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It is such a little thing. Such a simple matter to cross the right palms with silver to get his own on a case of Rodnik Gold, straight from the Motherland. It's even simpler to gift it to Kirill, to watch his eyes widen, his teeth gleam as he tears through the wood and straw, scattering both across the floor of his private sitting room, unearthing the treasures beneath.
Kirill rushes to gather glasses, hesitating for a moment, wondering aloud if impatience is enough of a reason to open a bottle, not waiting for a chance to let it chill. But a glance at Nikolai, settled back on the sumptuous sofa, and he voices his decision to let tradition and good grace go hang, because it's vodka, and it needs drinking now.
Neither man would ever acknowledge the small nod from Nikolai, the one that Kirill often looks for, that tells him he is on the right path, that makes everything so easy.
Simple is what Kirill seems to want, what he craves, needs. It's so strange, Nikolai notes, time and time again, that someone who has so much, who can have almost anything, do almost anything, is only really happy when things are made simple.
He turns his head at the sound of cubes clinking against glass, hiding a smile at the thought of Russian purists' views of ice diluting their drinks as it dilutes the land, their home. There is no doubt they would disapprove of this small, private toast, abusing alcohol in the worst possible way; but, he reflects, there is little they would find to approve of in London anyway.
The ice cubes clatter as Kirill comes nearer, thrusting one drink under Nikolai's nose. He flops on the couch beside Nikolai, not so close as to lean against him, but not so far their legs don't accidentally brush.
Nikolai accepts the glass, the first sip confirming that the soft refinement of such a vodka cannot be mastered by warmth nor ice. As he wets his lips, savouring the drops collected there, he can see in the corner of his eye Kirill's gaze rivetted to him. Nikolai nods, aware of the way Kirill's body relaxes; another tiny favour dropped in his way, another small mercy to make his eyes light up, his lips curve.
Simple matters, simple mercies. Nikolai moves his free hand to rest lightly on Kirill's thigh. Maybe a little simple is what they both need.