Author's note: Sooo, I went on holiday for like a month (to Japan and woo do I have some stories to tell and new ideas oh no), and forgot where I was at with all my shit pretty much, my bad. This is a story I never wanted to fall behind on, either. It's my child.

Gonna start moving it along a bit from here. Thanks for your patience, all, welcome to the new subscribers that followed while I was away, it means a lot to me that people follow this story.

Now Akihito was nervous.

They were sitting on a couch in this lavish room with a private bar, the ceiling lights were out, and the only thing that lit the room was the golden dome lights that dotted along the walls, the one at the furthest end of the long room ticked unceremoniously, and it only served to wind him up further.

He'd just given Mikhail the ring back, and it sat in the Russian's out stretched palm, glinting richly in the dim luminance.

"Guess what it says." And it was almost a whisper, but still so loud in the otherwise quiet room. It was way too tense, Misha sat there a king in his throne room, he'd put that cold look back on his face as if to forewarn Akihito a blizzard was coming any moment now, and he just might start fucking shaking from that Siberian cold.

Sarcasm was always something good to resort to when he couldn't take it though; he needed anything to break up the lump in his throat. He'd feel much more comfortable swinging fists in a fight, or taunting a bunch of yakuza to come and chase him, anything compared to this. Akihito could take confrontation of most kinds, but this kind where something was actually expected of him, some sort of fucking reciprocal effort in maintaining the situation was not the sort he dealt in. Like a damn kid sat down in the principal's office trying to talk reason with you.

He expelled a nervous, shaky breath. "Umm, one ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them?" and quoting Lord of The Rings was really just icing on the cake, his edgy half assed laugh at the end was just plain pathetic, however.

But it fucking worked, Mikhail's face cracked his brilliant, blinding smile and he barked his own laugh and flopped back against the couch with his hand on his stomach. "You…. Dumbass. Oho, it's fucking scary, because it's actually not that far off what it means. I'll give you all the points for creativity though."

"Wait, what?" he shot back at the same speed his brain rang alarm bells, how the fuck could a ring mean that? He looked back down at it, that was definitely Russian on the outside, not Elvish, he wasn't in Mordor or the Shire, he was in fucking St Petersburg.

"Hmm. Want one more guess?" Mikhail teased, and he was just so glad the situation wasn't so damn awkward now.

But Akihito was too anxious to ask anymore at this point, it'd be much better if Mikhail would just rip the band aid clean off and get it over and done with. "Aha, naaah, I think you should just tell me." The Russian was relaxed in his domain, but he sure as hell wasn't, Akihito was still perched on the edge of the couch, his knees bouncing and his hands clenching because there was nothing much to hold onto. He wished he brought pencil or something, anything to fiddle with, even in this light he couldn't trace the lines of the flowers on his hands, couldn't find comfort in the warming crimson of his country or the strength of his dragon or serenity of his koi fish. The tattoos that brought him so much trouble, but so much comfort at the same time weren't visible, and he felt alone in the shadow cast room without them.

The Russian went back to being that cold person once more, serious and unsmiling, so much so it made his stomach drop. He was definitely a secret murderer or something like he'd irrationally thought in the Hummer on the way to their sky dive. Definitely.

"It says; 'We Always Collect.'…." the words hung in the air as Mikhail trailed off, looking at him expectantly for a reaction. He wished they were holding hands now of all times, because he could really go for one of those reassuring hand squishes whether he was embarrassed about sweaty palms or not.

Akihito felt like he knew what they meant. The underlying threat in that motto was there, it rolled off Mikhail's tongue with pride and surety, something tattooed on his fucking soul and it showed.

He'd heard similar things back home from crime groups, because they were pretty hardcore when it came to their real estate dealings and collecting payment on time. Akihito was an artist for fuck's sake; of course he could connect the damn dots!

"So… you're like, this henchman for the local crime group or something?" he ignored what he was actually asking and just spoke the words one after another like some sort of school recital.

