Blood on Your Hands
I hope you've been enjoying the Ryosha fluff, cause it's ANGST TIME
from the evil minds of me and @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak
tw: minor character death, blood, violence
If you do not kill the snake, you deserve to be bitten.
Boris' words rang heavy in Sasha's ears, each weapon a lead weight as he checked the knives in his boot and belt, the brass knuckles in his pocket, the pistol in his coat. He knew what he needed to do, and he wasn't scared. He was never scared to handle Boris’ dirty work. He simply hated it.
Swift and silent as a phantom, he slinked out of the apartment, electing to take the stairs from his towering penthouse. Practiced athlete that he was, his long legs traversed the flights with ease, the exertion far preferable to spending an eternal elevator ride staring at the reaper in his reflection. The parking garage was blissfully empty when he arrived, greeted by the shine of his freshly-waxed Aston Martin. Jace had begged and pleaded to take it for a proper spin, promising to take good care of the car, and to his credit, he had done just that. He had driven up to his father's house, where he and Vody admired it for the afternoon, racing it against their own flashy sports cars before cleaning it inside and out, polishing it to a mirror shine, and topping off the gas. Cars, Jace once told Sasha, were a passion he and Vody had shared since he was little, and he'd grown up learning how to take them apart, put them together, and keep them in peak condition.
Sasha didn't dare to wonder what it was like, having a father who gently and joyously passed on his hobbies. Even now, he remembered the weight of a pistol pressed into his palm at only eight years old, the sharp bark of Boris' critique each time he missed still fresh in his mind. He remembered the biting cold of the hunting lodge, with wolves howling outside and the dogs snarling in anticipation, and the way Boris had furiously shoved him aside when he couldn't bring himself to cut into their catch. He remembered smelling the metallic tang of blood spilling over his shoes, as he was forced to watch exactly what happened when one of his father's subordinates stepped out of line, the life draining from a sickeningly familiar face as Irina’s father collapsed at his feet.
Insubordination can never be tolerated, Boris told him. You let one wasp go free, and a nest will build under your nose. The same rules applied now. It was his man who had been selling secrets to the enemy, and it was his job to eliminate the problem.
He knew where Rodya would be - the same place he always was, a seedy bar where the drinks were flowing, the gambling was rampant, and everything was paid in cash. Not much different to the place he had first met Ryosuke, although he tried not to think too hard about Ryosuke keeping that kind of company. Regardless, it wasn't the type of place where he had to worry about anyone seeing him or interfering. The denizens of such a criminal den knew full well how to mind their business. On top of that, anyone who ran in those circles knew exactly who Sasha was. Not only was he a force to be reckoned with in his own right, but crossing him would, by extension, be crossing Boris. The local criminals were unscrupulous, not suicidal.
Pulling up outside the dimly lit alleyway, Sasha swallowed his hesitation and stepped out of the car. He kept his face stern and impassive despite the knot in his chest. The last thing he needed was to show any sliver of weakness here. He was only in this situation because he'd already been too weak, too absent, too passive. If he had stayed more involved in following Boris' orders, in handling his underlings, then Rodya wouldn't have felt comfortable double-dealing behind his back. Now, it was the least he could do to re-assert his authority, for Ryosuke's sake as much as his own. If he continued to slack in his work, he would draw more scrutiny from Boris.
Shaking away the sickening thought of his father discovering Ryosuke, the renewed fury of protectiveness pushed Sasha forward down the alley. His boots thundered against the concrete, echoing off the dingy brick until he stopped in front of an unmarked door. Slamming it open, he loomed in the doorway, relishing the way the men inside went quiet. Not everyone was stupid as Rodya, it seemed.
As Sasha let the silence hang, the chatter in the bar began to resume. A burly man sitting by the door gave him a small nod, and Sasha stomped inside, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. It didn't take long for his gaze to zero in on a familiar face - buzzed hair, crooked teeth, and an arrogant grin. Rodya. His attention had quickly returned to the cards at his table, where he was trying to bluff his way through an abysmal hand. He was still yammering away at the men playing with him when a dark shadow fell over the table.
