(Honeysuckle…)

The sweet scent filled Yao's lungs, sticky and overwhelming in its hold. How was it that such a painful sight could smell so lovely…?

Something cold trembled in his hand, and looking to it, Yao saw the gold shimmering in his grasp. Standing over Yong Soo's body, tear-soaked and crimson, the crane in Yao's hand was poised, its bloody beak still open as if hungry for more.

('I can help you get rid of the body, da?')

'No…' Yao whispered, shaking his head as tears threatened to flow once again. He needed to fix this, to mend Yong Soo back together. It was impossible… but Yao could try.

Yao whipped around, searching the room. Spotting a potted plant, he walked over to it and shoved the golden scissors into the dirt, burying it deep. He tried to dust the soil off his hands, but the earth stuck to the blood congealing on his skin. He muttered a curse, frantically fumbling around shelves and decorative tables, looking for something beautiful, a sweet token to offer.

He knocked over a vase, jolting as it shattered by his feet. He hissed as a shard cut into his bare foot, but the pain soon subsided when he caught sight of a flower on the floor.

A delicate white orchid, lying wet in the shard ridden water puddle. He picked it up, careful to not stain its petals with his hands.

(Beautiful…)

Yao looked to the shelves, plucking more orchids out of the other vases and bunching them together in his hands. He walked back over to Yong Soo, stifling a cry when his marred face reminded him of what he had done.

'I'm so sorry…' Yao croaked, crouching down and gently placing the orchids into Yong Soo's hair. He entwined them between the deep brown strands of hair, his gaze avoiding the red flesh beside his hands.

('There isn't much time, myshka.')

'I know…' Yao said, his voice barely a whisper in the sickly sweet air. He felt a tremor overtake him, his legs shaking as he left the room. Once again, the stairs loomed like clifftops beneath his feet, every step ringing loudly in his ears as he descended, though his feet were still bare.

Reaching the throbbing red lights of the bar, Yao crossed his arms, conscious of the red on his hands despite the dim light of the place. No one could see, no… but perhaps they could smell, could taste the metallic taste of blood in the air.

He pushed into a nearby bathroom door, balling his hands into fists so that they would not leave behind an ugly mark. He darted his head over his shoulder, checking that no one had followed him in. Relieved that he was alone, he hurried toward the sink.

(Broken… I've broken it…)

Yao winced as he scrubbed his hands beneath the hot water, scratching away at the skin and wanting Yong Soo off of him. Clingy even in death, tenacious even when his body grew cold.

(Why did I break it?)

As blood swirled into the drain, his hands glowing red with welts, Yao glanced up at the mirror. A blood-flecked face, eyes wide and sunken. He looked the part, Yao thought, a hollow chuckle bubbling out of his throat. But his smile quickly wilted, corners tugging back down as a stall behind him opened.

'Enjoying yourself, are you?' The blonde man smiled.

Yao recognized him as the drunken man from before, though his words were not slurred this time. Rather, they sounded crisp, controlled. Green eyes fixed onto his in the mirror.

'How close Alfred was…' the man said, approaching Yao from behind. 'It really is pure luck that I stumbled upon you here.' He chuckled.

Yao swallowed, frozen as the hot tap water continued to gush out.

The man raised a cane. He tapped Yao's right shoulder, raising it above his head to then tap his left shoulder. 'I, Arthur Kirkland, hereby dub you…' The man paused, the cane still resting on Yao. A smile quirked onto his lips. 'Hm. What shall we call you?'

Yao remained silent, whispered thoughts roaming in his head frantically, searching. Shall I? Shall I break it again? He eyed the black cane and could almost feel its force in his hands, how crushingly they could thrash a man's face.

'If I remember correctly,' Arthur twisted the cane on Yao's shoulder, rolling it up and down its length. 'You're name is Yao Wang, isn't it?'

Animated voices echoed outside the bathroom, causing Yao's breath to still momentarily. When they passed by and distanced in volume, he exhaled. 'What do you want?' Yao croaked out, letting the words sound out as steadily as he could. He shut off the tap, though his eyes remained on the man. 'You're not a police officer, are you?'

The cane slid off his shoulder. 'No.'

Yao grabbed a paper towel, wiping away the bloody splotches from his face. His hands shook and trembled, but he kept his feet planted to the floor, anchoring himself. 'You want money then?'

'Not at all.'

