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Chapter Text

Vladimir had been here before - countless times.

Enough to recognize the sweltering heat, the salt in his sweat, the roughness of Bush’s hands gripping his waist as he shoved him against the mattress.

The bedroom in the Texan estate felt small, the air stifling, pressing against Vladimir’s lungs. His cheek smacked into the pillow, his chest flattened against the hot white sheets as Bush drove into him with fast, brutal thrusts.

“Please, George,” Vladimir cried out. “Slow down.”

“It only hurts a little,” the American said, his fingers digging into the fragile skin of Vladimir’s hips. “You’re a good boy, Volodya. You can take it.”

Vladimir buried his tear-streaked face into the pillow, muffling his moans and sobs. His hands clenched; his eyes squeezed shut, his ears drowned in a cacophony of gasps, wails, and the rustle of sheets.

Vladimir must be good.

He must please Bush.

It would be over soon.

Bush chased his own pleasure until he came with a throaty moan. Vladimir’s stomach lurched at the sticky heat inside him. He tried to crawl away, but the other man’s massive body collapsed on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“See? Told you it would get better,” Bush muttered between satisfied pants.

Vladimir whimpered. His head still spun from the pain, his body lying like a broken doll beneath the American.

As soon as Bush rolled away, Vladimir scrambled to his feet and dressed. The Texan heat had seeped into the room, yet chills ran down his sweat-soaked back.

Behind him, Bush said in a drowsy voice, “You’re amazing, Volodya. You deserve a reward. I’ll sign the treaty tomorrow.”

Vladimir picked up his rumpled shirt from the floor.

“Thanks, George,” he said quietly. The room reeked of sex and debauchery. The stench clung to him as his plain white shirt covered the bruises and hickeys scattered across his flushed skin. He felt cheap. He felt used. The feeling didn’t fade even after he fled the room, not wanting Bush to accuse him of being clingy.

****

Vladimir’s eyes snapped open.

The world blurred before him - distorted, alien.

His head throbbed, and for a second, he lay still, unmoving, as though his body were still trapped beneath the Texas heat.

And then, sensations returned - slowly, but surely. First the warmth, then the softness of the mattress beneath him. Dim morning light filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows across the walls.

There was no oppressive heat, no heavy body weighing him down, no scent of sweat and sex clinging to the sheets.

Vladimir’s heartbeat steadied.

He was no longer in Bush’s estate in Texas. He was, in fact, in Beijing. Xi’s suite.

Vladimir sighed. He wanted to curl up, sink into the blanket, and drift back into a deep sleep - dissolving the last remnants of his dream. No. His memory. The kind that crawled under his skin and left phantom aches.

But then, a faint sound reached his ears. A low sizzling. The bubbling of boiled water. The rhythmic chop of a knife against wood.

The aroma drifted into the room: rich sesame oil, fresh shrimp, fragrant herbs. Its warmth curled around him, chasing away the last tendrils of his nightmare.

Vladimir bit his lower lip.

Xi was cooking.

The realization made Vladimir’s heart skip a beat. He didn’t know why; it wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

Slowly, he sat up, rubbed his palms over his eyes, and slid out of bed to follow the sounds into the kitchen.

****

The kitchen was modest by state-residence standards, but as far as Vladimir knew, it was always kept clean. Pale marble countertops, a polished sink, and stainless steel appliances all contributed to a space curated for function and routine.

When Vladimir reached the doorframe, he didn’t enter right away. Instead, he lingered, peeking inside.

Xi stood at the counter, moving effortlessly between the stove and the cutting board. The golden morning light illuminated his features, softening the creases at the corners of his eyes and easing the intensity of his usual stern expression. His sleeves were rolled up, his movements precise yet relaxed.

Xi glanced up, and when he noticed Vladimir, his lips curled into a smile - rare, genuine, disarming. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

Vladimir blinked at being caught. His mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes wandered from Xi to the steaming pot, the careful placement of ingredients, the neatly arranged plates.

“You’re making breakfast,” Vladimir finally managed.

“I am. Our schedules are clear this morning, so I took the time.” Xi turned off the stove, then looked at Vladimir again, arching an eyebrow with the faintest hint of amusement. “Is something the matter?”

Silence stretched. The words thrashed in Vladimir’s throat, fighting each other, until only a thin, brittle “Not at all” escaped.

Xi inclined his head. “Take a seat. It’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

Vladimir didn’t move. He just stared at the Chinese leader, watching the way Xi plated the dumplings with ease, as if none of this were out of the ordinary; as if sharing a morning were utterly natural for two people who were - what were he and Xi, anyway? Not lovers, perhaps. Friends with benefits?

All of it stirred a deep, simmering tension in his belly.

This shouldn’t have happened. His arrangement with Xi was purely transactional - just like his arrangement with Bush. When had it become so… intimate?

“Vladimir?”

“Yes,” Vladimir hastily replied when he recognized Xi’s expectant gaze.

“Will you sit down?”

Not wishing to draw more attention, Vladimir forced his body to move and took a seat across from Xi, who had already put away his apron and waited with a satisfied curve of his lips.

Picking up the fork, Vladimir pierced one of the dumplings Xi had meticulously set on the table. The translucent wrapper was warm. The savor of minced shrimp balanced with the sweetness of vegetables.

Yet Vladimir felt none of it: it tasted like sand in his mouth.

Xi must have noticed his lack of appetite, because his brows pinched into a frown. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“It’s fine,” Vladimir said blankly. His fingers twitched as he set down the fork, the clink against the plate jarring in the silence between them. “It’s excellent. But I…”

The words stuck in his throat like a fishbone.

He suddenly didn’t know what to say.

Xi didn’t interject. He simply waited.

Vladimir reached for a napkin, dabbing at his mouth before offering Xi a faint smile; his lips trembled at the edges. “I must go. There’s a matter I need to take care of. Urgently. You understand how it is.”

A flicker of concern - and something unreadable - passed through Xi’s eyes. He looked as though he meant to say more, but at last, he only nodded.

Xi had always been patient, considerate, respectful of Vladimir’s boundaries. The thought sent a sharp twinge through Vladimir’s heart. He squirmed in his seat, then rose awkwardly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor in his haste.

“We’ll sign the trade agreement today, right?” Vladimir forced his voice into a clipped, businesslike tone.

Xi studied him with calm composure. “Yes,” he said at last, “the ceremony is being prepared.”

Vladimir nodded, fidgeting as his hand clenched the back of the chair.

“I’ll see you once the work is done,” he muttered, turning away before Xi could respond - away from the sunlight, the gentle smile, the dumplings that tasted too soft and sweet. He could feel Xi’s eyes on his back, and as he left the room, he didn’t dare look back, afraid he might change his mind.

****

Vladimir told himself he wasn’t running. The hallways of the state residence stretched before him - cool, sparse, solemn. His steps were measured, his hands steady again as he smoothed the lapels of his suit.

War had broken out months ago, and reports had been piling up on his desk. He had left Xi’s suite early because he had work to do - not because he found the domesticity unbearable, or the intimacy as glaring as staring straight into the sun. 

They were in a mutually beneficial relationship - for the sake of their countries. Xi didn’t need to cook breakfast for them to share. It was thoughtful, yet unnecessary. Worst of all, it made Vladimir’s pulse quicken with an emotion he did not dare name.

****

When Vladimir reached his office in the Chinese guesthouse, the Kremlin spokesperson - Dmitry Peskov - was already there, waiting with his daily briefing. The sight of him caused Vladimir to straighten: compared to national duty, nightmares and panic over breakfast were childish concerns.

Peskov handed him a folder and said, “We’ve received communiqués from the U.S., Sir.”

“What did they want?”

“Dialogue, apparently.”

A raised eyebrow. “Any reason for this change?”

Negotiations with the West had stalled since the conflict began. They had demanded Russia’s surrender, imposed sanctions, and shut down all diplomacy.

“Gas prices have soared,” Peskov explained. “They’re hoping to find solutions.”

“Makes sense,” Vladimir muttered. France and Germany had accused Russia of blowing up Nord Stream and causing the spike in energy prices. Ridiculous. Why would Russia destroy its own pipeline? “Anything else?”

Peskov hesitated. “There’s also a request for a private phone call.”

“From where?”

“The United States.”

“Who is it?”

The corner of Peskov’s mustache twitched - a telltale sign of unease.

“Former U.S. President, George W. Bush.”

****

What motive did the former U.S. President have for reaching out to the Russian President?

Vladimir sat alone in his office. His fingers tapped against the desk, the sole of his shoe shifting in a nervous rhythm. He lowered his eyes to the tablet, which played a recording of his meeting with Bush in the United States, 2001.

The American had draped an arm around Vladimir’s shoulders. His blue eyes were as bright as the Texas summer sky, and a grin spread across his handsome face, flashing a row of perfect white teeth.

“We’re gonna do great things together,” Bush had said, tapping Vladimir on the back. Vladimir had leaned in with a sheepish smile, his face brightening with hope and wonder.

“Of course, George.”

At the time, Vladimir believed he had finally reached the American - that a new era had begun, one in which Russia would be pulled out of isolation and embraced by the collective West.

The hope, however, did not last.

In time, Vladimir came to accept that they did not share the same goals, while Bush discovered that Russia’s interests would never bend to the will of the U.S. What had begun as a warm relationship soured, unraveling into backroom dealings filled with pain, regrets, and - as last night had proven - nightmares.

Now, Bush was no longer the U.S. President, while Vladimir still led Russia as he had for two decades.

He tapped the tablet’s screen. His fingers lingered on a photo of the two of them standing side by side, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the same horizon. It was the day Bush proclaimed in front of the press that he could get a sense of Vladimir’s soul.

Vladimir’s chest tightened. Though they had parted on cold terms, somewhere in his heart there remained a soft spot for the passionate American leader. He never dared hope Bush would change his mind about Russia - but perhaps, they could still reach an understanding, if only they agreed to talk.

****

“Arrange it,” Vladimir gave his order to Peskov over the phone.

The line connected seconds later. The tiny button on the phone blinked red, and the quiet beeps rumbled in Vladimir’s chest.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the handset to his ear.

But before he could even offer a proper greeting, Bush’s voice roared from the other end, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Volodya?”

Vladimir’s spine stiffened. The air in his office thickened, needling his ribs.

George—no. “Mr. Bush. To what do I owe this call?”

“Stop hiding yourself behind formalities. You know why I’m calling you.”

“Russia’s always willing to engage in diplomacy—”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Bush cut in, his voice harsh as a sandstorm in the Texan desert. “Withdraw your troops from the frontline.”

“I can’t.” Vladimir’s voice was steady - too steady - even as his stomach twisted into a painful knot.

“You can, and you will. You’ll accept the terms of surrender. Or do you want me to spell out exactly what’ll happen if you don’t?”

If Vladimir had held even the slightest hope for reconciliation, it shattered now. He cursed himself for imagining Bush might have called for any reason other than contempt.

“Threats won’t change my mind,” Vladimir said. “I won’t stop defending Russia’s national interests.”

