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The cigarette coils in tendril cinders, withering unto itself as ash. It is Bohemian in design: a rich blend of tobacco and clove, imbued with the mephitis of sulfur. It smoulders between his fingers, opalescent against oiled obsidian. The acridity permeates the leather, seeping through hairline fissures where blood has settled.
He places the cigarette between his lips. It is so thin as to hardly be felt, a suggestion of paper as he inhales the final vestiges of smoke. The taste is thoroughly unpleasant, a malodour so thick it borders on tangible. If he were to cut his throat, he could reveal the tar like a litmus test, black rivulets flowing in the midst of crimson.
Lieutenant Pavel Yudin does not smoke for pleasure. His vices are typically corporeal, gratification at the expense of another. The cigarette is not so much for pleasure as it is for performance. Eyes are upon him at this very moment, and they are unaware they are observing a meticulously constructed caricature of a Bremen officer.
The Oldegårdian’s invasive behaviour is entirely in vain.
Pav does not need to see him to know that he is there. The Bohemian night always arrives with crisp winds, and tonight, it carries the scent of spruce and ambergris. Pav has no such scent; he is gunpowder and cheap cologne, anointed with the sacrament of saltpetre. If he is the scent of war, August is that of the earth.
Pav finishes his cigarette and grinds it until ashen innards scatter across the wooden floor. He taps a finger against the mildewed fabric of the armchair and envisions August on the rooftops, silhouetted against the cold streams of moonlight. He'll have his bow draped across a shoulder of tarnished suede, his journal open in his palm. August must have written a novella by now.
“Lieutenant Pavel Yudin,” Pav imagines, “Smokes for pleasure. General air of arrogance. Prone to violence. Handsome.”
He pauses. Would the Oldegårdian be so honest as to admit that he is handsome? If Pav were the type to wax philosophical, he could argue that a psyche is built upon aesthetics. Kaiser himself is proof that beautiful people are often the cruellest. He doubts August would be blind to that.
“Waves of blonde hair. Tapered features. Dark eyes. Lithe. Tall.”
It would be an objective appraisal. A man as well-travelled as August must have some understanding of beauty, and it must give him some semblance of pleasure to observe beautiful people and attempt to unravel them. Better yet, does August’s appraisal veer into attraction? Does he write disparagingly about hair overwrought with pomade but dream of clenching it in his fist?
Pav smiles, teeth barely visible above his lips. Who is he to deny August the pleasure of his form, especially when he asks for it so earnestly? He can perform for an enemy one last time. They call it the theatre of war for a reason.
Pav removes his cap and runs a hand through his hair. His head tilts back as he combs through the waves, the hand gradually moving to the side of his face. Fingers trace the contours of his face, each fingerpad brushing against taut skin to the juncture of his jaw. That same hand soon snakes downwards to slowly undo the final three buttons of his shirt, the other hand lightly pulling the fabric open. Behind half-lidded eyes, Pav thinks of August; how his breath must have hitched at the slow display of flesh. This is all the encouragement Pav needs to run his hands over his chest, delicately dragging his fingers over the scars.
August must be writing again now, white-knuckled from the ferocity by which he clenches his pen.
Pav’s hands continue to move, the leather gliding across his chest to map every rise and dip of his pectorals. The seams of his gloves catch against peaked nipples, and he captures each one between a thumb and forefinger. His mouth parts as he rolls them, the sensation thrumming with an undercurrent of gentle pain. August is a married man, and he must give his wife a similar type of pleasure. Would he run a wet tongue over each nipple and kiss the tender flesh with ardent reverence? Or would he bite, driving his fingers into Pav’s ribs as his teeth nip each sensitive nub?
“Such a pretty thing you are,” August would rasp, sucking a bruise into his skin, “Which would you prefer, Lieutenant? To belong to Kaiser or me?”
The hands on Pav’s chest continue to rise and fall in tandem with his breathing. Those fingers—light and teasing—search each inch of him, combing through a light dusting of hair to travel lower and lower. His hands come to a rest above his hip, mere inches from a cock stirring in its confines. Pav doesn’t need to look to know he is half-hard; the gentle throb and swelling heat are evidence enough. He spreads his legs so that August may fully witness the strain beneath the fabric and gives himself a soft, deliberate squeeze.
Pav curses in Bremen argot. Years of practised mimicry have suppressed all remnants of his accent, but still, he wonders if August could identify it.
“A Voroniyan boy,” he’d hiss, “I can hear it in the way you whine. I could fuck Kaiser’s propaganda out of you.”
A fruitless endeavour, but not one Pav could refuse. August’s strong hands would claw at bare sinewy thighs, exposing a sensitive ring of muscle to lap at. His moustache would graze roughly against the tender flesh of Pav’s legs, and it would not take long to feel him come undone on his tongue. August would take him against the wall, fuck him until Bremen staccato was replaced with breathless pants of Voroniyan.
