A/N: I didn't mean to keep writing, but here we are.
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A pulse, slow and steady, dragged Matt back into consciousness. The beat of Claire's heart grew steadily stronger as she awakened more fully. Matthew's own senses spread out, unfurling and reading the morning air like a person would read the newspaper. The air around them was dry, no chance of rain. The gentle pop of bones meant that Claire was stretching; she had slept surprisingly well on that appalling couch.
Matthew listened to the other heartbeat next to him; Anatoly was still in a deep sleep with a fragile, but stable heartbeat. Every breath he took sounded like a creaking ship, indicating how many fractures riddled his body. How could one person survive such a beating? Matt reached a hand out to brush against the other man's face—
"Matt?" Claire's voice called out.
The squeak of leather and soft thump as her feet touched the ground meant she was getting up. Matthew bolted upright and sprang out of bed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had not thought this through. She would see—
"Oh my God. Who the hell is that, Matt!?"
"Claire," he started, but her heartbeat was dramatically quickening. "It's not what you think—"
"He needs help! Like actual medical attention—is that plastic wrap!?" The air swirled around them as she reached forward to try and help.
"He's one of the Russians."
That stopped Claire in her tracks.
"I found him last night when I went out for a walk. Fisk was about to kill him and I interrupted."
"You saw Fisk?"
Matthew longed to roll his eyes, but instead he politely paused to let her words sink in.
"...right." He could almost hear her wince. "Sorry, Matt."
"I heard his voice and the man he works with, but I didn't have my mask so I just pretended to stumble in. They left him to die, assuming he wouldn't last too much longer. I brought him back here to patch up, but I didn't want to wake you."
Claire's heart was pounding, blood rushing through her veins. She was livid. "Is this Vladimir?"
"No, it's his brother."
"Jesus..." She released a long sigh, like she was trying to deflate her own anger. "He's still scum, you should have left him out there."
Matt tilted his head, concentrating. "You don't believe that."
"I hate that you can do that," she let out a strained chuckle. The wood of the floor creaked as she kneeled down to look over Anatoly. "We might still have to get his ribs checked, they look broken."
"They aren't, just fractures." Matthew didn't need sight to know that Claire was giving him an incredulous glance. "I can—um, hear the difference."
"You...are a piece of work, my friend." The sliding of hair along fabric told him she gently shook her head. He imagined she wore a soft smile on her face. "Why's his belt undone?"
"Uh..." Panic, like Matt hadn't experienced in awhile, flooded through his body. He immediately broke into a cold sweat.
"Oh, I see the laceration," Claire continued. "Yeah, goes down past his thigh. Must have been kicked, his hipbone is swollen and bruised. I can't believe you can tell all of this without any kind of sight."
"It's j-just, I see differently." Matthew tried not to let his voice crack as he sent a silent prayer to God for his fortune. "You have to think of it as more than just five senses."
"Hmmm, sure." A scrap of plastic as she grabbed the med kit he left on the nightstand. "I'll see what I can do about his face and check him over for other injuries. Since he survived the night I think its safe to say he's gonna stick it out a little longer. You get your info from this guy and we can take Fisk down, I see where your head's at."
Matthew couldn't hold back a small grin. "Thank you, Claire."
"Oh, don't thank me yet. Once this one wakes up, I'm slapping him for what his brother did to me. And when I get a hold of his brother, I'll do worse than that." She was working herself up into a frenzy, but Claire was a good person. She wouldn't needlessly hurt a defenseless man. Anatoly was safe; for now. "He's going to be out for awhile. If you want information sooner you'll have to go knocking on someone else's door."
Matt shrugged. "That's fine. If one brother can't talk, I'll ask the other."
"Punch that one extra hard for me, will you?" Claire asked. Matthew laughed with her and it felt nice. He trusted Claire and she handled everything thrown at her fairly well, all things considered. That was so rare to find nowadays.
