The crack of a belt could be heard in the silence of the apartment. He didn't dare move an inch of his muscle. His body stiffened at the sound and his eyes widened with a shock of horror and panic. He took a step back... and another, and another, and another. The man stood in front of him, belt in hand, wielding it as a weapon. His smile held nothing but malice; nothing like the joy that used to shine from them. Only now was it apparent that the joy had always been fake.

He tried braving himself and took yet another step back, his pace getting faster to avoid the man's intense gaze that followed his every movement. And before long, his back met the cold touch of the wall. But suddenly, the belt clinked as it fell, the metal buckle meeting the tiled floor. He moved closer, studying the cowering man's every feature. It was then that he noticed the tears that had been free-falling on the other man's cheeks; like hot rivers, scalding and wounding.

"Net, net, pozhaluysta, ne plach'," He said, his voice deceptively tender, but his eyes were anything but.

"Ostav' menya v pokoye!" The other man shouted. Though the quiver in his voice gave away his fear. He glanced at the belt on the floor with a look of terror. This was going to be harder than usual—the blows of a belt won't break bones, but punches might. "Požalujsta..."

He lifted an arm, fist on the ready. And in a lightning speed, knuckle connected with a jaw.

----------

He jolted up on his bed, forehead and back covered in cold sweat. His breathing was ragged and heavy as more sweat dripped down his head, making his auburn hair stick to his forehead. Burying his face in his hands, he groaned as a wave of panic, fear and uncertainty crashed on him. It was still two o'clock in the morning, as the alarm clock on his bedside table told him, and there was no way he could ever go back to sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was him.

He got up from his bed on shaky legs. After he felt steady enough, he moved to sit on his desk. He drew the curtains and opened the window, letting the cool air of the night hit his hot skin. The city looked different in the dead hour of the night. There were still some lights left turned on in a few buildings in the distance. He could hear the bark of a dog somewhere in the street below. The silence and serene atmosphere of the night didn't reflect the heavy feeling in his chest.

Folding his arms on the desk and resting his head on them, Remy let a few fat drops of tears slip. Soon, the tears came in a steady flow, dripping down his chin. And after a while, soft sobs escaped his lips. He had learned how to cry quietly after spending so much time in that cursed house. The memory that he had so desperately tried to hide away in the back of his mind resurfaced, bringing back all the pain, sorrow and helplessness that he'd felt.

It had only been a year since he left him after two years of hell.

He remembered how he was so perfect. Those dark onyx eyes always held a spark of mischief in them—Remy always felt like a bullet had shot through him every time he saw those eyes. And he had his charms; a way with words, making everyone feel flattered and fell on their knees for him. Remy used to love it. Not anymore.

Every time he remembered him, he never remembers the charm; he remembered the anguish and misery instead.

His body shook slightly as the sobs kept coming. He had no way of stopping them from coming, and he had no intention to. He had been hiding this for so long that the ache in his chest had become almost unbearable. He'd always chosen not to think about it or forget about it if he could, but at some point it always comes back. The nightmare was new, however. He hoped it wouldn't come again—though knowing he had the same exact dream the previous night, he didn't know what else to think.

There were times when Damien reminded Remy of him. He didn't know why or how. Perhaps, it was how Damien made him feel at ease, just like he did. Or maybe, it was the snarky way Damien spoke which reminded him of the charm that he had. He didn't want to think about it too much; didn't want to be scared of his own soulmate. Though, another part of him was shouting in his head in alarm, warning him about how just because he's your soulmate, doesn't mean he can't hurt you, too.

Remy didn't know what to think of Damien. He could see Damien was nothing like him, though he couldn't help but shake at the mere thought of it. And it felt wrong to be scared of Damien. He knew little about Damien, but he remembered how his soulmate had broken down in front of him; how his soulmate had accidentally told him about tangled mess that he felt.

Remy didn't know what to think of Damien. He only hoped that Damien wouldn't turn into what he was to him; a nightmare.

