Work Text:
It happens since the second night that Legasov spends in Pripyat.
He wakes up with a start, disoriented, kicking and fumbling like a drowning man. He doesn't know where he is, he thinks he’s suffocating and he can't lift his body from the bed.
Several minutes pass before his mind slowly brings him back to reality: he’s in a room of the Polissya hotel, and the party has entrusted him with the task of containing the incident occurred to Reactor 4, if it’s ever possible to contain the apocalypse.
He gets up and opens the wardrobe, where a few hours before he has put a couple of bottles of water; now, in the middle of the night, his gesture makes him laugh hysterically: as if an old poplar wardrobe could be a screen against the lethal radiations surrounding them.
But it wasn’t radiation that caused such a traumatic awakening. No, radioactivity will kill him slowly, silently and, at least for the first times, painlessly.
It was a nightmare, but now he remembers nothing about it.
That’s better, he says to himself, he has enough of the real nightmare that lays three kilometers away from his room.
The following morning, at breakfast, Boris Shcherbina joins him at his table; Valery is surprised, because there are other empty tables, but he doesn't say anything: their interaction didn't start in the best way, but Shcherbina made him have everything he asked for at an impressive speed, and now he seems willing to listen to him.
"The helicopters have already resumed to throw sand and boron in the reactor this morning," Shcherbina informs him.
"That’s good."
"Did you sleep well, comrade Legasov?"
"Yes, sure."
Valery lowers his eyes on the cup of tea he’s drinking, and that morning he does everything he can to avoid to meet comrade Shcherbina's eyes.
*
The third night is not unlike the previous one: Valery opens his eyes wide, he seems unable to breathe, his body is rigid and paralyzed.
"Breathe!" He orders to himself, "Dammit, breathe!"
He kicks off the covers and get up, barely reaching the bathroom because his legs are still shaking; the cold, surgical neon light above the bathroom mirror makes him squint, but at least disperses the last fragments of the nightmare: someone was trying to bury him, under tons of sand and boron.
He sprays cold water on his face, then throws himself on the bed, but he knows that he won't fall asleep again.
Shcherbina sits down at his table for breakfast, again. Valery decides not to wonder why anymore.
"I made some doctors come."
"Good decision: they will be useful."
"Many people are complaining about sleeping problems," says Shcherbina, spreading sgushenka on a slice of bread.
Valery is stirring the tea, and his hand freezes.
"Doctors can prescribe a sedative, if needed," continues Shcherbina.
"Good to know," Valery replies without looking up from his cup. "If you’ll excuse me, comrade, I have work to do."
*
The sedatives are of no use, if not to make him wake up more dazed and confused, but they don’t stop the nightmares.
Besides, as the nights go on, he remembers the details of what he dreams about, so the nightmares remain etched in his mind even during the day, as if what they are facing weren’t enough.
It’s almost noon and, from the little window of the trailer, Valery observes the shift rotation of the soldiers who are searching for the graphite fragments scattered around the plant, and thinks back to the nightmare he had that night, where everything melted around him, in a indistinct and gray lump: buildings, cars, people, the land itself. Only he remained alive, helpless witness of the disaster.
He takes off his glasses, closes his eyes and rubs his temples; the door of the trailer opens and closes, then a pleasant smell hits his nostrils: he opens his eyes and sees Shcherbina with two plates full of steaming stew.
"Eat," he says dryly, putting the plate in front of him ungracefully, then he sits down on the chair next to his.
Valery doesn’t believe that comrade Shcherbina would accept a "I'm not hungry" as an answer, so he thanks him with a brief nod and starts eating. After some forkful he feels better: he didn't realize he was hungry for real.
"Tell me, how is it that at some point someone came up with the idea of using radioactive elements to produce energy?" Shcherbina asks, filling two glasses of vodka.
The history of nuclear power is a subject that has always fascinated Valery, and telling about it to someone is a pleasant distraction.
*
Valery is standing in a large room and he’s looking at some people, even if they don’t look like people: their silhouettes are gray, elongated, barely human, they are like ghosts.
They line up neatly and, one by one, walk toward a door at the end of the room, beyond which Valery knows there is Reactor 4, a hellhole where those unsuspecting people are falling into.
"Stop!" He screams in panic, but it's as if he hasn't spoken: people don't stop.
