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His hand doesn’t tremble anymore as Valery downs the glass of vodka. The liquid burns his throat, his tongue, his lungs, sets them ablaze until it’s difficult to breathe and his mind is void of everything but the heat the vodka brings. With fire within his veins and the same ache at the back of his throat, Valery lowers the glass and opens his eyes.
Boris gazes at him from underneath his thick eyelashes, the familiar unreadable expression across his face. Valery cannot stand the torment that washes upon him as keen eyes trace his every movement — he lowers his own gaze towards the table between them, a threshold neither of them will cross.
Valery pulls out a cigarette within the inner pocket of his jacket, allows it to rest against his lips as he searches for the lighter. It doesn’t work, of course, and he realizes that he should have brought another one; who takes a single lighter to Chernobyl, anyway —
Without a word, Boris takes the cigarette from Valery’s trembling fingers and puts it against his own lips. A stoic contrast to him, Shcherbina holds his gaze as he sets a match ablaze and lights the cigarette which Valery craves for so.
A soft sort of sadness shines in Boris’ eyes as the tip reddens, half turns to ash at his single inhale. The smoke drifts to the ceiling in a graceful coil, the way the radioactive ashes drifted up to the stars, spread across the land.
Valery takes the cigarette from his offering fingers and inhales, deeply. He lets out an absent, pleased sigh as a smooth, familiar burn fills his lungs, mingles with the alcohol within his system and heightens the sensation of being lost.
A minute passes, then two, of him smoking and Boris being the unreadable statue that he is.
Shcherbina pours him another glass.
“Drink, Valera,” he says, pushing the glass across the table.
Valera.
Oh, how strange the nickname falls from his lips — weeks ago he couldn’t allow himself to call him anything but Professor Legasov, or the truly cold word comrade — and now he’s Valera, an ally in a war against something they cannot win.
And so Valery drinks once again, downs the liquid in a way that almost makes him choke.
Any other day, Valery Legasov would have paced himself with his drinking. Ever since adolescence, casual consumption of alcohol hasn’t been his forte, and so he knows his limits — limits he pushes tonight as the void within him engulfs the last of his sorrow.
A column of smoke rises from the crystal ashtray between them. Beneath a mask of gray, Boris’ eyes burn with unhindered flame, so similar to the one that burns within the exposed reactor — uncontrollable and yet alluring in a way that pulls Valery closer to the man.
“It’s going to be over soon,” Valery says, not daring to lower his gaze from Shcherbina’s face.
The words startle the silence. His voice doesn’t waver and yet it is misplaced within the hotel room — Boris gazes at him as though just awaken from deep musings, uncertain of the meaning behind Valery’s words.
“We’ll fix the mess soon,” he answers with a nod of his white head.
And yet, they both know that they won’t, not within their lifetimes.
They’re lives will end far sooner than the apparatchiks of their country will look upon the truth with open eyes; they will sacrifice hundreds of thousands lives more for the pristine image of the Soviet Union.
Boris’ life is being sacrificed for it, as well.
The ache at the back of his throat returns at the thought and Valery stands from the couch onto unsteady legs.
Another reason why Valery drinks so rarely is because of the melancholy that washes over him with each drink.
Valery takes off his jacket instead, throws it onto the couch as Boris’ keen eyes trace him from below. Even now tears form in the corners of his eyes and although bitter, he will not allow them to fall — not here, not ever.
“I’m going… outside,” Valery manages through the haze that settles upon his mind.
“I know I’m going to die, Valery,” Boris Shcherbina says, voice low and grovely with frustration seeping into every syllable. The man isn’t angry with Valery, not this time — the hatred for the sensation of helplessness that his friend feels, the guilt that he wallows in, yes — but not Valery himself.
He comes to stand before him face to face in the middle of the room. “We all made sacrifices. Today we managed to begin cleaning the roof from the debris and yet with every day you lose more and more hope.”
After months spent together Boris reads him as an open book – Valery wonders if he ever could keep a secret from him.
“Because I see the truth , Boris,” he half hisses through gritted teeth. “I don't close my eyes to reality.”
Unlike you , comrade Shcherbina. Unlike the career party man within that overshadows you.
A multitude of other biting remarks crowd at the tip of his loose tongue, all clawing to be first out the gate, but they die upon the tinge of hurt within his friend’s gaze.
He doesn’t have to finish his sentence.
Valery stands still, back against the wall as his friend raises a glass to his pale lips and drinks the cool drink without flinching. Indulging his own lowered inhibitions, Valery stares at Boris’ mouth and the lines around it, studying every detail of his skin — age has marked him and yet no more than is meant despite a constant exposure to the unforgiving radiation.
