Bound tightly around the arms and legs, Arthur was held within a web of rope. Mouth gagged and head tied to the chair, he could not even turn to look behind himself. All he had for a view was a mottled wall, filthy looking even in the dark that Arthur's eyes had become adjusted to. His back muscles ached and itched to move, head throbbing from the bruise that sweltered overnight. But even so, Arthur could not contain his trembling excitement.

He was in the belly of the beast, within the very heart of the monster he had been after — who could ever live to tell the tale? Arthur had been handed the opportunity, the chance to rip the beast up from the inside and pick every bone, every tendon apart. To see how its muscles twitched, how its claws retracted, how sharp its fangs could bite. No one — no one but Arthur — could do this!

(Ah, I'm sorry Alfred… I've left you with all the boring work, haven't I?)

Arthur chuckled through the gag, muffled laughter echoing out in the empty room. Somehow, this was all so terribly amusing… Why was that? Arthur wasn't sure himself.

His giggles began to falter as the sight of the mottled wall stared back at him, overwhelming in its stillness. He could no longer see little patterns and faces in its grimy patches, as he did for the many hours since he'd woken up. Not even Alfred's face, which Arthur had somehow spotted in various little corners as he battled his boredom. When the itch of rough rope grating against his wrists no longer bothered him, it was this blank and tiring canvas that did, achingly uninteresting in its glare. God, how it was starting to sicken him.

He started to bounce his knees on the floor, listening for footsteps in the upstairs floor. He had heard something before, the soft pads of feet across floorboards. Curious, he quieted his own breath heaving through the gag, wanting to hear more of the beast that was surely prowling around. It was waiting perhaps, for the point at which Arthur's anticipation was unbearable. Expecting fear, high strung panic in Arthur's sweaty forehead. Waiting for his frightened whimpers and cries.

But Arthur would not give it the satisfaction. No, the tremor in his hands, the raggedness of his breath and the painful churning of his stomach — this was all excitement! Arthur was not afraid, not worried in the least… let his blood be drawn. Arthur would be taking away something much greater, much larger than petty flesh. He could feel his smile being crushed beneath the gag.

It was only a waiting game for now.

Footsteps settled outside the room, sending Arthur's trembling shoulders to a standstill. There was a gentle click of a door opening, hinges creaking as barely audible footsteps entered the room. Though he twisted his head back to see, the rope held it in place, kept it facing towards the grimy wall.

The floorboards groaned behind him, footsteps stopping in place. A hand brushed against the back of his neck, untying the rope that fixed Arthur's head to the chair. Letting the rope fall over Arthur's shoulders, the hands quickly gripped the sides of Arthur's head.

'You woke me up… with your idiotic laugh.'

'Morning, Yao,' Arthur said, though it sounded out as an incomprehensible muffle through the gag. He tried to turn his head back to look at him, but Yao's hands held him still. The cool pads of fingertips pressed into Arthur's temple, dragging down to close around his throat. They began to squeeze, tightening around the bruises that had been left from yesterday.

Arthur choked, a breath caught between the delicate fingers that bit into his neck. The filthy wall in front of him began to fade, falling in and out of complete blackness as his windpipe was closing in, crumbling beneath Yao's hands.

Still trembling, still struggling to breath — was this excitement? The frantic images of his father's face in the wall, staring as the pressure behind Arthur's eyes built. Smiling, as Arthur's croaks were lost in the fabric of the gag. Laughing, as Arthur wished this would not be the last sight he saw. No, this was not excitement, not even fear. What was it called? This —

Yao's hands released Arthur's throat, air rushing in to his lungs so fast that they felt as if to burst. The stale stench of the gag tasted sweeter as Arthur gulped the air, his head falling limply when relief swept over him. He would not die with that horrid wall in front of him, not with that face in it…

Yao pulled the back of Arthur's chair away from the wall, tilting it so that Arthur could see the ceiling above him. Yao's face peered into his hazy field of vision, dark eyes like deep pools of black water boring into him.

'I guess you're more fun alive than dead...' Yao said, brows furrowing. He tilted the chair from side to side, inspecting Arthur like a cat who was having trouble deciding if he was food or entertainment. 'But I'm still not sure why Ivan would bother to keep you.'

Arthur mumbled through the gag to reply, words sounding out as groans in the empty room. He winced as his voice ripped through his raw throat.

'What was that?'

Arthur chuckled as the room began to sway around him, though the chair was held still. He mumbled the words again. Surely, he could guess?

Yao frowned. 'I'm not taking off the gag, if that's what you're trying to make me do.'

Arthur raised his brows as if to plead. Come on, love. Don't you want a proper conversation?

'I'm not going to take off the gag.' Yao loosened his grip on the chair, letting it slam back onto the ground. 'Don't expect me to feed you, either. I didn't choose to have you —'

The door creaked open, Yao's voice faltering. After a pause, the flutter of a small breath, a soft voice spoke.

'Myshka, I'm afraid that man isn't someone to toy with.'

Heavier footsteps entered the room, floorboards creaking beneath them. There was a silence that fell after each step. Where had Yao gone? Not even shadows could help Arthur guess in the dim light of the room.

'I wasn't 'toying' with him,' Yao snapped back, though steadiness of his voice trembled. 'Ivan, your neck…'

'You don't remember, myshka?'

'Who is this myshka?' Arthur said through the gag, the question distorted and faded from the moment they left his lips. He struggled in the chair, shaking it with the thrashing of his shoulders.

