i handed this in for an english assignment (but edited a little). my teacher liked it. LMFAOOO

andrey is such a sopping wet piece of cardboard i need to traumatize him more. i cant believe how insane i am over a joke fandom i literally hate myself.

nobodu will ever read this but content warning: suicide 

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A figure peeled from the shadows of the nighttime streets of Naples, boots clicking on the pavement. Andrey walked into sight, his face dimly illuminated by the moonlight. The sound of the clocktower echoed through the buildings and into the still air.

Goncharov was already there. He stood motionless, as still as a statue, cold and blank. But Andrey could see the emotion on Goncharov's slate cold face. His hands, buried in the pockets of his trenchcoat, did not reach for the gun that Andrey knew he had. Instead, his fingers grasped the cigarette pack in his upper pocket. He drew a cigarette out, and Andrey found himself going with their usual routine.

"Need a light?" He asked as always, holding Goncharov's dark gaze. A smile began to curl on his lips. He stepped closer to Andrey, who took out a lighter. Goncharov held out another cigarette for Andrey. 

The banker leaned forward, holding Goncharov's gaze with a ghost of a smile, and took the cigarette with his mouth. He then clicked the lighter, the small flame dancing in the reflection of their eyes as they leaned close together, breaths mingling in the air. They lit their cigarettes with one flame, but did not step back from one another when Andrey tucked the lighter away. A cloud of smoke coiled around them as Goncharov exhaled. Andrey fought the urge to cough as the intoxicating smoke filled his lungs, choking him.

Goncharov only stepped back as they tossed the cigarettes to the ground and stomped out the embers. "So, Andrey," he started, tone unreadable. "What are we doing here?"

Andrey frowned at him. "You know why."

Goncharov smiled. Fucking smiled. "Pretend I don't," he said. "Tell me why we're here by the clocktower."

In Andrey's pocket, his pocketwatch was still ticking away. He knew the damn thing was ticking in perfect, synchronized time with Goncharov's own pocketwatch, no matter how many times either watch had broken over the countless years. Ever since their time in Moscow where they were young and in love, they had learned that their watches ticked in perfect sync. That was when Andrey had looked him in the eyes and told him that it was fate.

Looming above them was the clocktower. Heavy, powerful hands ticked by each second. It was almost midnight-- but not yet. No, not until their time ran out.

"I'm here because Katya failed," Andrey said. "I have to do it now. It can't be any other way. You are destined to die to my hands."

The clock above them ticked through the night. It was a haunting sound, counting down their final moments. He saw Goncharov retrieve his gun, and Andrey thought for a moment that he had decided to kill him. Andrey realized that he felt no fear at the idea. 

But Goncharov's gun was not aimed at Andrey. Instead, it pointed upwards, towards the clocktower. With desperation, Goncharov fired, and the bullet hit the clockface with a loud crack. Glass shattered from the impact, littering across the ground.

But yet, even as the face broke, the hands continued to tick. A hopeless shadow crossed Goncharov's face.

"Time is something you cannot stop, Goncharov," Andrey murmured. "This is our fate. We've known it ever since we met."

Goncharov's gaze softened, slightly smiling. "And I am at your mercy, любимый," he murmured softly, his voice barely stirring the air. "I just wish that we could start over."

"I know. I agree," Andrey's eyes brimmed with tears as his heart ached with pain.

Goncharov sighed. Then, he hung his head in acceptance. "It is what it is."

Andrey felt a tear run down his cheek. "It is what it is."

He drew the gun from his pocket, the metal shining in the dim moonlight. Goncharov didn't flinch as he pointed it at him, but Andrey did. As Goncharov stood still, Andrey was trembling.

"Do it, мой любовь," Goncharov murmured. "This is our fate. I am ready." 

"But I'm not," Andrey choked out before he could even process his own words.

Goncharov looked sympathetic. The clock was ticking. Midnight was soon approaching. He strengthened his shaky grip on the gun, sobbing as he held Goncharov's warm, soft gaze. A single tear had rolled down the other man's cheek as he regarded Andrey. "I'm glad it was you," he said. "I want my last moments to count, and they will only count if they are given by the one I love."

He remembered how Goncharov had told him the same thing, years back. At ages 16 and 15, in the Goncharov family office, where they were still Mikhail and Andrey. 

Andrey gazed at him for a while. His finger rested on the trigger, and after a moment of hesitation, he said, "I'm sorry," and pulled it. Goncharov doubled over in pain, clutching his chest instinctively, but he still hadn't flinched as the bullet caved a hole into his heart. He was still smiling. It was a sad, pained smile.

Andrey rushed over to him immediately, the gun dropping to the ground with a crack. He kneeled down and cradled the bleeding man in his arms. Andrey sobbed and told him that he was sorry, over and over and over. 

"I love you," Andrey sobbed. "I love you, Mikhail Vsevolodovich Goncharov." He sniffed, lip trembling, his own clothes smearing with blood.

