#kainburov

"I see you have been acquainted already. A bright ambitious mind, is he not?" And so the younger Kain deflected in return.

"The rest is up to debate." Criticism, he must always spot the flaws in everyone around him. "You're clearly biased. He's a graduate from the same institution you're planning to get your degree from."

If only it was any other person, Victor might have been touched at their attentiveness to his whereabouts and future plans.

If only.

"Maria foresaw greatness in him," so should've Katerina, how come your wife never spoke of him? All Mistresses' visions allign. At least, true Mistresses—But, he knew better than to voice those thoughts. "My brother is a hard to impress man. I'm sure he will prove himself in due time."

"I sent him to Lyuricheva to act as his aid." Two peas in a pod. "Let's hope he doesn't turn out to be another Stamatin case, for his own sake." The last part was spoken through gritted teeth.

"I don't think so. It's nearly an impossibility..." He lied. "But, if the worst comes to be, I trust in you to handle the matter as delicately as you had previously, governor." Sprinkling the backhanded compliment on top.

"And I trust in your brother to abuse his jurisdiction to approve yet another last minute insanity plea." Blunt and to the point, how abrasive his insults were always irritated Victor. Social etiquette was lost on him, it seemed. These situations should be handled delicately. Gloves are a requirement for politics. The art of subtlety is of the utmost importance, yet the dear governor walked around with a loaded gun.

"You had him examined." Victor played up his anger, replying with rehearsed exasperation. "Repeatedly, may I add. Much to the displeasure of his twin."—It took both of Maria and Eva to talk him down—"All great artists are known to face strife... Peter's predicament is the cost of his ingenious mind." Never true anger, merely the pretence of one, the aesthetics of sharp teeth.

"Your Andrey made his displeasure known loud and clear." But of course, not even the devil could intimidate a governor like him. "Beating three psychiatrists to an inch of their lives. Those architects will be the downfall of the Kains' legacy, mark my words." Rubbing his failure in with another direct insult, Victor wondered if his attempts at intimidation even ment anything to the other man. To Saburov's eyes, more akin to the mewling of a kitten than any bark or roar, perhaps.

"Why have you come here, governor Saburov?" Lifiting his chin high even through his defeat, Victor regained his composer.

"I came to apologise." It stung to admit, that much was clear from the traces of genuine remorse across his steel-like expression "I sent a carrier in my stead last time, when I should've gone in person."

"... We took no offence. losing Nina crumbled many of the delicate infrastructures of the town. It's only sensible for you to be there besides your wife as she paved a new path."

As she rushed to take her place—Victor did not add.

"That's not an excuse. I've neglected my duties to your family. Losing a wife and a brother in the same decade can't be easy. I'm truly sorry, Victor."

Alexander's hand lifted with uncharacteristic hesitation, deciding to land on his shoulder. A reassuring squeeze followed.

Victor doesn't brush it away, even when the voice in his head urges him to. "They will live, within us, as long as their memories remain."

"I should take my leave." Despite his declaration, he doesn't pull his hand away. Neither does he stop Victor from grasping his other hand, lifting it slightly in a display suiting of a gentlemen, caressing the knuckles.

"Stay a little longer, Sasha."

The last word held the weight of the world, turning the air heavy as it was said, for the implications it contained were mutually understood by the two of them. A silent agreement came into fruition.

Where initially it merely laid on his shoulder, it quickly broke through the facade of politeness as Saburov's hand slid up his collarbone. Calloused fingertips brushing against the exposed skin, thumb pressing down on the jugular notch, the tender flesh easily dipping down under his touch, feeling the pulsing of his veins.

Moving up his neck, placing a subtle restriction on the other's air flow, brushing the underside of Victor's jaw with his knuckles. Taking one step closer to him, now cupping the side of his face ever so delicately.

Despite its small transgressions, Victor welcomed the other's hand all the same. Turning his head to the side, burying his lips under the other's palm. A small kiss placed on the inside of the index finger, moving to the middle finger with another light kiss, feeling the thumb digging its nail harshly against the other side of his face just as Victor's lips caressed the ring finger.

Expression as indifferent as ever, Victor was met with fury painted across the other's face. Not directed at him in particular, more an unintended side effect of some internal turmoil the other must be undergoing.

