(Sleep Spooning)

The moon hung heavy over the jagged remains of Zrzolov’s tower, once many floors now just one. The moonlight cast long, skeletal shadows across the floorboards. Inside the makeshift living quarters, it was unnervingly quiet, a rare occurrence for the duo whose lives were usually punctuated by gunfire, explosions, and the sporadic thump of Kirenenko against whoever unfortunate.

On the far side of the room, Mechanenko stood tall in a corner. It’s optical sensors dark and its internal cooling fans finally stilled, system stuck in a low-power standby mode. Leningrad was a motionless green lump atop a table, dreaming away of eating multiple chicks. with Komanetsyn accompanied on top of Leningrad, both dozing away.

Kirenenko lay on the of the bed, eyes darting across the pages of his magazine. Beside him, Putin was deep in the throes of a dream. His nose whistled, a tiny air bubble that grew and shrank with every breath.

Kirenenko’s eyes get heavier. Each flyer, each page of footwear grew blurrier until his head begins to loll forward. He was drifting off but that was quickly shattered.

Putin’s body begins moving uncontrollably, unconsciously, a haunting habit forced during his time in prison from fixing machines has been so ingrained into him that he does it in his sleep. His arms suddenly jerked upward, mimicking the motion of a heavy wrench rotating around a stubborn screw.

With a forceful, involuntary shove of his heels against the cushions, a frantic attempt at leverage in his dream world, a loud THUD echoes in the room.

Kirenenko hits the floor with a heavy, muffled impact. For a heartbeat, the room went deathly silent. Even Mechanenko’s internal fans seemed to skip a beat.

Kirenenko rose slowly from the ground like a vengeful spirit. His ears rugged, tattered and pinned back. A low guttural vibration echoing from his chest. As he rose, his face contorts into a dangerous crimson mask of fury. He looms over the couch with his teeth bared, his fist was cocked back, ready to flatten the couch and the rabbit on it into a pancake.

He paused.

Putin was still snoring. He had not even flinched. A large, translucent snot bubble expanded and contracted with every breath obliviously. The slim rabbit’s hands were moving expeditiously in the air, twitching invisible bolts with frantic imaginary precision. He was completely unaware of the real world, similar to how he slept through that one memorable night where the prison guards bombarded their shared cell.

Kirenenko’s face slowly shifted. The ravenous fury faded back to his usual stoic pallor. He tilts his head, the crunch in his face gone as he stares at his cellmate with flickering curiosity. He realized that hitting Putin would be like hitting a wall; the idiot was far gone in his unconscious labor that chances for him to wake up to the pain are close to none .

Kirenenko contemplates his choices.

He didn't like his sleep being interrupted, but he liked a broken bed even less.

He climbed back, but instead of returning to his side, he loomed over the twitching mechanic.

He reached out and firmly grabbed Putin, hauling him backward into his personal space. Kirenenko wrapped his arms around Putin’s chest, pinning the "mechanic" hands down and locking Putin’s legs with his own.-

He officially and effectively turned himself into a living straitjacket.

Stupid. Is what Kirenenko thought with narrowed eyes.

But it worked in his favor.

-Feeling the overwhelming pressure and the warmth of a solid "barrier," Putin’s brain seemed to register that the repairs were finished. The invisible wrench drops as the rabbit’s hand go limp. The twitching stopped. Putin let out a soft, content sigh, his head lulling into Kirenenko’s chest mistaking him as a pillow.

Kirenenko can finally relax as Putin stayed still.

Kirenenko let his eyes close, the only sound being the ambience from earlier of Mechanenko, Komanetsyn and all noise outdoors late at night.

The sun began to bleed through the windows and the Kirenenko wide hole in the wall, painting the floor in orange.

The silence of the dawn was abruptly broken by a wet, sharp POP. Putin’s snot bubble finally reached its limit and burst against his own cheek. His eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly as his brain struggled to catch up with reality. For a few seconds, he just lay there, feeling unusually warm and grounded. Usually he woke up while sleep dancing or somewhere far from his bed of choice, now he felt bolted.

He shifted slightly, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, only to realize his arms wouldn't move.

Weird.

He looked down.

A pink arm was wrapped securely around his waist like iron bands. Behind him, he could feel a steady, rhythmic warmth and the faint, unmistakable scent of expensive tobacco.

His heart jumped frantically into a little dance inside his ribs. He turns his head back, tied ears trembling.

Kirenenko was sitting up against the arm of the couch, his expression as unreadable as a stone monument. He was already fully awake, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. In his free hand, he held his magazine, casually flipping to a page featuring the pair of limited-edition, high-top sneakers in the case behind them.

Putin’s body turn grey as a ghoul as he lets out a low pitch scream of pure terror, his body tenses up expecting to be launched across the floor. He waited for the crimson flush of rage, the bared teeth, the inevitable explosion.

It never came.

Kirenenko didn’t even look down. He simply took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke that disperse into the ceiling and turns the page with a crisp flap of the paper. His grip loosens not one bit, instead it anchors the twitchy rabbit an inch closer. Back into place.

Putin took that as a warning to stay still or else. He gulps and takes the warning, face turning from terror to confused, wide eyed compliance. He goes limp then, hesitantly, leans back into the solid, soft, dangerous warmth of Kirenenko’s chest. He looks up to read along the pages Kire was seeing.