"Call me if Sleeping Beauty wakes up," Matt yawned and padded over into his bathroom to get dressed for work.
"Hey, don't mock him. You have a lot in common with this heap of bruises here."
Matthew paused. "How so?"
"You two can both take one hell of a beating."
Vladimir's skin felt too tight, like he was trapped in a cage of flesh. He itched to throw a chair across the room, to punch the wall until his knuckles split. He wanted to feel the crunch of a man's bones as he strangled the life from him.
Vladimir Ranskahov didn't excel at waiting. He fiddled with the cell phone in his hand, tapping a nail against the plastic case erratically. This was such bullshit, Anatoly was fine. He'd been angry that Vladimir hadn't wanted to bow and beg like a dog for scraps and so had done it himself. He had thrown away his pride so Vladimir could keep his. He had a right to be angry.
Still…
"Fuck!" He lashed out at his chair, kicking it so it spun away before toppling over. His brother was a fucking cunt, playing with him so Vladimir would worry. The blonde flipped his phone open and dialed his brother's number for the seventh time. "It's me again," Vladimir filled his words with venom. "Call me back. Shithead."
When Anatoly came back there would be a reckoning. He imagined his brother was passed out in some little bitch's bedroom—he never had to pay—would just go to a bar and pick some shlyukha up. He could always find another bed when he wanted to avoid Vladimir. It was such utter bullshit.
A knock on the door dragged him out of his thoughts.
"Enter."
His hopes of it being one of the boys saying they had spotted his brother were dashed as a sharp suit greeted him. The little pussy lapdog of Fisk; Wesley. Vladimir resisted the urge to shoot the man in front of him. His every word grated on the Russian's nerve. Americans always sounded like they were trying to sell something.
"My employer sends his regards," Wesley beamed widely as he sauntered into the office, "and his gratitude that his offer was accepted." Vladimir unceremoniously dropped into his chair, keeping his face neutral and unimpressed. His brother threw his pride away for this man and now he came here to gloat. "There's still a few details we have...to...iron out..." He eyes darted around the room, as if searching. Vladimir narrowed his own eyes. What was this little mu'dak playing at?
"Uh, where's your brother?" Wesley's stance changed, became more guarded. Vladimir rolled his eyes; everyone preferred his brother's presence.
"It was a thing I was going to ask you." Vladimir didn't like speaking English. They structured their sentences in a funny way and added too many words to say simple things. His brother liked it even less, couldn't speak it as well as Vladimir. "Last time I saw him, he was heading to see Mister—" Vladimir cut himself off, choked down his words. His brother discarded his dignity so they could make it through this. Vladimir would honor that. "—your employer."
His blood boiled at the smug grin on Wesley's face.
"Ha! He practically kissed me when we agreed to terms," the other man proclaimed. Vladimir's stomach churned; this little bitch lied with every breath he took. "Does he have a girl—or, uh a boy he might be celebrating with?"
It stung that a man they barely knew had come to the same conclusion about his brother that Vladimir had. Although, Anatoly was less likely celebrating and more doing it to spite Vladimir. He clenched his jaw at the sly look Wesley gave him, as if he knew his brother. This little shit wasn't even Anatoly's type.
His brother was attracted to only two types of people. Either he'd found some dangerous woman in high heels (or man in a leather coat) who looked like they would enjoy crushing you beneath their heels or—worse yet—some sad puppy-eyed kid with a sob story. That's it. That's all his brother was drawn to. Both were a nightmare to deal with.
This man in a suit didn't know the first thing about Anatoly.
"Did you try his cell?" Wesley asked. Vladimir wanted to hurl it at him.
Instead, he just looked down at his own phone. "He does not answer."
"Try again," Wesley ordered. A vein throbbed in Vladimir's head. "We need to get this locked down and distribution back to—"
The door opened with a crack as Sergei stepped into the room. He was pale and his eyes looked at Vladimir in fear and regret. Every step he took forward made the younger Russian's heart clench.
