Page 47 of Ascendent
“What do I need for the journey?”
Dr. Voronov had slapped a bottle of pills into his palm. “Take two every day. And see me immediately when you return. You only have a month before you fly to America! This is not the time to risk your health!”
The Krasnoyarsk senators put him in touch with the krai’s Governor’s Office, and then the Department of Nomadic Life, and then the Education Bureau. Kilaqqi’s summer camp was deep in the Evenkiysky District in the Krasnoyarsk Krai, equidistant from Krasnoyarsk, the largest city in the krai, and Sasha’s home of Norilsk and Kayerkan.
A dirt airstrip serviced the settlement of Tura, the administrative hub of the Evenkiysky district. The boarding school was in Tura, along with the few government offices that serviced the Evenki. Only a thousand people lived in the settlement. The rest of the people of the Evenkiysky district were spread out over 300,000 square miles.
Kilaqqi might as well have been on the moon.
He’d fly straight from Moscow to Alykel airfield, the cluster of frozen airstrips huddled on the permafrost outside Norilsk. From there, he could catch a flight to Krasnoyarsk, and then to Tura. He had one plane ticket and three vouchers, good for a seat on the notoriously unpredictable polar airlines. Booking a confirmed seat wasn’t possible. You simply bought the right to board the flight and hoped there weren’t a thousand people trying to fly on the same day for the twelve-seater ancient prop plane.
Sergey went back to his office after spending almost the entire workweek in his apartment, watching over Sasha. He seemed on the verge of saying something, hovering in doorways as Sasha searched for flights, as he packed his duffel. He left without a word, only giving Sasha a sad smile as he turned away.
Sasha tried to read the “History of American Spaceflight”, but he was just so cold. He had a long sleeve pullover and a hoodie on, and he wrapped himself in a blanket as he sat by Sergey’s fireplace. He couldn’t get warm. He felt as cold as he had on the run in Siberia, plunging hip deep in the snow, trying to escape Paloshenko.
Time seemed to move as slowly as it had then, too. A blink lasted an hour. The flames flickered, faded, between one breath and the next.Let me get there, he begged.Let me last until I find Kilaqqi. He tried to plead with his heart, his soul.Don’t freeze. Not yet.
His phone vibrating woke him hours later. Sergey, texting him from his office.
Will you join me for dinner tonight?Sergey named one of Moscow’s fanciest, best restaurants.
[ That’s too much! ]They usually ate Chinese straight from the carton or asked one of the security team to run across the street and pick upblinior stroganoff or pizza. Moscow’screme de la cremewas far above Sasha’s station.
Please, let me spoil you. I want you to remember good things when you’re gone. Maybe the best food you’ve ever had.
The best he’d ever had was every meal with Sergey, every greasy pizza and friedkhinkaliand fast food burger. Sergey sharing a carton of crispy beef with him as he recovered from his attack when they first met. Sharing rations side by side in the forest, Sergey leaning into his shoulder, chuckling at something Sasha had said. They’d had rifles at their feet and hadn’t washed for days, but Sergey had been smiling and the sun was shining through the leaves, warm on his skin. That was all Sasha had ever dared to hope for.
[ Just the two of us? ]Was that too much like a date? A restaurant like that, two men together…
The president can dine with one of the heroes of Russia anytime he wants.
Please.
His heart ached, a clench he hoped wasn’t the ice of his soul dying, just a bit.[ Okay ]
Later, Sergey helped him dress in his suit, picked out a pale blue button down, and took his tie away. “No tie.” He undid the top button. Slid his hands through Sasha’s hair, loosening the strands. “Beautiful.” He disappeared for a moment, out to the front room, and then returned with a garment bag.
He pulled a new wool overcoat from within, as black as the midnight sky, and held it out to Sasha with a smile.
“Sergey!” The jacket probably cost more than Sasha made in three months. “This is far too much!”
“No such thing as too much for you.” Sergey shook it gently. “Try it on. You need something warm for Siberia.”
Sasha slid one arm in and then the other. He’d stand out like a Muscovite as soon as he crossed the Urals. Sergey had no concept of his own urbane sophistication. But how could he refuse Sergey and his affections? The jacket fell across his shoulders like Sergey was wrapping his arms around him. He almost wilted. “It’s… perfect.”
Sergey smiled. Something melancholy hung around him. “You look fantastic, as always.” He brushed the back of his fingers down Sasha’s cheeks and then stepped back. “Ready?”
They took a limo to the restaurant and were ushered straight in by Mikhail, with another bodyguard on their heels. The restaurant fell over themselves to serve them, taking them to a private stone room, as if transplanted from a castle, lit by scattered candles, with a long wooden table and a crackling fireplace in the corner. Sergey asked for a good French wine, and then the waiters brought plate after plate ofhors d'oeuvres, finger foods and small bites and things to share.
When they were alone, Sergey fed him with his fingers, and Sasha returned the favor. Sergey licked honey from his fingertips, chuckled and kissed his palm as Sasha’s face warmed. They finished a bottle of wine. Sasha rarely drank at all, and never wine, but the French Beaujolais was the right blend of light and airy, effervescent on his tongue. Sergey’s touches grew more languid, his eyes clung to Sasha’s for longer moments. Dreamy silences filled with the crackle of the fireplace, the shifting of logs.
He wasn’t cold, not now. Not with Sergey looking at him like that, reaching for his hand, stroking his fingertips. Was that perspiration, or was he melting? His skin prickled, a sheen of wetness lingering on his back, his chest.My end is in you. My end is you.
He was just tipsy enough to be smiling at nothing, enjoying his simple happiness, the happiness of melting in the heat of his love, as they walked out of the restaurant. He shoved his hands in his pants pockets to keep from grabbing onto Sergey, or doing something ridiculous like lace their fingers together. Photographers and paparazzi camped outside the restaurant and snapped Sergey’s photo, and then his own, shouting questions about Russia’s economy and her future negotiations with Europe, her relationship with America.
In the limo, they held hands. Darkness and neon smeared over their faces, painted their eyes vibrant shades of screaming nightlife. Sasha stared into Sergey’s eyes the entire drive.
He followed Sergey up to his apartment, stumbling twice over the carpet and snorting with laughter. Sergey thought he was hilarious, adorable, beautiful, and said so, moving closer and closer the deeper they got into the Kremlin, away from prying eyes. Their shoulders brushed, and their hips. Their arms. Their hands intertwined.
