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Realistic or Modern don't take love off the table yet [malks/arbus]

"Holy fuck that smarts", Lev murmured, because he was not one to pass up an opportunity to be an asshole, even though it earned him another blow right after the first one. This one was a bitch -- it connected with his ear, made his head ring. Knuckles scraped his cheek, drawing blood. That asshole had kept on his signet ring just for the fun of it.

"Just fucking talk, man". Lev raised his eyes to the figure standing in the semi-darkness, features obscured by the shadows. Petrov, he knew, was not your friendly neighbor debt-collector, even if he tried hard to put up the front with his Addidas trainers and Supreme cap.

"You know some kid in a glorified detention camp at the arse end of nowhere made that shit and now some overrated, Instagram-hyped company sells it to you for a shitload of a margin, right?“

Lev spat a conglomeration of phlegm and blood onto the dreary concrete floor. Why did these backrooms always have to be so goddamn glum? Then again, that one time he got beaten up in a Pirates of the Carribean-themed toilet in Disneyworld hadn‘t been much more jolly either. At least it made for a good anecdote.

"Maybe I should branch out“, Petrov replied and nodded at the questioning gaze of his oaf. The muscle people brought to these things were always sub-intellectually-inclined, but this particular specimen stole most everybody that had ever beaten Lev up the show. He squinted his deep-set eyes at Petrov, biceps flexing with uncertainty.

"He‘s indicating for you to teach me a lesson“, Lev explained, and showcased a daredevil grin he did not feel one tiny bit. It was all smartassery and a big fat mouth, fueled by exhilarated anger that really was panic nagging at his fraying mind like a fucking rat. "You should have a talk with that agency that‘s providing you with these clowns, Petrov. They sent you a bad batch.“

Petrov clicked his tongue. "It‘s hard to come by good help around here.“ A flick of his finger was all it took, and a fist the size of a grapefruit buried itself in Lev‘s stomach, right below the ribcage in that sweet spot that always made him gag.

He dry-heaved. The oaf grimaced at the wretched sounds flying from his throat. Great. One of those people that threw up on top of you when you already felt sick to your stomach. Why did muscle always have to be so squeamish?

"The money“, Petrov said mildly into the subsiding sounds of Lev‘s violent coughs. Feeling like one of those annoying dolls you squeezed to produce the same three sentences over and over again, Lev wheezed: "I don‘t — have it — told you, my brother —"

"Yes. Yes. Your twin brother was the one who stole that money from me. So you said." Petrov produced a laugh that sounded distinctly fake and unfortunately shrill to Lev's aching head. „Haha! Like a telenovela! Hahahaha!“

The oaf mistook Petrov‘s outburst for humor and joined in. For a few crazy moments Lev just sat there, arms bound behind the back of the chair, tears in his eyes from a blow that left him dizzy-breathless, staring at his captors that were flapping over with fake laughter.

Great. How the fuck was he going to get out of this? His eyes flickered towards the steel door. Bulletproof, soundproof and the only fucking exit from this tiny personal hell that stank of stale beer and grease and gun powder. He gritted his teeth, tasting copper. His fucking asshole of a brother. This was the last time he‘d let him pull a fast one on him. The last fucking time.


***

​
Lev stumbled out into the grey haze of a day, light drizzle immediatley against his skin as the heavy safety door fell shut behind him with a dull bang. He took a deep, steadying breath that filled his lungs with the stench of shit and rotten fish and he cursed. He hated this day, this week, this fucking year. No thanks to his survival skills had he made it out of that room in one piece. And what a close call it had been, too, the way Petrov had eyed his pinky, with that particular interest that only a member of the fucking Russian mob could muster. Lev was sure he'd run around nine-fingered by now if it had not been for the inconvenience of cleaning up all the blood.

Nine-fingered Lev. A hell of a moniker.

But Lev was very fond of all his fingers, and of his life in general, and when he found himself tied-up, his bodily capcities reduced to nought, he knew how to run his mouth. To be more precise, his mouth ran him, and now he was not only beaten up and dizzy but head-over-heels in a big fat pile of debt. Nedamir's debt, no less. It made Lev's blood boil. Too often had he found himself in this situation, his brother's bail-out, left to clean up a mess that he himself was too clever to leave. But you did not have to be extra careful as long as you had someone to take the fall for you. That was how Nedamir had lived his life, dashing head-first into steaming piles of shit and when they did not turn into gold, he carded them off to Lev's front door.

He heaved a sigh and felt a distinct, stinging pain in his side. Regardless, his stomach rumbled. Well, fuck. At least it had not spoiled his appetite. Then again, only few things ever did.


***
​
Sybille was that kind of matronly no-nonsense woman with a rasping nicotine voice and long acrylic nails who could turn the worst thugs into stuttering messes with a stern glance. Although she must be in her sixties by now, she wore her hair fire red and short and her expression in a perpetual frown, mouth inclined downward in deep creases that told of hardships that even Lev was probably too entitled to imagine. She was the owner of a small deli and diner in Little Odessa, a district downtown populated by Russian and Ukrainian immigrants. Lev had grown up here, and had frequented the diner, which was nestled between a drug store and a Seven Eleven for years now. The place was tiny; there was just enough room in front of the counter for about three people to stand, and the only table was squeezed into a corner amongst stacks of canned tomatoes, smoked herring and jar's full of borscht.

"How much do you owe?", she asked now, standing next to his table with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She wore rings on most fingers of both hands, one of which now went first to her mouth were she licked her thumb only to drive it into Lev's cheek, rubbing at the cut left by the oaf's ring. Chewing heavily on a bite of burger, he flinched, and threw her an accusatory glance she rebutted with that look that said: Shoulda been more careful, honey.

"Well?"

He forced down the food with one big gulp and replied, rather unhappily: "Six-hundred fifty-seven thousand eight-hundred seventy-four dollars and twenty-five cents."

Sybille blew air threw her front teeth. "Any idea how you'll get it?"

He pressed his lips together, staring at the burger in his hands. Sauce was running down his fingers and dripping onto the plate.

"Yeah", he said. "Actually, I have."

"How the fuck did your brother manage to owe the Russian mob that amount of money?"

"They were partners in a money laundering scheme", Lev replied, looking up at her, "until they weren't."

"He up and left with the dough", Sybille concluded. She did not need his confirmation to know that it was what happened. She knew both of them intimately, had fed them burgers and oil-drechned curly fries since they had been fourteen years old and out on the street, practically handling their lives by themselves. She took a deep drag of her cigarette. "So that mysterious business partner he had been talking about ..."

"Was Petrov fucking Kovrov."

She blew the bluish smoke through her nose and snorted. "Your brother really doesn't bother with the small fish, eh?"

Lev rubbed the back of his hand against his chin and sighed.


***

​
When he left two hours later, it was already dark. The rain had stopped, but the sky was clad in heavy grey clouds that looked like a bad storm approaching. Lev regretted many things in his life -- gorging himself on burgers shortly after an assault and feeling appropriately nauseous now, for instance -- but nothing more than to be the dumb fuck who kept hoping for his brother to better himself, while Nedamir had not the slightest qualms to steal over half a million dollars from the Russian mob and leave him to deal with the consequences. It hurt, to be thrown to the wolves like that. But Lev was done with being taken advantage off, and he was done defending his brother and covering his fucking back when all he got was a kick in the balls for a thank you.

He pulled out his phone, walking briskly. Ten minutes and he'd open a cold beer, flap on the couch and scan his contacts on the darknet to see who was available. The idea had been in his head since the number dropped in the back room of that bar, and it was insane, completely, utterly ridiculous. But it was something, just out of the box enough, just on that right side of crazy that it might work. Thumbing through his texts, he took the corner for that short cut to his apartment when he heard the rustle of clothing, too close behind him for comfort. But before he could do anything, something heavy connected with the back of his head, and the world went black, the curse flying from his mouth cut short.
 
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MIKHAEL

mood: going thru it outfit: it's called fashion, look it up

''as you're aware, mr. foncesa, parole is a privilege.''

mikhael smiled around the dryness in his mouth, wiping sweaty palms on his jumpsuit. the artificial lightning buzzed in his head like a swarm of flies, doing absolutely nothing to help with his anxiety - whoever designed this place needed to get a raise, because so far it was doing a great job of scaring him shitless.

the parole board was build from the world's most boring, yet somehow intimidating men; their sharp suits made him feel very much out of place with his handcuffs and dark circles, but he fought not to let it show. he's bluffed his way out of worse situations than this, so it's not like he was scared of that. it's just... three years.

three fucking years leading up to this.

god, how many hours has he spent in a cell, dreaming of this? of finally getting a chance to get out of here?

he only needed to convince them he was worth it - the stone faced st. peters guarding the pearly gates, standing between him and freedom. and he had this whole play memorized, the script stored in the back of his head. mikhael's smile didn't falter as he listened to the board speak, trying to ignore the rushing of blood in his ears.

'-arrested for third degree robbery, sentence of five years with chance of parole. conduct in prison looks good, too - '

the man listed off the details of mikhael's case like a particularily bored newsman, though he was barely listening. mikhael was more focused on gathering all of his bravado scattering at a fast pace, licking his lips. so far, so good. now, all he needed to do was hold on for the last questioning and use all of the surface charm at his disposal. calm down, man. you got this. you know you got this.

''so. any plans for the future?''

mikhael's smile didn't budge as they stared down at him, only inching wider. alright, now to put those skills of his to use.

''if i were to be released, i'd just want, um...''

so much money he couldn't see himself out of it.

