This was bad.
Akihito could admit now, he was genuinely fucking curious about everything to do with Mikhail. Though it's not that he wasn't before. Mikhail had been this man of hot ass mystery with an air of wilderness and refinement at the same time that he'd never seen in Japan, and even though he knew what he did for a living now, Akihito still thought exactly the same thing, albeit for different reasons.
He'd started mulling it over more often, this constant image in the back of his brain that he couldn't quite make out through this grey haze. Mikhail was the head honcho of the Russian Bratva, he knew that much, but now he wanted to know more. Maybe it was the fact that Akihito could actually comprehend that Mikhail and his family were decent, well intentioned people, even if their life wasn't the most moral or even normal, even if he was dangerous and ruthless, because he'd done a Google search on Mikhail's name and it turned out no one ever fucked with Mikhail or his group.
It was a bit mental, the sense of pride he got in knowing that last fact, the fact that Mikhail was so fucking accomplished and acknowledged, and that he knew someone like that, that he could make someone like that groan his name with just his hands and bring out surprise on his face with unexpected kisses down quiet hallways and dark parking lots.
Despite that; there was still this uncertainty at the fact that someone of Mikhail's caliber might really be into him, and now it was paired with a million questions in his head because it was like the more he found out; the less he really knew. When something was too good to be true, it usually was. There was something he was missing, and he was thinking so fucking hard about it that it was probably obvious, yet he'd never pick up on it; he wasn't the sharpest pencil when it came to this shit.
Curiosity started the first unforgettable morning after their messing around in bed, when Mikhail openly strapped on a gun holster in front of him before he put on his aged leather jacket. Hooded grey eyes looked down at him the entire time, dark and foreboding in all their boss as fuck glory, the goose bumps weren't fear though, they were because the only thing he could think of was how hot Mikhail was as he set his gun in its cradle like completing the picture of who Mikhail Arbatov actually was – and that… might have been the moment it became this full blown infatuation that he was currently wallowing in.
So now he wanted to know every side of Mikhail, because he realized others knew so many things he didn't, and that was extremely fucking frustrating on the most childish, spoilt of levels and now he knew exactly what Misha meant about turning someone inside out. What was he like when he was angry, in fact, what made him angry? Akihito had seen enough angry, murderous and disgruntled gangsters and yakuza in his time to understand that some of the things Mikhail must get up to would be down right horrifying, he'd seen it all first hand as a kid when they'd bowl down his front door seeking his mom for medical help.
It's not like he was new to the shady world, he had acquaintances and memories a fucking plenty on that side of life, it's just that he was new to having a choice about it, so if he was gonna make this choice, then it was time to man up and see what he might be in for.
If these emotions kept on doing their own thing, then staying with Mikhail until they'd run their course was a very real thing and it was time to buck up and accept that – what it meant for his travel plans he couldn't say, but he'd see the world and nothing could put a stop to that, because he'd only had a taste of Russia and France, and wanderlust was rampant for him right now too, it'd just have to compromise with this growing affection for someone he should probably – most definitely - stay away from.
He'd offered to meet up with Mikhail at the place of his last meeting, and that meant stepping foot back into a place he thought he never wanted to go anymore.
Maybe it would be different from home after all, because Mikhail was different from home. Maybe Mikhail was home. Who fucking knew, being around him and his family was probably what an actual home should feel like. But when you have nothing to compare it to, how are you meant to know?
He tried not to think about it, thinking only made things fucking complicated, so he thought about the three days just passed as he sat himself down in one of the numerous parks surrounding the Eifel Tower. He set his sketchbook out for the day, along with a brown paper bag ripe with discolored patches where fatty goodness soaked the paper because of fresh chocolate pastries inside. He'd spent all this time building up this momentous inspiration and it was finally time to let it all out.
Except he did think about it. All fucking day he thought about it. And when he thought about things; he stressed and put himself on edge.
The first charcoal sketch he did was of that all too familiar imposing silhouette leaning against a stone railing and looking out at a St Petersburg sky; the first morning he woke up in Misha's apartment. Silver Lining, he scrawled at the bottom, naming it came instantly, even though he tried not to think about what it might actually mean to him.
