#kisumitenderly

"  not  even  a  free  day  f'r  the  manager  ?  "      gruff  voice  tumbles  forth  and  accompanied  with  the  idle  way  he  scratched  his  beard  it  was  evident  that  the  yakuza  -  head  wasn't  bothered with the sudden intrusion.   perhaps  a  bit  bored.  but  that  was  par  the  course.

It was all bullshit.

He walked back into the room he rented for a couple of nights, wanting to apologize for taking so long. He'd told Kisumi it'd only be a few hours, but much to his chagrin, he'd been mistaken. Perhaps he could make it up in some way, but such a thing wasn't really his forte. Often he had been on his lonesome with only his hounds to accompany him, so having to actually consider somebody who wasn't his blood was still an oddity.

"Please tell me you went out at some point and didn't sit here rotting all day. That'd ruin the entire point of me taking you along for work." He mumbled while shedding his role of inquisitor.

A deep breath was taken once he removed the veil, and his face seemed flushed from how hot it had been underneath all of the layers for hours. Damn the church for holding him hostage and also for slapping a bunch of jobs on him that needed to be done. Maybe if he were paid better, he wouldn't be as annoyed. Half of his payment was 'blessings' upon him that he knew they wouldn't bother giving him if they were aware of the demon blood in his veins.

"The moon is awfully big tonight if you'd like to join me for a hunt with the hounds." Both dogs were waiting for him on the outskirts, knowing they shouldn't follow him into the town itself—they preferred being away from crowds. "Unless you had other plans in mind…" His voice lowered as he waited for an answer, somewhat awkward as he gathered some of his things.

perhaps he would never fully understand what it exactly was that made him behave the way he did where the other was concerned. he enjoyed getting underneath his skin, prick and prod and see what kind of expression he'd be gifted with. it was easy entertainment. but there were times where he felt an almost nauseating pull to simply have him. looked at him as if he belonged to the thief lord. an almost sickening greed. an obsessive need to covet one that wasn't allowed to see the rozanov heir's true heart. gilded and caged it remained.

yet, there was a softness that occasionally would spill forth from poisonous tongue. a desire to lower guard, retract thorns and allow tender affection to spill. whether it was feigned or genuine never easy to know. they knew of kisumi's desire to stay in their good graces, to remain a fixture in their lives, have yohan pay attention to kisumi and kisumi alone. and cruel it was to play with a heart so set on them but yohan was not known to be kind.

but like this ? with kisumi wrapped in his arms, strawberry blonde locks messy in a way that could be considered cute ... perhaps yohan could try. maybe. hand glides across bare back to eventually settle on the back of the other's neck, squeezing it gently. the question would've elicited some kind of sympathy if yohan wasn't impervious to such things. instead does he chase lips once more, pressing a tender kiss upon them. then another. another. and another before he deigns to give an answer. ❝ nothing. ❞ arm is wrapped around waist, keeping him caged against them. ❝ just let me treat you for once ... ❞

Nastka didn’t react at once to Hayato’s words.

It was said like a door closing without a sound, no slam, no echo, just the quiet finality of something that had already decided to leave long before the words arrived. And yet Nastka remained exactly where he was, seated on the bench beside him, as if rejection was not a boundary but a passing weather pattern, felt, acknowledged, and ultimately irrelevant.

The wood beneath them was worn smooth by time and countless unnamed stories. It held their weight without complaint, creaking softly in protest, like it understood more than it was supposed to. The air between them was thin and cold, stretched taut by silence that refused to break properly.

Nastka’s gaze stayed forward, fixed on nothing that asked to be understood. The world ahead shimmered faintly with indifferent light, as if it, too, had chosen not to intervene.

“Then don’t talk,” he said at last, voice low, even, almost gentle in its lack of urgency. “Listen instead.”

A pause lingered ( soft, deliberate) like the space between heartbeats that no one admitted to counting.

The wind slipped through the gap between them, brushing against fabric, against skin, threading itself through the silence as though it belonged there more than either of them did.

Nastka tilted his head slightly, not turning fully, never granting the comfort of direct eye contact. There was a strange precision to his stillness, an elegance in restraint, like something carefully placed rather than merely sitting.

“I will marry your brother,” he said.

Not a threat. Not a dream. Not even a confession. It sounded like something already written into the grain of time itself, indifferent to resistance, immune to emotion. “That part is not negotiable.”

His hand rested loosely on his knee, fingers relaxed, unhurried---like he had all the time in the world to let consequences unfold at their own pace.

Then, softer. Lower. Almost reverent in its quietness, as if the next words belonged to a separate, more hidden room inside him:

“But I need it done properly.”

A faint shift in the air followed, subtle enough to be mistaken for imagination. Nastka finally turned just slightly toward Hayato—not enough to fully meet him, only enough for presence to become unavoidable.

“I need you to help me organise it,” he said, each word measured like glass placed carefully on a table. “Quietly. No noise. No attention. Nothing that spills beyond what it should.”

The request didn’t rise lik a plea. It settled like inevitability, soft, controlled, dangerously calm.

“It has to stay secret,” he added, almost tenderly. “For now.”

Silence returned, but it no longer felt empty. It felt arranged:::like even absence had been positioned with intent.

Then, after a moment that stretched just long enough to feel intentional, Nastka’s voice lowered again, stripped of demand, stripped of urgency::: something closer to an offering than a request.

“You can hate me,” he said quietly. “But I still need your help.”

