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Squeak-squeak. An impossible staircase, not built for humans – the steps are too narrow, forcing him to awkwardly curl his feet to avoid tripping. However, Andrey has long since gotten used to it. The glass bottle of twyrine chills his side even through the mat and the fabric of his coat. It’s strange – Andrey has taken the bottle from the shelf in the storeroom, there is no reason for it to be that cold, but the chill spreads from his side throughout his body, further and further with each step.
The creak of the door opening is familiar to Andrey, down to every wrong note. Just like the scene inside. His precious brother is sitting on his musty sofa, immersed in the book Andrey ordered for him from the Capital. Hearing footsteps, Peter closes the book, puts it on the floor, and smiles subtly at his brother.
"I thought Verochka had come to clean."
"Verochka comes on Saturdays," Andrey carefully moves the sketches on the table aside and unloads the contents of the package into the empty space. Eggs, dried meat, bread starting to go stale – but there is no way to get anything better now. And, of course, his brother’s favorite poison.
"I've already forgotten what day it is," Peter looks over the goods his brother has brought, his gaze lingering on the twyrine.
"Eat first," Andrey sees his brother's eyes light up at the sight of the bottle. "Otherwise, you'll get drunk on an empty stomach again and forget yourself."
"If I knew how much I had to drink to forget myself, I would have drunk that much long ago," Peter stretches out on the sofa, looking at his brother with a subtle smile. "We'll eat later. For now, brother, tell me where you've been and what you've seen."
"Drunken faces, what else?" Andrey grunts. He pulls up a dusty armchair opposite the sofa and sinks into it, crossing his legs. "I've seen sober ones too, but not that often. Yesterday, for example, Eva dropped by – nowadays, she’s a rare guest, and..."
"You took her to the back room, I bet," Peter says casually, as if without interest.
The card falls on the table. It's not a game yet, no – just a suggestion. Andrey sees it in his brother's tilt of the head, in his slightly parted lips, in his lowered dark eyelashes.
Well, Andrey Stamatin never refuses to play, and he's not afraid to play his trump card.
"Of course I did," Andrey leans back in his chair with a smirk, not taking his eyes off his brother. "I told you, she rarely shows up now, it would be a sin to miss such an opportunity. You know what she's like – wet between her legs just from being called a sweet name. So I called her plenty of sweet names. She was in her little white dress… And no damn thing under that dress."
Andrey speaks without thinking, his eyes eagerly watching as his brother's narrow palm slides between his spread legs and gently squeezes there.
"And then?" Peter asks quietly.
The game continues.
"Then," Andrey tries his best to sound calm, as if the words aren't stuck in his throat at the sight of his brother's chest rising heavily in the deep neckline of his shirt. "There, by the wall in the backroom, I fucked her. I pulled up her dress and got inside her balls deep..."
Peter still doesn't unbutton his pants, deliberately teasing himself, squeezing and stroking through the rough fabric. Andrey falls silent, staring at Peter without blinking – his brother was so beautiful, even with the twyrine poison probably already flowing through his veins instead of blood. He has lost weight to the point of exhaustion, his hair has grown long and falls into his purple-rimmed eyes, but Andrey still sees him as the embodiment of all the beauty in the world – crippled, sickly, yet unshakable ever since Peter came out of their exhausted mother's womb, clutching his older brother's heel, like Jacob and Esau.
"Who else did you see?" Peter gently prompts, noticing that his brother has fallen silent. "Did Rubin come by?"
"He does, frequently," Andrey closes his eyes for a second, recalling the image of Stakh Rubin. "A heavy drinker he’s not, though, and he's mostly silent. Doesn't even look at women..."
"It's really weird that he doesn't look," Peter exhales heavily. "I bet every woman would be happy to have someone like him..."
