Note: It was supposed to be a oneshot, a modern fairytale that I wanted to post as a present for my faithful readers on Valentines Day. But it's already 10 500 words long, and I'm only at the half of it I think (just because I can't help it but be really introspective with my characters), so with the advice of some of you, I decided to post it as a multichaptered fic, because I can understand that a 20k words oneshot is a bit too much to read in one go.
It will be less than 10 chapters. And this time it's not an underestimation like for TSFMS XD

I began to write this because I had barely used Paris in one of my previous oneshots (Counting Scars) and wanted to write something that would happen in a place I know really well. And because there were things I can't write for TSFMS or Stockholm Syndrome (the co-authoring with Dlvvanzor) so I wanted to use them here.

I had this image of Paris in winter, under the snow, dark and peaceful nights, and a Mello that's further in the duality of his personality, the cold Mafia boss that's just a lost boy inside, clueless about people that are not his underlings, and even more clueless when he faces his own feelings. A very Russian Mello, full of the beauty of his origins.
Read it as a fairytale, a (I hope!) heart-warming little story just before bedtime. Yeah, if I could, I'd sing you a Russian lullaby to go with it, and kiss you goodnight ^^


Святая ночь на небосклон взошла,
И день отрадный, день любезный
Как золотой покров она свила,
Покров, накинутый над бездной.

И как виденье, внешний мир ушел...
И человек, как сирота бездомный,
Стоит теперь, и немощен и гол,
Лицом к лицу пред пропастию темной.

На самого себя покинут он —
Упразднен ум, и мысль осиротела —
В душе своей, как в бездне, погружен,
И нет извне опоры, ни предела...
И чудится давно минувшим сном
Ему теперь все светлое, живое...
И в чуждом, неразгаданном, ночном
Он узнает наследье роковое.

The sacred night has scaled the sky and rolled
The day of cheer, the day of graciousness
Up and away like a great golden shroud:
A shroud, spread over an abyss.

The outer world is over like a vision,
As Man, a homeless orphan, takes his place
In naked helplessness to stand alone
Before the big black of unfathomed space.

He is abandoned to his very self.
His mind is orphaned, thought is nullified.
He plummets through the fissure of his soul
With no support or limit from outside.
As all things of the living and the light
Seem but a dream to him, a dream long past,
In the unsolved, the strange, the very night,
He feels a fateful heritage at last.

The Sacred Night
Fyodor Tyutchev

The counter was busy, and only glimpses of that fiery hair appeared between customers. As much as he mentally willed the backsides away, the neverending flow took the oh-so-wanted vision off limits.

Not that the man hadn't had a full view of that beautiful person already. Not that it was enough anyway. Maybe, just maybe, if he could see those eyes again, he'd gather the courage to enter the store and get what he wanted.

But even if there's not much you can't get, when you're who the man is, he doubted that he could be convincing in such an area. One that he wasn't familiar with. If there were no guns, no threatening involved, he was clueless.
So he gave a faint hand signal to the two underlings framing him, turned on his heels and slid out of the little mall like he's never been there, hooded like a ghost.
"Get him for me." he whispered in that cold tone that left no margin for questioning. On that, the guards were gone, the black Cadillac's door shutting on the man, as they walked back on their tracks in the mall again.
The car drove away. Minutes later, it was back, lightened of its backseat passenger.


It's no good wanting some fresh air when you're at the head of one of the widest criminal organisations in the world. If not a possible target, you just don't easily blend in. Especially when you adorn the face of your exploits. Moreover when your shadow is a double mountain of muscles dressed in black.

The man loved the City of Lights. Here, in Paris, he was more invisible than anywhere else. He could, sometimes, decide to quit the ritual procession and get some alone time outside.

It was always so busy, anywhere he went. Just like big cities always are. But just like each big city, this one had its particularities. People were always so different from one place to another.
Here, they never seemed to smile, swallowed in their routine, always late, always annoyed by this or that. They simply never looked happy. They were rude, bad mannered, vulgar even. And dirty. So dirty. You always had to look where you put your feet.
Except for a few. The foreigners. Not particularly foreign to the country, but to the city to the least. You could spot the provincials by the way they still had a soul showing on their face. They were not looking like ghosts lost in a life they don't control anymore.