''a simple life, really. you know, get a job, make some friends.''

and reconnect with old ones. maybe clyde was still in the smuggling business?
''being in prison made me realise that i made a really stupid mistake, one i want to never repeat again.''
mikhael thinks of the sounds of sirens and shouting. thinks of pain exploding in his chest. of nedamir's face blurring as he fell to the ground.
runs his hand over the bullet wound, over and over and over. not that the board noticed - he could tell from their slow nods of encouragement that his words were getting through and his confidence returns with a vengeance, features shifting into that of remorse. he didn't have to fake that, at least. he really did regret it, just not for the reasons they might think.

''and what would be the first thing you'd do when you come outside?''

mikhael grinned, a wide and sure thing. he leaned over the metal table, hands rattling with the handcuffs. now, this was a question he thought about over and over again, stuck licking his wounds in his shitty little cell. there was something, something a darker part of brain whispered to him every waking hour. something that haunted him every time before he fell sleep, thoughts drifting to that night that changed everything.

''simple. i'd right the wrongs i did.''

he was going to find nedamir kovitsky and put him in the fucking ground.

he was sixteen when his mom sat him down on the balcony to talk

that in itself was nothing unusual. she got in those moods, sometimes, where her brow darkened and she stared off into the distance, focused on a point only she could see. she always got that look when there was something on her mind - it was a look that mikhael wore the same, nowadays - and then she'd just... sit and talk. about anything, really. about the weather, her job, the fat little pug down the street. she'd talk and mikhael would listen (most of the time), sitting in the cheap plastic chairs outside.

that specific time stayed with him even until now, though.

it was a summer evening, after the heat of the day already died out. a lone cricket sang somewhere below and his mother was smoking a cigarette, eyes dark. neither of them spoke at first, so mikhael busied himself with digging his sandal into the cement, ruining the faded color even further. it was after a few minutes of comfortable silence that his mom spoke up, eyes still stuck to some distant place.

'listen, mikhael.' she started. paused for a second, as if rolling the words on her tongue. 'you have to draw the line somewhere, you know. people will test you, they will, but you have to draw a line in the sand. you gotta look at yourself and ask 'what am i willing to put up with?''

she tore her gaze from the horizon and looked at him - but it felt like she was looking past mikhael, past everything else. her eyes weren't really there.

'and then you say 'not this. not fucking this.'

she said nothing more, only squeezing mikhael's shoulder absentmindedly. back then, he didn't really get what she meant by that. he simply stared at her owlishly, trying to piece together what the point was. it was like looking at famous artwork - he understood there was something significant about it, but he didn't really get the meaning.

funny how he thinks of this now, years down the line. he thinks he finally understands what she meant; he also thinks that, wherever she is, his mom is probably facepalming because he didn't fucking listen.

nedamir was a good example.

it's...still painful to think about him. not in a 'why wasn't i good enough' type of way, but more in a 'holy fuck, that guy had me wrapped around his little finger' way. it felt like waking up from a bad hangover the next day and realising you've made a terrible mistake, except the terrible mistake wasn't vomiting on the host or something - it was letting your lover step over one too many lines and getting you imprisoned.

mikhael wasn't dumb. or, well, not that dumb. he knew, even back then, that ned played him for a fool. mikhael got his hands dirty on more than a few jobs ned thought himself too good for, chased down information till his head pounded with lack of sleep, did anything ned asked of him if only to keep him happy. see, it was never about what mikhael needed, it was always just what nedamir wanted. the thing is, for all the icarus-like arrogance mikhael wore like a second skin, he was truly a pathetic guy.

predatory types like nedamir can see the way he oozed loneliness and desperation, like a runt puppy that got kicked one too many times. the way he latched on to anybody and anything that could make him feel something. it was really too easy to use him; nedamir filled the void in mikhael's chest so well that nothing else mattered. and to his ex, he must have looked like a fun novelty toy - a person to keep you entertained, until the charm wears off and you get bored.

and when mikhael got squeezed out of all of his userfulness, he got thrown out on his ass.

apparently, nedamir couldn't have just broken up with him like a normal, well-balanced person. no, his version of a breakup included shooting mikhael during a robbery and letting him be arrested while he made off with the money. ouch. 'ice cold' was kind of an understatement. if he had simply said 'this isn't working out', it would have been bad - mikhael would have cried himself to sleep and have a drunken mental breakdown once or twice. but he would have eventually gotten over it and it would have been just bad.

instead, it was terrible. like, enormously shitty. and instead of making mikhael sad, it served to make him fucking pissed.

sure, he knew their relationship wasn't exactly equal, but that really put in persective just how replacable he was to ned. and as it turns out, being forced to take the fall for the both of you will ruin any romantic feelings you might have - the mikhael of the past that sang nedamir's praises got quickly burned out by the pure, unbridled rage he felt. there was simply no way mikhael was letting him get away with this. he wanted revenge.

and revenge was what he's going to get.

---

''you look like a miami coke dealer in that shirt, for fuck's sake.''

jj gave his shirt a disgusted sneer, as if the fabric personally offended her. it's been about two months since his release and mikhael broke out the gaudiest hawaiian shirt in his possession to celebrate; it was so bright and cheery it could burn somebody's retinas right off. from the look jj was giving it, though, she must have a not-so-secret fantasy of ripping it off and destroying it. not that she had any right to be talking; her bar, the venus, was decorated from top to bottom in colorful posters of mexican singers. the wall behind the bar was lovingly dedicated to her favourites and the whole place looked like it was attacked by a toddler with cranyons.

''oh, i'm just... i think the kids call it 'vibing'.'' mikhael raised his bottle lazily from where he was laying on one of the booths. this bar wasn't the only one mikhael visited, but it was definitively the one he was the most at. him and jj (her actual name is justinia, but she absolutely hates being called that) go way back - from the time when mikhael was dumb(er) and young, thinking he has something to prove to the world. they got in so much trouble back then that it's a suprise they're still both alive, though the modern jj is a far cry from the hothead she used to be.

''great. so why are you vibing in my bar before opening hours?'' jj didn't look too amused from where she was polishing the bar, her mouth a straight line.



''good question. see, i need a tiny favor from you...?'' rising from his laying position, mikhael turned on his best puppy dog eyes - from the snort jj gave him, he wasn't too sure they were effective, but he persisted. despite being unofficially retired, jj was still one of his best informants; old friend or no, nothing comes for free in this city. he's going to have to pay for information, but jj knew he was good for it. she simply raised an eyebrow, nodding at him to go further.

''heard anything about nedamir?'' mikhael smiled at the dawning realisation creeping over jj's face, taking another sip from his drink. ''yeah, i wanna say hi. by the way, you got a basement i can borrow?''

---

turns out, he's not the only one looking for good old nedamir. jj didn't know the details, but apparently, ned's been popular - mikhael was tempted to look into it himself, but the sad truth is, his web of information wasn't what it used to be. being away in prison will do that. some of his informants are missing or in prison, if not plain up dead; it was a loss mikhael felt could feel close to his heart. his channels of whispers, rumors, secrets was still workable, but it will take some time to get it to it's original size.

he found nedamir, though. after three years, mikhael was so close to punching his smug fucking face and the very thought brough a grim smile to his face.

which is why mikhael was waiting in an alley that distinctly smelled like vomit and piss, partly bored and partly nervous. he felt like mrs puff during that episode where she kidnapped spongebob while wearing this dumb mask, but it was there just in case. the bat in his hand was a definitive comfort, though - his nerves were a jittery mess, like wrongly connected wires. he's thought of this for so long and now he only hoped this would go right.

his thoughts were cut short by a flash of familiar features that made blood rush in his ears.

nedamir. the darkness obscured some parts of the other's face, but it was unmistakeably him. the eyes, hair, nose - he saw that face far too many times to be able to forget it so soon. emotions that mikhael has tried to keep tucked away came rushing out, like a dam being broken; anticipation, hurt, anger. they twisted in his stomach as he followed after nedamir into the alley, keeping his footsteps light.

one step, two step.

here we go.

three step, four step.

mikhael held his breath and raised the bat, muscles tensing.

it connected with a dull thud!, nedamir crumbling to the ground like a marionette with it's strings cut off. got you, sucker. mikhael grinned, the adrenaline singing and screaming in his ears. now to get this shithead to his car.

---

mikhael was glad to be rid of the mask when he arrived at one of jj's hiding houses, deserted for tonight - though the place left something to be desired.

jj tried to lighten up the basement, she really did, but in his opinion she only made everything worse. a poster of chavela vargas winked from the cement walls, looking pretty damn terrifying in the flickering light. not that it really mattered. a basement is a basement, and it didn't really matter in which one you get the shit beaten out of you.

not that nedamir would be too interested in the decoration, considering he was currently handcuffed to a metal chair and knocked out cold. now that they were out of the darkness of the night, mikhael could get a better look at him - the past years made their difference, for sure. he didn't look like what mikhael remembered him as; the style of clothing was... not what mikhael was used to seeing him in. but three years is plently of time for a person to change - or maybe mikhael caught him on a lazy day. there were wounds on his face, though and mikhael idly wondered where he got those. they looked fresh.

he was starting to stir, so maybe mikhael can ask when he wakes. after he, you know, beats him into next fucking tuesday?

''geez, nedamir, you look like shit.'' mikhael started, though he wasn't sure the other could hear him. he... wasn't really sure what to say yet - oh, he had no shortage of ideas the moment before, but now that he was actually face to face with nedamir it... all disappeared into thin air. what the fuck were you supposed to say in this type of situation, anyways? 'hey, remember me! it's you ex who you left to get arrested! hah, good times. anyways, i fucking hated prison and i hate you, so i'm here to get revenge. high five!'

maybe he needs to work on his cool oneliners the next time he does something like this because so far, it wasn't exactly impressive.
coded by natasha.
 
