comment for motivation! extra long chapter woohoo sorry if it's confusing

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THERE WAS MURKY DARKNESS flooding in Y/n's vision, spots dancing around his eyes. Beneath his skin thrummed a rocky sort of headache: muddling his head, constricting his thoughts and leaving a faint, distant hum rattling in his brain. The morning; afternoon, or night—Y/n no longer knew—felt like walking in a nightmare and pool of his deepest fears: the off-putting, swirling gray palette of walls, the burbling sense of tormenting unease, the prismatic instability of his lives, plagued with doubt.

Pain. All Y/n knew was that he was in pain. Suffering. He knew he had foolishly told Andrei that it didn't hurt, but truly it did.

It was almost like a punishment from god who knew who, really—and with this string of events, starting from the catalyst punctuating his old amorphous days, Y/n was starting to realize the enormity of his situation.

The doctor said your throat tore. That meant speaking would be hard for him, yet Y/n wondered if he would even try to do so if he had been intact. Blood was so occasionally spilled here, and up until—this event—it had never been his. Life in this manor had so far consisted of beautiful, well prepared meals: Y/n realized that such treatment would mean he would  grow more particular with foods, more slavishly hungry for bits and scraps of all things gastronomical, luscious, and savory. Because Andrei's food was undoubtedly delicious.

And now the infrequent altercation had become seriously ugly: because now his life—quite clearly—had been put to risk.

Staying here had put him in danger.

Yes—Y/n needed to leave, somehow. Admittedly, Y/n had to say it had been some sort of guilty pleasure to stay here: the weeks were dear, sweet, beautiful days. He had cherished every single one with a kind of bittersweet, grudging love, feeling each moment melt like chocolate. Yet...

Y/n blinked. He was on a plush bed, his head lying on soft pillows. His room, the one Andrei had given him.

"How are you feeling?" A warm hand brushed against his cheek, fingers pressing onto skin. They were firm, gentle nevertheless—in a moment of weakness, Y/n soaked into it. The poison had made him burn all over yet freeze to the point his bones felt icy, chilling; and now Y/n seemed for some heated touch to bring him comfort.

Y/n stilled, his eyes darting around the room. Then he finally raised his eyes to see green ones.

"It hurts," he managed to rasp out. Those words were the truth, after all. "The poison...is it..."

"We managed to feed you the antidote," Andrei used his fingers to tilt Y/n's head upwards inspecting him with the precision of a surgeon, "but of course, the poison's effects have already started to work in your body. You will only get better from now on, Moy Sladkiy, but—"

"—but I'll have to endure more. Suffer more," Y/n interrupted sharply, before he coughed, his voice a horrible, rattling sound. And to his horror, he saw that emerging from his mouth had been blood—"did you know the butler was going to poison me?"

"How could I foresee this?" Andrei murmured gently, and Y/n was surprised that despite his own angry tone, Andrei was not angry at him, or the slightest bit irked. In fact, he seemed calm, controlled, and...

Red was staining Andrei's fingers and his coat. No—no—not just that, but there was so much of it. In his confusion, Y/n hadn't realized just how vibrantly crimson and violent everything was. A fine cascade of blood hit the floor with an echoing splat, and Andrei only glanced down.

"I rushed to see you," he smiled, "I didn't have time to clean myself of such a horrid man's blood, you see."

The pulsating, ferocious sight pressed and throbbed in Y/n's throat. He could feel bile rising up in his tattered throat, horror creeping up in his bones, pushing through his chest and making his skin crawl—"you...you killed him, obviously. Didn't you? That's why you're so calm."

"Torture, Moy Sladkiy. I tortured him first to ensure he could go through ten times the amount of the suffering you went through. You can read the statistic that the human body holds twenty-five feet of intestines: it was painstaking work, to have cut through all that. His skin slid off easily enough, and his screams..." Andrei pressed a kiss onto Y/n's now cold forehead, "you would have loved to hear them. His mistakes could not be rectified, and he has sufficiently paid for his crimes."

Y/n immediately jolted upright, his fingers clenching around the sheets in attempt to stop himself from feeling over.