(Call You Mine)

Clang.

Kirenenko abruptly sat up in bed after he heard a loud noise come from the kitchen; glancing over at his alarm clock, he saw that it wasn’t even ten yet, and he could tell this was a bad sign as to how his day was going to go.

Begrudgingly, he pulled himself out of bed and walked down the hallway to see what the commotion was. The sight that met him in his living room made his blood boil even more than waking up before noon.

Putin and Killnenko were on the floor in front of the couch, Killnenko on top pinning the yellow rabbit down, and Putin looking quite terrified.

They both froze and stared at Kirenenko, who dropped the sneaker he had been carrying with him to polish.

Putin’s face went from blue to stark white, and Killnenko kept staring at his brother as though nothing was amiss.

The second the sneaker hit the floor, Kirenenko snapped. In a flash, he was fist to fist with his twin, and Putin was rubbing the back of his head, wearing a worried look as he saw the skirmish happening before his eyes.

“What’s your problem?” Killnenko spat, snapping his arm back and taking a step closer to Putin, causing Kirenenko’s left eye to twitch.

“That’s my line,” Kirenenko said in a low voice, his gaze shifting to Putin, who’s eyes widened in response.

“Come here,” Kirenenko continued, stamping his foot for emphasis on their carpet. Putin scrambled to his feet and stepped behind his former cellmate, peeking over his shoulder anxiously.

“What is he, your pet?” Killnenko said while sneering, plopping onto the couch behind him and pulling a cigar and lighter out of his vest pocket.

“I want you gone by tonight,” the dark-pink rabbit hissed, gripping Putin’s wrist and turning to head back to their bedroom.

“Putinushka said I could stay as long as I wanted,” Killnenko responded, taking a drag from his cigar.

Kirenenko could feel Putin’s body trembling behind him as he slowly turned to fix his irate gaze on the shorter rabbit.

“I thought since you two were brothers, it would be fine,” he squeaked, shrinking back from the pink rabbit’s glare.

“Putinushka, huh?” *was all Kirenenko could say before he relinquished his grip on Putin’s arm and stormed back to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. *

Putin could feel tears beginning to well up in his eyes; what was wrong with Kirenenko? Him and his twin usually got along so well.

“You want a hit?” Killnenko offered, holding his cigar out to Putin and motioning for him to sit on the couch beside him.

Putin shook his head and sat down, his hands balled into fists in his lap as he stared at the floor.

“You know, my brother gets angry pretty easily,” Killnenko began, putting out his cigar on his pants leg.“Heck, so do I. He always has a reason for his rage, though.”

Putin cocked his head to one side. “He didn’t seem to have a reason just now,” he said quietly, staring blankly at the closed bedroom door down the hallway, which he knew Kirenenko was behind doing who knows what.

“He had a reason,” Killnenko continued, abruptly standing up and grabbing his coat off of the kitchen chair. “I think he doesn’t want anyone to know that reason, though.”

“Are you leaving? I don’t think he really meant what he said, ” Putin said in a hurry, following Killnenko to the door as he slipped on his signature sneakers.

“I’ll be back, I just have some business to attend to,” the pink rabbit replied, opening the front door; the two were met with a blast of Russian winter wind. “I suggest you go in there and try to talk to him.”

Putin gulped. Talk to Kirenenko? While was in super-rage mode? That seemed almost an impossible task.

Killnenko saw Putin’s horrified expression and gave him an exhausted look. “Just do it. Please?”

Putin nodded tentatively and waved goodbye to Killnenko as he left the apartment they were currently renting in a remote part of the country, away from the Militsiya.*

Now, Putin was faced with quite a daunting task. He slowly paced to the bedroom door at the end of the hall and hesitated in front of it. He heard Leningrad’s croaking from the kitchen and it gave him hope; he patted his cheeks a few times to steel himself and took a deep breath.

Nervously, Putin knocked on the door. He waited a few seconds, but got no response.

He knocked again and called in a small voice, “Kirenenko, it’s me. Can I come in?”

Putin heard a barely audible grunt from inside the room, and creaked open the door before tip-toeing inside.

Kirenenko was laying on his bed reading one of his many sneaker magazines, and seemed to pay no mind to Putin.

Putin walked over to the bed and rocked back and forth on his feet anxiously.

“Can I sit down here?” he asked, pointing to Kirenenko’s bed. Kirenenko just glared back andflipped to his next page, not moving.

The color was beginning to drain from Putin’s face. Taking Killnenko’s advice didn’t seem to be going as planned, and Putin was starting to question why he didn’t just run from the room while he had the chance.

Suddenly, Kirenenko’s hand found Putin’s wrist again, and he was pulled on top of his cellmate, face to face with a very frustrated looking Kirenenko.

*“What are you doing?” Putin sputtered, the colors back in his face at full flush.

“This is what you did with my brother, isn’t it?” the pink rabbit asked, his tone icy. Putin’s eyes widened.

“N-No! I dropped a pot, and then he tripped over it, and-”

“And why is he calling you Putinushka?”

Putin blinked. “Huh?” he asked.

“The nickname. You’re letting him call you by a nickname,” Kirenenko said in an oddly bitter tone. “Why is that? You two just met.”

“Well, that’s because he’s your brother,” the yellow rabbit answered meekly, averting his gaze from his cellmate’s. Kirenenko’s eyes widened in turn.