This ugly wall! Even as Arthur craned his neck as far as it could go, stretching and pulling fresh bruises, he could not see. Sickened, made nauseous by the face that crept up in the paint of the wall, he called out with a voice that scraped his throat. But even so, he was ignored. Hushed voices continued as if Arthur had not been there, groaning and shuffling in the chair like an idiot.

'It keeps you warm, da? Keep it.'

'I can't. It's …' Yao's voice trailed off, a pause settling into a long stretch of silence.

Arthur rocked the chair from side to side, cursing through the gag. He was their captive, their bloody dinner! How could they just ignore him? The more Arthur spoke, the more it scorched his throat, the less he cared. Giving up on words, he only yelled for the sake of it.

The rustle of fabric whispered in the empty room, somehow still audible past Arthur's voice.

'It's a part of you, isn't it…?'

Arthur jerked his shoulders into the chair, sending it tipping over backwards. The ceiling seemed to fly away from him as his back slammed into the floor. The air nearly knocked out of his lungs, Arthur gasped, drawing in his own sticky breath from the gag.

He rolled his eyes up, toward the two men that now stared down at him, silent.

There you are, my dear boy! Arthur laughed, the sound of it more of a croak than anything else. Yao only looked back at him with widened eyes, a bundled up scarf in his hands. That expression, so well worn… was that fear?

Arthur's gaze drifted towards the taller man, a red mark sprawled over his throat like the massive hand of a demon.

(Ivan, I presume… and oh my, the scars you've collected!)

Yao threw the scarf over Ivan's throat, hiding the scar away with frantic hands. An apology was mumbled, caught in Arthur's curious ears.

'Do not worry about it, myshka.' Ivan adjusted the scarf, a smile blooming on his lips. The smile faded as he turned towards Arthur, approaching him with footsteps that boomed in Arthur's ears.

'This is not comfortable, da?' Ivan sighed as he knelt down beside Arthur's face. 'Izvini. But there is not much I can do...'

Arthur mumbled through the gag, voice slurred as a searing headache began to emerge. Two words. Only two, and they could not guess?

'You want to speak?'

Arthur nodded, wincing when the bruises around his throat became unsettled and stung. Ivan pulled the gag down. Arthur inhaled, swallowing up the cool air. He hacked and coughed, taking a moment to muster up his strength. Only two words…

Well… perhaps three considering the circumstances.

'Merry bloody Chri…' Arthur's hoarse voice cracked, a soundless chuckle overtaking him. Yao and Ivan only watched, brows creasing together as the laughter in Arthur's throat rose up further into the stale air. Choked and broken, sound finally ripped out of his throat like the sound of an injured animal. But it was not pain, not even fear that made Arthur laugh like this.

No, not fear… Arthur's whole body shook and ached, skin trembling and glistening with sweat. So much to look forward to, so much to anticipate! This… this was excitement! A drop of sweat rolled down his face, a question arising from it as it trickled smoothly across his cheek.

When his laughter died out, Arthur only had to wonder.

Why was he not smiling?

.

Alfred choked on the bitter smoke, coughing out the wispy puffs into the air. He smacked his lips, a grimace settling on his face. Though he was overwhelmed by stench of tobacco, he could still taste blood in his mouth, tinging it with its metallic flavor. It didn't matter how much coffee he drank, nor how much he smoked, the taste of it still lingered, still rang on his tongue freshly. As if to hold on to him, to plague Alfred until he could let go of the goddamn cane he was still holding by his side.

No one had asked any questions when he turned up late at the office, dragging a cane he didn't need alongside him. Mornings were the most gruelling, the time at which the knives that stabbed his head were sharpest. And though the painkillers were always there, at the bottom of his bedside drawer, he never picked them up. Never opened the drawer even when he was nauseous from the pain, because surely there was a pain far greater waiting for him if he were to reach over and open it.

'You've left me with all the difficult stuff, haven't you?' Alfred put the cigarette in his lips again, drawing in its bitter taste. Seated alone on this frozen bench, it was easy to hear him, to hear echoes of Arthur's spoken words.

(Not knowing…)

This, and the cane in Alfred's hand, was all that was left. Why did it leave a bloody taste in his mouth? A familiar ache in his head and voices that persisted?

(You know why, Alfred.)

'No, I don't know…' Alfred said, the cloud of his breath intermingling with the cigarette smoke. 'I don't know…'

He let the cigarette fall to the snow covered ground, crushing it with his shoe. Even as it was buried away in the snow, Alfred continued to grind it until it hit the cement, pressing it until it flattened beneath his foot.

'Please forgive me for disturbing you, but…'

Alfred snapped his head up to find Kiku in front of him, gloved hands trembling as they extended a file towards him.

'I thought you would want to read the transcript…' Kiku said.

'Of what?'

'Jin Wang's interview.'

'We didn't need one,' Alfred said, hand itching to light another cigarette, though the thought of tasting smoke again sickened him. 'He's not the guy we're looking for.'

'We'll have to wait for the print analysis to come back to confirm that.' Kiku pulled the file away. 'The forensics team managed to get a clean one off the murder weapon.'

'Yeah?' Alfred said, gaze drifting off into the footprints of a bird hopping across the snow. He eyed the little marks it left behind, how delicate they were. So easy to erase. Someone should be watching this, Alfred thought, in case they faded away.

'Y-Yes.' Kiku shifted in his balance. 'Um, Alfred? If you do not mind me asking…'

Alfred turned to Kiku. 'Yes?'

Kiku blinked, eyes flickering to the bench space next to Alfred. 'That photo… is that…?'

