Leon leaned against the brick wall behind the debriefing room, lungs tight, heart louder than it should be. The mission was a success—again. Clean, precise. He and Koschei were moving like a flawless machine now. And that terrified him.
He wasn't supposed to feel anything for him.
But there was something about the way Koschei moved through darkness. The way he covered Leon's blind spots without hesitation. The silence between them, sometimes intimate. Not cold—never cold, not to Leon anymore.
And tonight, it had been unbearable.
When they were waiting in the van after extraction, Koschei turned to him with a look that burned through the mask. Just the eyes—icy, sharp, blue-grey. The kind of gaze that saw too much.
"You're distracted," Koschei said simply.
Leon swallowed. "I'm fine."
"You're lying," Koschei replied. "And I think I know why."
Leon tried to laugh it off. "You think I'm into you?"
Koschei said nothing for a moment. Then, calmly: "Are you?"
Leon looked away. "I have someone."
Koschei leaned closer. Not threatening. Just near. Too near.
"Then talk to him," he said, voice cool and steady. "But if you still want to… feel something you shouldn't—come back. Just one night. No names. No faces. One night to break the tension."
Leon stared.
"You're serious?"
Koschei nodded once.
And then he left.
—
That Night
Leon came home late. The apartment was dim and quiet, the kitchen untouched. Mikhail hadn't been home again. Just the cat, who curled up on the couch like it was normal.
Leon sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees.
He didn't know what hurt more—the guilt of wanting someone else, or the ache in his chest every time he saw Koschei move like Mikhail. Sound like him. Feel like him.
"Fuck," he muttered into his hands.
He didn't call out. Didn't text. Didn't ask Mikhail if he was okay. He just laid down on their empty bed and stared at the ceiling, heart pounding with things he couldn't say.
Somewhere across the city, Mikhail stood in front of a mirror, mask in hand.
He'd seen it all in Leon's eyes. The guilt. The hunger. The confusion. And maybe—just maybe—a touch of the same desire Mikhail had buried every time he looked at Leon through that black visor.
He reached for the mask again, this time not to wear it… but to remember it. The identity Leon had fallen for without even knowing.
"Let's see how far you'll go," he murmured to himself, voice soft, cold, tired.
But somewhere, beneath the coldness, was a faint tremble. The kind that came only from loving someone far too much to let them go—even if it meant watching them fall in love with your shadow.