“You can call me by something, if you like,” Putin continued, a look of relief on his face at how much more calm Kirenenko looked. “Like Putya or-”

“How about I call you mine?” the pink rabbit interrupted, rolling over so that he was now on top of Putin, their faces unusually close.

Putin’s face was a prominent pink shade now, almost rivaling Kirenenko’s, which was more flushed than usual.

“I… That…,” the shy rabbit began, trailing off. Kirenenko caught himself and propped himself up, distancing himself from Putin.

“Sorry,” he said simply, grabbing for his magazine; Putin held onto his arm and pulled him back around, grabbing his attention once again.

Putin pressed his lips against Kirenenko’s, his eyes screwed shut just in case his common sense got the better of him, and they shared their first kiss together.

Much to Putin’s surprise, Kirenenko didn’t hit him, but rather pulled him in closer and deepened the kiss, kicking off his shoes and pulling the covers over the two.

*In the darkness underneath blanket, Putin could just barely make out the shine of Kirenenko’s eyes, but they no longer looked angry. *

“You didn’t answered my question,” the pink rabbit asked, his thumb absent-mindedly stroking the blush on Putin’s cheek.

“You can call me yours?,” Putin replied in an embarrassed tone, shying away from his friend’s touch. “But I have a question for you, first.”

Kirenenko seemed slightly irritated once again, but remained silent, waiting.

“Were you jealous earlier?” Putin asked, referring to the incident in the kitchen with Killnenko. Kirenenko hesitated, obviously annoyed now.

“I wasn’t happy with the situation,” he replied, squishing Putin’s cheeks together gently. “You should have realized that from the beginning.”

He placed a chaste kiss to Putin’s lips one more time, and then starting nudging Putin’s shoulder impatiently.

“What is it?” Putin asked, confused as to why Kirenenko was seemingly trying to push him away.

“Roll over,” Kirenenko ordered, snuggling up closer to Putin as he turned his back to the pink rabbit in compliance. “I want to hold you.”

Putin was secretly glad Kirenenko couldn’t see his face in this position, because he was both elated and flushed as could be with Kirenenko’s body pressed up against his, spooning him.

Putin chuckled. “What am I, your pet?” he said, mocking Killnenko from earlier.

“Naw,” Kirenenko replied, burying his face in the crook of Putin’s neck. “Just mine.”

Workin hard or hardly workin?

The door to the cramped apartment creaked on its hinges, a weary groan that reflects Putin’s current internal state. Another grueling shift at his job, endless conveyor belts, bureaucratic leaders barking, and the constant vibrating hum of machinery that always seems to rattle his skeleton. To make matters worse, he worked overtime so he is home much later than usual.

Kirenenko usually hated that.

Putin sighs walking inside, shoulders slumped, walk laden, and most tellingly, his long ears were completely free from their ties, drooping defectively over his eyes like a wilted flowers.

He walks past Kirenenko on the couch, flipping through channels in the living room, to catch on the latest footwear advertisement with his usual blank fish eye stare. As Putin stumbles into the kitchen to find a glass of water and to think what to cook for dinner, the noise from the tv halts leaving only silence. Except it felt charged. Kirenenko holds the remote mid air, eyes blinking as he tracks the sluggish, miserable movement of the droopy ear rabbit.

The sight irritates him. Or perhaps this feeling is something else.

Putin turns with his glass of water, eyes covered by his ears, regardless he forces a smile to his roommate.

“I’m home…,” Putin manages weak, pathetic chirp with his arms out to display how “fine” he is. Yet the weight of Kirenenko’s blank stare is enough to feel like a physical pressure all throughout his body. Wouldn’t be his first time.

He keeps staring. Putin sighs and makes the mistake to look away around the kitchen of what to possibly scrap together as dinner for them two. He opens the fridge door lazily, sees an alcohol bottle, grabs it then closes the door. Closing it, his soul jumps out his body seeing Kirenenko standing there. Putin clutches his heart, just to make sure it kept beating. He did not even hear the floor creak when he walked over. Putin catches his breath as the pink rabbit looms over him. Putin doesn’t dismiss the faint vein forming on Kire’s forehead, a universal sign of his annoyance.

Putin forces another shaky smile with a cold sweat.“ I know it’s about work and me coming late but it’s just extra shifts. I can sleep through it…as for dinn-“

He was cut off as Kire reached out, his clawed fingers grabs Putin by the chin. His eyes were narrowed, darting between Putin’s limp ears(that are usually tied) and his exhausted face. It wasn’t gentle, more a possessive curiosity.

*The atmosphere went from heavy exhaustion to a sharp, electric tension. Putin’s heart begin to stammer in his ribs as Kire throughly scrutinizes him from head to toe. Putin blinks as he stares back at him and his…focused gaze. *

Putins blinked and Kirenenko lunged.

He pinned Putin between the kitchen counter, near the sink. The cold surface hits the back of Putin’s shirt, a stark contrast of the cold radiating from the rabbit looming over him. It all went so fast. Putin blinks and last he sees is sharp canines before being sinked into his neck.

A startled hiss escapes Putin’s mouth before turning into a breathless hum. Every bite brought a sharp breath of adrenaline that makes him forget the day’s fatigue and focuses on the frantic rabbit tearing into him. Kirenenko was relentless, biting down till he was bloody and bruised. Putin doesn’t push him away, instead pull him closer by his tight grip on Kire’s shirt as the room spun.

