#alexander block

writhing and wailing and clawing at walls

hi·er·ar·chy /ˈhī(ə)ˌrärkē/ (n)

a system or organization in which people or groups are ranked one above the other according to status or authority.

ALT

old art part 2. now with more emissaries

Title: The Lull Between Two Heartbeats

Fandom: Мор. Утопия / Pathologic

Pairing: Alexander Block/Captain Longin

Summary: The train to the Town-on-Gorkhon is delayed, so Block and his men enjoy a moment of relaxation.

Author’s Notes: Originally written for the prompt “Any/Block, dancing tango. Yes, because just imagine Block teaching his partner how to dance this incredibly sensual dance. The usual suspects apply: LaraxBlock, AglayaxBlock, DaniilxBlock, LonginxBlock… Though you can also go with other pairings. (HMU if you have any questions about preferences or rather nots)” over on the Pathologic kink meme.

Comments loved and encouraged!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195600

* * *

The train journey is long and dull, and so Longin is unsurprised at everyone’s excitement when a delayed change of driver means a chance to leave the train and stretch their legs. The town they stop in is too small to offer them beds, so the train remains their sleeping quarters, but it takes little time for them to build a camp of their own on the grounds surrounding the train station. Within an hour there are campfires, an impromptu band formed from the sentimental souls who had packed instruments for the journey, and flasks of vodka exchanging hands.

It’s a contagious sort of camaraderie, and before long alcohol has tongues loosening and uniforms partially shed, even their beloved leader allowing himself a smile while drinking from his own flask.

Longin tries not to stare when Block sheds his coat and rolls up his sleeves, but it’s difficult not to admire the strength in his dark-haired forearms. All too many of the higher-ups have aristocrat’s arms, all slim wrists and soft hands; Block’s hands have worked hard, and show it.

“You owe us a dance,” Callas says, flushed as red as his hair from overindulging, and Block rolls his eyes.

“That was a rigged bet and you know it,” Block says, but stands up anyway when goaded, Callas’ cheek encouraging the others to gang up on their commander. “However! Let it never be said I don’t honour my debts. Who’ll be so kind as to join me?”

Longin bites his tongue, and Block rests both hands on his hips, thrusts his chest out. He’s playing the part of a strutting peacock, and it wins the laughter he seeks.

“Are you telling me none of you know a waltz? A polka? A tango?”

Longin’s head snaps up at the last word, catching Block’s attention.

He doesn’t get a chance to regret the movement before Block calls out, “Captain! Would you leave me stranded without a partner?”

“I haven’t - it’s been a long time -”

Longin stammers, but the same goading that made Block stand soon has Longin up on his own feet. He takes off his own coat and hat with shaking hands, drags himself over to Block on legs that feel like they’re weighted by lead. The campfire light glitters in Block’s eyes, and Longin is glad to have been drinking, as at least the vodka on his breath offers an excuse for the redness colouring his cheeks.

“Just follow my lead, Captain. Music!”

It has indeed been a long, long time since Longin last danced, and he hears laughter in the background as he takes time to find his footing, kicking Block’s feet so many times it’s a marvel they don’t trip. Nonetheless, he has danced before, and once the rhythm is there and the patterns feel familiar, it’s easy enough to remember his childhood training. Block keeps the steps simple, only speeding up or slowing down enough to match the music accompanying him, and as they fall into sync Longin is finally able to look at Block instead of his own feet.

He can’t resist grinning.

It’s ridiculous. They must look ridiculous. But Block holds one of his hands with confidence, Block’s other hand resting near the middle of his back, and Longin feels - thrilled. Scared, excited, and strangely enough, adored. There’s pride in Block’s eyes, and Longin lets himself revel in it.

“Will you let me spin you?” Block whispers, and Longin’s breath catches, almost makes him trip over his feet yet again. “For the men.”

“For the men?” Longin repeats in question, processing the idea, then nods his understanding. Block’s grip on his back draws tight and keeps him steady as Block damn near swings him around, earning cheers and sending Longin’s heart up into his throat. It’s a performance, he reminds himself, a show to raise the men’s spirits.

His heart doesn’t agree.

When they still, Block’s hands squeeze him gently and guide him back into close, quick little steps. Longin still feels dizzy, wanting to forget their place, their surroundings, the fact there would be consequences if he closed that tiny gap between their mouths.

