This is about the time where I put the note in, that this will probably be the fluffiest, most dorkish-ly cute VF fan fiction I will ever write, slow build style. I am excite XD
Wishing my beta Tarantasik the best with her university exams, this chapter is not edited since her study is more important.
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A light wind rinsed through his hair as Mikhail stood on the sidewalk, frozen in place as he stared back at himself. The sun peeked through the clouds as the world passed overhead, and he saw his drawn expression change as sunlight bathed the white napkin.
He didn't have time to comprehend his sunlight expression because the sun made its departure as quickly as it'd come behind a wispy cloud, he saw his illustrated self change again, and he was left feeling transparent as the corner of the canvas napkin fluttered against his palm.
His eyes that looked back at him which were glimmering silvery orbs seconds ago, were now slate and serious, more like the man everyone thought he was, the man he had to act like in order to be who he was.
That's not what Mikhail saw though, he saw the shadows on his neck darken, and his shoulders take on a tint of solitude as the portrait lost its glow, an accurate shade of his state of mind.
It almost felt as if this person knew him, knew Mikhail Arbatov, not the leader of the Russian mafia.
He couldn't have though, because if it were his true image, this napkin would be darkened as cinereous as his personality, but the strong chisel of his jaw, the contour of his lip that looked drawn with surprising softness, and the sharp cheekbones that emphasized his well meaning expression despite the iron gaze, told him that the person that drew this didn't see him that way at all.
The sun danced through the clouds once more, and he saw his likeness in a new light, in the sun he looked…. He didn't even know.
The person that drew this clearly had no fucking idea who he was, because in this tiny napkin drawing; despite that moment of cloud induced darkness, he looked heroic, with an air of grandeur that lifted the hue of his broad shoulders and raised chin, he looked respectable and trust worthy, friendly with eyes that burnished and lips that smirked.
All those things Mikhail Arbatov was definitely not.
It was an interesting way to see himself, and he didn't mind the image at all.
This is what he looked like to someone who didn't know how much wealth he had, how many clubs he owned, how many cars were parked at his residence, or about how many people he wanted to kill and how many people wanted to kill him in turn.
The one thing that this person did know though, was that they found Mikhail attractive, you didn't draw a work of art such as this if you didn't find the subject appealing.
Well then, his little detour had been well worth it for the napkin in his hand.
Folding the napkin carefully; he let out a chuckle as he pocketed it in the inside of his leather jacket, and finally looked up to the artist in question.
Two hands with an ink crimson chrysanthemums on each were plastered across the strangers face in embarrassment, and as he stepped closer and took the seat on the other side of the blonde's table with an obnoxious scrape of chair legs, Mikhail noticed the silvery scars of someone who'd been in one too many fists fights distinguishing his knuckles.
Tattoos bordering on suspicious, fighting scars, and a tenancy to draw men he found attractive on napkins and then be ashamed of said drawing despite the clear talent illuminated by it, what an odd fucking person.
Mikhail liked odd.
He couldn't resist, his appointments could wait for the day. Sorry, Yuri. Not!
"So" he rumbled intentionally deep, his accent thick, "don't you think it's rude to draw someone without their permission, hm?"
A weary groan came out muffled from underneath those ink-adorned hands that had yet to reveal a face, another small gust ruffled that sleep skewed hair and a car whooshed past the coffee shop in a hiss of sound. The slight figure took a breath and released it, before the colorful arms holding up those hands finally lowered the tattooed wall covering bed head's face.
Oh, woah! This guy. No wonder Viktor was staring at him.
Intense hazel eyes full of fire met his, unflinching and willful despite the apologetic tone of his gaze. Not even his silver bangs tumbling in front of those lenses could diminish the passion that lurked beneath his mortification.
A nose that looked surprisingly like it hadn't been broken before, and high cheekbones accentuated his Japanese heritage, his skin was flawless and pale, all the way down to his narrow jaw and soft chin.