With his head still buried on the crook of his elbow, he reached an arm under the table, rummaging through his messenger bag for his journal. When he couldn't reach for it, he groaned and pulled the bag onto his lap. He looked through the bag again and again, but he couldn't find his journal. "Chert poberi," he cursed quietly. Where did he leave it?

----------

Damien woke with the morning light shining on his face. He must have forgotten to close the curtains last night when he went to bed. Yesterday was uneventful. Patton went outside in the morning and didn't come back until a little bit later in the late afternoon. His brother had mentioned something about meeting Logan, but he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to Patton's rambling. Damien himself hadn't left his room in a few days.

Getting up with a groan, he went to the living room outside without making a noise. The space was clean of mess aside from the occasional candy wrappers that littered the floor. Looks like Patton had been careless with the trash—nothing unusual. All the curtains in the room were drawn, bathing the place with a warm light through the sheer material of the curtain. He walked across the small room, sitting on one end of the couch. That was when he noticed something tucked at the edge of his seat. A brown leather sketchbook.

The outer edges of the journal were stained with various colors and crinkly. He flipped through the pages, finding beautiful and intricate pencil sketches. Flipping through more pages, he found watercolor paintings decorating the pages. The first painting was of a hand holding a knife with a snake circling the forearm. The dark background completed the hauntingly beautiful painting. It was as though the hand was trying to wrestle it's way out of the snake's grip and was unable to stab the snake with the knife—that would mean the person would stab themselves, too.

He continued flipping through the pages, he wondered who the owner of the sketchbook was. Half of the sketchbook was still empty—off-white papers unstained with colors. As he went through the drawings once more, it was then he noticed the small name written in neat calligraphy at the bottom of the inner front cover.

Ремус Галаничефф

Seeing the Russian alphabets staring back at him, he could guess who owned the sketchbook. There was only one Russian who ever step foot in his apartment. He will have to return the book to Remy. How did the book get here anyway?

Knowing that the pictures inside were Remy's, he looked through them again, trying to analyze their meaning if there were any. The last one was a pencil sketch—one that he didn't notice before. A pencil sketch of Damien himself. It was a half body drawing, allowing Remy to put more details; the complicated waves of his hair, the sharp nose and the defined jawline. One eye was shaded more heavily than the other, perfectly capturing his heterochromatic eyes. He traced his fingers over the soft lines of the pencil, admiring a portrait of himself.

He closed the book, bringing it back to his room. He reached for his phone next to his pillow and contemplated whether he should text Remy.

From: Me
To: Remy
[08:02]
Hey, Rem? U awake?

He shut his phone off again, going back to the sketchbook that was still in his hand. 'Why would Remy draw me?' He went back to the earlier paintings in the first few pages of the book. There were small dates in the upper corners of each page. The first paintings and drawings were made earlier that year. Most of them seemed to have a darker theme. His favorite had to be the sketch of a broken hourglass that was drenched in black ink.

His phone buzzed.

From: Remy
To: Me
[08:06]
Hey, hun. U good?

From: Me
To: Remy
[08:06]
I'm fine. I found your sketchbook.
I like your art.

From: Remy
To: Me
[08:07]
Thanks, milaya. I'll get it later.
And also, don't look at the last few pictures.

From: Me
To: Remy
[08:08]
Why not? I look way more handsome in ur drawing.

----------

Remy had been awake for six hours now. His eyes were heavy, but he didn't intend going back to sleep. The text messages from Damien had refreshed his mood a little bit. He smiled as he read the last text Damien sent him. Shaking his head, he sent another text to tell Damien that he was coming over to take his journal.

From: Damien
To: Me
[08:12]
Actually, can we just meet somewhere else?

From: Me
To: Damien
[08:12]
Where?

From: Damien
To: Me
[08:13]
Jacked Up Coffee?