Alfred turned to the side, picking up the photo that had collected flecks of frost. He blew them off and handed the picture to Kiku.

'Yeah. It is,' Alfred said, a small smile tugging on his lips. 'After all this time, I'm back to square one. My first lead, remember?'

Kiku frowned, his hands still shaking as he held the photo. 'Yes. I remember. Before we had over seventy victims…' He held onto the photo for a breath of silence, the crease between his brows deepening.

Kiku looked up, thrusting the photo back to Alfred, a sudden animosity in his demeanour. Alfred blinked, taking the photo from his hands. There was a spark of some kind in Kiku's eyes, though Alfred could not quite pinpoint the emotion behind it. But whatever it was, it was unrestrained in a way that Kiku never was.

Kiku's expression softened, darting his eyes away. 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

Kiku sat next to Alfred on the bench. 'I made a mistake.'

A mistake…? Alfred turned to look at Kiku, his face vacant as if staring off into something far away. Alfred wondered what he was looking at, what Kiku was seeing within his dark and listless eyes. Perhaps the lives of seventy men and women, cut short by the very same man Kiku had dismissed as a false lead all those months ago. Yes, maybe…

Alfred slapped his hand onto Kiku's shoulder, jolting him out of his trance. 'You didn't make a mistake, man. You did everything by the book.'

Kiku's brows furrowed as he turned to look at Alfred. 'By the book…?'

'Dude, I'm the idiot here. I mean — ' Alfred chuckled, lifting the photo up. 'I saw this bastard last night! Staring right at me, and I didn't do anything about it! I didn't do anything… and I… I lost him!'

'Alfred…'

As if the trees themselves needed to breathe, a gust of air coursed through them, shaking the leaves and the photo that flapped in Alfred's hand. Yao's face, flickering in the wind to remind him just how easy, how simple, it was to disappear.

He winced, a searing pain surging through his temple. Clutching at it, Alfred's back arched over his knees as he waited for the pain to subside. Burning up, scorching through his skull and leaving it aching. Only for a few seconds, this pain, a moment and it would be gone —

('She looks so much like you… What happened to her?')

'N-No…' Alfred shook his head, fingers curling into his hair. Eating away, burying itself into his head like a starved parasite. 'Don't ask me that. Don't —'

('I don't know. She just…')

'Alfred!' A hand touched his shoulder, trembling through the gloves. 'Are you okay?'

Alfred exhaled sharply, loosening his hands over his head as the pain began to dull away. '… Y-Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.' He forced a chuckle. 'Just… this stupid migraine, is all. I can deal with it.'

'It would be better for you to stay inside the office,' Kiku said, lifting his hand off Alfred's shoulder. 'I have some aspirin, if you need it.'

Alfred nodded, lifting his head up though remnants of the headache still lingered. As he walked with Kiku, stabbing the cane into the ground as he did so, he looked for the little bird that had been prancing around on the snow. Searching for it, trailing his eyes over the icy blanket for those tiny little marks and hoping it would still be there. But they had been swept away by the wind, the bird nowhere to be seen.

Blood drops… Alfred could taste them once again on his lips. It sickened him.

.

Yao let the vodka glass spin on the table, watching it spiral away. As it teetered over the edge of the table, he caught it in his hand, placing it back on the table to begin again. The kitchen was getting dark, the light of the sky having faded into deep purple. It had been orange when Ivan left the house. How many hours was that? Yao had not checked, but he felt that it was surely more than just a few hours. An eternity was more like it, of spinning glass and the sound of a car engine humming away in the distance replaying in his head.

Ivan had left him on his own, disappearing behind the front door to greet Katyusha and drive off to yet another bloody errand. Only Yao had been left behind. Granted, it had been Yao's fault to begin with that the pick-up truck was now left on some faraway highway, and Ivan would need Katyusha's car from now on to get around from place to place, but even so —

The glass fell off the table, Yao's hand shooting out to catch it midair. He sighed, placing it back onto the table.

Even so… couldn't he have stayed for a bit longer?

Of the night before, Yao's memory was hazy. He remembered the 'Poisoned Apple', the pulsing red lights and the shrieks of Yong Soo ringing in his ears. The scratches on Yao's palms would not let him forget that, itching as if Yong Soo's blood was still trapped within the wounds. He closed his hand around the glass, pressing welted lines against its cool surface. But he could also remember Ivan's hold on him, the hum of the car engine as he held Ivan's hand close.

Yao drew out a long breath and rested his head sideways against the surface of the table, pressing his ear into it. It was wooden and empty, nothing like the warmth Yao could vaguely recall from the night before. He had fallen asleep in Ivan's arms, as far as his vague memory was concerned. He could recount the way the mattress sank as Ivan laid next to him, the heaviness of his own breath as Ivan pulled him in towards his chest.

But it had all faded away by morning, Yao waking up to an empty bed, the scarf still wrapped around his throat. He doubted if Ivan had ever stayed at all, if perhaps Yao had only been dreaming when he felt the beating of Ivan's heart throughout the night.

Ivan... Yao began to tip the vodka glass from side to side on the table. You should have stayed here. We should have just stayed like that…

Yao's stomach stirred with unease. It was worse than an itch, or an ache in his chest. He sought feel Ivan's pulse again, to close his eyes next to him and melt away like he had the night before. But Yao couldn't, and that sent his stomach coiling up into a tangled knot of nervous anticipation. When Ivan returned, would he let Yao stay close to him? Somehow Yao felt that it wasn't quite so simple, that last night had been an exception of sorts. The thought left him desperately hoping this wasn't the case.

