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nicodefresas · 11 months ago

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—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤdividers⠀ ಿৎ

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

✧:･ﾟ( ̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:̲̅]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅ ) ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ( ̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:̲̅]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅ ) ･ﾟ✧

___________ ⋆♱✮♱⋆____________

»»————-　✼　————-««

﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

»»————-　★　————-««

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌࿔♱࿔﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

»»————-　　————-««

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

___________ ⋆♱✮♱⋆____________

»»————-　➴　————-««

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

≿————-　❈　————-≾

⊱ ━━━━.⋅ εïз ⋅.━━━━ ⊰

───── ❝ 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 ❞ ─────

𝄥𝄞────────── 𝄇

✥﹤┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈﹥✥

◈𝅒 𝅓 𝅒 𝅓 𝅒 𝅓 𝅒 𝅓 𝅒 𝅓 𝅒 𝅓 ◈

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

➽───────────────❥

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢⌢

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉ 𓆩 ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𓆪 ﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ໒·͜:)𑇓⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

ⳮⷤ ── ⲇ ── ⳮⷤ

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kazu-naito · 18 days ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐖 — dmitry x yan

heaven's secret requiem | rating M | @rc-catalog

tw: blood, detailed description of wounds, suicidal thoughts

🂷

Dmitry's hands were shaking. His eyes were glistening with tears he refused to shed. Yan was looking at him in disbelief, the pain from his injuries momentarily numbed as the pain on his heart overshadowed it all. He had risked his life for Dmitry — over and over again he had risked his life for the general, his general. And this was what he got in return, a look that harboured a thousand emotions at once — pain, regret, anger, fear, hatred; but most of all, resolve. Dmitry didn't want to do this but he did, he will, he always will. Yan's own eyes glistened with tears now, mirroring Dmitry's, he knew what was coming next as the general's trembling hands gripped the gun tighter and aimed it at him. He didn't have a particularly good life and he was losing the only thread of it that ever made him feel seen, loved.

"N-no... please, no...!" he breathed out with difficulty, his injuries slowly taking hold of him. "I don't des-" he looked at Dmitry with pleading eyes, "I don't deserve this!"

Dmitry couldn't hold his tears anymore, letting them silently soak his face. "Look at yourself Yan! You have it!" he gripped the gun even tighter, his knuckles whitening, "You know there's no cure Yan! I can't- I can't let you turn, I can't bear it!"

Yan looked at him pleadingly, fighting against the physical and emotional pain. "Please..." he grimaced in pain, "I'm not an animal for you to put down Dmitry!"

"It's not my fault Yan, you know I have to."

"When I said I was yours... When I said I trusted my life to you... This is not what I meant. You were mine too, Dmitry. I loved you...!"

"I'm sorry... for all of it..." Dmitry rasped

He closed his eyes, hands trembling even more, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot tore through the silence like a scream, sharp and final. But instead of silence, Dmitry heard Yan. A shuddering gasp, a choked whimper. He had missed. The realization hit him like a second bullet. Instead of mercy, he had given Yan agony.

The sounds that followed were worse than any silence could have been — thick, suffocating, desperate, pressing down on Dmitry like the world's weight was on his shoulders. Each ragged breath Yan took was a knife twisting in Dmitry’s chest. Each weak, gurgling moan was a condemnation. He could hear the blood, the way it bubbled in Yan’s throat, the way his body fought against the inevitable, clinging to life with trembling hands, feeling the betrayal.

Dmitry turned away, refusing to look. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as if he had been the one shot instead. His vision blurred, his knees threatened to give out beneath him. The gun slipped from his shaking fingers, clattering against the ground. The sound too loud, carrying the weight of his actions, almost like a judge's gavel. Guilty.

But Yan was still looking at him. His eyes, wide and blurred with pain, looking at the one who was supposed to protect him, as he slowly died by the same hands that had held him so lovingly only a day before. His eyes were pleading without words. "Look at me. Look at what you’ve done." His lips parted, trembling, but no sound came out — only blood. His fingers twitched, reaching for something, anything, but there was nothing left to hold on to.

Dmitry couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t face him. Couldn’t bear to see the betrayal and fear in Yan’s eyes, the love that had been there only hours before now drowning in pain and confusion.

A tear rolled down Yan’s cheek, cutting through the dirt and blood. His chest rose —once, twice— then stilled.

And just like that, he was gone.

Dmitry didn’t need to look to know. The silence told him everything. This time, it was absolute.

Dmitry wanted to walk away, he wanted to forget this ever happened. But Yan's words echoed in his head — if he left then Yan really would be no different from an animal fated to slaughter. No. He couldn't let that happen. The least he could do was face what he had done. He owed Yan as much. So with great difficulty, he finally turned around.

Yan lay motionless, his body still, his expression frozen in that last moment of betrayal — eyes wide, lips parted mid-plea, smeared with his own blood. Dmitry’s knees buckled. He collapsed beside him, his hands hovering over Yan’s chest, trembling too violently to touch him. He wanted to reach out, to cradle him, to beg for forgiveness, but what right did he have? What right did he have to touch him now?

A choked sob tore from his throat. He pressed his forehead against Yan’s shoulder, fingers finally curling into the fabric of his coat, gripping it like a lifeline. The warmth was already fading, replaced by the cold wetness of blood.