Andrey looks at him questioningly, and Peter waves his free hand toward the work table. Understanding him without words, Andrey obediently approaches the table and sifts through the crisp sheets of charcoal sketches until he finds the one he needs. It depicts Stakh, completely naked, sitting sideways, looking away. He is clearly not very experienced as a model – Andrey sees the tension in his spine in the sketch. He also sees the broad shoulders, muscular arms, powerful thighs... and his cock, huge even at rest. Andrey knows that there’s no flattery in Peter’s work. This even caused quite a scandal once, when a countess, stubbornly refusing to accept that her best years were long behind her, became enchanted by the then very young Peter and his work and paid an obscene amount of money for him to paint her portrait. And so Peter did, but the trouble was that the countess in the portrait looked exactly like herself, her carefully rouged face, and all the years she'd lived were clear as a day. Fortunately, she was not the first to see the portrait; Andrey rushed to cajole the countess, asking her to give him more time, saying that his brother was putting his whole soul into his work and was on the verge of épuisement nerveux. She gracefully placed her withered hand on her chest and assured him she was willing to wait as long as it took. Peter still did not understand what was wrong with the portrait, but he gave in to his brother's pleas and corrected the work.
Andrey carefully places the sketch among the others and returns to his seat. Peter has pulled down his pants and underwear, and now Andrey can see his naked cock. Peter slowly runs his hand down his cock, exposing the flushed, wet head, and Andrey feels his mouth fill with saliva. He closes his eyes for a moment, and immediately the sweetest image appears in his mind: Peter on the sofa, his legs spread wide, and Andrey is between them, with Peter's cock in his mouth, sucking the head, milking it, and then swallowing all the way down, burying his nose in the coarse, dark pubic hair.
But that's not the way their game works, and he keeps watching.
"What about Maria? Maria Kaina?" Peter leans his head back against the headrest of the sofa and closes his eyes. "Tell me. Did you have your way with her?"
Andrey swallows dryly.
"No. And she wouldn't even allow it now... After all, now, her eyes are on her dearest En-Daniil alone. And En-Daniil, you know, has other preferences, and she, even though she is the Mistress, doesn't notice..."
"What?" Peter lifts his head sharply and fixes his brother with a greedy gaze. He can see everything perfectly – the blush spreading across his bare chest and the bulge in his tight pants.
"He likes it when he's..." Andrey licks his dry lips. "Remember how we spent an evening in a salon once, and there was some… entertainment with young men? Well, he also... likes to have his fun with men. He comes to the pub, drinks a shot, smiles at me, and loosens the scarf around his neck a little – that means he doesn't come just for a drink. I don't take him to the backroom – he's more work than a woman, so I have him in my room, on the bed, as if we really were lovers…"
Peter parts his lips in a heavy, languid exhalation. He spits into his palm and jerks off without any restraint, his long legs spread wide – a vulgar performance for his only spectator.
"Speak, Andryusha, don't be silent!" Peter whispers passionately. "I’m almost there..."
Peter's thin dark eyebrows knit together on his forehead, as if in pain, his dry mouth greedily gasping for the stale air in the attic.
Continue. Continue!
"I lube him up well," Andrey remarks distantly, his own palms clenching his thighs painfully in a desperate attempt to control himself. "First I use my fingers, and he can take up to three – maybe even four, if I try hard enough. And if I find his little sweet spot inside and stroke it, he goes wild – he arches his back, sticks his ass out, calls me Andryushenka..."
"Andryushenka," Peter repeats, barely breathing. "More, please, more!"
"And it's so sweet inside him, Petya," Andrey finally loses control, squeezing himself tightly between his legs, desperately seeking relief. "And he's so different in bed than he is in life – he's like, you know... Sometimes he grabs my hand and puts it around his neck, I barely squeeze it – and he's rock-hard, and he starts to fuck himself so deep on my cock... Slap his ass, and he'll come, hands-free, and he'll squeeze my cock so hard that I'll come too... right inside..."
Peter chokes on a moan, hurriedly pulls up his shirt, exposing his sunken chest, covers his cockhead with his palm, but the semen still splashes between his fingers, staining his pubic hair and his stomach.
Andrey himself is breathing heavily, gasping for air, as if it wasn't his brother but he himself who had just ejaculated. Slowly and awkwardly, he gets to his feet, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, approaches his brother, carefully wipes the semen from his body, and puts the handkerchief back.
"I’ll keep it as a souvenir," he smiles. "Well, if you've heard enough, I'll be going."
"Stay here tonight, Andryusha?" Peter's slender fingers grab Andrey by the tail of his coat. "I'm sure you have more to tell me..."
Oh yes, Andrey Stamatin has a great many stories, and tonight he will tell them to the most grateful listener in the world.