'Can you recognize the theme, on some other street...'

Yao lifted his head up from the table, hearing the muffled singing slur behind walls.

'Two people meet, as in a dream…'

Laughter rang out — the same idiotic laughter Yao had woken up to this morning. Shoving the vodka glass towards the middle of the table, Yao got out of the chair. Had Ivan forgotten to put the gag back on? Somehow Yao doubted this, though there wasn't much explanation otherwise. He walked down into the basement, throwing the door open to find the man grinning in the chair.

'If the heart is quicker than the eye, they could be…' Arthur chuckled, his head lolling to the side. 'They could be… What could they be, Yao?'

Yao let the door close behind him, eyeing the gag loosely hanging from Arthur's neck. 'You could be dead, if you don't behave.'

'I could be dead, if you don't feed me.'

Yao approached Arthur, wary of the distance between their feet. 'Who said I was feeding you?'

'No one in particular.' Arthur smiled, his voice still croaky as he spoke. 'But Ivan's left you here with me, hasn't he? I suppose he intends you to sort out all the… domestic affairs.'

Yao reached for the gag around Arthur's throat, yanking it like the leash of a misbehaved dog. As the fabric dug into the now purple bruises, Arthur winced, though the smile stayed fresh.

'I'm practically yours!' Arthur's cracked lips stretched further, breaking into a hoarse chuckle.

'Are you, now?' Yao picked at the knot of the gag, undoing it and pulling the strip of cloth away. 'Then behave. And keep your mouth shut.'

'And if I don't?'

Yao straightened out the gag, unfolding it and ironing out its crinkles with his fingers. He folded it in half and pulled it taut between his hands. He looked back up at Arthur, who stared back with eyes half lidded in laziness.

'What? You won't tell me?' Arthur said. 'Or is that Ivan's decision?'

Yao's fingers bit into the fabric, repulsed by how Ivan's name sounded on this man's tongue. It was tossed into the air like it was dust, a meaningless speck that happened to have a name.

'If you really want to find out,' Yao said, words measured out and steadied. 'Why don't you go for it?'

'Go for what?'

Yao untied the rope around Arthur's hands and chest, kneeling down untie the rope binding Arthur's legs to the chair as well. Yao stood up and looked at Arthur.

'The door is only a few steps away,' Yao said, wrapping the gag around his own palm. 'Go for it.'

Arthur stared back, brows furrowing in uncertainty before a warm smile swept across his lips. 'That's very kind of you…' Arthur stretched his arms and legs out, getting up from the chair. He rubbed his reddened wrists. 'Sitting in that chair for several hours was an absolute nightmare!'

'I'm sure it was,' Yao said, pulling on the end of the gag so that it tightened around his hand, squeezing on the aching wounds. He eyed Arthur's slender frame, looking for the joints that would break most easily. A bruised throat, knees that trembled, a feverishly pale face — the man was ready to be snapped into little pieces.

(But I want you to run.)

Arthur slumped back into the seat, sighing. 'Ah, but I'm very tired, my dear boy. I don't think I'll be making my escape today.'

Yao frowned. 'I wasn't allowing you to leave. I was telling you to.'

Arthur shrugged, back slipping in the chair. 'But I'm more fun alive than dead, aren't I?'

Yao blinked, his tangled hands stopping still. Arthur smiled.

'I'm not an idiot, Yao. I know what happens if I misbehave.' Arthur folded his arms and crossed his legs. 'But I'm curious. What happens if you misbehave?'

'What do you mean, 'if I misbehave'?' Yao wrenched his one hand away from the knot he had created between his hands. 'I'm not the one trapped here.'

'Ah…' Arthur nodded, gaze trailing off. 'So Ivan wouldn't mind if he knew about this?'

'About what? Shutting you up?'

'About not shutting me up.'

Yao felt the fabric tense between his fingers, pulled taut so that it might rip apart. Arthur burst into laughter, his hands reaching for his bruised throat as the chuckles broke off into coughs.

'But you've, uh…' Arthur wheezed. 'You've done quite the damage, I must say.' He glanced up at Yao, the smile of his outburst still creeping on his lips. 'You're a lot stronger than you look, myshka.'

'Don't call me that.'

'But that's what he calls you, isn't it?' Arthur leant back in the chair, hand smoothing over his throat. Yao watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, marred skin shifting and stretching over it. Teasing Yao, defying him as the irritating voice continued on. 'Myshka… Pet name, I presume?'

Yao let the gag loosen in his grip, the fabric tumbling down to the floor as his hands itched for something else.

('Myshka…')

The memory of Ivan's voice rang so sweetly, burying itself in Yao's chest. It would be back, wouldn't it? This pathetic man's imitation of it would not be the last time Yao would hear it, surely. And yet it was so quiet, silent so that Yao could almost hear his own heart thumping uneasily, lopsidedly as if missing a chunk. He would be back, Yao knew that, but he could not shake off the itch in his hands, the cold air seizing his lungs.

(But is he ever going to hold me like that again?)

Arthur only stared, waiting for Yao's answer as if he had been seated on a throne and not in his own prison, watching in curiosity. Repulsion crawled on Yao's skin as he felt the man's eyes trained on him.

'Cat got your tongue, myshka?'

Yao's gaze flickered to meet Arthur's, considering his words before letting them tumble out. 'You're hungry, aren't you?'

A pause, uncertainty before Arthur spoke. 'Yes. Bloody starving.'

'Then I'll bring you something.'