No, no, no, no. Please, just let his brother be fucking some little whore in a bed somewhere. Let him be in a bar getting drunk early in the morning. Anatoly could even be leaving the city, fed up with Vladimir's shit. Let him be anywhere but—
"We found him," Sergei sighed. "Or—what we could find left of him." He tossed Anatoly's cracked phone onto the table, red smeared across the broken screen. Vladimir stared at it, unblinking. "There was blood everywhere, it was a messy fight. Anatoly did not go down without a struggle."
"Wh-where's his body?" Vladimir must have been the one to ask but he didn't know how. His voice seemed stuck, caught in his throat unable to escape. He felt a scream start to build in his chest.
"There's...not much left." Sergei shifted his weight from one foot to another. He glanced back at Wesley who looked back nonplussed, unable to understand what they were saying. "We found a barrel, burned black with bones at the bottom. Only thing left besides his phone. We found it on the pavement by his blood."
"Bones...that's all that's left of my brother?" Vladimir's hand went to his chest, felt through his shirt his mother's ring he wore at all times. Anatoly had their father's. His eyes frantically met Sergei's. He understood and shook his head.
"I checked, Volodya. The fire must have burned too hot, there's nothing left."
Vladimir had experienced a lot of pain throughout his life, but nothing came close to the white-hot sharp stab in his chest as he realized his brother was gone. He had been too young when their parents had died to truly experience loss. This...this was too much. Terrible rage consumed the pain and all Vladimir could see was red.
"We did find something more, but it wasn't your brother's." A black piece of cloth was thrown next to Anatoly's phone. Vladimir's fingers shook as he reached for it.
"The man in the mask," Wesley whispered as he put two and two together.
"He sends us a message," Sergei spit out.
Vladimir's whole body trembled. He could barely see, hardly think through the burning rage. He was on fire, like his brother must have been before he died. "Tolik..." Vladimir kept his voice from breaking, but it was a near thing.
He wanted to die.
"I have message for this masked man too...HE IS A DEAD MAN!"
The night air bit Matthew's skin as he listened, lulled by the soft voice of the Chinese man in the cab. The notes drifted through the air, the vibrations a warm embrace. It was sung in a low, heartbreaking pitch that caught in Matt's chest. He released a slow breath, centering himself and his heart. The music settled, like a thick blanket, around him as he waited for the Russians.
Matthew recognized one word from the song; moonlight. It was a fitting piece to play then as the Russians stepped out and Matt flung himself forward, spinning gracefully as the music flowed through his body. It abruptly stopped with the crack of glass.
More men poured from the door and the click of a safety was all the warning Matt had as he dove for cover behind the car. The thunder of gunshots always disoriented him, drowning out other senses for a moment—the noise took up so much space.
BAM!
Matt flinched at the splat of blood and brains across the window next to him. The jagged tang of iron from blood and the bitter grit of gunpowder coated his mouth and throat, making it difficult to breath. Matthew yanked the car door open to give himself more cover and let the darkness shroud him as he slid underneath.
He couldn't save that man with the somber voice and haunting song.
The remaining two men stank of fear and their movements were jittery; Matt dispatched them with little effort. He pursued the fleeing Russian and slammed him to the ground, preparing for a difficult interrogation.
"Where's Vladimir!?"
The smaller man broke instantly. "No please! Please, please I'll tell you what you want to know!" Matt paused, listening to the man's erratic heartbeat and the terror in his voice. That had been easier than he thought. "I'll tell you what you want, just please don't burn me alive!"
"Wh—" Matt almost dropped out of character. He regained his voice quickly. "What are you talking about?"
"Like what you did to Anatoly!" The man under him shook like a rag doll. "Everyone knows you tossed him bloody and broken into the trash and set him on fire until there was nothing but bones and ash!"
Matthew felt his jaw drop, unable to contain the reaction. What the fuck?
