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"THIS WILL BE YOUR ROOM."

The mansion was absolutely spotless—it was tastefully decorated, with expensive ornaments and furniture littered around the place. There was a greenhouse where flowers and roses had bloomed beneath the resplendent sun, and the scent had been comforting—yet had also been strong enough to hide the smell of blood; the smell of iron.

"This...is my room," Y/n said listlessly, his eyes surveying the place before him. It was a far cry from what he was so accustomed to: dingy floors, walls so flimsy he could have fallen on it and it would have toppled, sparse furniture...unlike his previous circumstances, this was a room fit for royalty.

And hell, a butler had led him here. Y/n didn't exactly know what he expected a house of a Mafia to seem like: perhaps colder, more sinister—with nothing but metal bars and...but this was bright—even cheerful, as one might say.

And there was something familiar about it. About the sight of sunlight streaming through large paneled windows, light catching on his fingertips, his hair.

"Yes. The Tsar has assigned you this room. It is opposite his," the butler bowed towards Y/n, smiling politely. However, his expression almost seemed hostile. Perhaps to the ones who had served Andrei for so long, Y/n L/n was seen as an outsider, infiltrating the mansion. Come to think of it, Y/n thought, I don't even know Andrei Ivanov. I suppose I accepted as it would mean a way out of poverty. In fact, the butler's gloves smelt odd. It was a fragrance, yes, but there was something...rather...off-putting...

The butler did not flinch.

"It's a nice room." Y/n said blandly. "What's your name?"

"My name?" He looked awkward. " It's Sergei. And you might be staying in this room for quite some time, so you should make yourself comfortable."

But Y/n was convinced that Andrei would abandon him before long.

"Ah." Y/n nodded stiffly. "Tell the Tsar that I extend my thanks towards him."

Tsar. Usually Russian Mafia were called Pakhan, yet Andrei was quite literally called the ruler. He could have been, with the power and control he had over St. Petersburg, where he mainly lived, over Moscow, over...more than half of Russia. Cities were his kingdom, and all Andrei lacked was a Tsarina to rule with him.

I don't even come from Russia, Y/n thought. My mother does, but I've only spent my childhood here. St. Petersburg had beautiful architecture that he had greatly admired, but his visit back to Russia was not because of that. Y/n had come back to finish a few documents related to his father's passing, and had stumbled upon the loans.

Y/n's mother...

I shouldn't even think about the one who has abandoned me to fend for myself.

"I think he would like it more if you told him personally," the butler—Sergei— gave yet another smile, but Y/n didn't like how slimy it looked. False, and dripping with venom.

"You may leave."

Sergei bowed again, before he exited. Y/n was left alone, and the first thing he did was to head to the bathroom, turning on the handles of the bathtub. Clear water flowed out readily, and Y/n poked his finger in it.

Still a little cold, but he would manage. In fact, Y/n welcomed it with open arms: the coldness and bitterness seeping inside his bones was penance; suffering that he felt he rightfully deserved. Y/n had witnessed a murder, yet he would not talk about it—he...

Affiliating myself with the Ivanov Organisation, Y/n bit his lip. How terrible. Where else could he go, however? He had nothing to his name but a pile of debts that was promised to disappear if he endured being with the Tsar. Being with none other than Andrei.

How ashamed would his mother be now? Why did she abandon him? Was it because she knew the way he would turn out, that her escape had become a needed distraction?

"..." Y/n closed his eyes. Thinking was painful, and it was easier to maintain an empty state of mind. Smile listlessly with no substance in it. Yes, it would be better to be a mindless airhead, unthinking and stupid. It would be far better to have that...wouldn't it?

...Or maybe not. Y/n had a feeling he was somewhat expected to act like himself, or Andrei would be terribly disappointed. And that would result in his death, though now even that seemed relatively inviting.

I'll just...

Y/n felt his head start to droop, and a yawn escape him.

I'll just stay like this for a while...

—

Time seemed relative as it crawled by, and before Y/n had known it, there was a knock on his door. There had been confusion and lethargy at first, when Y/n slowly forced his eyes open, peeling his wet limbs from the cold bathtub. He nearly slipped when he stood, grabbing a towel.

This...where was this again?

How many seconds, minutes—no, hours had gone by? He needed to know. This was his time. Y/n wanted to have control over what little things he could control now. There were so few of them.