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***​

When Lev was five years old, his favorite toy was a Fisher Price fire truck. It was made entirely from plastic, that cheap hollow kind that never seems to break regardless. It was red and had an extendable grey ladder which Lev enjoyed greatly, because he was always fascinated with how effortless the mechanic worked. He would gather as many Playmobile figures as he could find to make that steep climb, and often they would end up in the thralls of a heroic rescuing mission, starring Pete the fire fighter (the only one of the figurines that was painted yellow at the top and therefore looked even remotely like one of the fire fighters he saw on the news) and Mr Whiskers, a stuffed cat that had one ear missing from an unfortunate incident with a pair of scissors.

On that particular afternoon, Lev was reconstructing a particularly crucial part of the story. Mr Whiskers was dangling precariously on the very rim of the brown sofa in the living room, against which the ladder was propped. Fire fighter Pete was ascending the wobbly ladder, at the peril of his life, when the loud dull noise came from his mom’s bedroom. It was followed by an immediate, high screech and his brother’s high-pitched cry.

"Mommy, please!"

The Playmobile figurine tumbled to the floor as Lev sprang to his feet, heart clogging his throat like a fat lump that made it hard to breathe and hard to swallow. In socks that were slightly to large for his small feet, he stalked over the discarded magazines littered on the floor. He stepped over a half-full ashtray. Cigarette stubs and a half-smoked blunt had spilled over and lay among greyish ash. That burnt-out stink of old nicotine seemed stuck permanently in Lev’s nostrils, a stench he would even later in life come to associate with the run-down, tiny apartment that was his childhood home.

The first thing Lev saw when he approached the bedroom door, which stood half-open, was his mom’s slender silhouette, clad in a skimpy tank-top that showed the knobs of her spine and her too-thin arms, sinewy and pale and covered in whimsical tattoos that he used to trace with his fingers when they snuggled on the sofa or in bed on the mornings she was tranquil and sweet and like the moms on tv. But now her jaw was working rapidly, as if she were chewing on something, her mouth a thin tense line of reproach. Lev had learned to read the signs and felt the by now familiar drop in his stomach like a too-heavy stone plunging, dragging him into a despair he had not yet the words for.

"Mommy", he began, because the face of his brother hovering behind their mother was sunken and even paler than her skin. Her fingers were wrapped around Nedamir’s wrist. She pulled at his arm in violent bursts that rattled his whole frame. The brown locks fell into his eyes that were too big and filled with tears. Lev could hear his teeth clatter.

"Mommy", he said again, even though he really did not want her to hear him, did not want that menacing attention to snap onto him instead of Nedamir. She was scary when her mouth was working like this, when she stood hunched over, her movements erratic and strands of unwashed hair spilling into a face that he always found beautiful expect for moments like these.

But she did not seem to hear him, did not even seem to notice he was there as she continued to shake Nedamir by his wrist.

"You dirty boy", she spat, "you dirty, disgusting, perverted boy!"

One yellow, sparkly stiletto still hung on Nedamir’s left foot, his ankle tilted in what seemed to Lev like an unhealthy angle. The other lay on the far side of the room, half beneath the sheets spilling from the bed onto the carpet. Nedamir’s lips were smudged with what looked like red crayons to Lev, or maybe some of the cherry ice-cream they had in the freezer. He was sobbing uncontrollably, tears spilling down his cheeks. Lev knew the map of his face in the intimate way of seeing it every time he looked into a mirror, and he knew the pitch-black bottomless shame on it.

"I’m sorry mommy", he cried. The words came out indistinguishable between the wails erupting uncontrollably from him now. It was desperation and plea twisted into guttural sounds that sounded more like a wounded puppy than a human, and it was horrible, the most horrible thing Lev had ever heard in his short life.

"Mommy!", Lev yelled, and did not know when he moved but he was right up against her, his little fists pulling at the back of her top. "Mommy, stop it!"

Lev could not see a thing because his eyes were twisted shut against the blind, ungraspable panic, but he felt her muscles move and then pain exploding as the back of her hand smashed against his temple. He tumbled backwards, dizzied and gasping.

"Oh no", he heard his mother utter, and her hands were clasping his shoulders a moment later. "Oh no, sweetie, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. Sweetie, I’m sorry." He was pulled into a tight embrace that pushed all the oxygen out of his lungs. Half of his face felt numb, but it was nothing compared to the dull sensation that settled over him like a blanket. He blinked his eyes open and stared at the face of his brother over their mother’s shoulder. He stood with his arms hanging limply to his sides and stared back at him blankly.

Lev could feel the confused pain radiate from him even now, and he swallowed hard.

The stiletto was still on Nedamir’s foot, canary-yellow, cheap, and pretty, but it would be the last time Lev saw it. Later that week, his mother would decide, in a fit of energy that sometimes overcame her, to throw away all the excess chunk cluttering their apartment. She would have Nedamir throw out all the shoes she was not wearing anymore, and she would sit on the bed and watch him, clasping a mug of steaming coffee between her hands and tell him how he could not do such a thing, never could do such a thing ever again.

Lev would be in the living room, unenthusiastically moving around the fire truck on the floor and listening to their voices, unable to figure out what it all meant.


***​

For some reason, the refrain to Elton John’s I’m Still Standing played in an endless loop in Lev’s head. He would find it amusing, his brain's capacity to find irony even in the depth of a throbbing, immense headache, but his amusement was snuffed out by fear as he began to gather the pieces into a picture of coherency.

" ... look like shit", an unfamiliar voice said, and the words drifted into his mind only slowly, lingered, before they finally sank in. His brain felt swollen, and Lev had not known such a sensation existed but he could have happily made it into old age without that particular piece of trivia. There was a dull, pulsing sensation radiating from a spot at the back of his head, and his mind's eye produced a horrible vision of a cracked skull and brain matter leaking out. He jerked, wanting to bring his hand up to reassure himself that this was just a figment of his overly imaginative mind, but the movement fell short as ties dug into the skin of his wrist. Fuck, he thought and felt panic rising like a bubble, uncontrolled and immediate and ready to burst, because if he was detained twice in a day it could only mean that Petrov had revised his earlier decision and come to the conclusion that he rather blow Lev's brains out than wait for him to make good on his lofty promises of paying him back. His larynx popped up and down as he swallowed dryly. If the bubble burst, he would loose his head, and blinding-white terror already dimmed his capacity to think into a bare minimum.

He opened his mouth -- if to bargain or to beg he did not quite know -- but before he could find out, a wave of nausea washed over him, pulled the floor from under his feet and he gagged, once, before he started to throw up violently onto the floor before him. His whole body heaved and shook under the violence of the fit, and it did not compare even to the worst of his hangovers, not even the time he smoked too much weed and realized he did not have an ounce of tolerance for that shit. He had spent the whole day over a toilet, feeling as if he was going to die.

This was not like that; his head did not just spin, it blacked out, and he came to only when the vomiting had stopped, spit and bile trickling from his chin. There was the sickly-sweet-rotten taste of undigested meat and pickles, overlayerd by the staleness of fear.

"Fuck", he managed hoarsely. His throat hurt. He blinked his eyes open for the first time and regretted it, because staring at the pool of vomit made him gag again. He thrust his head away and regretted that, too, because it worsened the dizziness. That was a hell of a concussion alright, and Lev could not remember having felt worse in his life.

So when the words erupted from his mouth they did so in a steady stream of anger fueled by helplessness. He hardly recognized his own voice.

"Godfucking damn it I‘m gonna get you you‘re money you fucking shithead! I‘m on it, for fuck‘s sake!" Talking, even through the haze of a head spinning, somehow took the edge off his panic. He suddenly realized that if Petrov had wanted to kill him, he would lie in that alleyway right now with a bullet in his brain. "Give me a fucking minute. Geez."

The second time Lev managed to open his eyes was to a poster of a rather impressive old hag, staring down at him with eyes that seemed to suggest he could go fuck himself. Lev thought that the fucking would be done for him, thank you and goodnight, and wondered if the multitudes of blows to the head would leave him with some permanent damage. At least the bruises he had received earlier in the day paled in comparison to this overwhelming pain in his head; that was looking at a glass half full, ladies and gentlemen.

"What the fuck do you want?", he spat as he managed to raise his head. The man standing before him did not look like one of Petrov's usual muscle-for-hire. On the contrary, he looked rather scrawny, and there was a flicker of insecurity around his eyes, there and gone. Lev frowned. "This your first job, you dimwit? If you wanna press a man for money, don't fucking bash his head in. Either do the job right or don't do it at all!"

Was he really saying all those things to the guy who just abducted him into a -- a quick glance revealed grey concrete walls and floors -- rather nondescript cellar (great, more of that). When would he ever learn to shut his fucking trap? But his big fat mouth had a way of running away from him when he was angry or afraid (scared shitless, more like), and right now he was both, and miserably sick on top of that.

Lev knew he was hardly making an impressive picture at the moment. His broad frame was hunched and low in the chair, fingers lifeless and numb from too tight cords throttling off the bloodstream to his hands, shoulders curled. There would be bags under his eyes from exhaustion, the curl of his mouth for once flattened by pain. While his brother usually wore his deep-brown hair long enough to curl behind the ears and down his forehead to catch in the thick of the dark lashes they shared, his own was short, a cheap haircut but neat. It gave him the stern edge his brother was missing, but the eyes were the same piercing blue as they looked up at his abductor now, narrowed and calculating. A chunk of vomit had dripped onto his black hoodie. He was in sweatpants and sneakers, a look Nedamir with his preference for the expensive, buoyant clothes that regularly bordered into flamboyancy always despised on him.

