CHAPTER: One
PAIRING: Keamhail (Martin Keamy/Mikhail)
CHARACTERS: Martin Keamy, Mikhail
UNIVERSE: LAXverse
GENRE: Character Study,
RATING: NC17
SPOILERS: LOST 6.06 and LOST 6.11
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The culmination of overthinking two characters and a love for the LAXverse.
DISCLAIMER: Obvious this isn't mine.
Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night to Keamy leaving the latrine to come back to bed. It's the sound of the tank refilling that wakes Mikhail and he'll turn his head to his right to look at the dark doorway that leads into the bedroom, the lights from the city creeping around the windows' curtains to illuminate the angles of the man that stands there. Mikhail always pretends to be asleep, doesn't want to be caught looking but he knows he gives himself away when he holds his breath as the other man curls close to him, his head resting on his shoulder. Sometimes Keamy's fingers ghost across his belly before he wraps a strong arm around him and in the dark, Mikhail can feel the triumphant smile Keamy wears at—Mikhail doesn't give himself away easily, but this loan shark has always been able to figure him out.
Morning is always the same. He wakes to the dark, to skin against his, whispers that are too insistent, the sound of the day's first buses outside, a bedroom that is too beige and too hot for 5 AM. Being this drowsy means he can't think straight enough to speak English, just mumbles sleepy Russian, usually requests to be left alone as Keamy slides the bed sheets down and pulls Mikhail's hard on out of his boxers. The words of irritation become words of affection as a warm mouth envelopes him and his tone stays the same, muttering them as though he's cursing or threatening which only makes Keamy chuckle around him.
The ambient bliss of hardly being awake makes Keamy's mouth overwhelming and he isn't aware that he's moaning until he finally chokes out "Martin!" which seems to sound just right amid the rustle of bed sheets. Keamy moves back up the bed and before Mikhail can protest at how close he'd been, the other man uses a knee to nudge his thighs open.
Keamy isn't someone to be resisted. Mikhail doesn't like the thought of men being with men, but this is far different. There's no flounce or frills, just muscles and calluses as Keamy leans over him, his stubble grating against his neck as he whispers into his ear. His Russian is still dreadful, full of poor pronunciation and an American accent but Mikhail never criticizes him about it, keeping his opinions to himself only because—of all things—he doesn't want to insult the other man.
They are soon a tangle of limbs and the headboard bangs rhythmically against the wall as Mikhail finds his English again, groaning out utter nonsense as his hand grips at the back of Keamy's neck, fingers noting the hairline in need of a trim. The way Keamy brings his lips to Mikhail's is hungry, crushing and the feeling of urgency in both of them finally peaks with the American shouting out a curse word and collapsesing on top of him. Mikhail finishes between their bodies, his face pressed into the smooth span of skin connecting the shoulder to the neck. The weight of the other man's spent body on top of his and the feeling of skin slick from sweat beneath his fingertips are welcome and as they catch their breath, a moment of calm settles in him, the only part of the day that will feel this way.
Mikhail isn't living in Los Angeles so much as he is hiding out. After his unit in the Soviet Army was decommissioned he'd come to California in hopes of escaping his past. The things he'd done in Afghanistan were no doubt considered war crimes and while he doesn't feel sorry for anything he's done, he doesn't want to be around people who know what he's done. Los Angeles, the City of Angels, calls to him with a siren's song of opportunity and he relocates himself to the sun-drenched metropolis, the desert against the coast. He trades fatigues for suits of the same faded, military colours, blending into the dusty heat waves that rise off the pavement and tall concrete buildings. He makes himself invisible, forgettable, a ghost, and this new freedom suits him well.
However, while it is a new town, a new closet of clothing, a new beginning, some things will never change. He's in the same old business of torture and killing and it's not so much that he enjoys what he does, he's simply very good at it and it's pointless to pretend otherwise. Hired muscle is surprisingly a highly sought after market and he does well working with Brazilian gangsters, his Portuguese improving the more he works with them. He gains a reputation as someone not to be fucked with and at the turn of the millennium, his name gets around to a racketeer named Martin Keamy. Keamy calls upon him from time to time to act as a translator and on one instance as an evaluator of Soviet firearms before he's accepted as a regular part of the fold, welcome to act as a liaison between Keamy's syndicate and other organizations with similar interests.
As he dresses for the day, Mikhail looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn't recognise himself sometimes. He is Mikhail and yet he is not. Is this truly the world he belongs in?
"Swing by the restaurant for lunch," Keamy says as straightens his suit in the mirror.
Mikhail doesn't answer and soon he's left in the apartment alone, the sun starting to rise.
Keamy stopped thinking of himself as Martin ages ago. Martin was his childhood name, Keamy is what he is called as a man. While he's often referred to as a "loan shark", he likes to think of himself as a "non-federal financial supplier" with the side occupation of "acquisition and redistribution specialist". He has ties across the globe, people who rely on him for money and guns, for specialty services that he is willing to offer for a heavy—but worthwhile—fee.
There is a man who (in turn for not being chopped to bits and thrown into the Pacific) lets him use the restaurant he owns as the headquarters for Keamy's business which is something he finds fairly delightful as he has access to the food and kitchen space; during the duller parts of the day he cooks, making up for every shit meal he ever ate in the Marines. He also likes to imagine that this makes him a better-rounded person, something to offset the tailored suits and Rolex watches. He likes his expensive lifestyle, likes the power and leadership he has here in LA. Fairly young for his line of work, Keamy finds a sense of pride in the business he's built from the ground up, using it as a way to get him anything he wants.