Yao turned around to face the man, his hands gripping the sink behind him. 'Then what do you want?'

Arthur's smile widened, eyes brightening like lit candles. 'I only wanted to look at you, that's all…'

Yao shifted in his position, the flickering fluorescent light making him feel all the more watched, all the more burning beneath the spotlight. He diverted his gaze to the floor, looking at Arthur's shoes.

'Give me your shoes then,' Yao said, snapping his head back up to him.

Arthur frowned. 'I'm sorry?'

'You had your look at me. Pay me back.'

Arthur chuckled, clicking the cane onto the tiled floor and leaning on it. 'I'm afraid that's not how this works, love.'

Voices drowned in and out in the distance, approaching the bathroom once again. Yao gripped the cold sink tighter. Cornered. Trapped. They could see, could smell the blood though Yao had washed it away.

'You… you want something more?' Yao asked, eyes darting to the door. 'You want me to show you something else? A little blood, a dead body?' He slammed his clammy hands against the porcelain of the sink. 'What do you want?' Yao hissed.

Green eyes flickered, trailing over Yao's hands, his contorted face. Searching, picking Yao apart with a single blink.

'You're a sweet little thing, aren't you?' Arthur said, sighing. 'Ah, my dear boy… what has brought you this far?'

Yao dug his nails into his palms, wincing as they buried into raw wounds. He pushed himself off the sink, leaving the bathroom and letting the door swing back.

(They know.)

Yao squirmed through the pulsing crowd, the overwhelming scent of sweat and perfume coating his skin. Music throbbed in his ears, but only his thoughts rang loud and clear.

(Everyone knows.)

Was Arthur following him? Yao did not risk looking behind, did not even glance at the bar, where surely the blue eyed man, too, was watching. Could he see the blood on Yao's shirt amidst the bustling crowd? Could he read the panic that raced through Yao's veins? Could he smell the honeysuckle, which still surrounded Yao like a persistent fog? Yao did not know, could not know, as his eyes only watched the ground in front of him, fumbling for the way out.

He pressed himself against the exit, pushing the door open and stumbling out into the cold night air. A couple walking past steered away, giving startled glances. But Yao did not care, did not even cry out when the icy pavement stung his bare feet.

('Something wrong, myshka?')

Yao bit back a whimper, wrapping his arms around his chest tightly as the cold continued to bite him. The road became quiet, empty and damp with the frosty air. His feet became numb, no longer aching though his body still quivered in the breeze. As he planted each foot in front of the other, his bones hollowed out, threatening to twist and break like twigs. His heart had already quieted, already shrivelled away… it was only time until the rest of him did so, too.

('Sometimes I feel like that… like someone's carved a piece of your chest out.')

'Shh…' Yao hushed his voice, the sweetness of it drifting in the air and teasing him. 'D-Don't.' His teeth chattered, feeling cold fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling.

('This way, myshka. Can't you remember?')

The night had become incredibly dark, silent as the streetlights became sparse. There were no voices, save for his and Ivan's, no eyes nor spotlights. And yet, Yao was at the center of it all. The moon glowering down on him, it was as if the sky itself was watching. Watching Yao stumble and fall, crumble and break into little pieces. Yao once enjoyed watching the moon wane and sink into the clouds, to be eaten away in its eclipse, and now, the favor was being returned to him.

Reaching an alleyway, Yao halted. His breath billowed out like fog in the winter air, Yao looking down at the snow-covered ground that he had tread so long ago. A distant, foggy memory sent a chilling ache through his bones.

(It was here.)

He could almost see, almost feel the warmth of blood seeping into the ground. In the shape of a man… of the pieces Yao had left behind. It had been here, where Yao had drawn out a man's last breath for the first time.

His knees felt weak, wanting to sink into the glittery snow. How soft it looked… the blood would make it warmer, surely.

Hot breath touched the back of his neck. Yao turned around, finding Arthur standing behind him. Startled, he stumbled back against the alleyway wall. His back hitting the brick wall, something weighed heavily in his stomach, churning and twisting within him.

'Why did you stop?' Arthur asked, stepping toward Yao, his shoes crunching in the snow. Flecks of ice dusted his coat, and Yao crossed his shivering arms, almost envious as the man stood there comfortably in the cold wind.

'Why did you follow me?'

'That's a silly question, don't you think?' Arthur took a step closer, and though it was small, Yao flinched. 'Why don't I ask a more sensible one?'