Well, it would have been flawless and pale if it weren't for the blush dusting his cheeks. Not an artist on the planet could capture that adorable shade of pink marking his rosy expression.
Seriously, tattoos, scars and defiant eyes, yet this guy was blushing.
Holy shit, it was too fucking cute.
A nervous laugh erupted, and a shy hand pulled that blonde hair back away from his eyes, Mikhail drunk in the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, making the Koi fish on his forearm flex as if it were swimming.
"Haha, it wouldn't have been rude if I didn't get caught though, sorry to bother you." at the last, he dipped his head in apology.
Cheeky, yet honest as well. He really was an intriguing one.
"Where are you going?" the mafia leader asked quizzically as the lithe frame made to get up with his satchel from under the table. This guy obviously thought Mikhail was banging, but here he was trying to take off without even so much as talking to him. Who fucking does that?
The smaller blonde froze half way up from his seat, looking sheepish "Ummm…" there was that blush again. This guy was even easier than Viktor.
Mikhail let out another chuckle of his own as a fan-fucking-tastic idea blossomed, Yuri was going to be pissed. Mikhail he didn't care, he wasn't going to let this much fun escape that easy, especially since this was the person who drew him in a way that spoke of fascination and admiration, he wouldn't mind being looked at like that more often.
"Sorry isn't good enough, so how about I show you around Piter for the day and you can make it up to me that way, mm?" He cocked his head as it rested in his hand, and watched the play of emotions over the young man's face.
So fucking cute.
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Akihito stood dumbstruck, was this guy fucking serious?
He looked busy, and important, of course he wasn't serious, because he was looking at Akihito with a smirk on his lip and a glean in his eye that screamed mockery.
Who'd want to show a guy like him around, who'd just creepily drawn the dudes face on a fucking café napkin? He looked sleep depraved and impoverished compared to Mr Russia, he wouldn't even want to be seen with Akihito, of course he was fucking messing with him.
Akihito seriously just wanted to run back to the hotel as fast as he could and wallow in his shame for the next century, but fuck that shit, he still had his pride, as much pride as you could have in front of a man like Mr Russia anyway.
"Um, thanks for the offer, but I left some things back at the hotel which I need." His reply was steady and polite, take that!
"Haha, that's okay!" The man laughed, and holy shit it was so charming, Akihito was so fucking doomed. He always thought he liked women more than men, but nope. Not anymore. He was so hopeless when it came to relationships, but he was even more hopeless when it came to trying not to seem like an awkward dork in front of this seriously hot guy.
"We'll go and pick them up." The man stood and towered over him with a twinkle in his grey eyes and a smile on his lips, and Akihito couldn't protest any further.
The other man that'd been watching the entire exchange just looked exasperated as Mr Russia beckoned Akihito towards the Hummer, and said something to him in rough Russian, after that Mr Russia's friend just walked off down the street with a phone at his ear and not even a second glance.
Fuck, this guy was actually serious.
"What's your name?" came the question as the Hummer pulled away from the curb, yes, he was in the fucking car with this guy, but too afraid to put his hands anywhere in case he dirtied the interior or broke something which he couldn't pay for, so they were resting in his lap.
"Takaba Akihito, - Ah, it's that one just there." He pointed the building out that he was staying in, since he had no idea how to read, let alone say its name for the man to know which one it was.
"Hmmm, Takaba Akihito." The man rolled the syllables around on his tongue as they entered the building, "Your first name is Akihito, yes? Can I call you that?"
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The blonde, whose name was Takaba Akihito, gave a self-conscious shrug at his question, his earlier embarrassment over the sketch dissipating somewhat, "If you want to…. Um, so what's your name then?" came the tentative question.
"Just call me Mikhail." He left out his last name, the name that was connected with his family's political ties and with him, that would only destroy the image of the Mikhail on the napkin.
He laughed outright as Akihito tested the sound of his name on his tongue, sounding unsure, and the blonde just huffed at him with a pout on his lips and a blush on his cheeks when Mikhail tried helping him with the pronunciation in the elevator up to his room. What a stubborn, cute little punk.
