"I'm liking this idea of ours less and less..." Artem sighs discontentedly, sprawling comfortably on the large sofa. "Third time we've ended up in some shithole..."
He sits at a small table in the corner on the second floor of a not-so-spacious bar, looking gloomily at Oleg, who is settled opposite him.
A few months ago, for the sake of interest, the guys decided to visit every four-star bar in Moscow. And while in the center they still encountered places Krasnov considered "decent," the further they moved away from the Garden Ring, the sadder his face became.
Sheps, on the other hand, found it interesting. He loved these evenings because, to the accompaniment of light chatter with Artem, he could relax and observe all kinds of people. Men tired after work with glasses of beer who don't want to go home; groups of frenemies smiling sweetly in group photos but clearly wanting to humiliate each other at the first opportunity; lonely girls waiting for a free cocktail at the bar, and guys—not always single—looking for entertainment for the night.
There are, of course, ordinary people just having a good time, but those are useless to Oleg. The guy looks for those who are diligently hiding something.
Where this gravitation toward psychology came from, Sheps doesn't know himself. He was never interested in it academically, but somehow gradually began to notice other people's reactions to certain circumstances and one day wondered how he could influence them.
At first, Oleg wanted to learn this more for himself. He tried to find a way to pull out of himself the kind of vivid emotions he saw in others, because he remembered his last genuine delight only from somewhere in childhood—from the first insanely expensive toy he really wanted and finally received as a gift.
Back then, his mom said it would be like this always now, and she didn't lie. Gifts became more expensive, were given more often, and Sheps simply accepted it as a given, ceasing to get any pleasure from them. Trips abroad to luxury hotels bored him just as quickly.
Oleg liked this luxury, but it no longer seemed like something inaccessible and fairytale-like. He realized that this was now their stability, and that at any moment he would get whatever he wanted. The moment of anticipation for something had vanished, and it seems that was exactly what Sheps loved the most.
It was this "anticipation" that Oleg found for himself in the thrill of the gamble. Stupid bets with targets that couldn't be achieved easily, and other people's emotions that couldn't be bought with money, became the only source of any pleasure for him.
It's just a pity that the element of surprise has disappeared completely. The probability of the outcome in bets is always fifty percent, and people generally fall for his provocations with ease, constantly delivering a predictable result.
"Maybe we should go to my place?" Artem suggests hopefully, taking a sip from the glass the waiter brought. "At least I have decent whiskey."
"Fine," Sheps rolls his eyes. "You could nag the dead with your whining. We'll leave soon."
He gets up from the sofa and takes a few steps forward, stopping at the railing. The evening is just beginning, and people are slowly trickling into the establishment, so Oleg doesn't want to leave at all, even if the alcohol here really is of atrocious quality.
Sheps scans the first floor with an indifferent gaze and suddenly freezes, his flashing eyes locking onto a figure at the bar counter. This is simply fantastic luck. Of all the bars in Moscow, Krasnov randomly poked his finger at the map and pointed to this one, unknowingly choosing the perfect spot.
"Let's bounce?" Artem claps him on the shoulder and immediately frowns, realizing his friend isn't reacting.
Krasnov's gaze drops down, and he exhales a drawn-out "fuck," instantly spotting Cherevaty. Artem doesn't even need an explanation to know they won't be getting home anytime soon.
"I hope you at least do something interesting and don't just stare at him all evening," he chuckles and returns to the table resignedly, intending to order something else to replace the nasty whiskey.
Oleg examines Vlad with interest, ignoring the friendly jab. The professor looks unusual: a light pinstriped shirt, dark blue jeans, and on his slightly tired face—a sincere smile addressed to the person opposite him. Though Sheps couldn't care less about his companion.
He narrows his eyes slightly and examines the noticeable tattoo on Cherevaty's neck with surprise. So that's what the high collar of the constant turtleneck was hiding. Well, of course, the university wouldn't approve of that, and the young professor clearly wanted to make a serious impression on both students and colleagues.
Vlad clinks his shot glass with his companion and abruptly downs the contents, surprising Oleg again. It seems Sheps imagined him quite differently, and now he is completely thrown off, watching an absolutely ordinary guy who, in his head, doesn't correlate at all with the strict and cold image from the lectures.