Eventually, the frantic energy shifted. Kirenenko pulled back, his breathing heavy, but the irritation in his eyes had softened into something uncharacteristically soft. He didn't walk away. Instead, he began to trace the marks he made with his tongue, a rough, rhythmic licking that made Putin’s knees buckle. Kirenenko pressed soft, blunt kisses against the cooling bruises on his neck, face and his now tender tips ears, a silent, predatory but caring version of aftercare, very faintly of an apology. Putin, still shaking, eventually came to his sense and reached for the first aid kit to bandage the deeper nicks, but he didn't miss the way Kirenenko watched him do it.

The next morning, the factory lights felt ten times brighter than usual and twice as cruel.

Putin was back at his station, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted a wrench. He had spent twenty minutes in front of the cracked bathroom mirror trying to cover the carnage. Pulling his collar up, using his ears but the marks were everywhere, climbing up to his face and faint ones on the tip of his ears. He had tried to tie his ears back into their usual upright position, but they were tender, twitching rhythmically with the pulse of his lingering soreness. He used an entire box of bandages but it’s still not enough.

A fellow worker, a sturdy, inquisitive rabbit from the assembly line, leaned over with a squint.

“Whoa, Putin,” the worker points to a prominent bruise that is visible on his neck, despite the many, many bandages. Putin halts at what he was doing.

“That a nasty looking rash. Didn’t know you were allergic to the grease…wait is that teeth marks? What? A stray dog get you?”

Putin’s face turned an entire shade of red that rivaled Kirenenko’s prison uniform. A cold sweat broke out across his face, and his ears began to flop wildly in panic.

He had to think of something fast.

“Oh these?” Putin laughed, a high-pitched, hysterical sound that grated against the industrial noise of the factory and his denial. “Not from a dog…It’s….it’s from a product test I volunteered for! To test the structural integrity of the new... rubber... gasket... prototypes ya know just to help!”

The worker stared at him, completely unconvinced. "By letting them bite your neck?"

"They’re very... suction-heavy gaskets!" Putin squeaked, turning back to his machine and working with a frenetic, desperate speed. "Very high pressure! Safety first! Don't ask questions or we'll both be behind schedule!”

The worker scoffs but doesn’t ask any more questions. He walks away shaking his head. Putin adjust his collar for the hundred time in a row. He buries his face on whatever they wanted him to work on, while his mind replays last night. His tender aching ears twitch faintly. His foot taps repeatedly as he dreads( but secretly looks forward to) going back home to their shared apartment. Hopefully on time, this time.

(Something glowing)

---

The gradual decline of sunlight, seeping in and muddying the gradients to a beautiful shade of blue and yellow, sure that it would soon to repeat again. The autumn burn of it, painting the old Moskvitch into the sleak sheen of the wet grasslands, like something beautiful.

 *A twitch of an ear, vaguely ruffling the age old newspaper that has been with him for the longest time. He squints, not because he can't see, but out of an emotion resembling frustration as briefly glances at a figure in the distance.*

It's nighttime now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the timer of the release of his soon-to-be favourite canvas shoes is ticking on. That brings upon a weight in his chest that he finds to be annoyance, like a clogged piece of raw fish stuck in your throat, but when he focuses his gaze on that same figure he finds that he couldn't care less.

You should see it for yourself. Or maybe you are, seeing as a piece of you is stuck to me the same way I am to you. Framed in a picture he could almost immortalize, blooms of petals in multicolored gradients, lightened by only the nearby fireflies that happen to pass by, his 'partner' was admiring the flowers in the lower moon lamplight. Unconsciously, he grips his newspaper tighter.

There's something to be liked in this, something worth caring for. A fragile and frail thing he only heard of and never thought to have in his life, now blatantly and most obviously a part of it. It wasn't that he didn't like it (and if he did he'll just fix that as easily as he'd always did.) but living in it without the pretense of being cellmates had made it difficult to even tell what it was in the first place. Which, even to his emotionally bankrupt mind, has him puzzled.

They never discussed it, not because there was some unspoken tension between the two of them but because it has become as natural as breathing. When the other does something, the other goes along with it. Like when Putin went along with him in his first ever escape attempt in all of his three years of luxury, or when the same rabbit lifts him up on his shoulders to chear him on for his victorious fist-fight. When Putin serves him meals even back in prison, and accidentally finds even more ways to kill him. Was it always liked this? Was it normal?

*Reliance on people has never been a particularly appealing thing for him. To have someone to serve him, to be given the resources to tend to him, going on for so long that it stretches on indefinitely seemed like an unrealistic thing to have, if only because he can never picture it. Come to think of it, something similar had happened before. Although, similar doesn't exactly mean the same.

Faces of scarred rabbits, blurred and rippled under his mind's eye. One off moments with rabbits that seem to find that overcompensating for something would earn them favor, dark eyes gleaming the brightest in their final moments or in perceived approval. Nothing note-worthy, writing it off as a nuisance as he punched them out of the way to inspect the fallen off sneakers. Moments where people under him attempted to save his life, were they ever picturing for something from him? Did they ever try?*

The curl of lips, snarling and distinctly ugly in a way that he wanted to punch off their face, and the rounded off smugness that sticks insistently on people who thought to have the upper hand. The rabbits he meets is divided into two: people he can stand and people he will never look in the eye.