He had wandered in there, a small line of shops around one of the city's railway stations, to escape a diluvian rain tearing the sky all of a sudden, as he was walking the streets aimlessly, just for the sake of being outside, for once.
He had waited for the sky to clear, or the rain to at least lessen a bit so it wouldn't be stinging his face, helped by the cold January wind.
Since it wasn't close to end, with the darkening clouds eating at the last patches of blue, he had leant, sighing at the unwanted interruption of his promenade, against the closest pillar, beginning to observe the people around.

He observed, and this old woman slipped on the marble, just in front of a gaming store, as customers' feet had carried from outside the rain in long wet trails.
In the distance, he could see people pass by, not even sparing a look at the poor lady. Except for that boy he took for a teenager at first. A helping hand and the granny was on her feet again, a bright smile making sure she was fine and walking her to the nearest bench before entering the store.
The boy then took his shift, turning the teenager into an adult old enough to have a job.
The man stared, feeling lighter every second as he swallowed the features. He fell himself, but the pavement he hit was only the border of his sanity. There was no helping hand this time, because it couldn't be helped. There couldn't be an SOS because if anything, his soul was already saving itself right at that moment and it was about time, the man thought.

The hood covered the man, but could never hold the soul that escaped his core that day it met his mate. He had made poor attempts at retrieving it but the chirping bird that was behind that counter back in the mall held it in hostage.

There began the breaking of all rules as the man came back every day, aware of the risks but still wanting to taste an impossible eventuality. Because he would never do it. Would never approach. Would never even say hello. And still, in his nightly mind wrecks, eyes locked with his target and the soul came back to him. Not alone.
In the morning, he would barely fall asleep, finally, and promise he would stop living in a movie.
And the afternoon would see the clapper board mark the next scene and he'd be playing that movie again, hoping for a happy end.

He'd watch the other, helping customers, working at the cashier, or simply playing, when the store was calm. How could someone smile that much? He felt even more a shadow, standing outside of the light, the rainbow that was so brightly colouring his vision moving, laughing, simply living. Sometimes, he heard his voice, a warm voice with what he defined as an American accent. The beautiful creature was not French.

The man didn't believe in destiny, in soul mates. He didn't even believe in love. He always told himself that he couldn't believe in something he had never seen. But he knew he was lying to himself. He believed in God, yet he'd never met his idol. It was just more convenient to silence his heart. You don't need one in the Mafia. Better said, you're expected not to have one.

He was so close, one day. The eighth day. He couldn't believe he'd done this every day without a fail, for so long. It was stupid. Probably.
The redhead was just leaving, his shift done, obviously. He'd been standing closer, and the other almost bumped into him. So close...
The man followed with his eyes as the gamer passed by a beggar, with a huge envelop in hand. From where he stood he could even read 'Urgent' on the brown paper, in red letters. Raising his hands apologetically after probing his pockets, the young man then paid for the letter in his hand at the Post Office automate nearby with what was probably the only bill in his wallet, and walked back to the beggar to offer him the change. And his bright smile.

So genuine. Caring. That was foreign to the man. Maybe that's why he craved it now. He didn't know, but he wanted the chance to talk to the redhead. It was becoming an urge, because if there was one angel on this earth, he wanted it for himself.

There was no way to start this other than the ways he was used to.
It took six days for God to create the world, and he rested on the seventh, but the man would have no rest until he had worked his way into the redhead's life. Or the other way around...


The young man looked around him. The situation was strange and yet, he couldn't bring himself to be scared now. Oh, he had been, so much he had cried, a few minutes earlier. You don't expect to be abducted after work, nowadays. Maybe it was too much gaming and unreal worlds he got buried in, maybe he was unconscious of danger, but now he just wondered what it was all about. Ok, he was scared. No need to lie to himself, but they hadn't harmed him, they had even been quite gentle. Not that he stood a chance at fighting back anyway. But it was easier to imagine there was no reason to be alarmed. It was a crazy thing, what had happened, but staying calm was better than panic, right?

