Chapter Text
Royce sat alone in his room, the night stretched thick and heavy around him, but he paid it no mind. The city outside Brighton Island pulsed with sirens, with life, with chaos — noise he had long since learned to block out.
The only sound that mattered now was the one that played over and over through the small speaker of his phone.
Ilya’s voice.
That same voicemail.
That same moment trapped in time.
A soft laugh, warm and untouched by the bitterness that would come later.
Words spoken without edge or anger, just Ilya — happy, unguarded, his accent curling around Royce’s name like a promise.
Royce’s fingers tightened around the phone. He played it again. And again. And again.
It should have soothed him.
It should have made the hollow inside him feel less vast, less echoing. But it didn’t. It made him furious.
Not at Ilya — no, never at Ilya — but at this situation.
At the world.
At everything that had forced them into this distance.
Because this? This silence between them? It wasn’t his fault.
Royce refused to believe that.
He had done what needed to be done.
He had made choices, yes, but they were the only choices.
What did people expect? That he’d lay down his crown, his name, his bloodline — for what? For a boy who should have understood him better than anyone?
Ilya should have known. Should have seen. Should have forgiven.
Royce had been forced to break him. Forced. And if Ilya truly loved him, truly belonged to him the way Royce belonged to Ilya, then what was there to forgive?
Love wasn’t about easy moments.
It wasn’t about soft words and endless forgiveness. Love was war. And Royce had fought that war every single day.
So why hadn’t Ilya?
Royce’s jaw clenched as the voicemail ended, leaving a ringing, hollow absence behind.
His thumb hovered over the play button again, his chest tight.
It wasn’t weakness that made him listen. No, not weakness. Obsession, maybe. Need. But not regret.
Regret was for men who had done wrong. And Royce? Royce had only done what was necessary.
He thought of Ilya’s face — the way it used to light up at the sight of him. The way it looked now, cold, closed off, those dark eyes that once held softness for him now sharp enough to draw blood.
But it would change. Royce would make it change.
Because no matter how far Ilya ran, no matter how high he built his walls, Royce would be waiting. He always was.
After all, it wasn’t a question of if Ilya would forgive him.
It was only a matter of when.
And when that day came, Royce would be there — arms open, smile sharp, ready to claim what had always been his.
He pressed play again.
And let Ilya’s voice fill the room like a prayer he refused to stop reciting.
….
Meanwhile, Ilya sat in the quiet of his room — a quiet so deep it pressed against his ribs like weight.
The four walls around him formed a cocoon, yes, but never comfort. There was no warmth in this silence, no peace.
Comfort, for Ilya, had always been found in one place.
Royce’s arms.
The kind of comfort that came not from safety, but from belonging. From the way those arms would curl around him, drawing him close as if the world couldn’t touch him as long as Royce was there.
But those were good old times.
Times when Ilya’s laughter came easy, when his smile wasn’t something he had to remember how to shape.
Back then, life had colour. Even in their world of bloodstains and sirens, of knives hidden in boots and guns tucked under pillows, Ilya had believed in colour. In red sunsets and golden mornings, in the way light would glint off Royce’s hair, in the green of Brighton’s parks where they used to sit and dream like they weren’t born to ruin.
But that was before.
Before Royce taught him what grey was.
Before Ilya learned that love could be another kind of weapon. That betrayal didn’t always come from enemies — sometimes it came from the hands you trusted most, the ones that once held you safe.
He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes shut, heart heavy.
The memory of Royce lingered, always lingering, like smoke he couldn’t clear from his lungs.
He hated him.
He missed him.
And that was the cruelest part of all.
Because even now, in this silence, in this self-made exile, Ilya knew the truth:
No cocoon of walls, no locked door, no distance could change the fact that comfort, real comfort, had Royce’s name carved into it.
And he didn’t know if he would ever feel it again.
…..
Sometimes, when Ilya followed Jeremy, watching chaos unfold like a well-rehearsed symphony, his eyes would drift to the sight of Jeremy trailing after Landon like a dog desperate for scraps.
Jeremy — proud, terrifying Jeremy — reduced to begging.
For forgiveness. For a glance. For a hand that had hurt him just moments ago.
And Ilya would wonder.
Not aloud, never aloud.
But in the quiet corners of his mind, he’d let the thought unfurl like a bitter petal.
Would Royce ever do that?
Would Royce Sorokin, with his cold smirks and calculating eyes, ever chase someone down the way Jeremy did — clumsy with guilt, raw with want, foolish with love?
The answer never changed.
No.
Royce would never.
Because Royce didn’t beg. Royce didn’t apologize. Royce didn’t love like that.
And if he did? It had never been Ilya.
Not really. Not in the way that mattered.
Royce had played his part well — the boy who made Ilya believe in forever. But beneath that soft-spoken charm, there was always strategy, always the mind of a Sorokin — a boy born of bloodlines and power, not of affection.
To Royce, Ilya had never been a heart to protect.
He had been a pawn.
A loyal piece on Royce’s chessboard, useful while the game lasted.
Expendable once it didn’t.
And now?
Now Ilya wasn’t even a player anymore. He was a scar.
So he turned his gaze away from Jeremy and Landon’s storm of violence and devotion, ignoring the hollow ache blooming beneath his ribs.
Because even if he had once believed Royce might have bled for him…
He knew better now.
Royce Sorokin didn’t bleed.
And he definitely didn’t bleed for boys like Ilya...
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