Thanks to olga_galich for the editing, once again. :)
So the saying goes, 'Ain't no rest for the wicked.' But Mikhail was still fucking deadbeat tired.
He'd spent all night in grey ol' Moscow, negotiating with the tight-ass Swiss on a joint route which would help expand both their syndicates, and rather than spend one extra minute in the central hub of Russia, with its corporate assholes and conceited wannabes that were forever trying to get on Mikhail's good side, he'd simply gotten the fuck out of there and taken his jet right on the short flight back to St Petersburg, where there was a little bit more goddam breathing room.
St Petersburg was Mikhail's home, even though he operated out of Moscow. As close to a home as he could manage, anyway.
His Renaissance-style apartment overlooked the canals, dubbed the 'Venice of the North' with their cobblestone walkways that were slick on a wet day and old stone bridges with resilient green moss creeping up the sides, connected the small channels of water. It was like stepping back in time, and the view from his top-floor apartment never got old to wake up to in the mornings - the nights he actually went to sleep, that is.
This city: with its eccentric vibe, pumping clubs, one-night stands, and amazing coffee which cured any hangover, along with bustling tourists or exchange students - who had no fucking idea who he was, - traditional buildings, Baroque architecture and laid-back locals, was his one dose of normality in his high-profile existence.
A nice fucking change of pace compared to the pretentious politicians, overambitious associates, and men and women desperate for power and status that was found in Moscow.
A man could only take that bullshit for so long before he just killed the first dumb fuck that crossed the line on a bad day.
Then again, it never hurt to make an example of someone. He wasn't opposed to using death, carnage and violence as tools to set himself apart and make people realize he was the only person fit to lead.
It was better that way.
What was even fucking better than that right now, though, was the warm morning sun of St Petersburg through the open roof of his Hummer as he parked outside his favorite coffee shop to get a much-needed caffeine hit. Fuck those dreary bullshit thoughts – Moscow always made him feel that way.
Even in St Petersburg though, he still felt eyes on him, just like he did now as he stepped down from his Hummer and conferred with Yuri about today's order of business on his way to the door of the quirky little café, with its crooked art and mismatched pieces of eighteenth-century style furniture.
Just another day in the life of Mikhail Arbatov. He ignored that itching feeling that told him someone was watching him and felt his mood pick up as the doorbell chirped its colorful greeting to him when he walked in the shop, which smelt like freshly roasted coffee beans and sweet breakfast pastries.
Shit, it was good to be back.
The barista that made his coffee nearly every morning when he was in St Petersburg didn't seem to be paying much attention to people walking in the door however. He was staring out the window, looking like a love-struck puppy on cloud fucking nine at something outside.
"Oi, Viktor!" Mikhail roused the man from his daydream. "What's got you lookin' like a blissed-out teenage girl, eh?"
The man, Viktor, startled to see their most important customer smirking at him over the counter; he began sputtering out apologies before Mikhail quieted him with a blasé flick of his wrist.
"The usual, sirs?" the ash-haired barista asked once the matter was cleared. He received two quick nods, one from Mikhail, one from the man that was always with him, Yuri, before he began to make coffee and answer Mikhail's original question - you always answered Mikhail Arbatov's questions.
"There is a new customer outside, from Japan, he's really…." Viktor trailed off, and Mikhail got the picture.
"Oh!" he chuckled at the thought that the barista was crushing on some newbie tourist, "you want to bang his brains out." The mafia leader snickered as a massive blush spread over the man's cheeks. His crude sense of humor wasn't for everyone, but he loved messing with people and pushing their buttons more than anything, and Viktor was too fucking easy.
Yuri just sighed. Bless the old bastard, he was the only one who could tolerate Mikhail's company for more than twenty-four goddam hours at a time, and Yuri was the only person who Mikhail would have in his company for any longer than that. Sure, he was close with his other subordinates, but they also all knew their place.
Curious though, Mikhail turned to see what the fuss was all about. He saw a mop of unruly blonde hair that shone like threads of silver in the morning sun, sticking out at all angles in defiance of the fresh breeze that wanted nothing more than to whip that nest of hair in a uniform direction.
The lithe frame was showcased in tight black t-shirt, the fabric that hugged his torso and arms snugly exhibited his lightly muscled form, and a pair of shredded denim jeans tapered the long legs stretched out underneath the table.
What really stood out though, like a splash of color on a rainy winter's day or a vibrant piece of art on the white paint of a gallery wall, was the coiled red scales he could see slithering up his right arm that was facing the window.
The ink creature disappeared up under the hem of the sleeve and out of sight to finish who knows where on that body. Soft pink blossoms caressed the ruby red scales, and flowing shades of grey brought the fore colors to life on that smooth skin.
Well, that was interesting! Mikhail highly doubted any Yakuza who was high up enough to have that many tattoos would be so thick-headed as to come onto his turf without an instant death wish.
"He speaks English, eh? You get to chat with him some, Viktor?" Mikhail asked absentmindedly as their take-away coffees were handed over. They smelt so damn good; nothing could clear the scent of blood from your nose like a strong coffee.
Mikhail couldn't see much of his face; the blondie was leaning over the table and looked to be in a world of his own as he concentrated all his attention on - what exactly was he fucking doing?
"Yes, sir," Mikhail sighed at the formal tone everyone addressed him with, before the barista continued, "it's his first day here from Tokyo. He looked pretty beat from his flight so I gave him an extra shot of coffee, looks like it woke him up some."
And it did. Mikhail said his thanks and headed for the door with Yuri on his heels, looking out the window as the messy blond gave all his attention to something on the table, hiding from view as his bangs draped over his face.