Maybe that was why Lev was dressing so poorly, but in contrast to his brother he had always preferred to hide his looks rather than enhancing them, bashful of the glances he sometimes received, while Nedamir relished in the attention his decently good looks got him.

By now, Lev had gathered enough of his wits about himself to assess the other man the way he was sure he saw him assessing Lev. "Would you mind handing me a napkin or something?", he said, one eyebrow -- the one above his right eye, because his left was swollen shut from his encounter earlier in the day -- cocked in a semblance of arrogance. "You know, to wipe away the remainder of my fucking lunch."
 
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MIKHAEL

mood: just vibing outfit: it's called fashion, look it up

nedamir started to stir in earnest now, consciousness starting to seep back in. his eyes didn't open yet, but the movement itself was a good sign; for a second there, it seemed like he got hit on the head a bit too hard. of all the ways mikhael wanted to hurt ned, brain damage wasn't one of them. it would have been painfully anticlimactic if he went through all this trouble, only for ned to have lost his memory because of a misjudged hit. he didn't know if it was malicious curiosity or nerves that inched him closer when the other man jerked in his bonds - most likely both. as it turns out, that ended up being a sore mistake.

mikhael recognised the sound ned made a second too late.

oh. oh no.

ned started to vomit so violently it was reminiscent of a hose gushing out water (another addition to his list of 'disgusting metaphors i never want to think of') and before mikhael could jump to safety, he got it all. over. his. shoes.

''you fucking piece of shit.'' with desperation of a man fighting for his life, mikhael tore off his sneakers before the vomit could seep through them. it was a lost cause. there was nothing he could do to save them - bone deep disgust curled in his stomach when the acrid smell hit him, almost making him gag as well. there's something to be said about karma, he thinks. he threw them aside for now, offering a small prayer for their sacrifice.

nedamir, in his great kindness and mercy, decided to stop throwing up his guts all over jj's basement, swaying with a drunk man's stupor in his seat. the vomit was replaced by a spew of words, fast and hoarse and pissed the fuck off.

i‘m gonna get you your money, you fucking shithead!

a heartbeat later and ned looked up, snapping and cursing like a chained up dog poked by sticks. the intense blue eyes he was far too familiar with were bleary and glazed, but distinctly angry. the anger was partly familiar - it seemed like the type of rage you enter when you thought your day couldn't get any worse. but it somehow does. mikhael couldn't care less. sorry, the flying fuck machine broke, try again next time!

that's what he says, at least. that's what he says to ignore the way ice curled around his lungs.

you know, there a lot of ways mikhael imagined this would go. he'd say this and ned would say that and it would all be very cathartic to mikhael. not so much for ned, probably. but the thing is, mikhael has always been a shit planner; whatever route he had stored in his mind dissolved into thin air. suddenly, he didn't know what where to put his hands, what to say. it was rare that mikhael of all people didn't have any words. he didn't know what his expression was like, but he imagined he must look like a fish out of water, staring dumbly. the other was saying something about mikhael giving him a napkin, but he ignored him for the moment - mikhael wasn't feeling particularily helpful right now.

''what,'' he started, ever so intelligently. ''in the fuck are you talking about?'' he thinks he should be pissed off, and he was, but he was also fucking confused. ''what money? i don't- oh, i get it.'' the bruises decorating ned's face made a lot more sense, now. the puzzle mikhael didn't even know was there was sliding together, a knowing glint in his eye. looks like ned has been busy these past years. ''i heard somebody was looking for you, but i didn't know what that was all about. pissed somebody off, nedamir?'' all the anxiety of before was being replaced by the cocksure confidence mikhael wore like a second skin, an arrogant grin creeping on his face. ''i think there's a small misunderstanding, because i'm not here for money.''

good question, though. what did he want? ''it's me, your old buddy! i'm back from prison!'' mikhael gave a small 'ta-da!' gesture with his arms. the act was a bit dampened by the fact that he was standing there in socks, but it's the thought that matters. he gave it a moment, two -

the recognition he expected didn't come.

that's... um. it's been three years, sure, but mikhael didn't change that much. there was a definitive change from the wild party boy he used to be, but his overall appearance stayed the same. he still dyed his hair blonde, he still looked like he was always recovering from a hangover and his nose was still vaguely tilted from when he broke it as a teen. maybe it was the clothing? mikhael wasn't exactly in his usual attire; he was wearing a plain shirt and old pants. considering the accident before, though, it was the right call to have left his hawaiian shirt at home. he and nedamir both had a taste for flamboyance, just different breeds of it - mikhael didn't wear brand names, but he still liked to look good. though, ned never quite appreciated mikhael's style. he delighted in thrifting the gaudiest, kitschiest pieces of clothing - things that look absolutely terrible by themselves. mikhael liked to think he made them work. not because he was some sort of adonis, but because of the confidence with which the wore them.

''don't tell me you already forgot about me. it's mikhael, hello? come on, you're breaking my heart here.'' nothing. no slowly dawning horror, or suprise, or even exasperated recognition. only calculating observation lurking in blue eyes. mikhael's smile fell an inch, suddenly not so sure anymore. did nedamir really forget him? there's no way, is there?

well, that hurts. it really fucking does. that mikhael was that forgettable. that he did so much shit for ned and got thrown away like a piece of trash. that mikhael took the fall for them both and ned didn't even have the decency to remember his fucking face. an ancient, ugly feeling reared its head and not for the first time, mikhael wanted to come closer and choke the life out of the other man.

mikhael stepped closer, expression tightening - he was close enough to make out the details of ned's face, the dark lashes and even darker bruising becoming clearer.

but now that he actually looked at him, out of the night outside and in the light - uh, something didn't seem right. the face was the same as he remembered it, yes, but it didn't fit with the whole picture. his haircut was practical and definitively not bad, but cheaply cut. cheap and nedamir aren't exactly on speaking terms. and the clothing; at first, mikhael dismissed them as ned having a more casual day, but now that he can actually see them better... the ned he knows would rather die than even touch something that's not from an upscale store. it's not that he didn't even notice before; it was just more of a background observation, like acknowleding something in the corner of your eye, but not paying it any mind.

did these three years really change him that much? the rugged, exhausted person sitting in front of him was not the man he remembered, in any case.

''what the hell? did you go through some spiritual relevation about how material possessions aren't everything or something?''
coded by natasha.
 
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Drowsily, Lev watched as his abductor slipped off his shoes and discarded them with a mixture of shock and disgust on his face. That Lev was able to see his face at all was not a particularly good sign. Either the guy was planning on doing him some serious harm (though Lev would consider a blow to the head serious enough) or he really was plain stupid. A newbie in the art of fucking other people up. Somehow, Lev got the feeling it was the latter option. This scrawny, angry-looking young guy did not give off any serious mafia vibes. Lev was usually good at reading other people, and he forced himself to trust his gut-feeling, forced his shoulders to visibly relax.

For a moment, his fledgling abductor wore a distinct dumb-founded expression that would be hilariously amusing to Lev if his head didn't hurt like a fucking bitch. What was peculiar, and in some perverted way interesting to watch, was how the expression on the other's face shifted, then changed into understanding -- like pieces of a puzzle coming together. At the same moment, and rather ironically, Lev himself started to lose the thread of their conversation.

Nedamir?

Bewildered, Lev watched the other man do a silly gesture in lieu of some tv clown presenting some lame-ass information to some kids -- ta-da -- all the while trying really hard to connect his own pieces. He had a sharp mind, probably the only good thing about him, really, but right now it didn't work right. He felt drunk and stoned at the same time, but in all the bad ways, dizzy and somehow unconnected to the world around him. He thought the blow to the head might justify a little nap. The sour taste in his mouth did nothing to help, but it was the least of his worries.

Nedamir.

Lev dropped his head; even though it made the spinning worse, he couldn't help himself. A laugh like a bark escaped him, loud in the momentary silence, and he must make a peculiar sight with his frame trembling and his shoulders shaking from barely contained laughter.

It was hilarious. In fact, it was hysterical, and it suddenly seemed to be the funniest thing in the whole wide world.

He got kidnapped -- twice in a single, seemingly never-ending day -- because people mistook him for his up-to-no-good shit-eating asshole of a twin brother.

What a knee-slapper, really.

The laughter, at its core, was not born from amusement, however. It was an ugly mixture of fear and exhaustion and pain, and when he finally recovered, tears stuck to the corners of his eyes that he needed to blink away. He had not seen his brother in six excruciating months that evoked both a sense of relief and a deep, indisputable -- though rather bothersome -- worry, and now this was how karma decided to remind Lev of his brother's existence, of Nedamir's agency in the world.

"You shithead", he heard himself mumble, and did not know if he meant Ned, the abductor or himself. "You absolute fucking shithead."

It was peculiar, and familiar, the sensation of being mistaken for his twin. It happened all throughout his childhood, his adolescence and way into young adulthood. Sometimes they had played that doppelgänger game on purpose, when they went thrifting through stores to steal cigarettes and liquor, or for the little shitty ploys Nedamir used to come up with. But it felt like betrayal, now that it was done to him -- he wondered if Nedamir had banked on it, if he was using Lev as a scapegoat while he himself vanished into thin air. Probably.

Probably all the worrying on Lev's part about his brother's disappearance had been for nothing, after all. Probably the anger he also felt, for which he felt absurdly guilty at the same time, was much more warranted than he allowed himself to think. First Petrov, and now this.