Oleg thoughtfully sits back down on the sofa and tries to figure out the most profitable way to use this accidental, but extremely useful meeting.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
"The last time you leaned into it this hard was at our graduation," Ilya chuckles, watching Cherevaty place yet another order with the bartender. "Did you really get stuck with students that dumb?"
Larionov doesn't understand at all why his old friend was drawn back to the university. He himself would never trade his spacious psychologist's office in an upscale clinic for crowds of negligent students.
Vlad started talking about teaching somewhere in the middle of his fifth year. Ilya noticed that the university atmosphere, which he himself was thoroughly tired of by that point, seemed to pull Cherevaty in more and more. But the main role in this story, in Larionov's opinion, was played by Vlad's thesis supervisor.
Professor Golunova inspired indescribable admiration in his friend and, judging by the stories, was a model teacher. A strict, confident woman who knew her subject perfectly, she easily achieved not only iron discipline from students in her classes but also a sincere interest in the knowledge she skillfully presented. Absolutely everyone respected her, and even if some were a little afraid of her, they still treated her with love.
Golunova found an approach to everyone, even the student most indifferent to Statistics, and Cherevaty desperately wanted to become like her. And when, during work on his thesis, she suddenly said that Vlad would make a good teacher, he finally realized that a stuffy office wasn't what he should strive for.
Larionov, however, was of a completely different opinion. Despite the diligent studies and analytical mind that his friend undoubtedly possessed, Ilya was sure that Cherevaty would have to work on himself a lot on his chosen path. And although he didn't lack enthusiasm, hiding an explosive temper beneath a mask of calm every day is no easy task.
"The students are fine," Vlad shrugs, answering the question after a short pause. "But there is this one... rich kid..."
Cherevaty hadn't planned to complain, much less ask Larionov for help, but the alcohol spreading through his veins is slowly starting to erode his usual armor.
"Oh-h-h, now that sounds interesting!" Ilya drawls with a predatory smile. "Did the golden boy decide to demonstratively blow off your subject?"
"The golden boy decided to finish me off!" Vlad blurts out angrily, immediately snatching up the shot glass placed by the bartender.
He downs the shot without even waiting for Larionov and sighs heavily, looking up at his friend with a pitiful gaze from under his brows.
"Spill it," Ilya says calmly, realizing that his question has just finally ripped the strained mask off his friend.
He listens attentively to the emotional story, but the picture in his head doesn't add up, creating the feeling that Cherevaty isn't saying the most important part.
And Vlad really isn't saying. He lays everything out in order, but refers to Sheps's blatant actions simply as "another provocation," without going into details.
"So he gets under your skin with his words, I get it," Larionov interjects carefully. "Tries to undermine your authority. But that you—of all people—couldn't find an answer? I'll never believe that!"
He smiles encouragingly and hopes to somehow nudge Cherevaty toward the heart of the problem, but Vlad just signals the bartender, silently pursing his lips.
"Manipulative behavior and personality conflict," Ilya says after a short pause, realizing that Vlad isn't ready to continue.
"What?.." Cherevaty frowns in confusion.
"The topic of my thesis," Larionov chuckles warmly. "Forgot?"
Vlad smiles confusedly, lowering his eyes, thinking that a couple more shots and he'll hardly remember what they were talking about at all.
"The main success of manipulation lies in finding the target's weak spot," Ilya continues. "Provocations work not because of others' actions, but because of the internal conflict they cause."
"Even when you drink, you manage to be tedious," Cherevaty chuckles. "Can you keep it simple? We're not in your office."
"Admit the weakness he targets. And that will make you stronger."
"Admit that I'm an inexperienced teacher and don't know how to put guys like him in their place?" Vlad raises his eyebrows. "I don't deny it."
"Are you sure that's exactly your problem?"
Larionov looks at him somewhat seriously, like trying to spot that very string the cunning student is skillfully pulling, but Cherevaty seems unable to dig that deep anymore. He looks away and immediately tenses up, ceasing to hear what Ilya is saying next.
In the far corner of the bar, on a small stage Vlad notices just now, Sheps emerges from dramatic smoke.
Cherevaty shakes his head and looks around nervously, trying to figure out if his sick imagination conjured this image, because Oleg is wearing that very black shirt from the video and exactly the same jeans Vlad had pictured in his mind that evening.
"Didn't know guys danced here too," Larionov says calmly, turning toward the stage.
