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STAY WITH HIM FOREVER? No, that couldn't possibly be right. The man in front of Y/n was dangerous, cunning—he could kill Y/n any moment: just a small press of the trigger, just a stab to his chest—so why was Andrei treating him with such love, such affection? Andrei was not only a member of the Mafia; he was the Tsar. The ruler. The leader. The most heartless being.

And that very heartless being was tipping Y/n's chin up now, smiling. It was a smug smile: but it wasn't those infuriating ones, but the charming, charismatic kind. Y/n found his eyes fixated on that very expression, before he reminded himself of the situation he was in, and tore his eyes away.

His throat felt like sandpaper as he answered: "I'm sorry, Tsar. I don't recall..."

Y/n trailed off feebly. He didn't dare to finish the sentence: because any member of the Mafia was sure to have a screw loose in their head. Perhaps if something irked Andrei the slightest bit, he would not hesitate to change his mind. The minds of crazed one's could be fickle, ever changing, and Y/n did not dare to risk it. He simply couldn't risk it. So instead, he shut his mouth and pressed it in a straight line.

In a way, it was a sign of insolence. But the chances of getting killed would be lower. Y/n waited, with bated breath, for the verdict. Will I be killed, he wondered, or will I be spared? And the answer was proved to be the latter when all Andrei did was laugh and chuckle. Dimples appeared on his sinfully handsome face when he smiled, and Y/n felt Andrei's fingers move along his jaw, to his lips, before hovering...

"Your expression. How cute," he murmured, "oh, Y/n. You haven't changed. Not one bit."

"..." Y/n didn't answer. He felt himself slowly rise to his feet, a fur coat being placed on his shoulders—faux fur, yet still ridiculously expensive—and then a hand snaking around his waist. Y/n felt like a deer lost in headlights. He was stumbling around like a newborn fawn, horrified by the violence he had just witnessed, and the rigid dichotomy of Andrei that he had seen in mere minutes.

He had heard Andrei kill Ivan. Yet Y/n had also felt firsthand the tenderness of the touch. Was there something truly...did they really have a connection, before all this? Y/n's memories were a blur: it was jarring, the fact that he truly didn't remember anything about his childhood, except his mother screaming: beer bottles being crashed on the floor, the overflowing debt payments. How much did Y/n owe the man in front of him, really?

"I'm sorry," Y/n shook his head, swallowing. "For the—the—money..."

Andrei looked at Y/n for a second, before he burst out into laughter.

"Money!" Andrei repeated, "you think I went to find you for the money? Oh, no, my sweet, you couldn't have gotten it more wrong."

The tips of Y/n's ears turned red at the nickname.  Yet he straightened his posture.

"Then..." What else, really? What other possible explanation is there for the treatment towards him? A offer, a deal? Something more sinister beneath the surface?

"Your memories..." Andrei muttered under his breath, "I must find who was that foolish person who dared to wipe the memories of you, then..." He looked at Y/n, grinning, "Ah. I must have gotten off track. I did not find you for money, darling. I found you because of our promise. Because you would—could—not find me."

Wipe...my memories? What the actual fuck?

"Now, finding you was so terribly difficult. I had to comb the whole of Russia inch by inch just to find you..." Andrei sighed, tilting his head, "yet I would say I have reaped the rewards, have I not? Forget about paying me money for the debt. Having you by my side is enough. I will entrust a personal bodyguard to you."

"I'm sorry," Y/n spoke haltingly, trying his best to process all this information rushing into his head, "but what...what role do I play in all of this? I do not remember you, and—"

"Oh, there is no role you are supposed to play," Andrei crooned, "all you have to do is to relax. All your needs will be taken care of, darling. Let me spoil you."

Y/n was speechless. Horrified, extremely confused. This was not some random gang on the streets of Russia. This was the Ivanov Mafia; the terrifying corporation that ruled the underground, holding all the strings and connections to control half the country, if not the whole.

And this man was Andrei Ivanov; the mastermind behind it all. The one who had ruthlessly killed all of the potential successors of the group to reclaim his position. His name, along with his group, was infamous. Everyone knew of them: some knew of his apparent backstory, a select few knew he had been a frail child when he was young, the one most unlikely to inherit the group.

But Andrei had been nursed back to health and helped by a boy similar to his age. And occasional rumors that Y/n did not know of said that Andrei Ivanov had developed some sort of obsession with the child even when they had been both young: being so lonely he craved for the boy's presence. And the minute Andrei turned eighteen, he had scoured the lands for him. 

And now he had succeeded.

This is the man I owe my debt to, Y/n thought hesitantly, yet he tells me he does not wish for any monetary compensation that should be rightfully his...

"I was going to help you, financially, after I had found out who your father was. But it was so hard to track down your location." Andrei murmured, "why do you look so distraught? Did you miss your father, or do you hate me because I killed him?"

Right. Though Y/n had not been a good terms with his family, Andrei had still murdered  his father.