"You are going to die!" He insists, but it’s useless, so he tries to block people with his body, but these simply pass through him, because he is a ghost too, a ghost who sends other ghosts to die, and perhaps, perhaps he should just stop screaming, joining them, waiting for his turn, and…
"Valery!"
Two knuckles press painfully onto his sternum, tearing him from the nightmare.
Valery opens his eyes and finds himself in front of Boris; his frowning face relaxes when he realizes that Valery is awake, but he’s still unsettled, perhaps more than when he told them that they will die soon.
Boris understood that he has nightmares since the first night and said nothing, but now Valery is defenseless and can no longer deny it, can no longer hide behind a cup of tea or the excuse of the work.
He feels cold on his face. He realizes that he cried while he was sleeping and angrily sweeps the back of his hand over his eyes; Boris doesn’t comment and Valery is grateful to him, but now he feels he has to say something to get out of embarrassment.
"I…"
"I called you several times before resorting to that move; you're lucky you woke up, because I was thinking of slapping you, if you hadn't." Boris takes the pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and hands it to him, but he has to light the cigarette because Valery's hands are shaking too much; only the nicotine calms it.
"Night terrors?"
Valery shrugs: "I'm not a doctor, but I think that the diagnosis is correct."
"Your file says you have never suffered of terrors before."
"Yes…"
"Well, it's understandable."
"How did you notice?"
Boris shrugs: "The partition walls are like cardboard, and my room is next to yours."
"I am sorry…"
"Don't you dare," Boris growls, and Valery looks at him in surprise: suddenly Boris looks angry and he doesn't understand why.
"Don't you dare to apologize, with everything you're doing here. You have nothing to apologize for," continues Boris, calmer, even though his eyes are fiery.
Valery almost smiles.
"Will you fall asleep again?" Boris asks.
Valery shakes his head, looking miserable: "No."
"What do you usually do after you wake up?"
Valery points to the documents on the table: "Sometimes I study how the survey of the area around the reactor proceeds, sometimes I check our stocks."
"I'll help you, so if you need something, I call Moscow right away."
"It's five a.m.."
"If we're awake, they can wake up too," says Boris, pragmatic, sitting at the table.
Valery smiles and looks at him with affection: Boris is a true friend, the only one he has, and...
... and it is better if his thoughts stop there.
*
Valery doesn't want to worry Boris with his nightmares, but he doesn't know how to stop them.
The only idea that comes to his mind, it’s to work as much as possible, until he’s worn out: the less he sleeps, the less he will fall prey to night terrors, and perhaps in the end he will be so tired that he will not dream.
However, Boris doesn’t seem to agree with his line of action; it's eleven p.m. and the two of them are alone in the trailer: Valery waits patiently for Boris to leave, and continues to browse through his documents, until Boris's fingers close, gentle but steady, around his wrist.
"Stop playing, Valery."
"I'm not playing, I'm working," he fusses, but god, he's a really bad liar, "You can go, if you want, I'll go back to the hotel on my own, later."
"If you stay, then I'll stay too."
Damned, stubborn Ukrainian.
"What is it, Valery?" Boris insists, but this time he doesn't bark an aggressive "what?" like he always does. His voice is a comfortable caress.
"I'm afraid," Valery confesses, lowering his head, "I don't want to have nightmares anymore."
"Sleep deprivation is not the solution."
"Then what's the solution?" Valery wouldn't want to, but his voice betrays all his despair.
"We'll think of something."
Boris isn’t a doctor or a scientist, he says it only to calm him down, and Valery has no reason to feel reassured.
Yet it works.
Boris's fingers are still tight around his wrist and Valery can't stop looking at them.
He would like to extend that instant to infinity.
Once back in the hotel, Valery is going to say him goodnight, when Boris comes up with a strange request: "I want to better understand how a nuclear reactor works, you haven't really explained much to me, the first time."
He opens the door of his room and Valery knows that it’s an invitation that can’t be refused, like when Boris put the stew in front of him and ordered him to eat.
Valery sits on the couch and starts talking, without thinking about his night terrors anymore, until he falls asleep.
He's still in the room of his previous nightmare, but this time he's alone.
The door in front of him threatens to open up at any moment, under the pressure of the radiations that are pressing against it.
