slova kak spaseniye [will]

november 2001

“We celebrate.”

It wasn’t a question. He had stood up, clapping large hands together as his publisher told him the news. He was officially published. He, Arkadiy Maksimovich Malenkov, former quidditch manager turned token unemployed second son, was a published author. Or he would be soon, anyway, once his book made its way to print. He wasn’t sure of the details, but he wasn’t bothered. He didn’t need the details -- that’s why he had William.

He motioned with a wave of his hand that Will should follow suit, offering him yet another handshake across the desk. “Come, come.” His wife was busy that evening and Arkasha had already made a plan to grab dinner in the city before heading home, but now that there was a concrete reason to drink, he felt the need to extend the invitation. Or ultimatum. Either/or.

Arkasha had long been living the life of the expat, but he found it far easier in London than Paris. Of course Paris had Russian restaurants, but they always felt too expensive for his tastes: he was accustomed to his mamochka’s cooking, didn’t need the frills that Parisian-foreign cuisine offered at every turn. So that’s where he headed, toward the least frilly Russian restaurant he had found in this timezone or the next.

Florence, of course, had tried her hand at cooking some of the family recipes, but as much as he wanted to love them, they didn’t taste quite right. Like they were missing something. He was sure she would most likely say she was simply missing having chin hair, like that was the secret requirement to good pelmeni, but he would never know because he would never tell her they were anything less than stellar.

It only took another moment or two of coaxing (with a brief venture into threatening to pull his book) to get Will to agree, but soon they were out on the street, light dimming towards the twilight of early afternoon, apparating from one inconspicuous alley to the next. Borshtch N Tears was a dimly lit, smoke-filled, red velvet clad haven, and Arkasha wasted no time ushering Will through the door before him.

“We’re celebrating,” he announced in Russian to the host and anyone within earshot. “It’s his birthday,” he continued, again in Russian, with a very covert nod. Birthdays always garnered a little more attention than getting a book of poetry published, especially if it was being published in a language other than Russian. It was still fairly early in the day and the place was only mildly crowded, which suited Arkasha’s idea to get a table a share a bottle of vodka, maybe order shashlyk. But honestly, he had so been wanting to drink with this man, who seemed just a smidge too uptight for his own good, since they had met those months ago.

They were shown quickly to a rather cozy corner table and Arkasha had put in an order for a bottle of Russian Standard before they could even shed their coats. “I order the best,” he reassured the other man, knocking his knuckle down onto the tabletop in confirmation. Thankfully a bottle of vodka was an easy order to fill and the waitress was back in no time with it and two empty glasses. Arkasha wasted no time in pouring out to shots, one for each, holding his up in front of himself expectantly. “First book of many.”

@William Dasher

"Oh no, I don't really --"

Drink was supposed to be the last word in that sentence. It was true. He was more a social drinker, the type of man to pop by his local pub for a pint after work and nothing more. He didn't want to be stereotypical but Arkadiy was Russian and Will wasn't sure his very English liver was going to be able to keep up with him.

The man's poetry was good, it was very good. Will wasn't really good at expressing his emotions but even he was a little moved as he read. Publishing poetry was kind of like a death trap. It was a very niche market. Write Hand Press had always been about taking risks and Will was never about making tons of money. Arkadiy was talented, there was no doubt about it. His company operated on a basis of trust, keeping contracts with the same authors but this man had blown into the scene, accompanied by a tiny blonde French woman and the rest was history. That being said, he had every faith that this book of poems would be accessible to a lot of people.

Tentatively, Will stood up and extended his hand for what was like the seventh shake of the day. He was pleased for Arkakadiy, he honestly was. It seemed like the man had really wanted this. He was absently wondering if his wife was going to join them but he'd only had time to grab his coat before he was pulled out of the building to an area of London that he usually tended to avoid like the plague.

"You know you really don't have to do that," the told the other man as the waft of cigarette smoke smacked him around the back of the head. Will blinked as Arkadiy spoke in a tongue he didn’t understand. He flicked his big brown eyes back and forth between the poet and the host before offering an unsure smile. He had no idea what was going on and he didn't like being kept out of the loop; he was far too uptight for that.

