“Vhat has happened?” He demanded.
Mordecai took off his pince-nez and began to polish them, absently, against the well-cut cuff of one immaculate sleeve. “Define 'happened',” he replied, voice dimming further, strangely muffled, almost hesitant.
“There is something wrong vith you, I know it. You tell me—”
Still polishing, the movements ever-smaller, more precise yet less effective. “You'll...have to be more...specific.”
“Mordecai...” Viktor peered closer, narrowing his eye. “...you are not crying.”
He knew he'd gone too far even as he said it, confirmed when the man in question gave a sniff that was probably meant to sound scornful, but came out a bit too liquid for dignity. So Viktor kept quiet, from then on; just laid one hand on the back of his neck, feeling vertebrae flex and bunch under his palm, but didn't press things, otherwise. And they both sat there in silence, together but apart, for what seemed a small eternity.
“You didn't haf to come here,” Viktor said, finally. To which Mordecai snapped back, still not turning—
“Where else would I go, fool? You're—the only person in this filthy city who cares if I live or die, aside from Atlas. And then only because he'd have to replace me, if I did.”
Now it was Viktor's turn to snort. “Oh, plenty of people vant to see you die, little killer, don't you vorry. And don't call me 'fool', vhen you the vone—”
“I am not crying, a broch!”
“Af course not.”
“—and anyhow, I'll call you that if I want, thank you very much! You are a fool. I let a fool fuck me, that's what I did—so yes, you're right: Too many damn times, entirely, not to call myself one, too.” But here he paused, perhaps realizing he was gripping his spectacles so tightly as to whiten his knuckles, and laid them gently down on the windowsill, before he did them any permanent damage. “You ask me why I don't seek out other Jews here? That's why: Because by their standards, by any good Jew's standards, all I am or can ever be is ein dover-akher mit un goyisher kopf, the kind of Jew who makes all goys hate other Jews. In that I lay down with pigs—of my own free will, mind you—so now I am one.”
Viktor raised his remaining eye's brow. “I am not pig,” he told him. “You, either.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know, I know; oh, Mordecai. Come here, to me. Come.”
“No.”
“Here, naow; I vant you. And I don't let you go, no matter vhat, so don't try and make me.”
Turning him, brooking no denial, Viktor let Mordecai bat his hands away, but only once, and only in pretence—as an excuse to get closer, one knee between Mordecai's fancy pant-legs with the rest of him crushed back against the mattress, too heavy for him to squirm free. Kissed him long and hard and pantingly deep, wondering as he did if he was doomed to always have to handle him this way. Wondering if he'd actually start to miss it, if by some miracle the day ever came when Mordecai decided that he didn't.
“Not foolish, neither of us,” Viktor told him, in one ear, once he seemed as though he'd finally stopped fighting; gone quiet again, at least, not so much resigned as taut and thrumming, stiff with forbearance. “Nobody here to see vhat ve do except us, not even God. Naow cry all you vant or don't, I don't care; either vay is fine, I don't stop you. Not so long as you don't try to stop me.”
Expecting another curse in reply, or even another blow. But Mordecai simply shook his head instead, eyes screwed shut, and pulled him down on top of him with both hands wound in his hair, yanking so hard Viktor almost felt like weeping too, 'til he found other things to distract himself with.
He was actually stupid enough to think things were settled, after that. Never assume, his platoon-leader had said, more than enough times—but seeing how Viktor's grasp of English back then had been even worse than it was now, he could maybe be forgiven for forgetting.
(To Be Continued)
Okay, back to the edit. I need to put this file to bed.
Fandom: Lackadaisy
Viktor Vasko/Mordecai Heller
1926
Cold, rainy weather, typical for the season; every part of Viktor ached, though not as badly as every part of him would ache, in future. But sometimes—most-times, in fact—it was better, by far, not to know these things beforehand.
In other news, there also appeared to be something going on between Atlas and Mordecai, Mordecai and Mitzi, maybe even between Mordecai, Mitzi and Atlas all at once—more than Viktor was privy to, or wanted to be. Since seeing Mordecai less and less often made him antsy, he tried his best to keep himself too busy to wonder why he wasn't being invited along on these little excursions, wherever Atlas was sending Mordecai to do...whatever. Not as though Mordecai didn't know his way around a bag of quicklime, after all, and that trench-knife Viktor had given him--his own, once, and in no way an item of sentimental value, except in that Mordecai had first asked him nicely for it, then shown his gratitude in some fairly elaborate ways after Viktor had simply shrugged, and said: Take, sure—is no use to ME--was good for jointing all sorts of meat.
So it did surprise him, if pleasantly, to let himself into his apartment and find Mordecai already there waiting for him: Perched on the bed, fully dressed, looking fixedly “out” the window even though its blinds were still securely drawn. When Viktor coughed, his pince-nez caught the light from the hallway as he looked 'round, lighting them up like a pair of silver dimes to hide his eyes, though—oddly enough—Viktor didn't spot either hand heading towards one of his hidden guns. Not like the Mordecai he'd come to know, to be so...indifferent?...to potential danger, for all he might admit, if pressed, that he'd long ago ceased to register Viktor as any sort of real threat.
