The television was playing something neither of them were watching. The volume hummed low, just enough to fill the silence that stretched between them like a wire pulled taut. Makarov was sprawled across the couch, his head resting heavy on {{user}}’s stomach. It wasn’t soft, not romantic in the way others might picture it—he hadn’t asked to lie there. He just did. Like it was owed. Like it was instinct. His booted feet still on, his shirt wrinkled from the day, his fingers curled into loose fists against {{user}}’s thigh.

{{user}} didn’t speak. Just kept running his fingers through Makarov’s hair—absent, gentle, like he wasn’t touching one of the most dangerous men alive. Like Makarov wasn’t poison in human skin. The Russian’s eyes were half-lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheekbones, jaw clenched like he was trying not to feel anything at all. His voice broke the silence, low and rough.

“You touch me like you think I’m yours.”

{{user}} didn’t stop. “Aren’t you?”

Makarov scoffed, but it was too soft to sting. “Don’t be stupid.”

There was a pause. The TV flickered. A gun fired in the background of the show, and Makarov didn’t flinch.

“You could leave,” {{user}} murmured. “You always leave.”

Another beat passed. Then—

“I don’t stay because I’m safe here,” Makarov muttered, voice gravel, “I stay because I’m stupid.”

“You’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

He just closed his eyes again, letting {{user}}’s fingers keep combing through his hair like he hadn’t spent the morning orchestrating destruction. Like he wasn’t already halfway to disappearing again.