The scream of sirens and screech of rubber from tires alerted him to the police. Matt jolted up, dropping the petrified Russian, and rushed up the walls to the relative safety of the rooftop. He listened for a moment, but his mind was otherwise occupied with what he had just been told.
Clearly, everything just got a lot more complicated.
It got more even complicated as Matt listened to the same Russian scream for mercy as he was murdered in the police station. The bang of the bullet blanketed all of Matthew's senses, leaving only a buzzing sensation behind. The commotion around his was muted as he stood there, body numb with shock as people rushed and bumped passed him.
Wilson Fisk's shadow was long indeed. Nowhere was safe.
At least Matthew now had another lead he could question. He watched the crooked cop flick out his phone and gave a low growl of disgust. People like him where the reason he couldn't trust the law to always get things done. The man below was a large part of the reason why Matt became this masked vigilante.
He felt no remorse as he twisted the man's arm until it started to break, felt the Devil inside demand more; demand death.
Again the accusation was thrown at Matt about his part in Anatoly's death. How he loved killing Russians and watching them scream as he burned them alive. Bile rose in the back of Matt's throat just hearing about it. Wilson Fisk was playing him. Pitting Vladimir against him in the hope that two problems would eliminate each other.
When he heard the truth in the cop's heart about Vladimir's unknown whereabouts, Matt knew he had tapped this source dry. He couldn't even act surprised when the man tried to get the jump on him. All he had now was a phone he couldn't read.
And a Russian in his bed.
Time to ask his questions.
Anatoly awoke to his lungs being set on fire.
He must have shouted because he suddenly felt hands on him, pushing him down so he wouldn't sit up. He couldn't see—
"Volodya!" he called out to his brother. What happened? There was a searing pain in his right wrist, it was familiar: a broken bone. He hadn't been in this much pain since that shit hole of a prison back in Russia. "Volodya…"
"I said snap out of it!" A sharp slap from a very small female hand broke through and Anatoly started putting everything together.
Fisk—the cold pavement as he was dragged to the car to be killed—the screech of tires as he was left to bleed out—someone hovering over him—slung over another man's shoulders—his blood dripping on the ground as he watched his broken hand dangle uselessly—hands trying to heal him—a face.
"Matvey."
Matthew's eyes, Anatoly remembered. They were gentle even as he lashed out with biting words. His lips and mouth scorching like a branding iron. His fingers delicate as he traced over Anatoly's face.
"Matthew?"
Anatoly struggled as was finally able to open one eye. The woman who had hit him stood to his side, hovering nervously with eyes like wild animal. "What?" he asked.
"What?" she replied and he realized he hadn't spoken English. "Did you say Matt's name?"
"You..." Anatoly tried to organize what he wanted to say. He hated English. Vladimir was much better at it. "You know Matvey?"
The woman's eyes narrowed. "I'm asking the question here."
"Where is Matvey?" Anatoly tried to make his voice more aggressive, but his throat felt dry and swollen and he could hardly breath as it was. The woman quirked an eyebrow, not looking frightened in the least.
"Before you try again, don't sit up. You have multiple fractured ribs, a broken wrist and probably a concussion. I tried to patch you up best I could, but if Matt hadn't dragged you back you'd be dead, plain and simple."
"You...help Matvey? Why?" A thought struck Anatoly. "Who are you to him?"
"Yeah, about that," the woman stepped forward. She struck with blinding speed and Anatoly would swear to his grave he didn't yelp like a dog. His good hand covered his face and he started to panic. "That's for torturing me, you sick fuck."
"Wh-what?" Anatoly's head was spinning and he wanted to vomit. He rolled onto his side, face going white and the woman rushed away; a trash basket was shoved under his face suddenly. Which was perfect, since he completely emptied the contents of his stomach a second later. It burned at his abused throat and Anatoly gasped, struggling to breath.
"Hey, hey, easy. Take a slow breath, try not to fight it. Looks like someone attempted to crush your windpipe. Swallowing is going to be difficult the next few days."