What did he really get out of this arrangement? A nice hot meal every day and night, free time to spend on cleaning his shoes and reading his magazine, his clothes washed and ironed straight in away that is suited for a germaphobe like himself. A driver, an unlikely musician, an over-competent mechanic that seemed to fix anything he touches, someone who manages to survive even with Kirenenko out of commission and even live at the same pace he does.

But, what does Putin get? What does he really have? He blinks, staring listlessly at the figure in the distance. A pink handkerchief with a decorated rabbit pattern, an ugly transvestite chicken and a frog, a wrench decorated with star stickers and a car put together with half a prayer and a dream. The ability to dance and play tunes and hum and whistle and enjoy the spectacle of the scene. A suitcase not filled with gems and gold and stacks of cash, but with a Rubik's cube and Matryoshka dolls from the prison guards. Is that all he has? Doesn't he deserve more? It feels like he deserves more.

If he gave him the money in his suitcase would he run off like any decent person would? Get a taxi and hail off to some unnamed city living the life? He thinks about it. Really thinks about it. He thinks about the time he suddenly blacked out when he turned on the car newly fitted with the plane engine. The pressure burning into his skull and the loss of it as his vision fades to black. He blinks.

He died didn't he? He died and then he woke up with his eye mishapened and a car that can do new things and a working airplane engine, yet undeniably still alive. The only glaring weakness that he had was exploited so easily and the person responsible had fixed him up like it was natural. For all he knew, Putin could have grabbed the suitcase and drive off with the Moskvitch with newfound riches and left Kirenenko to actually stay dead.

But he didn't do that did he? Leaving him dead was what any decent person would do but this is Putin he's talking about. The same rabbit who stayed with him for three whole years and stayed cheerful even on the last day of his sentence. The same rabbit who entertained him the idea of playing ping-pong and pool, and instead of cowering in fear half the time, he treated him like someone worth caring for. Someone who didn't compromise his own enjoyment for the sake of pleasing others, and at the same time know not to push boundaries and ask for nothing in return. A happy person. An optimistic one. A Putin.

The silhouette shifts and changes, and Kirenenko focuses his gaze once more. Putin looks strangely beautiful, waving at him as if to invite him over. He's holding something, he realized, one of the few things Putin will ever have in his life; a crown of flowers. So that's what he was doing, making one of those. He looks closer. There's two. Two flower crowns.

Without a thought, he moves closer and let's Putin place it gently on his head, feeling an unfettered brightness glowing in his chest.

(Drunk mess)

The street light flickers overhead, casting long, beating shadows across the pavement. Kirenenko, wrapping new bandages around his arms from “work”, stands at the edge of the sidewalk, ears twitching at the sound of a car engine idling nearby and the familiar, clumsy scuffle of footsteps.

Putin.

He has been absent far more than usual and Kirenenko is not a patient person. Taking it upon himself to find his companion, he scans the street.

Through the hazy glow of a bright street light, he spots them. Putin was draped over the shoulder of a man in a white button up, his feet dragging uselessly over the asphalt. The coworker was puffing with exertion, struggling to maneuver Putin toward the open door of a sedan.

"Almost... there... Putin…," the coworker wheezed, his grip tightening on Putin’s waist.

Kirenenko makes his way into the flickering light above them. His clothes merge with the shadows and his silhouette loomed large over the pair. He doesn’t break his stride, each heavy step echoing against the brick walls of the alley.

Feeling a presence far more than he can handle, the coworker turns slowly and his face instantly loses all color. Dead, blank eyes stares, not at him, but lower. Following his gaze leads to the guy’s hand clutching inebriated Putin.

Nobody moved except for the swaying, drunk Putin. Only when Kire’s eyes look up and met his do the poor guy’s pupils shrink in terror.

"I—I—" The coworker’s voice cracks, trembling.

Kirenenko says nothing, just blinks. The silence between them is heavy enough to crack the pavement. Kire doesn’t utter a word, but the slight tilt of his head was enough of an ultimatum.

Terrified, the coworker abruptly lets go. Putin let out a soft, confused "Wooooeouhh” as he began to tilt backward, totally oblivious to the rabbit standing behind him.

The coworker didn't wait to see the catch. He scrambled into his car, tires screeching as he peels away from the curb, leaving a cloud of exhaust where he once stood.

Kirenenko reaches out, his hand catching Putin by the back of his shirt before he could meet the ground.

Putin is giggles and a sporadic mix of emotions but seeing Kire just made it worse. Noticing the pink rabbit, Putin spin in Kire’s grip. He looked up, his eyes glassy and a wide, lopsided grin splitting his face. He staggers forward, burying his face in Kirenenko’s chest and wrapping his arms around his middle with a strength that only the very drunk possess. Kire looks down at him, scowl present and ready to push him off but that would be no use.

Instead, Kirenenko lets out a low, weary huff. His gaze softens just a bit as he adjust his grip to keep the swaying rabbit upright for the long walk home.

The only prominent problem is Putin has become incredibly touchy, dragging onto Kire tight like they havent seen each other in months (they saw each other yesterday). *Kire stops his gait and turns to look at him, annoyed. *

Without a word, Kirenenko hooks an arm under Putin’s knees and hoist him up. Holding him bridal the entire way back.