Bush snorted. “National interest? Are you still bitter that NATO opened its door?”

“You promised no expansion, George,” Vladimir whispered. “You lied.”

“Stop being childish about it,” Bush coldly replied. “You knew damn well we’d do what was best for us. Did you really think your feelings were part of the equation?”

Vladimir's lips quivered. “No. I just thought you understood.”

The line went terribly quiet, and for a moment, Vladimir thought the American had slammed the phone.

Another second passed.

Just as he considered hanging up, Bush’s Texan drawl crackled through the receiver.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still stubborn, arrogant—insist on having your way.” The biting words carried more than simmering rage: beneath them ran an undercurrent of feeling - raw, jagged.

“And yet, you once claimed to have seen my soul,” Vladimir said hoarsely.

“Yeah, well.” Bush’s laugh was bitter. “Guess I should’ve looked closer.”

Vladimir pressed his fingers to his temple, the throb of a headache growing stronger. “Seems neither of us has changed much at all.” A sigh escaped him. “I won’t try to convince you, but please, don’t—”

An exhale, loud and sharp. “It’s the Chinese, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” A chill swept over Vladimir’s skin, prickling like icy needles.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Bush scoffed. “I know you need him. Russia couldn’t win this fight without China. Did you make a deal with him, too?”

Vladimir’s fingers clenched around the phone until his knuckles turned white.

Before he could form a reply, a dry chuckle echoed from the other end - cruel, cutting through Vladimir’s heart like a knife between his ribs.

“So, I was right, huh? You’ll trade yourself away if it means securing an advantage.”

“I don’t—”

“Did you let him claim you? Did you let him call you his good boy? You’d endure anything as long as he puts his signature on those oil contracts, wouldn’t you?”

Vladimir fought to keep his voice even. “My personal relationship with Mr. Chairman has nothing to do with this.”

“Of course it does. Remember the time you claimed to love me?”

“That was—”

“We both know what happened. You turned your back on me the moment you had the chance. You’ve never truly loved me.”

No - you’re wrong, Vladimir wanted to say. He had left Bush because Bush had been terrible to Russia, unwilling to keep his promises - not because he didn’t love him. Bush had once been his star, his constellation. Vladimir had fallen for him, and his heart ached for him even now, after national interests had torn them apart.

Vladimir swallowed the lump in his throat. “It must be getting late in America. You should get some rest.”

Bush grumbled. “Sure. Run away. Enjoy your new toy. But remember, sooner or later it’ll fall apart. He’ll realize what you are.”

Without waiting for a response, Bush slammed the phone. The line went dead, but the venom of his voice spread and soaked the atmosphere, absorbed into the walls.

Vladimir remained frozen behind his desk. Each shuddering breath tightened his throat. The curtains were heavy, blocking even the faintest winter light, casting long shadows across the wall. 

He felt cold, as if his ribcage were made of lead, his heart heavy as stone, and when he finally set down the handset, he could no longer contain the tremors in his fingers.

Chapter Text

The study where Xi worked was a neat, quiet space. Every item was arranged in perfect order: the table polished, the books neatly lined on the shelves. Every night, by his side, a wooden pencil holder, a set of telephones - for immediate contact, and a stack of papers glowed faintly in the lamplight.

Xi turned a page when his intelligence chief entered, placing a sealed folder before him.

“This came in from the monitoring unit, Sir,” the man said quietly. “Intercepted communications, marked urgent.”

Xi inclined his head. “Leave it.”

Once the door closed, Xi calmly unfastened the seal. Inside lay a transcript, heavily redacted. Yet enough remained: ‘Volodya.’ ‘Withdraw.’ ‘China.’ The lines bristled with hostility, a Texan drawl caught in clipped fragments.

The analysts’ notes were methodical: Former U.S. President George W. Bush maintains personal contact with the Kremlin. Remarks suggest longstanding familiarity with President Putin. His tone indicates attempts to undermine Sino–Russian cooperation.

Xi read in silence, his expression unchanged. Only when he reached the final line - Volodya - did his eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

****

The morning air often harbored a sense of freshness. But today, the sky was a hazy grey, the wind harsh, and a blanket of dampness draping over the atmosphere. Xi rested on a bamboo chair under the shade of the pavilion, his eyes fixed on the dark green water of the pond. Beside him, a newly-brewed tea pot sat on top of a rosewood table.

The silence was a blessing - an absence of the cacophony of speeches, media noise, and camera clicks. It was a rare moment of reprieve, and Xi’s mind should have relaxed instead of dwelling on the intercepted message last night - it wasn’t a concern that required a confrontation. Not yet.

And then, Vladimir arrived - fumbling. His skin was pallid, his steps clumsy, and he cleared his throat before offering Xi an awkward smile.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Chairman.”

Xi’s eyebrows twitched in alarm. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine.” Vladimir dropped into the chair beside him. “Just a few matters to handle.”

Xi hummed.

He wondered if it had anything to do with the conversation with Bush.

“Any new development?” He asked instead, choosing a more cautious route. Nothing suspicious. There were many subjects they could discuss: diplomacy, sanctions, troop movements - including details that few were privy to.

“The West wants negotiation,” Vladimir began.

“Europeans?”

“No. The United States.”

A pause. “What did they propose?”

“A summit. To resolve the energy crisis.”

Xi nodded in approval. “That’s a good start.”

Vladimir chuckled softly. “You really think so?”

When Xi responded with a raised eyebrow, he went on, “Every time I think there’s a hope for peace with the West, they slam the door in my face.”

The bitterness in his voice was like acid - or an age-old wound that still bled.

Xi schooled his expression. “Did something happen?”

A shadow of hesitation flickered across Vladimir’s features.

“A chat with an old acquaintance.”

Xi feigned ignorance. “Who is it?”

Vladimir swallowed. His gaze was blank, as though he wasn’t gazing at the tranquil water, but staring into the void and discovering a ghost. “Someone you might have heard of before.”

The wind whispered. The current of air touched the edge of the pond, sending tiny ripples across its surface.

Vladimir sighed. “Does the name ‘George W. Bush’ ring a bell?”

“The former U.S. President?”

“Yes. The son.”

Xi’s mind was gripped by the memory of the communiqué. Questions rose unbidden to the surface of his thoughts, though he pushed them aside when he noticed the tension deepening the lines at the corners of Vladimir’s eyes.

“That’s unexpected,” Xi replied carefully. “What did he want?”

Vladimir’s head dropped. “He told me to surrender, to withdraw the troops. Said I was bringing humiliation on myself. That Russia is a disgrace.”

The venom in the words didn’t belong to Vladimir - it had been carried from elsewhere, sharp like a blade and etched into his voice like burns on skin.

Xi recognized the cadence of an echo, not a paraphrase.

“And that’s all?” Xi asked, his voice softening.

“He… implied other things as well,” Vladimir disclosed. “But it wasn’t important.”

And yet, the slight tightening of Vladimir’s mouth gave Xi the distinct feeling that what had happened during the call wasn’t just the usual hostility or disdain.

What had Bush said?

Based on the conversation’s fragments, Xi could imagine the American’s voice: gruff, domineering, full of veiled threats. Loud like a storm. Cold enough to sink beneath Vladimir’s skin like frostbite.

Volodya, the single word crept into Xi’s mind.

It was more than politics.

It was personal.

“You used to work closely with Mr. Bush, didn’t you?” Xi said, his skin itching with a strange growing feeling.

“Mere politics. We got along well.”

Xi acknowledged with a nod. He had studied dossiers on the American-Russian détente during Bush’s term: the rapprochement, the rising distrust, the breakdown in relations.

“I saw the old headlines,” Xi said. “You two seemed close.”

“Did we?”

“You were… open with him.” Xi had come across grainy footage of the Russian President and his American counterpart. Vladimir was younger then: his face thinner, with pouty lips and high cheekbones. When he gazed at Bush, his smile looked shy, even boyish - a charm that stemmed not from sleekness, but from a rare display of sincerity in geopolitics.

“I was being foolish back then.”

“How so?”

Vladimir’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “I believed in new beginnings—making friends with the U.S. I thought our national interest was aligned. Turns out it didn't.”

Xi said nothing. He reached for the teapot, filling the two cups. The scent of goji berries and chrysanthemum rose with the steam, a subtle balm against the tension in the air.

Vladimir gave him a wan smile. He took the cup with a hand that, despite its steadiness, looked just a little too pale beneath the sleeve of his navy suit.

Vladimir brought the cup to his mouth. The porcelain clicked faintly against his teeth, and though the tea was warm, his expression remained distant - blank.

Xi doubted he noticed the taste at all.

“You have questions,” Vladimir said flatly.

“Bush, did he…” Xi paused, recognizing a dangerous territory when he saw it. “Did he care for you?”

Vladimir bit his lower lip. When he spoke, his tone was soft as the distant sound of thunder. “More than a colleague?”

A guarded nod.

Vladimir didn’t answer right away. His eyes gleamed with an emotion that was hard to pin down - memory, perhaps; a shade of melancholy. For a heartbeat, he looked like a man caught unprepared in a room of mirrors, each reflection offering a different version of the truth.

Finally, he admitted, “Once—long ago.”

His lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile.

There was bitterness there - and a lot of heartache underneath.

What happened between the two of you? Xi wondered, a throb rising and pressing beneath his sternum.

“Vladimir, if you want to talk about it… I’ll be here.” An offer - even though Xi wanted to push, to keep asking about Bush, to soothe the phantom pain in Vladimir’s eyes.

Vladimir shook his head. He placed his teacup on the table with a soft clink. “You wouldn’t want to know, Xi. What happened between me and him—you’ll hate me for it.”

“I would like to see you try,” Xi said gently.

“Trust me. It was dirty.” Vladimir’s face scrunched up as looked down at his own lap. Like he was thinking of scrubbing something raw and filthy from his person.

He hesitated, then went on, “It doesn’t matter anyhow. The U.S is hostile to us. I no longer harbor any feelings for him.”

The tremors in his fingers made Xi wonder if it was true.

“The past is not always easy to forget,” Xi said.

Vladimir huffed. “It is for me,” he replied a little forcefully, and Xi blinked as the other man leaned in, their forearms making the briefest contact - so casual it seemed unintentional at first glance.

“Russia’s with China now,” Vladimir emphasized. “You keep your end of the deal. I respect that.”

Xi didn’t flinch as he met that gaze; neither did he call out the abrupt change of topic. “Our partnership’s always been mutually beneficial.”

“Indeed.” Vladimir watched Xi from under his lashes. “Then shall we meet to discuss… in private?”

Anyone observing from afar wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary. Xi, however, didn’t miss the way Vladimir’s mouth parted slightly, or the flick of his tongue across his bottom lip.

It was a diversion - the way Vladimir deflected vulnerability, like a warrior refusing to reveal a gap in his armor.

Xi leaned over the rim of his teacup. Across the small rosewood table between them, he responded to Vladimir’s coquettishness with a smile of his own.

“I’ll have my assistant clear our schedules,” he said. “We’ll meet after dinner.”