No clock, Y/n sighed. There is nothing to tell me of the time I have spent in this golden cage. It was a fitting place to grow crazy.

"Y/n."

Y/n remembered how to walk. One foot forward, then the other.

"Y/n? Are you inside?"

Then his hands clasped on the door. Somehow the feeling of something on his skin felt strangely foreign to him: he had merely dozed off, hadn't he? All Y/n had done was to sleep for a few minutes, so why did it have such an odd sensation on him? Something was tickling his nostrils.

"...Who is this?" Y/n asked tiredly, "you sound rather familiar."

The door opened, and Y/n found himself looking straight into the eyes of Andrei Ivanov, who towered over him. Pink flushed on his cheeks when Y/n realized belatedly that he was only clad in a towel at his lower waist, and that his hair was still dripping wet.

"...My apologies," Y/n cleared his throat, "I'm sorry. I'd did not realize—"

"Huh," Andrei tilted his head, looking amused. "You are as forgetful as always. Your head has always been in the sky."

As always. Again. Well, Y/n didn't exactly think his personality had undergone any major changes from when he was young, so that would explain it. But then there was the insinuation that Andrei Ivanov knew everything about him. His likes, his dislikes, where he lived. The Tsar had tracked him down to his very location, had he not?

"There should be a change of clothes for you by the side," Andrei smiled innocently, "they should fit you. And if they don't, we can always personally tailor ones for you."

His smile...somehow it reminded Y/n of the ^_^ emoji. Which was a strange comparison, but Andrei's smile was not exactly mocking, but teasing. Satisfied smugness. Y/n couldn't quite place his hand on it.

"That thought is appreciated," Y/n was beginning to close the door.

"Your clothes."

"Sorry?"

"One of them has a zip that needs to be pulled up."

"If you are talking about dress pants, I think I can do that myself—"

"Ah, no, Moy Sladkiy," Andrei chuckled. "One of your shirts. Versace. It requires a zip at the back. Unless you are too shy? I could always ask one of the servants to help, but I'm afraid I would have to gouge their eyes after."

He said all of this with a beaming smile. Gouging eyes out...such a horrifying thing, yet he dismissed it so easily. Andrei could have been talking about the weather with the way it rolled off his tongue so casually, so nonchalantly.

"You can help," Y/n furrowed his eyebrows, obviously irked. But that only made Andrei more bemused.

He's looking at me like I'm some cat, Y/n thought, it's so obvious he somewhat finds every action I do endearing. Should I be worried?

"Whatever you say, love," Andrei stepped forward, before Y/n pushed him away, glaring slightly.

"I'm going to put the pants off first. Don't look."

"Oh, I wouldn't even dream of it," Andrei blinked his eyes in mock horror, before he laughed. "Of course I won't. Who do you think I am?"

You look at me like I'm the only one in the entire world, Y/n scowled. And I can tell some part of you is aching to touch me. Bonus: you are a Mafia with no sense of moral values.

"Keep to your word," Y/n turned around, making sure the Tsar was not looking, "this brand...isn't it extremely expensive?"

"I said I would spoil you. I am someone who keeps to his promises. Likewise, if I promised to get rid of someone..." there was an abrupt snap! of fingers, "there. Consider it done, my sweet. It is that simple." His Russian accent was noticeably more pronounced when he spoke for a long time.

"Come help me with the zip." Y/n ignored whatever Andrei was talking about. "You said you would help me."

The fabric felt light on his skin. It was extremely comfortable, and even more so with the fact that it somehow fitted him perfectly. It was not too loose, too tight. It had been just right. Huh. How did Andrei know his size?

"Your tongue is starting to run loose," Andrei hummed, "you are starting to shed that nervous layer of yours, after such a short period of time. Maybe your mind remembers my presence. Are you usually this comfortable this fast with other people?"

Now that Y/n thought of it, no, not really. And to begin with, there weren't a lot of instances of 'other people.'

"...I don't think so."

Andrei let out a satisfied sound at that.

There were now gloved hands splayed on Y/n's back. He shivered—even with the Tsar's hands gloved, the coldness from his fingers reached Y/n's skin. Then the fingers traced circles on the expanse of his bare skin. Y/n wasn't exactly uncomfortable; he wasn't disgusted by such close proximity usually, but this was the Tsar he was talking about. Such pressure was overwhelming; Andrei's very presence was extremely unnerving. Those hands could have strangled him to death there and then.