'Ah, tha —'

Yao left the room before Arthur could finish, hurrying out of the basement and hopping up the rough wooden stairs with icy feet. Walking into the kitchen, he could feel his hands trembling at his sides. Yao steadied them on the handle of a drawer, pulling it open to find the cutlery. He picked out the sharpest knife he could find, gripping it so that it was hidden in his oversized sleeve.

The basement was colder when Yao had returned, feeling as though his breath should have a cloud when he exhaled. He let the door swing shut behind him, watching Arthur furrow his brows in confusion.

'Is something wro —'

Yao yanked Arthur up by the collar, throwing him against the wall. Arthur crumpled onto the floor, wheezing as he struggled to catch his knocked out breath. Yao did not give him the chance, dragging his feet away from the wall so that Arthur fell with his back to the floor. Yao grabbed the loose rope from beside the chair, turning Arthur over to tie his hands behind his back.

'You… only needed… to ask…' Arthur forced out a chuckle, chest heaving against the floor.

'This is not something you would agree to.' Yao pulled out the knife, seating himself on Arthur's back to pin him down. He grabbed Arthur's chin, tilting his head up with one hand. Yao pried his mouth open, pinching Arthur's tongue between his thumb and forefinger and holding it out. He brought the gleaming knife towards Arthur's face, feeling him panic and tremble beneath him.

'Keep still, or the cut won't be as clean.'

Arthur struggled, knocking his shoulders side to side. Yao muttered a curse and leaned down closer to press his weight on Arthur's shoulders. He brought the knife to Arthur's lips, touching it on his tongue. Arthur groaned and shook his head, his tongue slipping away from Yao's fingers. Yao reached further into his mouth to retrieve it, Arthur's teeth snapping shut on his thumb and forefinger, piercing into them.

Yao hissed and tugged his hand away, though his fingers were caught between Arthur's teeth. Like pointed fangs of a bear trap they dug deeper into his skin, pressure building until skin broke and bled. Yao screamed, feeling teeth tear through flesh and threaten to snap into bone. He lifted his knife welding hand and stabbed Arthur's shoulder. Arthur groaned and released Yao's hand, allowing Yao to roll off of him.

Lying on his side, Yao cradled his hand, dark blood dripping from it. He swallowed, sweat dotting his forehead as an ache spread throughout his hand. The surface of it burned as if lit on fire, but beneath the torn skin it throbbed as if his bones had been hollowed out. Tears stung his eyes, Yao biting back a cry of pain. He looked up at Arthur lying on the floor, limp as if the battle was over.

'You…' Arthur croaked, weak laughter bubbling out of him. 'You told me to keep my mouth shut.'

Yao stumbled up, panting as he held his dripping hand with the other. 'It's going to hurt a lot more now. You know that, don't you?' He staggered towards Arthur, yanking the knife out of his shoulder. Arthur cried, wincing.

'Yes… I know that.'

Yao kicked Arthur's side, knocking him over so that he lay on his back. Yao loosened his grip on the knife, fiddling with it as he toyed with the ideas brimming in his head. Where would he start? What piece should he break first?

Yao kneeled by Arthur's legs, picking one up. 'You were carrying a cane when I met you. Is there something wrong with your legs?'

'N…No…' Arthur swallowed, shifting uncomfortably as his hands remained tied beneath his back. 'It's just… part of my image, I suppose.'

Yao set his leg back down on the floor. He watched Arthur's expression soften, though it still trembled in cold anticipation. Arthur's green eyes had lost the keen spark in them, his lips no longer curled in a dry smile. There was not even a flinch, as Yao tore the trouser fabric around Arthur's calf. He only lay there, docile like a lamb thrown into the slaughterhouse.

Only makes it easier, Yao thought, bringing the tip of the knife to the top of Arthur's pale calf. He heard Arthur's ragged breaths stop, as if contained within his shivering frame. Yao looked up at Arthur's face, finding his eyes squeezed shut.

The knife tip wavered, and though Yao's left hand still pulsed with searing pain, Yao brought the knife back into his lap.

'Hey.'

Arthur opened his eyes, glancing at Yao. 'Yes?'

'Do you want to be cut up?'

'N-No.' Arthur frowned, body still shaking. 'Why are you asking?'

'I haven't tied your legs up. But you're not even kicking me.'

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, only to close it without saying a word. He stared at the ceiling, his face paling though Yao had been sure it was already white as porcelain. Arthur snatched his gaze away from the ceiling, vacantly looking into a distance behind Yao.

'I can't really do anything either way,' Arthur said, voice soft and murmured. 'I'm a beastly child, but somebody always has the leash...'

'What was that?' Yao leaned forward, watching as angular features melded and rounded on Arthur's face.

'Alfred would be so disappointed…' Arthur's eyes trailed toward Yao. 'I'm going to rot here, aren't I? Leave me to my own devices and I'll rot away.' Cracked lips stretched into a smile. 'You don't even have to cut me up. I'll end up doing it myself anyway, to get rid of it…'

'Get rid of what?'

Arthur's smile faded, gaze flickering as if reading something in Yao's eyes. 'You let it live inside you. But it keeps you warm, feeds you. Mine… Mine doesn't do that.'

Yao's brows knit together. 'I don't understand what you're saying.'

Arthur turned his head back to the ceiling with a sigh, shutting his eyes. 'Please don't keep me waiting, Yao. I'd like this to be over with.'

Yao blinked, looking down at the knife in his hands, stained in both his and Arthur's blood. What was it he was trying to do again? The knife gleamed back at him, feeling foreign in his hands. Expecting to see Ivan's reflection in it, to feel his cold hand when Yao held it… but it was only empty silver.