Valery leans against the door with all his weight, in a desperate attempt to keep it closed, because if it opens, the radiations will wipe out everything, it will be the end for everyone, and it will be his fault only.
But his efforts are in vain: he is alone, his feet slip on the floor, the pressure is too much.
"I can't... I don't..."
A hand leans next to his on the door: there is someone else there with him, around him, a strong and reassuring presence that envelops him like a blanket.
"You don't have to do everything alone, Valera," says a deep voice that Valery thinks he knows, "you aren’t alone in facing this."
Valery looks ahead: the door stayed closed.
It’s a sunray that hit his face to wake him up the next morning: he is still curled up on the couch in Boris's bedroom, but someone has taken off his glasses, his shoes, and covered him with a long dark coat.
"Boris..." he sighs with a little smile, as he puts on his glasses.
Almost as if he has been summoned, Boris chooses that moment to get out of the bathroom after the shower, clean, perfectly shaved, and wearing only a towel around his waist.
Valery swallows so loudly that he’s sure that the KGB has heard him even without the aid of the microphone.
"Good morning, Valery. You seem to have slept better last night." Boris is cool and deadpan as he opens the wardrobe and puts the day's clothes on the bed, as if he weren't half naked in front of him.
Valery keeps on looking at him, gaping, wondering if, during the night, he slipped into a sort of parallel dimension, where he and Boris share such a level of intimacy.
He finds that he would have nothing against it.
"Valery, are you still sleeping? I'm talking to you."
"Ah... I... yes. I had a nightmare, but then it vanished."
He really doesn't know how he manages to articulate a sensible answer.
"Good. See you at breakfast?"
"Yes, sure."
His eyes still on Boris, Valery stumbles into the table before reaching the door.
"Valery, wait."
"Yes?"
Boris hands him his shoes with an amused face.
"You forgot these."
Valery looks down at his socks covered feet and mumbles “thank you.”
The day started well, but unfortunately doesn’t continue in the same way.
To Valery it’s absurd that the other three reactors of Chernobyl are still operating, when they don’t know yet why Reactor 4 exploded, but apparently it’s one of those decisions imposed from above, against which nothing can be done.
He can only check the security protocols and ask the plant staff to implement them, if necessary.
However, the other nuclear engineers don’t share his concerns, despite the incident, and continue to trust their protocols more than his words.
It’s like clashing with a rubber wall, and it doesn't take long before the discussion becomes heated.
"How can’t you see that it’s not enough?" Valery shouts, but he’s immediately interrupted.
"With all due respect, Professor Legasov, you are a chemist and have never worked in a nuclear power plant."
"None of them is listening to me, no matter what I say, it’s useless..." Valery thinks.
"Is there any problem here?" Boris growls, entering the room.
It’s almost comical to see how the engineers of the plant, who had been so bold up to that point, seem to shrink down, hearing to the intimidating voice of the politician.
"Comrade Shcherbina, we are trying to make Professor Legasov understand that..."
"Do you have the nerve to want to explain something to him?" Boris bellows.
"Well..."
Boris's gaze could freeze Hell: "I would look out the window before speaking, because it seems to me that the only thing you’re able to do it’s to cause a catastrophe. Now, Professor Legasov is here to help you, risking his life, so you will give him all the necessary assistance, and you will scrupulously stick to everything he says. Scrupulously, comrades, do you hear me?"
The engineers nod, quickly and vigorously.
"Very well, if you have finished wasting my time and that of comrade Legasov, get to work."
Valery tries to remember the last time he admired someone so much as he is admiring Boris, but he fails: without his help he wouldn’t have accomplished anything.
Leaving the room, Boris's shoulder gently touches his.
Suddenly a thought hit Valery: it's like in his dream. He was in trouble and Boris helped him.
"You aren’t alone in facing this."
The voice in his dream was that of Boris.
And yes, Valery believed he was alone; since he set foot in Chernobyl, he has felt all the responsibility on his shoulders, along with the fear of failing, of making wrong decisions, of putting the lives of other men in jeopardy.
These fears have turned into nightmares in his restless nights, and they have blinded him to the point of not understanding that he isn’t alone, that Boris is with him, on his side, always, that he is making more efforts than anyone else to make that enormous operation works.
*
It's evening.
