𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐒𝐈𝐗

this chapter a little off but comment for motivation

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"YOU ARE NOT SPEAKING TO ME?"

Y/n paused, turning back around from his swift stride back to his room. His hand rested on the doorknob of the room. Inhale, exhale. He focused on those two actions itself, trying to ignore what had just happened. Pavel—or whatever his name was—was dead. Murdered, slaughtered all because of a stupid game of Russian Roulette.

In fact, it was hard to scrounge for words buried below the bile of his throat. His words came off cracked, forced: "you could have died."

Yes, Andrei could have died. But wouldn't that be better to Y/n, in a way? It meant that his debt could be resolved, it meant he no longer had to bear witness to such atrocities that appeared in daylight—

Y/n's head throbbed.

"But I didn't."

"Obviously," Y/n muttered under his breath, before he closed his eyes, feeling his muscles within his eye tighten, "you didn't die. You are still alive and breathing. You won the game. You managed to kill off Pavel like he was nothing."

"Why so annoyed, Moy Sladkiy?" Andrei's voice was lilting, mirthful. It was light, teasing—a tone much too playful considering the events that had just unfolded.

Take it seriously, Y/n thought to himself, please. Just...

"I'm not annoyed."

Because truthfully, Y/n didn't know what he was feeling. He was pissed in some way, yes. But the anger was misplaced. He was angry at himself, at his father, at Pavel, at everyone here—at Andrei. And yet the Tsar had done nothing to offend him. Andrei was—helping him, was he not? Helping him with the debt that his father had left behind, though it was his fault...?

"Huh." Andrei paused. "You are a terrible liar. Why are you angry?"

Must I explain to you? Do you really not know the line between good and evil? Has no one ever taught you that, or has this been the path that you have walked on since young?

"I don't have a right to be angry at you," Y/n said slowly, "I don't. Because I am not going to condemn you for what you did—your killing—and neither will I protest," he breathed shakily, "this is your job. What you do. And I might not necessarily agree with it, but I am not angry. You have done nothing to me. You have not harmed me."

Andrei softened. "Y/n—"

"You have not just not harmed me. From the start, you have called me with terms of endearments. You have referred to countless memories that are not present in my mind. I know nothing, but you know everything. Don't you think—" Y/n finally turned to look at Andrei desperately, "don't you think it would have been easier to just forget me? Would it not—not be more convenient? No one stays the same. I am—I might not be the same person that you have fallen in love with."

You have fallen in love with me. Andrei had. Andrei had really given and surrendered his heart to him—Y/n could have done anything with it. He could have toyed with the strings, rendered the ruler of Russia into nothing but a mess, and he had the power to. Yet it was that blind devotion and adulation that would make sure that if Y/n ever ran away, Andrei would hold his wrist in a bruising touch, and would not let go.

"Y/n."

Y/n looked at Andrei for a while, before he turned his head around. His hand fumbled with the lock.

"Y/n. You really think I would have forgotten you?"

"Perhaps not, but I would have expected you to remember so vividly," Y/n said softly. "The things you are saying now—they are specific. Extremely so. A normal person would move on, think of it as a first love, something to pass the time. But you have held on desperately."

"You have no idea how much you saved me," Andrei's voice had grown softer, almost a whisper. "You did, Y/n. You..."

Y/n stilled when he felt gloved hands intertwine with his.

"You may have been out of my sight, Y/n. But you—you were never out of my mind."

Click. The door unlocked, and Y/n stared at Andrei, searching—searching for just a semblance of a lie.

And Andrei must have hid it well, or he must have really meant it. Y/n swallowed, brushing his hand off.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "just give some time to just...process it all."

He stopped.

"I'm not angry. I promise." Y/n said quietly, "I'm not, Andrei. Just...let me get used to all this."

Three murders so far. Y/n had witnessed three murders so far—

"I'll give you all the time in the world," Andrei pressed a soft kiss to Y/n's hand, bowing his head. "Take your time, Moy Sladkiy. You...have you not felt basic care before?"

"My father is dead, and my mother is gone."

"...Ah. Who took care of you, though?"

"My grandmother. How many questions will you continue to ask?"

Y/n waited for Andrei to let go of his hand—and when the Tsar did so, it felt bare. Untouched. Craving for the kiss of someone...him.

How foolish, Y/n thought to himself, how foolish I am.

Because for reasons unknown, that touch felt unimaginably familiar.

—

There was a soft knock on the door, and Y/n found himself dragging out of his sleep to answer it. It had been an uneventful nap. Snippets of lost time coupled with the misty fog that constantly clouded his brain. And now he stared groggily at the—butler?—who was holding a tray of flowers.

"What...?"

"Some tea, sir," Sergei said in answer, bowing his head, "we have had a brand imported from England. It's quite expensive and helps with sleep."

It smelt fragrant, no doubt. Y/n stared suspiciously at it. It was orange-pink in color, and had quite the pleasant consistency.

"Andrei—"

"—The Tsar is busy."

Y/n blinked, before he took the cup numbly. It was scalding, and burnt him around the edges, but he ignored the pain and instead placed the cup down into a table.

"I see," he sighed, "you may go now, then. If you see the Tsar, help me tell him..."

Sergei looked at him expectantly.

"No, forget it."

"You will be drinking the tea, however?"

