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Chesed
Ariel Rofe’s first impression of Wiktor Szulski? The fucker was pretty. Maybe too pretty for his own good. His second impression of Szulski? The only thing bigger than his ego was the nose he liked to stick in places where it didn’t belong. That should have been all the signs Ariel needed to steer clear of the fucker, but then the promise of an easy job and easier money had tempted him and Javier to overlook their misgivings and agree to Wiktor’s job.
Now Javier was dead, because of course that Szulski idiot had a blood curse hunting him down, of course. Now all Ariel wanted to do was lie low, lick his wounds, and not think about the fact that his best friend was gone.
Wiktor Szulski had the audacity to show up at his door (well, metaphorically; the guy was slinking around the counterfeit house like an idiot) with a box of chocolates and condolences.
“Hello. I’ve been hoping to catch you,” Wiktor said cordially.
“And how many of my guys have you beat up over the last few days while you waited for me?” Ariel asked, arms crossed. If looks could kill, Ariel would be very dead, but so would a load of other motherfuckers. Wiktor Szulski was one of them.
Wiktor grinned. “Oh, just half a dozen or so. I think only one’s hospitalized.” Oh, the fucker was pleased with himself wasn’t he?
“Oh, fuck off,” Ariel jeered, shouldering past Wiktor to get to the workshop. He’d got a pair of educated ladies who had been recently admitted to some very nice universities out west and would very much like to arrive at their institutions without the authorities being notified. And they were willing to pay a handsome ruble to a slightly less handsome man for it.
Wiktor was in the damn way.
“Wait, I did want to give you something,” Wiktor said, cradling the box of chocolates in his hands, “An apology for what happened to Javier. My condolences, Ariel. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You can take your apology and shove it, whichever hole you prefer,” Ariel barked. “You think money can solve everything, don’t you, rich boy? I don’t need your kindness. Fuck. Off.”
That seemed to get the message into the dense son of a bitch’s head. He turned tail and retreated. With the chocolates.
“Leave the chocolates.”
Wiktor did. They were very tasty.
Gevurah
“ Hashem who I do not even fucking believe in, give me discipline so I don’t throttle this little piece of shit,” Ariel muttered.
Wiktor Szulski was sitting across from him at The London Bar, apparently owned by his best friend and definitely filled with people Ariel had cheated at least twice, with a round of vodka on the table. A celebration for a job well done and deal honored. Ariel hated to admit it, but he owed the ponce. His new Flaw and Salutor were proof enough of that.
Debts or not, he sure as hell was not going to follow this particular hare-brained suggestion of Wiktor.
“C’mon, just one song,” Wiktor pleaded, “It’s not everyday the bar crooner comes down with a case of the German disease. It’s our chance to stardom.”
“You’re drunk,” Ariel growled. It was the only explanation for the man’s strange behavior, even though the two of them had just arrived at the bar. Either that, or insanity, but Ariel would rather not entertain the thought of Wiktor Szulski being Wiktor Szulski with an added dash of unpredictability. Better to blame the booze.
“I’m not,” Wiktor said with a glowing smile. Bastard’s lucky he’s handsome.
“Fuck off,” Ariel huffed. He downed both the shots and called for another two on Wiktor’s tab. If Wiktor was going to piss him off for the evening, then the guy was gonna pay for Ariel’s booze.
Stuff tasted like crap, though. Maybe Ariel could spare a bottle from his own operation some time, give pretty boy a taste of the real deal.
Hah. Fat chance. Ariel was pretty sure he’d never see Wiktor again.
Tiferet
Ariel had hoped Wiktor would forget about him. It was a long shot, but Ariel figured a man like Wiktor, with pride deeper than the Vistula, would soon move on to the next thing he found interesting. All well and good - Ariel had a new Salutor, his business was thriving, and there were no signs of mutiny from his subordinates. Now if coming home to an empty apartment sometimes felt unbearably lonely, then it was Ariel’s shit to sort through. Some fresh challah from the bakery down the street usually solved all his issues.
Usually. Bread wasn’t of much help when Wiktor came calling.
“Wiktor Szulski,” Ariel muttered, when he found Wiktor waiting for him outside his apartment. Of course the fucker knew where Ariel lived. Great. Ariel might as well torch it all down and start over somewhere else. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
“I came to ask you for a favor,” Wiktor said, “It’s…it’s about my sister.”
Ariel grunted, pushed past Wiktor, and let himself into his own home. He waited for Wiktor to come in. Wiktor did not.
“What the fuck are you waiting for Szulski?” Ariel barked, “A formal invitation? Get in here.”
If Wiktor was expecting biscuits and tea, then he’d shown his ass in the wrong apartment. Ariel set his challah down in the pantry (and did not cut any up, because the challah was his, not Wiktor’s) and beelined for the comfortable sofa. Wiktor could have the stool. Hopefully the inhospitable conditions would drive Wiktor out sooner than later.