Pav rewards himself with a harder squeeze. It is entirely performative, but August makes for such a fine audience that he cannot help himself. The Oldegårdian is silent and observant, undoubtedly captivated by the whorish ways in which Pav pleases himself. Time may be finite, but as long as Pav is watched, he will put on a show.
Deft fingers quickly work his belt buckle, the belt itself hanging loose within its holdings. Fingers splayed, Pav hooks the thumb of each hand into the waistband of his trousers. He runs each thumb across the waistband, slowly pulling them off, revealing a trail of tawny hair with each measured tug. Then, he stops.
“Tease,” he imagines August snarling, face hot in the burgeoning nocturnal chill. The gentle poison of arousal must course through his veins now, eroding the desire to simply watch, “Show me what I want to see.”
Pav spreads his legs even further, the tight fabric framing every inch of his clothed erection. Once again, he runs his thumbs around the circumference of his waist. This time, he pulls downwards, not stopping until his trousers and briefs pool at the tall shins of his boots. The relief is immeasurable, his cock hard against his stomach. It is long and slender, as pretty as the rest of him. He allows August a few seconds to admire the view.
“Good, Lieutenant Yudin.”
He makes want drip from August’s every word, makes him savour his name like a fine wine. Pav runs a finger along the length of his cock and coaxes himself to full hardness, picturing August grunting his approval in fragments of broken Oldegårdian. If Pav had the luxury of time, he’d make him watch for as long as he pleased.
He grabs his cock from the base, caressing the gentle curvature. He moves slowly, giving August time to take in every detail before he pumps himself. It is unhurried finesse, kneading the precum from his cock with each gyration of his hand. It beads at the slit of his cockhead, glistening against the hot flesh. Would August watch as it spilt over and coated the rest of his cock, or collect it on his calloused fingers and demand that he taste it?
“How does it taste, Lieutenant? Perhaps that clever mouth of yours should be filled with something larger.”
Pav’s hand quickens, cockhead dribbling precum onto his glove and cock throbbing insistently in his grasp. He could only imagine how impressive August’s prick would be: long, thick, and covered in an auburn curls. August would not be gentle, nor would Pav want him to be.
August would run his hand through his hair and curl his fingers at the base of Pav’s head. Pav would gargle on his cock in response, nose buried deep in a thatch of auburn. His throat would constrict with each brutal thrust and grace August with a moist, hot squeeze. Tears would form at Pav’s lash line, mouth so full of cock that saliva would pool at the corner of his mouth. He would let August believe that he adored him, worship him just to watch him fall apart. Pav would not be satisfied until August’s cock hit the back of his throat, until tears fell upon his cheeks, and his vision waned.
“That’s it,” the words would be little more than a snarl, eyes widening at the prominent bulge in Pav’s throat, “Gag on me.”
Pav strokes faster still, the sheer amount of emission providing ample lubrication for each pump of his prick. It does not take long for Pav to feel his balls start to tighten. He ensures that August can see every detail of his movement: the way his mouth parts with each stroke, the flushed pink of his cockhead against black leather, the way precum catches the moonlight between his knuckles.
He thinks of August inside him, desperate and messy, biting at the nape of his neck and lowering his guard for the Bremen whore he wants to loathe. The Bremen whore he wants to possess.
“You came here as Kaiser’s dog,” he would growl, cock deep and searing within him, “But you’ll leave as my bitch.”
It takes only a few more jerks for the pressure to build and break. Pav’s body grows stiff, hips stuttering into his hand and body cresting forwards. Heat courses from his balls through to his cock and spills out onto his hand, coating it in pearlescent stripes of his release. He moans low and harsh, eyes shut and breath fogging wetly before him.
The performance is not yet finished. Pav runs his tongue across his palm, savours his cum like it is the sweetest nectar. The taste is bitter, and the texture is thick, but Pav moans wantonly like a starving man. His cheeks hollow as he sucks greedily on his fingers, lapping at each fingerpad until no trace of his release remains.
A Bremen officer is nothing if not efficient.
Pav rolls his shoulders back, catches his breath, and listens for outside movement. There is no sound of footsteps upon the strafed buildings, no guttural orgasm that mimics his own. Pav almost feels disappointed.
He stands without a word and goes to the apartment bathroom to redress. He ought to be disgusted with himself for engaging in such debauchery with so much at stake, but indulgences are scarce in war, and he cannot deny himself the spark of satisfaction such degeneracy brings.
When Pav returns from the bathroom, the scent of spruce and ambergris is gone. His map of Prehevil—a tourist copy stolen from the train—lies dissected upon a nearby desk, formally labelled in Bremen and hastily annotated in his native tongue. Red crosses cut across the streets like incisions, marking districts and zones for excision. His route to the Hollow Tower flows through the remaining streets like the vena cava.
Pav smirks and collects his cap and Lugr. He blows an exaggerated kiss to the night sky and makes his way to the Hollow Tower.