A breeze swept across the pond. A patch of cloud drifted overhead as Xi’s voice dropped lower, echoing Vladimir’s earlier tone.

“Privately.”

Silence fell. A glint of recognition passed through Vladimir’s gaze. He waited, letting the wind carry away Xi’s words and the fragrance of apricot blossoms. Then, with the grace of a man who had weathered countless storms on the political stage, he stood and buttoned his suit jacket.

Vladimir offered Xi a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Chairman,” he said - rehearsed yet oddly sweet - before turning away and leaving the teacup behind.

The clink of porcelain lingered long after his footsteps faded.

Above the pavilion, the sky had darkened. The air was filled with the dry dust of stone blending with the metallic tang of ozone - the raw signals of a storm.

Xi stared at the lukewarm cup across from him, the swirl of tea leaves caught at the bottom like vapors in a flame.

They made him think of smoke.

Of that first night in the Kremlin.

****

Their “special arrangement” had begun years ago - before sanctions turned their partnership into a matter of survival.

When Vladimir invited him to an informal meeting, Xi’d known something was off the moment he stepped into the Kremlin chamber - a salon tucked discreetly near the Hall of the Order of St. Andrew.

At first glance, it looked like any other room arranged for their side encounters: refined, elegant, cultivating a veneer of diplomatic finesse.

But this chamber was smaller. The air held the soothing scent of old books, overlaid with a tendril of incense: smoky, sweet, subtly disarming. There were no glaring chandeliers. Only a pair of antique sconces on either side of the mantle, bathing the space in an intimate glow.

“Hello, Mr. Chairman.”

Xi turned toward the voice.

By the fireplace, Vladimir was half-standing, half-leaning against the armrest of a burgundy armchair. He was no longer in his streamlined, custom-made suit. Instead, a beige turtleneck hugged his torso, paired with a blazer and dark trousers.

“Please, come in,” Vladimir said, a smile gracing his lips. If he noticed Xi happened to stare a little too long, he said nothing.

Xi carefully crossed the room.

Vladimir reached across the small round table. His movements were overly casual, inviting Xi to take in his attire, his form, the unusual nimbleness of his body as he stretched to grab the bottle of liquor and two crystal tumblers.

“I’d like to express my congratulations on the new energy deals. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Xi.”

A wisp of Armenian brandy curled into Xi’s nostrils: saccharine, though not as spicy or intoxicating as the cologne slipping from Vladimir’s wrist when he offered Xi a glass.

Xi accepted it as though nothing was out of the ordinary, as though he hadn’t noticed how the room was arranged like a net - a trap. “And I, you,” he replied. “China’s motto is that all nations should cooperate on a win–win basis.”

Vladimir’s soft chuckle echoed through the quiet chamber. “Still, thank you. Russia wouldn’t still be standing without your support.”

Not a complete lie, yet a greatly exaggerated truth, wrapped in a tone both diplomatic and slick.

“Good neighbors support each other,” Xi said. “It’s important we remain strategically aligned.”

Vladimir cocked his eyebrow.

He turned aside, tipped back his head, and took a sip of brandy. The movement exposed the arch of his throat, pale like marble shimmering under sunlight.

Lowering the glass, Vladimir met Xi’s gaze again.

“What if I want deeper ties?”

“That’s possible. I’m sure our countries would both benefit.” Xi held his ground when Vladimir drifted a little too close - close enough for Xi to see the spark in his eyes.

“And what if I want it to be private?” A mischievous grin spread across Vladimir’s lips. “Perhaps I can sweeten the deal?”

Xi had a hunch this “deal” was connected to the new package of sanctions the West had just imposed on Russia, which meant Russian gas needed to flow eastward. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he gently caught hold of Vladimir’s wrist before those spidery fingers slid to his front.

Tension wracked the atmosphere, but neither of them batted an eye at the heat sparkling between their skin.

“Vladimir,” Xi said, gentle but firm, “China will cooperate with Russia because we’re strategic partners. There’s no need for additional… sweetening.”

But even as he said it, a foolish part of him - a man long buried beneath decades of protocol - wondered what it would feel like to accept the offer. Not the gas, nor the alliance. Just the warmth of another man’s arms without consequence.

Xi smothered the thought like a flickering candle.

Vladimir laughed: a coy, delicate sound, unfurling across the atmosphere like smoke.

There was something in his gaze that suggested he didn’t quite believe Xi. As though he couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting to take advantage of his offer. Of him.

“It needn’t be between China and Russia,” Vladimir shrugged. “It can simply be between you and me.” When he craned his neck, Xi caught a glimpse of the hollow at the base of his throat, peeking from beneath his sweater.

Vladimir’s voice dropped to a whisper, as though sharing a secret. “I noticed it, you know. The way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

Xi froze, and whatever flinch or flicker Vladimir caught in that moment made his grin widen.

“You needn’t worry,” Vladimir reassured, no doubt reading the warriness written on the lines of Xi’s face. “Your secret won’t leave this room.”

A knot twisted deep in Xi’s stomach.

He knew attraction was dangerous. He’d known it when his heart skipped a beat at Vladimir’s sheepish smile on a news broadcast; when a curl of heat stirred in his belly as those lively eyes met his for the first time across the Kremlin hall.

Xi had thought he could tuck that allure into a corner of his heart and let it stay there - a secret - for the rest of his life.

Only now his buried feeling was dragged into the light: caught between the claws of a cunning cat.

“Not very reassuring,” Xi muttered.

Vladimir’s face softened. The warmth in his eyes was not an illusion framed by the light. “I won’t ask anything out of you, nothing more than what we signed on papers.”

Xi frowned. “Then what are you asking from me?”

“A guarantee,” Vladimir answered. “A safeguard from betrayal. A seal more intimate than paper and ink.”

“And you think this will work?”

“We wouldn’t know unless we tried, would we?” Vladimir’s feathery touch on Xi’s chest caused a sting.

Xi’s grip tightened around Vladimir’s wrist - not to hurt, but to make a point. “Have you tried this form of diplomacy on anyone else?”

A line knitted between Vladimir’s brows. He didn’t pull back, nor did he push forward without Xi’s consent.

“Does it matter?” Vladimir retorted, his voice teasing yet sharp, like a half‑sheathed blade. He made it clear his affairs were none of Xi’s business; what mattered was whether Xi accepted his offer.

“No,” Xi conceded, releasing Vladimir’s hand. “I suppose not.”

The Russian seemed pleased. His palm settled on Xi’s chest, slid across the suit, tugged at his tie, then wrapped both arms around Xi’s shoulders.

Vladimir leaned in. His breath - flaring with the sour fruitiness of brandy - tickled Xi’s earlobe. “Then we have a deal?”

Xi pressed his lips together, uncertain whether to laugh or recoil.

For years he had locked the fantasy away, filed it beneath state protocol and personal dignity. Now Vladimir was handing it to him like a gift wrapped in velvet and barbed wire.

And that was the problem. Vladimir’s charisma was too polished, his voice too smooth, his eyes gleaming with too much calculation.

It wasn’t real. Only a mirage - crafted with care, wielded like a weapon.

And Xi knew better. He had faced illusions before, had watched promises unravel beneath the harsh light of reality.

But this was different.

Because even if Vladimir’s charm was a calculated performance, the void in Xi’s chest remained. And in that instance, that emptiness answered louder than caution.

His heart ached, and yearned. There was a part of him - quiet, desperate - that wanted to believe, just for one night, that it wasn’t all an act.

When their lips finally touched, Xi didn’t know whether it was him or Vladimir who leaned in first.

****

That night, there was a different form of negotiation.

No table stood between them. No blizzard of camera flashes. No ceremony where they shook hands and signed treaties that would redefine geopolitics for decades.

Instead, there was the rustle of cloth on cloth, the heady darkness enveloping their entwined bodies, the cool leather armrest beneath Xi’s fingers when the Russian president climbed onto his lap.

Those strong thighs clamped around Xi’s hips. That mouth, which delivered rousing speeches and struck fear into enemies, spilled lewd sounds that could make a virgin blush.

And yet, even as Vladimir rode Xi’s cock, he was poised like an emperor on his throne. The tips of his fingers ghosted across Xi’s chest, and he moaned when Xi filled him with heat, as though it were ink sealing an unbreakable accord.

****

Later, with dawn creeping in and the world waiting outside, Vladimir sat on the bed with his back to Xi, bare and glowing in the soft gray light.

“You surprised me,” he said.

“How so?”

“I thought you’d be…” A contemplative hum. “Rougher.”

Of course Vladimir would say that. Xi could see it in his eyes. Vladimir didn’t want to be loved - he wanted to be taken. He looked at Xi as though expecting him to snap, devour him, tear him apart.

But Xi—Xi didn’t want to.

****

In time, Xi learned to navigate Vladimir’s brand of diplomacy.

A mockery of formality: a handshake held just a little too long, a coquettish smile chased by a wink, the way their fingers brushed when they exchanged documents - folders that never got flipped past the first page before Vladimir pulled him in by the lapels and their lips crashed.

Vladimir always wanted the upper hand.

He initiated their first touch. Walked into Xi’s arms. Whispered risqué words into Xi’s ears - things completely inappropriate for people of their roles and status. The smoky honey in his tone carried promises and desire, making Xi burn with liquid fever.

Whether on the international stage or in the privacy of their bedroom, Vladimir was captivating. Sleek. Seductive.

****

But seduction was all he allowed.

Vladimir always fled as soon as the heat was over and before the sweat dried on their skin. He fled - because that’s what it was. He reminded Xi of a stray cat slipping off a windowsill before anyone could decide whether to keep it. One moment, he was a bundle of warmth at Xi’s side; the next, the sheet was cooling in his absence, and in the mirror, Xi caught a glimpse of bare shoulders and the sway of a coat hastily thrown on.

“Stay,” Xi blurted out one night. He asked, even knowing Vladimir would refuse.

It stopped Vladimir in his tracks.

Their eyes met across the quiet suite. The space was small, but the distance between them felt like a thousand miles between Beijing and Moscow.

And then, Vladimir - half-dressed, barefoot - walked toward Xi.

He bent down, cupping Xi’s face with his hand.

A quick kiss was placed on Xi’s cheek.

“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” Vladimir said, his mouth curling into an apologetic smile. “You know how it is.”

Xi didn’t. But what he did know was that Vladimir wanted to stay.

And for now, that was enough.

****

Xi had started to notice things as well.

It wasn’t obvious at first.

But it was there: Vladimir’s blank stare when Xi kissed him gently, the stiffening of his shoulders when Xi’s hand trailed over his skin with a tenderness that lingered a second too long; the way Vladimir would reach for Xi’s fingers, only to flinch - as if expecting a blow not a caress.

Every time it happened, questions rose to the tip of Xi’s tongue, and his hand ached with the instinct to hold Vladimir close, to chase away the phantom panic in his eyes.

Yet Xi refrained.

Because in the next moment, Vladimir’s smile - sharp as ice - had already slipped back into place.

Because, like a sleek cat startled mid-stretch, Vladimir recoiled from vulnerability: he curled himself around charm and flirtation - fur bristling, claws sheathed but ready to strike. He would take every gesture of kindness as condescension. He would sneer at any display of gentleness as if it were weakness.