The suggestion brought a smile to Remy's face. That coffee shop held a lot more meaning to him than most people would think. He wasn't sentimental, but considering Jacked Up Coffee was the first place he ever been in the United States, there bound to be some kind of attachment. He let out a long contented sigh as a grin made its way to his face.

From: Me
To: Damien
[08:14]
Sure! See ya in a bit, milaya.

----------

"So," Remy started, stirring his coffee, "feeling better?"

"A little, I guess." Damien took his beanie off, fiddling with a loose thread. He still felt a weight in his chest, but talking to Remy and Patton had helped him carry the weight. It still felt heavy, yet bearable somehow. "I didn't really want to go out, but I was bored, so..."

"Yeah? Well, I sure hope y'get better, milaya." Remy sounded upbeat, yet Damien noticed something to be off. He couldn't put a finger on it.

"How 'bout you?" Damien looked down at his drink, "You good?"

"'Course I am! How dare you question me?!" Remy said with fake disbelief. A smirk was playing on his lips.

"Okay, then," Damien smiled. His smile widened as he took the sketchbook out of his bag.

"Hey, gimme that!" Remy reach out, trying to snatch the book—and failed as Damien pulled the book back out of Remy's reach. "Don't look at my stuff."

Damien ignored him, flipping through the pages until he found the sketch he was looking for. He held the picture next to his face for Remy to see. "Does it look the same? I think your drawing looks better than the real thing."

"Ugh," Remy groaned, his eyes lit up with joy behind his ever-present sunglasses, "give it back!" warmth bloomed in his cheeks when he saw Damien's teasing smirk.

"Why you draw this?" Damien asked, admiring the drawing again. "You could've drawn anything."

"Exactly, milaya, I could have drawn anything. And that's what I chose to draw."

"Oh, well, I'm happy to keep you entertained."

Remy rolled his eyes playfully as he was finally able to snatch the sketchbook back. Something soft and warm settled in him after seeing Damien starting to come back to his playful and snarky self. Not in full force, but it was coming back. However, the warmth immediately fled when he remembered the event from last night. He didn't want what that to ever happen to him again. He hoped Damien was not like him.

"Hey," a soft voice broke through his thoughts, "are you sure you're okay?"

"What? Oh, of course, milaya. I'm gonna continue my sketch now," Remy said quickly, changing the topic. "Stay still and be a good model!"

He took out his drawing kit from his messenger bag and started sketching Damien's profile. Having a life model directly in front of him helped a lot. He could get a lot more details that way. He would occasionally kick Damien's leg under the table if he moved too much.

As he closed his sketchbook and shoved it into his messenger bag, the unsettling feeling in his chest grew. It was as if something was trying clawing its way out of his stomach. He sighed, furrowing his brows when his nightmare from last night came back yet again. He bit his lips anxiously, not noticing Damien's attempts to get his attention. It was when he felt a comforting weight on his shoulder that he looked up.

Damien was no longer seated, but standing next to him. He couldn't help but lean into the touch even though he was still unsure of Damien. He'd worry about that later.

"Let's go somewhere else. You won't tell me what's wrong, so let's just get your mind off of it," Damien said, taking Remy's hand and towing him along to exit the coffee shop. "It helped me when you talked to me that time."

Remy sighed, having no other option but to follow. He promised himself he would never tell Damien about Varden Dominic.

**********

Hello everyone! This had been yet another addition to the story. I think this story fic is going to be a long one, so I hope all of you will stick around until the end. Do give some suggestions and feedback in the comments if you think anything could be improved. Thank you for reading!!!

See you in the next one!
---
Russian stuff:
Нет, нет, пожалуйста, не плачь.
Net, net, pozhaluysta, ne plach'.
[No, no, please don't cry.]

Оставь меня в покое
Ostav' menya v pokoye
[Leave me alone]  

Пожалуйста
Požalujsta
[Please]

Чёрт побери!
Chert poberi!
[Damn it!]

Милая
Milaya
[pretty; sweet(ie); honey]