comments would really boost my motivation :]

.

.

NATURALLY, Y/N HAD SAID YES. After all, did he have a choice? Saying no wouldn't exactly mean death, for Andrei had already shown him: that time and time again, he would not be angry. But emotions were fickle, and could change at any given time. Instead, Y/n did what he was expected to: sit down obediently and quietly at the dinner table, and eat the food Andrei had prepared.

It wasn't difficult to pretend he liked it—because Y/n did like it. The flavors had melted beautifully and gloriously on his tongue, so attuned to his taste buds that this single meal alone had almost convinced Y/n that Andrei did know him previously, from young.

And it was also hard to pretend like it wasn't delicious. Y/n felt a smile crawl into his features unwillingly at the delicious taste, and Andrei's sharp eyes caught the upward tilt of his lips.

"I used the spices you liked when you were a kid," Andrei broke the silence, drumming his fingers on the table. There was a loose, relaxed smile—no, smirk—on his face. There were the unsaid words hanging in the air; I am the one who knows you the best. I am the one whom you should cherish. "Are you enjoying it?"

The fork Y/n was holding halted midair, and he cleared his throat, pausing before he answered.

"Yes. You made it, didn't you?"

"I've told you already. I am quite the excellent cook."

I can tell, Y/n thought to himself. Y/n did not have the money to afford meals of high quality, but it was safe to say that Andrei cooked wonderfully. It wasn't just slightly above average, it was divine, so masterfully made from scratch, so delicately crafted. It was like a haven, truthfully.

"..." Y/n poked the single potato strip left on his plate, swirling it around in rich gravy. "Is cooking part of your whole mafia requirement?"

Andrei let out a soft chuckle. "I have already told you, Moy Sladkiy, that I had only pursued cooking because of you."

"I thought you were joking." The last of the potato was chewed up by Y/n, dissipating into his mouth. Y/n swallowed, drank a tall glass of water, before he wiped his mouth with an obviously expensive paper napkin.

Andrei was still there.

Shouldn't he have other things to do? Y/n wondered with slight apprehension—Andrei was simply looking expectantly at him, as if waiting for something. Waiting for what? Y/n was clueless.

"Don't you..." Y/n started, "have work?"

Like killing people, I mean.

Andrei raised a perfect eyebrow.

"I suppose Anna has not told you about our plans for today?"

.

.

"Now, I'll be reviewing the plans for tomorrow. The Tsar states that it is optional for you to attend, but of course, if you do decide to come with him, then it's also..."

.

.

Oh. Y/n had zoned off a little.

"I must have been thinking about something else," Y/n said awkwardly, "I'm sorry."

"Something else," Andrei repeated, "were you—"

"—Not someone else," Y/n quickly said fearfully, seeing a rather concerning glint in Andrei's eye form, "I was thinking about my situation. It's not everyday that the Tsar of the Russian Mafia—you—just shows up and..." Y/n shook his head. "I'm going off topic. What was it you wanted to ask of me?"

"I have a visitor coming today," Andrei said serenely, but his posture was still tense and rigid from Y/n's earlier words—Anna had already warned Y/n that Andrei did not like the sound of others flowing out from his lips—"I just wanted to ask if you would like to accompany me. He seems to have the impression that I have lied about you."

You told others about me?

"Of course, the situation is complicated. For years I have scoured Russia trying to find you. I even had to send others to [country], where one of your parents came from, to ensure you had not ended up there. I suppose there were few who disagreed with me turning Russia upside down to look for one man. One man, they say," Andrei scoffed, "as if the words "one man" can sum up my sole reason to live."

Y/n's breaths hitched.

One man, they say. As if the words can sum up my sole reason to live.

Y/n forced his mind to clear, and averted his gaze.

"You offended him, I take it." was all Y/n muttered.

"He offended me," Andrei's smile turned darker, but there was a hint of sadistic glee inside that unmistakably belonged to a Mafia Boss, "he was convinced I was wasting my time, and that you were dead. Said I was wasting time, resources. Tried to stop me, even..." He trailed off, tilting his head. "And today he is here to see if my claims are correct."

"...Who is this person you are talking about?"

"He is the leader of another branch. Stout, beer bellied..." Andrei wrinkled his nose. "It's a shame that he cannot use his money to buy clothes that can suit him better. The only reason why I haven't killed him yet is because he holds a substantial stake and has some value left. And we have a contract—that we cannot kill each other."

"So even if he offends you, you will not kill him?"

Andrei laughed, before he looked thoughtfully at Y/n.

"Inquisitive, are you?"

Y/n flushed, and he was prepared to just stand up and stomp away before—

Gloved fingers intertwined with his, and grounded him to his position. Y/n narrowed his eyes.

"I was jesting, Moy Sladkiy," Andrei smiled sweetly. "What I mean to say is, that yes, we cannot kill each other. But I can kill him another way. It is easy. It is very easy..."

"What way?"