Valery paces nervously back and forth in his room and cast wary looks at the bed, as if it were a monster. Last night he slept better in Boris's room, but he has no excuse to go there again, and the KGB could become suspicious. But he can’t continue to pace all night, even out of respect for the poor soul who sleeps in the room under his.
He leans against the wall that separates Boris's bedroom from his and, almost as a joke, he knocks twice.
He expects nothing, so he starts when he hears two answering knocks.
On impulse, he takes the blanket and the pillow, puts them on the floor and crouches there, one hand resting on the wallpaper: if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend to be touching Boris.
He should be ashamed of that thought, instead it's incredibly comforting.
Well, that says a lot about him, uh?
He doesn't have nightmares that night, but he can't say he had a brilliant idea: he's too old to sleep on the floor, and in the morning there's not a single muscle in his body that doesn't ache.
Before leaving the hotel to reach the base camp, Boris stops two soldiers: "Move the bed of Comrade Legasov against the wall farthest from the window: the draughts from the window sill have caused him rheumatism."
*
It becomes a ritual: before falling asleep, Valery knocks twice on the wall that divides their bedrooms, and Boris answers.
Some nights it works and Valery has no nightmares, some nights it doesn't.
One night in particular, he wakes up with the impression of having screamed: he dreamed that the tunnel that the miners are digging collapsed, imprisoning them all.
He closes his fist to knock on the wall, search for a little comfort, but then he thinks twice: it’s the dead of the night, Boris will be sleeping, it’s not right to wake him.
He drops his hand on the mattress and sighs, when he hears the usual two knocks on the wall. Boris is still awake or he woke up hearing him screaming.
"You aren’t alone in facing this."
Valery knocks on the wall and then whispers softly: "Thank you, Borja."
There is nothing wrong if he calls him like that, when no one can hear.
*
Valery is sitting on a stool at the hotel bar: he has just closed a call with Khomyuk, and now he has new data to work with.
The two KGB agents are sitting at a small table not far away, but by now Valery almost doesn’t pay any attention to them.
He even greets them when they meet; there is no reason to be impolite to people who are just doing their job.
Boris joins him shortly after with a manila folder in his hand; he sits on a stool and begins to read: "Comrade Legasov, your night terrors aren’t improving."
Valery shoots him a shocked look: how did the information end up on his file, and why does Boris talk about it openly in front of the KGB agents?
However, he realizes that, while Boris's voice is detached and professional, his eyes are reassuring him. "Just play along," they seem to say.
"No..." Valery answers cautiously.
"I had a talk with the doctors: night terrors cause even temporary paralysis, correct?"
"Yes," Valery replies, although Boris probably knows more than he does: he hasn't done research on the pathology, with everything he has to do every day.
"It looks very serious."
"It is."
"Here it says that a person in the grip of a night terror can even stop breathing for a while."
"Uh..." That's not accurate: the diaphragm is an involuntary muscle, Valery has only the impression of not being able to breathe, but the muscle continues to function, the episodes that he has suffered are terrifying, but not fatal.
But perhaps this information isn’t for him, is for the two men sitting at the table, who are following the conversation with great interest.
"Yes, it happened to me." It’s perhaps the best lie of his whole life.
Boris shakes his head: "It's not good: if something happened to you, all the work done so far would be wasted, and finding a replacement would take away valuable time. Surely you understand that we can’t allow this to happen, for the sake of this operation."
"Of course," Valery nods, but he still hasn't figured out what Boris is doing.
He is really a naive idiot.
"You absolutely need to be monitored by someone while you sleep."
Valery’s eyes widen, and the cigarette rolls away from his numb fingers: Boris has just suggested, in front of two KGB agents, that it would be better if they slept together.
And he found a perfectly logical and rational motivation to justify it.
Of course, that's what Valery wants, but why is Boris offering to do it?
It seems something more than a simple concern from a good friend.
Or maybe he's just a complete idiot and he's imagining things that don't exist.
In any case, he trusts Boris and will play along.
"It's a good idea, comrade: I've had some very violent episodes of night terrors."
"Well, I will update your file," Boris concludes, closing the folder, always speaking in a very professional way. "I'll wait you in my bedroom."
"Uh..."
"I certainly don't have to remember you of the draughty window sill in your bedroom, I don't want to end up with rheumatism too," Boris grumbles, in the rudest tone he manages to produce, as if that situation were just a huge nuisance to him, and not a farce he himself set up to deceive the KGB.
