Pairing: Volgin x Raikov
Rating: maybe PG, if even.
Military meetings can wait. For now, they're on an impromptu and well-deserved break, situated atop a plastic floormat and comfortably leaning against each other. Raikov securely grasps Volgin's hand and lets his own finger hover above a piece of paper.
"Okay, go ahead."
The shock is light enough to be only slightly painful, and Ivan drags his fingertip along the pristine white surface, leaving a charred trail in its wake. Tiny bits of ash cling to his nail when he pulls back and relocates; the electricity peters out until he nods again. Another stroke, another line; his skin is starting to get a bit too hot, but it's nothing he can't handle.
Three more sweeping curves, a rectangular group of blackened touches -- a tree, with leaves of fingerprints and surrounding grass of quick scratches. A low thrum of energy pulses through his arm, and his muscles grow achey. Just a quick rest: a half-handprint could be a stormcloud. Raikov presses his palm to the paper just as the Colonel sneezes. The page ignites; Ivan leaps up with laggy muscles and stomps out the flames with sturdy boots.
Frowning, he turns around and regards his commanding officer with a hands-on-hips glare.
"That," he remarks, leaning down to briefly bring their mouths together, "was entirely your fault."