There was the uncomfortable fact that he still owed Wiktor for the Golem. If Wiktor was collecting now, Ariel would have no choice but to follow along - honor and thieves and all that fuckery. Great.
He glared at Wiktor as the other thaumaturge sat down. The guy looked like shit - sweating, bloodshot, shivering.
It was only polite to let him know. “You look like shit.”
Wiktor smiled, but it looked more like a wince. “Just nabbed me another Salutor. I’m on my way to get that sorted out, but, considering Mirow is on the way, I wanted to drop by.”
“And how many Salutors do you have?” Ariel asked casually, not because he was gauging Wiktor’s strength for a rainy day.
“Seven.”
Ariel guffawed. “Hah! Lying fucker. You’d be dead from the madness by now.”
Wiktor pouted, and it would have been cute on someone who wasn’t so insufferable. “Forget it. I need to ask you a favor. I know you’ve drawn out my sister’s Flaw and bound it to Golem, but could you…perhaps consider giving her Flaw back to her?”
Ariel stared at Wiktor, taking aback by his casual audacity. Then came the rage, fueled by his Dybbuk, as he rose from his seat to tower over Wiktor. “What the fuck do you think? You want to steal my moment of glory? Walk back on our deal? Want the Golem for yourself? Hell no.”
“N-no, it’s not that,” Wiktor said, “Can’t you bind the Golem to your Flaw? Ligia hasn’t been the same since–”
“I don’t fucking care,” Ariel growled.
“Ariel, please–”
“Fuck. Off. Don’t let me repeat myself.”
Wiktor left. Ariel ate his challah in peace. And if a gnawing part of his conscience wondered if what he did was right, Ariel would tell it to fuck off, too.
Netzach
Turned out Wiktor came collecting again, but this time with the promise of power. Ariel noticed how easily Wiktor had brushed off their last meeting, how he carried himself with a much more guarded pride. Perhaps he was growing wiser, or perhaps his decisions had finally caught up to him. Ariel would bet a pretty ruble on the former. The deal he offered had been interesting, and it was also a chance for Ariel to square up with Wiktor. Not a bad trade, all things considered, although Ariel wasn’t really sure if this pact stuff was actually going to give him an ounce of the power he was promised.
Ariel was wrong. The pact thing was fucking amazing.
But he probably should have read the fine print on sharing memories with an old doctor, a false seer, and Wiktor himself. He learned a lot from those memories. A lot. Most of it mundane, some of it tragic, and some of it…some of it was going to make the next few minutes very awkward.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ariel muttered to Samira. It was sweet, actually, how she took up the name of the woman who took her in. Though Ariel could see the practicality of the choice, and he could respect that.
“I’m sorry for yours,” Samira replied. Ah. Well, the past was the past. There were no words that could bring back Ariel’s faith, or his love.
Then he locked eyes with Szulski.
“I think the Madame and I will go into the other room for a moment and…chat,” the good doctor, Emir, said, “Let us know when you two are done.”
Two knowing glances, two fading pairs of footsteps, and they were alone.
Ariel pounced.
He crowded up against Wiktor, herding him back, back, back, until Wiktor was pressed against the nearest wall, Ariel looming over him. He planted a hand just over Wiktor’s head and leaned in, a fiendish smile on his face.
“Someone’s been having very dirty thoughts about a certain circumcised atheist,” Ariel said.
“You think I’m pretty,” Wiktor retorted, his unfiltered pride on display. Power poured from his very presence, and Ariel thought back to the image Wiktor had projected right before their pact - his Salutors, all seven of them. The fucker was strong, and damn, it was kind of hot.
“You want me to destroy you,” Ariel purred, the flashing images of Wiktor’s subconscious playing in his mind, “I think the moral victory’s mine, don’t you?”
“Shut up and kiss me already,” Wiktor said.
“Fuck off.”
Then they collided. Ariel would have to do a lot of scrubbing for the poor doctor, whose living room was desecrated to hell and back, later. Wiktor, posh bastard, did not help.
Hod
Against all odds, they managed to convince the tsar to call off the witch hunts and pogroms against thaumaturges. It was touch and go for a moment, when Ariel checked in on the others and found that something had cut Wiktor off from the rest of them. It was sorted eventually, thank fuck, but it was still enough to give Ariel a bit of a scare.
“You were worried about me?” Wiktor asked cheekily, “Aw, I’m honored.”
“Screw you, as if I care about you,” Ariel said, lying through his teeth.
They kissed about it. Then they did other stuff about it, too. And if Ariel noticed that Wiktor seemed to spend more time in his dingy apartment than his fuckass mansion, he wasn’t going to bring up the issue. A part of Ariel was waiting for the day Wiktor realized he could get with someone who didn’t suffer from an excess of hotheaded stubbornness or male pattern baldness, someone he could marry and parade around high society without looking over his shoulder. Proud fool was still too blinded by lust to reach that point, but Ariel knew it would happen.
Oh, well. He was going to enjoy this while he could.