No one. No one deserved that: yes, the poison had been horrible, painful—but to hear Andrei say all of that so casually like it was nothing, Y/n felt the innate desire once again to flee: he was in a predator's den.

To make matters worse, Andrei was looking at him expectantly, pleased. For what? Did he expect Y/n to praise him for "returning" the deed, for giving him justice? Were his morals so corrupt and warped that he truly believed in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth? Yet he hadnt' just ripped the tooth out—he has ripped the skin, the organs, the...

"Why would you even do that?" Y/n made a strangled sound, "you—"

No, if Andrei had been truly as monstrous in the past as now, now Y/n really wondered how they had become friends. How they had been so close to the point of this—to the point of obsession. Deep, dark obsession.

"Why?" Andrei laughed softly, "I promised you last time. I would get rid of anyone that ever hurt you. What you are to me..." Fingers grazed his throat, skimming over lightly and considerately, "I could not ever hope to explain. You saved me when I was at my lowest, my darkest: back when I was even haunted by numerous thoughts to kill myself. And all these years of searching for you, I had to carry on, and ache with this feeling of hollowness only you could ever hope to fill. You have done this to me, Y/n. You have rendered me in such a state."

Y/n would not have spoken even if he could have spoken. It was impossible to find words that defined what he felt now. Pained, yes, horrified, with deeply unsettling feelings of ambivalence, conflict, torn between decisions. The itch to run away remained, yet now he felt more mellow, more inclined to listen. The words in his dying throat died along with his hostile feelings: yet his strong uncomfort remained.

"You will search for me in another person."

"None would ever come close to you."

Andrei leaned back and sighed. "...I will not push you, Y/n. Because I know that this is confusing to you. But when you get your memories back..." Andrei's voice lowered. "There will be no reason for you to ever look so horrified. What I've done might be atrocious to you. But for me—it is nothing. And these hands of mine that kill and annihilate, they will never touch you with nothing but gentleness and tenderness. You are free to push me away, to hurt me—but I pray that you never leave me."

"But you cannot promise my safety, can you?" Y/n said quietly, so quiet, it could be so easily ignored and neglected. "Look at what just happened. You can assign thousands of bodyguards and yet somehow my safety is still at risk. I would rather—I would rather you just...allow me to pay back the debt. Just let me leave."

Andrei's eyes widened. He sat ramrod straight, his eyes flared with alarm, and his hands moved, like he was about to reach for Y/n—

"Did you read your mother's letter? Is that why? Has she influenced you against me?"

"What?" Y/n got distracted and immediately hitched on Andrei's sentences. "My mother wrote to me? But you must be kidding. She has not made a single attempt to speak to me for ages, so why would she—all of a sudden..."

"...Forget I said anything. You clearly haven't read it, and you are too unwell to do so."

Y/n narrowed his eyes. "So now you decide to hide things from me. You ask for my trust, yet you choose to mar it with secrets."

"Y/n," Andrei said in a strangled voice, "your mother is not to be trusted."

"She had been away!" Y/n's voice rose dangerously high and he could feel his chords tear even more, shattering, "she has abandoned me for years, and she has left me to this debt. And now she chooses to show that she's still alive—and she writes me a letter, for what? Let me see it," he said desperately, pleading, "Andrei, let me see it."

"She only asks for you to return to your homeland."

"You didn't want to show me the letter because you thought I would leave you," Y/n said slowly, "are you so selfish?"

"Please," Andrei said softly, "it is only because I want to spare you from the pain. She only wants to use you—she is making you return to your homeland because she wants something from you. She has abandoned you for so many years, so why would she return?"

Y/n stopped. Then his eyes flickered to Andrei.

"And I have abandoned you for long, so why have you returned?"

"You know those two things are not the same. You left because of what happened with your—father—and your memories. And I searched for you. But the minute your life got difficult, your mother made the choice of leaving you behind. That is how selfish she chooses to be. That is selfish, Y/n."

"—it's too dangerous for me to live here. I have to live everyday thinking and wondering when my next brush of death is, dealing with your affections, dealing with—" His words dissipated into a series of choked coughs to which Andrei's eyes lit up with concern, "—all of this. You may have loved me, but that didn't mean I felt loved...."

