A/N: Written on request for a friend who just wanted Nikolai and Kirill to get a happy ending – realistically, I think this, or similar, is the closest thing to a happy ending they're likely to get! The title is from the José Gonzales song Crosses, which, along with James Blake's The Wilhelm Scream, was the soundtrack to writing this!

Warnings: Strong language, male/male relationship (although this isn't actually that much of a deviation from canon!) and excessive run-on sentences.

~

Three months later-

i.

Kirill is a fucking king, a god, the highest of the high. He drifts through his city, he fucking owns the streets of London, the whores and the money and all the alcohol said money can buy. He is intoxicated by his own good fortune, and the only crutch he needs now is the solemn figure at his right hand side. He is fearless and shameless and hopelessly lost; lucky then, that the lightning has his thunder.

ii.

And there are the times when he feels raw, peeled open, tattoos exposed and vulnerable. These are the bad times, the times when he searches the faces of those around him and wonders exactly what they think. He is scared. He sees his father everywhere. He hears rumours which do not exist any more, which cannot exist any more, which were wiped out by his ascension. And the secret eating away at his core is brought closer to the surface, baited like a fish by the alcohol which strips him.

iii.

Nikolai is unbearably gentle, excruciatingly tender. Kirill totters and falls; Nikolai will pick him up. Kirill swallows and splutters bile; Nikolai will dab, softly, at lips and brow and chest. Kirill hesitates; Nikolai will continue. Kirill knows that if he did ask, Nikolai would oblige. But Kirill doesn't want obligation, that isn't what he wants at all. And Kirill has no problem with expressing what he does not want. He does not want empty-eyed, pliant whores. He does not want his father's old violin, nor his rotten legacy. He does not want the bottom of an empty glass, the sinking feeling as the sun rises over the London skyline.

What he does want, however - now that proves more difficult for Kirill.

iv.

For Nikolai too, the boundaries are blurring. He does not allow himself to question his motives for staying in London, when fortune and another identity lie prepared for him in Russia. He focuses on efficiency, and profit and margin, and expanding an already considerable contacts network. He does not allow himself to be distracted by Kirill. Kirill spirals into himself even as his empire grows; Nikolai knows he cannot stop this. When Kirill is drunk, when his touches are that little more lingering, his eyes that little more beseeching, Nikolai averts his eyes. When Kirill's subtle hints become overt – a gentle brush of a thumb over Nikolai's chin, an embrace which lasts just a second too long, a gaze which cannot tear itself from Nikolai's lips – Nikolai swallows, turns, walks away. And when he picks Kirill up from whichever bar he has found himself in that night, drives him home, silently, props him up, he wonders when this became more than a game of manipulation, more than a play for power and influence and empire. He is getting close – too close – far too close.

v.

Nikolai realises that one day, one day soon, he will have to make a choice. He will have to decide between the past and the present, between a life or law – and lies – or crime – and truth. He will have to choose which man he wants to be. He will have to choose between telling Kirill everything and maintaining the façade. He will have to choose between Nikolai – hard-faced, tattooed, cold – and Kolya – whispered, laughed, made alive. Confessing to Kirill would not threaten his position within the vory;Kirill poses no threat to Nikolai, his grasping hands and sweaty palms and unspoken confessions betray his loyalty. Kirill would trust Nikolai even if Nikolai came crashing down around him – more accurately, Kirill would trust Kolya even if Nikolai came crashing down around him. Nikolai is not afraid of the vory, but he is afraid of himself, and he fears losing the only thing he has in this life. He postpones the decision, and refuses to look too deeply into himself. He was never a man of contemplation. He teeters on the brink.

But the moment comes. Nikolai is propping Kirill upright on an armchair in the back room of the restaurant; it is night-time, the employers are home, and Kirill's breath smells of vodka and cigarettes. Kirill's eyes are glazed, wandering. Nikolai has one hand behind Kirill's head; the other is tilting a glass of water into Kirill's mouth. Kirill acquiesces, slumps back, swallows. Nikolai puts the glass down, looks back at Kirill, who is smirking. His hair is over his eyes.

'Hmm, Kolya…' Kirill trails off; Nikolai brushes the hair from his eyes – Kirill will be comfortable here, in the morning Nikolai can deal with the fall-out – and makes to turn away; Kirill's hand darts out, reaches for Nikolai's forearm – it all happens so quickly even Nikolai is caught off-guard. There is fear in Kirill's eyes, and something else. Something guarded, and angry, and vulnerable. For a second, Nikolai is struck by irrational fear: he knows, he has always known.

'Kolya…' Kirill mumbles. His eyes flicker down, just for a second, he probably doesn't even realise what he is betraying. And the choice is upon Nikolai, and he is suddenly struck by the weight of the futures opening before him. He could grin, widely, make some comment on Kirill getting an early night, sobering up before the big day tomorrow. He could gently slip from beneath Kirill's fingertips, cause no offence, of course – turn, and leave the room, and not look back at the crumpled figure in his father's armchair.

Nikolai looks at Kirill, hard. Kirill's eyes are open, lucid – not quite pleading. His fingers are warm – heavy, insistent pressures, closed around Nikolai's arm, weighing him down. Nikolai realises, hopelessly that he made his choice a long time ago.

He moves forward.