“Rodya.” Sasha growled, making it immediately clear that none of the others need address him.
“Sasha!” Rodya flashed him the same crooked, cocky smile. “Come play with us! I have not seen you in so long!”
“No. He is leaving,” Sasha said shortly to the others at the table.
Rodya didn't give up, protesting, “Oh, come on! At least let me finish my game. I’ll buy you a drink!”
Sasha wondered whether he was still bluffing or truly oblivious. It didn't matter. “Fuck your game. Get up, now.”
The message finally made it through Rodya’s thick skull, and he stood up without further objection. “Right. Uh, I fold,” he said, dropping his cards on the table.
Without another word, Sasha led him outside. Rodya started to speak as the door closed behind them, but he was promptly cut off.
“Not here.”
Sasha said, walking towards his car. He climbed into the driver's seat, glaring at Rodya until he got in the other side. They took off right away, following narrow streets into a more derelict area where the only witnesses would be the rats, the roaches, and God.
When he'd gotten sufficiently far into this rotting concrete wasteland, Sasha stopped the car, turning once more to glare daggers at Rodya.
“Get out.”
Rodya did as he was told, trying once more to offer a schmoozy smile as Sasha crept around the car like a tiger closing in on its prey. “So, uh… what's going on? Do I have a secret assignment? Do you need information?”
Sasha punched him.
The brass knuckles cracked off of Rodya's jaw like thunder, leaving him reeling.
“Is that what you said to the Italians?” Sasha sneered.
Stumbling back, Rodya put his hands up to protect his face. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he stammered.
“Don't fucking lie to me,” Sasha snarled, grabbing Rodya by the throat and slamming him into the nearest wall. “I know you've been selling secrets to Florimonte, you slimy piece of shit.”
“Flori - who?”
Rodya’s eyes flew wide. Unfortunately, he was about as good at lying as he was at cards. Sasha saw the answer he'd been looking for in his eyes - the truth that, even with the pile of concrete evidence his father's spies had provided, he hadn't wanted to believe. Rodya, who had worked for him since he came to America, who had dutifully followed his orders all that time, who was closer to Valentina's age than his own, had betrayed him.
“I said. Don't. Fucking. LIE TO ME!”
Sasha gripped his throat tighter, dragging Rodya across the wall before slamming him down onto the cracked concrete below. He leaned over Rodya, breath coming in heavy snarls. Under his clenched fingers, Sasha could feel the racing pulse of his prey, fluttering and fearful under a predator's claws.
Don't kill yet. Play with your food a bit. See if little birdie has anything to sing about.
This time, the voice in his head was Irina's. Where Sasha had recoiled from bloodshed, she had always relished it, cunning and ferocity making up what she lacked in strength and size. She wouldn't be scowling in Sasha's position. She would grin and giggle and savor every moment, enjoying the mental anguish she caused as much as the physical pain. The thought of it made Sasha feel a little sick. He'd played cards with Rodya, and partied with him, and….fuck, Rodya had even been to his place.
Rodya knew where he lived. The realization turned to ice water in Sasha's veins. If the Italians, or hell, even a rival group of Russians, knew where to find him, then whether they realized it or not, they also knew where to find Ryosuke.
Sasha's heart began pounding in his chest, faster even than Rodya's labored breaths below him. He wasn't supposed to let emotion cloud his judgement. He was supposed to lock his feelings away until the dirty work was done. Instead, his head began to reel with visions of thugs breaking down his door, grabbing Ryosuke, being crueler to him than Sasha was being to Rodya now. He could be sick.
If you do not kill the snake…
Boris’ voice returned to his mind, echoing louder than the blood roaring in his ears. Sasha looked down at Rodya, seeing, despite his tough exterior, just how young, how unimposing, how weak he truly was. He could still feel the frantic, fearful pulse of a trembling mouse, frail and powerless under the heavy paw of the tiger. It wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't a fight at all. Rodya hadn't dared resist - he'd seen firsthand what happened when people tried to stand up to Sasha. He’d seen it. And yet, he dared to hand over information to the Italians. The payout certainly hadn't been worth incurring Sasha's wrath. Or was it?