Yao pressed himself further into the wall. He could smell the whisky on him, the aftershave and the sweaty smell of the bar. He wanted to recoil away, to crumble away into the snow, but the man would not let him.

'Tell me, Yao…'

Yao shivered at the sound of his name, the pointedness of it. You… It's you, Yao, that's done this…

'Where is your partner?'

Yao's chest trembled, nearly collapsing in on itself. 'How… I don't know who you're talking about.'

'Don't worry, Yao.' Arthur smiled dryly. 'I don't know his name, where he lives… I only want to know if he's still alive. Did you kill him?'

Yao shook his head, the image of his own blood spurting out against dimly lit walls playing out before him once again.

(No…he killed me.)

'Where is he now?'

'Don't know…' Yao croaked out, legs feeling weak, begging to give way and let him dissolve away into the snow. 'I don't know.'

'Hm.' Arthur quirked a brow. 'A falling out? Is that what's happened?'

'Don't ask me… any more...' Yao's hand fumbled for his coat pocket, looking for that pocket knife, for its sharp blade. But it wasn't there. His hand only felt the icy fabric of his thin shirt, cold gusts of air seeping through it and biting his skin.

'What happened to you, my dear boy? Wasn't it fun? All that blood, it must have done something to you. Tell me…'

(It did. It did do something to me.)

'Did it excite you? Did it make your heart race?'

(No…)

'Was it nice to share? To cut away at flesh together?'

(NO.)

'Did he tell you how beautiful it was?'

Yao grabbed the collar of Arthur's coat, bloodied nails grasping onto the dark fabric. 'I…' Yao chuckled, though the laugh was dried up and empty. 'I didn't bring my knife with me.'

Arthur stared back, eyes widened in surprise. Quickly, the mask of composure fell over his face. A lopsided, drawn out smile. 'I didn't bring my cane with me. I suppose we're both ill-equipped for this.'

Yao pushed Arthur down into the snow, straddling him and wrapping his trembling hands around his throat.

(Break it.)

It would not matter anymore.

(Crush it.)

It was already ruined, already torn apart. What would one more ripped seam do?

(It's already gone.)

How much more could it hurt?

Yao tightened his grip on Arthur's throat, watching his freckled skin redden and contort. He squeezed and squeezed, did not care for the nails that clawed at his arms and neck, the red welts they left behind. A choked cry — was it his own? Yao could not tell.

Arthur's green eyes bulged, irises becoming oh so much more beautiful, so vivid against the flush of his skin. Feeling Arthur's windpipe crush beneath his fingers, Yao watched for the candle light to flicker away, for the sparked eyes to dull and glaze over. When would the moment come? When would that smile wilt away? Yao could not wait, did not think he could make his strength last until then.

A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders, yanking him off Arthur.

Arthur gasped for air, the coarse sound of it echoing in the alleyway as Yao struggled against the hands that had torn him away.

'Let go of me!' Yao shrieked, panic flourishing in his chest. 'No!'

('You can go… after I'm done playing with you, doll.)

'No!' Yao twisted himself in the arms that held him. A cold hand placed itself over Yao's mouth. Yao sank his teeth into it, biting until blood drew out. A hiss of pain from his captor, but no matter how hard Yao struggled, the man still held onto him.

'Shh…' a soft voice hushed him, arms wrapping around Yao like snakes. 'Myshka, please.'

Yao exhaled sharply, the air leaving his lungs so fast that the dim alleyway began to flicker and fade. A whimper, his ribs crumbling beneath Ivan's arms. There was nothing to hold them up, nothing contained within them to keep them from collapsing.

'Ivan...' His chest caved in and gave way to a sob, caught in his throat. His legs weakened, knees giving way so that he hung limply in Ivan's hold.

'Ochi chernye…' A cold hand caressed his face, Ivan's other hand guiding him so that Yao crumpled into the snow softly. 'You did not go far, did you?'

Yao felt the snow melt and seep into him, but Ivan's hands remained solid as they brushed over his face, his throat.

'You are too cold, myshka,' Ivan said, a warm curtain falling over Yao's back.

Looking down at his shoulders, Yao saw the snow-flecked fabric of Ivan's coat draped on them. He looked up at Ivan, his brows furrowed and his eyes…

(They still look so sad.)