By the time they reached their shared space, Putin had moved from babbling to a strange, tactile fixation. As Kirenenko set him down on the edge of the sofa, Putin didn't let go. He clung to the fabric of Kirenenko’s striped prison suit, pulling him down until they were nose-to-nose.

Sober Putin was a creature of nerves twitchy, eager to please, and perpetually aware of the lethal force standing next to him. Drunk Putin was a revelation for Kirenenko. He was bold, blunt, his inhibitions dissolved in cheap lager, like the lightweight he is.

"You're so... sturdy," Putin whispers, his eyes wandering over Kirenenko’s face. His gaze lingered on the jagged, stitched seams that ran across Kirenenko’s body, the physical remnants of his brother, Killnenko.

While most would find the stitches macabre, Putin’s fingers traced them with a reverent, sensual slowless. He follows the line of a seam up to Kirenenko’s ear, his touch light and electric.

"I always liked these," Putin confesses, his voice dropping to a gravelly, sweet tone. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Kirenenko's.

"The parts that are yours, the parts that were his... it’s all you now. It’s so much more of you to love."

Kire freezes.

Caught off guard by Putin’s drunken confession. His face heats up, just slightly.

The air in the apartment feels suddenly thin. Kirenenko, a rabbit who usually operated with the cold precision of a clockwork machine, found himself stationary by the sheer, unfiltered honesty in Putin’s gaze.

Putin doesn’t seem to notice the crisis he was causing. He is too busy being mesmerized by the map of Kirenenko’s history. His fingers, calloused from his own brand of frantic work but surprisingly gentle now, traced the thick patch where two brothers had become one.

"So many stitches," Putin murmured, his breath smelling of hope and something sweet. He tilted his head, his eyes tracking a jagged line down to Kirenenko's nose.

"They make you look like a masterpiece, Kire. Like someone put all the best parts of the world back together."

Kirenenko says nothing to him. Just stares and blinks at Putin’s drunk nonsense.

Before he could process the shift in momentum, Putin lunged. It is not a planned movement. It is clumsy, desperate press of lips against Kirenenko’s nose. It was messy and tastes like bad decisions, but the hidden heat was unmistakable.

Kirenenko’s hands, which had been hovering stagnant at his sides, finally found a home.

He grips Putin’s waist, his fingers tightening the soft fabric of his clothes. He intended to pull him away, to growl a warning, but the way Putin made a soft, needy sound against his skin made his resolve crumble.

Putin pulls back just an inch, his face flushing a deep crimson that rivals Kirenenko’s prison suit. He looks at the stitches again, his touch turning from curiosity to admiration. He leaned down and pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss directly over the seam on Kirenenko’s cheek, the part that had once belonged to Killnenko.

"Mine," Putin breathed against the scar tissue. "All of it."

The words ignited a fire inside but Kirenenko didn’t do anything halfway. If Putin wanted to be bold, Kirenenko would show him what true intensity looked like.

He flips their positions in one fluid motion, pinning Putin back against the sofa cushions. The weight of him was immense, grounding Putin’s drunken flightiness. Kirenenko’s eyes were no longer empty; they were burning with need.

"You talk too much," Kirenenko rumbles, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle Putin’s very bones.

"Then make me stop," Putin challenges, his voice trembling but his eyes smug and inviting.

Kirenenko didn’t hesitate. He crash his mouth down onto Putin’s, silencing the babbling, the giggles, and the confessions with a kiss that was as much a claim as it was a surrender. Drunk Putin is unpredictable, but Kirenenko is inevitable, and tonight, the apartment was finally quiet, filled only with the sound of ragged, sweaty, breaths and the friction between them both.

The morning after, Putin’s consciousness arrived not as a gentle awakening, but as a rhythmic thumping behind his eyes that timed itself perfectly with the frantic beating of his heart.

He groans, the sound catching in a throat that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. Memories came back in short, fuzzy shards: the bar, the coworker, the feeling of everything spinning, and then...all went pink.

Pink?

Putin bolts upright, or tried to. His muscles protested with a sharp ache that reminded him he had been twisted into various…intimate positions the night before, impossible for the average rabbit.

As the room stops spinning, he realized two things: he was in their shared bed, and he was significantly less dressed than he had been when he left for drinks.

Then, the memories turned from blurry to vivid.

“A masterpiece..”

Putin let out a strangled whimper, burying his face in his hands. He had touched the stitches. He had touched Kirenenko’s ears. He had kissed the scars that everyone else in the world knew were a "Do Not Touch" sign under penalty of a fate worse than death.

Now, he was a dead man.

Suddenly, the door to the bedroom creaks open. Putin froze, his breath hitching. He slowly peer through his fingers to see Kirenenko standing in the doorway. The rabbit was fully dressed, looking as impeccably ominous as ever, holding a single glass of water and a small plate with a piece of toast.

Kirenenko doesn’t say anything. He walks over and sets the glass on the bedside table.

Putin looks up at him, his face a shade of red that nearly rivals Kirenenko’s fur.

"about last night..." his voice trails off into a pathetic attempt of excusing his behavior. He brace himself for anything with Kire, but the blow never comes.