Had he really lost so much authority? Was his influence so absent that his own men no longer worried about his anger? If he really seemed so vulnerable, what would be next?
Unbidden, more violent than before, came the images of thugs bashing down his door. Tearing his apartment to bits, the minimalist loft leaving nowhere to hide. Ryosuke, pinned to the ground, fighting and thrashing and crying out. Red spraying across clean white couches, Ryosuke's own blood spreading across the carpet he'd cleaned so many times.
…you deserve to be bitten!
Boris' words became Boris' hand, grabbing Sasha's and guiding it to the knife on his belt. Before he could think, before he could hesitate, before he could let Ryosuke get hurt, he plunged the blade into Rodya’s chest, feeling it scrape against bone before meeting its mark. Rodya let out a hoarse gasp, staring up at Sasha with the wild eyes of a desperate animal. He didn't speak, but his face asked clearly, Why?
“If I cannot trust you,” Sasha said, his voice low and heavy with an accent so thick, he could've been mistaken for his father, “I cannot let you live.”
He withdrew the blade.
Rodya's body went slack, blood spreading across his white t-shirt. Sasha wrinkled his nose, wiping the knife clean on Rodya's shirt before sheathing it again. He stood up, drawing a slow breath before exhaling the tension from his body. Overhead, the watchful eye of the moon stared down at him, casting the shadow of Sasha's towering figure over his handiwork like an artist's signature. The cold light on his back beamed down like judgement from above, but Sasha didn't care. He had done what he needed to.
It was only as he drove away in his car, the interior still sleek and spotless, that Sasha realized he hadn't been sick. Had he, after so many years doing Boris' dirty work, finally grown a spine? Was he more like Irina now, brutal and bloodthirsty and killing because he wanted to? At the very least, she could no longer mock him so mercilessly for not being able to stomach his own acts of violence. Something about the thought brought him relief, perhaps even a glimmer of pride.
The feeling went cold as quickly as it had sparked. How could someone who took pleasure in such brutality be deserving of someone like Ryosuke? Was Ryosuke even safe around him anymore? He had done all this to keep Ryosuke safe from the monsters around them, but what good was that if the real monster was inside the house all along?
His mind flashed back to the first time, over a year ago now, that Ryosuke spent the night. Sasha was used to nightmares. They were simply a part of sleeping for him, even more so when he was stressed or unwell. A raging fever had sent him to bed far earlier than usual. Then, like so many nights before, he had woken in a frantic terror, but this time, there was someone there to target. Bedroom lit by the same cold, judgemental moon that had watched him tonight, his vision had blurred into view, and he found his hand wrapped tightly around Ryosuke's throat, just as he'd grabbed Rodya moments before.
That should have been the end of their relationship. To this day, Sasha couldn't fathom why Ryosuke had stayed. Sure, he had a nice apartment. Sure, the food was good and the sex fantastic, but someone so beautiful, talented, and charming could easily have found someone else to fit that bill, someone who wasn't a jenga tower of baggage and danger waiting to come crashing down. Someone who hadn't nearly killed him for the simple act of spending the night.
He squeezed the steering wheel tightly, fingernails digging into the expensive leather. Rodya could have found Ryosuke, he reminded himself. Rodya had proven he couldn't be trusted. Rodya had to die. Sasha had to kill him, to keep Ryosuke safe.
Truthfully, Sasha wasn't sure there were any lines he wouldn't cross for Ryosuke's sake, or Valentina's, for that matter. As a child, he'd spent all too many hours lying awake, thinking of how grateful he was that his sister was the favorite. He would gladly endure Boris' cruelty to save her from being treated even half as badly as he was. And he would do just the same for Ryosuke. Sasha’s own wants, his needs, his feelings, his morals, none of it truly mattered. He was a weapon first and a person second. But at least he could be a weapon in defense of those he loved.