The music draws to a finish and so do they, and Block steps back, bowing gracefully.

“Behold, a true hero!” Block says, clapping and smiling as Longin retreats to his place by the fire to put his hat back on. He leaves the coat where it is; he’s warm enough, and can still feel the ghost of Block’s touch.

Others take to dancing as the music picks up again, Longin remaining still and caught up his own thoughts, and when Block crosses the camp to sit next to him by the fire, Longin daren’t move or speak.

“Thank you,” Block says, offering Longin a drink from his flask, which Longin gladly accepts. The vodka tastes weak, and he wonders if Block watered it down to maintain his sobriety. “For not leaving me alone up there. Who taught you how to dance?”

“My aunt,” Longin says, and looks down at where Block’s hand rests next to his.

He’d barely need to move his own for them to touch.

Longin stretches his little finger out, lets it brush against Block’s, and Block doesn’t flinch.

“Tell me about her,” Block says, taking back his flask with his free hand, and Longin watches him lick the mouth of the flask before drinking from it.

Longin knows their conversation isn’t about his family.

He holds Block’s eyes with his own and says, “She was kind. Beautiful. I wish I’d had a chance to know her better.”

Block’s little finger crosses over his own, linking them, and Longin closes his eyes. “She sounds like a wonderful woman. I wish I could have met her.”

It’s enough. It has to be enough.

Block doesn’t let him go until the fires burn out.

Title: A Thief of Fate

Fandom: Мор. Утопия / Pathologic

Pairing:Block/Longin

Summary: There isn’t enough time for them to fall in love, but Longin falls anyway.

Author’s Notes: Originally written for the prompt “The other day I discovered that Longin’s nickname is Patroclus. That, coupled with the many comparisons Block gets to Alexander the Great, (aka Achilles’ greatest fanboy) makes this ship write itself. So give me anything you have with these two, please (the big no is dub/non-con)” over on the Pathologic kink meme.

Warnings: Non-consensual drug use, references to future hanging

Comments loved and encouraged!

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075645

* * *

It was a known fact that everyone under Alexander Block’s command loved him. A variety of jokes had been made about men crawling through fire for the General of Ashes, and Longin had laughed at the same jokes himself until he was assigned to Block’s unit.

He would be the exception to the rule, he had decided, if only out of spite. No man was perfect regardless of his talents, and Longin had yet to meet an idol who didn’t deserve to be knocked from their pedestal.

He was determined to be polite but scrutinising, to find the flaws Block’s men had refused to see, and when it was time to greet the General, he met his eyes without fear.

Something else gladly took fear’s place. He’d never seen eyes so blue, before. Not in real life, outside of a painting.

In an instant, he knew he’d love Block as thoroughly as the rest of Block’s men. Just for a different reason.

Longin had known Block was young, barely a few years older than himself, but the reality of seeing it had hit him like cold water. Wrinkles had only just begun to settle in place around his eyes, between his brows, and at the corners of his lips, while stress had threaded grey strands through his dark hair, but as for the rest of him? He was clearly young, and Longin could see more of himself in Block than he had in any of the other top brass.

Longin’s captaincy meant having the General’s confidence, and even though Block chose his words carefully, avoiding anything that could be spun as insubordination or accusations of conspiracy, Longin knew how to read his posture.

They were being shipped out to the middle of the Steppe by train, to some squalid little town and not to where they were most needed. Block said the order had come directly from The Powers That Be, a detour from the Southern Front to bring an outbreak of plague under control.

Block didn’t speak out against the order, and didn’t need to. The detour was bullshit, and Longin knew it as clearly as Block did.

Men began to fall ill within hours of reaching the town, even those in head to foot flamethrower gear, and Longin could feel the sword of Damocles hanging over Block’s head as surely as if it were over his own. Diverting men to set up the town hall as their headquarters was busy work, an excuse to keep as many of them off the infested streets as possible, and Longin felt a twist of guilt for those still on the streets as he sat alone in an office with the General, sharing a drink while the men moved tables and set up banners outside. The room was far from sound proof, but the clatter of tables and keeping their voices pitched low afforded them something close to privacy.

“The Powers That Be Want Me Dead,” Block said, and even though Longin knew it was true, had known something was wrong from the moment they were diverted from the Southern Front, it was sobering to hear the admission from Block’s lips. “They wouldn’t have sent Aglaya Lilich here otherwise.”

