comments are very much appreciated! starting from now on there will be very fast releases but shorter chapters! would you guys prefer that? it makes me feel less stressed too

sorry for such a long wait! here you gooo

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PAST

Y/N KNEW WHEN there was a heavy cloud blanketing his home. It was at those times the fights were particularly bad; there were always the shattering of glasses—some wine bottles, and then there was the screams that were so loud and sharp it could have ruptured five year old Y/n's eardrums. His parents paid little attention to him, though—as far as they were concerned, he didn't exist.

Sometimes they fought over money. His father's debt, his worthless job, the mother's incessant spending habits where she prided herself on the latest bag or perfume. Other times they fought over him. Y/n didn't know if this was a thing to be proud of, or be ashamed of—he liked it when they fought over him. It was the few times he was ever mentioned. Never mind whatever cutting words they were about to inject into the sentences—whatever venom that seeped into tone could be easily dismissed.

"You said you wanted a child!"

"I did!"

"Then? Fucking take care of him!" Obscenities spewed from their mouths. It was not a pretty sight—it never was. It was too much for Y/n, and often he slinked away after their voices became a little too jarring.

He couldn't understand what they fought about. Something about "divided loyalties" —"torn apart"—mysterious things Y/n never bothered to think of. His grandmother heartily disliked his mother too, for some strange reason. Y/n's father was a cruel man, melded into the monster he was by the influences of his grandfather and his friends (alcohol played a major part —drugs too) and so Y/n witnessed his grandmother's love for her only son ebb away from her, little by little. But for his mother? His grandmother hated her with a burning passion from the start.

"You shouldn't have married her," Y/n's grandmother hissed to her son. "She's a horrible person. She'll only put Y/n into grave danger!"

She was usually sweet, even-tempered, and kind.  But vulgarities and insults became second nature to her vocabulary when the mother was brought into the picture.

It was things Y/n didn't quite understand. Being in a fractured family (the word "family" was frankly a very luxurious word here) was incessantly difficult: the perforations that flooded his life, that littered the boardwalks of life—they were so apparent, so easy to spot, so glaringly obvious. Y/n learnt to hate it. Loathe it, even.

Only with Andrei did he ever find a family.

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PRESENT

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The kiss was earth shattering—Y/n, later on, found himself being absolutely coddled by the Pakhan—Andrei was so delightfully fond; so sweet with his words and gestures, so tender with the touch that told Y/n he had been starved—that Y/n nearly forgot his troubles.

Nearly.

There were a million things to worry about. There was the kiss, yes, but Y/n couldn't just dismiss the fact that both him and Andrei—they had gotten fatally wounded before. Being in grave danger wasn't something that Y/n was familiar with—he was familiar with the threat of death, yes, from debt collectors, but to walk the tightrope between life and death...to stare at Mother's death and to even embrace her before—

—Dangerous. It was all dangerous. And that led to Y/n truly wondering if being with the Russian Mafia, of all things to be affiliated with, was safe. Y/n hated a few things: the position he was born in, his family, the fact that his grandmother had died, and most of all—he hated being a weakness to Andrei.

How many times did Andrei already get hurt by him indirectly? And then there were the rumors flooding the place, filling it with so much unneeded poison and hatred—all of which that said Y/n L/n was the traitor.

Traitor. That was nonsense. He hadn't approached Andrei to seek information out. Y/n had been the one to be approached, even—such words that they said made absolutely no sense. It was ridiculous, above all things.

Y/n sighed. A hand snaking around his waist  distracted him from the brewing thoughts, and he felt Andrei kiss his cheek with tenderness that squeezed his heart.

"Security is tightened, love," Andrei whispered, his hand running through Y/n's. "are you alright?"

Andrei had become more open to him lately. He had always been open—but it seemed that the kiss had somehow broken a thin, invisible barrier between the both of them. Y/n had consented to the relationship: he seeked it out, even—he was every bit burning with desire like Andrei: and now it seemed like this was a relationship. An actual one. An established relationship.

