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When it comes down to it, Artemiy asks for a job because he’s tired of going hungry. His mother has been gone for years, and his father can’t find his way out of the bottom of a bottle long enough to track down enough for Artemiy, so the young blonde finds his own way in the world. His friend has a connection, and it seems like he’s paid well enough.
Artemiy just wants a full stomach for one night.
He’s pretty sure he’s initially taken in because of his severe looks. He never really paid attention to how intimidating his features could be, before. But he supposes that his shock of blonde hair and ice-blue eyes are different enough to give someone pause. He’s told to stand there, to look scary. To not use the gun he’s handed, the object foreign and dangerous feeling in his hands.
That night, when Artemiy feels like he’s shaking apart, he has to physically hold himself together. He knows, deep down in his gut, there’s no going back. He can’t return to who he was that morning. Before, he was just Artemiy. Now, he was a man who had seen the viscera of brain matter stuck to the wooden panels behind the man who had been blown apart.
He’d done that.
--
Artemiy wraps his hands tightly in the thin linen strips that are thrown at him. He’s nervous, glancing towards his opponent- a wiry, muscled boy roughly the same age as him. While the other boy doesn’t have advantage with age, he does have advantage with bulk. He looks like he’s had better access to food for years.
He swallows. He’s aware that he’s about to be dealt some serious pain. This fight isn’t about him winning, though. No. He scans the small crowd of men standing around the ring. Older. Appraising. This fight is about how much damage each of them can take. How much they’re willing to bleed before they’ll give up.
He gets knocked down within the first three minutes. It’s not a surprise, his floorwork is terrible and he’s never really been taught how to properly throw a punch. But Artemiy doesn’t give in. He fights like a cat from hell and makes sure he leaves his opponent bloodied. When he eventually gets knocked unconscious, it still feels like a victory.
He eats well that night.
--
Artemiy walks into the new bakery that’s just opened in the neighborhood, breathing in the warm scents of freshly baked bread.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asks, a smile on her face.
“I’d like to speak to the owner, please,” he responds cooly.
Threats have become a little easier to make, now that he’s gotten used to it. They’re part of his job now. Threatening businesses until they pay his organization ‘protection money’ is a regular duty of Artemiy’s.
On this particular occasion, he speaks quietly to the bakery owner, explaining how easily a bakery’s oven could just… catch fire. How often illegal substances are found in dumpsters when no one is looking.
Without certain protection, that is. Protection that costs.
He walks out of the bakery that day with a new contract for his boss, and fresh bread under his arm. He ends up feeding it to the ducks at the local pond, unable to bring himself to eat.
--
Artemiy’s fists are wrapped and he clenches them, just to feel the cloth tighten around his knuckles. He rolls his shoulders, readying himself for the match. It’s been a year and a half since he was forced into the weekly ritual of matches in the ring. He’s more confident now, defined musculature filling out his frame and better knowledge of how to move his body. He’s been training, eating better.
He’ll be ruthless.
He knocks the other man down after a brutal match, wiping the blood dripping from his maybe-broken nose and flicking it off onto the floor.
--
For the first time in a while, Artemiy is nervous. He can feel his hand shaking around the pistol he’s holding in an iron grip.
He takes a slow breath in, releasing it slowly. Calm down, he tells himself. He pushes the door open.
“What do you want?” His boss, Ilya, asks without looking up. The man is seated behind his desk, reading over some papers strewn out in front of him.
Artemiy says nothing and instead simply looks at the older man who has been his employer for the past several years. The man who has reaped souls via Artemiy’s capable hands, who has taught Artemiy to be merciless.
Just as Ilya lifts his head to finally look up at Artemiy, annoyed at the lack of answer, Artemiy raises his gun and shoots Ilya directly between the eyes.
It’s his first successful contract as an Araknos agent.
He looks around the office. For a successful mobster, Ilya didn’t keep many fineries. Still, Artemiy lets himself take a moment to look, even if the view is drab. He has a train to catch tomorrow, one that will see him leaving Russia behind, hopefully for good.
With one more glance, he leaves the office and closes the door shut behind him.
--
Artemiy settles his knees on each side of the woman’s thighs, towering over her and pinning her to the mattress with his gaze. He strokes his thumb over her cheekbone as if enraptured by her beauty.