“What’s on your mind?” Wiktor asked, naked and beautiful in Ariel’s too-small bed. It was late, too late for both of them to still be up. There was coterie business tomorrow.
“The splendor of Warsaw,” Ariel said sarcastically. A fire was raging three blocks south of them, brought on by the civil unrest in the streets. Discontentment with the tsar, whispers of emerging ideologies, and rumors of a brewing war had turned Warsaw into a cesspool of fuckery. “The smell of burning really sets the mood.”
“You should get some rest, Ariel,” Wiktor said, “I didn't know it was possible, but the bags under your eyes are getting baggier.”
“Shut up,” Ariel muttered. He punctuated the statement with a kiss.
Sleep had not come easy to Ariel as of late, his mind plagued by disturbing dreams. Events played out where Wiktor betrayed him for the Golem - sometimes to save his sister, most of the time to further his own hunger for strength. Every single time, Ariel ended up dying the day Skalon announced the thaumaturge hunt. He probably should tell one of the others about this, Emir or Samira or even Wiktor, but Ariel decided this was something he wanted to keep to himself. Wouldn’t do if the others knew Ariel Rofe, bootlegger extraordinaire, had fucking night terrors.
And, loathe he was to admit this, Ariel didn’t want Wiktor to worry.
“Something’s bothering you,” Wiktor said, when the two of them emerged for air, “But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Fuck off,” Ariel muttered. He wrapped his arms around Wiktor tighter, pulling the other thaumaturge in close. Wiktor clung on to Ariel, squeezing him with the force of the words neither of them had the wisdom to speak out loud. Maybe this might help with the nightmares, maybe not, but Ariel liked having Wiktor around. Somehow.
Foundation
Wiktor stayed. That was…unexpected, despite the fact that Ariel had caught other men making passes at him on their outings (yes, they did outings now, and yes, that was with Ariel excluding women from his observations, who had the social acceptance to be more forward with their intentions). He was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, Wiktor might be just as invested in this as Ariel was.
What a terrifying, exhilarating thought. Ariel was getting too old for terror and exhilaration - so he accepted it. And if Wiktor planned on sticking around, then Ariel would do well to provide incentive.
It might kill him, but Ariel was banking on this coterie and its amplified power shit to juice him up enough for the task.
“Ariel, what’s all this?” Wiktor asked.
Ariel looked up from the scattered papers that surrounded him, mismatched diagrams and half written formulas, somewhere between kabbalah, thaumaturgy, and those new scientific discoveries that seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. “...I’m trying to do you a favor?”
Wiktor raised one bushy eyebrow, looking at Ariel from over the brim of his glasses. They were some ugly ass glasses - Ariel vowed to find Wiktor a better set of frames one day. “I don’t recall asking you for any favors.”
“It’s about your sister,” Ariel said, “Don’t pretend like you haven't been avoiding your own damn house, Wiktor, I had to buy you a fucking toothbrush so we didn’t do any more spit swapping than necessary.”
“So you admit that some of our spit swapping is necessary?” Wiktor asked.
“Don’t deflect,” Ariel replied, “It’s your sister, isn’t it?”
Wiktor sighed. His expression fell into something sad and forlorn. “I…I don’t recognize her anymore. A part of me wondered if removing her Flaw had been a mistake.”
“Well, if you backed out of our deal, I would have been pissed, and we wouldn’t have this, now would we?” Ariel asked. He punctuated the sentence by crossing the room, pulling Wiktor in by the waistcoat, and planting a heavy kiss on his chapped lips. Necessary spit swapping indeed. “I’m…trying to figure it out.”
“Details, please,” Wiktor said.
“Don’t pretend like you’re not a cryptic fucker too,” Ariel retorted. Fuck, Wiktor was still such an infuriating bastard. “I’m trying to figure out how to separate the Golem from your sister’s Flaw, maybe bind it to mine, so I can give it back.”
Wiktor frowned. “That sounds dangerous, Ariel.”
“It is,” Ariel admitted, “There’s a high chance the Golem could go out of control, tear the Flaw to shreds, tear me to shreds, but…I want to try.”
“Let me help,” Wiktor said, “Please.”
His instinct was to tell Wiktor to fuck off. Ariel was about to attempt a fool's errand with a higher chance of death than success, and he'd be damned to go through losing someone he cared about again - loathe he was to admit that he cared about Wiktor fucking Szulski. But Ariel realized then that Wiktor, the stubborn bastard, would not give in to this, and maybe Ariel should be getting used to having someone in his corner, too.
“Okay.”
Wiktor blinked. “Okay? No fuck off?”
Ariel huffed. “Don’t test my patience, Szulski.”
Wiktor laughed, the sound rough with disuse yet filled with a carefree levity Ariel did not associate with Wiktor. “Thank you, Ariel,” Wiktor said. He kissed Ariel’s cheek, light and airy, before wandering into the kitchen to brew some tea.
Maybe this was all worth it, after all.