He had laughed at their faces when the two tall men had asked him to follow. In english, with an awful accent. Meet their boss? Where these guys out of Mafia II? Seriously...
Oh yes, seriously. He had not laughed long. Barely ten seconds and he had been dragged into a big black car and people around hadn't even noticed. He didn't even have the leisure to scream bloody murder.
The gun pointed at him was unnecessary, to his opinion. He didn't plan on jumping out of a car driving at breakneck speed. Especially after he was blindfolded. So once he finished crying, he asked questions. He didn't seem to have a say in the matter, so they could as well inform him of what was going on, why him, why like this, and who was their boss?
He didn't get much more out of the two men than he would have gotten out of a grave, though.

He complied when he was asked to get out of the car, climb stairs and wait in that room.
A vast, richly furnished room. Living room, bedroom, it was all in one for what he was seeing. A suite maybe. This sole room was twice as wide as his apartment. At least he wasn't brought in a creepy basement full of rats...

The huge windows gave view down on the courtyard where the car had spat him out. From above, he watched, but there was nothing that would give the place away. Just regular cobblestone, neatly cut patches of grass, topiaries... at best he could guess it was some kind of mansion. Where they still in Paris? It was likely although he wouldn't bet on it, since the drive had been quite short. He looked at his wristwatch. He went out of work only sixteen minutes ago...
If not Paris, it was still very close.
At windows level, only the immense wall encircling the building could be seen, hiding whatever was beyond that secret lair.

How long the wait? Every little noise made him start, expect someone.
The redhead visually detailed the room, waiting for whoever wanted to meet him since that person was obviously taking all his time. He felt even more of a prey, here at the discretion of the men's boss.

Three huge windows on the same wall, a door at the far right, one at the close left, and the one facing the windows, where he had entered by. A wine red sofa, an alabaster coffee table that looked heavy as a dead cow marked the middle of the room, floating on that thick white long haired wool carpet. A mahogany desk, wood richly carved, a leather mat and what he guessed where gold fountain pens. In the far opposite, on some kind of upswept area, a monster of a bed, covered in velvet and fur, and pillows calling for a snuggle. He shivered and rubbed his arms. The room was cold, and the apparent comfort of the bed made it even more obvious.
His mind gave him a vision of his own skin spread on the bed. Stupid.
Would he die today?

The door clicked behind him and he started again. He turned around, expecting to be greeted by the face of the one that had wanted him here, but it was only one of the two men from before.
"My boss will meet you in a few minutes." he said politely, his stance and tone slightly contrasting with his previous behaviour. He went to the chimney and added some chunks of wood, poking the fire ad fanning the flames.

So he was observed. Now that was unpleasant.

Looking around, he wondered if the room was bugged and where.

"Why does he want to meet me?" the young man tried again, barely expecting an answer, but anxious all the same.
"My boss has some interest in you."
The redhead opened wide eyes. Interest?
"He's a he, right?"
"Yes, he is."
"Interest like... like interest? I mean..."
"Like wanting you that way, yes." The older man smiled genuinely at the younger's stuttering. Himself wasn't so sure the situation was easy to handle from the redhead's point of view, so he thought it was better to let the truth sink in before he got confronted, at least. Not that his boss would hold it against him, he was allowed to. Throwing out feelers, more precisely.
The boss may be the boss, but it wasn't a mission, nor trying to win a market or erasing a rival gang. So it was only normal that it was done in a very unusual way.
"But... how do you know I'm... and what tells you I'll want him that way?"

Did he even have his word to say? Damn, he was about to be thrown as a main dish to an old fart. He could already imagine wrinkled and calloused hands all over him, fingers heavy with 24k signet rings, and a fat belly and grey hair and being forced to... yuck! An old pedophile (ok, he was legal, but his point stood) that thought his position could buy him young flesh. He was in a damn serious mess right now.
He looked around, trying to find an escape route.

The man left.
It's only when he heard light, slow steps behind him that the redhead realised that one had entered when the other had left.
He spun around. So much for expecting an old fart.