goncharov x andrey. this is inspired from a fic on ao3 but i can't find it. AAAHHG

i made the meme above. im so funny guys omg 

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Blood bubbled at his lips, crimson blotches stained his shirt. Goncharov coughed, a streak of blood dripped down his chin. He clutched his stomach from where the stab wound stood out from his pristine white dress shirt. The man heard a yell from someone, who turned out to be Andrey, chasing away the stabber with a gun. Goncharov heard threats from Andrey, then a loud crack in the silent air. A gunshot. The sound was ever familiar to Goncharov. It never left his head and it never made him flinch anymore. The only sound that scared him was the ticking of the clock, the chimes echoing through the halls, haunting and pursuing him. Too quick. It was all going by too fast.

Goncharov's eyes flickered to his wristwatch. It was a nervous worrying habit. The ticking synced with his heartbeat, making him tremble. Why was the world against him?

The clicking of boots on pavement. Goncharov looked up. The grim face of Andrey was unforgettable. The man hurried towards the his wounded rival?, grabbing his arm and pulling him up with a gentleness that surprised Goncharov. "I killed him," Andrey assured, taking off his waistcoat and wrapping it around Goncharov's wound. He tried not to think about the touch of Andrey's hands on his waist, the intimacy, the closeness, the care. Why did he care? Goncharov removed his hand from his wound, the scarlet stain coating his palm. Andrey lead him to Goncharov's rustic home, heading up the steps. He opened the door with his keys, about to step inside, when he noticed that Andrey was following him in. "You're coming in?" He questioned.

Andrey nodded. "You'll need care to that wound, Goncharov," he reasoned. "I'll take care of it for you."

Goncharov's injury pulsed angrily with pain as if it was telling him not to object to Andrey's care. He stepped back and allowed the man to enter his home, something that was often done on late nights when Katya was out. The two men held tense meetings in Goncharov's home, something that both men could never disagree to, as they both longed for any kind of interaction with the other. Whether these meetings ended in guns being pointed, or a warm conversation, neither cared for the outcome. 

"Where do you keep your aid-kit?" Andrey asked. Goncharov pointed to a cupboard by his kitchen. Goncharov settled himself down on a chair, wincing as pain shot through his body. Why has he so weak recently?

Andrey returned, aid-kit in hand. He swung it onto the nearby table and crouched by Goncharov. He reached out to gently move the waistcoat aside, stopping when Goncharov let out a small noise of pain. Andrey looked up at him, questioning if he should keep going or give Goncharov rest. The wounded man shifted in his seat and told him to keep going. He would live.

Andrey obliged, removing the rest of the now-bloodied waistcoat and set it aside. Goncharov reached down and removed his bloodstained shirt, tossing it on the table. On Goncharov's gut was a bright red wound. Andrey's eyebrows furrowed at the wound as he concentrated. He pressed gingerly at the skin around the injury and peered at it. It was deep, but Andrey didn't believe that it was life threatening. With his other hand, he grabbed a bottle of alcohol and a tissue. A drop of the alcohol soaked into the tissue and he was about to press it to Goncharov's wound, but then looked up at the man to confirm what he was doing, then dabbed it onto the stabwound. Goncharov winced, his whole body tensing as the alcohol burned. Andrey, without truly realizing what he was doing, took Goncharov's balled up hand, smoothed it out, and firmly grasped the man's hand in his. Neither of them really thought about it.

As Andrey worked on Goncharov's gut, the silence of the house was evident. The only sounds were the noises of Andrey using the aid-kit and Goncharov's breathing. Then another sound joined them, ripping through the air. The grandfather clock chimed throughout the hallways, echoing through the rooms, through doors and walls just to reach Goncharov, to haunt him. He felt himself begin to tremble at the sound, a bead of sweat racing down his temple. His heartbeat quickened. The clock didn't stop chiming. It reverberated through his ears until it was all he could hear, the overwhelming burden of time, the looming dread of his inevitable death that would come soon. He was unaware that Andrey had began to regard him closely, learning of his strange fear of the clock.

The clock gave its last threatening chimes, and Goncharov could hear again. Although he wasn't any less fearful, he could concentrate on the world around him. His eyes met Andrey's. His gaze was unreadable. A trickle of dread wormed through Goncharov's stomach. How much did Andrey know about his fears? Did he know that Goncharov was terribly worried about death? He must. Both Goncharov and Andrey knew that one of them would kill each other. They didn't really know why, or how, or when, but it would happen.

They never found it strange that they regarded each other with a desire to kiss and a desire to kill. But others did. They didn't understand why other people found this strange. It was just a part of their long-time relationship. 

"You seem agitated," Andrey commented at last. His tone betrayed no hidden emotions.

"That clock drives me mad," Goncharov answered flatly.

Andrey stood up, shuffling the objects back into the aid-kit. Goncharov felt dreadful as he regarded his wristwatch. It ticked by each second, precious time wasted. Everything was slipping away. "I'm running out of time, Andrey," he said quietly, barely audible.

Andrey had put away the aid-kit and had turned to Goncharov, regarding him in silence. He never said anything in response to the other man's fears. Instead, he simply took a cigarette box from his pocket, offered Goncharov one, and the man took it gratefully. He leaned in close to Goncharov's face, their lips only seperated with the cigarettes. He lit them both aflame with a flick of his lighter. The two stood barely inches apart, gazes never wavering from the other. Smoke billowed in clouds around them, rising in the air. 

For whatever the future may hold, it would not be their problem now. For a moment, they may take a moment to catch up to the clock.