Yao let the knife fall to his side. He pulled the torn fabric of Arthur's trousers over to cover up the shivering skin of his leg, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his left hand. Arthur opened his eyes, widening them when Yao pulled him up off the floor and set him onto the chair.

'What…' Arthur asked, slumped in the chair with his hands still tied behind his back. Yao untied them, discarding the rope onto the floor beside his feet. Arthur's gaze followed the rope to the floor, travelling back up to Yao with a frown. 'Why are you doing this?'

Yao said nothing, flickering his gaze away. He picked the knife up from the floor, leaving the basement and shutting the door behind him. The evening light had darkened, the kitchen area almost pitch black. He felt a droplet slip off his index finger, splattering onto the tiled floor.

'Myshka.'

Yao walked into what he had thought was a wall, bumping into it only to recognize the cold air lingering around it. Soft fabric, flecks of ice melting on it. Yao felt the lump in his chest jump up into his throat, hearing the echo of the knife clanging against the floor.

'Ivan?' Yao looked up, the dim moonlight only allowing him to see the faint outline of Ivan's frame. He reached forward, letting his hand fall on the outline of Ivan's shoulder and following its shape, trailing up until his fingers brushed against Ivan's cool cheek. A soft chuckle bubbled out of Yao's throat, forgetting about the torn state of his other hand. 'You were gone for so long…'

Yao's hand froze, Ivan's cold hand resting upon it. But even so, it made him feel so much warmer. As if he had been holding his breath since Ivan left, he felt the air in his lungs ease out, sweeping over his chest.

'Yao…' Ivan's fingers slid between Yao's, intertwining with them. 'Why is there blood?'

Yao pulled his hand away, self-conscious of the red stains on it. He felt Ivan reach for his other hand, taking hold of it by the wrist. Ivan's fingers swept over the open gash, stinging the wound. Yao bit back a yelp, hand twitching as he willed himself not to flinch away.

'It's… It's just a small bite,' Yao chuckled, not being able to see Ivan's hands in the dark, but feeling them mold over the torn skin, pressing over it as if to shield his hand. Squeezing, closing the gap between their hands. Yao squirmed as the wound stung, aching bones screeching with pain.

Ivan sighed, softening his grip. 'I told you that man wasn't someone to toy with.'

'I wasn't 'toying' with him!' Yao said, though he felt guilt sprout in his chest. Uninvited, the sight of Arthur's eyes shut was replayed before Yao, the very same tremor repeated over and over in his head. 'I told him I would bring him something to eat...'

'Do not worry about that now, myshka.' Ivan's hand traveled up to Yao's elbow, guiding him through to the kitchen table. 'Let's clean up your wound first.'

.

(He's so warm…)

Ivan could feel Yao's hand tremble in his, twitching as he wiped away the blood with the antiseptic-drenched towel. The bite had been severe, the open gash still streaming with blood and leaving the entire towel stained red. Ivan pressed the wet towel onto the gash, Yao flinching as he did so.

Ivan smoothed his thumb across Yao's wrist in apology, keeping his eyes trained on the darkened towel and his own pale hand resting on top of it. He wasn't sure if Yao had forgiven him or not, could not see if he had smiled in return — but Ivan did not glance up to find out. He only watched as his own hand began to quiver, weakening in its grip.

(He's not even pulling away from me.)

If Ivan pressed harder on the wound, would Yao still leave his hand limp in Ivan's? If Ivan poured vodka into the bleeding gash, would Yao only sit there and bite back a cry? Surely not… surely, if Ivan were to hurt him, Yao would leave again.

He lifted the towel from the wound to check if the bleeding had stopped, but dark blood rose from the gash as soon as he removed it. Ivan pressed the towel back onto Yao's hand, though he was afraid to press too hard. Press too hard, hurt him too much, and surely Ivan would lose him.

Yao's hand shifted beneath his, perhaps wanting to pull away. Ivan glanced up at him, already dreading the sound of Yao's footsteps.

'Sorry.' An unsteady exhale left Yao's lips. 'It's going to need stitches, isn't it?'

'The wound is not too deep,' Ivan said, feeling the knot in his stomach ease. 'It might not need stitches.'

Yao nodded, wincing as Ivan peeled away the towel and wrapped the gauze around Yao's hand. Still trembling, still quivering in Ivan's hand as if overtaken by a fever. Ivan looked up at Yao, finding his lips pursed as if to restrain himself. Ivan reached up to brush away the hair from Yao's face, strands of it matted against his forehead. Yao's skin was glistened in sweat, scorching hot to Ivan's touch.

'I'm afraid I don't have any painkillers, myshka.'

Dark eyes flitted up to meet Ivan's. 'I didn't ask for any.'

'But I do have vodka.'

Yao frowned. 'I don't think that's a good idea.'

'I'll make sure to lock the doors this time, da?' Ivan chuckled, smoothing his hand over the top of Yao's hair. Following the silk strands to the back of Yao's head, Ivan pulled the ponytail loose. A dark curtain fell across Yao's shoulders, hair tumbling loose to frame his face.

Yao's expression softened. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologize.' Ivan wrapped a lock of hair around his finger, letting it unwind and fall back with the rest of Yao's hair. 'I pushed you away, didn't I?'

'I left you alone on Christmas Eve.'

'Finding you was not difficult.'

'And then I bit you.'

'It'll heal.'

'And then I made you kidnap an idiot.'