He lifted his eyes, studying the other's frame, letting his gaze travel up to the unfamiliar, slender face, framed by blonde hair.

"Mikhael", he murmured, tried out the name on his tongue as if it would tell him something about the other man. Had Nedamir ever mentioned that name? Perhaps. It rang a familiar note in the back of his head, too far away to reach.

Lev felt very, very tired all of a sudden. The way his arms were pulled behind his back made his shoulders ache. His muscles felt sore and the cuts and bruises on his body were swollen and achey, but it was nothing compared to the emotional exhaustion that swallowed him up in a big, all-consuming wave.

His brother was everywhere, always. There was no running from his shadow, there never had been, and all of a sudden it felt like there never would be.

"Mikhael", he repeated, and his tone was dry now. His eyes rested on that face that told him nothing, except that perhaps Mikhael seemed like the kind of person that would be Nedamir's type, beautiful in a ragged, uncaring way. "I hate to break it to you, Mikhael, but you're barking up the wrong fucking tree." He snorted, eyes shifting to take in his surroundings again. It was high time to come up with an exit strategy, because whatever this fucker wanted from him, he could not rely on a mere intuition that he would not have the guts to snuff Lev out if it came down to it. After a moment, his eyes found the blonde man before him once more, and he spoke his next words provocatively slowly, as if the other might be too stupid to understand. "My name is Lev. Nedamir happens to be my brother. And whatever soap opera shit the two of you have going on, it has nothing to do with me. So I'm asking nicely, in fact I'm gonna tell you pretty fucking please, untie me and we're gonna walk away from this and never gonna speak of this again. Okay? No harm, no foul." He jerked his taped hands, once, as if to prompt the other to cut him lose.
 
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MIKHAEL

mood: somebody kill me... haha jk... unless? outfit: it's called fashion, look it up

There's a saying to always expect the unexpected.

Mikhael never really understood that sentiment. If, for example, a frail old grandma decides to rob him at gunpoint, how is he supposed to see that coming? Or if his apartment were to suddenly combust into flames, how could he have possibly foreseen that? When it came to most things - not just heists or relationships or plans - Mikhael was much more at home in spontaneity. Most of his life involved simply doing the damn thing and double-crossing his fingers it actually works out. This plan was hardly different in that regard. He thinks even the blind would be able to tell this whole kidnapping business was thrown together by emotion building up for three years rather than any sort of logic. Even he knows this wasn't his best work, but it's like all the anger and hurt finally broke like water from a dam and this was simply the result of that.

Maybe he should have waited. Maybe he should have thought it over more before striking, because what happened next had the potential to traumatize Mikhael for the next fifty years. At least.

Something wasn't right; about Ned, about this whole situation. The more Mikhael talked, the more Nedamir looked like he had no idea what the fuck was going on. It would be insulting if it didn't make Mikhael feel like he was the one missing something, like there was a crucial part of this puzzle right in front of him. It made his uncertainty only grow larger under the other's obvious confusion - but before he could figure out just what it was that made this whole scene so wrong, something in the other man's expression changed. As if he was the one who just found the puzzle piece and slotted it right into place. Something in Nedamir's features clicked, an expression akin to realisation flickering over them. Silence followed for a second or two, frail and awkward.

And then he started laughing.

It was a sharp, mean sound; more like something born from a feeling much uglier than joy. It sounded like a person laughing not because they're delighted, but because they didn't know what else there was to do. It was Mikhael's turn to gape in bewilderment, staring down at the man's shaking frame like the other just dropped from the sky. What in the fuck? Did Nedamir think this was a joke? There was no other reason for him to be laughing his ass off, unless MIkhael really did hit him too hard. Rage bubbled up in his stomach, red and burning at the thought of doing all this and being fucking laughed at like a little kid presenting in front of the class. His teeth clenched together in anger, fully intending to punch the laughing piece of shit out when the other mumbled something too quick for Mikhael to catch.

'Mikhael.' Ned mumbled the name like it was wholly unfamiliar to him, like he hasn't said it a thousand times before. The other's beaten up face lost what little life it had left, replaced by utter exhaustion that truly didn't fit the man Mikhael remembered. Just what the hell was wrong here? The clothing, the hair, the demeanor - the face was the exact same, but everything else was completely out of place. Like finding everything in your apartment shifted just slightly to the left. The other started again, tone weary as if he was the one being inconvenienced.

'I hate to break it to you, Mikhael, but you're barking up the wrong fucking tree.'

Huh? What?

'My name is Lev. Nedamir happens to be my brother.'

Huh.

Mikhael blinked for a few seconds, the words settling in his mind; before promptly crossing his arms with an unimpressed snort. ''Wow, okay. There's no way you can think I'm that stupid. The evil twin shtick? Really?'' And here you'd think them being together for two years would have taught Nedamir how the hell to come up with better lies. That's actually kind of embarrassing; like, really? Did he forget to pay attention every time Mikhael lied straight through his teeth? There's no fucking way he can believe Mikhael of all people would fall for a bullshit excuse like this. Even a Sunday morning cartoon villain wouldn't believe that.

And so Mikhael waited, for... something, really. For Ned to say 'welp, you got me!' and start laughing. And then Mikhael can start laughing, too and say 'at least you tried' and then he can throw Ned into the fucking river to drown. He's more than ready to do that. He raised an eyebrow when the other didn't do exactly that - in fact, Ned's expression was as serious as before. There were no tells of a man lying to be found, but it only served to make Mikhael more pissed. ''Yeah, sure. I'll let you go. I'm sure this is all just some biiiig misunderstanding.'' Mikhael rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could, returning the tone of a teacher explaining math to a particularily daft student. ''You threw me off with that 'crackhead chic' you got going on, sure, but come on. I know you don't even have a bro-''

Mikhael's words fell short before he could finish the sentence, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait. Hold up for a second. Nedamir. Having a brother.

The words were awfully familiar, in a way that made the back of Mikhael's mind ring like a warning bell. Lev... did he hear that name before? He doesn't think so, but there was a half-forgotten memory lurking somewhere beneath that. When did Ned mention something about a brother...?

Oh. Oh, no.

He remembers - vague and hazy and undetailed, but there - a conversation they had long ago. They were at a party, he thinks, or maybe just a club. Funnily enough, about the only thing Mikhael could recall clearly was that he was wrestling a piece of confetti out of his hair, all while Nedamir talked about...something. Something important. A story, he thinks. He mentioned that he did something stupid with his brother once; what exactly, he can't remember, but Mikhael had laughed. It was a small, insignificant talk - but he remembers thinking 'oh, so he has a brother.' Just another piece of information he stored somewhere in his mind, at the very back to never be touched again. It seemed like a sore subject and really, it's not like Mikhael had any right to poke into Ned's past. The other had the decency to drop it whenever Mikhael avoided his questions with quips or jokes, and so Mikhael did the same for him. They had a mutual understanding to not ask too many questions about each other's pasts and there was never any reason to break it.

Mikhael was suddenly willing to pay any amount of money to go back in time and interrogate him.

He had to make sure. He had to, because if this person in front of him was who he said he was, then Mikhael was ready to throw himself out of the highest window available. It was more anxiety and the Red Bull mixed with coffee he had an hour ago piloting his hand to grab on Nedamir's (?) hair roughly, turning his head with almost wild eyes. The face was one Mikhael knew intimately, but the details were anything but. The scars he remembers being there were gone, replaced by totally different ones. He could practically feel the face in front of him shifting from Nedamir, giant asshole extraordinaire, to...

Somebody else. His brother.

Nedamir had a fucking twin brother running around and Mikhael didn't fucking know about it.

Mikhael snatched his hand back like it had been burned, stumbling back. His mind was slowly grinding to a halt to process this enormous amount of fuckery, his face losing all color. He didn't know what else to do other than to squat down, giving Chavela Vargas an expression that could be best described as the face of a man that just got kicked in the nads while also fighting off severe constipation. ''He didn't tell me he has a fucking twin.'' He murmured, voice tight.

And here he thought his life couldn't get any worse. It's...not even that suprising, actually. He should have known that there's no way things could possibly go his way, because when do they ever? No, Mikhael is an innocent piñata and life is an angsty, armed thirteen year old whose parents are going through a divorce. It's just inavoidable things are going to go so fucking wrong.

It almost made him laugh. He could practically feel his entire family sobbing softly in disappointment. Mikhael Abraham Baez, the golden boy and apple of his parent's eye, accidentally kidnapped his ex's twin because he went to prison for a crime both he and Ned did. Now there's something to destroy his family's will to live.

He felt surprisingly calm in the face of such a gigantic fuckup, but he knew it to be temporary. You ever felt so absolutely pissed that you simply feel serene? Because that's what Mikhael was feeling right now. He might have his weaknesses, sure, but don't let anybody say that he's not good at making it look like he wasn't going through all the five stages of grief at once. ''Wow. Just...wow.'' He didn't know what else to say other than that, all ideas for clever remarks leaving him. Mikhael dragged his hand over his face, trying to put it all together.

So...Nedamir has a twin. A guy named Lev, that looked just like Nedamir if he gave up on high name brands. And Lev was a rude asshole, it seemed - Mikhael didn't know if it was the anger at being hit over the head and dragged into a basement or just his nature, but he'd put his money on both. It would be more surprising if any relative of Ned's wasn't an asshat, but Mikhael was going to give him the benefit of the doubt considering it was Mikhael's fault he was here.