When his eyes rise, he finds Boris staring at him, utterly silent.
“You should go to sleep, comrade Legasov. ”
Boris doesn’t jolt when Legasov leans forward and grips the back of his neck, doesn’t react when the scientist grabs a fistful of his shirt with the other hand. His question is muffled when Valery leans forward and presses his lips to Boris’, harsh and unyielding in their conquest — as harsh as the man whose hand hovers against Legasov’s side.
Although he tastes distinctly of vodka and cigarette smoke, Boris smells as immaculate as he appears — there’s a hint of gasoline and pines as if he were recently in a forest, among trees that do not surround Chernobyl or Pripyat anymore. As his tongue traces along Shcherbina’s lower lip, the scientist is tranquil, satisfied even.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol within his system, perhaps it’s the loneliness that has strengthened in isolation from the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s the untamed tension that has followed him with every step in his acquaintance with the party career man that Boris Shcherbina is — Valery Legasov will blame his own loss of control, in the end.
When Boris pulls away, out of breath and with pupils dilated, Valery realizes he has made a wrong decision.
The mask of the stoic career party man returns, piece by piece, until there’s nothing but steel left within Shcherbina’s guarded expression and a slightest hint of incomprehension within his eyes, so brief Valery may have imagined it.
“Boris…” he breathes out.
“This didn’t happen,” Shcherbina says, snarls , almost.
Without another word he pushes away from Valery and flees out of the room with the back of his hand against his lips.
The door slams shut.
Valery sinks against the wall, completely alone and far more lost than ever.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
In the early hours of the morning, Valery Legasov lights yet another cigarette. The ash falls onto the carpet, smearing the pristine floor, and yet he cannot bring himself to care — head between his shaking hands, Valery earns to forget.
Oh, what a fool he is.
Five hours and twenty seven minutes since he last saw Boris Shcherbina rushing through the door of his hotel room. Five hours and twenty six minutes since he ruined his relationship with the one man in this isolated place who willingly spoke to him about everything and nothing at the same time.
That’s why he so rarely drinks.
Boris will never forgive him — the anger within his gaze shined brighter than the exposed reactor core Shcherbina demanded the pilot to fly over.
The voice of mad reason in the back of his weary head tells him that that would have been better.
If he had died after being exposed to the radiation within the core, Valery would have been spared from the feeling of dread that follows his every footstep within Chernobyl — the presentiment of death within the air he breathes, the barren forests where they can no longer step, the non-existent sound of birds. And now, a loss of a relationship found in a place one wouldn’t expect.
Only the wind remains.
The wind and the cigarette ashes it scatters.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
True to his word, Boris Shcherbina acts as though nothing has happened.
They worked together that day as though it were any other — construction plans, phone calls and meetings from dusk until dawn, nothing out of the ordinary. Boris is the same commandeering career party man he has always been, one who shows no sign of weakness.
Everything is the same.
Except for the fact that Valery cannot help the feeling of utter despair that washes over him with every stolen glance at Boris.
And so when the day is over, Legasov is glad.
They return to the familiar hotel in Pripyat without saying a word to each other. Valery is glad of that, as well.
“We are going to talk,” Shcherbina demands in a tone that leaves no room for arguing as they reach their hotel suites.
Valery isn’t surprised by the command, and yet a sinking feeling coils at the bottom of his stomach at the thought of speaking of last night. Shcherbina doesn’t wait for his answer, only storms past Legasov into his hotel suite and leaves him to follow behind.
The two of them alone in Boris’ room, they stand with Shcherbina’s dark gaze upon him as he pours himself a glass of vodka and Legasov stands with his hand still on the door handle, gripping with unnecessary strength turns his knuckles white.
Boris has no indication of anger within his face and yet his eyes strike lightning; Valery’s afraid he might actually shout. Legasov pulls his hand back from the door, fights the urge to flee the room entirely, and meets his thunderous expression with a neutral look.
“I’m tired,” Valery says. He isn’t lying, not tonight, because ever since he arrived at Chernobyl he hasn’t had a regular sleeping pattern or a night where he doesn’t have terrifying dreams that leave him breathless and with a distinct taste of metal within his mouth. Valery would love nothing more than to just sleep a couple of hours on his creaking hotel bed. “Perhaps —”
“We will talk right now,” Boris interrupts and Valery’s body tenses in answer. The edge to his voice is familiar — I’m in charge here, it shouts loud and clear.