This was a good fucking detour alright.
The mafia leader was forced to stand outside the hallway and wait as Akihito quickly dashed into his room, practically slamming the wooden door with the gold numbers '25' in his face with an awkward utterance of; 'I won't be long'. He was like a kid who had a messy room that he didn't want his crush to see. This tattooed little fucker was so adorable, he wanted to push his buttons all damn day. He decided he would do just that. Nothing like a bit of blushing entertainment on an impromptu day off!
Soon enough, Akihito grabbed a sketchbook and camera and they were back in the elevator, Mikhail leaned in intentionally close as he pushed the button for the ground floor before Akihito could.
The moment seemed to slow, and Mikhail was tempted to push the emergency stop button actually, to see what the blonde's reaction would be then, but instead his index finger zoomed in on the silver, circular button and brushed away Akihito's hand in the process. Of course, he made the way he stood at his shoulder, with his warm breath on Akihito's neck and one hand on the small of his back seem like a complete accident. Of course he made the way he boxed Akihito into the corner of the sterile lift and stand there a little longer than protocol dictates seem pure fucking coincidence.
Mikhail celebrated internally as he heard the artist's breath stutter, and he smirked down at Akihito as he stepped back without a word, watching the blonde trying to regain his composure. Oh yes, this one was absolutely bloody hopeless around him. So fun.
A few silent minutes later they were in Mikhail's Hummer, driving around the streets of St Petersburg.
First, he took him to the square in front of St Isaac's cathedral, the drive quiet as Akihito simply stared out the window with eyes that drunk in all the images of a city foreign to his. The blushing Japanese was left in the elevator, and Mikhail saw hazel fire burnish in those eyes as a confident artist took over.
He watched Akihito start fidgeting with his tattooed hands, clenching his scarred fists, and then mimic the action of holding a pen, or stroking a brush, charming miniscule movements that the blonde probably wasn't even aware he was doing as he day dreamed out the car window.
It was so fucking endearing; Mikhail wanted to know if that's what Akihito was like when he was sketching on the napkin outside the coffee shop. He could watch this creature all damn day.
Mikhail thought Akihito would want to go into the Cathedral, the interior of the building was renowned for its architecture, with its biblical paintings on the roofs especially the scene in the central dome, stain glass windows that cast colored light on the mosaic floors, marble pillars and gilded plasterwork that formed ornate scrollwork covering 99% of the walls and framed all the images of Christianity.
He'd been there often, more times than he could count, he expected to go in again, but Akihito simply stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the green in front of the massive Cathedral, plopped himself down on the grass with an achieved exhalation, laid back and stared at the sky in a complete world of his own.
"I fucking did it. I'm here." The Japanese mumbled. His eyes looked distant, they took on a glimmer of reminiscence with traces of nostalgia as he recalled whatever brought him up to this point.
As brash as Mikhail was, he sensed this wasn't really the time to intrude on Akihito's musings, something about the way he lay there with his arms spread wide, resting in the soft green grass that contrasted against the color on his arms was alarmingly beautiful. Hazel eyes mirrored the clouded sky's reflection, and the colors changed when clouds cleared overhead. He went from dark to light, just like that image on the napkin, he got that feeling again that perhaps Akihito had seen right through him, and that maybe they were similar in some ways, or maybe Mikhail really was just that translucent to this person, to this complete fucking stranger who had no idea who he was. This day really was turning out many unexpected things.
The wind sighed and ruffled blades of grass against Akihito's skin, the blonde shut his eyes at that, serenity gracing his face, "The grass. It's just as soft as I thought it would be."
He sensed that this was probably a significant moment in the young man's life; it might have been one for Mikhail too, but the moment passed when he went off to the nearby coffee stand to leave the man named Akihito in peace for a few moments. He had all day to tease him, after all, and moments like this with someone who knew not what he was, someone who that morning Mikhail never knew existed, weren't so bad either.