He parked in his usual spot, taking a minute behind the wheel to compose himself before he went back up to the apartment. His eyes stayed shut through the elevator ride, though the motion was disorienting. By the time he reached the penthouse, Sasha was shaking faintly, and even he didn't know whether it was anxiety or exertion. His trembling hands struggled with the key, taking what felt like a thousand years to manage the myriad of locks. He stumbled in, leaning back as the door shut and taking in the sight. Low lights, candles flickering on the coffee table, Ryosuke -
He took a sharp, shuddering breath, pressing a hand against the sudden, swelling pressure below his sternum.
Ryosuke, sprawled out asleep on the sofa, cosied up in joggers and a jumper he had clearly stolen from Sasha's closet. His fine, straight hair fell delicately over his forehead, splaying out on the cushion he was using as a pillow. His hands, held tight to his chest, drowned in the oversized sleeves. His face was slack and young and gentle in sleep. He was okay. Thank God, he was okay.
The briefest wave of relief only allowed Sasha a fraction of a second before a different beast swallowed him whole. The nausea he had been so disgustingly proud of avoiding grabbed him round the middle and squeezed like an iron claw. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He tried to swallow the metallic taste, but it caught in his throat, and the floor seemed to teeter beneath him. He knew at once that he was going to be sick. Legs suddenly spindly and brittle, he staggered across the apartment. He was barely halfway to the bathroom door when a dry retch folded him over, one hand bracing against his knee to keep himself upright.
From the sofa, Ryosuke shifted, hearing the noise but not fully awake yet. The sound of a proper heave seemed to bring him more to life and he sat up, rubbing his eyes with a drowsy groan. “Sasha-chan?”
Sasha, frozen with nausea and regret, couldn't respond. He blinked, and the burst of colour behind his eyelids looked just like the bloom of Rodya’s blood as it unfurled across his white shirt. He retched, bile rising in his throat as he forced his body to move, wobbling on his long legs like a baby deer as he stumbled and swore and banged his shoulder against the doorframe of the bathroom in a desperate scramble. He made it inside just in time, bending over the toilet more through muscle memory than through any conscious effort.
The room swirled around him, and Sasha braced his hands against the toilet to keep from collapsing on the spot. It was cold, hard, just like the concrete he'd leaned over earlier. Once again, he saw the red slowly spreading across white fabric, felt the scrape of blade against bone. He threw up.
He was panting heavily, gearing up for the nausea to rise again in his throat, when Ryosuke finally shuffled through from the living room. Sympathy creased his face, and he stepped closer, too experienced to reach a hand out before Sasha knew it was him.
“Hey,” Ryosuke said softly, his voice still low and scratchy from sleep. He waited for Sasha’s eyes to flick in his direction, for the panic to shift to recognition, and then he stepped closer. Stroking a hand gently over the tense muscles in Sasha's back, his own drowsy brain slowly picked up details. Knuckles scuffed and bruised. Coat and heavy boots still on. Knife on belt. Knife in boot. Holster under one arm. Pocket heavy, probably brass knuckles.
Everything confirmed what Ryosuke had initially suspected - Sasha had been out running some grim errand for Boris. He'd gotten that feeling the night before when he saw the look on Sasha's face after a phone call in Russian. Ryosuke knew better than to pry, but he had intended to stay up, wanting to check on Sasha when he got back. Fatigue has settled over him like a weighted blanket though, the combination of his mild headache and scratchy throat altogether more exhausting than the sum of its parts, and he'd barely crawled into Sasha's comfiest clothes before he'd passed out on the couch.
Ryosuke’s sleepy musings were interrupted by another miserable retch, and he stroked a hand gently over Sasha’s back again. “Breathe,” he murmured, “it’s alright.”
“‘M fine,” Sasha coughed, scrubbing a wrist over his eyes to banish the tears that had started to well up. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” Ryosuke nodded. “Yeah. Do you want some water?”
Sasha nodded, his breath coming in heavy puffs as he struggled to steady himself. “Yeah, just… gimme a second.”