So Xi said nothing. He pretended not to notice the wince, the whimper Vladimir let slip in his sleep, the downcast flick of his eyes when he thought Xi wasn’t looking.

Still, some silences couldn’t stretch forever.

****

“What’s this?”

“Food.”

A raised eyebrow. A cocky, Yes, I can see that.

“You haven’t had dinner,” Xi pointed out.

Vladimir didn’t argue. They knew each other’s schedules too well.

“I’m not hungry.”

“But I am,” Xi said gently.

Vladimir’s shoulders tensed, but there was no rejection.

“It wouldn’t do to discuss state matters on an empty stomach,” Xi added, his gaze dropping to the dishes on the table - jasmine rice, steamed sea bass, braised tofu, stir-fried bok choy.

Far from a state banquet. Just a quiet meal.

He didn’t tell Vladimir he’d cooked it. The notion sounded ridiculous. It made no sense: Xi was the Chairman of China; why would he spend time preparing a meal, especially knowing Vladimir might not even eat?

Xi looked up and met Vladimir’s eyes.

The other man swallowed, glancing at the dishes - likely understanding what hadn’t been said. Likely weighing the cost.

Then he sat down across from Xi.

“It wouldn’t do to reject the Chairman,” he said. His chuckle was awkward, but genuine.

Xi’s lips curved into a smile.

Some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Others, they dared not say at all.

****

Later, in the hush that followed their shared silence and half-eaten meal, Xi took what was offered.

He relished the heat, the passion, the curve of Vladimir’s spine as he arched into his touch. He savored the salt of his sweat, drank in his moans and cries, reveled in the thought of having the untouchable President of Russia fall apart beneath him.

Still, sometimes, Xi couldn’t help it.

His heart ached - for Vladimir, for the words they couldn’t say, for the comfort he couldn’t give without shattering the fragile quiet that kept them safe. It gnawed at him: the helplessness of watching the man he cared for buckle under the weight of his own silence.

So Xi did what he could. The little things.

He brought Vladimir’s favorite snacks. He made sure there was always a cup of fresh tea nearby, in case Vladimir felt like it. And when Vladimir turned his face into the pillow, fingers taut and pale, Xi didn’t try to hold him.

He only brushed his fingers across Vladimir’s brow - a touch so fleeting it might’ve been mistaken for the wind - and bit back the question searing in his throat:

Who hurt you?

Chapter Text

The King Abdulaziz International Conference Center was an architectural marvel, cathedral-like in scale. It served as neutral ground for a conference between allies and enemies alike: marble floors, onyx columns, sunlight filtering through the great glass dome and landing on the granite fountain at the center of the lobby, sending waves of sparkles across the clear water.

Vladimir stood in a discreet corner, feigning interest in the event schedule, every detail already embedded into his mind.

As the lobby slowly filled with arriving delegates, dignitaries, and camera crews, Vladimir would tip up his head, ears catching the faint chatter of unfamiliar tongues, eyes sweeping over the faces - old and new, European, Asian, African alike. People from across the world.

He had strode through hundreds of halls like this - grand, glistening - where leaders made bombastic statements and delivered promises they never intended to keep. He knew how to walk, to smile, to pretend the cameras didn’t exist.

And yet, today, Vladimir chose not to be in the spotlight, at least for now. Against his will, his fingers tensed at murmurs in English, at drawn-out accents with a twang, at glimpses of pepper-grey hair and grins that reminded him too much of bright white teeth under the hot Texas sun.

Vladimir blamed it on his KGB training. Alert. Always prepared for anything.

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the case.

In his hand was the folder for the upcoming talk.

It was all over the news by now. After months of diplomatic stagnation, a breakthrough had come: the Western powers agreed to host a G20 conference - not on the war per se, but on the energy crisis that had gripped countries like France and Germany.

For the first time since talks with the West had collapsed, Russia would be invited to meet with other European dignitaries.

Vladimir couldn’t deny the spark of hope rekindled in his chest. A conference on soaring gas prices seemed insignificant compared to the goal of peace; but it was a first step nonetheless.

Only, his stomach twisted.

****

Just like it had that day, when Dmitry Medvedev passed him a folder and dropped the news:

“You’re never gonna believe who the Americans picked to lead their negotiation team.”

Vladimir raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Former U.S. President—Bush.”

Vladimir let go of the folder he was holding.

A smile hung on his lips, unfailingly calm.

“George W. Bush,” he read aloud. “The name brings back memories.”

“I was right! You know him well, don’t you?”

“Well enough,” Vladimir shrugged. “Too well, perhaps.”

Dmitry tilted his head. “Should I be worried?”

“About who? Bush?”

“I mean, yeah. You two have history.”

Vladimir’s chuckle was sincere enough to disarm Dmitry and ease the furrow on his brow.

“It’s all in the past now.” Vladimir opened the folder and began flipping through the pages. “He’s a smart man. Sharp. Decisive. Strong-willed.”

His eyes skimmed the list of Western representatives until they landed on the American. A familiar name, printed in bold letters on white paper, like words carved into flesh.

“I can handle him,” Vladimir said at last, his voice radiating confidence as he looked up to meet Dmitry’s eyes.

****

The rest of the briefing resumed as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

It was only when Vladimir was alone in his office again that his shoulders dropped. Thoughts of national interest faded like frost beneath the scorching sun. Slowly, he rose and approached the cabinet where he kept a bottle of brandy and a set of glasses.

The office was dead silent, except for the sound of liquid being poured. Vladimir placed the bottle on the desk and downed the glass in one go.

He rarely drank; this was public knowledge. And yet tonight, the brandy seared down his throat, pooling in the pit of his empty belly. The sharp burn subsumed him in a rush of light-headedness, which quickly passed, replaced by a renewed stab of clarity.

Vladimir was never one to run from a fight. He talked. He negotiated. He fought. But he never fled.

If facing Bush was what it took for Russia’s sake, he would do it. He could do it. He wouldn’t back down.

****

And that was the thought that led to him standing here, in the shadow of a column at the Riyadh conference center, adjusting his cufflinks - twice - watching for a voice sharp enough to cut across his ribs and a face that, once, made his heart swell but now punched the air from his lungs.

“Mr. President.”

A voice - gentle, warm, curling around Vladimir like the soothing aroma of tea on a cold winter’s night.

Vladimir turned.

At the glimpse of the other person, the smile spread across his face was no longer performative.

“Mr. Chairman.”

“Are you waiting for someone?” 

Vladimir’s eyes flicked toward the entrance. Not him. Not yet. “No, not really.”

“You seem… well,” Xi remarked, his gaze carefully running over Vladimir’s form. There was a twitch in a single muscle of Xi’s cheek; which showed he barely held back a frown.

Gosh. Vladimir must have looked awful, tucked into a corner with pupils darting back and forth like a skittish cat. His security attaché was nearby, doing their job, but no trained observer would miss that the Russian president was trying to draw as little attention as possible.

Vladimir shuffled his feet, his smile widening into a wry grin. “Nothing like a room full of Western diplomats who’d prefer I spontaneously combust. Very uplifting atmosphere.”

Xi’s face softened. He didn’t reach out, though his form tilted slightly left, as if to shield Vladimir from the scrutiny of those who had long cursed his name and now didn’t bother hiding their scowls.

“Come with me?” Xi offered gently. He gestured toward the hallway leading to the conference room, and a mental picture surfaced: the two of them, side by side, entering the stage like harbingers of a new global order. That would rile up the West.

Vladimir chuckled. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”

“Nor do you need to be a lone warrior,” Xi replied in good humor, though the sincerity in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. His fingers brushed Vladimir’s forearm; a caress so brief no cameras would have caught it, yet solid enough to spread warmth beneath Vladimir’s ribcage.

Xi reminded him of a big, cozy blanket. Vladimir wanted to lean in, to bury his face against Xi’s chest, to tell him about the fingers that had dug into his flesh, the odor of sweat and sex that clung to his body like a second skin.

But the temptation passed.

The real world snapped back into place.

A rejection hovered at the tip of Vladimir’s tongue - no, he didn’t need an escort, not for this - when suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by the presence of another man. Dark hair, dark eyes, an Asian face. It was Xi’s aide.

“Chairman Xi,” the man - Zhong Shaojun, if Vladimir remembered correctly - interjected in Chinese. Then he turned to Vladimir with a respectful, “President Putin.”

“What is it?” Xi asked.

“I apologize for the interruption. Mr. Wang Yi sent me to give you this.” The aide fixed his glasses nervously and handed over a folder, which Xi took with a nod. “A small adjustment to today’s schedule.”

Xi opened the file, brows knitting in a thoughtful expression.

“It’s urgent, Sir,” Zhong added, suggesting the discussion couldn’t wait.

As the two exchanged glances, more people filtered in through the entrance. Vladimir recognized the opportunity.

“I’ll see you at the opening ceremony,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “Mr. Chairman.”

Xi’s inscrutable gaze landed on him. The shift in the Chinese leader’s mask of composure was too subtle to catch; but Vladimir knew he had hesitated.

He could sense it, just as he had that evening in the garden: Xi’s urge to know, to inquire - not out of mere curiosity, but from care. Genuine care.

And that’s what made it unbearable.

Vladimir’s hand hung in the air until Xi’s reached it, clasping firmly. A formal smile slipped onto Xi’s face - because they were in public, and people, including Zhong, were watching.

“See you soon.”

If Xi’s hand lingered a fraction too long, Vladimir didn’t mention it. In the blink of an eye, he had already turned and quickened his steps toward the hallway, vanishing from the glass dome that glowed with too much brilliance, with specks of dust that glimmered too much like the sun.

Sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference.

****

Vladimir didn’t head to the conference room yet. It was too early, and he was desperate for some fresh air. This wing of the conference center was quieter - one of those architectural afterthoughts meant for prayer or private calls, hidden behind a set of ornamental arches. A few aides who crossed his path automatically stepped aside to let him through - a privilege that came with his title. His security team hadn’t followed; he’d waved them off earlier, muttering something about needing a moment alone.

The heat from Xi’s skin still tingled in his palm: a comfort that shouldn’t have lasted, yet made the ache in his chest worse, like a crevice behind his sternum cracking open, expanding at a ruthless pace, and threatening to swallow him whole.

Vladimir shouldn’t be bothering Xi. God knew the Chinese Chairman had more urgent matters to attend to than Vladimir’s deplorable affair with Bush; an entanglement in which Vladimir had groaned and crawled and begged for scraps of benefit for Russia.

If Xi knew, he would realize what a filthy, despicable creature Vladimir was. He could imagine Xi’s lips curling in disgust, the wrinkles around his eyes - eyes that had always looked at him too softly - deepening in barely concealed dismay.

Vladimir’s throat tightened. He clenched his fists so hard that crescent shapes sank into his skin.

****

Vladimir didn’t know how far he had walked. By the time he stopped, he no longer recognized this section of the conference center. It was a restricted wing, a security blindspot that no one admitted, with barely any staff and no cameras.