Anatoly's body shook as he glanced up at the woman. "I-I do not know you."
"I'm the girl your brother had kidnapped and tortured to reveal the location of the man in the mask."
"What?" He must sound like a broken record. Vladimir had mentioned something about a lead to finding the man in the mask. He hadn't realized he meant her. It explained why the boys had been so thoroughly thrashed at the garage. "Ugh," Anatoly snorted and rolled onto his back with grunt, "my brother does not think things through. Kidnapping you was foolish move, only anger man in mask. He does not tell me when he does stupid things, knows I will disagree."
"You..." the woman's eyes shifted to the basket he had just thrown up in. "You didn't know?"
"No."
"Oh, sorry about the slap then." She had the decency to look ashamed.
"I have done many things to deserve it," Anatoly shrugged and regretted it immediately. He tried to take a deep breath and winced at the pain. "May I have water?" he asked, hoping he would be granted at least that.
"Oh my God—yeah, hold on." The woman hurried out again and Anatoly had a chance to look around. A sparse, but nice open loft. He could see into the next room where a stiff couch was, a few blankets stacked on top. This was the only bed, meaning Matthew had let him sleep on his own bed.
It wasn't a terrible thought.
Anatoly felt something in his chest, a stirring sensation. Longing. Matthew's eyes had been sad, never looking directly at Anatoly. Some people were like that, didn't want to face what they were doing. The Russian reached up and felt his swollen face; or maybe he was too ugly to stare at right now.
Vladimir always said he fell hard for a tragic story and broken eyes.
"Here." Anatoly startled at the glass of water pushed into view. The woman helped him lean up a bit with the aid of several pillows. He took the cup with his good hand. "Small sips," she reminded him and Anatoly nodded. He carefully took a drink and closed his eye as the water soothed its way down his throat.
"Thank you."
"I hope that was a thank you."
Anatoly groaned. He hated English. "Da, that was 'thank you.'"
The woman eyed him with suspicion. "Matt called earlier and said he was on his way back, I hope you're ready to talk."
"Of course," Anatoly emphasized. "I owe Matvey my life. As soon as he tells Vladimir I am alive and what Fisk did, my brother will abandon Fisk. Our knowledge and resources will be yours."
"He doesn't want your disgusting traffic ring, you pig." Anatoly let the insults slide. He had heard much worse in his life. "He just wants everything you have on Fisk so he can take him down in court."
Anatoly gave a sharp bark of laughter. Pain lanced through his chest at the action, but it was worth it. "Fisk owns judges. There is only one way to deal with men like Fisk."
The woman crossed her arms. "The law is how decent people handle things."
"That is who you think Matvey is?" But then Anatoly actually thought about it. Pretty face and sad eyes, of course most of the world would look at Matthew not see past the surface. Anatoly had seen his other side; that man was the Devil himself.
"Just be ready to answer his questions," the woman spat. Her body was tense and guarded, she didn't trust Anatoly even in the damaged state he was. Usually it was the tattoos that his partners grew uneasy at, but it was probably the fact that half his face was swollen shut that really did it this time.
He reached up again and tried to asses how bad the damage truly was. A very small part of him was amazed that Matthew had kissed him looking like this, it must be a kink for both of them then. God, it had been a long time since someone had managed to make him feel this way.
"I—" the woman stopped herself, but her eyes were on the his hand.
"What?" This time he said it in English.
"I've been putting ice on your face all day and the swelling has barely gone down. You're not going to be able to see for awhile."
"Shit."
She chuckled, "Yeah I can tell that's a curse. If you want, and I don't suggest this lightly, but I can cut right above your eyebrow and drain the blood. It'll reduce the swelling, but it'll scar."
"Scars are fine, prefer that to not seeing." Anatoly set the glass down. "Do what you must."
