Notes

"Thunder rumbles,
The lightning is flashing in the night,
And there's a madman on the hill, shouting:
"I'm gonna catch you in a bag,
And you'll shine in it
I want you to be mine!"

Alexei only remembers being carried in the car. The bag on his head and the handcuffs squeeze his tanned skin tightly, almost to the point of bruises. The men nearby are whispering, occasionally laughing, which irritates the oppositionist even more.

"Where are you taking me?!" Alexei repeats the question after a couple of minutes, but the question is answered again with silence. They don't want to answer him.

Minutes pass, seemingly an eternity, and only then are they grabbing him and pushing him out of the car. Navalny does not have time to get up, but even this does not bother his captors - they drag him along a stone path covered with an ice crust. His skinny legs are desperately trying to resist the pressure, and the man is dragging on till the very last moment, fighting with all his might in order to postpone his death. Yes, he had expected this - he would have to be taken sooner or later to the woods and shot to hell. His heart is pounding like mad, and Alexei hears the thud of the door.

He is led into the room, the wind currents subside, and it becomes warmer. "Are there going to be interrogations?" His nerves give out for a second, and he laughs as he is hit hard in the stomach. They literally shut him up and put him in a cold metal chair. The room is quiet and damp. A minute passes before a heavy door slams in the room and footsteps become audible. Alexei directs his head toward the source of the sound, still in the dark.

"Good morning," it was impossible not to recognize the voice of the very man he hated with every fiber of his being. His hand clenched into a fist, he dug his fingernails into the skin of his palm with anger and until his knuckles turned white. And his eyebrows are drawn down to the bridge of his nose-this voice is as irritating to him as if someone were scraping a plate with a fork.

The bag is abruptly removed from his head, and Navalny squints at the harsh light. Gradually getting used to the lighting, he opens his blue eyes and realizes that he was right. He really is in the interrogation room and in front of him is really Putin. The latter smiles a smile that is uncharacteristic of him. He is like a predator watching his prey. His eyes darken with the feeling of power over the other man's life.

"It's been a long time," Alexei doesn't lose his grip, creating an image of steadfastness and calmness.

"I agree, you made me wait," a second of silence. As if he was gathering his strength before striking. "So, are you going to overthrow me? Don't waste your lousy life on this case. You deserve more," Vladimir spoke quickly, accurately, pronouncing every letter, and on the last sentence, he moved impermissibly close to the other man's face. The oppositionist swallowed nervously, not expecting any further action: they grabbed him by the chin and ran a thumb across his lip.

"What do you allow yourself?" Navalny recoiled, staring fearfully at his interlocutor.

"Silly Lyoshechka, making your life easier. In a few minutes, all the media will know about your death. You will be dead to everyone, you will not exist in the lives of those people who make you an idol. Yes, yes, you will only be mine," Vladimir smiles devilishly, and Alexei desperately gropes for air, feeling hopeless and frightened.

He finally realizes that the situation is much worse. It's as if he's not the same Vovochka-threat-on-the-clear-sky-for-Europe-and-defender-of-the-Russian-federation, but Putin, a lunatic who has been hiding his identity under a mask of decency for twenty years. The other man's hand slides down, scratching the delicate skin. In fact, Putin wants another doggie for himself - another achievement. People are like rewards to him, and if he wants to achieve something, he will achieve it by any means necessary.

"How I dreamed of this and here you are - you're in my hands," another wide smile, and Alexei is finally lost, trying to break free, screaming and dislodged from the hands of others. On his forearm is already a bouquet of bruises and bruises left by the handcuffs.

Vladimir grins and walks around the table, taking a seat on the edge of the surface as close to his opponent as possible. His eyes sparkle with devilish fire as he studies the features of the face opposite with a mere glance. Vova is like a demon incarnate - just burning from the inside. He wants so badly to put a tick in front of the name he has been afraid to say in public for years. How he wants to finally mark this beautiful and sculpted body. Just thinking about it makes him go crazy, and the president does not want to hesitate.

Alexei mutters something under his breath, closing his eyes and feeling how his tie is being tightened, which is making the air several times less than it should be. Navalny wheezes as he tries to inhale at least some oxygen.

"Oh, come on, Lyosha, you should have thought of that earlier."

Putin sharply approaches, kissing the coveted lips, biting them and pulling them away. The shirt is not even attempted to be removed, it is literally torn off. The buttons tinkle to the floor, adding to Navalny's fear because he knew that Putin would not stop.

"You're so innocent... I can see why teenagers kill for you," Vladimir licks the blood from the other man's lip, sucking on the wound. His hand is already blatantly exploring Alexei's body. "What's with the perfume? It suits you," the President finds himself near the curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of orange and already beginning to leave hickeys.

Navalny was frightened by the situation, he was literally being raped. It was impossible to break free or hit the man, and he resigned himself to his own death, to defeat. The flame of hope was extinguished in his eyes, and tears gradually appeared. His heart stung with injustice and self-loathing. He was helpless.

In the meantime, Putin freed them from their clothes, entering Alexei without preparation. Rough sighs and harsh movements beat the soul out of Navalny. With each thrust, he became more and more aware that he was caught in a trap from which he could no longer be rescued. Wet cheeks and red eyes from crying, he now looked helpless and open. Putin liked it, that's what he wanted, eager to see his enemy die right in front of his eyes.

The movements were getting rougher and rougher, Vladimir entered full length while he heard sobs, hisses, and the clinking of handcuffs that were desperately trying to be removed. The minutes of violence passed, Putin moaning with pleasure, squeezing the other man's thighs until they were bruised. Navalny no longer cries - he just breathes heavily, feeling the infernal pain below his stomach. His body ached, giving off a searing wave. Putin, on the other hand, smiles cheekily and slyly, as if he hadn't done anything at all.

"I think you realize you wasted your life fighting for nothing. You haven't made even a millimeter of progress. Who's gonna marry you? Kids, who are easily frightened?" Vladimir laughs as he mumbles this and looks around at his defeated and defenseless opponent.

He doesn't even have the strength to answer. He is simply grabbed under his arms, throwing some sort of blanket over him on the way. He does not follow the road they are dragging him on. He only remembers sitting in a room, dark but richly furnished. A beautiful bright bed and a few furnishings. How ridiculous that his life would end like this.