Y/n paused, and trailed off.

"No, I did feel loved. But it made it all the more confusing because I don't remember. I don't know why you love me, why you are willing to sacrifice everything for me...you would gladly lay down your life for me if I wished for you to—but...I don't feel safe. Not here, not with you."

"Your heart will be forever safe with me," Andrei whispered. "Did you know, Y/n? The brighter you shine, the darker my desire. The closer I get to you, the worse it gets. My fondest memories of you would have been jealous of the space you take up in my mind: yet my fondest memories consist of you. The thought of not being with you... I can't breathe. You are in my very heart, in my mind, you are constantly tormenting me... what can I do? I will do anything that you ask. I will do anything, Y/n. Just don't ask me to leave."

Y/n and Andrei had, before stared into each other's eyes and felt the hot rush and push of blood and hormones. They had looked for each other in the dark, and had found that fumbling fleeting sweet. And Y/n had searched in those eyes for reasons to stay, or at least a glimpse of the memories they had supposedly shared.

Y/n closed his eyes to block that thought out. He shut it out: all remnants, everything. "How did you recognise me, after all these years?"

"I would know you anywhere." Andrei brushed a finger across his hair, stroking it softly. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I cannot say how regretful I am that I have allowed this to happen to you."

Truthfully, Y/n could not explain why he had agreed. Was it the promise of a new, better life? Was it because he found a connection somewhat to his younger, naive self? Was it because Andrei had seemed so comforting in a way that he never knew one could be? Whether he liked it or not, there was something so intricately intimate he found with Andrei: the moment Y/n saw the Tsar, there was a gnawing feeling in his brain.

He had found something he didn't even know he was searching for. Something, something, something...what was that something, really? That feeling had remained in his heart like bloodstain onto a white shirt, and no matter how many times Y/n tried to rub it off, no matter how much force was used, it lingered and remained.

No, Andrei's affections were like a snake. The snake loved its victims, it could coil round and round an unsuspecting person, and it would hug tightly, hungrily, but its affections were so strong it would suffocate the person. It would have bitten its fangs into the neck with the most passionate affection, but the person would have died.

"You will give me the letter." Y/n said quietly. "The one my mother wrote. And when I finish reading it, I will tell you if I shall leave or not, Andrei."

"...Alright," Andrei murmured, "you will."

Y/n softened, and instead pressed his head back onto pillows and exhaled softly, closing his eyes.

"Just...let me sleep, Andrei."

"Have sweet dreams, Moy Sladkiy."

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"My debt is mounting, Y/n. The Ivanov group is after me. They will kill me soon—you just befriend the sons most likely to take over the organization. Do not bother with the sick child—he will die soon."

"Sick child?"

"His name was Andrei, or something."

"...Andrei," Y/n trailed off quietly. He liked that name, so why couldn't he be friends with him? And if memory serves him right, it would mean that the pretty boy constantly by the window staring into nothing was him—did he have some sort of temporary blindness?— "Why not? He looks like a lovely person to be friends with."

His father looked at him for a moment or two, blinking his eyes.

Then a hand reached to him and slapped him, sending him on the floor. Y/n coughed and gasped and sputtered; his eyes burned. He had already tried every self humiliation just to appease his father—yet nothing was enough. Why? Y/n had been starved for tenderness and sweetness and just something to show that hud parents loved him, but nothing ever came.

The malice on his tongue would forever be the words of his father—every time he opened his mouth, Y/n would have thought he was about to praise him for his efforts, for something: yet all he did was yell. And every time his father yelled, he became younger and younger. He could have been kinder, gentler, but he never was. But nothing would ever change that Y/n was his father's son, and it would remain this way.

The word Father rotted in his mouth and Y/n hated how it would come with crimson on his lips. And his mother didn't care. Not enough. Y/n had doubted her love for him numerous times: he wanted and needed a family so desperately yet nothing would come.

"Are you stupid?" His father barked at him, "must you always disobey me? At least make yourself useless for one aspect. God, you good for nothing son—!"

