November 1902
The common room of the house in which numerous members of the Iskra lived held a heavy atmosphere of heated discussed. Lenin stared across at Trotsky from across the room. The younger man was ranting to a few fellow newspaper workers, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Whenever anyone dared to disagree with his stipulations, Trotsky's face developed a stubborn pout that most charmed Lenin. However, it was all the more charming how vehemently Trotsky tried to hide it. It was a good few minutes before Lenin was noticed, but when he was there was no denying it.
"Vladimir Ilyich!" Trotsky called out, and jumped down from the coffee table he had been using as a podium. He ran across to Lenin, his expression so alive due to the excitement in the room. Additionally, it seemed that he had been drinking that night.
"Good evening," Lenin greeted him, "I have reviewed the notes that you have made for your upcoming lecture in Whitechapel. I wish to discuss them."
"Oh?" Trotsky's eyes seemed to panic for a second, before he quickly composed himself, "well thank you. But not here."
Lenin raised his eyebrows, "are you still 'ashamed of your ignorance'?" he quoted Trotsky in a mocking tone. As he had hoped, Trotsky's expression developed into one of peeved amusement, and he grabbed his coat that hung untidily from the back of a chair and walked out of the room. Lenin followed him after a few short conversations with the other inhabitants, namely to do with future developments in Iskra. It seemed for the moment that everything was operating fluently. But, Lenin anticipated, fractures would inevitably begin to show. He could feel the tide of change coming over them.
When he made his way out of the door he saw Trotsky leaning against the wall in the hallway, smoking. It was quite late outside, late enough to be very dark.
"Sometimes you are so ill-at-ease comrade, yet I can never figure out why," Trotsky said, "does something weigh upon your mind?"
"I would not wish to trouble you," Lenin said firmly, and they stood in silence for a while until Lenin spoke softly, "your notes. They are brilliant."
"You cannot truly think so," Trotsky was taken aback. He felt dizzy.
"They are not without their flaws, but their merits are extraordinary," Lenin elaborated.
"I am very much interested in the subject of your lecture. The defence of historical materialism against the criticisms of the so-called 'Russian subjective school'," He lowered his voice, "it's very fascinating."
"That means a lot to me," Trotsky put out his cigarette and immediately lit another, suddenly nervous, "but I am afraid it will fall on deaf ears. Do you not yourself agree that the British proletariat will never be able to break free to the surface and unite?"
"Perhaps not," Lenin mused, "but don't limit this to Britain."
"What do you mean?" Trotsky asked, once again taken by surprise.
"It has potential to spread to Germany and France," Lenin said, "besides, you yourself must travel Europe before you wish to have enough experience to change anything back in the homeland."
"Thank you." Trotsky said gratefully, but was finding the conversation increasingly heavy.
"It shows," Lenin smirked, "how hard you have been trying lately."
"I'm glad you appreciate that," Trotsky mumbled.
"Your work is always very driven. I like that," Lenin suddenly announced, and Trotsky looked at him speechlessly,
"What do you mean by that?" Trotsky murmured.
"I mean what I said. Do I confuse you?" Lenin asked without any venom in his voice.
"All the time," Trotsky confessed and Lenin chuckled.
"Well, I assure you that I do not mean to," Lenin said, "I am fond of the way you address people. I must say that I have no doubts in you as a public speaker."
"I like the way you talk," Trotsky told him, "it's good." He suddenly cringed at what he had said and Lenin laughed. Trotsky, still feeling vibrant from the lively debates back in the common room and feeling a sudden feeling of warmth, leaned forward without thinking and brushed their mouths together quickly, barely nipping at Lenin's bottom lip. He pulled back, still feeling Lenin's breath on his crooked smile. Lenin look back at him quizzically, but his expression was not unpleasant.
Trotsky stared at Lenin indignantly. He put out his latest cigarette. He had indeed indulged in a few drinks that evening, and he was now beginning to feel their full effects. "I should go," he said. When he tried to walk away he stumbled.
"You should, you're drunk." Lenin said.
"I am not!" Trotsky looked outraged, "how dare you?"
"You are right. I have been most wrong expect to be have this conversation with you whilst you are intoxicated," Lenin further taunted him, "but as a child I cannot blame you for having put yourself in such a stupor."
"Do not treat me this way," Trotsky said.
"Do not lie to me," Lenin retorted.
"I do not lie to you," Trotsky argued.
"Then tell me," Lenin paused, "that if the time comes and political bonds are broken that you will follow me."
That sentence sobered Trotsky up. "I can't do that," he whispered.
"No, of course not," Lenin said, his voice bittersweet.
"Ugh!" Trotsky spat angrily and pushed Lenin against the wall. In the same movement he timidly put his lips over Lenin's, suddenly feeling insatiably ravenous as he deepened the kiss - wanting to drown in the sensation. His mind felt blurry as if he no longer possessed the ability to think, because all that he could register was this pure gratification. The months of repressed desire seemed to leak out of him and it took all the strength in his body to finally break away in terror.
He wanted to feel disgust and shame but it never came. He could not look into his friend's eyes, and fell boneless against the wall. His heartbeats felt like explosions, and his hands shook uncontrollably and they restlessly fingered the loose threads of his trousers. There was a deafening panic in the silence that seemed to suffocate him. He heard Lenin move and he cringed.
The thought that he was moving away from him took over Trotsky and his head snapped up to see Lenin standing next to him. He was staring at him and Trotsky looked back at him as if expecting some sort of sentencing. But Lenin just smiled lightly and raised his eyebrows. Trotsky was unsure whether or not to feel relief but it came to him nonetheless.
"Look, I-" Trotsky wanted to speak but all at once it became apparent that he would never be able to say what he had to say. He would never be able to give voice to the feelings that he feared would dwell in his soul forever. This monumental realisation gave way instantaneously to a dull sorrow, and Trotsky looked at Lenin in panic – he wanted him to share this heartache with him forever.