"Did you bring me to a strip club?.." Cherevaty exhales almost in horror, when his drunken gaze focuses on the shiny pole.
"It's usually only on weekends here, and today isn't even Friday..." Ilya shrugs and finally notices his friend's state.
Vlad stares unblinkingly at the stage with clear panic in his eyes, and Larionov frowns, not understanding what caused such a reaction. The guy who appeared doesn't look like a professional dancer, and most likely, it's just a patron who decided to impress the girls in the room. And those girls are indeed glancing his way with interest, except Cherevaty, sitting at the bar, almost stops breathing too.
Oleg looks down somewhere at his feet, circles the stage with a graceful gait, hoping his natural fluidity and sex appeal will be enough to look impressive despite his lack of experience in such dancing. He exhales imperceptibly, grabs the cold metal with his hand, and finally looks up, staring straight at Vlad with a brazen smirk.
And a jolt of electricity shoots through Cherevaty. His throat goes instantly dry from that look, and the first fluid movement of the other man's body literally imprints itself on his consciousness, finally shutting down his brain.
Vlad greedily watches the elegant back arch, smoothing out the folds of that notorious shirt somewhere around the stomach area, and licks his lips automatically. It seems he frankly doesn't give a damn about ethics or the fact that his student is standing before him. Cherevaty mentally justifies himself by thinking he isn't doing anything: just watching, like dozens of other people around. But his inner voice chuckles drunkenly, whispering something completely different, and Vlad can no longer help imagining his hands on that toned body.
Oleg slowly undoes the buttons on his shirt, never stopping rolling his hips in an almost perfect figure-eight, feeling maximally confident now. Of course, it's nice to notice admiring glances in the room, but this show is for one spectator only. And that spectator is looking in a way that makes Sheps feel insanely hot.
"He moves pretty well," Ilya notes. "The girls are already melting."
He laughs, but Cherevaty doesn't find it funny at all. The black fabric falls to the stage, fully exposing a lean torso, and Vlad realizes with horror what Larionov was telling him earlier. His problem isn't the guy on stage at all.
Oleg looks sexy. Too sexy. And it turns Cherevaty on, despite the whole situation he's in. Vlad breathes heavily, feeling his jeans getting tight, and admits to himself that he wants to see more. And preferably not in front of everyone.
Sheps touches his belt buckle with his fingers, notices the eyes opposite him flaring up with fire, and bites his lip in satisfaction, realizing the provocation succeeded. He bends down slowly, scooping the shirt up from the floor, slings it over his shoulder, and simply walks off stage, winking brazenly at Cherevaty one last time.
Larionov sees his friend resignedly close his eyes and gestures for the bartender to hit them again himself. How this unexpected striptease affected Vlad is obvious to Ilya even without a single question. As is the fact that the chemistry between these two nearly set the whole bar on fire. An absurd thought flies into his head, and Larionov's eyes widen in disbelief as he feels the puzzle pieces instantly click into place.
"Listen, about that rich kid..." Ilya chooses his words carefully, because asking point-blank about Cherevaty's attraction to a student is clearly a bad idea, but he doesn't get to finish.
"Yes, that's him," Vlad cuts in sharply with a hoarse voice, and Larionov falls into total shock.
He assumed his friend's intense reaction to the rather erotic dance was linked to repressed attraction, but hell! Ilya couldn't even imagine that this was the very same person. They are in a bar unfamiliar to Cherevaty, on the other side of the city, in a district where the golden youth definitely don't hang out, and Larionov doesn't understand at all how this could have happened. And in his surprise, he doesn't even know how to react so as not to make things worse for Vlad.
And Cherevaty doesn't know why he confessed. He barely realizes what is happening anymore as, hiding his eyes from Ilya, he downs another shot and then simply flees to the restroom.
Before his eyes, there is only the black shirt sliding off strong shoulders; and the cold water Vlad desperately splashes on his face does nothing to help get rid of the obsessive image. He looks up at the mirror and chuckles, looking at Oleg in the reflection. Cherevaty wonders just how much he must have drunk to start hallucinating that damn Sheps in the flesh, but the guy behind him smirks and suddenly speaks up.
"Good evening, Vladislav Vitalievich."
The voice sounds sultry, immediately making the professor flinch, while Oleg tilts his head to the side, peering intently into the almost glassy eyes. Cherevaty turns off the tap and slowly turns around to face him.