Instead, Kirenenko reaches out. Putin watches with a curious spark in his eyes.

Callous hands touches Putin’s chin, tilting his head up. Kirenenko’s gaze sweep over Putin’s face, not with anger, but with quiet, unsettling admiration.

His thumb brushes against Putin’s lower lip, a silent reminder of exactly how that lip had been bruised the night before.

"Drink," Kirenenko says suddenly, pushing the glass to Putin’s hand and immediately breaking the contact.

He doesn’t mention the confessions. He didn't mention the way Putin had worshipped the seams of his skin. But as Kirenenko turned to leave the room, his ear flop down in a way that is unmistakably.…satisfied.

Putin slumps back against the pillows, clutching the water glass like it’s his last. He is still sore, and his head felt like it was in a vice, but as he took a sip of the water, he notices a faint, dark bruise on Kirenenko’s neck right above his shoulder, a mark that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.

The sight made Putin look at himself and realize he is in MUCH WORSE shape. Bites marks, hickeys mapped everywhere on his body from head to toe.

He sighs, mentally promising himself he is never going out to drink with coworkers again…knowing full well that he is lying to himself.

(Late Night Drinking)

It was getting late, and bottles of vodka and carrot juice were littered across the table in our kitchen.

Looking at Putin, it was quite obvious that he was intoxicated, and I knew that usually meant lots of dancing and awkward questions. I could feel some heat on my face, but I could hold my drinks pretty well, unlike my former cellmate over here.

*“Kirenenko, you have such big eyes,” Putin says to me, slurring the compliment. He smiles at me, and I tighten my grip on my shot glass. Maybe I was a little more drunk than I had originally thought.

I just burp in response; what else am I supposed to say to that? He looks at me with round, mesmerized eyes, and my face feels admittedly a little warmer.

“Do you get along with your brother?” he asks out of the blue, inching closer. Honestly, I had forgotten all about my twin. This guy remembers everything.

I nod, downing my shot. The burn was there, but nothing like swallowing a missile.

Putin looks away, then locks eyes back with me.

“Do we get along?” he then asks, his face even redder somehow.

I freeze. I mean, I’d never really thought about it. It’s not like we fight, really, and we’ve been together for quite a while. I glare at Putin, because he’s really making me think over here.

“Yup,” I voice, pouring both he and I another shot. Hopefully we can both just forget this night in the morning.

Putin stands up after I reply to him, and as I foretold, the dancing was already happening. He waltzes over to me, and, get this - grabs my hand.

I immediately snatch it back and give him a look, but his face falls, and his eyes look watery, and I instantly feel like a bad person.

I tentatively place my hand back in his, and he ushers me to my feet. He puts my hands on his waist and wraps one arm around my neck and leads me in one of his drunken two-steps, his smile back and brighter than ever.

We are so close to each other that it is almost suffocating. He smells like alcohol and car oil, and also kind of like my favorite braised carrot dish. I’m almost enjoying this dance, because it’s been so long since we’ve had a place that we could really do whatever we want in.

Putin’s dumb robot and Putin’s dumb frog and bird are sound asleep in the other room of our apartment, and I think I might have some policemen tied up somewhere… but right now, it just feels like me and Putin. Except we aren’t incarcerated; we’re free and drunk and dancing.

If my brother ever saw this, he would probably try to take his piece of his head back. He should understand, though; Putin is cute when he’s drunk.

The dancing was evidently becoming too much for him, though. Putin looks more flushed than ever, and his steps are becoming unsteady. I grasp his waist more firmly to steady him, and he nearly falls onto me.

I can feel myself getting angry, and he looks at me with terrified eyes.

“S-Sorry!” he stammers, unwrapping himself from my grip, but I’m mad now, and I pull him back in.

“Kirenenko?” he asks, his eyes boring into mine in the most infuriating way. The alcohol must be really getting to me.

He’s cute, I think. He’s right here, in my arms. So, naturally, I close my eyes and press my mouth against Putin’s, and am pleasantly surprised by how sweet he tastes.

He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. We’re not dancing anymore, but I don’t care; I pull him in closer and deepen the kiss, and his arms find their way back around my neck.

We’re not close enough, and I start to get agitated. I want him closer, want to taste him even more; this moment is sickeningly overdue, and I vaguely wonder how long I’ve had these feelings.

Of course, it’s hard to think of much else when there’s a new sneaker style out, anyway.

Putin can tell I’m getting angry and breaks the kiss, looking at me with his usual look of terror. I’m starting to lose my cool over here, and it’s pretty apparent on my face.

“Are you mad at me?” he manages to ask, and I’m trying to slow down the gears in my head.

“No,” I say simply, wanting that look of fear to leave his face. Scared doesn’t go well with drunk, and especially not for Putin.

I’m calm now, but he looks skeptical.

He hesitates, averting his gaze from me just like earlier at the table. I know what he wants to ask, and I only sort of want to give him the answer.

Surely Putin knew by now that I didn’t like to talk much.

“I’m not angry,” I continue, pulling the beige rabbit back in against my chest, his face only centimeters from mine. “But I will be if we don’t kiss again.”

Shit. Putin probably wasn’t drunk enough to forget about that tomorrow, but with his lips against mine again, I think I’ll be able to live with that.

We kiss standing up for quite some time until my legs get tired and my heart restless, and we move to the couch we had taken from Zrzolov’s old bando.