“You vait for me,” Viktor observed. “Could haf turned the light on, if you vanted.”
“I didn't want to waste electricity.”
“Chah, Atlas pay for that. Is no problem.”
“Yes, well.” Mordecai turned his gaze back on the window, face settling again like a mask, stiff and white. “Perhaps it might be better not to...”
But here his voice died away mid-sentence, abruptly gone from waspish to silent, with nothing in between. While Viktor narrowed his own eyes, trying to connect what he had, in order to figure out the second half of that observation: Better not to waste Atlas's money, better not to boast about it? Better not to—
(take that for granted, from now on)
—was what he would figure out, eventually. Long past the point it mattered anymore.
Viktor just shrugged again, however, and sat down on the bed, which squealed out its usual protest. Telling Mordecai: “Is good to see you, you know, alvays. I don't like it vhen you stay avay.”
“Well, it's not as though this is the only place we have to...do this in. I do have an apartment too, you know; you could come there, if you wanted.”
The very fact that this was the first time Mordecai had ever made such an offer, in four solid years of—whatever this was—immediately raised Viktor's hackles.
“Vhat has happened?” He demanded.
Mordecai took off his pince-nez and began to polish them, absently, against the well-cut cuff of one immaculate sleeve. “Define 'happened',” he replied, voice dimming further, strangely muffled, almost hesitant.
“There is something wrong vith you, I know it. You tell me—”
Still polishing, the movements ever-smaller, more precise yet less effective. “You'll...have to be more...specific.”
“Mordecai...” Viktor peered closer, narrowing his eye. “...you are not crying.”
He knew he'd gone too far even as he said it, confirmed when the man in question gave a sniff that was probably meant to sound scornful, but came out a bit too liquid for dignity. So Viktor kept quiet, from then on; just laid one hand on the back of his neck, feeling vertebrae flex and bunch under his palm, but didn't press things, otherwise. And they both sat there in silence, together but apart, for what seemed a small eternity.
“You didn't haf to come here,” Viktor said, finally. To which Mordecai snapped back, still not turning—
“Where else would I go, fool? You're—the only person in this filthy city who cares if I live or die, aside from Atlas. And then only because he'd have to replace me, if I did.”
Now it was Viktor's turn to snort. “Oh, plenty of people vant to see you die, little killer, don't you vorry. And don't call me 'fool', vhen you the vone—”
“I am not crying, a broch!”
“Af course not.”
“—and anyhow, I'll call you that if I want, thank you very much! You are a fool. I let a fool fuck me, that's what I did—so yes, you're right: Too many damn times, entirely, not to call myself one, too.” But here he paused, perhaps realizing he was gripping his spectacles so tightly as to whiten his knuckles, and laid them gently down on the windowsill, before he did them any permanent damage. “You ask me why I don't seek out other Jews here? That's why: Because by their standards, by any good Jew's standards, all I am or can ever be is ein dover-akher mit un goyisher kopf, the kind of Jew who makes all goys hate other Jews. In that I lay down with pigs—of my own free will, mind you—so now I am one.”
Viktor raised his remaining eye's brow. “I am not pig,” he told him. “You, either.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know, I know; oh, Mordecai. Come here, to me. Come.”
“No.”
“Here, naow; I vant you. And I don't let you go, no matter vhat, so don't try and make me.”
Turning him, brooking no denial, Viktor let Mordecai bat his hands away, but only once, and only in pretence—as an excuse to get closer, one knee between Mordecai's fancy pant-legs with the rest of him crushed back against the mattress, too heavy for him to squirm free. Kissed him long and hard and pantingly deep, wondering as he did if he was doomed to always have to handle him this way. Wondering if he'd actually start to miss it, if by some miracle the day ever came when Mordecai decided that he didn't.
“Not foolish, neither of us,” Viktor told him, in one ear, once he seemed as though he'd finally stopped fighting; gone quiet again, at least, not so much resigned as taut and thrumming, stiff with forbearance. “Nobody here to see vhat ve do except us, not even God. Naow cry all you vant or don't, I don't care; either vay is fine, I don't stop you. Not so long as you don't try to stop me.”
Expecting another curse in reply, or even another blow. But Mordecai simply shook his head instead, eyes screwed shut, and pulled him down on top of him with both hands wound in his hair, yanking so hard Viktor almost felt like weeping too, 'til he found other things to distract himself with.
He was actually stupid enough to think things were settled, after that. Never assume, his platoon-leader had said, more than enough times—but seeing how Viktor's grasp of English back then had been even worse than it was now, he could maybe be forgiven for forgetting.
(To Be Continued)
Okay, back to the edit. I need to put this file to bed.