"I'm sorry."

He said it so many times it had lost meaning.

"Just...go," his father said at last, "if you don't manage to do such a simple thing, then..."

Y/n looked at his retreating back and again thought of the boy in the window, so ethereal, yet wrapped in bandages and closed off from the world. And for the first time, he thought to rebel.

He climbed over to the house, went up to the balcony and rapped onto the window. And to Y/n's surprise, it slid open. Curiously, he reached out and—

"Don't touch me!" The little boy yelled. His eyes were bandaged, his hair golden and mesmerizing.

Y/n, aged eleven, looked at him worriedly and withdrew his hand.

The little boy fidgeted about, his hands moving wildly to hold onto something—just something-to regain his balance. Scars mottled his body, and Y/n was confused.

He was injured, yet the little boy could not have been older than twelve. Same age, at most, or perhaps a
a year younger.

"...you cannot see," Y/n said in realization. "I'm sorry."

The boy stilled. "Do not address me so casually. I am not someone you can lightly address. Who are you, even?"

Y/n hesitated. His mother had always warned him not to tell others of his name, but...

He was so lonely. This boy could be his friend.

"I'm Y/n L/n."

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Y/n breathed heavily as he awoke from his sleep, sweat dripping down his face.

His father. His father...even dead, he still haunted Y/n. Constantly Y/n's father had told him he was too foolish, too stupid, that he hadn't inherited any of his good traits— he that was good, no? Y/n would have killed himself if he became his father, really. And thus if his father was handsome, Y/n would have preferred to be ugly. If his father was intelligent, he would have chosen to be foolish and dumb. His father had a loud, violent anger and it lingered for the rest of Y/n's life. 

But the truth was Y/n resembled his father, even if it was only a little. The only time he had ever seen his father cry was when his own tears streamed when he faced the mirror. Y/n despised saying he was his reflection, because he believed they weren't—yet in the mirror his father would reach out to him with his right hand, and Y/n would reach to him with the left.

For many years Y/n tried to appeal to his father, mother, making himself digestible for love. Yet he did not expect for them to devour his whole heart.

And...was that—was that a memory...that was Andrei in his dreams, was it not? The dream did not make sense—what did his father mean?

"Andrei..." Y/n said quietly. "Was it him, in my dream? In my memory? Am I...?

He looked down on the sheets—Andrei had stayed, and was sleeping. Y/n marveled at the gentleness and tenderness on his face. In sleep he looked peaceful.

His fingers brushed back a strand of loose hair and Y/n compared this sight to the one in his memory. The golden hair had been the same, yet now it was dimmer as the lights were off and the curtains were drawn.

"...Andrei." Y/n called out again, still soft, "I..."

He shivered. Yes, he was finally remembering— what would this mean for him? With Andrei he would also remember atrocities imprinted in his mind, commute to his memory. His father's words and actions were now still fresh in his mind, and...

"Y/n. What's wrong?"

Andrei was awake. His eyes were bandaged in the dream, he was injured, sick. But now his eyes were bright like a summer's dream, green like the forest plains. And so warm. So, so warm.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Yet you are shaking all over."

"It's really nothing you should worry about."

"Can you not see yourself? You are shivering all over. You cannot see the state—"

"It will pass," Y/n said at last. "...you cannot see, was this not the very first words I said to you?"

Andrei paused. His eyes widened, his lips parted, he froze. Then he finally spoke, gently, quietly, delighted.

"You remember," Andrei said softly, "you remember...?"

"Hardly anything," Y/n shook his head. "But it is a starting point. It is there." He looked at Andrei and offered a smile. A slow, languid one.

He would have a home one day. It would be warm, it would be safe. It would be colorful and light and there would be no shouting, no hurting, no screaming. Violence would not exist.

And this place...perhaps, one day it would be one.

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this chapter is pretty messy but essential for their relationship to grow — some might say y/n is too accepting, it's moving too fast but IMO if you loved someone (and the feeling was mutual) in the past, you would remember them by soul and by heart even if you forgot them I guess

hope it was fine, see you all soon! how was it?