A guilty conscience suited the governor, Victor decided, the contempt in his eyes, the deepening wrinkles around his mouth, the subtle frown to his lips. It was a sight to behold.

The golden ring twinkled under the room's light, shiny and well-maintained. Likewise Kain's bright eyes rivaled it in glimmer, so close against one another.

Victor could never let him know, Saburov must never find out about the thoughts swarming his mind. How one insignificant apology from the governor lips extended a live wire to his heart.

The contrast of the cold precious metal and the alluring heat of soft inviting lips both pressing against his own finger made Saburov's stomach twisted around itself, a bitter taste at the back of his throat. The overwhelming sickening sweetness of sin.

Not a single word spoken as their lips parted to meet one another halfway through. A cautious kiss, wary movements and half-shut eyes. Hyper-aware of every sound contained within the building, of any resemblance to a door squeek, a floorboard creek, of an uninvited guest.

Of the faint footsteps constantly sounding from the upper floor.

Hearts racing too fast to take notice of the other's taste, bodies an inch shy away from pressing against one another, an invisible line they dare not cross yet.

Despite all his sharp words and angular edges, the governor kissed so sweetly, so off-puttingly sensual, considerate in his every move. Polite lips silently asking for permission as if treading on glass, gradually easing the other person into it. Akin to the first kiss at the altar.

It Made Victor wonder if the other ever kissed anyone besides his wife.

It must be that Alexander doesn't know any better, has never learnt any other way to kiss, for all who he's ever laid his lips upon consisted of delicate petals and fragile bones, soft perfumed skin and dainty painted lips.

Katerina was never suited for the dark, not like his own wife was, never like Nina's wild nature.

Victor misses it, the metallic taste of blood on his bruised lips, the hint of black cherry wine at the tip of her tongue, how intrusive it was in movement, slithering inbetween his lips and pushing against his own tongue as if invading his mouth. He was always content to surrender to her. Merely another piece of him to offer up in worship. To plant her flag atop and declare ownership, for the sharp nails dragging down his back and the teeth marks littering his neck can attest to that.

Victor misses her.

The memories swirling around in his brain reignite the hunger in his soul, the faded urges and desires reconstructing themselves.

Closing the distance between them—feeling Saburov's body turn rigid at the sudden proximity. Victor wrapped his arms over the other's shoulders, rendering himself in a complete ease of access, practically inviting the other to feel up his body, and grope him like a piece of meat on display.

Yet, no wandering hands came, much to Victor's displeasure.

The logical conclusion he reached was to push things further in hopes of swaying Saburov into seeing things his way.

Deepening the kiss, teeth grazing Saburov's lips, holding the promise of digging into the tender flesh. Paving the way to force his tongue past the other's lips, further, deeper. Sweeping the roof of his mouth, curling against the other's tongue, meeting all reluctant movements with unwavering intensity.

Victor moved on muscle memory—not his own—in a moment of pure self-indulgence.

To add fuel to the fire, his own leg found a place between the governor's open ones. Pushing his thigh in, parting the hem of the dark coat, pressing against Saburov's most intimate area.

Leaving Alexander aghast at his actions. In all of his life, he never expected such a bold display of obscenity from the younger Kain. What's worse, the burning shame coiling in his chest at the rising tent in his pants. Victor's thighs were nothing like his wife's, never plush or plump, more muscular and toned, devoid of anything that would resemble a speck of femininity. So why? Why did they feel nothing short of heavenly against his body?

The Kains were always shameless.

That must be why Victor knew how to work up another man. That must be why his lips slotted against Alexander's very own dry ones so perfectly; it wasn't his first time doing this.

The Kains were always shameless.

So it's them. It's Victor's influence he should attribute this sodomy to. Not himself, for his proprietary and piety spoke for themselves.

The Kains were always shameless.

Which is precisely why his hands were hovering above the other's hips—so squarish unlike a woman's round ones—trembling fingers unsure of what to grab, of where to land, of how far past the line to cross.

Placing them on the lower end of his back, just a dip below what's appropriate, and a good distance away from any incriminating areas.

Pulling at the fabric of Victor's shirt ever so slowly, pooling the white material in his grasp.