He needs to gain her trust before she’s likely to let slip any useful state secrets that he’ll be able to report back, and her file had detailed a very long list of previous love affairs. Men who had similar, if not smaller builds when compared to him. He’s every bit the large, hulking man from her fantasies, so he’d been the obvious choice as the agent assigned to this case.
As he strokes his hand up her thigh, he feels a deep revulsion at himself. He doesn’t like being the kind of person to do this. To be willing to betray another, to cast someone aside as if they’re worth so little. But he does so anyway, simply because he’s been told to.
He’s been doing what he’s been told since he was sixteen.
He ensures his face is casting a look of heated attraction before he leans in.
--
Artemiy walks through the door of the seedy-looking club, intent on gathering as much knowledge as he can before he’s noticed by anyone. The interior lighting is red and dim, casting low shadows. He supposes it’s supposed to create an enticing atmosphere, to lower client inhibitions and create the sense of… possibility.
When his former student approaches him, all he feels is a vague sense of disappointment. Austin, he remembers. AJ for short.
He remembers the incident in his office two years ago. AJ had stood in front of him, yet another brat who thought he could get whatever he wanted if he just asked nicely enough. Another youth who hadn’t learned yet that the lack of responsibility sometimes meant consequences.
In Artimey’s opinion, the failure of a math test was much less harsh of a punishment than how the lesson could otherwise be learned.
When AJ had offered him a sexual favor, he’d been disgusted. Someone so young willing to use their body to avoid consequences? AJ had practically been spitting in Artemiy’s face. Artemiy hasn’t owned his own body in years, and the thought of defiling someone else’s made him nauseous.
He sighs and sits back in his chair. “How am I sick?” he asks patiently while observing the youth in front of him. AJ has piercings now, he’s wearing dark makeup and his posture is defeated. He’s certainly grown some, or at least time has worn on him.
“Two years ago I would've given it to you for free! But here you are now, looking to buy it from someone who can’t say no!”
Artemiy hums in realization. Ah. This isn’t just a nightclub.
He learned to compartmentalize a long time ago. Most of the time, Artemiy feels nothing, letting the world wash over him. However, some small, locked away part of him is still apparently capable at feeling dismayed for the youth in front of him.
Another boy desperate enough to use any means necessary to get by, including his body.
Artemiy sighs and clenches his fist underneath the table. He shoves those feelings down deep, behind his walls. He has a job to do, and unfortunately for AJ, Artimey knows all too well how easily manipulated someone in this kind of position can be.
“How much to take him home?” he asks the tall, imposing bouncer.
--
AJ is… surprising. Artemiy is expecting some amount of disdain towards himself from the boy, but he’s taken by surprise how much of a spitfire AJ is. The boy has sass, and isn’t afraid to use it. Artemiy finds that he particularly enjoys teasing AJ, watching as the boy’s brow furrows and nose scrunches in displeasure before calling him asshole or dickhead.
As they begin to work together, Artemiy firmly reminds himself to stay cold. After all, he’s just as bad as Warren, using AJ as a resource. The boy deserves better than that, and Artemiy isn’t capable of offering anything more. It shouldn’t matter that he desperately wants AJ to get the drugs out of his system and treat his body better. But he tells AJ to stay sober anyways. Nor should it matter that every time puts his hands on AJ, the boy feels alarmingly frail under his touch. But Artemiy has started looking for excuses to feed him.
More than anything else, he admires how AJ is able to dream. AJ talks about aspirations for the future, like moving somewhere he could live a different life, or falling in love and having someone love him in return. Artemiy has forgotten what it feels like to permit oneself to dream like that. He envies AJ for that ability.
He tries so hard not to, but he becomes attached. When he looks at AJ, at Austin, he sees a boy in a similar position to one he once was in, all those years ago. But instead of succumbing to the difficult path he’s on, AJ still has so much spirit in him. Artemiy may not have that same vibrancy, but perhaps he could protect what’s still left of it for AJ. Maybe he could do one good thing.
--
Artemiy knows he’s in trouble when Warren tells AJ to put on a little ‘performance’ for him.
As soon as he sees how uncomfortable AJ is, he tries to comfort the boy, to let him know that it’ll be alright. But then AJ starts to move. He slides his hips over Artemiy’s lap and tilts his head back and oh, his hips feel so small underneath Artemiy’s palms.