Putin seems much more desperate than earlier; his fingers are digging into my back, and we haven’t broken apart to breathe since I pushed him onto the couch.

My face temperature must be at max by now, because I feel elated. It’s something akin to being furious, but even harder to control; my hands are roaming, and when they slip underneath the fabric of Putin’s shirt, he finally tenses at my touch.

We break apart again, and I do my best to hear him out and not get mad.

*“You and I are drunk,” he says, stating the obvious. I can feel my brow furrow.

Putin raises his eyebrows, running his hands up and down my back, and it helps calm me down.

“I-I just don’t want you to regret any of this in the morning,” he continues, slurring and stammering through his sentence. “You probably aren’t thinking clearly.”

I’m trying to heavily concentrate on the feeling of Putin’s body underneath mine, because otherwise, my frustration might get the best of me.

“Neither are you,” I return, coming back at him with his own logic. Putin’s face, already red from all the kissing, darkens a shade.

*“I’ve thought about this for a while,” *he replies, shifting nervously beneath me. I am pretty much ready to enter beast mode at this point.

Putin had thought about himself and me together? Putin had thought about kissing me? A million questions were swimming around in my head, and I absent mindedly swipe my thumb across his bottom lip, wanting to remember how soft they were.

“No more questions,” I grumble, and I place a painfully gentle kiss to his nose, but he still looks worried. God, why does he look so worried?

I groan. I hold him even tighter, impossibly tight, against me. He’s warm, but I fear I’m even warmer.

“I want this,” I finish with, low and guttural, almost a roar. I’m upset, and he knows, but it’s not the usual rage; it’s frustration.

He hugs me back and presses his forehead to mine. The contact is soothing, but once again, it’s not enough.

I lean down and lock our lips once again; his fingers are back in my back, where they belong, and my hands experimentally slip under his t-shirt once again. I hold my breath, and he kisses me harder.

His fur was so soft underneath his shirt, even softer than the rest of him somehow. I want to feel him all over, and there was just so much fabric all over him.

I rip his shirt off and he looks concerned, but not from fear. His pupils are dark, and he tugs at the bottom of my tank as well. I nod knowingly and peel it off.

We lay on that couch together, making out, clothes disheveled, for a good portion of the night. Eventually, the alcohol gets to Putin, and he starts snoring as I’m kissing his neck.

My first instinct is to pull him off the couch like a madman, but I’m tired as well.

I pull him up to a sitting position, and he stirs, looking at me with a frown.

I stand up and he just keeps staring.

“What?” I ask, grabbing my tank top from the floor. I don’t bother putting it back on.

He suddenly notices his own lack of clothing and blushes.

“Will we do this again?” he asks in a very sleepy but timid voice. My heart flutters in my chest.

“We’ll drink,” I answer, grabbing Putin’s arm; I pull him up, face to face with me again.

“I mean, will we continue tonight?” he questions in a braver voice than I had expected.

My arms move against my will, seemingly, and I wrap them back around Putin and pull him against me, and he is still so warm.

“Yes,” I answer, almost melting at how tired and soft he is in my arms, all his previous tenseness and nervousness gone. I wonder how I must feel to hug for him; I’m half tempted to ask, but he looks so sleepy.

“Sleep,” I then say, taking his hand in mine and dragging him to the bedroom.

I thought about carrying him, but the amount of cliches I’ve completed tonight are already through the rough. Also, I may be a bit too drunk to trust myself with that.

I could have put him in his bed and gone to clean up the drinks and glasses, but that’s always Putin’s job. That doesn’t change because of tonight. So, I just put him in his bed and climbed in with him.

I sleep unusually well considering the amount of room that drunk mechanic takes up.

When the sun filters in from the bedroom window and onto my shut eyes, I realize I’m awake and it’s the next morning, and I have a pounding in one side of my head.

I immediately turn to where Putin was previously sleeping beside me; he isn’t there. Suddenly, I’m tense. He must have woken up first, probably with an even worse hangover.

What was he thinking? Did he not want to be around me after last night? This feeling in my chest would not subside.

While the emotion I am feeling makes me angry, I recognize it for what it is - worry.

Groaning to myself, I force myself to sit up and get out of the bed. I snap the blinds shut and trudge to the door, my brow furrowed.

When I step into the kitchen, I see Mechanenko reading my newest sneaker magazine. Not a good start to the day.

I snatch it away. There’s some oil on it from his grubby robot fingers. Unforgivable.

I’m about to knock the thing’s circuits out before I hear a very tired, but very happy voice say, “Good morning, Kirenenko.”

I snap my neck to the left to see Putin, who’s making pancakes with half-lidded eyes. A wave of relief crashes over me.

“Morn,” I reply, and awkwardly amble over to him. He seems sort of tense, as though he’s also unsure of how I’m feeling.

An awkward silence ensues. It takes about all I can to not get agitated or walk away- I want to talk to him.

“Putin,” I begin, taking a step closer. He looks surprised.

He looks at me with hopeful eyes, and I tentatively wrap my arms around him again, pulling his drowsy frame in against my chest.

“We’re continuing last night,” I say, burying my head into his neck; he doesn’t pull away, and I feel so reassured.

“Right now!?” he gasps, but I pull him away from the stovetop and head for our bedroom, flared up and ready to go.