“No rush,” Ryosuke assured him, giving Sasha’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“‘Kay,” Sasha mumbled, long legs crumpling as he crouched down to the floor, leaning back against the adjacent wall. He wasn’t remotely comfortable, but all the energy had sapped out of him, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down. His stomach was still in knots, hands trembling faintly as the adrenaline drained from him, but he was done throwing up. Sinking his head into his hands, he took a shuddering breath.
“Sasha.”
Ryosuke’s quiet voice just barely broke through the roar of blood in his ears, and he looked up blearily to see a cup of water being held out towards him. “Oh. Right. Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the cup in both hands in an attempt to keep it steady.
Ryosuke flushed the toilet then crouched down next to Sasha, once again not reaching out to touch him.
“Will you let me wrap your knuckles?”
“It's not that bad,” Sasha muttered, staring down at the cup as he forced slow, shaky breaths. He knew he needed to take a drink, but the lump in his throat only tightened further.
“Okay, but will you let me?” Ryosuke asked. “I know you don't care, but it'll make me feel better.”
“I…uh…in a minute,” Sasha nodded, raising the cup to his lips and taking the tiniest sip to rinse his mouth. The cool sensation was a welcome distraction, and after a moment, he took another drink. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way through the cup, finally setting it aside and dragging himself to sit upright. He leaned heavily on the wall as the weakness of long-lost adrenaline threatened to bring him back down. Rubbing both hands over his face, breathed out a long, shuddering sigh. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to shower. He wanted to curl up in a little ball and disappear.
Ryosuke sat down beside him, shuffling slowly closer until they sat shoulder to shoulder. Sasha leaned against him, another shaky sigh rattling in his chest. He knew he shouldn't spend the whole night on the floor, but the prospect of getting up seemed too great to surmount. Reaching out beside him, he wrapped an arm around Ryosuke, hugging him tight. He was here. That was the important part. He was here, and he was safe, and Sasha had made sure he would stay safe.
Gently, Ryosuke laid his hand over Sasha's knee. When Sasha didn't flinch away, he gave it the ghost of a squeeze. Sasha leaned further into his side, and Ryosuke took the invitation to snuggle closer. He knew they would need to get up soon, - spending a night on the floor would make them both miserable - but he didn't want to disturb the fragile peace that had arisen. Even now, he could feel the unsteady stammer of Sasha's heartbeat, pulse racing and breath shaky. Ryosuke didn't dare ask what was wrong; he could infer enough to know he didn't want the details, and Sasha wouldn't want to share.
“I love you,” he murmured instead, thumb stroking over the heavy, woollen fabric of Sasha's suit trousers.
You shouldn't, Sasha wanted to say. You deserve better. At the same time, he felt selfishly possessive, disgusted by the idea of Ryosuke in the arms of another. Instinctively, he clutched Ryosuke tighter, eliciting a little squeak of surprise. He immediately loosened his grip, finally seeming to break from his shell shock to give a sheepish, “Sorry.”
“It's fine,” Ryosuke shrugged. “Just didn't expect it. Are you feeling better?”
“Mm.” Sasha nodded non-committally, taking the hint to climb to his feet. He still felt horrible, aching and shaking and vaguely nauseous, but he knew he wasn't going to throw up again. Better to be miserable in his cozy bed than on the cold bathroom floor. He offered a hand to Ryosuke, who stood easily but kept Sasha’s fingers in his grasp.
“Don't run off just yet,” Ryosuke told him.
Sasha felt a tight stab of panic, ready to be lectured or chastised or even berated for his behavior. Was this finally the time Ryosuke realized he could do better? Sasha didn't blame him. His heart was jackhammering in his chest by the time Ryosuke continued.
“I still need to wrap those knuckles.”
“...oh.” Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the tension in Sasha's shoulders went slack. This was a practiced routine of theirs by now, and he sat on the closed lid of the toilet right away, holding his hand out obediently.
“What, did you think I was going to bite you?” Ryosuke kept his voice gentle even as he teased, stooping to grab alcohol, gauze, and bandages from the cabinet beneath the sink. Standing back up, he pecked a kiss on Sasha's forehead, pulling away with a mischievous smirk. “I'll save that for when you're feeling better.”
the kids are(n't) alright