Ivan's lips curled into a weak smile, unwinding the scarf around his neck. Through teary eyes, Yao could only see the inflamed skin that was sprawled on his neck, the blur of a deep scar in the dark alleyway. Ivan wrapped the scarf around Yao loosely, the fabric of it still warm. Yao reached up to touch it, grasping it tightly.

A choked cry rose out of Yao's throat like broken laughter. 'I'm so sorry…' Yao said, still tasting Ivan's blood on his lips as he spoke these words. 'I'm so sorry I broke it… my promise…'

Powdered snow fell from the sky, drifting on icy gusts of air and piercing Yao. But he was already numbed, already stung by the winter, and so all he felt was the hole in his chest again. Burning, aching, it had been lit aflame by Ivan's voice.

'Do not worry about that, myshka.'

Yao shook his head, muscles weak and quivering. Ivan knelt down on the ground in front of him, pulling the coat tighter around Yao's shoulders. Yao watched Ivan's brows furrow, his gaze faltering at the sight of Yao's bloodied hands. Ivan's eyes glanced up at Yao, a gentle smile on his lips, though it was trembling at the corners.

'You're shaking. I need to take you home, da?'

(Home…)

The word sounded so sweet, so tender… it was perhaps because of this that it hurt so much, too. And it was with this pain, this awakened bruise in his chest, that Yao felt a chuckle rise from it. The laughter overtook him, making his whole body shudder. Ivan's frown deepened at this, his hand reaching out to Yao's face, his thumb wiping away at a tear Yao did not realize had fallen.

'Yao, don't cry…'

Yao gasped for air. His shoulders no longer shaking from the cold, no longer quivering from his laughter, but from the sobs that tore through his throat. He could not stop, could not keep away the knife that stabbed him with every breath.

Ivan took hold of his shoulders, pulling Yao in towards his chest.

'Ochi chernye…' he murmured, arms locking tightly around Yao. 'I've ruined you, haven't I? Forgive me...'

Yao shook his head, burying his face into Ivan's shirt.

There's nothing to forgive, Yao wanted to say. But his words were barely whispers, and so he could only hope that Ivan understood.

Hearing the soft thud of a heart, Yao's hand searched for it, smoothing over Ivan's chest until it felt the gentle pulse. Yao pressed himself closer, and though his tears still flowed, a smile bloomed on his lips. Not gone, not eaten away. It was still there, restoring the warmth to Yao's chest, thawing it out until Yao could hear his own heartbeat, too.

Though his body was scattered with wounds and scars, Yao forgot their pain. Perhaps numbed, perhaps alleviated by this closeness, the ache in his chest subsided. The icy breeze, the muffled sound of Arthur scrambling and slipping on the frosty pavement, felt distant and so far away.

Only this… Yao closed his eyes, hearing the sigh in Ivan's chest.

'A dead man will not dispose of himself…' Ivan rested his chin atop Yao's head. 'I'm afraid we must go after him, myshka.'

Yao mumbled in agreement, though he made no effort to move. Every muscle gave up, fell limp so that not even his mouth could form coherent words. Falling deeply into something, into what felt like a black ocean, Yao was drifting away.

(Please let me stay here…)

'Yao… You have to stay awake, Yao…'

Cold rings shackled Yao's wrists, fingers wrapping around them tightly. But they would lead him home, they would always guide him back to that heartbeat, the pulse that Yao found comfort in.

'Goodnight…' Yao croaked out as the world seem to drown out. But even as everything dissolved away, Ivan's hand still remained, clasped onto him as Yao submerged into pitch black darkness.

.

Alfred unfolded his arms, crossing them again in the other direction as he sat at the bar. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour it had been, since the drunken Englishman had wandered off to the bathroom. Optimistic — if you could call it that — Alfred had assured himself that Arthur was perhaps ill, puking from the excessive drinking. Perhaps he had even passed out, and lay on the bathroom tiles like any other drunk in this alcohol drenched place.

'Wouldn't you like a drink?'

Alfred snapped his gaze up to the bartender, a bespeckled man with his short hair parted to the side cleanly. He did not look the part, nor did he sound it. Though his smile and words were polite, he was far too collected, far too cold for job like this.

'No, thanks.' Alfred offered the same plastic smile back, his eyes still trained on the man. 'What was your name again?'

The man's smile faltered, before picking itself back up again. 'I didn't give you my name.'

'What is it?'

'Ying,' the man said, wiping away at the bar.