"I loved you..."

Yan's last words reverberated in his skull, merciless, unrelenting. He had known. Of course he had known. He had felt it in every glance Yan had ever given him, in every reckless act of loyalty, in every quiet moment between them when the post apocalyptic world had allowed them to breathe. And Dmitry had loved him too — desperately, silently, selfishly. He had loved him even as he raised the gun and pointed it to his head.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to contain his emotions. The tears came anyway, hot and unending. His entire body shuddered with the force of his grief, his breath hitching on broken, wordless apologies. He had told himself this was mercy. That it was necessary. That Yan would have done the same with him.

But Yan wouldn’t have.

Yan would have fought for him until his last breath. Yan would have carried him — bleeding, broken and infected — through hell itself if it meant keeping him alive, if it meant making a cure himself. Yan trusted him. And Dmitry repaid that trust with a bullet.

A ragged cry escaped him, raw and anguished like a wounded animal. Like the animal he made Yan feel during his last moments of life. He clutched Yan tighter, as if he could somehow pull him back, undo it, take it all back. But the body in his arms was already stiffening, the blood already darkening and drying.

He had done what he thought he had to. And it had destroyed him anyway, more than he thought possible.

Dmitry didn’t move for a long time. He stayed there, kneeling in the dirt and the blood, his fingers tangled in Yan’s coat, his breath coming in uneven, shuddering gasps. He refused to look at his face, refused to see what he did, refused to see the aftermath of how he prolonged Yan's suffering by not being able to aim properly. The world around him blurred — the ruins of the city, the distant groans of the infected, the coldness of the wind — none of it mattered. Nothing else mattered. The only thing that did now lay lifeless on the ground.

Eventually, his body forced him to move. His legs were numb, his muscles stiff with grief and exhaustion. He dragged himself up, swaying slightly, his vision swimming. He couldn’t leave Yan here. Not like this. Not in the open, where abominations could find him.

So he carried him.

It should have been harder. Yan was tall, strong, a weight Dmitry had once found comfort in. But now, he felt too light, as if the bullet had taken more than just his life. It had taken his warmth, his laughter, the way his eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled. Dmitry walked, step by step, each more agonising than the last, until he found a place that felt right. A quiet corner of the world, untouched by the ruin outside.

He dug the grave with his bare hands. The earth tore at his skin, the pain barely registering. When it was deep enough, he gently lowered Yan down, his movements slow, reverent. He hesitated before covering him, his throat tight as he looked at him one last time.

I loved you.

He wanted to say it back. But the words wouldn’t come. He felt unworthy of saying them.

So he buried him in silence.

🂷

The days that followed were a blur. Dmitry moved like a ghost, his body functioning on instinct alone. He continued his job. He fought. He killed. He survived. But he wasn’t living, not really. Every breath felt stolen, every step a betrayal.

At night, he dreamed of Yan. Sometimes, it was memories: Yan pressing close in the dark, Yan shyly touching his lips with his own, Yan holding his hand when nobody was around, Yan looking at him with an unshakable faith. Other times, it was worse: Yan bleeding, Yan begging. Yan, with his voice breaking as he said "you were mine too."

Dmitry would wake with a gasp, his hands shaking, his chest aching like the bullet had been meant for him all along. But still, he never talked of Yan, never allowed himself to utter his name again. Little did he know his actions were erasing Yan in a way worse than his father ever did.

🂷

Weeks later, he found himself staring at the mirror. The man who looked back at him was a stranger — his eyes were hollow, his face lined with grief. A grief no one knew about. To everyone else he had just lost a member of his squad, a friend at most. No one knew the depths of it all. No one knew about the shared nights, the whispers of broken promises, the emotional connection deeper than the Pacific Ocean.

He thought about letting go. One shot. That was all it would take. It would be only fair, and the pain would stop. The guilt would stop. The missing would stop.

But then he heard in the back of his mind, soft, like a whisper on the wind. "I trusted my life to you." The sound of his voice haunting him. Not a plea. Not a curse. A reminder. Yan had believed in him. Had loved him. And Dmitry proved him wrong in the worst way possible. He didn't deserve the mercy of death.

🂷

Yan's life was a quiet tragedy, a story swallowed by silence before it could ever be told. From the moment he was born, his father regarded him with indifference, a veiled hatred as though his existence were only a painful reminder of a shadow passing through an already darkened room. He grew up starved of love and affection, until one person truly saw him. And that same person, the only one who had ever made him feel real, became the hand that ended him.

What followed was a grief so twisted by guilt that it strangled memory itself. Dmitry could not bear to speak of him, could not endure the weight of his name. And so, Yan vanished. Not just from the world, but from the stories that should have carried him forward. His pain, his brief flicker of hope — even his death — all of it was buried, not in the ground, but in the suffocating silence of the living.

In a few years, there would be a vague memory of a man who had once fought against abominations. And then that would be forgotten, too. Goodbye Yan, we hardly knew you.

#getting this out of the google doc just bc its pride month #it will flop and i will cry #but alas #the divisors are on purpose btw hope someone gets the reference #romance club #rc hsr #rc yan #rc dmitry #rc fanfic #fanfic

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