He glanced up and down the corridor and released a soft sigh. It seemed he’d gotten lost, at least momentarily. He should’ve been grateful the opening ceremony wouldn’t begin for another half hour. There was still plenty of time to find his way back before his security chief panicked and organized a search team. How big was this building again?

Vladimir wandered for another five minutes. Just as he turned a corner, he almost thought he was imagining it.

A jumble of voices.

Disjointed murmurs that sounded too much like “diplomacy,” “American,” “special envoy.”

Vladimir stood still. The hallway became impossibly narrow. His ears perked up; but no, it wasn’t a figment of his imagination. There was, indeed, a chuckle, flighty yet rough around the edge. Like an echo; eerie fingers gripping Vladimir’s neck and sending goosebumps down his spine.

It couldn’t possibly be, could it?

Footsteps approached, muffled on thick emerald carpet, but pounding against his eardrums like stone grinding against stone in the humid Texas heat. Because the closer he listened, the more certain he became: the American accent, the drawn-out vowels, the slow, rounded drone that made his spine coil and his cold fingers clamped into fists.

Unmistakable.

“Volodya,” said the voice from his dreams. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

Only this wasn’t a dream. Not with that cheeky grin, that silver fox charm, that gait dripping with confidence - one hand in a trouser pocket, as if reaching in to fish out Vladimir’s heartbeats, one by one.

“Glad to see me?” Not-dream-Bush asked, cocking an eyebrow. He stood at the far end of the hallway, as if he’d always been there: grey suit, open collar, lanyard swinging lightly against his front. And just like that, he strolled toward, unhurried, like he was seeing an old friend.

The closer he got, the harder it was for Vladimir to breathe.

He wanted to move. Smile. Run away. Do anything except standing here.

But his limbs were locked. Frozen. Caught between the present and the past.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Now Bush was right in front of him. Near enough for Vladimir to notice the subtle changes: his body bulkier, his face more wrinkled, the flesh around his jaw heavier. His accent contained a coarse, grainy quality that wasn’t there before.

But it was still the same Bush. The one who had once called Vladimir “cold-blooded,” who had thrust into him so brutally he cried out, who sneered at him during phone calls for defending Russia’s national interests.

Who had made Vladimir believe - however foolishly - that he had fallen in love.

“George…”

Vladimir shouldn’t have been bewildered.

He knew Bush would be here.

His mistake was, perhaps, thinking they would confront each other in public, with a detached handshake and professionally cultivated smiles. Not here, in a deserted corridor, where the space between them felt too tight, too personal.

Neither of them spoke anything.

Then, Bush sent him an awkward smile. His handsome face morphed into an apologetic expression. Or a facade of it. Impossible to tell.

“Hey. About the call. I just wanna say I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I was being harsh the other day. Shouldn’t’ve said those things. I’m sorry, alright?” Bush sounded genuine, though not quite. Vladimir had heard that voice before: once in a bed soaked with sweat and tears and sticky dampness leaking between his thighs.

“... It’s alright,” Vladimir muttered, his gaze fixed on the dark green carpet. “I understand why you said it.”

Or maybe he had gotten used to jeers and loathing thrown in his way.

He didn’t know anymore.

“Good.” A smile tugged in the corner of Bush’s lips. This time, more recognizable: smooth, predatory, like a concealed blade. “I’m here for business. The past is behind us, yeah?”

As Vladimir nodded slowly, Bush took a step closer - too close. His shoulder brushed Vladimir’s as he leaned in - a waft of cologne and aftershave followed, musky, masculine, with too much feverish heat.

“I saw you both—you and the Chinese. What a sight.”

“We were just… talking.”

Bush gestured vaguely, fingers skimming over the lapel of Vladimir’s suit. “He’s kept you on a tight leash. You hate it. Loathe it, even.”

A rehearsal of a common rhetoric from Western pundits: that Vladimir was malleable to Xi’s will, that Russia perceived China as a geopolitical foe and only cooperated with them out of reluctance.

“That’s not true,” Vladimir said with a frown.

Bush waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t have to pretend. I get it. We slammed every door in your face, so you’ve turned to China for help. He was your rebound.”

Before Vladimir could interject, Bush went on, “It doesn’t have to be that way. The U.S. can help you.”

A heartbeat.

Then, “What are you suggesting?”

Bush shrugged. “I’ll get the Europeans to buy your gas again. I’ll convince them to lift the sanctions too.”

Though Vladimir had outlined these conditions in his upcoming talks, hearing the proposal spoken aloud still felt like the ground was shifting beneath him.

At Vladimir’s startlement, Bush continued, “We’ll recover the frozen Russian assets. We’ll negotiate. And maybe—if we’re lucky—this war could be over in a few months.”

“This sounds…” Too good to be true. An opportunity Vladimir never thought would come. Ever.

But he quickly shook his head. The gilded sconce beside him flickered - once, barely noticeable - but it cleared the fog from Vladimir’s mind, like waking from a spell.

“What do you want in return?” he asked, though he already knew the answer - felt it deep in his bones. Because everything had a price. It always did.

“Abandon China.” Heat flared in the American’s eyes. “Break the deal. No cheap gas. No joint military exercises. Restrict Chinese access to the Russian market. Kick them out if necessary.”

A lump caught in Vladimir’s throat. He shrank, as though the walls around him had closed in, pinning him between them.

Bush’s smirk widened. A predator baring its fangs. Vladimir’s silence left an opening, and the American seized it, his breath weighted with intent.

“Isn’t this what you want? Russia with the West again? Side by side with the United States? You once said it yourself—we have so much in common.”

A spark of memory flashed through Vladimir’s mind: Bush and him laughing under the Texas sun, clasping hands beneath their fluttering national banners. Halcyon days, promises made, potential realized.

I looked the man in the eye.

I was able to get a sense of his soul.

The vision knocked the breath from his lungs.

And yet, he stepped back, reestablishing a safe distance from the American.

Because what he’d seen in his mind was a chimera. Nothing more, nothing less: a distant dream - beautiful, well-crafted, but untrue.

“Why are you hesitating?” Bush asked, and Vladimir could see the curve of his mouth beginning to fade.

Vladimir swallowed. He recalled a red flag with five golden stars, the declaration of a No Limits Partnership, Xi’s gaze meeting his across the Hall of the People’s Republic of China. Xi hadn’t said a word, but Vladimir had seen it in his eyes - sincerity, hope, and something deeper than he dared to name.

“I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept it.”

“Why not?”

“China and Russia are strategic partners. We can’t betray them.”

“I’m giving you a chance to make amends with the United States. This should be better than anything he can offer you.”

“I’m sorry.” Vladimir turned away, his resolve hardening. “I’m open to negotiations, but not this deal.”

Bush’s face fell, outlined by a shadow that made Vladimir flinch in recognition.

Vladimir recoiled when the other man grabbed his wrist, nostrils flaring.

“Why are you acting like this? What does Beijing have over you?”

“Nothing,” Vladimir answered - low, but firm. He shifted on his feet, trying to pull away, but Bush only tightened his grip.

“Then why are you choosing him?” Bush demanded, the wrinkles on his face deepening into a scowl. As if he couldn’t believe he was being rejected, as if he expected Vladimir to crawl back into America’s arms at the first chance, like a dog beckoned by its master.

“China is a reliable partner. We’ve already signed a deal.”

“Bullshit.” Bush stormed forward, crowding into Vladimir’s space. “That’s not it. I can see it in your eyes. There’s more, isn’t there?”

Vladimir bit his bottom lip. He wanted to say that China had treated Russia with respect, that the Chinese had honored every agreement, that Xi had never broken his trust the way Bush had.

But something told him Bush didn’t want to hear it.

Bush’s gaze roamed over Vladimir’s face, and an emotion passed through his expression - too fast to discern.

The American chuckled nervously. “Don’t tell me you actually like him?”

Vladimir’s refusal was automatic. “I don’t—”

“Then tell me why!”

When Vladimir tried to sidestep, Bush hauled him back, and the next moment, Vladimir was shoved into the wall with the American’s face hovering over his, the brass molding pressing against the ridge of his shoulder blades.

Vladimir winced. Under any other circumstance, his Judo instincts would have kicked in. Anyone who dared loom over him, touch him without consent, would’ve walked away with broken fingers and a bloodied nose.

But now, Vladimir was frozen. Shivering beneath heated breath on his skin, overwhelmed by the heady cologne invading his nostrils. Pinned by a touch blistering as desert sun and a voice that made his skull throb.

Bush slammed his arm against the wall beside Vladimir’s head, fist trembling. It was a far cry from Xi’s kindness; Xi, always serene, never manhandled him, never tossed him around like an object.

“Unbelievable,” the American murmured. His eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. “You actually fall for it.”

Vladimir’s breathing was strangled. He clenched his teeth so hard he could taste blood.

Bush let out a chuckle; a ragged sound, reverberating too loud in the pristine hallway that stretched like an inescapable labyrinth. “You’re falling in love with him.”

“Mr. Chairman and I are colleagues,” Vladimir retorted. His fingers stiffened. He yearned to hold onto something - anything - aching for the weight of a teacup in Xi’s suite.

“Don’t deny it. The way you look at him—” Bush added pressure to Vladimir’s wrist, enough to make him flinch. “You used to look at me the same way.”

Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. “I told you, my relationship with Chairman Xi is none of your business.”

Bush’s grin twisted nastier.

His fingers crept across Vladimir’s cheek in a grotesque imitation of tenderness. “Does he touch you gently? Ask for permission, maybe? That must feel refreshing. I wonder how long it lasts.”

Vladimir’s stomach lurched. His muscles tensed under his suit. “Please—let go.”

Bush yanked Vladimir forward until their chests slammed together. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, the whites of his eyes gleaming with manic clarity.

“You think he really wants you? He’s just using you! Eventually he will break his promises—just like I did.”

The words ignited a flame - defiant, consuming - in Vladimir’s heart.

Because there was an ache in his chest that stirred, drawn to the memory of Xi’s warmth, his thoughtful gestures, his too-gentle cadence when he told Vladimir, There’s no need for additional… sweetening, or Come with me?

Why had Vladimir left?

He should have stayed. Remained by Xi’s side. Burrowed himself into the arms that always felt welcome, fond, secure, as though they had longed to hold him since forever.

But then reality kicked in.

Xi’s compassionate touch was replaced by Bush’s malicious hold on his wrist. When Vladimir shot back, his voice trembled slightly, “Xi keeps his word. He’s not you.”

Bush snarled. “For how long? Until he gets tired of you? Of fucking you? Sooner or later he’ll know the truth. That you’re willing to bend yourself over for any men with a high enough price—”

Bush yelped when Vladimir suddenly kicked him in the knee. The blow wasn’t fatal, but precise - enough to make the American’s leg buckle, and his palm scrambled against the wall to keep himself from falling.

“Damn it, Volodya!”

Vladimir forced himself upright.

He didn’t say a word. Just adjusted his tie with a clammy hand, breath coming in ragged bursts.

Bush was still glaring at him, face reddened, hand balled into fist.