''Well...This is awkward.'' Mikhael straightened back to his full height, offering a smile - it wasn't the one that made old ladies pinch his cheeks when he was a child or the million dollar one that bought him friends wherever he went. It was a tight, too wide smile he used as a sort of defense mechanism when things go wrong. Threatened? Smile. Held at gunpoint? Smile.

Abso-fucking-lutely embarrassed? Just smile and act like it's all fine.

''I...yeah, I guess this is a big misunderstanding. I didn't know he had a twin, so...Did anybody ever you that you two look super similar? I mean, of course, but also... Sheesh. That's crazy. I really thought you were him.'' He didn't know what the hell to say - so he just let his mouth run him, blurting out every dumb thought he had. Mikhael scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, thinking of what to do. This whole night turned into a direction he didn't expect, and now he was at a loss. He knew, logically, that he can't keep this guy in here - he wasn't Nedamir and even if he was his twin, Mikhael would feel like a pile of shit if he didn't let him go. His morals were shaky at best, but he still didn't like involving people that had nothing to do with his business. He had the decency to realize he fucked up, even if Mikhael and being a good person were two very different concepts. ''Shit. I'm - so sorry. About the whole...'hitting you over the head and kidnapping you' thing. Shit. Are you okay? Wait, dumb question. Ignore that.'' He let out a nervous chuckle, smile tightening. Yeah, obviously he's not going to be okay, genius.

And now what is he supposed to do? Lev asked him to be cut loose because this had nothing to do with him, which, reasonable request - but Mikhael was still aware that this was a delicate situation. Mikhael can handle himself, but looking at this guy...he could probably choke slam Mikhael into the ground and not break a sweat. Not that that was a very difficult thing to do; he thinks even a group of determined two-year olds would have a chance at him. And maybe, just maybe, if word came out that Mikhael had his brother captive, then Nedamir would come out of hiding.

Mikhael licked his lips in consideration, glancing at the ceiling. His morals and the more self-serving part of himself were having an epic battle, fighting over what to do.

In the end, his somewhat existing morals won out. Mikhael let out a long, heavy sigh, tousling his already messy hair to a point of no return. ''Fine. I'll let you go. I guess I owe you that much.'' He swifly went behind the other, unlocking the handcuffs with a soft 'click!' Shoving the metal into his pocket, Mikhael tensed - only to relax a tad when the other didn't make a move to punch his face in. Lev didn't seem to be in the best state to be attacking, so maybe there's some good to that concussion. ''Fuck, I'm sorry. Like, I'm serious. I really didn't plan for such a plot twist.'' He pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the headache circling like a predator waiting to strike.

''It's just, Nedamir shoot me and I - you know what, doesn't matter. Do you maybe know where he might be? I just... want to talk. As you can see.'' He doesn't think he can do anything for the way he must look to this guy. He probably seems like a batshit insane kidnapper. Really, Mikhael was usually much more laidback than resorting to hitting people over the head. It's just, well. Everything. Maybe explaining the context would help, but he's not sure he wants to say 'hey, your twin is my ex and now I hate him! Shit's crazy, huh?' It would make Mikhael look like a crazy ex, which he's not. Admitting you dated somebody's family member was awkward as it is, much less when you put said somebody in a gloomy basement.

coded by natasha.
 
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Those next few minutes up to the moment Lev was finally freed of his cuffs were nothing less than an emotional roller coaster ride in which Lev was a mere passanger of his abductor's quickly changing emotions. He couldn't do much more than watch the blonde man stumble through this extraordinary set of revelations. Lev saw it all, through a haze of his own subjective worries: The dawning realization, the disbelief, the anger that, for a worrisome moment bordered on aggression --

As a long-fingered hand gripped into his short hair so tightly his skull stung and ached, and the pale face hovering above him was a grimace of disbelieving hurt and rage, Lev thought that if the other had a gun, or even just a knife, he'd be stabbed dead right then and there. His stomach dropped, and his skin tightened, his face went numb. Lev simply looked at the other man, eyes narrowed and lips a thin line of disgust. He expected at least a punch, and when it did not come, when instead the abductor let go of his head, he hunched, letting out a stream of air.

His abductor's behavior was too erratic to allow any sense of relief. The one moment he was angry, the next Lev saw him hunching on the floor with his back half-turned, and if he was out-of-his-fucking-mind angry or simply desperate Lev could not tell.

Lev let it all wash over him, his eyes never once leaving the other man, walking around in his gray shirt and without shoes. The guy may not be a professional killer, but Lev also knew that most homicides were committed in fits of passion, and fuck him and his life but that guy was everything but emotionally stable at the moment.

"Well...This is awkward."

Lev wholeheartedly agreed. The smile on the blonde's face seemed too big and bright and entirely false. And for a small moment there, still minutes before he would actually be let go, he saw the doubt flicker across the other's features. Saw the calculations he ran through his head, even as he was rambling some nonesense about twins looking alike. Yeah, no shit, Lev thought but didn't say it, because you do not speak to an animal foaming at the mouth. He was angry, and tired, but he wanted to get out of this alive.

"Shit. I'm - so sorry."

The apology would feel more sincere if it weren't for the moment of indecision that followed; that moment in which Lev knew his freedom to hang on a very, very thin thread. The blonde was an amateur, that much was crystal-clear at this point. But he had enough self-preservation in himself to understand what freeing Lev could potentially mean to him, and Lev could hardly fault him for that, but he did anyway.

None of this was his fucking fault. He had no desire to be used as bait for a brother that would not give a shit anyway (and that realization was what really fucking hurt), only for the guy to realize in what deep shit he was somewhere along the line and be killed in a fit of rage or desparation and then disposed off in some back alley.

"Fine. I'll let you go. I guess I owe you that much."

"How very fucking gracious of you", Lev said, but when the man stepped closer, he visibly flinched. But there was no assault, and the next moment he felt the handcuffs come lose around his wrists. Lev closed his eyes for what felt like the longest moment in his life. The relief washed over him with such intensity that it almost felt like shock. It turned his limbs to jelly and blocked out any coherent thought. He moved a moment later, drawing in his numb arms in as he waited for his blood to circulate again.

Fuck, I'm sorry. Like, I'm serious. I really didn't plan for such a plot twist.

His abductor was still rambling on, but Lev hardly registered the words. He tried to get up, but overbalanced, and before he knew it the world tilted and the concrete floor rushed closer. He hit it shoulder-first, missing the pool of his own vomit by mere inches. The impact knocked the air out of his already deflated lungs. Dried blood stuck in his hair; the back of his head was a mess of crusty-brown blood, swollen and ugly.

He cursed, getting his legs up under him to scuffle away from where he perceived his abductor to stand. He did not come far before he hit a wall. He propped himself up against it, the concrete soothingly cool against his heated skin. He blinked to make out an exit, eyes roaming around in a half-panic. He was too out of it to run, and he knew it. His head spun like crazy. He felt like vomiting again.

His eyes flitted across to the blonde guy, who was saying: "It's just, Nedamir shoot me and I - you know what, doesn't matter."

"Sounds just like him", Lev spat. He did not know who he was angry with: That dimwit that had blindly abducted him because he mistook Lev for his brother, or Nedamir himself. Lev blinked against the persistent blur that abscured his vision. His whole body was a single tight knot of pain, it felt like, but it was his head that seemed about ready to explode.

Do you maybe know where he might be? I just... want to talk. As you can see."

For a moment, Lev did not think he heard him right. "You gotta be shitting me. Talk?", he spat, his own anger rising all-too-ready to the surface again. "That's what you call talk?" He scoffed. "Even if I knew where my brother was, which I don't, do you really think I'll tell you? What, so you can beat him up instead of me? Kill him?"

Lev knew he should be careful what he was saying to that bundle of raw nerve endings over there. Better not to give him any ideas to take his anger out on Lev; he was free of his shackles, yes, but still cornered and beaten bloody in a goddamn fucking basement. His mouth snapped shut. He gritted his teeth. Half of the damage was Petrov's fault, of course; the worst the dimwit had done was badger his head in. While that certainly was bad enough, he had not beaten him, had not shown any excessive or unnecessary violence. That blonde, scrawny guy in his Walmart t-shirt, sporting the bold declaration "If There's no Bingo in Heaven I'm not going" may be an emotionally ill-adepted, gigantic fucking idiot, but he was not a sadist.


Desperate, yes, and Lev was not conceited enough as not to know that Nedamir could do that to a person. Hell, he had done it to him, time and again, hadn't he?

The worst part was, he did not even know why he still felt that decades-old urge to defend his brother.

"Listen, Mikhael", he heard himself say, schooling his tone into a semblance of calm, "I meant what I said. No harm, no foul, but I'm not gonna help you get to Ned. He's a gigantic asshole, I'll give you that, but he's still my brother and if you want to murder him, good luck to you but that's not my fucking problem."

He snorted.

"I have enough problems of my own thanks to that dipshit, I don't intent to become an accessory to his murder." He shook his head against the drowsiness that threatened to overtake him completely. "In fact, you're just another one of his problems that he magically transformed into one of mine. Just another one on that pile of shit he left behind. Damn it. He's really good like that, you know. A real headache. But you probably know that."
 



MIKHAEL

mood: going thru it outfit: it's called fashion, look it up

For one crazy, wild second, it almost seemed like the guy was going to throw up again. His stone rigid shoulders only seemed to drag further into his back when Mikhael uncuffed him, body tense and unmoving. But the stiffness is gone a moment after, Lev slumping like his body suddenly couldn’t hold it’s own weight. The other man tried to stand - only to promptly fall to the cement floor with a dull thud. The movement was almost reminiscent of a baby deer trying to walk for the first time.

