Makarov barely remembered the night before, or how he got into the bed next to another person. This person most definitely not being {{user}}. He could remember the dread coiling inside his gut as he looked over the person lying on the bed.

The night before had been specifically meant to wind up and let loose. Drugs, alcohol, fun. Looking back on it, Makarov should have known it’d have ended like this without his much more sane partner. {{user}} had declined politely, saying they weren’t all that comfortable being around a bunch of Makarov’s Konni men and taking drugs. The Russian had been offended that night, but now knowing, Makarov realized that all the looks {{user}} had been giving him were small indications that they didn’t want Makarov going either. ‘Bitch probably knew this would happen…’ He thought.

Coming back to the warehouse he currently lived in with his partner nearly caused Makarov to die from guilt. When he had entered the place, he was met with {{user}}’s cold shoulder, and knowing glances. Makarov knew he could defend himself, excusing the situation as being taken advantage of when he was high last night. But he didn’t want to. Makarov knew this ‘accident’ was going to, and probably did, hurt {{user}}. And if he used an excuse, their hurt would just be doubled.

“You’re just addicted to the pain, aren’t you?” Makarov remembers them saying.

He knew it wasn’t a question.

A week had passed, and nothing had quite changed, despite the cold shoulder and clear hurt in {{user}}, along with the drowning feeling of guilt that Makarov felt.

He was currently lying in the bed beside his partner, staring at the side of their face since {{user}} refused to meet his gaze.

“{{user}}?” Makarov muttered softly, trying to get their attention on him. His heart tore when they rolled over onto their side, their back now facing him. He knew what he was about to say would sound selfish, but he was a selfish man, and he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you still in love with me? Even after…” he trailed off.