Goncharov gazed up at him with such adoration that it broke Andrey's heart. He slowly reached a hand up to cup Andrey's cheek, his thumb caressing his cheekbone, wiping away a trail of tears. "I know you do," he breathed. "You didn't miss."

Andrey felt a wail rising in his throat. He didn't know what Goncharov meant, but he had a feeling that it had to do with Katya's attempt.

"One last kiss?" Goncharov asked, still holding his hand on Andrey's cheek. Then, using all of his remaining energy, he surged upward like a drowning man, grasping Andrey, and kissed him with all of his dying force. Andrey melted into him, desperate to feel Goncharov one last time. He tasted wonderfully intoxicating-- tobacco, smoke, vodka, and the metallic tang of blood. Andrey had tasted it all before, but to taste it from Goncharov was like experiencing Heaven. 

Then, with his last breath kissed out of him, Goncharov fell away, his eyes now blank, his body limp in Andrey's arms. 

The clock rang out through the streets. 

Andrey didn't belong at Goncharov's funeral. But he was invited, and as he stepped into the funeral parlor, nobody objected. 

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and avoided eye contact. Everybody knew that it was him who had killed Goncharov, and thus, nobody really knew what to do with him. Their accusing gazes said it all. But Andrey knew, and they knew, that they would be glad to see Goncharov go. Everyone at the funeral was. Except for his murderer. How ironic.

But yet, nobody turned accusing eyes on Katya. Was he the only one at the funeral-- apart from Sofia-- who knew what she had tried to do?

Andrey made his way to Goncharov's casket. It was closed, with a couple roses draped over the mahogany. Goncharov's old heirloom pocketwatch sat alongside the flowers. A chill ran down his spine as he read the time on it. 12:00. Midnight. He knew that it would be stuck at 12:00, but seeing it in person scared him.

Andrey's fingers brushed against his own pocketwatch, tucked away in his pockets. He paused for a moment to feel for the hands ticking, but found that it was silent. Gingerly, he took his own watch from his pocket and brought it out to the light.

12:00. Midnight.

He sucked in a startled breath, and choked as he did so. Although Andrey was alive, he was truly as dead as Goncharov was.

After the funeral had ended, Andrey was approached by Mario. He had been there as well, as if he hadn't kickstarted the whole thing about killing Goncharov. Andrey felt burning hot rage in his stomach as he was pulled aside by the Italian man, who had even dared to look pleased with Andrey.

"So, you finally killed that bastard," Mario crowed, once they were out of sight. They stood in the back alleyway outside the funeral home. "It wasn't so bad, was it, banker?" He even dared to flash him a toothy grin. 

Andrey's jaw grinded as he glared dangerously at Mario. "I didn't do it for you, Mario," he spat, struggling to keep his composure. But he knew that his eye was burning with seething rage and disgust. "I did it because he didn't deserve to die by anybody else's hands but mine."

"Oh?" Mario said with amusement and hostility. "And who decided that?"

"He did. Years ago in Russia." Andrey spat on the ground in front of Mario's feet, pushing past him.

It was a rainy afternoon in Italy. Andrey stood in front of Goncharov's grave, face sullen. He stared blankly at the gravestone with a haunted expression, caused by nights of nonstop sobbing.

'Here lies,

Mikhail Vsevolodovich Goncharov

1934 - 1973'

He hated how insignificant the gravestone was. He also hated that it was in Naples, not in Moscow, where Goncharov belonged. Where their love began.

"I wish you could hear me, Misha," Andrey murmured. "I miss you. I'm so sorry. I wish we had time to start over." He grabbed his pocketwatch, staring at the tiny unmoving hands. 12:00. He ran his thumb over the frame, then placed the watch on the base of Goncharov's gravestone. 

Andrey straightened up, then stepped back a pace. "Goodbye, Misha," he said over the rain that began to pour. "I will always love you."

Then he turned away and walked out of the cemetery, hunching over in the downpour. The rain soaked his dark chestnut hair and dripped onto his face. Andrey made his way down the streets, passing by people with their curious eyes.

And then, he made it to the beach. With the wind blowing through his hair, Andrey gazed up at the gray cloudy sky, breathing in the briny scent of the Tyrrhenian sea. He saw gulls flying over the water, wildly flapping their wings to deal with the wind. He saw the waves crashing against the sand, heavy and powerful.

Andrey turned to the docks. There were a couple stray small boats that lay upon the sand. He strided across the beach to the small boats, and dragged one out to the edge of the water. Then, he slipped in, getting his boots slightly wet. Not that it mattered, as he was already soaked with rainwater.

Andrey drifted out to sea, steering himself out with wooden paddles. Out in the distance, he saw lightning split across the gray sky, illuminating the world with bright light for a split second. Soon after, thunder rumbled in the sky. The rain poured harder and the drops became bigger. 

With his thoughts on Goncharov, Andrey found himself crying. When the guilt and misery overcame him, Andrey watched as the storm became worse, and gave himself up to the crashing sea below.