If said baby deer also had a fist-sized wound at the back of its head. Mikhael cringed at the sight of brown hair sticking together over dark blood and torn skin as if he wasn’t the one to put it there. Yikes, now that is going to need some stitches.

Seemingly getting his wits about him, Lev moved again. There wasn’t must space to go on before the other leaned against a wall, looking very much like a cornered animal ready to bite and claw and tear it’s way out. Mikhael could tell he was pissed from the way he spat out ‘sounds just like him’ at Mikhael’s words, but it didn’t seem like the same breed of anger he felt; Lev’s seemed more desperate. More fearful. Which, okay, is understandable if you’re stuck in a basement.

It bubbled forth at Mikhael's question if Lev knew where Nedamir is - Lev looked at him like wasn't quite sure what the hell Mikhael said, spitting out his next words. ‘You gotta be shitting me. Talk? That’s what you call talk?’ The other scoffed, obviously anything but convinced. ‘Even if I knew where my brother was, which I don't, do you really think I'll tell you? What, so you can beat him up instead of me? Kill him?’ Well, when you put it that way… Mikhael leaned his elbow on the precariously wobbling chair, nose scrunched up in sheepishness. ‘‘No…? Yes…?’’ He tried before shaking his head tiredly, giving up on even considering making his case. ‘‘Listen, man, there’s no way I can talk my way out of this. Hell yes I want to kill him.’’ Yeah, yeah, human life is imporant, you shouldn't kill, yada yada yada, whatever. As bad at that might have sounded, it's not like Mikhael takes any pleasure in killing somebody. Taking a life always left an empty pit in his stomach he has to fill for weeks before he feels okay again. He didn't just wake up one day thinking 'welp, I'm bored, I want to kill Ned now'. Believe it or not, he thought over and over again if he really wanted this - and the answer is a yes, hesitant as it is. ''Or at least beat his ass. I'll take anything at this point.''

Not that he actually expected Lev to react any different. There is simply not one reason why Nedamir’s twin would jump with joy at hearing somebody wants to kill him. And on the other end, there were endless reasons why he wouldn’t want to tell Mikhael shit - even ignoring that blood is thicker than water and all that, does he even have to say it? If somebody were to not only break his skull in two and then chain him up somewhere, the first two words out of Mikhael's mouth would be 'fuck' and 'you'. He wasn't exactly making a compelling case.

It's not like somebody (much less his identical twin (yes, his head was still seconds away from exploding over this revelation, thanks)) wanting to protect Nedamir was a concept he couldn't wrap his head around. Shit, go back three years ago and you'd see Mikhael doing the same fucking thing. Oh, Nedamir wouldn't do that! And even if he did, he didn't really mean it. Nedamir can do no wrong. There's no way he could possibly be a manipulative piece of shit only looking out for himself. Mikhael knew first-hand just how easy it is to fall into that cycle of forgiving and defending his every fault.

It's like wanting to take a shower and not knowing you have a broken water heater, in a way. Now that's a really shitty experience, especially because you have to stick around to figure it out. There you are, sticking your hand under the running water and waiting for it to turn warm, right - and it sucks, but you're optimistic because hey, it takes a while, sometimes. The water is still cold as shit, even after a while, but a part of you refuses to believe it won't change. So you insist and yet no matter how long you wait there, there is only cold water to greet you. You let it run and run, because it's gonna warm up eventually. Right?

Except it never does and you're standing there in your underwear like a goddamn idiot, your hand turning icy. And then when you do give up, grumbling your way out of the bathroom, you see that the heater is busted. But your landlord is an asshole so you know that shit isn't getting fixed anytime soon and so you're stuck with cold water.

That's what it was like. Now, Mikhael is well aware that this metaphor might make him sound insane, but his therapist said putting your problems into metaphors helps with dealing with them - and Karen is never wrong.

So yes, Mikhael gets it. He understands why Lev wouldn't talk.

Doesn't mean he has to like it.

Besides that, this guy claimed he didn't even know where Nedamir is - it was a small fact in a rush of angry words, but it still stuck in Mikhael's mind. He leaned a bit further on the chair, eyebrows climbing up his forehead as he looked at the other. He was far from convinced. Again, there was no reason for Lev not to lie - and maybe it was unfair to put somebody in the same box with their twin just because they're siblings, but hell, Nedamir's a liar. Would make sense for his brother to be the same. Or maybe this was on him. After all, bad people think everybody around them is bad, too.

Thieves never leave their belongings unaccounted for. A murderer can't understand hesitance to kill. Liars doubt the words of others.

And Mikhael has been lying from the moment he could talk.

Brown eyes flickered over the other's features, searching for a crack or tell or sign that he was lying. Easier said than done, considering the man's half-wild state. Mikhael suddenly regretted he didn't think to ask him questions before releasing him, but there was nothing to be done about that now. If Lev really was lying, there was no point in asking, anyway. Mikhael will find Nedamir, sooner or later.

...Probably later. Gone were the days when Mikhael could simply call up his informants and find any person he's looking for. With his information lines dissolved like a spider's web in water, he knows he won't be able to find Nedamir with a snap of his finger. Really, he thought Ned has gotten lazy or was feeling careless when he found him this easily - until it turned out to be... well. This fucking mess. And since it turned out he didn't even kidnap Ned, but his fucking twin, this means he's going to have to put a lot of work into actually finding him.

Mikhael grimaced at the thought, already knowing what that will entrail. That means visiting some of Ned's friends - and he severely doubted they will talk. Even if he asks very nicely.

'I meant what I said. No harm, no foul, but I'm not gonna help you get to Ned. He's a gigantic asshole, I'll give you that, but he's still my brother and if you want to murder him, good luck to you but that's not my fucking problem.' Lev offered after that, tone a few shades calmer from the outburst of before. The pained tension was still obvious in the line of his shoulders, but at least he didn't look like he was going to bite him if he came too close. ''That's fair, I suppose.'' He pulled himself up, lips narrowed into a thin line. He smoothed his expression into something more neutral, like when he's trying to talk himself out of a shitty situation. ''I just hope he's paying your hospital bills.'' He mumbled to himself, face disbelieving. Somehow, Mikhael thinks he already knows the answer to that.

'In fact, you're just another one of his problems that he magically transformed into one of mine. Just another one on that pile of shit he left behind. Damn it. He's really good like that, you know. A real headache. But you probably know that.' Lev continued wearily, making Mikhael's lips quirk into something half-way genuine when the word 'headache' came around. Even in the screaming and chaos of his own mind, Mikhael couldn't help glancing at Lev's busted head with some intent. Yeah, he's a real headache, alright. God, he really wanted to comment on that one - he truly did, but he's afraid just how well that would fly with the other man. He stifled the smile as fast as it came, deciding to keep his comedic genius in the safety of his own head. But another problem? Mikhael thought of what he heard - somebody looking for Nedamir. Lev cursing him out and saying something about money. He's pulling this out of his ass, but did Lev get dragged into something Ned did? Because if so... whew. That's rough. ''What, you mean the bruises?'' He narrowed his eyes on the black and purple and yellow littering Lev like some shitty watercolor painting. ''I was wondering about those. Uh, weird question, but did Nedamir piss somebody off...?'' Maybe it's not even anything to do with Ned - maybe Lev didn't pay up during poker night and now he got his ass beat up. But this whole business stinks and he needed to confirm what he suspected even before.

Mikhael shook his head at that, the headache of a life time circling closer and closer. Well played, Nedamir. Well played. He wouldn't put it above that asshole counting on something like this happening. He ruffled his hair again - God, he's probably going to get a heart attack when he looks into the mirror - glancing at the cold cement floor. It gave him no comfort.

He looked back at Lev, tired and glaring from his place by the wall. Mikhael stiffled the shaky breath threatening to make it's way out, steeling himself into what could possibly pass as having his composure under control. ''Lev.'' He paused on the name, almost sure he didn't pronounce that right, ''Believe or not, I didn't actually want to hurt you. I wanted to hurt Nedamir and yeah, I get it, brothers and all that. But he took away three years of my life.'' Five, if you count the time they were together, because he was wasting Mikhael's time. He pointedly decided not to mention that. ''I won't get that shit back, but I at least want revenge. Regardless if you're okay with that or not.'' He gave a weak shrug, trying not to seem like he was stuck in some hell feeling of being too nervous and too tired at once.

''I do feel bad hitting you over the head, though.'' The blonde grimaced, almost writhing his hand - before he thought better of it, letting them fall to his sides. ''Look. There should be some first aid kit or something lying around, so I can give you that if it helps. And then we can get you out of here.'' Though how they're going to do that with both of them in a safe distance, he doesn't know. They'll just have to figure that shit out. ''I can drop you off somewhere so you can go home. Take it or leave it, I don't care. I can drop you off in the middle of the city centre, if you want, but I'm not letting you waltz out of here just like that.'' Having somebody see one of JJ's hideouts - even in the darkness outside - put an unpleasant feeling in Mikhael's gut that he didn't want to ignore. He wished suddenly he didn't leave his gun and jacket upstairs, but Lev has been reasonable so far, so hopefully he won't have to get it to threaten him into listening. That wasn't... really his strong suit. ''You don't have to trust me, but you can trust I have enough self-interest not to want you here. And I don't want body to deal with, either. Alright?'' Now that would ruin this already bad fucking night beyond repair.
coded by natasha.
 
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"Hell yes I want to kill him. Or at least beat his ass."