The agony in Vladimir’s guts only deepened.

“I think our conversation is over, Mr. Bush,” Vladimir said coldly.

Then he willed himself to turn his heels and walk away, even as chills spread from his core to his guts and the weight in his limbs seemed to drag him downward.

Right before the hallway turned, he heard Bush growl behind him:

“He only sees you as a whore, you hear me? A broken toy!”

****

As soon as Vladimir swung himself into a corner, he no longer knew how far he had stormed through the hallway, who had bowed, who had stepped aside as he strode past.

Vladimir’s vision blurred at the edges. His body couldn’t decide whether to flee or collapse. The floor beneath him dipped like a ship’s deck at sea. The weight of Bush’s fingers gave rise to phantom bruises on his wrist, his breath clawing at Vladimir’s nerves and leaving behind bleeding gashes.

So Vladimir kept walking. And walking. Until he reached a corridor where the silence bounced off polished granite.

Vladimir reached for a door situated between two marble panels.

He pushed it open, and the air that greeted him was sharp with the pungent odor of disinfectant - an antiseptic coolness that pricked his skin. The ambient light buzzed above him, glaring, too much like the obtrusive flashes of cameras.

Vladimir stumbled into the stall in the corner of the room. Slammed the door. Locked it behind him.

The moment he dropped to his knees, the coil in his stomach wrenched - burning, searing, painfully so. Something curled in his throat, and in the next instant, he was doubling over the toilet, one arm braced against the tiled wall, the other gripping the porcelain rim so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Just like that, Vladimir heaved. Once. Twice.

His insides spasmed. A broken sound escaped him. His body jolted as he gagged and gagged and expelled what little remained in his belly.

But there was nothing there: only air, spit, and traces of the breakfast he’d barely touched.

And still, he retched. Saliva dripped down his chin and into the diluted water of the toilet bowl. His face was flushed; the smell of bleach and the acrid stench of his own nausea made his head spin.

Whore.

Broken toy.

Fingers crept and crawled along his skin. Inside him.

By the time it was over, Vladimir was spent. He sagged against the wall, knees aching, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The fluorescent lights overhead were merciless; the rhythmic dripping of a faucet nearby a mockery to his deterioration.

He pressed the back of his hand to his eye socket, digging hard enough to smother the sting in his eyes.

His skin was freezing. He was shaking uncontrollably.

He had withstood psychological tests, torture simulations, assassination attempts. But this - this, he couldn’t handle.

Still, amidst the cold sweat and the sourness of bile clinging to the roof of his mouth, Vladimir suddenly recalled the scent of tea - floral, delicate, warm - a rare tendril of sweetness that hadn’t yet faded.

Chapter Text

After discussing the schedule with Zhong, Xi headed to the diplomatic lounge. It was buzzing with conversation when he arrived; but Xi, as always, drifted by instinct toward a secluded corner. He chose an armchair at the rear, upholstered in soft green velvet, adjacent to a large window overlooking a vast courtyard. An unusual assortment of cacti, olive trees, and various types of palms rose from the soil, arranged to loop around a water fountain.

An alabaster statue shimmered under the sunlight. Its understated grandeur reminded him of the guest lobby - how Vladimir had looked before he left: tense, distracted, the shadows flickering behind his smile.

Perhaps anxious… about seeing a certain American again.

Bush. The timing of his arrival was too convenient, and one belief entrenched in Xi’s mind was this: there were no coincidences in politics.

Was Bush simply resuming a familiar role? Or was his presence meant to provoke: a test, a disruption, a deliberate destabilizer?

What did Vladimir truly think about all of this?

****

Time stretched and thinned. The lounge had grown still. Most guests had returned to their private quarters or headed to the ceremonial hall. Xi took a quick look at the clock, then at the porcelain cup on the round table beside him.

Chrysanthemum - one of Vladimir’s favorites. He once said it reminded him of a peaceful, sun-drenched garden.

Xi smiled softly. Perhaps after the ceremony, they could share a pot, take a quiet stroll. Not in the minimalist desertscape before Xi’s eyes, but the one in the inner compound: the smaller green garden Xi came across while visiting Saudi Arabia years ago. The roses were delicate; the night-blooming jasmine was a beautiful hue of purple.

Vladimir would love it.

It would help ease his mind.

****

Once Xi finished his tea, he set the cup down and rose from his chair. By now, Vladimir must have arrived at the auditorium. Xi should be heading there too.

He glanced at his security detail, lifted a hand, ready to signal the chief - then froze.

Voices drifted in from the marble hallway: chattering, footsteps. Loud English, thick with grunts and a grainy Southern twang. Texan.

Xi didn’t move. He fixed his gaze on the entrance, ears alert.

“... conference… Russian… ran off…”

“... wimp… got me good…”

As expected, two seconds later, representatives from the free world entered the lounge from the far side of the room. Bush - instantly recognized, strode between two other men - delegates, possibly - trailed by an aide. They were nodding, gesticulating, speaking loudly as they moved across the old-fashioned, first-class lounge.

Bush looked like any American man, though age hadn’t diminished the sharpness of his presence. A head full of grey hair, thinning, but neatly combed. A strong forehead, paired with a tall nose with a subtle dip at the bridge: remnants of youthful handsomeness that hadn’t completely perished by time.

He wasn’t smiling, however. Not like in the dossiers Xi had read.

In fact, Bush looked agitated. He muttered something, pausing at a vacant table, his left leg stretched slightly, as though he had a bad knee. His aide took notes. The two other men nodded in sympathy.

Xi was watching when suddenly Bush looked up.

His gaze snapped in Xi's direction, and in an instant, their eyes met across the lounge.

For a second, neither spoke. It was a strange moment, a collision between the past and the present: an encounter that Xi knew was inevitable but when it happened, it stunned him nonetheless.

“Chairman Xi,” Bush was the first to break the tension. The scowl on his face had subsided, replaced by a neutral expression; though his eyes were still too sharp. “We haven’t been introduced.”

He waved the two delegates off, then approached, extending a hand. “Special Envoy George W. Bush.”

When Xi grabbed Bush’s hand, his fingers remained steady. “Xi Jinping. Pleasure to meet you.”

He raised a brow at Bush’s stiff leg. “I hope your journey was smooth.”

“Very smooth,” was Bush’s immediate response. Accompanied with a casual shrug: “Just ran into a stubborn cat, that’s all.”

A smile slowly spread across his face, too satisfied for someone with a limp.

Behind him, the aide shifted with palpable discomfort.

Bush shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “You heading to the ceremony?”

Xi’s eyes flicked to the teacup. “I will, eventually.”

A stretch of silence fell between them before Bush gave a knowing nod. “I see. Waiting for someone.”

“...”

“Ah, same old Volodya.” Bush arched his brow. “Run off again. Never around when you need him.”

The casual use of Vladimir’s nickname prickled Xi’s skin. The callous way Bush dismissed Vladimir scratched at Xi’s nerves.

Before Xi could interject, the American already cut in, “How is he, by the way?”

“He is well,” Xi said evenly.

Bush let out a pointed chuckle. “That’s it? Thought there’d be more. You two are joined at the hip, right?”

“He’s a reliable partner and a good friend.” Xi refused to rise to the bait.

“They always act like that before showing their true colors,” Bush replied, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. This time, his aide emitted a polite cough, no doubt sensing the low simmer between the two men.

“Well, I’d better go,” Bush said, extending another handshake, firmer than necessary. Xi didn’t flinch. “See you later, Mr. Chairman.”

Even after the American turned away, Xi didn’t miss the parting jab.

“Have fun waiting.”

The tone carried the sting of a punchline, as if Bush were delivering a joke only he understood.

****

The conversation kept looping in Xi’s mind.

Even as he moved through the hallway leading to the conference.

Even as he smiled and shook hands with delegates and world leaders, camera shutters clicking around them like a blizzard.

Even as he entered the auditorium, walked down the red carpet, and settled into his chair - the one in the front aisle, with a nameplate resting on the table before him. The high ceiling loomed overhead, glittering with chandeliers, framed by grand white columns that amplified the ornamental vastness.

Still, none of it soothed the itch in Xi’s nerves.

In fact, every synapse in his head was buzzing when he leaned over the chair beside him to pass a paper - and realized Vladimir was nowhere to be found.

****

The ceremony would begin soon. The cameras were set, lenses zooming in on every inch of the ostentatious hall. People were moving across the nearly packed auditorium, filling out velvet seats that were arranged in a semicircle around an elaborate stage; where a podium had been placed in front of a row of bright, colorful national flags.

Xi remained seated. His eyes oscillated between the dais, the giant “G20” sign lit up on the screen, and the document he was no longer paying attention to.

The nearby delegates - the Indians, the Brazilians - had already started to whisper.

“What is going on?”

“Where’s President Putin?”

“He should be here by now.”

****

Xi didn’t say a word until Zhong, his aide, arrived and now stood at his side.

“Mr. Chairman,” the man murmured. “Shall I notify the Russian delegate?”

“No,” Xi said too quickly.

He grabbed a sheet of paper. Paused. His voice became a hush, “Not yet.” He glanced at the podium, resisting the urge to peer - for the fourth time - at Vladimir’s vacant seat.

The President of Russia wasn’t known for perfect punctuality. But he wouldn’t miss the opening ceremony of a conference he had spent days and nights preparing for, outlining every single detail.

Xi’s fingers tightened, the letters on the document now a meaningless blur. He recalled the spark in Vladimir’s eyes, the hope brimming in his voice about the prospect of dialogue; the faint smile gracing his lips during their handshake an hour earlier. Like a promise.

I’ll see you at the ceremony, Mr. Chairman.

****

Across the room, another conversation drifted into earshot: loud, arrogant, obtrusive.

“And I thought His Majesty would finally grace us with his presence,” said Macron, the French President, smirking as he nudged his German counterpart. “Guess he chickened out.”

“Perhaps he’s nursing a headache,” Scholz muttered. He looked uneasy. It was unclear whether that came from Macron’s nastiness or Vladimir’s absence.

“Or ego damage,” Boris Johnson added with a loud snort, prompting a chortle from Macron, seated beside him.

Their charade - the laughter, the indecent jests - briefly faltered when another voice joined in, one that resounded off the marble with distinct, heavy inflections.

“That’s what he gets for wandering,” Bush remarked. “You’d think after all these years, he’d have learned to stay down when told.”

A pause. For effect.

Then mockery rang in Bush’s tone, high and biting, “Then again, cats never learn, do they?”

The comment drew another round of laughter from the three men.

Meanwhile, the non-Western countries remained silent. Even Xi. Who felt Bush’s earlier words crash back into his mind like a flood battering a dam about to break.

Just encountered a stubborn cat.

****

It was suddenly hard to breathe.

Xi’s gaze swerved to the empty chair. To Vladimir’s assistant, fidgeting near the entrance, clearly wondering why his President hadn’t appeared. Then flicked to Macron’s smirk - and Bush’s smug expression.