How humbly the younger Kain dressed always bothered him, even his daughter—Maria—wore more extravagant clothes in comparison to how her father paraded around in a simple white dress shirt and black pants. It always felt intentional, this poor taste of a display. What exactly was he trying to prove? Alexander thought. Aiming to make the ruling families appear as shallow people who only ever care about frivolous appearance, by minimising his own wardrobe?

The shirt wrinkled in his fists, the more and more he lifted of it. Melting into the infectious ferventness, kissing the other man back with rivalling passion. Grinding into his thigh, absolved of sin and shame.

What irked Alexander more, were the cuffed sleeves exposing his arms, the pale skin giving way to visible veins—ones his eyes couldn't help but trace. Thin wrists curving into slender fingers, precise in their every movement, dextrous enough to tinker with the innerworkings of clocks, nimble to vivisect the mechanical guts of the most delicate machinery.

The clock in their house was made by him. It has broken before. He has seen the younger Kain get down on his knees, carefully holding the thinnest of tools between two fingers to realign the cogs to the correct position. That scene was burnt into his memory from that day on forward.

Until the very hem of Victor's shirt was added to the pile. completely exposing his back.

Maybe he should gift Victor a suit, a proper one. The many layers and extravagant fabric are sure to shatter any false image of a humble saint Victor fooled the people into constructing about him. With how much the Kains idolised etiquette and aesthetics, pressurising him to wear it would be a task even a child is capable of. Afterall, it's only proper to wear a gift someone of high importance has given you. Of course... the colours would need to compliment his complexion, the pattern should suit his height, the pocket square should match the divine colour of his eyes—made of silk no less.

The exposed skin tempting Alexander into running his hand atop it, tracing the spine in the centre of the other's bare back, feeling up the his shoulder blades, and pull him closer against his own body.

Only the last part he manages, a half shirtless Victor Kain pressed against the outer coat of the governor.

Alexander thought about feeling up his stomach, cupping his flat chest. Would he enjoy a thumb twirling against his nipple like a woman does? Would he have a reaction to his palm pressing against the naval below his stomach, where a womb should be.

Katerina does.

Saburov's hips unconsciously push into Victor's thigh, grinding back into them. The arms around his neck tightened, Victor's lips hungry and unsatisfied, still seeking more of him.

How beautifully she gave in under him, how sweetly she reacted to his every touch. Her moans a melody to his ears, the most angelic of sounds pouring from her lips with his head buried between her thighs. Alexander is not one for arrogance, but the one thing he allowed himself to flourish in pride about, is how hard he tries to be the epitome of a dutiful husband. He has never looked at Katerina with anything but love in his eyes, he has never neglected her needs, nor demanded more than she had energy for. Memorising all of her favourite spots, spoiling his lover rotten in and out of bed. Bringing her to the heights of pleasure while holding her hand, showering her in kisses, tending to her in the aftermath.

Alexander's body finally gives in, tension leaving his jaw as he welcomes the other's tongue inside. Melting into Victor's embrace, walls lowering down, a tired look in his eyes.

A faint sound resembling a whine slips through his guard, Victor swallows it up. Neither of them acknowledge it further.

They've been sleeping in seperate bedrooms for how many years... it felt like an eternity to Saburov. Memories, all he has are memories of her flowery perfume, of messy black strands framing her face like a halo on the pillow.

But she's alive, safe and sound in her bedroom–once their shared bedroom. And that's enough, to kiss her hand is enough, the fleeting hugs are enough, to love her from afar is enough. To ask for more would be greed.

Victor is uncharted territory, mentally and physically. Saburov has no guarantee that this isn't just some elaborate plan to take advantage of a moment of weakness from the governor... But then, what kind of plan would include dragging your own family name through the mud as well?

It feels surreal, to do something out of the pure desire to do it. He has gotten so used to the game of chess that is ruling this town, he has forgotten he is human at all.

That the Kains are humans, no matter how hard they try to sprout wings and break free of this proclaimed larva stage. To transcend the limits of flesh and blood, in Saburov's eyes, nothing but a kids' pretend game of Gods.

It's been far too long, and there's a warm body in front of him. A Kain's. A man who presumably done it with many other men before him.