Sheps wants to drop a provocative phrase, but his breath hitches. Water runs in small drops down Vlad's face, trailing down his neck to the tattoo, and this sight instantly knocks all prepared words out of Oleg's head. He is visibly thrown, swallowing hard, and watches like in slow motion as Cherevaty silently approaches him.
Vlad is surprised himself that he notices the student's confusion, and he really wants to use it to sting back somehow, but for now, he is spending his remaining strength on an internal struggle. He has an overwhelming urge to shove Sheps into the stall behind him and just do what, it seems, they both want.
"There's a decent dance school not far from the faculty," Cherevaty manages to say, slurring his words slightly. "They teach fluidity there. You could use the lessons."
He leaves immediately, swaying a little, and Oleg slowly clenches his fists, nearly exploding with anger.
──── ♛ ♙ ♛ ────
Vlad leaves the bar without even saying goodbye to Ilya. For some reason, he is sure that Larionov won't be offended, understanding his state, especially after everything he learned today.
But what Cherevaty learned himself today gives him no peace even in the taxi on the way home. He recalls his state in fragments over the last few days and finally understands exactly what he was angry at. But for some reason, he doesn't feel that anger inside anymore. Vlad can't tell if realizing his own reactions helped him or, conversely, confused him even more, but he clearly feels that, to some extent, a weight has definitely lifted.
He almost stumbles into the apartment, tripping over the threshold, and carelessly kicks off his sneakers, sending them flying somewhere to the side. He wanders wearily into the room, shedding his jeans as he goes, and sits on the sofa in just his shirt, his gaze fixed on the turned-off TV.
Cherevaty recalls the palm sliding provocatively along his thigh and tries to figure out if he felt then what is making his skin literally burn right now. He unbuttons a couple of buttons on his chest, but it doesn't get any cooler, and his drunken consciousness for some reason conjures those fingers before his eyes again, revealing that maddening body to his gaze.
His breath hitches again, and Vlad looks around, trying to find any salvation from the arousing fantasies. His eyes latch onto a textbook lying on the small table nearby, and he immediately picks it up, opening it to a random page.
But his drunken gaze refuses to focus. For several minutes, Cherevaty stares blankly at the even lines, but the letters blur, doing nothing to help distract him. With a sigh, he puts the book back down, rubs his tired eyes with his hands, and has absolutely no idea what to do.
A notification arrives on his phone, and Vlad is actually scared by how his hands snatch it up sharply on their own, like he had been waiting impatiently for a message.
Ilyusha
You home? Get there okay?
Cherevaty purses his lips in disappointment and sends a short "yes," because he isn't sure he can type anything more coherent in this state.
The phone in his hands reminds him of that cursed evening a few days ago, and Vlad hesitates for about a minute, but still opens the chat with Sheps. It seems that the alcohol and Oleg's stunt today have pushed him to the edge, because he no longer wants to look for excuses. Cherevaty admits that he has lost the first match with a crushing score, and with trembling fingers, he plays the downloaded video.
The familiar image on the screen makes him lick his lips immediately, but now Vlad examines it in every detail, completely ignoring the sense of shame. His fantasy takes free flight, allowing Cherevaty to almost feel the touches on the other man's skin. And when Sheps throws his head back, Vlad shudders at his moan and no longer resists his own hand diving under the hem of his shirt.
Cherevaty doesn't think about what he's doing. He simply immerses himself headlong into what he sees on the screen, turns the volume up a bit, and, biting his lip, enjoys the heavy breathing from the speakers, slowly moving his clenched hand.
Oleg looks at the camera again, staring brazenly with eyes almost black with desire, and with his signature smirk, moves the phone further away. Vlad chokes on air and feels the arousal become almost painful in that very second.
Sheps is indeed wearing those same black jeans, slung low and lewdly on his hips. The bottom buttons of his shirt are undone just like the top ones, and Vlad can see absolutely everything perfectly, because Oleg isn't even wearing underwear.
Cherevaty instantly synchronizes his rhythm, speeding up his movements along with Sheps, and when a trembling voice comes from the speakers, he barely holds back a moan.
"Wish you were here? Vladislav... Vitalievich..."
The patronymic sounds like an almost exhausted whisper, on an exhale, and Vlad closes his eyes, ending his torture to Oleg's drawn-out moan.