Artemiy watches, transfixed, as the world melts away until all he’s left with is those big, brown eyes. His palm is reaching up to cup AJ’s face before he even realizes it, and AJ is leaning into the touch, and Artemiy’s heart is pounding.
He’s thankful when Warren interrupts.
--
Artemiy unlocks his front door and ushers AJ inside, stomping his feet on the welcome mat to avoid tracking snow indoors. AJ is chattering on about hating the snow again, and Artemiy is encouraging his prattling by adding well-timed ‘mhmm's' and ‘oh?’s.
They’re returning from another round of target practice in the woods. Artemiy has been feeling twitchier lately, his sense of threat heightened between AJ’s lack of self defense and the mounting pressure to finish the mission without AJ. He isn’t nervous, not exactly. A seasoned agent like Artemiy never gets nervous.
But his growing concern for AJ is becoming harder to ignore.
Artemiy takes off his coat and hangs it, watching as the boy next to him does the same. He freezes, his hand still on the hanger.
There’s bruising on AJ’s neck.
Artemiy can clearly see the ring of purple and green, the leftover imprint of someone’s hand. Whoever it was, they’d pressed down hard.
The sight makes something in Artemiy’s chest snarl. The tugging sensation is the same one that he’s been feeling more and more often. Artemiy feels it every time he watches AJ ravenously wolf down as many calories as Artemiy puts in front of him, or when AJ visibly relaxes when they’re alone and nothing is expected of him.
“... What?”
AJ’s voice snaps Artemiy to attention, and he realizes he’s been staring.
He mentally refocuses himself on the present. He knows that actions tend to speak louder than words, so he turns and walks to the kitchen, intent on making AJ some hot chocolate. It’s practically nothing, but it’s what Artemiy can offer him.
He hears AJ walk in behind him as he assembles ingredients and puts a small sauce pot onto the stove over a low heat. He adds everything one at a time before returning each back to their various shelves, cupboards, and places in the refrigerator. He pulls out a spatula and begins to stir, saying nothing when AJ hops up onto the counter next to him.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you a hot chocolate,” he responds.
Artemiy watches out of the corner of his eye as AJ fidgets, rubbing his thumbs together between the legs that are dangling off of his counters. He looks around, appraising Artemiy’s kitchen, before he does what he always does to fill a silence- he begins to talk.
“Do you ever even eat, man?”
“What?”
“It’s just your kitchen. It’s never messy, there’s never even a used dish or anything.”
“I keep it clean,” Artemiy shrugs. His eyes stray over to an open teabox on the counter, sitting next to his electric tea kettle, clueing AJ in to the tiniest hint of his humanity. “I leave some things out.”
AJ makes a face. “Tea sucks. I’ve always loved hot chocolate. Or I guess all chocolate in general. It was like a special treat when I was younger, you know? The chocolate milk at Joey’s Sugar Shack. Or hot chocolate after playing in the snow. Because there’s, like, never any shortage of snow in this stupid town.” He tilts his head and watches Artemiy stir. “I thought you said you were making hot chocolate?”
“I am.”
AJ peers over into the pot, looking at the brown liquid. “Is that what that is? I’ve only ever had it from the instant packs. You know, like Swiss Miss?”
Artemiy hums in acknowledgement. “I think you’ll like this, then.” Inwardly, he’s pleased. He picked up the milk and cocoa to make a proper homemade hot chocolate just yesterday, thinking that AJ might enjoy it.
“What’s in it?”
“Milk. A bit of water. A pinch of salt. Cocoa powder. Don’t worry, I’m sure I put enough sugar in to satisfy your sweet tooth,” he teases, watching as AJ’s nose scrunches in response.
He opens a cupboard and takes out a mug, holding it steady as he transfers the hot mixture between pot and mug. Reaching into another cabinet, he fishes out an unopened bag of mini marshmallows
AJ smiles. “Bought more marshmallows for yourself?”
“Yes.” It’s one thing to care for AJ like this, but it would be another thing entirely to actually admit to it.
