𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

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ONLY AFTER Y/N RECOVERED DID HE READ THE LETTER. THE LETTER SPOKE OF HIS MOTHER—wishing for his return. And yet Y/n knew already from his childhood that his mother wasn't someone who wanted him there—no, it was the opposite. Y/n's home had spat him out; though with his limbs intact, his heart had been shattered, broken. There had been those beatings and blackouts tossed to him like tongue to loose teeth.

Choke on your words, His mother had hissed once, only spit them out as blood. You do not deserve a right to speak when you have not yet learned how to do so properly.

So why would she want him to return to hell? Why would she want him now—?

His childhood was abysmal. Y/n wouldn't be exaggerating if he said that his early stages of life was maddeningly difficult, devoid of any laughter or grace. There was no Mother to soothe him with a sweet gentle voice when he cried to the Gods who never answered, there was no Father to teach him or to smile at him. The realisation had been stark and hollow: there was simply no one Y/n had.

Had. His grandmother had come to save him in the end: had made him his favourite Pelmeni when he was young, had sung lullabies to Y/n. She had been Y/n's light in his life—she had been a reprieve, but she had been temporary. And because nothing lasted forever, Y/n found her ripped away from him.

What was childhood like? It was a little like dying, a little like being born. Which was to say, it was nothing Y/n could remember—it had all happened in flashes and droves, after all, but he knew there was violence.

And today was a special day. It was no one's birthday, not Christmas, not anything worth to others—but it was Y/n's grandmother's deathday. And regretfully the (h/c)-haired man found he was never granted the knowledge of her birthday, and only the day she departed. Y/n, to his despair, remembered nothing about the poem she had read to him when young.

"Tell Andrei I'll only be out for a short while. To visit my grandmother's grave." Y/n spoke swiftly, in clipped tones. He found his stay in Russia was already starting to give him a thicker Russian accent. "The address has been written on a piece of paper. It is next to the vase."

"—you're leaving, Mr L/n?" The butler blinked his eyes. Y/n had not gotten his name this time round. "But the Sir said—"

"What did he say?" Y/n interrupted, "is his obsession so crazed that he would keep me locked up here? Is he mad?"

Y/n knew the answer to that. Oh, yes. Of course he did—the Pakhan, the Tsar—was head over heels, and he was mad. So mad he would risk his life playing a stupid game of Russian Roulette just to prove Y/n was his, so crazed he would put a bullet through his skull to show his loyalty, so fervent in his desires Andrei would skin and torture people alive who dared to lay their fingers on Y/n. It was flattering of sorts but also terribly alarming.