Why isn’t Boris Shcherbina the leader of the USSR?
Valery leans against the counter to finish his glass of vodka, collects his notes, showing off a calm that he doesn't feel, then goes up to his bedroom, getting ready for the night and wearing his pajamas.
He feels terribly embarrassed as he knocks on Boris's door, and he repeats himself again that he is an idiot, because they have already slept in the same room, so there is nothing wrong, Boris just wants to help him with his nightmares.
"Come in!" Boris barks from behind the door, "or are you waiting for a butler to come and open the door for you?"
Boris' rough tone is enough to shake him from his reverie, at least until Valery goes in, and finds Boris already lying in bed.
In a double bed.
"Boris..." he wheezes. He was sure there would be two single beds.
"What?"
"The bed..."
"If you haven't noticed, our staff occupies the entire hotel, there are no other beds available, but if you want to sleep on the floor, go ahead and be my guest."
"No thanks," Valery replies with a grimace: he still remembers his aching muscles.
Boris silently tilts his head, inviting him to come closer, and his face is relaxed, in open contrast to the annoyed tone of his voice.
"You know why I have to play this farce, Valery, it's all right," his eyes say.
Valery nods, he understands, but still feels uncomfortable and he needs the last cigarette of the day, but Boris stops him: "Oh no: you can turn your bedroom into an ashtray and even our trailer, but not my room."
Valery sighs, annoyed, and puts the package on the bedside table before sitting on the bed: living with Boris and his alpha male personality wouldn't be easy. Obviously, if someone asked Valery if he ever imagined to live with Boris, he would deny it to the death.
And he would lie.
"You'll survive a few hours without smoking," Boris says, switching off the light.
The room is dark now, and for Valery it’s a little less embarrassing to lie down on the bed. He lies perfectly still on his side, as rigid as a log, his back to Boris.
But then the mattress sinks, when Boris moves, sliding close him.
Valery gulps: this doesn’t help him, with the the strange thoughts that lately escape his control, it doesn’t help him at all.
"Valery," Boris whispers, "the only microphones in my room are under the table where I work and in the phone. It's safe in the bed if you talk in a low voice, you know, in case you have something to say."
"O-okay."
"And for god’s sake, relax: I won't jump on you, if you don't want to."
Boris lies back on his side, pulling almost all the blankets.
"Well, I'm sorry if the situation is terribly embarrassing to me," Valery would like to reply, resentful, pulling the bedspread in turn, then his mind rewinds and replay Boris' last words: I won't jump on you, if you don't want to .
Words that have the power of a train across his sternum.
"If you don’t want to."
Valery turns cautiously towards him, opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, like a goldfish, a question that is about to leave his lips: "Are you joking? Tell me you aren't joking, because... I think I want it."
The moment is broken by Boris's heavy breathing.
He snores.
And quite loudly too.
Valery holds a laugh in the back of his throat and purses his lips to avoid making any sound. The idea that the KGB pays some agents to hear Deputy Chairman Shcherbina snoring is simply preposterous.
Valery pulls Boris’ pillow slightly to make him stop, but, in his sleep, Boris fidgets and kicks him on a shin, making him hiss with pain.
Oh, living with Boris would certainly be an interesting experience.
"Good night, Borja," he whispers. As soon as he closes his eyes, he’s already asleep.
"I didn't have any nightmares," Valery thinks, even before opening his eyes, as he’s quietly dozing. He is rested and peaceful, as it hasn’t happened in weeks, and he decides that he can afford to chill in bed a little more, with his forehead leaning against the wall...
No, it's not a wall, it's too warm and soft, and it smells good... what...?
He opens his eyes and...
Oh.
In his sleep he moved, searching for the warmth and the closeness of Boris's body, and now his hand is on Boris’ side and his forehead is resting between his shoulder blades.
Valery gives himself some credits, because he doesn’t shout or jump out of the bed as if it were on fire: if Boris wakes up now, the situation would become much more embarrassing than it already is, so he cautiously takes his hand away, but before slipping out of bed, he gives himself a few more moments to stay with his eyes closed and his forehead resting on Boris’ back.
Boris's regular breathing makes him feel better, calmer; the anguish for the fate of the men who are working around the reactor, and the weight for the decisions that he has to take every day, disappear.