"Wow, you and Matt are both just gluttons for pain," she sighed and went back into the kitchen. Her words made Anatoly feel warmer than they should. He hoped Matthew let him repay the favor for last night. One day. "Ok," the woman came back in with a steak knife, "hold very still."
"Or I lose eye, I understand." Anatoly went motionless, even while his instincts screamed as she drew the knife to his face.
"This will hurt, try not to flinch."
Anatoly had a long history with pain. A very sharpened knife carefully slicing along his brow wasn't even the most painful thing he'd done for fun. As the burn started to subside he felt a trickle down the side of his face like cold water.
"That's a lot of blood..." The girl said it in a detached way, like she saw this on a daily basis. Anatoly blinked rapidly as feeling come back to the swollen side of his face. After another second his vision started to clear.
"Ah, I can see now—"
"Claire!"
Both adults jerked—the knife flying too close to Anatoly's eye—and he saw a shadow detach itself from the window and sprint over to the woman.
"Don't do this! Put the knife down!"
"Matt, I'm not trying to hurt him."
"Da, she is helping me see better, Matvey." He would be lying if seeing Matthew worried for his safety, regardless of why, made Anatoly's stomach flutter a bit.
"I—" Matthew struggled for words. The woman—Claire?—gestured with the knife to Anatoly's face. He blinked both eyes to prove her point. "Ok, so I guess I just had bad timing was all?"
"You can say that again," Claire rolled her eyes. "Plus side, your boy now has both eyes again."
"I am not his boy." Anatoly felt the need to point that out.
A very different side of him shuddered in delight at being Matthew's. He was dressed in his Man in Mask clothes, eyes completely concealed, and looked as if he could strangle Anatoly with ease. That definitely made the Russian's blood pound just imagining it.
"There's a problem with Vladimir." Matthew's words were like a cold bucket of water. Anatoly's mind went to a worse case scenario.
"Fisk—my brother?" It was pathetic, he couldn't even finish the sentence. If Fisk had killed his brother, there would be no safe harbor, no walls, no force in the world that could stop Anatoly's vengeance.
"He's not dead," Matthew cut off his train of thoughts. "Not yet any way, but he's playing your brother."
Claire stepped closer. "How so?"
"Word on the street is that I killed Anatoly, burned you alive and everything."
"Ha!" Anatoly spat. "My brother would not believe false tales." His chest clenched from the effort and contracted in pain. It must have shown on his face because both Matthew and Claire moved forward, hands reaching out. Anatoly waved them away, pressing his good hand to his chest until he could feel his father's ring. "He would have searched for something only I carry."
"Is that 'something' a thing that could survive a blazing fire?" Claire asked.
"It—"
"That ring under your shirt is gold." Matthew's voice was hard. Anatoly was about to ask how he knew, but images of his shirt pushed up last night to expose his chest as they kissed answered it for him. "It would have melted...in this hypothetical scenario."
"Did—" Anatoly's mind raced. Would his brother fall for Fisk's lies? "Did I have phone on me?"
Claire looked to Matthew. "I didn't find anything."
"Shit," Matthew cursed, "that's how. I heard Wesley take your phone. They must have shown it to Vladimir as proof."
That would do it. When Vladimir got upset he stopped thinking and simply reacted. "He will kill you then, Matvey."
"Not if I find him first," Matthew held out a phone to Anatoly. "Found this on a crooked cop who killed one of your men today for saying Fisk's name."
"Bastard!" Fisk was gutting their entire operation, picking off his men one at a time. They were going to lose everything.
Anatoly took the phone, letting his fingers brush against Matthew's. He had sworn to himself this would never happen again, promised on his parent's graves, once they had escaped that prison he and Vladimir would not stop climbing until they had reached the top. He would be lucky if they could escape with their lives this time.
Matthew frowned. "I can't read it, but I'm sure it'll make more sense to you."
"It's..." Anatoly's question about why Matthew couldn't read English died on his lips as he saw the addresses. "Oh god—it, they are all our warehouses! He is setting up my brother."
