ok i'm just publishing this shit because i like it. ik nobody will see this

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Katya remembered the first time she saw Goncharov. 

He was 26, she was 21. They were arranged to be married.

He walked into the foyer, the candlelight illuminating his shadowy gaze. His boots clicked on the shiny white tile, echoing through the vast hallways. Goncharov had smiled sincerely and politely at her, and she returned the gesture. When they headed out, Katya wove her arm around his, laughing and talking their way into the night. 

For an arranged pair, the two worked well together. Their personalities were similar, which often sparked arguments, but they would always laugh it off, blissfully uncaring. 

Goncharov held himself with a stoic, serious demeanor. He was intimidating, but Katya knew better than to fear him. Before she ever spoke a word to him, she knew that he was a vulnerable man. He was a man shadowed by despair, rather than evil.

She remembered how they had kissed then. Goncharov would buy her rings and beautiful clothes, he would kiss her sweetly, with love in his eyes. Katya knew that with his broken heart, she was his second love, and he would cherish her like the world.

But, being the broken man that Goncharov was, he told her that his name was Aleksandr, a name that Goncharov had told her was a lie. He then had told her that only one person would ever know his true name.

Katya still stood arm-in-arm with Goncharov, laughing and talking. They were still inseparable. They still argued. They would still kiss. But their romance was long dead.

Katya had found her own true love, Sofia. She was beautiful and wonderful and intelligent. Her pearls draped over Katya's neck, her lipstick stained her own lips.

Goncharov, too, had found his own true love. They were reunited, from years ago in Moscow. His first love, Andrey. When they found each other, it was impossible for them to separate. It was impossible for them to not fall back in love.

Katya and Goncharov, knowing their marriage was long dead, agreed that their relationships with their true loves would not be a problem between them. 

She cared about Goncharov. She really did.

But something had ever-so-subtly soured.

And it had turned into a gun aimed at Goncharov's head.

Andrey remembered the day he met Goncharov.

Back when he was just Mikhail, no fake names, no formalities. Just Mikhail.

At 15 years old, Andrey walked into the dark room, and was seated next to the 16 year old Goncharov, a boy who was the most beautiful person Andrey had ever seen.

That meeting had spiraled into years of spending time together. From late nights where Mikhail waited for Andrey to step off the train from Italy, to cold days in the winter season in Russia, to the very day their pocketwatches had ticked in perfect sync. That day, Mikhail had gripped his hands, loving brown eyes fixated on his own, telling Andrey that he wanted to die by his hands, and by his only.

Fate confirmed this, as Mikhail never died. His fate was up to Andrey, and nothing else was going to kill Mikhail.

As they went through shootouts, accidents, and even warzones, Mikhail survived. To everybody else, it would be skill or luck. To Andrey, he knew it was fate telling him that he had to do it.

As he patched Goncharov's wound, Andrey could hear the grandfather clock chiming from downstairs. The house was silent. Goncharov's steady breathing picked up as he heard the notes of the clock, and he stared at Andrey with such desperation that his own heart ached.

Andrey held out a cigarette for Goncharov, who took it gratefully, when he saw the pocketwatch gleaming in his pocket. The men huffed from their cigarettes, gazing at each other in the heavy silence. When they put out the cigarettes, Goncharov spoke quietly.

"I'm running out of time, Andrey."

As he heard those words, Andrey's heart broke. Desolation and hopelessness pulled at the broken fragments of his heart, and his chest ached.

Without realizing, a tear slipped down Andrey's cheek. He gazed wordlessly at Goncharov. The man regarded him sadly for a moment, then left the room with a nod.

The next day, the clocktower ticked throughout the night.

Andrey aimed his gun at Goncharov.

He wept.

And Goncharov kissed him goodbye.