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Dmitri wants to be carried up to bed, and the man who calls himself Kraven the Hunter is not good at saying no to his little brother.
He isn't even drunk, not in the falling-down way Dima so often is after his birthday dinners. But then, it's not his birthday. This is something new, a break in their pattern—the kind of outing that happens when your brother has lost a finger and a father and his sense of safety in less than a month, and has been left scared of his own shadow.
Preferable, of course, would be for Kraven to disappear for another year, return to his place in Russia and not be seen for some time. The land needs someone watching over it, looking out for the animals and putting right the damage done by the Rhino and his men. But Dmitri isn't sleeping, and no matter how much security he buys he swears he only feels safe with his brother near.
They haven't talked about what Kraven did, what Dmitri saw, what any of it means or how it's possible. Where their father's mysterious death is concerned, an immense silence looms. Dmitri isn't a fool; he's canny enough to know that he doesn't want to know. Someday, maybe, but for now he focuses on what he can bear: he is safe because his brother went to unfathomable, inhuman lengths to save him.
And now that unnatural strength bears Dima gently to his bed. Why should he be denied, when his weight is so inconsequential to one such as Kraven? He bundles his brother close to his chest, carries him as if he's no heavier than a blanket. Dima buries his head in Kraven's shoulder, his breath thick with sleep.
No alcohol on his breath, though, or at least not much by Dmitri’s standards. He’ll hardly drink much more than a glass of wine these days, as if he fears being caught at a disadvantage. His insistence on going out to the club had nothing to do with seeking intoxication and everything to do with the comfort of a crowd, the illusion of security that a herd provides.
Hellish for Kraven, of course. He could abide by their private dinners, but the club their father owned, of course, located deep within the silence they won't speak of. It's obvious that the one who wanted the club and the one who actually inherited are not the same, that nearly everything must be left officially to the wayward son who will have none of it.
They don't talk about that yet.
Instead, the hunter allowed himself to be dragged through a series of clubs that were each more frantic than the last, dark and cramped with sweating bodies, sound deafening and exits unwatchable. The sort of trifling night that could be tolerated only for Dima's sake. Both brothers were left utterly spent, without having even enjoyed themselves for their trouble.
Dmitri had tried for his usual chatter in the car at first, but hadn't been able to keep it up for long. He'd closed his eyes and succumbed to silence, head rolling onto his brother’s shoulder. When they arrived at the flat he'd fluttered his lashes, half awake, and mumbled, “Carry me, Sergei?”
He did. He couldn't say no to his little brother, not when he was like this. Kraven has always taken a secret pride in being able to move his brother so effortlessly, even as a grown man. There was such a slim window in their childhood when he'd been able to carry Dmitri before they were too close in size; it feels good to reclaim his place as the protector. Kraven nodded to the startled driver as he removed his brother from the car, shrugging off efforts at assistance. If the doorman was surprised to see Dmitri carried through the lobby like a child, he didn't show it.
In the flat he deposits his sleepy brother in bed, tugs away Dmitri’s shoes and the gloves he's taken to wearing when he goes out, attempting to keep anyone from looking at the empty place where his ring finger used to be. They're gaudy, scaly things, made from some kind of lizard that Kraven suspects shouldn’t be on the market. In better days he'd be investigating where Dima came by such things, tracking the seller and his poachers and putting an end to all of that, but for now he banishes it to that same shrouded place that holds everything the brothers aren't speaking of.
He prepares to move away, having made his brother comfortable, but Dmitri’s hand flashes after him with surprising agility to seize the front of his shirt.
“Don't go,” he whines. “You don't have to sleep on the couch. Stay here with me.” He hesitates, hazy-eyed. “I’m safe when you’re here.”
Which is all that Dima needs to say to get his brother kicking off his own shoes and crawling onto the bed. There's a deep vein of guilt in the hunter, knowing that even if every man who hurt his brother is dead (they are) it cannot erase the hurt. No number of names scratched off a list can make up for the fact that he abandoned Dmitri in the first place, leaving him vulnerable. And for what? To escape the whine of the vents, to sleep in the grass outside. Dmitri endangered for the sake of his own comfort, for his weakness. Never again.
So he lowers himself onto the bed, which is too plush and smells too harshly of detergent for his liking, and is surprised when his brother rolls closer, near enough to rest his head in the crook of Kraven's neck.
This is not unheard of, precisely, although it's been years since they have allowed themselves such comfort. It was common once, when they were small, for the two of them to huddle together in bed when their father's temper left them too unhappy to be alone. But that was risky, exactly the kind of thing likely to ignite him all over again. Nikolai Kravinoff didn't want to see his sons cuddled up together like a couple of weaklings or worse.
And still their father's judgment lingers, even though all of his remains that could be found are now cold in the ground. The funeral, which the hunter did not attend, had a closed casket; the bear left precious little in her wake. It bothers him that he thinks of his father in this moment, so the hunter runs his fingers through his brother’s hair. It’s a gesture meant to soothe, something his own mother did for him long ago, and it draws a breathy little sigh from Dmitri, who wraps a slim arm across his brother’s chest and curls even closer.