And maybe it isn’t normal but after all, there in Chernobyl, normality has long since disappeared.
Normality doesn’t matter, when he has less than five years left to live. He can make room for some madness and imagine bringing his hand back to Boris's side and letting it wander on his body, then raising his head and kissing Boris’ neck.
When the temptation becomes too strong, Valery quietly leaves the room: there is a border between madness and ruining his only friendship.
Ultimately, he thinks while he is under the shower spray, it seems that his nights must be problematic, in one way or another: if it’s not the nightmares that upset him, it’s the thoughts that the proximity of Boris causes him.
And he can't keep the nightmares at bay except with Boris's help.
He's screwed anyway.
At this point he lets out a strangled chuckle because, what the hell, if he can take a shit while the KGB listens to him, he can also come off like a lunatic.
He has the right.
*
"This equipment must be buried, it's too contaminated," says Valery, giving a report to Boris, "we need new one."
"Okay, I'll make some calls."
Then Valery is called outside, because Pikalov's soldiers have difficulty interpreting some data, and he spends the next hour examining it with them. When he's done and returns to the trailer, Boris is yelling at someone.
"He is on the phone with Moscow," explains Pikalov: he has some documents in his hands, but he doesn’t dare to go in.
"Any problems?"
"With the delivery of the new equipment you required, apparently."
"Why?"
Valery has learned to recognize when someone looks at him with the pity that’s reserved to idiots, and that's exactly how General Pikalov is looking at him.
"Because these things cost."
Valery frowns: "We need to cover up an open nuclear reactor and clear the region for kilometers around, did anyone in Moscow or elsewhere believe it would be cheap? We need those equipment, there is no other solution."
"It's not that simple, comrade," reiterates Pikalov.
But Boris makes it seem simple: so far he has fulfilled all Valery’s demands without ever mentioning the problems and obstacles he has to face to get him men and equipment. Boris too has a huge load of responsibility on his shoulders, yet he manages to hold it without breaking or complaining.
When Boris has finished screaming, Valery takes the documents from Pikalov's hands.
"I’ll do."
The general is very happy not to have to deal with Shcherbina right now, and walks away.
Boris is still furious, so Valery takes the vodka bottle and fills two glasses.
"You never drink," observes Boris.
Valery shrugs: "Now I want to drink with a friend."
Boris gulps his glass down and Valery fills it again, then takes some of the papers on the table.
"These are lot of phone calls to do, I’ll help you."
"No."
Boris closes his fingers around his wrist, and Valery can't help but think that Boris could have put a hand on the paper to block him, but he chose a physical contact with him.
Again.
"Boris..."
"You don't have to ruin your vocal cords, too, screaming against Moscow."
"I want to help you," Valery says, resolute, "you do for me much more than what you are required to. Like, my nightmares: you don’t have to help me, and yet you do."
It's Boris' turn to fill his glass, with his free hand. "There’s no such formality between friends, Valera."
"They're just phone calls, let me do it," Valery insists, then a smile appears on his face, and it's so unusual that Boris is puzzled and loosens his grip around his wrist. "I can force you," Valery goes on.
"How?"
"I can blackmail you." Valery keeps his voice light and cheerful, to make him understand that he's joking.
Boris barks a dry laugh: "You have nothing to blackmail me with."
"You're wrong: I know you snore and I could spread the rumor."
"I don't snore!"
Boris' outraged face is priceless and Valery would really like to have a camera.
"You snore," Valery insists.
"You're a slanderer, Valery Alekseevich," he grumbles, but smiles as he lets his fingers slip off Valery’s wrist.
Valery knows he won't get anything from those phone calls, because nobody listens to him, but it's his way of telling Boris that he's not alone either, and the only thing that matters to him is that Boris understand.
*
He is in the usual room, sitting at a table with documents to be approved in front of him.
Obviously, before signing them, Valery must check them, but he can't do it, because he doesn't understand what is written, the letters move, overlapping, and the words make no sense.
"Wait a minute, please... I need more time..." he gasps, but the documents continue to pile up constantly on the desk, in a rickety tower that reaches the sky and that, he knows, will soon fall, burying him.
In his sleep, Valery moans and moves around, his face worried, his eyes moving behind his closed eyelids, then Boris puts his thumb on his wrinkled forehead, caressing, smoothing.