The Russian shifted in his seat, resting the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other in casual poise. "Henchman? Ha, no Akihito, I'm something much worse than that. It goes back to that little quote you just gave me… Akihito, look at me." there came a light touch on his shoulder to pull his attention around, Mikhail was staring right at him, the light caught his eyes from the wall beside them, but the warmth there was much brighter and more real than what just a reflection could manage. "Cos what I am gonna tell you now will be everything you need to know and then some."

Mikhail's gaze ceased him, froze him in place and wouldn't let him look anywhere but at him.

"Akihito, I am the only one with this ring." Mikhail started as he tipped his hand up, and slid the ring back down on his finger in slow, deliberate movements, and Akihito had to admit, Mikhail's hand looked odd without that thick gold band on his index finger.

"This ring, it means I'm the leader of the Bratva here in Russia, and all the branches in Europe."

The sentence resounded throughout the room, bouncing in his ear drums and skewing his thoughts as the meaning of that ring hit home, as Akihito buried his hands in his wind swept hair and grimaced at the floor because irony must have been his best fucking friend, and it loved to follow him everywhere.

Mikhail liked to joke, liked to wind him up with silly things and then make fun of him for it, but now was not one of those times. It all rang true, the mens' reactions to him, Mikhail's reaction to them, how Mikhail could change at the flick of a switch, the darkness that Akihito knew lurked deep within those grey eyes.

Was there really no fucking escape for him? All he could do was laugh sardonically at the floor, because what a fucking joke. Was this not what his studies were for, his art, all his hard work, the running and staying out of trouble, it was to escape the crooked life he was brought up with and here was with the leader of an internationally renown organized crime syndicate.

The taste it left in his mouth definitely wasn't a good one, sour with mockery and dry with spite, he swallowed it back and let out a fed up with this shit breath. "Haha, holy shit." Was all he could muster, it sounded tired even to his own ears. "Didn't see that one coming." And he was still shaking, bouncing his knees up and down in order to cope, because fucking Russian mafia. Akihito knew a thing or two, you heard rumors even in Japan; ruthless with influence in every corner of the continent, cruel and not to be trifled with, and he'd gone and trifled with the biggest one of all.

He'd smiled at his text messages, jacked off over him in the shower, kissed him and been on genuine fucking dates with this person, done the most normal things a couple could do, and yet… And yet there was no fucking doubt in the back of his head the entire time about something sinister underneath, but who thought it would fucking be this?!

Oh, this made his history as a simple brawler seem peachy clean. Mikhail had told him to his face that he was a bad person, not to be trusted, and Akihito didn't doubt that for one fucking second anymore. The stupid light at the end of the room ticked on and off with the spiraling cadence of his thoughts, while beside him; the Russian remained unemotionally cool.

Those hooded grey eyes the color of Russia observed his every nuance, they took in his bouncing knees and the clenched hands in his hair like he was evaluating him; until Mikhail leaned forward with a pensive sigh of his own to close some of the increasing distance between them "Do you trust me, Akihito?"

There was a tone in that voice that Akihito never thought he'd hear, not from someone so bold and confident, someone who had the world in the palm of their hand. Unease. It turned his head faster than that fucking ticking light, and as his world stopped spinning and came into focus it was easy to see the real trepidation glinting in Mikhail's gaze and oh… Was Misha actually worried about what he'd say?

Dammit. This was stupid; this entire thing going on in his head, Akihito decided. He was a fucking man! Life had thrown him more shit than this, time and again. He could take one on the chin for now, could white out this turbulent mess in his head until its thick, staining ink resurfaced.

He fucking hated running, but sometimes, running and ignoring things was so much less effort than turning around and facing the answering the question. Procrastination at its finest. He'd figure it all out later.

"Fuck it." He muttered to himself moments before he shut his eyes to block out the light, block out thought; and threw himself into Mikhail's lap instead. Where their lips connected was hot, the heat grew until that icy apprehension melted, and set him on fire in its place.

That split second of his control was incinerated in an instant like he hadn't just poured petrol on the flame, the older blonde's entire body stiffened in limbo of self restraint until it all ignited and Akihito was pushed back onto the couch. Which was fine, because if he had no control he didn't need to think about it.

