goncharov fanfic real?!?!

02 ; not even in death do we part.

goncharov x andrey. this turned out wonky because my thoughts were all over the place with how i wanted to write this.

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Dark clouds painted the night sky, enveloping the light of the moon and the faraway stars. Snow fell from the sky, painting the ground with a new layer of cold snow. In the silence of the dark cobblestone streets, the snow crunched beneath shifting boots. The ticking of the clock tower burned into his mind. It was calling to him, unable to be ignored. It was more insistent. More urgent. His time was coming to a close.

Before him, Andrey stood, as unreadable as ever. His presence drove Goncharov out of his mind. The way the man regarded him quietly, gloved hands in his pockets. Gaze hidden partially by an eyepatch, he was hard to understand. He was wonderfully mysterious, someone Goncharov couldn't predict. It drawn him closer to the man. He wanted to know him. He wanted to know his fears, his weaknesses, his strengths, his admirations. He wanted to love Andrey. To hold him close, to share a cigarette with him, to kiss him, to feel him. 

Andrey was endearing.

The clock never stopped. It chimed loudly. A dreadful noise, so overwhelmingly terrifying, so intricately planned to drive him mad, to haunt him forever. Goncharov never slept without thinking of the ticking. Out of all the loud chimes, he knew this was the one that would destroy him. This was the last time he would ever hear it's wretched sound. He would be dead. Goncharov's time was up.

It screamed in his ears, his gut exploding with dread and fear, a whole pit open in his stomach. Goncharov felt weak, powerless, desperate. The clock kept chiming. It never stopped. Overwhelming loudness, the cruel reminder of his ending, the insistent haunting of every waking moment of Goncharov's life. 

It chimed, and chimed, and chimed. He felt a scream rising in his throat. He trembled.

The wristwatch ticked, ticked, ticked, ticked, ticked-- it never ended. The countdown never stopped. His time was being wasted and it was up. Time was warning him.

Goncharov pulled a gun from his pocket, lifted it and pointed it at Andrey. He fired. A crack of class and broken material followed soon after. Andrey never flinched as the bullet flew past him to the clock face. He stared Goncharov down. 

"Time is something you cannot stop, Goncharov," he said without tone.

And much to his fears, the clock didn't stop. It kept chiming and ticking and counting down to his demise. Goncharov felt sick. He stared at Andrey, breathing raggedly. Suddenly, a gun sat in Andrey's hand. He raised it. Goncharov didn't have time to act. 

A bang answered the gun.

Searing pain, right in his heart.

"I didn't miss," Andrey said with a dry laugh. The way his voice slightly wavered made him seem near euphoric, sad, or in awe. Perhaps all three. It was hard to tell. Andrey was a hard man to read, his emotions blocked out like a cigarette that someone stomped out. A spark was nearly there, but it was gone too quickly to tell if it was real. 

Goncharov stumbled, his breath catching in his throat. Blood spewed from his lips, staring at Andrey as if he couldn't believe this was happening, even though he had been anticipating this for so long. The bullet wound cast a hole in his chest, bold and red. It was as vibrant as blood in the snow, or the lipstick of Katya.

Katya. She had failed her attempt to kill him. She had said, "If we really were in love, I wouldn't have missed."

Hearing Andrey recite her words was horrifying. But he loved it. Even as he bled out, Goncharov laughed. "Oh, Andrey," he said, shaking. "You beautiful bastard. Why did you do this?"

Andrey walked over to him, resting a surprisingly gentle hand on Goncharov's shoulder. His touch was soft and comforting, even after he had shot him. Goncharov would never hate him.

"I had to win," Andrey murmured. Goncharov's vision began to blur. He fell on his knees heavily, letting out a grunt of pain. He clutched the bullet wound, only for his hand to immediately soak in crimson. Andrey kneeled next to him. "I'm sorry, darling." 

Goncharov reached out to grab Andrey's wrist, firmly grasping it. He pulled the man closer. "I forgive you," he said huskily, despite his pain, his lips inches from the perpetrators'. "I'd never hate you."

Goncharov pressed himself against Andrey's lips. The taste of blood, tobacco, and vodka tasted like heaven to him. He let go of Andery's wrist to wrap his arms over his shoulders, embracing the two. He could feel both himself and Andrey shaking. They pulled apart, breathing heavily, especially Goncharov. He breathing came in short, shallow gasps. He watched as Andrey reached for the gun, his uncovered eye unreadable. Goncharov tensed. But instead of shooting him again, Andrey turned the gun on himself. It rested firmly in the crook of his neck. The two men didn't look away from each other. "I can't leave you, Goncharov," Andrey murmured. "Both of us have no time left."

He saw Andrey's finger inch closer to the trigger. He grabbed Andrey's spare hand, running his thumb over the top of his hand. Andrey's lips curved into a fond smile. He leaned forward as Goncharov felt himself slipping away, kissed him roughly, and Goncharov closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was the loud bang of Andrey's gun, and the world around him closed into dark fog.