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English
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Published:
2022-11-20
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On the Tongue of His Boot

Summary:

After the poker scene, Goncharov reflects on the ways he's twisted his relationships with Katya and Andrey, and questions what its all for.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! I finished the film and had so nany thoughts I needed to get out, so this will probably be messy!

Work Text:

There was a coldness in his veins he hadn't felt since the war.

Just the night before he had been on top of the world, all he had ever wanted in his grasp. Naples had never treated him well, not like he expected it to when the boss sent him away on assignment at the beginning of October. It was as clear then as it was now, this was a punishment. A probationary period. One more screw up and Goncharov would be in hell with every one of the poor bastards he had done in.

Probably not nearly as cleanly, though; the boss had developed quite the tremor in his old age. But he would still take the shot himself, Goncharov was sure, he was thorough like that when he felt he had been failed. 

But last night, in the streets of Naples with Andrey, drinking stolen wine and standing as close as possible with the excuse of seeking warmth, it had almost felt like home. 

There was a certain light to Andrey. He was a funny looking man, and by all means not one of the pretty boys Goncharov would normally go for back home when Katya was out and he knew he could get away with it, but there was something to him. Something dark and almost sad in his big cow eyes drew Goncharov in, and he knew it would be hard to escape.

He didn't know he would need to so soon. And Katya, whom he had always liked even when he could admit he never truly loved, who almost put up with his twisted nature and lack of affection, had payed the price as much as him.

Katya, who had written him letters every week when he got sent Nam, back when they were young and newly in love, or whatever they were.  Katya, who put on her best sparkling dresses and only drank when no one was looking at all his organization dinners. Katya, who was taken from him hours ago while he was forced to play chips, the man he had let into her side of the bed holding a gun on him as he called.

Perhaps she's still alive. Perhaps not. Goncharov only knows that she will be dead soon either way.

The gun in his hand weighs on him as he sits by the cards table, blood oozing from where a bullrt knicked him on the arm. Andrey got away, seemingly intact, which can only mean more pain. He must die. No one gets to go after the Goncharovs and live.

But first Goncharov gives hinself this moment. Sitting on floor. Breathing in, deeply, than out.

He had watched Andrey breathe like this last night, hours after they stumbled through the streets and into his ornate bed. After waking in the middle of the night, off-put by the heavy arm around his waist, Goncharov had rolled just slightly and took in the sight of Andrey as he breathed, briefly untouched by the pain of the world.

When he closes his eyes, its as if he can feel it now. As if the breathing is still Andrey. As if he can feel again, for possibly the first time in his life, real peace. 

But then he opens his eyes again, in the dark back room , the gun in his hand and his arm oozing and aching, his back sore from resting awkwardly against the card table knocked on its side.

Peace, it seemed, would not be returning to him anytime soon.