“Here?” Valery asks, gesturing at the invisible ears that are listening to their every word within the room, hotel even— Shcherbina knows better than him that one wrong decision ( like yesterday, Valery thinks) and a target will be painted on their backs.
Shcherbina nods, finishing his drink in a single swig — without thinking, Valery traces the movement of his pale throat as he swallows.
Valery expects Boris to lash out, to demand they don’t work any further, or to punch him, even. What he doesn’t anticipate is for Boris Shcherbina to cross the distance he himself put between the two of them with a look he cannot read within his eyes.
Taking a sharp breath, Valery steps backwards along with him until his back is against the wall, trapped between Boris’ heated body and the coolness of the apartment.
“Boris —?” Valery tries but it comes out half-choked as if he’s pleading for something he cannot have.
He doesn’t say anything in answer, only grabs Valery by the lapels of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss, one as harsh as the night before. Boris holds the full upper hand, controls Legasov as a master would a puppet and he manages to only clutch at his sides, weakened by the revelation that a man like Boris Shcherbina desires him in the most basic of ways, as well. His teeth nibble on Valery’s lower lip and he has to stifle a groan, constantly aware that they’re listening, hearing every word and moan.
One wrong step and they will both spend the rest of their short lives in a psychiatric clinic, isolated from the world and from each other.
Valery pulls back when his lungs ache for air and body trembles with effort; his hands grip at Boris’ fatigues in a way that is sure to leave angry marks against his stark skin.
“Valera...” Boris breathes out against his ear, so soft Valery would think he may have imagined it if not for the way the timbre of his voice raises the hair on the back of his neck.
Boris’ hands pull out the shirt from within Valery’s trousers, settle on the leather of his belt and his eyes appear very dark with arousal as they gaze into the scientist’s.
Questions linger on the tip of Valery’s tongue, urgent ones that have to be addressed before they reach a point of no return, and yet they die the moment Boris’ fingers unbutton his trousers and his hand slips inside, finding Valery half-hard within his grip. He groans, as silently as he is able to, head leaning back against the wall as Boris strokes him, rough and detached and just right.
“My dearest Boris…” Valery mumbles, barely a breath, as his skin flushes and his nails dig into the man’s back. “My… Boris…”
Shcherbina silences him with another kiss, one that leaves Valery trembling and thrusting into his hand with uncontrolled desire. He doesn’t remember the last time someone had brought out this side of him with nothing but their fingers — he doesn’t want to remember, not when Boris rubs the pad of his thumb over the tip of his cock on an upward stroke, leaving him a panting and restless mess.
“That’s it, Valera. .. ” Boris murmurs again and Valery twitches and flexes under his undivided attention and the spark of calculated interest within his gaze.
“ Boris —” he warns in return, a hiss through his clenched teeth.
Valery comes with a muffled groan against Boris’ shoulder, thrusting into his hand, back arching against the wall and fists tangled in the man’s fatigues. His knees almost buckle underneath him and Boris holds him, supports him against the wall as he gradually comes down from the height.
With a handkerchief Shcherbina wipes his hand clean, and then Valery, before buttoning his trousers and placing the piece of cloth within his uniform.
When his breathing evens out and his legs steady, Valery pulls Boris to sit on the edge of the bed and without a single hesitation lowers himself to his knees. If Valery could choose a single sound to be his last, it would be the soft sigh Shcherbina lets escape through his pale lips as Valery takes him into his mouth.
Boris’ fingers brush against his cheek, against the tip of his ear before they tangle within his hair, a constant pressure that sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure through Valery. He trails his tongue along Boris’ cock, careful and slow as though he had all the time in the world before swallowing him whole — the man’s thigh muscles tense as tight as a bow string against his head in return, along with a breathless, almost inaudible moan.
It doesn’t take long for Boris to finish — his whole body tenses, the fingers within Valery’s hair pull at the edge of pain until he comes within his mouth, rough and sudden, as was the beginning of their acquaintanceship.
Valery cleans them up as best as he can before crawling into the bed beside him.
“I’m glad we had this talk,” he says, eyes closed as he melts against him, basking in the post-coital bliss.
Boris’ fingers rake through his hair, gentle for once as he hums in agreement, a sound so deep within his throat Valery realizes the man is on the edge of falling asleep.
Later, when they’re alone and without the ears of KGB, Valery will ask him about the sudden change of heart. He will wonder for days if it’s a one time occurance without any attachments, a simple indulgence from Boris’ side, or if perhaps it will become something more.
But for now, he is content to listen to the way Boris’ breathing evens out as he falls into a dreamless sleep, hand still within Valery’s hair.