With trepidation, he followed Arkadiy along the narrow room, his boots making the wooden floorboards creak. It was very dark and very cosy with the red flocked wallpaper and wooden tables. It seemed as though no one was bothered by his arrival, despite him looking and feeling like a terrible tourist.

Will's face paled as vodka was ordered and he winced, memories of the last time he'd drank that devil water came screaming back at him. He managed a wan smile as he rested his coat across the back of the chair. Honey was right; he did need to stop being such a wet blanket. It wasn't like he was going to die in the middle of a Russian restaurant. He found the idea that English wasn't really spoken to be an odd mixture of terrifying and comforting. He looked around. His brief glance at the menu soon told him that he had no idea what was on it. And there was a lot of pickled vegetables.

Will frowned at the innocuous looking glass before picking it up also. "To the first of many," he repeated the other man's words. "Bottoms up." With that, he downed the shot and instantly regretted it. Trying not to balk, he slammed the glass down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's Russian for "I'm going to regret this in the morning"?"

“I insist.” Arkasha wasn’t often generous, at least not with anyone other than his wife (wink wink), so on the rare occasions he was, he liked to go all out. He would probably wait until a couple rounds of drinks before starting on the food though; that was usually the way to be able to cause the highest amount of admiration possible, once people had bellies full of alcohol. He really was appreciative, assuming that William had been the reason his book had gone to print so quickly. In time for Christmas he had said. He was bad at celebrating holidays, but even Arkasha knew that would be a good thing.

He nodded curtly as his toast was returned, keeping eye contact as long as possible as he downed his drink. He smiled, both from the taste and from the other man’s reaction. “You say ‘nu okhuet’ teper’’. Rough translation, but it will work.” He nodded reassuringly, hoping they might be able to delve into some more Russian lessons and he could trick him into learning some more less than savory phrases.

Holding off on more vodka, Arkasha leaned back, settling into his seat, one hand in his front pocket and the other around his empty glass, attempting to balance it on the edge. The waitress was back with a small plate of pickled vegetables, apparently included with the purchase of a bottle, and Arkasha popped what looked to be a sliced and pickled radish into his mouth.

“With this new book of poetry, you can--” he paused, racking his brain for the word ‘woo’, working back and forth between Russian and English and finally settling on continuing in French, “chercher à plaire your woman.” He had heard little tidbits, here and there, about his girlfriend, had been keeping his own wife informed of any updates he learned at any of his publishing-related meetings. They really had nothing to do with the situation but they were rather heavily invested, mainly because they needed more couple friends.

But he had also started considering Will a mate and wanted him to be happy, or at least something of that nature that didn’t evoke quite so many feminine feelings. He really only wanted his poetry to exude romance, after all.

He paused his thoughts to pour out two more shots, wordlessly toasting before drinking this second glass. It was warmer than the first, but in a rather pleasant way, only to be improved by the secondary burn of nicotine. Normally he wouldn’t ask, but after months of being married to a woman who downright detested his smoking habits, he posed a quick, “You mind?” as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. It had been nearly an hour since his last one, after all.

"I'll remember that," Will replied in a gruff voice. This was a whole new experience for him. He'd never been to Russia and Mr. Malenkov was the first Russian he'd had the pleasure of meeting. This restaurant felt like another universe. No one had looked up when two men had entered and they seemed rather invested in their own conversations. And the vodka magically appeared, too.

Despite blushing furiously, he managed to offer Arkadiy a wry smile. Honey wasn't the type of woman to ever be owned. He understood the other man was using the phrase your woman in a purely inoffensive way so he didn't respond to it right way. "Yeah, I'm not really a poetry reciting sort of guy," he replied as he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck absently. He also wasn't sure if Honey was the type of girl who'd like to have her virtues extolled. The main issue he had was that neither of them were wanting to label whatever this was.

He hated introducing her to people as his "friend" when they were clearly past that point now. Will hadn't wanted to push but he was having a pretty hard time coping. She'd quickly become his be all and end all and he was not at all confident enough to start reading her poetry, despite how good it was.

At his core, Will was very English indeed. The candid and unapologetic way Arkadiy was discussing sex (in public!) was making him feel distinctly uncomfortable. But he needed help. Though he wasn't inexperienced, he was very new to the art of wooing. In the past, he'd sort of just given up and let his partner to whatever she wanted and he went along with it. It'd be easy to do that with Honey, too, but he wanted to be special to her. He frowned suddenly; they were definitely going to have to have The Conversation soon.