Andrei pressed a finger against Y/n's lips, chuckling. "You will see soon, Moy Sladkiy. You will see. But for now, I've set up a place where I can get rid of him. Well, it will mostly depend on his behavior towards you. If he's polite...no, no. I wouldn't want that. If he's rude...no, that's even worse. I think it would be better if he simply didn't look at you. What do you think, my love?"

I think you are absolutely batshit insane.

"Are you asking me such an obvious question?" Y/n rubbed his forehead with his fingers, exhaling. "What can I even say to that?"

"Just say the word, and I'll get rid of him for you."

Y/n remembered the people who had brought him from his home at the start. What were their names? Ivan? Sergei? Their crimson blood had been unrelenting and had splattered on the floor, and Y/n had to bear witness to it all. So much blood. So much killing. So much...Y/n squeezed his eyes shut for one second, trying to push away the horrific mental image.

"I'll tell you when to close your eyes, my sweet," Andrei crooned, ruffling Y/n's hair, "don't be scared."

Of course I'm scared. To begin with, you are someone that I should be terrified of. And yet—

"Here we are," Andrei finally announced.

Y/n glanced around the room. It was sparse, with black colored walls. There was a lone mahogany table sitting right in the middle, and a white sofa placed around it. And there were...expensive bottles of champagne, yes. And...

A revolver? Y/n thought in confusion. There was only one gun on the table, its metallic gleam facing the flickering candlelight. There was no one yet in the room except the two of them, but there was a door on the opposite side. Whoever was due to come would arrive from there.

Only one gun. Nothing else. And Andrei had said earlier that he had found a way to kill him fairly, without breaking the contract. Y/n's mind connected the dots quickly, and he quickly let out a harsh gasp at the realization—

Russian Roulette. A spin, a dance with death. Each chamber would be loaded with a single bullet, and spun around so no one knew where the deadly cartridge lay. Then the player would press it to his own temple, holding his breath—waiting for the outcome...

It was so horrid that Y/n didn't even want to think about it.

"Surely you aren't thinking of doing something so stupid, are you?" Y/n hissed, "what the hell do you think you are doing?"

Andrei calmly took the revolver on the table, and placed it in his coat pocket. "Remember, Moy Sladkiy, this is only one of the measures. Only if he offends me, shall I draw this gun. Is it not fun? Is it not thrilling? You need not play, of course, but I..." There was a crazed emotion in his eyes, indecipherable. The eyes of a mad man. "It's been a long time since I have played this."

"You are willing to kill yourself?" Y/n murmured in disbelief, "you are willing to—"

Because what the actual fuck?

"I will not die," Andrei smiled, "Y/n, my sweet. Do not underestimate me. The Gods are on my side. A bullet to my temple, should this go awry? One touch from you would be able to resurrect me. The minute your skin skims mine and your lips call my name, watch as my dead body is brought back to life."

"..." Y/n stared at Andrei, his mouth opening, then closing again. The words the Tsar was saying right now; the meaning was huge. Heavy. Real. He was not someone to lie, not someone to make things up for amusement. This was some of the moments when Y/n's missing memories became a deep annoyance that he longed to unlock. Because hell, had Y/n saved his life when he was young to earn such loyalty, devotion, love?

"...It is not a good idea," Y/n whispered. "One bullet, and...death is not something to joke about."

"How cute," Andrei laughed softly, "that you are worried about me."

"I worry about those who recklessly put themselves before death. In stupid situations."

Then again, wasn't Y/n a hypocrite for saying this? Because that was the very thing Y/n had done.

"Ah," Andrei's gloved fingers pressed into Y/n's back, before hooking onto his waist, "he is here. Pavel is here."

Sure enough, a stout man came from the door, three bodyguards following him behind. Y/n stiffened unknowingly, and Andrei's hand traces circles in soothing, rhythmic loops. Y/n saw the look of confusion on Pavel's face, before a flicker of recognition dawned onto his face, and—

—Then there were hands reaching out to Y/n, a maddening smile on Pavel's face.

"So you are real! The Tsar is infatuated with a man! I thought you were a myth," Pavel's eyes were beady, vicious—yet it was venomous in the ugly, sleazy ways that Andrei's eyes weren't. He's trying to touch me, Y/n thought with alarm, panic started to rise within him, he's trying to see if—I am—real.

A gunshot sounded in the air. Y/n flinched, but the sound had been muffled. He realized belatedly that Andrei had covered his ears before he had fired a blank into the air. But it had worked, for Pavel had jumped back, goosebumps appearing on his skin.

"You—! What is the meaning of—!"

"Lay a hand on him, and you are dead," Andrei smiled. "Lay a hand on one inch of his body with your grimy, dirty hands...and I will kill you."

"Nonsense," Pavel tried to regain his composure, laughing wildly, "we have made a contract years ago. And if you break it, then..."

"Don't," Y/n tugged on Andrei's arm sleeve, "don't be a suicidal fool."

Andrei kissed Y/n's cheek in response, to which Y/n backed away from. That only made the Tsar laugh, before his cold, cold eyes directed itself once more into Pavel. His Russian accent was thick and strong—Y/n noticed it tended to be more obvious when he was angry—"Pavel. Are you familiar with Russian Roulette?"