"Make up your goddamn mind", Lev snapped. The thread of his patience had rubbed thin under the grinding stone that was his abductor's contradictory behavior. Lev could not make up his mind about that guy who one minute evoked something like pity in him, and the next outraged disbelieve, and the next a senseless fear that, if it festered, Lev would hold against him for a long time. He was acutely aware of the dismal state he was in; scrambling like a coward, his back literally against the wall. He hated himself for it. Hated the nervous fluttering in his stomach that would not quite subside, hated how flustered and angry he let himself become.

"What, you mean the bruises?"

Lev froze with the instant realization that he had said too much. He did not want to give an inch, not to a little piece of shit that almost knocked his brains out, and yet he had been blabbering. Had let his mouth run away from him as it always did when fueled by anger. Think first, Ned used to admonish him, before you speak. But he had never learned that particular lesson and came to regret it for the umpteenth time in his life. His abductor hovered over him like a dye-blonde scarecrow. The pale face was lighting up with a peculiar expression that Lev could not read.

"Weird question, but did Nedamir piss somebody off?"

"Take an educated guess", Lev spat, eyes narrowing. His anger became a facade brittle even to himself. He thought it obvious now, as the sharp brown eyes looked back at him. Amateur, yes, but not stupid -- far from stupid. Lev could not guess what was going on in that head; the blonde looked drawn and tired, now, something Lev had not noticed before.

The way he said his name made Lev's head perk up. There was a drawn-out pause before the other spoke again.

"Believe or not, I didn't actually want to hurt you. I wanted to hurt Nedamir and yeah, I get it, brothers and all that. But he took away three years of my life. I won't get that shit back, but I at least want revenge. Regardless if you're okay with that or not.''

His words lingered then settled. Like salt dissolves in water, Lev, entirely against his will, felt the first tender sprouts of understanding, sympathy even, for that man standing before him. Hell, hardly a man at all yet. A boy, pretty, lean and strung tight in all the ways that would attract your attention. The slant of his mouth, at times sardonic, betraying a wicked sense of humor; eyes over smooth skin alive with something that went deeper than anger.

... took away three years of my life.

"I wanted to hurt Nedamir."

Something ancient in Lev curled up tight and hot and angry at that statement, but instead of bringing forth a burst of profanities and threats, it left no more than a stale taste in his mouth. His protective instinct was strong as ever, and yet Nedamir's betrayal was fresh and bitter, and for once, Lev entertained the thought to let Ned fend for his own -- for real, this time -- to not come to his defense, even though he was his blood, and more than that, the only person he had ever looked up to, had ever trusted.

(Thought he could trust, even through all the bullshit; as if, deep down, there was a bond stronger than bullshit and piss and water and even blood.)

So instead of anger blurring out the blonde's next words, they sunk in. Deep enough, in fact, to sting like a twisted knife in the gushing wound that was the doubt he felt for Ned, and his intentions: He took away three years of my life. And just like that, the last, missing piece slotted into place, and the puzzle was complete. He barely heard the blonde's next words, even if their tone was subconsciously consoling -- the bashful regret was written plainly across the other's features and in his body-language. The suggestion of first aid, of being freed, sounded reasonable enough (sounded more than he could have hoped for mere minutes ago). Lev knew he would not be allowed to walk out of here on his own; even if the abductor was an amateur, he was not so stupid as to risk for Lev to take revenge the next best chance he could get it. That he suggested a drop-off was a good sign, a very good sign. It might just mean that Lev was to live another day, instead of bleeding out in a stranger's basement on his damnable brother's behalf.

But all that was just background noise in Lev's ever-busy mind. All that was suddenly secondary to the revelation:

"You're the boyfriend", Lev heard himself say. His eyes must have grown wide as saucers (as wide as the swelling on his left would allow). Astonished, he stared at the blonde man, and tried to fit what he saw with the boy he knew from the pictures. "You're Mikhael."
 
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MIKHAEL

mood: going through it outfit: it's called fashion, look it up

He could tell; from the way Lev froze up in the distinct way of somebody who's just told too much. He was fast enough to catch himself a moment later, eyes again wary and hateful, but was all the confirmation Mikhael needed to cradle the side of his forehead and stare upwards to the flickering light. His mind was too sluggish, too fast at the same time. It rushed tear apart this information that's been confirmed, but all he got was a slow, cold tide washing over his thoughts.

'Ah. So I was right.'

Somehow, being correct bought him absolutely no satisfaction.

The headache paced no longer - it's sharp teeth sunk in inch by inch, threatening to bite down further. He has an uncanny hunch that he's just uprooted something far more complicated than he has any right to know, and he's not sure how to feel about it.

He supposed he could let it rest. It would be incredibly easy to do so. After all, this isn't his business. He could cut his loses here, apologise to Lev for the traumatic head injury, drop him off wherever and then piss off to his apartment to think of a new plan. Preferably on that doesn't cross Lev and this pile of bullshit. And really, Mikhael can find Nedamir on his own. He doesn't have to touch this unless he wants to and when it comes to more trouble than it's worth, Mikhael decides simply to not be there.

This screamed trouble from all the way over here.

It would be easy to just leave it.

And yet when he looked again at the other man - bloodied and world-weary and watching like a hawk - he couldn't help but wonder.

'We both got fucked over, didn't we?'

It was a ridiculous thought and he knew it. He can't possibly pretend to understand a stranger, much less one whose only connection with him is bad blood and being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Hell, he was blissfully unaware Lev even existed until a few moments ago. It's ridiculous, yes, but Mikhael lingered on it anyways. Even through his flush of embarrassment, Mikhael could see some hesitance lingering beneath Lev's snarling words. Beneath the burning anger and something panic fueling. 'You're just another one of his problems that he magically transformed into one of mine. Just another one on that pile of shit he left behind,' Mikhael thought again, the words ringing differently in the wake of new realization. Maybe it was just the fascination humans have with mirrors; he's an outsider looking in, staring at something that rang true years ago but still hurts when pressed on too much. It felt like - well, not a connection, of course, but more like... Some kind of odd familiarity. One of those nods you give to another kid who's also been put into detention.

Maybe Lev felt some of it, too - the burning hot hurt. Or maybe he didn't at all and Mikhael was projecting his own sorry ass problems on words spat out in angry thoughtlessness. The guy did say, very nicely (as nice as situations like this go, anyway), that Nedamir is his brother and to fuck off.

...Yeah. Probably projecting. Or maybe not; as good as he is with people - or maybe because of that - he's still aware just how blurred the lines between person and others can get. He only wished he wasn't so tired, so unbalanced and embarrassed. This whole interaction felt like some weird fever dream, with his brain burning with nervousness to the point everything seemed too sluggish and too fast for his liking.

But embarrassment and awkwardness aside, Mikhael settled on not dragging both of them just yet, if only to sate his own curiosity as to what in the fuck is going on.

He opened his mouth again only a moment after finishing his explanation, about to say something definitively not as smooth as he'd like.

(Didn't get too far.)

Something shifted in Lev's expression; he didn't need to know or understand him to see the sharp intelligence working in blue eyes, going through puzzle pieces Mikhael couldn't see. Whatever Mikhael wanted to say died in his throat, unsure for a second - when Lev's eyed widened in some kind of revelation, gaping like the whole world has lied to him all his life. And then -

''You're the boyfriend,'' he said, looking at Mikhael like he's only now seen him. ''You're Mikhael.''

It was Mikhael's turn to gape again.

You know - they just met and all that, yeah, but Mikhael is starting to suspect this guy has some uncanny ability to make people around him stare like idiots on his every fifth sentence. Shit isn't natural.

Mikhael didn't say anything for a heartbeat or two, shocked; before leaning off the chair, scratching his neck uncomfortably. Welp. The gig is up, everybody. Guess there's not any point in avoiding it any longer when it gets thrown out in the open like that. ''Ex-boyfriend, yeah.'' He offered an awkward, vaguely hesitant smile. He didn't know what to really do about the bone-deep awkwardness he felt go even steeper, especially not while Lev was looking like he's just found all the answers to the universe. He supposed he should give some explanation, something, anything to make this not so stiffingly uncomfortable when his own realisation made him tense up.

Oh, shit.

He didn't quite panic, not yet - a heavy knot tightened in his stomach at the knowledge at Lev knew about him and it made Mikhael worry about what else he knew. He supposed it would be unresonable to think Ned to not have mentioned him at least once. They've known each other long enough for it to be expected. But what else did Ned mention? Mikhael never told him about anything that could bring danger upon them both (not about a burning city tearing itself apart, not when he can barely acknowledge that in the quiet of his own mind), but he still had trusted Nedamir enough to tell him personal things. And really, he'd much rather if that didn't get out, especially not to some person he doesn't know. Look, he wouldn't put anything past Ned at thisbpoint. Excuse him if he's a bit worried about him airing Mikhael's dirty laundry just to spite him.

The blonde stifled his reaction by squatting down again (which he sorely regretted because now he's closer to the vomit and he'd really rather stay away, but now he can't), not quite able to meet Lev's wide gaze fully. "So he did mention me, huh? Only good things, I hope." His tone dripped with sarcasm as he rested his chin in his palm, quirking an eyebrow.

"But hey. I know who you are, too." The man finally met the piercing eyes looking back (didn't quite like how much it reminded him of a bloodhound, perceptive and sharp - didn't like that this guy wasn't stupid, even if that was too much to ask for), trying to keep from glancing away. Easier said than done, but Mikhael has been doing this for a while - forcing eye contact is something he's learned to do after years of stumbling. "You're the poor guy that got involved with, what, Nedamir's debt?"

He repeats, once again, just in case it wasn't clear the first time - yikes.

coded by natasha.
 
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