Y/n took one step back. His hands curled around the coat instinctively, yet belatedly he realized it was the very fur coat that Andrei had placed around his neck. The irony, that Y/n was now seeking some sort of warmth, some sort of comfort—from an inanimate object that belonged to the very person he was wary of. The Tsar.

Be on guard, Y/n told himself, this is a mafioso. The King of Mafia. God knows how many people he has killed. God knows how many people's blood he has stained his hands with.

No. This man in front of him: he was the one who made his life a living hell. Andrei was the indirect cause of his parents' fights in the kitchen, the resounding pain Y/n felt whenever he was hit brutally: it was...

The warmth made it hard for Y/n to hate Andrei. Yet it could be fleeting, ephemeral, for all Y/n knew. Whatever this strange tenderness was could have been a facade. It could have been a ploy. And even if it was real, and that Y/n had truly forgotten everything about his childhood, who knew how long these feelings could last?

"I hated him," Y/n managed. "I hated my father." He did. He truly did. Even now, searing bitterness coursed through his veins. Being born was like a lottery in itself: and Y/n knew he had gotten extremely unlucky. Perhaps Andrei did too, or perhaps he had been considered lucky. Y/n wondered the sort of child he had been. When he had killed at a young age, was it by choice? Or was it another case of Survival of the Fittest? Had it been so easy for him to grab the dagger, or was his hands trembling when he did so?

Y/n gave a long sigh. He was beginning to calm, though his kind still throbbed with the remnants of pain on his wrist, and the weight of information starting to press heavily down on his mind.

"Exactly," Andrei beamed—the Tsar beamed—"I would have spared him if he had been sweet to you. But it was like revenge, no? He must have been the one to rip you away from me. He must have been the one to torment you...ah, Y/n," Andrei cooed, "I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner."

"What are your intentions?" Y/n was beginning to dare to be more upfront: he made a wild guess that no matter what he did, Andrei would not lay a single hand on him. And what that meant, Y/n didn't know.

He knew. Y/n wasn't blind to it: he had seen the same looks on bars, in university, even.

He had seen the desire: the rampant, hungry desire that was glimmering in Andrei's eyes. Some sort of fervent relief in his eyes, speckled with bits of...fondness. No,  not mere bits. A lot.

"I told you, Moy Sladkiy, I have no other intention other than to treat you the way you deserve," Andrei laughed. "Unless you want a pact, my dear?"

"A pact—?"

Before Y/n could reply properly, Andrei took out a sharp dagger, cutting it across his upper arm with no hesitation. Immediately, streams of crimson flowed out, unrepentant, visceral. Y/n gave a startled little jolt: his eyes widening, his hands instinctively reaching out to Andrei.

Fucking crazy, Y/n thought, you are...

"It's a blood pact. Of course, you are not permitted to do it—"

"You are hurt," Y/n interrupted, shaking his head. " I do not need a blood pact! Are you out of mind? Is pain of second nature to you? Have you no..." then he stopped, seeing a dark look cross over his face. It wasn't a murderous kind of dark: no, it was the opposite. The darkness of his face spoke of lust, sweetness, tenderness.

And Andrei's voice was soft when he spoke. Y/n noted that his voice tended to lower when he was serious about something.

"That is exactly what you said to me when you first met me," Andrei murmured. "Ah, how exciting."

"You have blood running down everywhere," Y/n paused. "Are you..."

Y/n had forgotten that this was the Mafia he was talking to. Andrei was probably extremely used to bloodshed: hell, he had seen Andrei kill Ivan without so much batting an eye. Such a thing was normalized in their society. Such a thing—a cruel, horrible thing—was so easy for them. They didn't stop to think of the mourning loved ones at home. They didn't stop to hear the desperate cries from the victims. No, they simply...

"You haven't changed at all." Andrei murmured, "you always seemed rather frail—like when you trembled earlier when you were brought before me. But then you would surprise me with your words."

Y/n didn't reply for a while. The blood fell on the floor in a steady stream, batting the already crimson floor with more red. Red, red, red. Everything was red.

"We met before, you say." Y/n muttered. "And we were close enough for you to be acting this way to me..."

"Yes, my sweet."

"Did I know that you were part of the mafia? Did I befriend you knowing who you were?"

"Would you have been my friend: my companion, if I had told you?"

"Probably not," Y/n said honestly, "no, not at all." He studied the Tsar's expression. If he got away with this—then that would mean that he could have stolen multiple millions: Y/n could have done anything, yet all Andrei would do was to smile that indulgent smile of his.

"See. Everything works out in the end," Andrei's hands were in his pocket, but Y/n saw how Andrei's fingers twitched: like he was aching to touch him. "Well, there are your memories to deal with. Think of staying with me as a way to repay your debt."

"Staying with Mafia..." Y/n's trailed off. He was extremely apprehensive about that: but what could he do? He really, really didn't want to die. And now he had supposedly obtained Andrei Ivanov's affections, then...

Yes. The worst case, Y/n would simply pretend that his memories had come back.

Then he would escape. He would be free of everything.

Will I finally be able to escape this hellhole..?

Y/n clutched the coat around himself tighter, and cradled the thought close to his heart.

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