"You have yet to even dry properly," Andrei said disapprovingly, "you will catch a cold."

"I fell asleep."

"Yes, I suppose you were tired." Andrei finally zipped the back of Y/n's shirt or whatever it was—up, and then he let go. Y/n turned around, before he tilted his head.

"Why did you find me?"

"To join me for dinner."

"You could have asked someone to send me," Y/n said idly.

"And risk them seeing you half naked?" Andrei raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "I don't think so, Moy Sladkiy."

Again, with that nickname...why always that nickname? It was a pet name reserved for boyfriends, lovers, spouses. Not for—

Him.

"I made your favorite dish, if it hadn't changed." Andrei continued on, stopping Y/n's train of thoughts. "As a child, I remember you enjoying Pelmeni quite often, unless I was mistaken. You used to stuff your cheeks with those dumplings."

Y/n's cheeks reddened. "I recall no such thing."

"What do you expect?" Andrei gave an exaggerated sigh, "you don't even remember me—the friend whom you pledged to spend eternity with. Til..." Andrei gave a soft smile. "Death do us part."

Y/n watched Andrei.

All the stars in the night sky would have paled in comparison to the light in his green, summer eyes, and even the sun was dim compared to the sight of the Tsar's small smile. It was bright, unmistakably affectionate.

You...Y/n stared. You really are...

That sounded like an ominous wedding vow.

"Well, then," Y/n changed the topic swiftly, feeling a strange sensation wash over him—it could only be described as awkwardness—and he nudged Andrei towards the door. This was a stranger, Y/n had to remind himself, this was a stranger recalling shared memories he didn't even know existed. "What, did the cook make it?"

"I cooked it."

"They must be—wait, what?" Y/n echoed in disbelief, "you cook?"

"I didn't know how to in the beginning, but you stated before that your dream spouse was someone who could cook, so I took matters into my own hands." Andrei cast a glance at him. "You know, I'm really aching to kill the person who erased your memories."

"What? How do you know my type—erased?" Y/n felt he was getting too easily distracted by the irrelevant things in the different sentences. "What do you mean by erased? Surely I just...forgot them." He finished dumbly, when he saw the dangerous smile on Andrei's face.

The Tsar's voice was silky smooth when he spoke, to the extent it sounded like a threat. A thinly veiled threat.

"...Well," Andrei drawled, "let's say your memories weren't erased, or that you didn't suffer a traumatic event that would cost you to lose your childhood memories, then that would mean you forgot it of your own accord, wouldn't it? That you forgot me of own record."

Is he being serious?

"What," Y/n scoffed, "that's ridiculous..." Then he paused and amended his words after seeing the look on Andrei's face. "No, I don't think I would have forgotten you."

"Hm," Andrei hummed. He didn't seem quite so satisfied just yet. Y/n felt like a mouse being targeted by a predator—his fingers shook slightly: his bottom lip trembled. "Do you think I'm that forgettable? That's a slight insult."

"You are memorable." Y/n wasn't lying. After all, who would forget the Tsar? The Mafia boss?

"Hope it stays that way," Andrei's smile tugged up, easing off to a relaxed one. Y/n heaved a sigh of relief, trailing meekly behind it. It was stupid, how in an instant, all that bravado Y/n had possessed seemed to have dissipated into thin air all with mere words from Andrei. And no one would even have thought of how unnerving the Tsar had looked like earlier, with him now so obviously pleased and happy.

His mood changed erratically, to the point it was...rather strange.

They walked past the hallway to a bright kitchen. It could have come from a cover of Russia's Architecture Digest; it was modern, but still retained the same essence that St.Petersburg Winter Palace did—there were little trinkets that Y/n suspected were incredibly expensive. On the shelf, at the very left, was a collection of cigars, obviously luxurious.

Andrei led Y/n to a plush seat, and placed a steaming plate in front of him. A tempting smell wafted to his nostrils. His eyes followed where Y/n was looking, and smiled.

"Those are my cigars, Moy Sladkiy."

"Should you be putting them in such plain sight?"

"Well," Andrei shrugged loosely, "this isn't plain sight, to be exact. Only a few trusted individuals can sit here—"

And that included him, Y/n noted.