"Hm?" William asked, snapping out of it suddenly as he focused on the cigarettes. "Go ahead," he said, gesturing with his left hand casually. Though he didn't smoke, he didn't have many strong feelings on the subject. He eyed the new glass of vodka with trepidation, his fingers itching to take hold of the glass but he hesitated.

He imagined he'd ask Arkadiy about what he should do later on but he was aware that not all women were the same. He'd toyed with the idea of giving the poetry book to Honey for Christmas, as well as other stuff. But did that feel like self promotion? As he'd been the one to sign Mr. Malenkov? Oh why was dating such a bloody minefield?

He blinked at the veg, pausing as he thought that it seemed a strange accompaniment to vodka. Still, it chewed on a pickled tomato, just so not to be rude to his companion. "How's the wife?" He asked amiably with a smile. He'd met her briefly. By "briefly", he meant less than thirty seconds as she hurtled in, pushed her bewildered husband at him, blew them both a kiss and bolted. "She seems nice," he managed to say carefully. Deep down, he though the little French whirlwind was absolutely bananas but he knew better to voice that opinion.

"Got her Christmas present yet?" Will asked Arkadiy, sort of hoping he might have some pointers as to what he could get Honey, too. He hoped he wasn't being a terrible boyfriend but he was utterly clueless.

“But French poetry. Verses of love in the language of love.” He had had plenty of time to come to terms with writing his book in French, still so proud of himself for being able to occasionally rhyme in a foreign language, usually to the great amusement of his wife. “No matter if she speaks it or not.” And honestly, if she didn’t appreciate his publisher reciting his poetry, was she really worth keeping around? Probably not. “Maybe you just need better poetry,” he hinted, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop.

He tapped out a cigarette from the pack, fumbling for the lighter he used when he was around muggles. Grabbing an ashtray from the next table over, he set it up and silently relished the fact that he was smoking indoors, not having to huddle outside on the terrace and freeze his buns off. Will didn’t strike him as a smoker, though he couldn’t help but think that maybe the habit would help him mellow out just a tad bit, so he didn’t offer him a cigarette before returning the pack to his shirt pocket.

Arkasha popped another radish into his mouth, hoping he wasn’t offending his guest by hoarding all of that particular vegetable. “Florence is beautiful as ever,” he answered with a nod, his go-to response for that question. “Also doing well,” he added, assuming that would answer his actual intended question. He nodded in agreement that yes, she was incredibly nice. “She tattooed some of my poetry right here.” Arkasha lifted his arm to point at his ribcage, tracing the location she had inked his words with his finger.

He toyed with the idea of Will doing the same to impress his girl, but he didn’t want to invite a conversation about why he hadn’t tattooed something on himself in return. Much easier just to avoid the subject.

“Yes, I wrote her a book.” Arkasha nodded solemnly, like it should have been the most obvious thing that Florence was the only reason his book would see success and truly, all the credit went to her and that was present enough. “But also,” he started with a grin, unable to stop himself, “Matching Father Christmas hats.” He nodded again, his nods picking up in speed the more he expanded on his idea. “One for me, and one for,” he pointed down towards his lap, “Me.” He snorted, deciding it was high time for another drink.

He poured out another round for the both of them, a bit impressed that so far William was keeping up with him. They were to the point of being able to silently acknowledge cheers and he knocked back his glass with a much smaller wince than the first one.

“Do you have a present yet?” He asked after returning his glass to the table, fingers once more reaching for another pickled radish. “Beside poetry, of course.”

Will winced. He wasn't good at the whole "love" thing and the idea of reciting Honey poetry was both hilarious and terrifying. Maybe she would like it but he was too chicken to take Arkadiy up on his advice. "Maybe," he said, though he didn't sound convinced. He was still horrified when he found out that the beloved works of Shakespeare contained a load of sixteenth century willy jokes and innuendos.