All he needed to focus on was the rough hands snaking up under his clothes and lightly scratching at his skin with their callouses, the mouth on his collarbone and the firm body between his legs weighing down on him. Hot breath tickled up his neck in kisses and nibbles, until it stopped at his ear to send shivers down his spine with its tingling heat.

"Does that mean you want to come back to my apartment, then? Because if we start here, I'm not stopping. " It was low and husky, and not even really worded as a question. It was more like a damn revelation. It was enough to have him shivering for a second time, because this is the sort of person Mikhail really was; yet he knew enough to ask what Akihito preferred.

"Yeah, let's go."

In the dark St Petersburg night, the city lights streaked passed as Mikhail drove the Hummer the short way back to his canal side penthouse. It seemed the city could sense his mood, his urgency and raw impatience, which was fucking lucky for them because there was minimal traffic for such a big city, and the lights were always green.

Good. This was exactly how it should be right now.

Jesus, he'd finally figured out why he'd been so damn nervous. Granted the Japanese's reaction had been… a tad odd, but Akihito was odd anyway. That wasn't the cause for the foreign emotion of confliction that had possessed him on that couch in his club.

Oh no. If Akihito had walked away; Mikhail didn't know what he'd have done then. And a man used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted; didn't let things he wanted slip away whether the thing in question wanted it or not. That was the root of it all.

Mikhail didn't even want to think about what he might have done, because even though he might have let it go, the other possibilities weren't the prettiest, and he could never show Akihito a picture so ugly.

So he'd cut through it in that room to ask himself more than anything about trust.

And even then Akihito's reaction had been something unexpected, but Mikhail couldn't blame him with such a big bomb being dropped on him. Akihito had avoided it all and launched himself into Mikhail's lap as if seeking comfort.

The Russian could definitely accept that for now, it was all out in the open, and time would eventually give Akihito an answer, and before that time came he'd engrave himself so much into Akihito's existence that there would be only one option and Mikhail wouldn't be forced to even contemplate those other possibilities.

Even though relationships weren't his forte, he knew enough that this was probably a stupid thing to do and fuck his old lady would kick his ass. But it didn't matter, he'd never had so much fun with a person as what he'd had in the week just gone.

Talking about stupid things like favorite foods, or sending good morning texts with kisses on the end, dinner dates on rooftops and sky diving make out sessions. It was all sappy bullshit that came right out of a romance novel. It all probably would have been boring as hell with anyone else, but with Akihito who could swear like a sailor and actually sass back to him, treat him like a person and not like a boss who could put a bullet through your head at any second; it'd been enlivening.

This person was a necessity; there it was he said it. And he would make himself a necessity to this person also, and fuck was he excited for that part.

So just like any typical dating movie trope; the next step was to take them home to bed for that mind-blowing fuck that both sides had been waiting for. You know, the one where apparently they connected on another level or whatever. Mikhail didn't think such a thing actually happened between two people, maybe because even in bed he was the sort of person who liked to make it clear who was in control, liked to wreck a person with overwhelming pleasure so they were forced to unravel and reveal who they really were, what they really wanted from him. Because yeah, while they might be faking at the start to please him and worm their way in, but in the end they were always screaming for real only to be shown the way out once it was all over.

This excitement was definitely different though, now he was excited because he finally got to see that damn body again that he'd glimpsed when Akihito opened his hotel room door in those adorable camo briefs. Now he could look at and touch those scars he'd wanted to explore ever since laying eyes on them. He could get to know Akihito's flesh, those tattoos, the lines of his skin and his weak spots, what got him going, and what made him gasp and clutch at the sheets.

Knowledge was power, and the more he knew about Akihito and his body the better.

The thrill of having someone like Akihito; who started off shy and coy only to turn open and fiery as they grew comfortable in his bed, because he'd never actually taken someone to his real apartment before, was entirely new, and he had a feeling that his body was going to be exactly the same.

Akihito wasn't the sort of person to fake anything, he didn't want anything from him apart him the company, so no, Mikhail wasn't going to wreck him to make him unravel and lose himself for something so simple as control; he was going to wreck him because he wanted to, because it would only draw Akihito further in, which was exactly where he wanted him.

With Akihito he could be himself, mostly anyway, and that's who he, Mikhail Arbatov, really was.