"It's an ambush," Claire agreed.
"My brother focus his attention on you, not see Fisk coming." Anatoly's hands shook and he dropped the phone. His breathing become more labored and a sour taste rose in his mouth. He made his decision. "I will tell you nothing until you bring my brother to me."
"I—" Both Matthew and Claire snapped to attention. The woman's eyes narrowed and Matthew's lips became a thin, hard line. Fuck what they thought about him, his brother was in danger. "That wasn't our deal," Matthew growled.
"We had no deal." Anatoly reminded him, hands clenching in the sheets even as his broken hand screamed. "Now we do."
"You bastard—" Claire started, but Matthew held up a hand.
"Even if I find him in time, the moment Vladimir sees me he's going to try and kill me. You said it yourself."
Anatoly fumbled with his shirt, yanking his necklace free and tugging it off. He held out the ring to Matthew. "This. With this my brother will know I sent you. It is a sign only he, I and one other know."
"And?"
"And he will believe what you say, no questions." Anatoly shook the ring, prompting Matthew to extend his hand. "You must do this. My brother means everything to me."
"Bullshit, he doesn't have to do anything." Claire touched Matthew's shoulder and Anatoly felt a spike of jealousy. "Matt, don't. This is suicide! What are you even going to do?"
Matthew drew away from her touch, tightening his grip around Anatoly's ring. It took him a moment to speak, but when he did it was the Man in the Mask who spoke. "Whatever it takes."
"You—you know how that sounds, right?" she spun around to Anatoly. "You're sending him to his death, you know that?"
His heart ached at the realization, but he didn't let it show. Volodya was the most important thing to him.
"It is only way I will talk."
"Oh you're such a piece of shit," Claire's hands twisted in the air, like she wanted to choke him. "Matt, I don't want to believe this is you; making deals with crime lords. I thought you were better than this."
Anatoly could tell her words stung Matthew. His reaction was subtle, but the flinch at her voice was there. No wonder he wore the mask. Not just to hide his face, but also his emotions.
"I have to be this man the city needs, Claire."
"That's not a reason, that's an excuse."
"What do you want me to do, Claire!?" Matthew snapped, his voice cracking with anger and pain." Let them tear Hell's Kitchen apart? Let them win?"
"No, I—what you do is important." Claire moved back, away from Matt. Anatoly could see the fear in her eyes. "Just...you're so damn close to becoming what you hate."
The tension in the room became thick, nearly suffocating. Several intense emotions clashed within them all. Claire turned around, clapping a hand over her mouth as her words caught up to her. She started to tremble and Anatoly knew she was about to collapse.
"I—I need to step outside," she managed.
Matthew seemed stuck, as if caught in a trance. Her words must have cut deep.
"Not safe." Anatoly spoke for the masked man. It sounded like something his Matthew would say. That's what nice people said, right?
Claire strode over to the door anyways. "I'll stay within the building, I just—I can't be here right now." The door was slammed with more force than necessary.
Women. Anatoly rolled his eyes. They could be so emotionally unstable and extremely unpredictable. Just like his brother. Something he constantly teased Vladimir about.
Matthew finally stirred. "You're right," he almost sobbed. "I am too close."
Anatoly was not prepared for the onslaught of emotions that slammed into him at hearing Matthew's voice sound that...distraught. His heart physically hurt. Fuck, he was a lost cause.
Matthew ripped the mask off his face and dammit that made everything so much worse. His eyes were brown, Anatoly could now see, and they were wounded like a damn puppy that had just been kicked. Not even his little brother had ever been able to pull off a face like that. Anatoly didn't realize he was trying to get out of bed until his arms crumpled underneath him and he slipped.
"Fuck!" he cursed. The floor rushed up to greet him, but strong hands stopped his fall.
"Don't...try to move right now." Matthew said, voice hollow. Anatoly clung to him with his good hand and forced his legs to move.
