Chapter Text
Peter Peter Peter.
Grigor doesn't know what to do. Not for the first time in his life, sure, but never has he felt at a loss like this.
Not even when his best friend used to fuck his wife, sometimes in front of him. Not even when Marial wed her nine year old cousin after denying Grigor’s own proposal. Not even when Simitz-
Catherine had grabbed his face so swiftly that he couldn't even flinch in time, and then had kissed him. He can still feel the forceful pressure of her icy lips on his. She had kissed him so fervently that he had felt the tremble of her body permeate his own, vibrating through his face all the way down into his feet.
Subconsciously, Grigor raises a hand to graze his lips, hoping to feel the ghost of her touch. His mind is racing with thoughts - they whirl like paper in a storm, flitting about out of grasp. Catherine Catherine Catherine.
No. No, that's not right. He shouldn't-
Grigor inhales sharply. He shakes his head as though to shake her off. But he cannot; through the grief, and the bewilderment, and the sheer fucking hurt. She haunts him.
The pain pounds in his skull, white-hot flashes of ice, the feeling of his head underwater. Grigor feels tears sting his eyes. They spill quickly and he doesn't care to stop them. He feels like he's damn crying all the time now, endlessly.
Grigor doesn't know how to go on without him. How to be without him. How to live? Where to put all the excess of his love? Where to put his joys, his sorrows, his hopes, dreams, truths? Where to rest his head now, when all he wants is to sleep? To fall into a deep coma, a state of total oblivion…
Her name gnaws at the edges of his mind. Absolutely not.
Peter had loved Grigor so much it hurt, relentlessly, like a stab wound that refuses to close. It has festered over the years, that wound, and fused with Grigor’s body much like Peter had - never left his side since they were kids.
Theirs had been a friendship that exploded from casual camaraderie to a love stronger than brotherhood; as soon as that beastly old pig Simitz had banged Peter's head into the marble-tiled floor of the palace while Grigor could do little more than watch. Peter the Great had roared with booming laughter then, insatiable for the pathetic sight. He never noticed - or pretended not to, anyway - that Simitz hadn’t needed faking the moaning, nor the orgasmic bodily convulsions.
Peter would later defend his father, often claiming he couldn’t have known or else he would’ve had Simitz’ shriveled cock and balls served on a silver platter, feeding them to their owner piece by piece. He would become outraged when Grigor so much as hinted at harboring any resentment against the Emperor for encouraging the abuse. Once Peter went as far as to leap at his friend’s throat and threaten to choke him to death. And yet…
Though Grigor had tried many a night, he will never be able to forget the look of pure fear in young Peter’s eyes, widened and frenzied and pleading as they had locked on Grigor’s in that first terrible moment. And, as many, many more of those moments followed - each worse than the last, it seemed - the two boys had sworn an oath to each other that had never needed spoken words. Their love was to be eternal and unconditional.
Peter had loved him because, even as a boy, Grigor had had the presence of mind to walk behind him, then when they left the palace, to shield with his own body the white stains on the seat of Peter’s pants, from the ever-present eyes at court. He had loved him because Grigor would follow him to their special place in the woods and hold him there, tightly in both arms, not shedding any tears when Peter himself wept so many so freely. His friend had wanted to return the favor when Simitz started to torment Grigor in the same way, but the boy wouldn’t allow it - he sensed he had to be strong for the future Emperor of Russia. Crying was not for Grigor to do.
But now he cannot stop himself. The tears fall steadily, itching under his nose and tickling his chin as they run toward his neck. Grigor stares at the giant portrait in front of him: Peter stands, his coat draped over his shoulders in royal fashion, and he looks sternly ahead. Tries to, anyway - Grigor can see a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his best friend’s mouth, as it so often did in life.
At the sound of footsteps approaching, the man hurriedly wipes a hand over his face.
“Sometimes I think it would be best not to look,” Catherine says in a small voice as she approaches him. “And yet I find I cannot tear myself away. It’s as if staring at his picture might give me some sort of answer. But then it eludes me just as I am about to grasp it.”
She gives Grigor a weak, teary smile as she comes to stand next to him. He can feel her eyes warmly on his face as she gazes up, and his voice catches in his throat when he tries to speak: “Cath- Catherine.”
He had avoided her since their arrival at the palace. He couldn’t bear looking at her, for it was impossible to do so without seeing him, his face blue and frozen stiff, his cape swirling in the depths. He couldn’t look at her without seeing her love for her husband laid bare in her face, a love that had been a thorn in his own side for such a long time…
The memory of her kiss flickers up in Grigor’s mind, just briefly, yet enough to rattle him to his core. He has to look away. The Empress doesn’t notice, however, for her sight is set on Peter’s image.
“Ever since we lay side by side in the snow, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you and Peter.” Her voice is still tiny and fragile in her throat. Still Grigor feels the weight of her words like a leaden fist in his stomach.
“From the moment I met him, I could tell that there wasn’t much love for others inside him. Most of his heart was seized by pork-stuffed figs and vodka and deer hunting and, of course, himself. But when he introduced me to you, I saw that my first assessment had not been entirely correct - there was a small place in his heart reserved for one other…”
She turns to Grigor now and gently slips her hand into his, and he wants to interrupt her, stop her from saying what he cannot bear to hear - but Catherine, oblivious to it, goes on. “He loved you, Grigor. So much so that it made me jealous sometimes. Back then I wanted him to love me the same way, with that same intimate fervor.”
Grigor smiles bitterly as a tear drops from his eye. “Believe me, Catherine, I hated you for getting between us sometimes.” He gives a dry rasp for a laugh. “He would talk about his love for you in a way I had never heard him speak before. It was romantic, poetic really…” He trails off, unable to say any more. Grigor shakes his head.
Catherine smiles. Her eyes find his. He cannot look away, no matter how hard he tries. Bound by those eyes of hers, earnest and childlike as they are, he has to surrender. But there is nothing threatening in her gaze - only empathy, compassion, love... And pain. Lots and lots of it.
“You’re the only one who knows,” Catherine whispers and leans in close. “What it’s like to lose him.” She raises his hand and clasps it with both of hers. “No one else understands. Only you and me.”
Her stare is wounding it is so open and vulnerable, beholding his face in her warm caress. Grigor feels a chill run through the rest of his body. He wants to kiss her, then, out of despair, to turn to her for comfort in his time of need, in his time of loss and yearning… Emotion rages in the hollowness of his ribcage. But, grief-stricken, he refrains.
Catherine squeezes his hands heartily. “Come stay with me tonight,” she whispers, “so we do not have to sleep alone, Paul and I.”
Stay? With… her… Suddenly fallen into a stupor, Grigor only nods. His brain is not fast enough to catch up and comprehend before he agrees.
“Thank you,” Catherine says sincerely. She moves up to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and is gone a horrible second later with the flutter of her skirts.