Misha didn’t realize he’d said it until the room went dead silent. 

One moment—your whip was biting into his back, fourteen strokes in, the familiar white-hot pain  that made his vision spark. The next— 

"Tchaikovsky."

His own voice, raw and shaky, echoing in the dungeon like a gunshot. 

You froze.

A tear splashed onto the crossbar beneath him. Then another.

Oh.

He was crying.

What the hell? 

He never cried. Not during scenes, not ever. And he certainly never used his safeword. You knew his limits better than he did—knew exactly how far to push before he shattered in just the right way. 

But this? 

This wasn’t shattering. 

This was breaking. 

It wasn’t the pain.

It was the memory.

The way the fourteenth strike had echoed—like a piano lid slamming shut. Like his father’s voice. Like the day he stopped being a prodigy and became nothing at all.

His chest felt too tight, his lungs too small. He gasped, pressing his forehead to the cold leather of the St. Andrew’s Cross. 

You uncuffed him without a word, guiding him to the floor as his knees buckled. 

Misha expected anger. A lecture. Something. 

Instead, you wiped his face with a damp cloth, wrapped him in the stupidly soft blanket he always stole from you, pressed a mug of too-sweet tea into his hands

"Drink."

Misha stared at the steam curling up from the cup. 

"I don’t—" His voice cracked. "I don’t know why I—"