Andrei could call Y/n a lover. So could Y/n. And it was all this little moments that had led up to this moment: all those yearnings in their childhood, the tiny hiccups across the roads—it had all led to this. Even when they were forcibly torn apart...

...Everything had worked out splendidly.

And yet Y/n couldn't dismiss the tugging feeling in his heart. The anxiety that lacerated him and tormented his brain. The anxiety that weighed in his heart when he woke up with his heart uncomfortably thumping against his chest.

Still, Y/n was pushed those thoughts into the back of his mind. His hand curled around Andrei's own, and Y/n gave it a little squeeze. "I'm alright."

He was mainly put on bed rest now. The wound was recovering beautifully, and soon Y/n would be able to move about well. In those days of recovery, Andrei had taken it on himself to gift Y/n things with each day that passed.

The first day after the kiss, liquor. Expensive rothmans. Y/n had laughed, and had read the small note attached to it.

For nights you miss drinking or sharing a flame with me. I love you forever.

The second day: a carefully crafted watch by a much revered craftsman. There were initials etched on it: Y/n's name was spelled out in neat words, engraved delicately on the watch.

The time; darling; for I feel time passes too quickly when I'm with you.

The next few days were similar. It was a smattering of gifts with sweet, saccharine letters. Wherever I go; I see you, and you only. I am always reminded of you. I adore you; my love; I wish to worship your name, Moy Sladkiy.

Y/n was learning to be more vocal with his affections, too. One time he had planted a kiss of his own volition, slipping his hand into Andrei's own—and he could have sworn the man purred. But either ways; their relationship could no longer be called undefinable: they had something, and it was strong, raw, unfiltered. And Y/n never knew such a joy in loving someone.

There were people against this, of course: there had been a particular case with some spy that was sent to infiltrate the Mafia. She condemned him with her red hot words, but Y/n had replied with his own answer.

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"Because I know," Y/n said softly, venomously. His tone was so sharp she jumped at it, startled. "I know that he has killed people, and by textbook definition, he is evil, and that I am evil for turning a blind eye to his madness. His blood is mafia-black. But then again, if we were to assume our moral standing based on fundamental good and evil, where would you stand? Where would all the good people—the police, the government...where would they stand? For years I suffered and yet the people society calls saints never helped. The one who helped me was Andrei. And thus, he is acceptable in my eyes."

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It wasn't morally good. In fact, it was corrupt, above all things. But Andrei had always treated him so well...so sweet...

Y/n shut his eyes. Just a while back, he had been different towards Andrei. But now—

"That's good," Andrei whispered, tapping on the watch that Y/n wore fondly. "Y/n, there is something that I'll need to tell you in advance."

Y/n's throat dried. "...What?"

His mind flashed to horrors: of a breakup, perhaps, or even worse, abandonment. A secret love child. A mistress! Or—

"—I have a business trip soon," Andrei admitted, "I am terribly sorry; but I cannot risk bringing you."

"What? When? Why?" The questions rattled off Y/n's tongue. He started to pale. "Does that mean you'll be in danger?"

"Nothing I can't handle, darling," Andrei promised. "But I'll be back soon. I'll write you letters and buy you souvenirs. A ring would look so pretty and dear on your finger, no?"

Y/n flushed. "So when is your trip?"

There was a pause. "Tomorrow."

"And you didn't tell me sooner!" Y/n furrowed his eyebrows, crossing his arms. "Andrei."

Andrei only smiled. "See, Moy Sladkiy, we are bickering like an old married couple, right?"

Y/n smiled weakly.

"Have a safe trip," he whispered, before Y/n hesitated. "I..."

Andrei caught the sight of that, and raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Y/n? You don't need to hesitate. Tell me what you want."

It was an embarrassing request.

"Sleep with me tonight," Y/n told Andrei softly, "will you?"

Andrei's heart felt like it was about to implode. His mind struggled not to venture into murky, dirty territories. He crushed his lips against Y/n; tasting sweetness and warmth and the golden hues of the sun after winter.

"Yes, darling," Andrei replied quietly, "of course."

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I'm so sorry if it's bad :') getting used to things once more

hope it was okay, though!