But even then, even here, they can't be free of the discreet struggle for power. Alexander is out of his element, Victor is not. The control is slipping away from his fingertips; he must regain it back.

His hands are rough, calloused palms and faded burn marks of an incident long past. One he keeps tracing up and down the naked back of Victor, feeling the growing shivers. The other he brings inbetween them, cupping between Victor's legs, over the fabric of his pants, feeling the protuding bulge twitch at the contact.

There's a curious look in Victor's eyes. Breaking the kiss, a thin line of saliva forms for a second before it falls apart. Victor can't reach the other's neck with his knotted scarf in the way, so he settled for littering the side of his face with smalls kisses and kitten licks. Going from a completely obscene makeout to the most innocent form of kisses without a trace of irony gives the governor a pause, as the realisation of how begrudgingly into it he is, dawns on him.

The faux innocence Victor plays up, the soft cheek kisses, the intimate brushing of his nose against the other, the adorable nibbling on his earlobe. It should disgust him, not invigorate him even more. Those sultry eyes held nothing but sin in their depth, who is he to act to innocuous and pure while grinding his thigh against Alexander's clothed cock.

Worse is the knowing look in the Victor's gaze. As if he digged up some hidden secret he held no shame to abuse. Saburov should've know those curious eyes never spelt anything but trouble.

His mind is slipping away from him. To say he enjoyed the faux coy act of the other would be the underestimation of the century. He enjoys it so much, he is beyond horrified at himself when the other whispers sweet nothing into his ear.

"You're doing so well, my little dove."

As if setting his face on fire, little should fluster a grown man of his age these days. But to hear those endearing words in the younger Kain's voice? It was like a harsh shove over the edge. A fast approaching climax, cock twitching with every small kiss Victor Kain skirted around his ear. Cock pulsing with the thrum of his heartbeat. A final push of Victor's thigh against it was all that it took for wetness to seep through, staining the other's pants in a translucent white.

Stifling the groan following his climax took all of his willpower. Reduced to finishing in his own pants, all wounded ego, overwhelmed libido, and fast racing heart, Alexander Saburov will never forgive the other man for this.

He needs to shut him up, and fast.

Biting Victor's neck is out of the question. It's simply uncouth, it's not who he is, and it will never be something he'll do. The closest he's done was paint his wife's neck with kisses, but even then he was careful not to leave a bruise.

Well, a Kain is not worthy of such courtesy.

For the younger Kain walked around everywhere with the top button always undone, exposing his own collarbone like a whore. Maybe this will teach Victor some manners, even if the other man is 14 years his senior, Alexander's still his governor, and being the brother of that whimsical child Georgiy is all Victor will ever amount to.

Gripping harsher against the tent at the front of his pants, rubbing punishingly fast. The intense friction is everything Victor missed having, pressing himself harder into the other's hand, encouraging Saburov down this path of roughness.

And when the other's lips wrapped around a bare patch of skin on Victor's neck and sucked hard, it was the feeling of a hickey forming that completely flooded his brain with long-forgotten euphoria. Hips stuttering in their movement, left gasping for air under Saburov's stern gaze. Deliberately holding eye contact as the waves of pleasure went through the younger Kain.

Coming down from the height of pleasures, like breaking free of a trance, mutual dread formed a pit at the bottom of their stomachs. They wanted nothing more than to push the other away, bury this under the rug, and never face one another ever again.

But they stayed in each other's arms, holding one another. They stayed despite the despair chipping at corners of their minds.

For Alexander it was a case of principles, he's not one for clumsy rushed sex where he abandons a partner after getting his fill. The discipline embedded within him, the duty he adheres to, whether he wanted or not.

For Victor, it was a matter of pride, he's not one to curl away in shame and fear in the aftermath of an event. The Kains abhor self-flagellation, once an axe swings, you must always follow and see it to the end, no matter how trifling or impious.

High emotions simmered down as the moment passed, carefully unwrapping themselves from one another. High emotions simmered down as the moment passed, carefully unwrapping themselves from one another.