It’s bizarre but pleasant, unexpectedly comfortable. The things that Kraven normally cannot bear about sleeping in a place such as this, the sterility and the artificial noise and the way that light penetrates every corner of the dark, all of this is subsumed by the more immediate awareness of Dmitri: the steady rhythm of his breath, the sweet smell of his hair and skin, the warm assurance of his beating heart. Dmitri luxuriates in this special treatment like a housecat, tipping his head to allow more advantageous angles at which to stroke his head and nestling ever closer. He grabs a fist full of his older brother’s shirt, kneading the fabric absentmindedly. The brush of his fingers is faint against Kraven’s side but seizes a great deal of his attention, heating his skin. He twists pleasurably into it, a movement that makes him aware of the pulse of blood flowing to harden between his legs.
Arousal is not unknown to the hunter, although sexual gratification has not been a significant matter in his life. He concerns himself primarily with more urgent needs, such as shelter and food and avoiding bullets. The opportunity to explore another’s body has arisen before, in offers that he has mostly rejected. On the occasions that he hasn’t, the results have been pleasant enough but ultimately unimportant, not nearly enough to sway him into the desperate pursuit of flesh that rules so many men.
He needs to excuse himself, embrace the exile to the couch after all (and there can be no abandoning the post this time, or any time ever again; he’ll lie awake all night if he needs to), but Dmitri grabs for him the second he senses movement.
“Sergei,” he says, and the words become a tumble, “no, no, no, don’t go, stay here. Stay with me.”
And because he cannot, perhaps ever again, say no to his brother, he pulls closer than ever, pressing a soothing kiss into Dmitri’s hair at the same moment he becomes aware that what’s pressing into his hip is his brother’s own growing erection.
Dmitri is still making incoherent noises, his brother’s name mixed with mumbled pleas: no, don’t, it’s okay, stay. His voice is barely a breath, a whisper against his brother’s cheek, their faces close enough now that Dima can’t hide the wetness in his eyes. He asks for nothing specific, only lets his need bleed freely from him in a display of tantalizing vulnerability. Weakness, offered up boldly.
Their faces are pressed close now, as they explore foreheads and cheeks and noses rubbing together. They nuzzle like cubs in a den, all else paused for a moment as they seek nothing from one another but warmth and the safety of familiarity. Each hot breath rocks them together, but they are yet to cross any lines that will be final. They could stop here, pull themselves apart, and banish this moment to stay with the rest of the things they don’t discuss.
Then Dmitri releases the fist of his brother’s shirt that he’s kept gripped tight, freeing his hand to trail, trembling but sure, down his brother’s abdomen and to the thick expanse of his thigh. It’s his left hand, the maimed one, feather-light yet still enough to twist a ragged groan out of Kraven’s rigid body. He is momentarily unmoored from himself, and in the gap he rolls his hips in a thrust that his brother takes as invitation.
Dmitri, curled close enough to be half atop of him already, moves with unexpected speed. Only a small movement is required to leave him sitting properly astride his brother, their faces still pressed tight. He is grinding determinedly against his brother’s firmness and Kraven rolls up to meet him, their gracelessly unmatched paces driving both of them to be faster and rougher. Between hot, damp breaths Dmitri trails a ragged line up Kraven’s jaw, smears of lips and teeth that devastate any reasoning between kiss and bite. He reaches an earlobe and nips, barely, asserting himself with the gentlest tug.
At this pressure the hunter tugs at his brother’s hair, as gently as he can. He has no desire to hurt Dmitri or push him away—distance, at this moment, is an unthinkable evil—and seeks only to grant himself a minimum of space. Unthinking, acting as if on instinct, he drags his tongue up his brother’s pale neck, savoring the taste of the night’s stale sweat and pausing to graze his teeth reverently across the place where Dmitri’s pulse beats. It is frantic now, deliciously vital beneath the drag of the hunter’s mouth as he latches and pulls.
When he must, inevitably, breathe, Dmitri takes advantage again, making the small adjustments that will bring their two gasping mouths crashing together. There’s a second’s fumbling, uncertainty as they find the way to move in harmony, muffled moans slithering out between the probing tongues and scraping teeth. This is the state they will remain in for some time, becoming increasingly ensnared in each other while exploring primarily with their mouths, devouring each other in tender, unhurried mouthfuls. By silent agreement there is no hurry to move faster, to shed their clothes, to do anything but writhe together; they are urgent but not rushed. This is the peace that only a father’s death can buy.
Dmitri dressed his brother in a tight pair of trousers for their evening out (he often does, something that, with hindsight, might be considered meaningful) and the hunter is straining by now, having grown considerably with precious little space. He rises readily into the graze of Dmitri’s hand across the fabric, only to pause at his brother’s stumbling words: “You can, if you want. And be pretty rough. I can take it. That’s how it usually goes when I. You know.”