Kisumi was lucky, sure, he got the delivery, and it took him only a couple of minutes to realise that it wasn't something he pre-planned for himself nor ordered for himself and forgot about in the two minutes it takes to get his regulars. Opening the door was a nice sight though, the smell was great which made him think of his own dinner that evening and when he took the order from the man that delivered he spoke about possibly ordering from the same place soon enough, and he'll see him again later. It earned a laugh and good cheer, leaving Ollie with the bounty on his kitchen island and went to take a dump.

Of course, it took longer than the usual, since when phone is in hand, time flies away even if ones' thighs are in agony and numb from the position. A flush, wash of hands, wipe down of phone on his way to the tantrum on his doorstep, he sniffed once before sighing out and adjusting his hoodie over shoulders. Gotten cold since he walked the long open space towards the rattling door. "Mhm, mhm." A chime from his throat, waking up the vocal cords enough before he took hold of the bag left and promptly heads towards the blockage just in time to stop Kisumi from ramming himself into the door like some Boomer from L4D.

"It's here, calm down." The bag rustled in his loose grip, he didn't unpack nor steal a bite either, he knew a man's pleasure was takeout food and nothing else but the sight of Kisumi, and lack of over the last few weeks, was a bit worrying even for him. Once the bag was taken though, Ollie remained in the doorway, leaning against the frame even as he stared at them with a risen brow. Eye masks were common, but the darkness under them weren't going to be saved with just that, no. That bubblegum bitch needed deep, deep sleep. "Wait here…" As he stepped back with a slouch and headed towards his stash of goodies in a bowl, he eased out a pack of three, then a small tube of four jelly looking things.

The bed creaked softly beneath them, an old sound, familiar—wood and metal remembering weight. Nastka lay half-propped against the headboard, papers spread in an orderly fan across his thigh, the faint smell of ink and dust clinging to them. Numbers marched neatly under his gaze, obedient, predictable. The glasses perched low on his nose sharpened the world into lines and meaning, gave him distance. Control lived there, in margins and sums.

Silence breathed between them.

It wasn’t empty. It was full in the way deep water is full—heavy, pressing, alive. Outside, somewhere beyond stone and steel, the springs sang their quiet song, a wet, rhythmic murmur that slipped in through the private entrance and settled into the room like a secret. Nastka absorbed it without thinking. He always did. Stillness had taught him how to listen.

Then Kisumi shifted.

The mattress dipped, just barely, but Nastka felt it immediately. He always did. His eyes stayed on the page, but his body betrayed him, his fingers paused mid-note, the pencil hovering, breath stalling in his chest for half a second too long. Awareness slid in, slow and inevitable.

The touch came gently. A nudge of a nose against his hand, hesitant, almost questioning. Nastka didn’t pull away. He didn’t look down yet. He let it happen, let the moment stretch until it hurt in that quiet, intimate way. When lips followed, warm and careful, tracing the long map of muscle and old strain along his arm, something inside him unraveled. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a single thread loosening.

Devotion always did this to him. It crept in through the cracks he pretended weren’t there.

Kisumi kissed him like he was memorizing, like he was afraid the shape of Nastka might disappear if he didn’t press it into himself hard enough. Nastka’s hand flexed under the touch, veins standing out, skin hypersensitive where attention lingered. It wasn’t lust that stirred first—it was something older, darker. The ache of being needed. Of being seen and chosen without armor.

He exhaled slowly and set the papers aside, carefully, reverently. The sound of them sliding onto the bedside table felt louder than it should have. The glasses stayed on, for now. He wanted to see this clearly.

His fingers slipped into Kisumi’s hair, not possessive, not gentle either, grounding. Anchoring. He felt the fine tremor there, the restraint Kisumi wore like a second skin. Nastka finally looked at him then, really looked, over the rim of his lenses. His gaze was sharp enough to cut glass, and just as reflective.

“So quiet,” Nastka murmured, voice low, worn smooth by honesty. “You only get like this when you’re afraid to be real.”

His thumb found Kisumi’s chin, lifted it just enough to steal his breath away, to force the truth into the open space between them. Nastka’s expression didn’t soften. It deepened.

“You think I don’t already see the cracks,” he said. “That I don’t know exactly where to touch you.”

He leaned in slightly, forehead almost brushing Kisumi’s temple, breath warm, intimate, unavoidable.

“You don’t shatter when you speak,” Nastka continued. “You shatter when you hide.”

His grip tightened then (just a fraction ) before easing, letting Kisumi stay exactly where he was. Devotion pressed into his skin, raw and unpolished, and Nastka accepted it without flinching. Because glass, he knew, wasn’t weak.

At this point, he couldn't even remember what he'd been talking about for the past five minutes. They'd just been on their way back from a museum and.. it was about one of the paintings or something. Not like it mattered when his center of gravity was suddenly thrown off.

Both hands gripped his cane to keep himself steady as he was pulled into such a passionate yet desperate kiss; unable to react fast enough before it ended as soon as it began - golden eyes staring up into those of the other man's - the next string of words shaking him mentally even more so.

What are we?

Knowing Kisumi's temperament - or at least, he assumed he'd learnt most of it by now, he knew he couldn't answer in his usual deflective way. With such a radical action, it was as if a huge hammer had been thrown at the walls Aleksandr kept up, not allowing for such answers.

"I..."

It was hard, being honest after so many years. His voice cracking a little as he spoke what he felt.

"I like being your friend.. but. I want to be more."