Saburov's hand found the other's waist, unsure of the next course of action; he usually took his wife to soak in a warm lavender scented bath, how Katerina would always coax him into joining her, how easily his self-will faltered when it came to her requests. For such a woman with a gloomy reputation, the absurd amount of bubbles in her every bath amused him to no end. He'd wash her hair, and she'd hum a melody, softly echoing against the bathroom tiles.

But it feels improper for this situation, seeing as he's not under his own roof.

As for Victor, he couldn't help but eye the silver tray on his desk, recalling how in every aftermath, his wife would bring him a warm cup of tea in bed. For all the wicked titles and horrible names the townsfolk called her by, none would believe the very same Sinister Nina would massage the knots out of his shoulders, soothe any bite marks, and hug his face close to her chest as he drifted into slumber.

Too bad he's in a state of mourning, unable to eat or drink out of respect for Simon's last request.

Alexander settled for coaxing the other back into his chair instead, Victor offered a small word of gratitude in response. Hearing his still breathless voice, Alexander attempted to seem unaffected. Pretending the memory of his pleasure-filled gasp hasn't been etched into his mind.

With Saburov, his coat easily covered any shameful spots or remains on his pants. While the younger Kain was a complete mess, his utter being glaring evidence of what went down in this room.

From his ridden up wrinkled shirt, to the two damp patches on his pants, one on his thigh, and the other belonging to him. The flushed face and half-lidded eyes, the completely exposed neck with a singular hickey far down.

God, Saburov thought, even if you took away the ruined clothes, his sinful face completely incriminated him. The usually indifferent tone replaced by a clement one, intimacy residing in each syllable. The somber never-changing facial expression somehow morphed into a hungry lustful look more fitting those barely clothed dancers in the pub.

He's not into men; he can't be. For no other man has ever looked at him like Victor does. No other man ever made his imagination run wild from the simplest of actions. No other man drove him this close to the brink of insanity like the younger Kain.

He has no attraction to men—he justified—for Victor Kain is an outlier amongst men. In fact, Saburov is sure that if he dressed him up in a soft blue nightgown, adorned his cheeks with blush and painted pink across his lips, then surely that'll make any honest man question his orientation.

For he is not to blame, it's the Kains who are always shameless. The irresistible siren's call has drowned many men better than him. For all of Victor's virtues, he remains Nina's husband, the very same Nina that could force blood from a stone. She must've done something to him, broke something that made him... so enticing to those he shouldn't be with.

Neither of them were truly satisfied with ending it here, longing for more, starved for one another's touch, for at least a full night of passion, to get their fill of one another's embrace.

"I should take my leave." Alexander repeated, for the second time this day.

Victor stood up again, and like clockwork, Saburov's hand found its way to his waist "I would offer to walk you to the door, governor, but as it stands I'm currently indisposed."

"Do stay where you are, and compose yourself, that dear Bachelor of yours will be making rounds today."

"I'll keep your words in mind"

An uncomfortable feeling gnawed at Saburov's core, the thought of turning around and leaving just like this didn't sit right with him.

Wordlessly, he cupped the other's face, mimicking what he did at the start. Moving closer, slightly parted lips pressing into Victor's. A tender kiss, too short for the other's liking, too sweet, too delicate.

Everything Nina was not.

Everything Alexander is to Katerina.

The hand should dig into his waist, not hold it like he's made of porcelain that'd crack under the smallest of forces. The kiss should steal his breath away, toy with the notion of choking him to death before granting her mercy, intead it was pitying almost, like kissing the coffin of a dead spouse.

Most of all, it showcased how brittle Victor's influnce was on him, for Alexander all but immediately reverted back to his old habits.

Ending far too soon, a bittersweet goodbye. "Send a carrier to inform me of when the funeral will be taking place. My wife would like to attend and pay her respects for Simon."

"I will, do send my regards for Katerina."

Adjusting his coat, the governor took his leave. The handle turns with a squeek, the floorboards creek, the door clicks shut again.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...

Ten thirty-eight.

Picking up the silver tray, Victor went to reheat the kettle. Cinnamon tea with a sprinkle of sugar, her favourite. Walking upstairs for a change of clothes shortly after.

A quarter to eleven.

Back in his office, sitting in his chair, staring blankly at the death certificate of an immortal man, awaiting his signature.