Kraven does know, or has at least suspected. Unlike the myriad tragedies they banish to an unspoken place, what exactly Dmitri gets up to in bed is something they’ve never discussed because it’s simply never mattered. The hunter, for his part, has always tacitly assumed the same position on anyone who might fuck his brother, and that position is the one which would allow him to most efficiently remove a person’s jugular with his teeth if they treated Dima coarsely. Clarifying that he’s had sexual experience with men is perhaps a bit unnecessary now, when he’s squirming his way, but neither of them makes note of the redundancy.
The hunter takes his brother’s face in his hands, cradling. “They hurt you.”
“Yes,” Dmitri says, and then perhaps remembers what happened to the last men who hurt him, because he hurries to amend that. “No, not really. Not the way you’re thinking. It’s fine, I like it, it’s good. You can, is all I’m saying. If you want.”
“No.”
What he wants is to see his brother spoiled, handled with delicacy, treated like a little princeling as he deserves. The hunter does not feel the need to explain this in so many words. Instead he reaches for his brother’s waist to tug open his trousers, freeing a slender, slick-tipped prick. Kraven spits brusquely into his own hand and grasps his brother, which sends a shuddering gasp rising up out of Dmitri’s chest like so many startled birds taking flight. The ensuing push and pull is asynchronous, halting; Dmitri’s entire body is trembling with desire but he is hampered by lack of certainty, seemingly unfamiliar with being poised over another as he is. His thrusts are frantic and clumsy, lacking in rhythm. He presses his face to Kraven’s neck, mouth wandering and unfocused as he alternates between biting kisses and high, heaving breaths. He fumbles his own shirt away and then largely forgets about his hands, overwhelmed as he is by every other sensations in his body, so he clings to his brother’s firm frame and leaves it at that.
It takes very little time for the noises escaping Dmitri to become frantic and pitched enough to indicate that he’s perilously close to spilling over the edge and making a mess of them both. Kraven releases his hold on his brother and gives him one deep kiss on the lips before he rolls them both, pausing only to remove his own trousers with an intensity of purpose most often seen in exotic dancers. That's a dig that Dmitri would think to make, if he weren’t otherwise occupied.
Their erections press together in a rhythm that quickly becomes intuitive, the carnal warmth of friction pooling between them. That small amount of spit that dampened their rutting has long since dissolved, but the roughness only serves to sharpen their need and increase the intensity of their writhing. Dmitri matches his brother’s every move now, thrusting his own hips up to create an intensity that has them both shaking. Here, it seems, Dmitri is in his element, confident enough to be demanding. He’s scrabbled his brother’s shirt aside to dig his fingernails into Kraven’s back, demanding his pleasure with words and in every clawing squeeze. With his frail strength Dmitri is unlikely to leave a lasting mark, which Kraven considers a shame. He already bends his entire life around his brother like a tree grown in warped, unnatural patterns; he may as well bear a physical sign of his devotion.
It’s the thought of little Dima tearing him open, leaving him bloodied, that pushes the hunter beyond his own control, expelling hotly across his brother with a rumbling, wordless groan. In the immediate aftermath a powerful languor seizes him, his body falling limp and heavy on top of Dmitri in an exceedingly rare state of perfect relaxation. Barely thinking, animal in his desires, he draws his tongue down Dmitri’s cheek, along his neck to the crook of his neck, where Kraven bites the soft flesh hard enough that in the days to come Dmitri will sport a bruise so dark that will disturbing to many who see it, although he will make no effort to concealment.
It is the bite that completes him, his hands pulling tight through Kraven’s hair as he breathes out exquisite pain. In this exhalation Dmitri finishes, a final limp squirming beneath his brother's mass before he sighs and is still. In the haze that follows Dmitri is aglow, mumbling a stream of small pleased, affirmative sounds as he presses kisses to his brother's face and head, stroking him the way one strokes a creature that has performed its purpose well.
In time the hunter finds his way back to something resembling sense, and peels off his damp shirt to wipe away the mess that clings to them both. After this he is at a loss, no longer certain what is useful or wanted of him. The unspoken code of conduct that dictates the polite interaction of humans most often means nothing to him; he has spent so many years far outside of that society and its laws that they exist as only faint flickers at the periphery of his vision. Those are the rules for ordinary men, and Kraven is no ordinary man. He would, however, give anything for some hint of what one is supposed to do in the immediate aftermath of cumming on their brother. He would go against every instinct and walk away this moment if Dmitri willed it; he would vanish into the night without a sound and walk until he ran out of earth. He only needs to know what’s desired of him.
Dmitri, still swanned dramatically on the pillow, catches his eye and reaches for him, tugging his brother close and then closer still until he has Sergei wrapped around him like a cocoon and to leave would be unthinkable. He presses his face into his brother’s chest and blinks up at him with soft eyes, begging without shame. He never did manage to do it in a way their father would respect, but Dmitri knows how to get what he wants.
“What are you doing?” he asks, lips brushing his brother’s skin. “Didn’t I tell you that I only feel safe when you’re here? Don’t go.”
So he doesn’t. Kraven pulls his brother tighter and holds him and hopes they will stay this way forever, that Dmitri will gnaw inside of him and rip him open to build a nest inside the heart that was always his anyway. He can’t say no to his little brother.