“Because she wants you dead?”

“Because they want her dead, too,” Block said. It made sense - no one with ideals made it far in the Capital for long. The Powers That Be were comfortable at the top of the chain of command, and didn’t like the idea of others disrupting their comfort. “I don’t know which of us will be allowed to survive. I fear only God has any say in who’ll leave this town.”

Longin raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t strike me as the religious type, sir.”

“I’d like to believe,” Block said, sounding tired. That was unsurprising; few people slept well on trains, and the dark circles under his eyes were bruise-purple. “I need to. Someone will have to look after the men when I am gone. I’d rather God took care of the matter than The Powers That Be.”

Longin folded his hands in his lap, frowned at them. After watching the uncle who had raised him die from a wasting sickness, and after seeing a close friend’s intestines spill out at the end of a bayonet, he was fairly certain that if God did exist, then He knew little about justice or love. “You’ll have us to the end, General. Whatever happens. Powers That Be be damned.”

“None of you should be here,” Block said, and Longin bit his tongue before looking up from his hands at the General’s face. Block’s eyes were calm, despite his words; he had already accepted his fate.

“But we are. For what it’s worth sir, we know what we signed up for. To follow you into Hell, if necessary.”

Block chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before he finally said, “Would you lock the door please, Captain?”

Longin carried out the order, breath catching when he turned to find Block standing, the line of his shoulders tight.

“I wish we had more time,” Block said, and Longin prayed he wasn’t misreading anything when he took a step towards his commander.

“I wish the same.”

Block covered the remaining steps between them in a rush, and Longin barely managed to brace himself as he was drawn into Block’s arms and kissed.

Longin hadn’t misread him. They were young, war and death had their ways of firing up the blood, and Block’s mouth drank up his own like a man starved of water.

Longin wished he could hold him tight enough to risk wrinkling his uniform, wished he could tell Block that his eyes were the most beautiful thing he had seen in all his days as a soldier and all his days before that too. The war had stolen so much from them, even the chance to know one another properly, and Longin wanted to steal it all back.

Block pulled away for a moment, Longin readying himself for rejection or dismissal, but instead found Block’s hands coming up to frame his jaw, thumbs tracing the curve of it, feeling out and pressing down on the dip of his chin. The look on Block’s face was something pained, and Longin wondered if he would ever be able to take that pain away.

“You deserve more than faith and blind luck,” Block said, and Longin shook his head fiercely, smoothing his hands down Block’s back.

“You’ve seen men through Hell before,” Longin said, closing his eyes and letting his lips find Block’s again, brushing against them as he spoke, “I’d trust no one else to navigate it.”

Block had kissed him first. It only seemed right to take his turn now.

After their first meeting, Longin had known he’d obey any order Block ever gave him.

The moment Block relaxed in his arms, Longin knew he’d die for the General even without orders.

They were dying faster than reinforcements would ever arrive. No enemy force had proven as inventive, as invasive, or as cruel as the sand pest.

They needed to leave, but Longin had read the orders; if Block left without seeing his mission through, he would be court-martialed, accused of undermining his superiors and jeopardising the nation’s safety. Even if The Powers That Be couldn’t make an accusation of treason stick, the penalty for insubordination remained death.

Someone would have to bear that penalty one way or another.

Drugging Block’s vodka was a simple enough business, and Longin’s stomach churned as he watched Block grow drowsy, then concerned, then betrayed, fear constricting his pupils to pinpricks of black.

“What did you do?” Block asked, his words slurring together like a drunk’s, legs collapsing beneath him when he tried to stand.

Longin wished he could give him the reassurance of safety, but couldn’t - Block had to believe the betrayal was complete.

“We’re leaving,” Longin said, allowing himself that much honesty as he stood from his own chair and took the town hall’s keys from Block’s desk.

“Don’t,” Block said as Longin turned his back. “Don’t make me die alone.”

Longin held his tongue, knowing the other conspirators were outside, that they would want to know he had succeeded. There was no clatter of furniture to give them privacy now.

You won’t die, Longin let himself think. That’s the point.

“You’ll hang for this,” Block said, and Longin took a moment to picture that future - a noose around his neck, a public execution to make an example of the mutineers - and accept it.

His own death would turn Block into a nearly-martyred hero. It would be armour for him in the world of politics for years to come.

But Block would watch, and think Longin hated him.

“I will,” Longin promised, and left.