'He's not so bad,' Ivan hummed. 'It's nice to have more friends, isn't it?'

Yao blinked, unimpressed. 'He's not my friend. Friends don't bite.'

'They don't?' Ivan said, watching Yao as his words and expression became animated.

'What do you mean 'they don't?'? Of course they don't!' Yao said, the weariness in his face overtaken by a pink flush.

(Warm…)

Though Ivan was no longer holding Yao's hand, he could feel the warmth linger in his palm, fading and growing cold. He wanted it to last a bit longer, to hold Yao's trembling hand again, but Ivan was hesitant to do so. He could not break Yao any further, would not let himself ruin skin that was already covered in scars — and already there were so many. No, Ivan had already done enough damage.

'You're not drunk, are you? I can't smell any vodka, though…'

Ivan blinked, Yao having stood up from his chair to stand over him. Dark eyes bored into him, swallowing Ivan up and drowning him faster than he could gasp for air. Yao took hold of Ivan's face, delicate fingers scorching his skin and causing him to flinch. He was so incredibly close… unconsciously and unintentionally, surely Ivan would hurt him like this.

Yao seemed to understand this, his dark eyes flickering as if reading something in Ivan's own. His hand trailed down beneath Ivan's jaw, touching the brim of his scarf.

'Could you show me?' Yao asked, his voice softening. 'Your scar? I want to see it.'

'Which one?' Ivan said, almost able to taste Yao's breath. 'I have so many…'

Yao tugged at his scarf, fingers gripping the hem of it just as they had the night before. Tentative, as if treading on thin ice. Ivan wanted to respond, to tell him that it was okay —

(it's not)

— but the words had lumped themselves in his throat. He nodded, swallowing back down the lump in his throat.

Yao's other hand shifted down to his throat, loosening the scarf. Ivan could feel the air tease against his neck, could feel the flickering kitchen light glare at the hideous scar. This was not new; Ivan had already showed Yao this mark of his, let him see it in the daylight. And yet, there was something terrifying about opening himself up now, with Yao so close and his hands so warm.

Resisting the urge to cover up his throat, Ivan folded his hands in his lap, clammy palms squeezed together. The scarf slithered off him, falling into a bundle on top of his hands. Leaving him exposed, cut open to the world — it made the lump rise back up again from his stomach and into his throat, choking him. He felt warm fingers brush over the one side of his neck, trailing over to the other side where the ugly mark resided.

'How did this happen?' Yao asked, and it wasn't until Ivan heard his voice that he realized he had shut eyes closed. But even so, Ivan did not want to open them, did not want to see the reflection of his own scar in Yao's eyes. Hearing Yao, feeling him close by, that was enough for Ivan.

'I burnt myself,' Ivan croaked out, Yao's hand tensing on his throat. 'With a lighter.'

'Why?'

(tell him you don't know)

Ivan shook his head. 'I…'

(you don't have to answer that)

'I wanted to burn it away… the numbers.'

Yao's finger traced over his skin. 'Some of it's still…' His finger halted, voice hesitating.

'I know. Some of it's still there.'

There was a silence in the pitch black Ivan had chosen to cloak himself in, and not even Yao's breaths seemed to reach his ears. He furrowed his brows, hands fidgeting in his lap.

'But…' Ivan said, the sickening feeling in his stomach lurching up. 'That's not the only reason I burnt myself. At the asylum I was in, there was a man that would visit me every week. He was a police officer, but he was not there to protect anyone. He —'

('Don't make me cut your tongue out, you little shit.')

'I let him touch me.' Ivan felt the lump grow in his throat, an acidic taste pooling in his mouth. 'He touched me and made everything painful, made every part of me disgusting.'

('Scream, you piece of shit!')

'So I stabbed him until he bled to death.'

A choked sob was caught in Ivan's throat, no longer seeing black nothingness. No, it was his blood he was seeing. His blackened, rotten blood drowning him, streaming down Ivan's cheeks.

'Ivan…'

The fabric of a shirt pressed against Ivan's face, Yao's hands wrapped around him. A soft pulse, thudding by Ivan's ear, whispering to him. But Ivan could feel the black blood seep through into Yao, soaking his shirt. The heart still pulsed, but it was quickening in panic, in fear because there was a monster beside it. Yao would be poisoned by him, would get his hands stained in the hideous blood Ivan carried.

(Ochi chernye, I've already broken you… why won't you run?)

'Ivan, please…'

(I'm not Ivan. I'm not…)

'Don't cry.' Yao rested his cheek on the top of Ivan's head, stroking his hair. 'It wasn't your fault.'

Ivan shook his head against Yao's chest — of course it was his fault! He should have fought back, should have never let that man trap him in the first place. But he didn't. He let the man drag him by the arm to the same bloodstained tiles every week, let him ruin every part of Ivan with his callused and filthy hands. And now Ivan was a monster, too.

'I killed him…' Ivan muffled into Yao's shirt, squeezing his eyes shut though it didn't stop the image of the man's mangled body flashing before Ivan, the memory of a bloody mirror shard gleaming in his hand. 'I tore him up and left.'

'You did what you had to do. He deserved it.' Yao brushed his fingers through Ivan's hair, voice soft and low. 'I would have done it for you, too…'

Yao's hands lifted Ivan's face by the chin, sweeping over his cheeks to wipe away at tears. These warm hands, that tore open men's chests, that gouged their eyes, streaked their faces in blood — the very same hands that brushed like feathers over Ivan's skin. Ivan had seen beauty in Yao's cold expression when he held a bloody knife in his trembling hands, but this soft smile that Yao was wearing now… an old void in his chest seemed to be filled by it, the ache of it alleviated.