"Rest, Valera," he whispers.
Valery's body is taut for a few moments more, then relaxes, and his sleep is calm again.
"Rest, Valera," says Boris, appearing in his dream, and all the papers disappear from the table and with them, the anguish that weighed on Valery.
"Thank you Borja," he sighs, throwing his arms around his neck, "I don't know what I would do without you." He is marginally aware that this is a dream, but because of that he can dare to do what he would never do when he's awake: hugging Boris as he raises his head and kisses him.
"Borja..."
Of all the dreams he has had since he arrived in Pripyat, this is the most peculiar one because, as Valery is about to wake up, he stills feel Boris’ hug.
He tries to move his right arm, but he can’t, so he opens his eyes slowly and realizes that the dream has become real, in a sense: while they were sleeping, they moved, and now Valery is half buried under him.
Boris's breath is on his neck, one of his leg has ended between his and one arm possessively holds his side; Valery swallows, trying in vain to calm down, but now that he is awake the contact between their bodies burns his skin, even through his pajamas, especially the one of Boris' thigh, pressed almost painfully against his groin.
And Boris may be old, older than him, but his grip is still strong, and he doesn't budge, so Valery's attempts to slip away are completely in vain.
The truth is that Valery wouldn’t want to leave the bed, he would like to kiss Boris's face, wake him up and see what happens; instead he closes his eyes and sighs, thinking of what to do when Boris wakes up: could he chuckle to ease the tension? Could he say "we’re lucky that the KGB has no cameras" ? (it has no cameras, right?)
"The way I see it, you have two options," Boris mutters against his neck.
He is awake.
Valery gasps, searching for something to say, but Boris precedes him: "Either you stop moving and let me sleep, or we drop this act."
Boris's voice, low and deep, so close, makes all his body hair stand on.
And not only his hair.
Valery moans in despair and closes his eyes, in a vain attempt to put an end to the humiliation.
"Boris..."
"Hm," he interrupts him, "I like it better when you call me Borja."
Valery opens his eyes, shocked: "You... how do you know..?"
Boris raises his head and smiles, as if he really enjoys seeing him embarrassed.
"Valera, maybe I snore, but you talk in your sleep."
"I…"
"You are a very romantic man."
Is there anything more humiliating than this? If it exists, Valery doesn’t know.
"And before you give yourself a heart attack," continues Boris, stroking his cheek with a finger, "I invite you to ponder this: do you think I parade around half-naked in front of all the men I meet, or invite them in my bed?"
"Oh…"
In fact, Boris doesn’t show any repulsion for the current situation, and is still lying on him, this impossibile Ukrainian, and Valery feels him harden against his leg.
"Oh..." he repeats, and he knows he has a stupid adoring expression on his face.
"I noticed your signals, Valera, I thought you had noticed mine."
Valery takes courage and puts his hands on Boris' shoulders.
"I'm not used to these things, and I never thought that at my age, under these circumstances, I would meet someone like you."
"You say it to me?"
Valery is sure that he has never been looked upon with such affection by anyone; gently, he caresses Boris' neck and pulls him to himself.
Boris doesn’t hesitate any longer and finally kisses him; he is determined, confident and so good, exactly as Valery thought he was. He lets himself be guided by Boris, follows his lead, gets lost in the touch of Boris's lips that capture his again and again, until they’re breathless, and when Boris's tongue caresses his, he doesn't hold back a needy groan.
The sound seems to light a fuse in Boris, and he answers with a dull growl.
His kisses get hot, frantic, and leave Valery trembling.
Valery's hands creep under Boris's pajamas, stroking his back; it’s broad, warm and slightly sweaty, and Valery decides that it’s the part of him that he loves the most.
Boris sighs his approval in his mouth.
"Valera," he moans, moving his lips to his neck; the stubble and his kisses are like a brand on Valery’s skin, but it’s not enough, not anymore, not now that he knows that Boris wants him as much as he wants Boris.
Valery jerks Boris’ pajama shirt as if the garment has offended him, and soon they get rid of their clothes, then Boris lies back on him again.
The contact with his bare skin makes Valery shiver, and when their erections touch, he must stifle a groan against Boris’ shoulder.