The dreaded metallic gun was brought into the table. Beads of sweat rolled down Y/n's forehead. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. Russian Roulette was something reserved for desperate beggars or the crazy people: people who would bet their lives over wads of cash. But these people here—they were swimming in money...no. Andrei was crazy. Mad. Out of his mind.

"Don't look so terrified. I'm so flattered you care for me, my sweet."

"I do not—!" Y/n stopped himself, as he angrily turned away from the scene. "Fine. Do whatever stupid shit you want. If you die, it's not on me. But I need you alive to regain my memories back—and to repay that damned debt."

"Adorable," Andrei murmured under his breath, before he glanced at Pavel. "Will you say yes...or no?"

"Damnit," Pavel was obviously stressed, but his pride would not allow him to deny. "You are too brash and reckless. You could end up dead."

His words were ones of fearlessness, but alas, it was false bravado. Unlike how terrifyingly calm Andrei was, Pavel's bottom lip was twitching, his form shaking. This was a matter of life and death—if he died here, then that would mean...but no. Because this also meant Pavel had a chance to kill Andrei off.

"Who wants to go first?"

"Andrei," Y/n hissed under his breath, "you—"

"No answer? I'll go first." Andrei picked up the revolver, examining it. "Each chamber has been loaded with a bullet. So we just spin it, hold it to your foreheads..." he traced the contours of the weapon—at this point, the room was already crackling with tension. "And we shoot."

Y/n watched—he wanted to peel his eyes away, yet somehow he found that he just couldn't—as Andrei pressed the gun towards his temple. He gave Y/n a smile.

Y/n had to tear his eyes away, yet he could hear the click of the mechanism—the chamber was spinning. Any moment—any moment there was sure to be a bang!sound and Andrei would lie dead on the floor, and he would have to—

There was no sound. Y/n forced his eyes open, and he saw as Andrei merely passed the revolver towards Pavel, whose face was now pale. Ghostly white.

"Wait, hold on. I don't think..."

Y/n felt hands tread through his hair. Physical touch, he thought, was definitely his love language. Yet that would mean every aspect of the five love languages...Andrei possessed, for had the Tsar not showered him with countless gifts? Did the Tsar not seek his touch so desperately like he was oxygen? Did Andrei not cook for him, not assign him bodyguards? Did he not coax him...?

His affections are more burdensome, for I cannot reciprocate them with the same fervor.

"You were so worried," Andrei chuckled, "over nothing."

Belatedly, Y/n realized that his skin was cold to the touch. His breaths were erratic: something was thumping heavily against his chest—his heart. It was beating so wildly it could have jumped out of his chest. And now—Y/n was relaxing. Somehow, he was...relaxing. Against the Tsar's touch.

"Pavel might survive this." Was all Y/n said. He would have broken out of Andrei's gentle grasp, but he found that all power had left him. Fear made him weak.

"Yes, that is true. Yet I doubt that."

"What?"

"You might not want to watch, Moy Sladkiy. Soon there will be blood splattering all over your beautiful clothes. Close your eyes."

If Y/n wanted to rebel, he would have opened his eyes. But the truth was always there. Y/n was scared. Y/n didn't know what to see. He didn't want to see.

So instead he obeyed and closed his eyes. He felt a hand over his eyes, pressing firmly against his skin. Y/n could feel his back against abdominal muscles—Andrei.

"You—!"

"Shh," Andrei coaxed, "don't you want to hear it? You might not want to see it, but don't you want to hear the screams of the person who has wronged you?"

No, I do...not. But then he thought of Pavel's slimy hands reaching out towards him, grasping and pulling—

"On with it, Pavel," Andrei said silkily, "I have tested my luck. I have fought against another Death, and she has refused me. But perhaps she might embrace you, do you think?"

There was a brief silence.

Y/n couldn't see, and that only made the shattered silence even louder—in one quick second, there was the deafening roar of the revolver, and then a scream exploded. Instinctively, Y/n violently flinched, and the hand on his eyes continued to press harder and firm still.

Pavel got shot! He got shot—!

Russian Roulette's final verdict had been delivered mercilessly. The echoes of the gunshot had faded, and Y/n was trying desperately to turn away: to swallow the bile that was now rising up in his throat. No. No. No. But to his horror, he felt inexplicable relief. No say he was relieved because Andrei had—survived—right?

No way he...

.

.

"I can't believe you didn't take care of yourself, Andrei," Y/n groaned, "take better care of yourself. Everytime I visit you, you look so ill. Are you alright?"

"...I'm fine."

"You will make me sick with worry one day. You have no idea how relieved I was when you woke up."

.

.

"It's over, Y/n," Andrei said quietly, tenderly. "See, Moy Sladkiy? Those who dare taint your name are the ones who get punished. Soon this will spread everywhere, and no one will ever dream of taking—ripping—you away from me."

Y/n could only give a strangled sound.

.

.

how was it?