"I do what I want, Matvey," he panted, almost draping himself across Matthew as he stood. To be fair, Matthew clung just a tight to him and let Anatoly use him as a support.
"She's right," Matthew repeated. His voice dropped so low and soft Anatoly barely heard him, even pressed against his neck. This damn boy had no right to sound so horribly broken and lonely.
"Da, she's right Matvey." Anatoly admitted. No use lying. "I have seen you fight and your methods. You are Devil." The body underneath his shook, a soft sob escaping Matt. Anatoly willed his voice to remain steady. "Ubiytsa; my men call you that."
"Assassin."
"Is funny," Anatoly chuckled. "If I think, none of my men ever die in your attacks." He felt Matthew's breath hitch. "Men like Fisk—men like my brother and I, there is no clean way to get rid of us. But you are dangerous, Matvey. You are like bloodthirsty wolf—and that is good."
Matthew pushed his back slightly. "How is that good?"
"I am both crime lord and older brother, they are very different jobs. You can be both Devil and Matvey. That woman—Claire, she speaks truth, but that is not bad." Anatoly desperately wished he could speak English better, or that Matthew knew Russian. It was so hard to translate what he wanted, no needed, to say. "There is line in all people, between who they want to be and their Devil. So long as you know there is line Matvey, even if you cross it, you can always come back. I—" a frustrated snarl escaped, "—make sense?"
The both stood in silence for a few moments. Anatoly could feel Matthew's rapid heartbeat under his chest. He still refused to look up at the Russian, but that was fine. The Russian had never met anyone quite like Matthew before, trying to be a hero drenched in darkness—using his own ugly emotions as fuel. They were enemies, but Matthew had saved his life. No one besides his brother would have ever done that. Anatoly had long ago stopped believing there were good people left in the world; just people out for themselves. Matthew...made him hope again.
The silence stretched too long and Anatoly grew worried.
"Matvey? Are you—"
A blur of movement caught Anatoly off guard; the next thing he realized his back was pressed against the wall and a mouth covered his. Matthew's tongue pried open his lips and consumed his gasp of surprise. His body flushed and the room quickly became too hot. Anatoly groaned as he felt Matthew bite his lips and give a soft growl.
It was over in a heartbeat and Anatoly was left speechless as Matthew twisted away and headed for the balcony.
"W-wait..." Anatoly reached out. That was weak, he couldn't sound so vulnerable. Matthew still paused and tilted his head to show he was listening. "What are we doing? You...what do you want, Matvey?"
Matthew chuckled. "I'm not sure. You?"
"I—" Well, Anatoly hadn't really expected this to get turned around on him. He was a Ranskahov for God's sake, he knew what he wanted. He needed to be a fucking man and just say it. "I want...you to come back."
Matthew tugged his mask back on and strode over to the window. He didn't look back, but Anatoly would have liked to think he was smiling as he uttered, "No promises."
The Russian blinked and the man before him vanished into darkness. It was only after a few minutes he realized he was clutching his chest where his necklace normally was. The room was jarringly calm, the silence disconcerting after everything that had just happened. Stillness like this only came right before a storm.
Everything paled and became less vibrant. Anatoly's stomach churned and his chest ached: something terrible was about to happen.
He stood like that for an unknown amount of time, sick with dizziness and the certainty that death was coming. Claire must have come back at some point, but as she was trying to usher him back to bed they heard explosions and saw the fires.
Matthew's sprawling windows shook with each blast, dust falling to the floor as fires lit up the night sky. Anatoly watched with haunted eyes as he and his brother's entire empire collapsed into ash and smoke. He didn't even realize Claire had left; just stood, feeling impossibly small against all the chaos and devastation he witnessed.
The light against the glass shifted and Anatoly caught a glimpse of his reflection. He was crying—had been crying, and he knew. He knew. Deep in his heart he understood; he would never see Vladimir again.
He let out a wretched sob.
God, he had sent Matvey to his death.
.
.
.