Fuck, he was probably too far-gone already; he'd better keep himself in check, because nothing could scare someone away like a clingy, nosey lover that he was fast becoming. After all; nothing was more terrifying than liking someone more than they liked you.
The day was almost done by the time his phone went off on the grass next the mess of strained paper and coffee cups beside him, flashing with a shrill alert to go with it; he snatched it from the lush grass to silence the interruption of his hard won peace only to find a text message from Misha on his screen.
From: Misha
Meeting has been brought forward so I'm headin' into it now, come and wait for me still, your name is on the list as Akihito Arbatov so you can come right in, (not sure if you wanted your real name out there) but I think it sounds better this way, no? :P see you soon 3
Well double-fuck-with-French-fucking-chocolate on top, if that didn't make his heart skip a beat then he didn't know what would. He didn't even care anymore, now he just had his niggling feeling in his gut, this out of place urge that just wanted to see that suave bastard right this instant, and he knew what that feeling was; it'd not even been 24 hours and he already missed being in Mikhail's company.
The smile tugging the corner of his lip was real. "Oi, isn't that taking it a bit to far?" he muttered as he tried to palm away the blush on his cheek.
The soft yellow glow of Paris street lights served to guide him back to the hotel to drop his things off and get changed, the cobblestone streets of some of the old neighborhoods were just as picturesque and peace instilling as what he'd thought they'd be, couples and groups of friends started appearing in numbers to have their fun for the night, chattering away innocently without a care evident on their faces.
He needed to sort this out, soon, he could only be thankful that Mikhail wasn't pushing for anymore than what he'd given, even though he could full well fucking take it all if he wanted.
Relationships were hard.
Finally with things dropped off and his clothes swapped for his trusty black skinny jeans, leather chuck taylors and plain white T, he was about as smartly dressed as he was ever gonna get to go somewhere no matter how flash it was, cos the thing was he didn't give a shit about what anyone thought except Mikhail, and Mikhail wore the same sort of things as him – just in a larger size… with a gun holster strapped under his jacket.
Mikhail though, he made jeans and a T-shirt look like the cliché million bucks, like he'd always stepped fresh out of a damn fashion magazine except he was way hotter than that, seriously, not even Photoshop could edit something as eye catching as Mikhail.
Oh well, Akihito was armed with his tattoos and resting bitch face as he went back out and caught a taxi to the club called 'Dawn' in the night life district.
He should have bloody known though, that when the driver dropped him off in front of the club down the busiest damn street, that the line at this club would be the longest of all the fucking lines, just like the one at Mikhail's club that he'd been to.
Bass music set the beat down the street, the people were loud here, obnoxious and already full up on a bit of liquid courage. Not that he cared. There were the girls with too high heels and too short dresses, men out on the pull for some chicks with a group of mates, and people that couldn't fucking keep their hands off each other even though the night was still young. Akihito couldn't relate to any of them. Clearly they couldn't relate to him either, because as he walked up the few steps needed to get to the doorman, the exclamations came in both English and French for him to get to the back of the line. No one would think his name would be on the list after all, he was underdressed and unaccompanied and Akihito gave no shits at all.
"Think you've got the wrong club, hey!" came the remark in English before his shoulder was gripped from behind, right in front of the fucking doorman.
By now the sky was navy overhead and it'd been almost an hour since Mikhail text him, it wouldn't be long until he was done and like fuck if he was going to let some chump stall him now. He turned to see the culprit; a dark haired dude probably the same age as him with slicked back hair and a button up shirt that showed off the horrid fake tan on his chest. Ugh. He looked like one of those guys from Geordie Shore.
"Na." Akihito remarked dryly as he removed the hand from his shoulder, "I've got the right one." Usually that would have been enough to rile him, but something like that was nothing to him now, so it was easy to turn his back on the gaudy guy with the tan and face the front once more.
"Ah, your name, monsieur?" the doorman piped up, the list in his hand and a bouncer at his side to diffuse any tension, he saw another lurking further back that he recognized too, Yuri or whatever his name was that came with them from St Petersburg. He met the cold blue eyes with a nod, feeling like this was some sort of test, cos yeah, by saying his name as it was on that sheet was openly claiming his place at Mikhail's side, and maybe he didn't have the balls for that. That Russian could play some mean tricks.