At last, Xi’s eyes landed back to Vladimir’s seat, as if truly seeing it for the first time. The nameplate glinted under the harsh stagelight. A bottle of water sat beside the mic on the table, untouched. Beads of condensation shimmered on its polished surface, as if mocking Xi’s restraint.

The speaker was already at the podium, giving an introductory speech on the value of dialogue, cooperation, and world peace. His voice echoed through the opulent chamber filled with distinguished guests.

And yet, none of it registered.

Xi’s instinct was squirming, kicking, crying out - that something must have happened to Vladimir after he departed from the lobby. Bush was involved. Likely an argument - a row, perhaps. Not cordial. Something that had become physical. So physical that Vladimir - known for his composure and level-headedness - had lashed out in defense by kicking Bush in the knee.

And now Vladimir wasn’t here. Not at the seat reserved for him. Not at Xi’s side.

What was worse - was that the only person who knew what had really happened was gloating. Gloating about hurting him.

Dread seeped into Xi’s veins. What had Bush done to Vladimir? Injured him? Cornered him? What kind of leverage had he used on the Russian President?

Xi couldn’t confront Bush. Not without making a scene. Not without jeopardizing the very diplomatic effort Vladimir had worked so hard to build.

Still, Xi realized his fingers were clenching the armrest so tightly that Zhong had begun casting him anxious looks.

You should never have let him walk into that hallway alone.

****

A polite yet pointed round of applause snapped the world back into motion.

Xi took a deep breath. His hands moved on automatic, clapping along leisurely until the thunder faded from the auditorium. Then he tilted back on his chair, feigning ease as he placed his interlocked fingers on his lap, relieved that no cameras would notice how white and rigid they were.

It was now or never.

“Zhong,” Xi whispered without moving his mouth.

His aid leaned in nonetheless. “Sir?”

“Step outside. Ask the Russians.”

“Shall I alert security—?”

“No,” Xi cut in, calm but final. “Quietly. Now.”

He could sense a brief second when Zhong, who had dutifully followed him for seven years, faltered, no doubt startled by Xi’s blatant dismissal of protocol.

Fortunately, whatever uncertainty passed through Zhong’s mind dissipated as fast as it appeared.

His eyes brightened in recognition - or perhaps, acceptance - before he slipped away, moving discreetly up the aisle toward the entrance.

Xi glanced back at the speaker at the podium. At the old boys’ club. At the grim faces of the attendees, following the ceremony with a mixture of anticipation and boredom, utterly oblivious to the storm behind Xi’s composure, to the heat flaring and rolling beneath his ribs.

Now was the hardest part.

The spotlight was blinding.

The mic boomed as the next speaker began.

And before hundreds of national television cameras around the world, the Chairman of China straightened in his seat. Rose. Buttoned his dark navy suit. And then - in a slow, determined motion - he turned and walked away.

Up the aisle. Toward the entrance. Each step even, unhurried, as if nothing at all were amiss.

Xi could sense the rustle of murmurs rising behind him, the scrutinizing eyes trailing like gun barrels on his back. The question was forming, though no one dared to voice out loud. He could already imagine the Politburo’s consternation, the spin of foreign media; his enemies seizing the moment to undermine his authority; part of the world perceiving his abrupt exit as weakness - as a sign of instability.

Every fiber of Xi’s being strained under the weight of broken protocol.

Still, he walked. And he didn’t stop.

****

Once the double doors closed behind Xi, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The theatrics of politics slipped from his shoulders like weighted armor, offering a fleeting sense of relief.

The political fallout would come later. He would face it as he always had in times of crisis: with calmness and resolve.

For now, he had to find Vladimir first.

****

By the time Xi reached the guest lobby, Zhong had returned and fell into step beside him.

“Where was he last seen?” Xi asked as they strode into the corridor where Vladimir had vanished.

“Not the conference room, Sir. Nor the delegate hall. No one recalls seeing him past the Eastern corridor.”

Xi said nothing. But he schooled his expression, aware of the crease forming on his brow and the way his mouth pulled tight. His stride changed, longer, more urgent, yet still muted by the plush carpet beneath their feet.

“And the Western corridor?” Xi said, mouth dry. When Zhong blinked at him, he added, “Any heat signatures?”

Zhong’s eyebrows knitted into a frown. “There was… a blind spot.”

Silence hung between them, though neither slowed their pace. The corridor seemed to narrow as they passed a series of doors: offices, storage, staff-only wings. A janitor’s trolley stood abandoned in a corner, half-loaded with cleaning supplies, one rubber glove dangling off the edge.

Xi’s throat felt parched. He breathed through his nostrils, the frigid odor of antiseptic crawling into his windpipe and settling like glaciers in his lungs.

“A janitor,” Zhong said abruptly. “She recalled seeing a man in Section C. Light-haired. Dark suit. Maybe—just maybe…”

Xi gave a stoic nod.

It was better than nothing.

****

Section C in the Western corridor was a deserted area with barely any staff. It was quiet - almost too quiet, enough to hear the low hum of the air ventilator and the echo of their voices bouncing off the wall. The hallway stretched like an endless labyrinth, framed by ancient portraits of past dignities and tapestries that evoked luxury yet lacked any personal warmth.

They walked for some time until Xi stopped, drawn by the sharp odor of bleach and disinfectant. Zhong, who had been following his lead, paused and hovered at his side.

Xi raised his hand, signaling his aide to stay behind. The other man hesitated, mouth pressed into a line - too many questions forced to swallow. Even so, he obeyed without a word.

Xi looked at the metal sign for the men’s restroom, mounted on the door hidden between two marble panels. They were as smooth and gleaming as everything else in this sterile corridor.

Vladimir was here.

Xi didn’t know how. Or why. He simply knew.

A palm on the door. A push. And then, Xi was already inside.

What lay beyond looked like an ordinary restroom. Fluorescent lights, pale white tiles, solid granite countertops: a space scrubbed so clean that the polish was glaring and the sterility in the air gazed at the skin around his collar.

Xi inhaled deeply. He didn’t dare linger on his reflection in the mirror, afraid of what he’d find there: the wild eyes of a man scorched by his own patience.

Instead, he moved forward until he reached the very last stall in the room. The only stall occupied. Locked.

The only place where the leader of a global power could hide. Away from the spotlight, the speeches, the burden of being seen as an untouchable monolith.

Xi didn’t knock. Not yet. He only stared.

Amid the silence, he caught a burst of low coughs, followed by a loud, raspy noise. Almost like a sob.

The same inexorable instinct that had driven Xi to leave the auditorium, to venture here - a bathroom stall reeking of suffering - told him exactly who those sounds belonged to.

Knowing it didn’t prevent his stomach from twisting into a sudden, agonizing knot.

“Vladimir?” Xi began.

He took a deep breath.

When there was no reply, he raised his hand and knocked softly on the door.

“Vladimir,” he said again.

And waited. Listening to the low hiss of the air ventilator.

The door before him remained a blockade - an impenetrable wall between them.

Two more quick, consecutive knocks.

Nothing. No sound. No stir. Not even a wheeze.

“It’s me,” Xi whispered, tipping his head forward until his forehead nearly rested on the cool surface. He brushed his fingertips along the door, then swallowed hard, heart pounding in his ears, the heaviness in his chest growing at an exponential rate.

Still, nothing. The silence was thick, heavy - a taunt to his restraint.

Because Vladimir didn’t respond. Didn’t let Xi in. He had chosen to withdraw, bury his existence from Xi’s eyes again. He didn’t care that Xi was waiting, aching, and it was always like this: Vladimir hurting but refusing comfort. Xi should have expected it, yet it hurt every time—

A rustle. A movement, so soft it could have been mistaken for wind.

Xi stilled. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Yes, there had definitely been a shift. Subtle, but alert. The sound of rumpled clothes, of stiff joints, of broken dignity.

A groan. The noise of a man clambering to his feet, gathering the remains of his pride. A man staggering under the weight of his own past, imprisoned by ghosts he didn’t dare acknowledge, much less name.

Xi kept his eyes pinned to the door, waiting for a miracle that he, who disavowed all mystical powers, would never admit he was asking for.

There was no spoken, please let me in. But the words sat like a lump in his throat, clawing to get out.

Finally, a click. Low, yet sharp. Cutting through the static hum of fluorescent light.

The door creaked open by a sliver, and as Xi stood motionless, a face peeked out from behind the wooden surface, as if to check whether he was still there.

Blue eyes flicked up - lightning quick - like a stray peering out from behind a dumpster, uncertain whether the hand offered would pet or strike.

Xi said nothing. He simply stayed, unmoving as a statue. Understood that a single wrong move could ruin everything, that even the slightest gesture might startle the frightened cat and chase him away for good.

Vladimir didn’t close the door. Just watched Xi, wide-eyed. A frown formed on his brow as his gaze darted toward the entrance, fearful that someone else might find him.

But there was no one - no one but Xi, who had ordered this area cleared of all intrusions.

At last, Vladimir slipped the door open. Slow. Wary. He straightened, meeting Xi’s eyes with lips pressed tight and chin slightly raised.

Nonetheless, Vladimir’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face white as a sheet. His shoulders stiffened with the faintest tremor, and there was a trace of moisture at the corner of his mouth, drying at his chin.

The air around him was sour, corrosive - stinging with the acid of his stomach.

Vladimir didn’t look like the President of Russia. He looked like a wreck. A man who had just spent the last thirty minutes emptying his guts, purging the misery his body could no longer hold back.

Xi’s mouth opened. Then shut.

His heart swelled with a powerful, nearly irresistible urge to bundle Vladimir in a blanket.

That was it. Forget the ceremony, the war, the sanctions. Let’s go somewhere safe, kind, serene. Where politicians didn’t lie, people didn’t judge, and Vladimir didn’t have to curl into a dirty restroom stall, cold and alone.

In the end, Xi swallowed it back.

When he spoke, his tone was the embodiment of composure, as though he didn’t feel like screaming at the smooth, pristine tiles. “Are you alright?”

Vladimir lowered his eyes, lips trembling. “Fine,” he croaked. “Just… something I ate this morning.”

Xi didn’t call him out. Didn’t ask about Bush. Just let the untruth wrap around Vladimir like a protective shield. A flimsy, shaky one. But if it preserved the last shred of Vladimir’s dignity and kept him from fleeing from Xi’s care, then Xi wouldn’t breathe a single word.

“Stay here,” Xi said gently, resisting the impulse to take Vladimir’s hand. When the other man gazed at him confused, Xi added, “I’ll be right back.”

As though Vladimir would vanish the instant Xi took his eyes off him.

****

As soon as Xi exited the restroom, he stopped. Rooted there. Reached out to adjust his tie, tug at his collar, straighten the lapels of his suit. Everything was, in fact, intact.

Xi didn’t feel like it. Something within him was burning, unraveling, pushing against the meticulous walls he’d built around himself.

Xi counted. One. Two. Three. Pulled himself together. Finally, he turned toward the corner where he knew his aide was waiting.

“Mr. Chairman?” Zhong hesitated. “Are you alright?”

Xi responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. He asked questions. Gave instructions. Reminded himself that he was the Chairman of China. He could handle this. He had handled more pressing matters: media leaks, border skirmishes, attempted coups.