Alfred watched as he picked up the empty whisky glass on the bar, dried to the very last drop. And yet, it was only a glass. Could Arthur have really gotten that drunk on a single glass of whiskey? Doubting his own ability to read between truths and lies, natural behavior and performance, Alfred tapped his elbow in thought of this.

(I should have just left when I had the chance…)

Already past midnight, the bar was coated thickly in the tobacco smoke of nearby poker tables. Though the bartender had yet to return, strangers still laughed in drunken drawls, distorted and overtaken by the music that pounded, still pulsed like a frantic heartbeat.

The throbbing noise stabbed Alfred's head, beckoning his migraine. Throat dry and humid air sticking the fabric of his shirt to his skin, Alfred got up from his seat. Searching for Arthur, searching for a place away from the red lights and bitter smoke, either would do to ease his headache.

'Is everything alright?' the bartender asked after him, but Alfred did not turn back.

He pushed the bathroom door open, eyes settling on the cane propped up against the sink. Letting a small sigh draw out from his lips, he turned towards the stalls and hoped he would not have to carry Arthur home.

The stall doors were hung open, ajar and empty. Alfred blinked, pushing back each door as if to check if Arthur was hiding, though he knew this was not the case. He threw his head back to the cane, black handle glistening under the fluorescent lights.

He's left it… Alfred grabbed the cane. His gaze roamed around the sink, drawn to the red splotches that were printed onto the sink faucets. Alfred tightened his grip on the cane, dropping his gaze to the tiled floor.

Blood drops.

With swift steps, he turned back to the door, pushing it and letting it swing open. Stepping out, he felt his breaths become larger, harder to keep steady. Heartbeat, matching the throbbing music as Alfred whipped his head left to right. Red, everywhere. In the air, on his shirt, on the cold faucet that still remained vivid in his mind.

(Where?)

Though few beats had been strained out by his heart, Alfred's thoughts raced by, streamlined by panic and frenzy.

(Where is he?)

Red, and he did not know –could not know! – what had happened to Arthur. All he was left with was the cane, and the droplets that beckoned the question.

(Whose is it?!)

Footsteps echoed nearby, punctuating the trembling words of Alfred's mind. The bartender entered the corridor, his expression calm as he approached Alfred.

'Is something wrong?' the man's eyes trailed down to the cane in Alfred's hands. 'Is your friend ill?' He looked up at Alfred, brows creased, though they mocked Alfred. Glassy eyes that lied — Alfred had grown far too used to them. A stranger, whose words had been coated in concern. What did he want?

('There's a long goodbye…')

A rotten stench wafted into the air. A trail, a path to follow. Alfred turned to it, towards the end of the corridor, where a stairwell resided.

('And it happens every day…')

Running his gaze over the corridor, over the glossed floor, Alfred sure there was something. A musty smell, and…

Blood drops. Smeared.

Alfred bolted up the stairs, ignoring the bartender's protests. Running, cursing and praying. It couldn't be — shouldn't be — what he thought it was.

He reached an office door. Through the frosted glass window, he saw a pink tinge, a blur that sent his stomach boiling up from the inside.

'Arthur!'

Alfred burst into the office, flooded by the musty and horribly familiar stench. Crimson, sprawled on the floor. Alfred gagged, though the sight of a mangled face was not new to him. He knelt to the figure, exhaling sharply in relief when he saw the long strands of dark hair tangled around the torn face.

'Yong Soo…' the bartender whispered behind him, his voice coarse. 'Oh god…' The man began to retch, doubled over by the desk and filling up the room further with a rotten stench.

Alfred stumbled back up, stabbing the cane onto the floor and letting it wobble as his weight pressed into it. Arthur was gone. He knew this…

Arthur had been swallowed up by the beast, or perhaps had become the beast himself. This, Alfred could not know. Ignorance was not bliss. It couldn't be! Not with the panic lacing his breath, the fever that overtook him. Only a cane in his hands, and a trail of blood.

('You know you've said…')

A blindfold, and a flame to keep him company.

('The long goodbye…')

.

The car shuddered as it sped over the dirt road, head lights illuminating the tree lined path ahead. Ivan eyed the silhouette of Katyusha's head and shoulders as she gripped the steering wheel, and though it was incredibly dark in the car, he could feel her worried glances pointed at him in the rearview mirror.