He had no qualms about Florence doing well, as her husband said. Will didn't know much of her other than she was very blonde and very squeaky. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as the Russian man continued. "She did what?" He exclaimed, flabbergasted and it showed. "She got a tattoo?" He asked, still playing catch up. "Of your poetry?" Pause. "Oh her skin? Forever?" Will was having a hard time understanding why the Hell she'd do that. "How did you feel about that?" And  he wondered if that was Arkadiy's Christmas present, his work immortalised on his wife's ribcage.

"Of course," Will was quick to reply. He imagined writing a book of poetry for a lover excused him of buying any birthday and Christmas presents for the foreseeable future. Matching hats sounded cute until the Russian continued and Will's smile fell. A deep blush suffused his cheeks, spreading down to his neck and up to his forehead and made his ear tips turn purple. He flinched as the image of Arkadiy wearing a knitted hat on his nether regions infiltrated his brain. "Goodness," he replied, sounding frightfully British. "Florence is a lucky girl." With that, he downed the vodka in one.

"No," Will sighed forlornly, the smoky air matching his foggy brain. "It's a big deal," he told his friend as he looked out of the window as though attempting to channel divine inspiration. "Our first Christmas together. But nothing in the entire world is measurable to how lovely she is," the writer expressed, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. "Nothing's quite right," he lamented with a heavy sigh that made his shoulders slump. "Maybe I should get a tattoo," he mumbled as he chewed on a slice of pickled cucumber.

A holiday wouldn't work. Honey was too busy to take time off, especially at Christmas. "I didn't want to ask her outright," he said as he fidgeted with his shot glass and chewed on his lower lip. "I think she likes surprises." He didn't want to get her perfume because he liked the way she smelled, like cinnamon and vanilla. "Lingerie?" Will ventured. "Or is that too presumptive?"

"Oh this is a bloody nightmare," Will groaned as he pitched forward and slammed his head on the table, his eyes clenched shut tightly. "I'm screwed," he moaned, holding the glass out to Arkadiy for a refill without peeling his forehead off the table.

“She got a tattoo,” he replied, a smug smile on his face, his fingers drumming against the side of his empty glass. “Poetry,” he reiterated. “Forever.” He didn’t admit that this was the reaction he had had initially, the disbelief followed by the realization that it was quite permanent. But then, the permanence was what made him fall in love with the idea even more. “Better that she picked one of the good poems.” It wasn’t his favorite, by far, but it had at least made the book, so it was one he was at least somewhat happy with.

He watched with glee as his real idea for a gift sunk in for the publisher. He smiled smugly again, though he shrugged and took a drag from his cigarette instead of offering any further information. “It is goodness, indeed,” he concluded, missing that William was using the word out of exasperation rather than as a descriptor. He downed his drink as the other man had his, not to be outdone by an Englishman.

Arkasha nodded quite seriously. It was a big deal. It was his and Florence’s first Christmas together as well, though he supposed his book really did factor into how much work he would really have to do this year, considering he had written it for her and it had certainly taken more thought than anything he could buy at the corner shop.

He raised one eyebrow as Will took his own turn at being poetic. Nothing is measurable? That had to be an exaggeration, of course, as he was married to the only immeasurable beauty he was aware of. But he humored the man for a minute. “You could get a tattoo,” he mused as Will read his mind. “Does she write poetry?” He hadn’t heard of her, so clearly, she couldn’t be very good. But if she did, then a tattoo might not be the worst idea.

Lingerie was a good idea. It was always a good idea. But as soon as it had been suggested, Will doubted himself. “Presumptive? Have you not…” he tried to think of a delicate term but fell short. “You have not sex with her?” Arkasha sighed at the possibility. That would explain so much about why Will was confused. How could he possibly know what to buy for his woman if he did not know the woman? This was more complicated than he had assumed.

“It is,” Arkasha agreed. Not sleeping with the woman you were so clearly infatuated with was an actual nightmare. Even in his less successful woman-wooing days, it hadn’t taken Arkasha this long to seal the deal. He refilled Will’s glass to the brim, pouring him double the amount he had been pouring him previously. He matched the pour in his own glass and drained it in one go.

Clearly, William needed his advice. “Drink,” was his first suggestion. Arkasha snubbed out his cigarette and let the butt smolder in the ashtray,  his fingers drumming on the table as he racked his brains for his ideas. “You can borrow the matching hat idea,” he half-seriously suggested. “Or some big romantic gesture. Cannot go wrong with romance.”