Better to get it over and done with though, the longer he hesitated the worse he'd look, or the closer he'd get to punching Geordie Shore guy in the face for staining his shirt with fake tan still on his fingers.
With hands in his pockets and a sigh from his chest, "Akihito Arbatov." He managed coolly, and fuck yeah his pronunciation was on the money thanks to Mikhail and their name games in bed at breakfast and at night, they'd roll around in the sheets saying each others name until they both had it perfect, repeating after each other and teaching each other words from their native tongue to go with it. The way Arbatov rolled off his tongue after his given name was a little too smooth, and he liked the way it sounded a little too much.
It must have come across that way too, his suave drawl with a tiny speck of pride and arrogance at shutting the bastards up behind him, and this was what it was like to stand at the top of the heap and not the bottom, and Akihito could admit that it felt fucking good for once.
"… Holy shit, that guy would have fucked you up, man." Akihito caught the whisper as he stepped through the cordon, and of course he couldn't resist turning around at the door and giving the guy that stopped him a middle finger salute with a smirk on his face. The scars on his knuckles gleamed in the streetlight, the crimson on his hand loud and clear with intent, and this was good, this was what having control felt like.
"Let's go, Mikhail will be done shortly, you can wait for him at the bar upstairs before you make any more trouble." Yuri closed the distance between them, and Akihito fought not to cringe, because if anyone reminded him of his dad it was that guy, cold, calculating and impassive.
The instinctual urge to snark was natural, to find something smart to say and turn it around because fuck it, he still wasn't nearly that grown up, and he still fucking hated being talked to like that. "I don't make trouble, trouble makes me." It was funny, because years ago that statement was more accurate than anything else to describe him, he probably couldn't have drawn something more accurate than that. He didn't know how he'd draw himself now, though.
He was expecting a scolding, cos that's what his old man would have done, maybe a smack on the back of the head or a flat toned 'grow up', instead he got a chuckle that touched Yuri's eyes and dimpled his cheeks, a flashing sparkle of his demeanor that took Akihito's world and turned it upside down and back again in the space of that sound.
"Spoken like a true Russian." Yuri dipped his head in acknowledgement, of what; Akihito had no fucking clue, but then it was fine. That impassive demeanor came back, but after that laugh any similarities to his own father Yuri had were gone. So, Yuri led him up a shadowed hall off the entrance and up a carpeted stairway, black walls and black threads at his feet, the muffled thump of music followed him up the steps along with split second flashes of strobe lights and colored rays. The further he went up the stairs the more class oozed from the establishment, until they arrived at the second story bar not jam packed with young party goers heaving on the dance floor, but of men drinking at the bar and playing pool in the corner, of groups sitting at a table having a laugh and sticking to themselves.
There was the odd person on alert, the men at the back of the room in black suits with rings that gleamed under the dim wall lights that looked him up and down and tracked him all the way to the bar, the pair on the pool table with expensive wrist watches that stopped to do the same, that feeling of being weighed and measured crawled up his spine. That familiar feeling when people were gauging him as a threat or not, suddenly the smell of trouble mixed in with the cigarette smoke and hoppy tang of beer.
"Woah, I'm popular already." Akihito deadpanned to himself as Yuri called for their drinks, and then turned to glare at the room. Those guys were gangsters, no fucking question about it, probably part of the group Mikhail was here to meet. He wasn't dense enough that he couldn't figure that out.
Yuri grunted next to him, scanning the room as he did so, "They know you're Mikhail's plus one, everyone is curious."
"Ha!" Akihito's barked laugh came up with all the sardonic irony he felt at that statement, they could fucking get in line, no one was more curious than him; about Mikhail that was. "They can curious my ass." He muttered before he took a sip of vodka that'd just landed at the bar in front of him, so Yuri wanted him to drink Russian too, it was lucky the expensive vodka went down like smooth fire, better than the sandpaper hot memories of cheap vodka from clubs back home.
This was okay, he could be here, Akihito realized, and not compromise everything he'd worked for. He didn't know why, he'd wound himself up so fucking tight in the space of a day, but now he was here he felt his tension draining, this was okay.
Okay after a few quiet drinks and small talk with Yuri about sweet fuck all, okay until the men that'd eyed him up as he first walked in with the rings and the suits leant against the bar next to them in that condescending way that said 'I'll smile but I don't like you and you know it.'