"I suppose. It would be a waste to let such wonderful tea go to waste, wouldn't it?" Y/n murmured under his breath, before he nodded his head, dismissing the butler away. And when Sergei left, it was just Y/n alone, with nothing but the luxuries surrounding him and...the tea.

The one thing Y/n found that he had especially enjoyed in the household was the variety of beverages. At four in the evening, a cup would always be served to him, without fail. At first he had been first skeptical: but now Y/n found he actually enjoyed these moments alone. It gave him time to think: dwell upon his situation, brood over the series of unfortunate events that had unfolded.

And now his thoughts strayed to Andrei. Y/n was lost: utterly helpless, stuck with his feet in the mud. He didn't know if the most recent conversation—the one they had right after Y/n had witnessed the murder had been offensive, in a way. But he didn't...surely he didn't care, right?

I can't possibly be caring about—

—Of course not. It was a feeling of being indebted towards him. Andrei was about to lift the debt that Y/n's father had owed to his father, and his memories...his memories...

Memories were what warped you into a person. So without those memories, who was Y/n, except for a person with a hole in his chest disguised as a heart? He had nothing to prove what he had changed into. Every trait he had—why? Childhood memories were a blur and yet Y/n wished he could have retained at least his childhood naïveté. But the gods would not agree with that and had delivered and pushed suffering down his throat. It had been perpetual pain, until now...

Y/n's fingers trembled slightly as he brought the cup to his throat. His lips let the edge of the beautiful china, and relief flooded him when he felt the scalding liquid glide down his throat. Yes. Soon, the tea's effects would help. It aided his mind in feeling foggy, in feeling free.

And Y/n welcomed that feeling. It was almost akin to being like poison, a drug...like—

Red, furious pain jumped in his throat and Y/n spluttered. The cup flew from his hand, smattering into smithereens. Y/n, in a flurry, found himself clawing at his throat, his moon crescents of his fingernails leaving ugly, red marks on the expense of his skin. His eyes burned: his chest heaved...

It's painful. It's so...

Y/n stared at the broken cup, the seeping tea slithering around in droves. It stained his hands, his mouth, his lips, the floor, the carpet. No, no. It was not tea. His tea had been red—this had been—his blood.

Breathing had become difficult for him. It was like someone had wedged in a button hook, a clothes hanger into his throat and had gutted it brutally, mercilessly. Or perhaps someone had spilled fire, red, crimson fire down his throat, because he was burning. His dry mouth itched and ached for a single drop of water: something cold? Soothing to ease the tight, painful heat in his throat. His eyes watered and Y/n reached out helplessly towards the phone by the side.

There was only one number attached to it: it was a phone that only worked in the residences, after all. Y/n managed to dial the number correctly, though it took some time to fumble with the buttons: then he felt his vision blur, his head go hazy.

And Y/n welcomed that feeling. It was almost akin to being like poison, a drug...like—

So perhaps it was a drug. Y/n had been foolish. And now he could, and would die.

"Ah. This is Sir Y/n, right, how may I help you? It's your first time using this number, so—"

"Help," Y/n choked out breathlessly, "he—help me, please. Send someone here. Send—send—the Tsar..."

"Sir? Sir!"

Y/n felt his eyes drift close. He had collapsed in the floor, between his own blood and the still-hot tea.

What would Andrei say to all this? Having the butler poison me...who did it? Does someone despise me in the household? Does...

Y/n embraced the feeling of darkness.

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"You're terribly sick," Y/n frowned at Andrei. "You were—poisoned? How does that even work in real life? It only works in movies."

Andrei sat weakly in his bed. Bandages covered his small form, an IV drip was attached to his arm.

"...Subordinates," he managed to choke out, "the—organization had lured in my servants to—"

"You know what? Don't talk," Y/n pressed a cold towel to his mouth, "I'm trying to help. I don't know what to do, but I can only hope to ease the pain, somewhat. Does it still hurt?"

Andrei stared at the boy. Truthfully, what he was doing didn't really aid him whatsoever, but knowing that there was someone helping him, someone trusting him...

It was nice. Such a thing was foreign to him. People claimed to have loved him, yet Andrei never had felt loved. Cared for.

"...No," Andrei said after a while, "no, it doesn't...hurt."

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"Y/n! Y/n! Can you hear me?"

Y/n opened his eyes slowly. He couldn't talk: his voice was much too hoarse. But he could make out two shadowed, distinct figures in front of him. One was obviously the doctor, and the other was...

"Andrei," Y/n muttered, the single word stinging his throat. "You..."

Y/n flinched when he felt the glaring pain of some sort of antiseptic rubbing against his wounds. He had sustained them when he collapsed, it appeared. His head had hit the edge of the drawer, and he did not look a pretty sight.

"Don't talk." The words were harsh. Obviously angry.

You didn't do it, right? You did not poison me?

"Don't talk." Andrei's words were more desperate, even as he repeated those words,"Don't resist what the doctor is helping you I'm trying to help. I don't know what to do, but I can only hope to ease the pain, somewhat. Does it still hurt? No, no. Don't answer. You will only injure your throat. The doctor said you tore it, Moy Sladkiy. He said that you—"

Huh. Those words felt rather familiar...

Y/n stared at Andrei, at his obviously concerned expression. His words planted a seed in his heart, which grew and grew until it filled his chest and left no room for air. Then he opened his mouth to speak, ignoring what Andrei said.

"...No," Y/n said after a while, "no, it doesn't...hurt."

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how was it? comment for motivation