He holds the mug up to AJ and the boy takes it, lifting it up to his nose and inhaling. He watches as AJ takes a sip and lets out a sweet little moan. “Fuck, Mr. S. This is good. ”
He smiles, turning off the stove and leaning against the far wall, taking satisfaction out of AJ’s joy at the simple things. They stay like that for a while, AJ sipping on his drink and Artemiy standing in silence. His gaze keeps being drawn back to that ring of bruises around AJ’s neck, though. Especially when the boy swallows and the discoloring moves with his skin. It’s distracting, and Artemiy’s thoughts float towards enacting some sort of justice he knows isn’t realistic.
“It’s really ok, you know.”
Artemiy frowns, thoughts disrupted. “What is, AJ?”
“The bruise. I’m pretty used to it. I don’t want you to feel bad for me, or anything.”
Instead of AJ’s intended effect of making Artemiy feel more at ease, his frown only deepens. Unfortunately, that gives AJ the signal to keep talking.
“I mean, I get it, it’s not great. I actually wish that Mr. Warren wouldn’t let them mark us so much and--”
AJ keeps babbling on, and Artemiy takes the opportunity to step in close, looking at AJ’s neck intensely. The audacity of someone to hurt him so casually is infuriating. Without thinking, he reaches out and lightly brushes his thumb against the marks.
AJ stops mid sentence, his brown eyes widening. He doesn’t pull away, though. Instead, AJ shyly leans his head almost imperceptibly backwards, as if inviting Artemiy to touch more of his skin. Artemiy takes the invitation openly, tracing the bruise with the tips of his fingers, keeping his touch feather-light.
AJ shivers, and Artemiy realizes what he’s doing. He moves to withdraw his hand, working to find any excuse for why he would touch AJ in such a way, when a slim hand comes up to stop him.
“Mr. Sharpe…” AJ starts, his gaze cast down and away. “Don’t, uh. Don’t stop.” He bites his lip. “It feels nice.”
Artemiy is a little taken aback by the request. He and AJ have touched very little, besides the lapdance incident at The Warren. So far, the only reason Artemiy has had to touch AJ has been to steady him on hikes, or provide a small amount of comfort in vulnerable moments. Nothing like this, so intimate in nature.
"He keeps caressing AJ’s neck, slowly brushing his thumb in small circles around the bruising. AJ’s eyes eventually close, and his features soften. The boy looks… relaxed. Beautiful, Artemiy thinks.
AJ bites his lip in thought, but doesn't pull away, allowing Artemiy to continue his ministrations. But the boy can't help himself from talking. "It's weird. I expected you to be a total asshole, when you first showed up at The Warren. I was so pissed off, seeing you sitting there. But you're... different than I expected. And not even in the obvious, we're-on-a-mission kind of way. But you seem like the kind of guy with a lot of walls up. Sometimes though... I don't know. It's nice. I like being here. Because it's different with you, I guess. When I'm with you it's like I'm human. You talk to me like I'm another person, not an object. You know?" He opens his eyes and looks at Artemiy searchingly. Vulnerable.
As soon as AJ's admission registers in Artemiy's mind, he moves to pull away, realizing he can’t let himself go any further. It's wrong, to be the person that AJ puts his trust in. Regardless of Artemiy's personal feelings.
As soon as he removes his hand, AJ opens his eyes and pins him with a stare, before leaning forwards and tentatively but bravely planting his lips directly over Artemiy’s.
At first, Artemiy isn’t sure how to react. His morals tell him to pull away immediately, to sharply reprimand AJ and remind him that any fraternization between them is a mistake. But his senses are also blessedly full of AJ, the feel of plush lips against his, the lingering taste of the hot chocolate warm and rich between them. He draws AJ’s lip between his own, suckling at it lightly before letting it go again and again. He runs his tongue softly over AJ’s lip ring, exploring the foreign taste of metal in his mouth. Heat blooms in his stomach as they kiss. It’s indulgent, something Artemiy has craved.
AJ’s tongue brushes against his, and something slick curls pleasantly in his abdomen. God.
He’s careful not to leave any marks- This isn’t about claiming AJ for himself, even though something deep down within himself wants it to be.
No, this is about something much more precious. Against all odds, AJ feels safe here, in the arms of a damaged, retired assassin.
And as they kiss, despite knowing better, Artemiy finds himself willing to do everything in his power to protect that feeling of safety.