When Mikhail made it to the door with his first sip of coffee traveling down and making him feel significantly less irritable, he got a clean view through the window at what the Japanese was doing, as well as the rest of the ink gracing his other arm and his hands.
One deft hand, gripping a pencil expertly as if it were precious, was a blur of a crimson flower as it moved with intensity and purpose over a napkin on the table. The other hand, covered in the same red flower, was holding the napkin still - fingers splayed out over the table - and only gently pushing down on the edges of the makeshift canvas.
Fuck it all, Mikhail was intrigued now, despite his full schedule, lack of sleep and his general attitude of not giving a fuck about some random tourist who the fucking barista thought was hot for sucks sake. He wanted to know what crazy tattooed bastard in their right mind would be up at this hour at a café on their first fucking day in the country, drawing on a goddam napkin of all things.
And, more than anything, he wanted to know what was on that napkin. He wasn't close enough to see, but the way that pencil stroked the tissue paper, that delicate flick of his wrist, his posture as his body protected the napkin from flying away in the breeze. This person was in a world of his own, and the only thing that mattered was the shades of grey on that napkin that the Russian couldn't quite make out.
Eh. Why not? He was Mikhail fucking Arbatov. What would it matter if he was late to a meeting, or if he didn't show up at all? No one would complain, let alone question it, so he was going on a detour to that table on his way to the Hummer, he decided.
Detours were so fun, he loved unexpected things, and they always pissed Yuri off, so that was double the fun.
The bell trilled as he pushed the coffee shop door open.
.
In some far corner of Akihito's inspiration-struck, jet-lagged but not tired, because the caffeine was working brain, he should have registered the cheery ting of the door bell as Mr Russia and his friend came back out. But because he was too intent on said person coming to life on his napkin, he may as well have been completely fucking deaf.
The portrait of the man's head and shoulders was only the size of his palm, big enough for him to get some finer details in - soft rolling shades of grey streaked his sketched hair in handsome charm, gentle contours articulated a slight curl to his lip, leaving the viewer guessing if it would turn into a dangerous snarl or a playful smirk.
Etched lines of lead defined his straight powerful jawline with an upward tilt to his chin that whispered authority and domination, the way he darkened the plains of his neck shadowed an attitude that would take no nonsense.
Rough heavy lines captured the angle of his built shoulders: not too steep and not too flat, the shoulders of someone immense, commanding and influential, but still Akihito managed to feel like he'd captured that invisible slump which suggested a hue of loneliness. There was a lot to be said, by looking at the angle of a man's shoulders, Akihito always thought.
What he was most pleased about, though, was those eyes - he definitely liked the color grey now. For something drawn on a fucking napkin with a zombie controlling his limbs, this was pretty damn good, all because of those eyes. He'd managed to get the lead to shine, to glean like a soft lead did when you layered over one spot and built up the shading.
Vivid all-knowing eyes looked into the distance behind Akihito's shoulder; and with the morning sun shining down on this napkin the eyes shimmered, dancing in the sun as if the man were up to some sort of mischief, but if he hid the napkin from the light source and placed it in shadow, those eyes turned dark, serious and foreboding as the color grey took on endless depth.
He never thought he could do so much with the grey, but as it turns out it was the only pigment needed to render this man.
Akihito would never have imagined that the first thing he fucking drew in his once in a life time trip around the globe, would be a picture of some random man on a fancy napkin outside a coffee shop.
His first photo better be of something meaningful to make up for this… whatever it was.
It could have been anything: an historic building with worn brickwork and marble colonnades; a cathedral with its grand spires and stain-glass windows; the view from the plane last night with its pulsing lights and glowing veins. But no. He was swooning, that's right, swooning on some blonde bombshell who was probably a fucking model, or a celebrity, or the definition of drop-dead gorgeous. No matter what he was, he was so fucking far out of his league it was laughable that he was drawing a goddam picture of him.
This man was probably in his own league, and the only way to get there would be for the man to invite you all the way up to his fucking penthouse or whatever.
And here he was being a total creeper and drawing him like some obsessed stalker, if he breathed deeply and hunched over it would totally complete the look.
"Oi! What's that you're working on there, mm?" quizzed an interested voice in deep English with a rough accent that grated all the way down to his bones, snapping him out of art mode with a jolt of his limbs.
Snapping his head up he saw Mr Russia heading over to his table from the door, and oh my fucking god he was looking at Akihito and it was almost too much to bear, looking at him, into him, through him.
The thick grease of exhaustion and fatigue chose that exact moment to seize all his coherent thought processes, a big fat 'fuck you' from the gods of embarrassment and shame, because he was forced to watch, as if he were trapped in his own goddam body and rendered inert, as yet another light gust picked his napkin up, and literally carried said napkin off the table in Mr Russia's direction.
He flailed after it like a moron though, grabbing at empty air; that moment of travel-induced catatonia doomed him. The napkin fluttered like a happy fucking gay butterfly all the way to the man's feet.
Fuck you, you traitorous napkin!
Forget about self-combusting under the man's scrutiny, something much worse was happening to him right now. Mr Russia bent with the languid grace of someone who could utilize every muscle in his body, and plucked the napkin from the paved sidewalk between thumb and forefinger that had a large gold ring on it, it flashed under the sunlight in mockery of his situation.
It was like pouring gasoline all over Akihito's humanity. The man flattened the napkin out in his calloused hand, and even now, as he wanted to bury himself, Akihito couldn't help but notice those hands - large, clean, the nails trimmed and neat, with hardened fingers that looked like they knew hard work, but then the man looked down at his likeness on the napkin.
Fuck this, he couldn't wait to self-combust, he was going to set himself on fire instead.