'You're melting…' Yao said, thumbs still brushing away at tears though they had all dried up. A chuckle bubbled up from Yao's throat. 'Ivan, you're melting away.'

'I'm not Ivan,' he croaked out, feeling the ink on the skin of his throat still crawl and sting. '22105… I'm still 221—'

Yao hushed him, fingers brushing over his lips with a clumsy sweep. 'You're Ivan.'

Yao leaned forward into Ivan's lap, folding one leg to rest on Ivan's knee for support. Ivan felt his stomach stir, the weight of Yao on him burning up his skin. Yao's fingertips brushed away the hair from Ivan's forehead, quivering in their trail.

'You're…' Yao trailed off, dark eyes wavering as their irises watched Ivan's lips. He cupped the side of Ivan's throat, warmth seeping into it as Yao's hand caressed. Yao shifted in Ivan's lap, sliding his arms to coil around Ivan's neck. His forehead, still glistening in a feverish sheen, pressed against Ivan's.

'I'm what?' Ivan said, voice uneven as he spoke. Not quite knowing what to do with his hands, he rested them on top of Yao's thigh, though they more so hovered uneasily than anything else.

'You're usually so cold.' A shaky chuckle escaped Yao's lips, his breath soft on Ivan. 'But I think we're both melting here…'

'If you have a fever, myshka,' Ivan swallowed, wanting to drink in the scent of Yao had it not been suffocating him. 'Then perhaps you…' Fabric rustled as Yao shifted in his lap again, stirring up the fluttery feeling deep in Ivan's stomach. Ivan's eyelids fell, Yao's arms slithering closed around Ivan. 'Perhaps you should —'

Warm lips pressed against his, seizing them mid-sentence. Fingers curled around the back of his head, pulling him in closer. Ivan's head felt as if it were spinning, the air thinning out in his lungs as their lips parted against each other. He tasted Yao's mouth, bittersweet on his tongue, and a scorching heat rushed through him like lightning. His hand clenched, fingers burning as they pressed into Yao's thigh.

Yao's breath shook, a small gasp caught in the kiss. He slipped in Ivan's lap and nearly fell over, crying out when his injured hand grasped onto Ivan's shoulder. Ivan helped him back up, hoisting him up closer in his lap.

'Careful, myshka,' Ivan said, feeling his chest heave along his ragged breaths. 'Your hand…'

'I'm fine,' Yao panted, though his left hand trembled on Ivan's shoulder. His face was flushed pink, locks of dark silky hair tumbling over his shoulders as he leaned forward to place pecked kisses along Ivan's jaw. His breath felt hot on Ivan's skin, incomprehensible words mumbled within it as Yao inhaled against Ivan's neck. Ivan held Yao's shoulder blades and pressed him closer, feeling his chest swell against Yao's.

(So warm…)

The kisses moved further down, trailing over Ivan's throat. Ivan swallowed hard, feeling blood pump loudly in his ears, through his veins with a scorching white heat. He shifted in his seat, pressure building beneath Yao's weight.

No longer in the kitchen, no longer seeing Yao in front of him, Ivan was found himself back in that dark shower room. He felt the cold tiles against his back, the coppery water dripping on him from above as a rough hand grabbed his throat. Another hand delved between Ivan's shivering legs.

('You see? You like it too, you piece of shit. So shut the fuck up and stop crying.')

Ivan whimpered, feeling so small, so helpless and pathetic as his body shook and convulsed.

(I'm a horrible, horrible child —)

'Ivan?' A hand cupped the side of his face, Yao's lips stopping still on Ivan's throat. Yao pulled back to look at him. 'What's wrong?'

'N-Nothing…' Ivan shook his head, a small smile stretching across his lips. But the smile would not stay, trembling at the corners as it wavered. 'I'm fine, myshka.'

Yao's brows creased further, running his thumb across Ivan's cheek. 'You don't have to say that.'

(Ochi chern —)

Ivan felt a lump lodge itself in his throat, unable to speak these words. He wanted this, wanted Yao's touches and kisses more than anything else. But that man still held onto him, still touched his skin with hideous hands so that no one else could.

The soft fabric of a scarf tumbled loosely around his throat, Yao's hands adjusting it at the collar. He pulled at the scarf ends until the fabric slithered closed around Ivan's neck. Ivan looked up at Yao, finding his smile bright, though his eyes were glazed over and watery.

'You're safe now.' Yao glanced up. 'You don't have to be scared anymore.'

'Yao…'

'I —' Yao looked to Ivan's throat, hesitation laced in his voice. 'You've told me so much about you… even the things that were painful. And all I've done —' Yao pursed his lips, distress written in his eyes.

Ivan furrowed his brows. 'What is it?'

Yao shook his head. 'It's nothing.' He slid his hands to wrap around Ivan's waist, pressing his head to Ivan's chest before mumbling. 'I just want to hear it for a bit…'

Ivan watched Yao's head rise and fall alongside his own chest, dark hair tousled and tangled around Yao's pale face. Breaths slowed and deepened, whispering into the fabric of Ivan's coat as Yao leaned closer.

Ivan closed his eyes, feeling Yao melt into him. He dreaded nightmares, visions of the moon and the bloodstained tiles illuminated beneath it, but he also hoped for sunlit dreams, of Yao and his warm hands.

Bitterly and sweetly, Ivan sighed — not knowing whether his heart was wanting to burst from love or fear.