He felt Yao's head shift in his lap, the bundled coat rustling softly. Ivan's hand felt for the scarf, still wrapped around Yao's throat, brushing past it to touch warm skin. Feeling a gentle pulse beneath it, Ivan rested his hand back up on Yao's shoulder. He should not have needed to feel it, should not have held his breath until he did. An hour's drive it had been, and all the way through Katyusha had reassured him that Yao's drowsiness was not hypothermia.

'He's tired, Ivan. Let him rest,' she had told him, insisting that checking for Yao's pulse every five minutes was not necessary. He was only sleeping, only resting, and yet Ivan still had the uneasy feeling that Yao was slipping away from him somehow. Falling away from his fingertips as easily as he had done so only hours ago…

The car passed by a lone streetlight, illuminating Yao's face for a brief moment. Closed, Yao's dark and wary eyes were hidden away, leaving his face pale and unperturbed. His hand was curled onto Ivan's knee, blood drying beneath fingernails and palms reddened by scratches. Ivan reached for it, guilt festering in his chest as he held it.

(I've ruined you.)

Broken, it seemed, as Ivan closed his fingers around Yao's limp hand. It stung to hold him, pricked him like thorns. And though at first Ivan felt the pain in his hand, where the bite mark resided, it had quickly made its way across his throat and chest, thinning out his breath. It was a type of pain Ivan had not experienced before, though he was sure he had felt them all.

Yao's fingers closed around his, coiling his hand further around Ivan and mumbling softly.

'…the same…'

A smile tugged at Ivan's lips, hesitant to show even in the dark. It was so warm, so incredibly warm… a chest wanting to burst, a chuckle wanting to escape. But it was stifled, trapped. Why was that?

(Perhaps it is not for me, this rose… Not for bad people like me.)

But he had made Yao his own, twisted him and broken him into a shape no one else could accept. Just like the men who had broken Ivan, so did Ivan break Yao. Knowing this, he did not stop. Why was that?

(It's the only way, isn't it…?)

Dark eyes that burned, black eyes that drank up Ivan's words and breath. They drew out everything, guided every delicate memory, every unspoken sentiment, until Ivan had found that there was little else to hide. And now, his scarf, the very last thing he had yet to part with, was wrapped around Yao's neck. Why was that?

The car jolted, nearly knocking Ivan's head against the roof of the car. Katyusha apologized, her soft voice interrupted midway by a muffled groan. She snapped her head back to Ivan.

'Is that —?'

'It's not Yao.'

The car slowed to a halt. Katyusha turned in her seat, flipping on the lights in the car. Ivan squinted his eyes at the brightness of it, though he could still see Katyusha's widened eyes lingering on his neck. He pulled his hand free of Yao's to cover his throat, feeling the scar on it burn beneath the light.

Katyusha blinked, turning her gaze away. 'I'm sorry, I…' she swallowed. 'That man I helped you put in the trunk… you didn't kill him, did you?'

'Did you want me to?'

'No.' Katyusha shook her head, lowering her voice when Yao shifted. 'No, it's just… I thought he was dangerous or something.'

'He only needs to disappear,' Ivan said. 'He is not like the others. I cannot treat him in the same way.'

Katyusha nodded, her brows furrowed. 'No, I… I understand, Ivan. I won't stop you. But…' Her gaze flickered to Yao, concern growing in her expression. 'I'm not sure if this is best for Yao.'

'I cannot kill him for being foolish, Katyusha. And neither can Yao.'

The muffled groans grew louder, becoming stumbled slurs and giggles. Katyusha looked to Ivan.

'Just keep driving. Don't worry about it,' Ivan said, hand still sprawled onto his neck in an attempt to hide it entirely. Katyusha switched the lights off and started up the engine, the thrum of it drowning out the man's voice.

Yao sighed in Ivan's lap, hand blindly reaching for Ivan's in the dark. Ivan let Yao's slender fingers wrap around his wrist, guiding his hand back to the warmth of Yao's hold. Thorns pricked him once again, awakening the crescent wound on his hand. He felt the congealed blood rip apart, inflaming the skin around it. But Ivan did not flinch, did not pull his hand away.

Velvet petals brushed over the burning wound, mending it and sweeping away the blood that had formed. Soft lips, pressed against it. Aching and trembling, Ivan's hand still remained, fingers curling around Yao's.

(Ochi chernye, it's all yours… I'm afraid.)