"Look what the Bear dragged in." came a simple statement from next to him, spoken in that cliché French accent that girls swooned over in the movies. If the three guys that were now next to them at the bar thought they were going to get a reaction, they were wrong. He couldn't fuck this up, and he didn't fucking care what they had to say anyway.
So there was this weird gentlemanly silence for the next few rounds, them with their European beer, and him and Yuri with their liquid fire, bathing in the refined shadows that were cast from the classy lights around them. There were bastards like that no matter which walk of life you took, this was easy.
It's not like they didn't keep trying, but at least they were straight forward with it.
"Bit young to be in a club, aren't you?" came the next question, and all Akihito had for that comment was a blank stare, and then the prompt sinking back of his drink in one go. Maybe he should be careful with that.
Yuri watched him the entire time as this weird tension rose, Akihito was feeling good, but the Frenchmen; not so much.
They were creative enough, he'd give him that, but for their entire aesthetic refinement, their personalities were anything but.
"How much is he paying you?" came one question, and it was so fucking far fetched that he actually let off a snort into his tumbler before he gawked at them in disbelief. These guys were just the muscle, Akihito decided, no brain at all.
"Paying me?" Akihito repeated, incredulous "Mate, that Russian bride was expensive. You're just jealous you can't afford him and I can." He said it dead serious, because it was about as plausible as what they'd just asked him. He got open mouths and wide eyes in return, with not one word.
That was it for Yuri though, not in a way that he'd thought it would be, because the straight laced old man coughed his drink back into his glass in surprise, chuckling as he did so, because no one had probably ever compared Mikhail to a Russian bride before. Maybe it was a little bit funny.
Before he could bring himself to laugh though, the moment was gone.
"Tch, dude's a freak just like Arbatov and the rest of his family, let's go." The guy closest to him murmured as they turned to leave, finally bored with their nonexistent game.
It wasn't anything to react over really, a mutter under a breath not even meant for him, but it lit this feral fire in him that he hadn't felt in a long time, Misha and his family were fucking amazing, they were welcoming and accepting and these bastards didn't know shit.
He moved on pure uncoiling instinct, it wasn't even something he needed to question, from cool and uncaring one second, to completely intent on shoving those words back in the man's face with his fist the next.
Akihito was surprised with his clarity of thought at that moment, because he could see the choice before him again. He was doing so well, he'd ignored them enough for them to give up, insults to himself he could handle well enough, but it turned out he couldn't handle insults to Mikhail's person at all.
Tumbler left half full on the bar; Akihito swung from his stool and caught up to the group in two smooth strides, and if he'd really noticed his surroundings then, noticed everyones' focus on them, then he'd have noticed Yuri on his heel too, yet here he thought he was going in alone.
The suit didn't feel as expensive as it looked as he tapped the tall Frenchman on the shoulder for his attention, and who was Akihito kidding, the guy looked cheap compared to Mikhail anyway.
What was soft was the flesh of the man's cheek as his fist connected in a punch that wasn't as rusty as he thought it would be, Akihito knew this fight was different to any other fight he'd been in. This was his choice and that was all the difference enough for him.
He expected an onslaught, to be outnumbered as he always used to be, but as he ducked under a returned punch and lunged forward with all the force his legs would give him; Yuri stepped in at his side with fists raised and a smirk ghosting his lips. That was different too, Akihito had never had anyone on his side before.
"Trouble makes you." Yuri chuckled to himself as violence erupted, and Akihito really was fucking okay with his decision.
He didn't think about repercussions as a blow glanced off his lip, as his own fist connected with someone's chin and whipped their head back because maybe he wasn't as out of practice as he thought; or maybe it was just the adrenaline surging through his blood.
All this happened in such a small space of time, even though in his head his infernal thoughts felt like eternities on end, he was in a fucking bar fight in France with a Russian on his side and French on the other, all closing in, it should have been bad, but the thing was; Akihito felt like this fight of all his fights was justified.
Maybe this was what it was like to be proud of the name that you bore? Amidst the chaos, Akihito didn't know.
All he really knew was the moment, in the corner of his eye that an inconspicuous door opened to let more people in, Russians he recognized from the plane, and lastly, Mikhail.
Then, all hell broke loose.