"—and those here are my least valued ones. Arturo Fuente Don Carlos and Gurkha Royal Courtesan are some that currently sit in my personal bedroom."

Y/n certainly didn't smoke cigars, but he had heard those cigars in passing before. Especially since one of them cost a million, which was practically the debt that his father owed to Andrei Ivanov. The Mafia had more money than even royalty had—it made sense that Andrei could splurge on such ridiculously expensive things.

Y/n absentmindedly picked up a spoon, and scooped the Pelmeni up, placing it in his mouth. He chewed for a little—then the flavors exploded in his mouth, simmering and savory. Y/n couldn't help but widen his eyes at the pleasant taste. It wasn't just delicious; it wasn't just tolerable—its taste was astounding. Exquisite. It could very well have been made by a five star restaurant chef, but no—the person who made it was a Mafia Boss.

"You made the dough yourself?"

"Yes, from scratch."

The thought of Andrei Ivanov doing such a thing was rather endearing. Y/n wondered if he had worn an apron.

"And you minced all the other ingredients yourself?"

"Well, I'm rather good with the knife." Andrei smiled.

Yeah, what did Y/n expect? He was definitely good with the knife. With his hands, too.

"So you like it, I presume?"

"It's delicious," Y/n said honestly, spooning another one in his mouth. The flavors practically melted on his tongue: Y/n had lived so long on frozen food sold in grocery stores, usually poor quality and nearly expired, that it felt so odd to taste something so..fresh. So fantastically cooked. Unless what Andrei was saying had been true, and nostalgia was simply a powerful weapon.

"Ah, then I'm glad. A younger me would have died of happiness," Andrei tilted his head, "well, even in the present I am absolutely delighted by your words, my love."

The nickname was supposed to make the food taste sweeter, but a sense of sourness coursed through Y/n'a body. Y/n did not know who his past self was, and thus, didn't know who exactly he was supposed to connect with. Besides, he didn't recall a single thing about the Tsar's past either. Was he a wilful child? An obedient one...?

"...huh," Y/n placed the spoon down. "What exactly did I do last time for you to hold my opinion in such high regard?"

"You saved me." Andrei said simply and vaguely.

"You needed saving, from me?" Y/n said incredulously, "I'm sorry, but I find that a little hard to wrap my head around."

"...I think it would be better for you to remember yourself, instead of me telling you," Andrei laughed, "mine would sound overly exaggerated, as you would put it. Now, come on, Moy Sladkiy, finish your food. Or do you need me to feed you?"

Hastily, Y/n immediately swallowed the last piece of the Pelmeni, satisfied. It was an enjoyable meal, and if he closed his eyes, he could forget that the hands of a murderer had prepared that meal. And well, all Y/n could be right now was...grateful. In the end, Andrei Ivanov had gone out of his way to specially cook lunch for him. Again, another odd show of affection that Y/n wasn't sure he was supposed to be glad for, or terrified. Currently, he was feeling the latter.

"The servants will clean it up, don't bother. We have other matters to attend to," Andrei rose up from the seat—for the last minutes, he had simply been resting his cheek on the palm of his hand, watching as Y/n ate, "such as matter of your bodyguard."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm no stranger to the dangers of what I'm leading you into, and of course—no I doubt you will get hurt under my care, I would prefer to have additional security."

"...Security," Y/n repeated tonelessly.

"It was supposed to be a whole entourage, if it helps," Andrei shrugged, "but then the more people, the higher chance that there is a traitor amongst them. So I've decided to hire an extremely loyal and powerful bodyguard to help you. She's efficient, and you won't fall for her."

"What?"

"She's a woman," Andrei said matter of factly, "and if I remember from what you told me in your childhood, you aren't interested in women—"

"—what?" Y/n said shrilly, "what the hell are you even—okay, forget I just cursed at you—but..."

Andrei stared at Y/n, before he burst into laughter. His broad shoulders shook for a moment as he chuckled, before he smiled at Y/n, like how someone would look at...a lover. Or a precious person.

Butterflies twisted and turned in Y/n's stomach uncomfortably.

"Ah, Y/n," He shook his head, "your reactions never fail or cease to amuse me."

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sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy. how was this chapter? [ I'm working to slowly release longer ones ]