Boris lifts Valery’s head and kisses him again, with such force that he seems to suck Valery's life and then infuse it again in him with the next breath, and then he begins to slowly slide down his body, kissing, biting, tasting, leaving a trail of burning sensations on Valery’s skin; he kisses his chest, where his heart is beating wildly, brushes his nipple with his rough fingers, making Valery writhe on the sheets, kisses and licks his trembling stomach, and when he bites the sensitive skin of his navel, Valery must cover up his mouth with one hand to keep from screaming.
Boris's fingers caress his hip bones, then he looks up at him, eyes clouded by desire, terrible and beautiful at the same time. Boris would like to devour him, but he is silently asking if it’s okay.
Valery has to cover his eyes with one arm, because he's too turned on.
"I wouldn't last a minute, Borja," he confesses, panting, "I’m sorry."
"Don’t be," Boris murmurs, stroking his thigh, "it's rather flattering, actually."
Valery lets out a chuckle.
"Next time?" He asks, hesitant. There is a part of him that needs to know that there will be a next time.
"Next time," Boris reassures him, but then he doesn’t resist and places a warm, moist kiss on the tip of his cock.
Valery jolts, as if he got an electric shock, the pleasure so intense that it almost makes him come.
Only when he has calmed down, he opens his eyes: Boris looms over him again, an amused light dancing in his eyes.
"You weren’t joking."
"I'm at your mercy," Valery snorts. It should be like a joke, instead it sounds terribly fragile and vulnerable.
"Hush," Boris whispers on his forehead, before kissing him, "don’t worry, I’ve got you."
"I know."
Valery searches his lips and kiss him again.
That's true: in Boris’ arms nothing bad can reach him, not even the night terrors can touch him anymore. He opens his mouth to tell him, because Boris must know how important he is, but then Boris' right hand closes around his cock, and the words fly away from his mind.
Boris moves his hand up and down, slowly, because he knows that Valery is close; he stops every time Valery's breath falters, then he starts to torture him again, his fingers grazing the veins, his thumb caressing the frenulum and the crown underneath to the glans.
Valery's mind is swimming in a sea of pleasure and when he thinks that it's too much, that he’s about to lose his mind, Boris' other hand slips past his drawn up testicles to the perineum and presses and...
Valery's cry is suffocated by Boris's mouth on his; he doesn’t move until the last shivers have dissipated and Valery has regained the control over his body again.
He is exhausted, lightheaded as if he were drunk, and it takes him a while to realize that Boris is rutting urgently against his thigh, his lips tightened, the sweat dripping down his temples.
"W-wait, let me… I want..." Valery places a hand on his chest to make him lie on his back, then he sits up with some difficulty, his limbs uncoordinated like those of a newborn fawn.
Boris chuckles, but when Valery's lips close around his erection, he doesn't laugh anymore.
Valery ignores the bitter tang on his tongue and concentrates on pleasuring Boris, on his throbbing erection, on his trembling thighs and abdomen, on the endless litany of praises and curses that slips out of his mouth.
Valery sucks harder, then closes gently a hand around his testicles, and Boris's orgasm suddenly explodes in his mouth; taken aback, Valery coughs and spits, but otherwise he is very pleased with himself.
"I should have warned you," Boris pants, sounding mortified for the first time, "I’m sorry."
"Don’t be," sighs Valery, flopping onto the mattress next to him, "it's pretty flattering," he parrots.
Boris grumbles, but then he takes Valery in his arms.
"Next time it will be better, we just need a little training."
"Are you sure it's not a problem?" Valery asks in a small voice. He’s happy right now, entranced even, but he doesn't want to do anything that could put them in danger of being discovered and separated.
That's the only thing he couldn't stand, he knows.
"Of course. Your night terrors are far from being healed, comrade Legasov," says Boris in a loud, clear voice, for whoever is eventually listening, "you dreamed and fidgeted around all night long, keeping me awake."
Valery hides a smile on Boris's shoulder and then kisses him.
It’s still early, they can stay in bed; after a few maneuvers, Valery plasters himself against Boris's back, his forehead resting between his shoulder blades.
Perhaps he’s developing a weird fascination for his back, but he feels safe like this, close to the man who has reshaped his dreams and also his reality.
Boris takes Valery's hand that’s resting on his side, drags it on his stomach, and intertwines their fingers together, sighing contently before falling asleep.