To his surprise, Mikhail Bakunin is something he wants. Keamy likes women of course, he likes them a lot—it's just easier, safer being with the Russian. Mikhail gets who he is, isn't scared or disturbed with what he's done. He's also hilariously homophobic, but Keamy never misses the jealousy when the Russian catches him checking out a woman walking by. But then maybe for Mikhail it isn't about gender, maybe it's about emotions and trust (which is actually gayer than anything he complains about).
Keamy gets it, though.
Though there are many similarities between he and the Russian, Mikhail is in many ways his polar opposite. They share a military background and life of crime, but Keamy's world involves smiling and interacting with people who need what he can provide. Mikhail is withdrawn and rarely speaks, only showing himself when he is needed; Keamy often catches him simply standing back and watching. It irks him somewhat, but then again he can also tell that Mikhail has seen and done things that have made him cautious around others, a permanent state of survival mode.
Keamy finds himself thinking of the Russian more often than he's ever intended to, sometimes during inopportune moments such as taking a pipe to a snitch's kneecaps, ignoring screams to think about the first time he'd been alone with Mikhail.
It had been late at night in the poorly lit restaurant kitchen that at the time had been closed for renovations. Keamy'd brought some KFC for them to eat, a bucket of chicken with sides of mashed potatoes and coleslaw. It'd been a long day for both of them and the greasy poultry was a welcome meal. They sit at the preparation island, using the plastic sporks to shovel food straight from the Styrofoam containers into their mouths. The only sound is their chewing and when Keamy looks over at him from time to time, Mikhail offers a nod as if to say that the chicken was a brilliant idea.
"You have some gravy," Keamy says fifteen minutes in, gesturing to his own face to indicate the general vicinity of the food.
Mikhail's eyes lock onto his as he brings one of the cheap thin paper napkins up to his cheek, wiping off the offending food then raising his eyebrows as if to ask whether or not everything is all right once more. Keamy nods, peeling crispy skin off a drumstick to eat separately. After a moment and without much thought, he's leaned over and placed his lips on the Russian's who appears to be too stunned to do anything in response. Keamy doesn't have a real reason for kissing the other man, he just feels like it.
Mikhail had been angry about it of course and had attempted to kill him until Keamy caught him in a chokehold and made him promise to chill out. Once he was released, Mikhail had stormed out of the restaurant without a word, leaving Keamy to finish his dinner alone.
He doesn't see him for a week after that; honestly Keamy doesn't give a fuck either way if Mikhail likes him or not. He tries not to make loyalties to anyone, just the one or two people in his life he's actually cared about. When they do meet up again, Mikhail pins him up against a wall and punches him hard in the stomach, screaming at him about fairy boys , have of the words in Russian, the other half in broken English. Keamy lets him yell, knowing that the Russian wouldn't act like this if he wasn't completely freaked out—Mikhail is a man very in control of his emotions and this kind of reaction gives him away completely. Besides, if he truly didn't want it, he could have just as easily killed Keamy.
After, the relationship between them is completely different and yet entirely the same. Mikhail makes obvious attempts to make up for the vulnerability he felt from the kiss, yelling at and insulting Keamy on a regular basis, though Keamy hasn't missed the lingering stares he gets when the Russian thinks he's not paying attention. At a certain point it reached fifty percent pure hatred and fifty percent "something else" and Keamy knows it's only a matter of time before the Russian makes a move. This is the calm before the storm and when it finally happens, Keamy is caught off guard which he suspects was the other man's intention. It's late at night and he's headed home from the restaurant when the Russian pins him against his car door, whispering threats at Keamy that actually freak him out. Mikhail's shorter than him, something Keamy wasn't consciously aware of until they're facing one another and would have dwelled on had the Russian not taken his silence as an opportunity to crush his lips to Keamy's. Keamy makes a noise of surprise as his eyes widen and Mikhail's hands shoot out to pin his wrists to the vehicle, obviously thinking that he'll try to get away.
Mikhail breaks away and once again leaves without another word. Keamy learns the next morning from Omar that the Russian had left town to kill someone which leaves him feeling anxious, unsure what it all meant. Keamy bides his time, never letting on that he gives a shit about the Russian man and before he realises it, Mikhail's standing at his front door at one in the morning on a Thursday. No words are exchanged because they both know why he's here. Keamy lets him inside and locks the door once more.
In the morning Keamy wakes up with aches and sore muscles he'd forgotten he had; the sun is starting to rise and the Russian is standing at the foot of his bed, buckling his belt, his dress shirt rumpled from lying on the floor all night. Keamy reaches over to the nightstand to find his cellphone to see what time it us, but it's missing. He sits up abruptly and before he can say anything, the Russian speaks.
"Your battery died. It's charging." He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen.
Keamy relaxes back against his pillows and headboard. "Thanks."
"You missed a phone call."
"Fuck. Probably Omar." The Russian sits down on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on and Keamy wonders if he's rushing. "Busy schedule?"
"I have things to do this morning," the man says in a dry tone.
Keamy scratches at his chin. "Doing anything for lunch?"
Mikhail smirks at him and Keamy tosses up his hands. "Not a date, you asshole! I have a problem down in Little Tokyo and I could use some help."
The Russian looks at him out of the corner of his eye while adjusting his shirt collar in the mirror. "What about Omar?"
Keamy shrugs. "He's eh, not welcome there any more."
The Russian seems satisfied with his appearance and turns to look at him critically. "I don't speak Japanese."
Keamy smiles. "I'm not going there to talk."
Mikhail is quite a moment longer, studying him as if sussing out any sort of trap that Keamy might be setting up, but he finally gives nod. "I'll drive."
"Meet me down at the restaurant!" Keamy calls out as the Russian leaves the bedroom, leaving his flat.
And like that, they are together, two men who have no one else to turn to but another criminal.