Nonetheless, Zhong was studying him with something akin to realization dawning on his face.

It unnerved Xi.

****

After Zhong went to make the necessary calls, Xi returned to the restroom, where Vladimir was wordlessly staring at his reflection in the mirror. Xi paused beside him but didn’t touch, giving the other man space. It must have been a shock to face oneself and not recognize who you were.

Millions had seen them - Chairman and President - on the news, yet who could claim to truly know them?

“You shouldn’t have seen me like this,” Vladimir whispered. Though he had smoothed the lines of his crumpled jacket, the collar of his shirt still looked too tight, the edge digging into his neck. The front of his pants creased the way it would if the wearer had spent too long crumbling on his knees.

“There’s no version of you that I don’t want to see,” Xi said, the words rippling through his being like a universal truth.

He didn’t shy away when Vladimir looked at him with eyes too bright.

****

Once Vladimir was done washing up, Xi gestured toward the entrance.

“Come with me?” he offered with the grace reserved for state ceremonies.

Only now, there was no media, no pomp, no perfectly-ironed suits.

But Vladimir was here. And it was enough.

****

The escort to the Chinese delegation wing was uneventful. Xi avoided the main delegate paths altogether. Instead, they took an alternate route through the VIP lounges. Fewer people, more secure.

Zhong went ahead, making sure the remaining route was cleared, the doors blocked, the staff redirected under the pretext of cleaning protocol.

Xi didn’t mention the flick of panic in Vladimir’s eyes, the beads of sweat forming on his brow, or the way the muscles in his arms tensed at the slightest sound, torn between fleeing and fighting imaginary ghosts.

Without a word, Xi placed a hand on the space between his shoulder blades. Not pushing or grabbing - just letting it stay there, brushing the edge of Vladimir’s suit, a soothing presence should the other man need it.

****

When they reached Xi’s suite, Xi allowed Vladimir to walk inside before closing the door behind them. On the table was a pot of tea - fragrant and steaming, a small ceramic bowl lined with ginger candies, and beside it, a set of fresh clothes: not a custom-issued suit, but a sweater of soft cotton and delicate linings.

Xi eyed the scarf on top of the sweater. He hadn’t asked for it. Zhong must have figured things out on his own. To what extent, Xi wondered.

****

Vladimir stood in the middle of the suite. His shoulders loosened, relaxed for the first time since Xi had found him in that restroom stall.

“Get some rest,” Xi said gently. He had already instructed Zhong to contact the Russian delegate about Vladimir’s… condition. At least they wouldn’t launch a full search. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Xi could already envision the Chinese and Russian delegations coordinating closely, tirelessly, to contain the media fallout. The Russian President’s mysterious absence. The Chinese Chairman’s unexplained walkout. Connected incidents that left too much room for speculation.

Xi approached the window. The lighting in the room dimmed to a comforting level as he drew the velvet curtains, shielding away the blinding afternoon sun. He then moved to the table, where the steam of the tea was dancing in graceful wisps.

Vladimir would need sustenance. Later, perhaps. Rice porridge. Egg and tomato stir-fry. Warm and comforting - demanded nothing of a distressed stomach.

Vladimir didn’t follow him, but lingered at the threshold to the living room, shuffling his feet.

“How did you find me?” Vladimir asked, voice still hoarse.

Xi’s finger paused over a teacup.

He considered lying. Preserving the last semblance of peace they had left.

But Vladimir was watching him with those beautiful, penetrating blue eyes.

Walls were meant for protection, but they also kept people out. While Xi could pretend never to have seen what lay beyond, it would lead to the wall shutting - and Vladimir might never open up to him again.

“You weren’t there at the ceremony,” Xi explained, gauging Vladimir’s reaction. “Bush—he was flaunting it. So I went looking for you.”

Vladimir tensed immediately at the name. Panic flashed through his eyes. “So you know.”

“I know that he hurt you. That you were alone.”

“You must think I’m weak.”

“No,” Xi said without missing a beat. “Never. Just carrying a lot.”

Vladimir bit his lower lips rather than reply. Xi bent down to lift the teapot, angling it to fill the two cups. The warmth of the porcelain cleared his mind, tingling his numb fingers.

“He gave me an offer,” Vladimir said after a moment. “The West would welcome Russia back—if we betrayed China.”

A deep, ragged breath. “I refused.”

Xi settled the pot on the table. His face softened. “I’m glad you did.”

Vladimir’s fists clenched. “I thought I could handle it—facing him. I imagined the handshake. Rehearsed the speech.” He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, dampness clinging to his cuff. “But then I saw his face, heard his voice—and it felt like burning under the Texas sun again.”

Xi’s mind jumped back to that stall: the chills, the odor, Vladimir bent over a toilet bowl, fingers tightening on stained porcelain.

“Did he touch you?” Xi asked, voice dropping to a whisper.

Vladimir let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t want it. But he—shoved me into a wall. Yelled at me. Expected me to be his good boy.”

“You’re nobody’s good boy,” Xi said evenly, a surge of heat spiking beneath his ribs.

“Was he wrong, though?” Vladimir traced his fingers along his torso, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “I let him toss me around. All for a couple of contracts. An alliance that didn’t last.”

“You were in an unfavorable position. He took advantage of it.”

“You didn’t see what happened. How I kneeled. I begged.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Vladimir shook his head. “You—why are you doing this?”

Xi frowned. “Doing what, exactly?”

A sniffle. “Defend me. Clean up after me.”

“Vladimir…”

The other man took a step back when Xi walked around the sofa, bridging the distance between them.

“I know what you did,” Vladimir choked out. “Broke protocol. Walked out on a global summit. Lied by omission. All for me.”

Xi parted his lips, intending to interject, only to stop in his tracks as Vladimir held up a hand.

“And me? Just look at me.” Vladimir opened his palms, gesturing at himself: the loose tie, the disheveled shirt, the crumpled pants. “I’m a mess, Xi. I lied to you—about Bush, about everything.”

A shadow was hovering over Vladimir’s face again, daring Xi to get close. And yet, Xi didn’t stop. He walked until he could lay his palm on Vladimir’s forearm - tenderly, unhurriedly - permitting the other man the chance to retreat.

Vladimir didn’t. Instead, he dropped his head, eyes glued on Xi’s hand like it was the last spark of light in a world gone dark.

An unreadable emotion passed across his face before he looked away.

His gaze flicked to the tea, the ginger candies, the clean clothes.

“And I—” he said, voice cracking, “I can’t even make it up to you.”

His shoulders sagged at the last words, tugged by a burden he couldn’t bear.

Xi’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Vladimir pursed his lips. Slowly, he unfastened the buttons of his shirt, one by one, revealing a flushed throat, skin translucent as porcelain.

The gesture was familiar - too familiar. But this time, it wasn’t accompanied with a coy flutter of eyelashes; only a look of despair. “If you want, you can—”

Vladimir dragged in a shuddering breath.

He took Xi’s hand and guided it toward his torso, a brittle smile forming on his wan lips. “You can do anything to me. I don’t mind.”

A beat.

A stretch of silence.

And then—

“Vladimir,” Xi said, unbearably soft. He feared that his voice, if spoken any louder, would break.

“You’ve been kind to me.” Vladimir squeezed Xi’s hand. “Too kind.” He placed it on his front, letting Xi feel the rise and fall of his chest, the heartbeats beneath his fingertips.

Xi only stared - at the man in front of him: the eyelids that Xi yearned to kiss, the hands he longed to hold between his own, the body he wanted to touch, cradle, keep warm through cold nights where nightmares crept.

Now offered to him, like a prize.

Vladimir let go, his fingers stiff. “It’s ok if you refuse—” he went on, breath hitching. “If you don’t want me anymore. Because of what happened.”

There was such profound, consuming sorrow in his eyes that Xi felt like a knife tearing into his heart, a sun flaring open, a dam breaching - all at once.

Xi’s hand slid down. Along Vladimir’s chest, over his hips, lingering on his ribcage. This body which he had touched many times before.

Only now did Xi start to understand. All those nights when Vladimir fled, when he flinched from gentle kisses, when he gasped and curled on his side like he was guarding a wound still bleeding.

And now, Vladimir was standing here: in front of him, asking for the unspeakable, the unthinkable.

Which Xi couldn’t - he simply couldn’t do. Couldn’t put another chain on a man who had learned to walk on his knees - even if Vladimir was asking for it.

There was, however, one thing Xi could do.

He stepped forward.

Leaned in.

And wrapped his arms around Vladimir: one arm around his waist, the other behind his back. Just like that, Xi pulled the man close before any misgivings could make him wince or pause. Their fronts touched, and the earth beneath their feet seemed to shift as Xi finally, irrevocably, enveloped the smaller frame in an embrace.

Vladimir’s breath stuttered. Those muscles tensed under sweaty fabric, as though a hug was more dangerous than a sneer or kick.

“Xi?”

Xi remained silent as Vladimir’s hands jerked to his flanks, hesitated, then pressed lightly - so delicately it hurt. “You—this is…”

Xi’s grip tightened. Not too tight; and never to suffocate. But enough to sense Vladimir’s pulse against his.

Xi let out a sharp exhale. The ache behind his sternum - the words blocking his windpipe came out more difficult than any public address he’d ever made.

“Just—let me hold you like this.”

Like this.

As though they were ordinary men who were allowed to live and love, and there was no barrier between them - not duty, not national interest, not even the fortress they’d erected around their hearts because they were too afraid to let anyone in.

Vladimir didn’t speak.

His shoulders grew taut. His hands curled against Xi’s side, torn between clinging on and shrinking away - as he had in the past, flinching, running, slipping out of sight whenever Xi reached for him.

And it made Xi’s core quiver. Because what if Vladimir pulled back? What if Xi had made a mistake and this moment would push him away forever?

Before Xi’s doubt could spiral, Vladimir shifted. His rib cage expanded as his arms, very tentatively, wrapped around Xi’s form. Fingers splayed open, grazing over the silk of Xi’s suit.

Cautious. Uncertain. Testing the gesture like it was something alien, unreal - a gentleness so rare in a world of cruelty that it seemed illusionary.

“Alright,” Vladimir said. His hands ran over Xi’s side, then settled at last. He shuddered, as though every molecule of his existence was fighting to accept this: this care, Xi’s tenderness, freely given, wholeheartedly offered, with nothing expected in return.

And how strange it was - for two men who could shoulder nations - to fall apart over something as simple as a hug.

Vladimir sighed before tucking his chin onto Xi’s shoulder blade.

His arm squeezed around Xi’s back.

A sound - no more than a rasp.

“Alright, Xi.”

Xi didn’t say anything. His hands trembled; but he didn’t care.

Vladimir was in his arms. His body was cold, muscles too tense. He smelled of bile and melancholy and a thousand unshed tears.

Xi didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Awareness drifted back to Vladimir.

Even with his eyes closed, he knew he was lying on a bed. His hands curled beside his face, his cheek sinking into the pillow, torso wrapped in a blanket; and when he moved his legs, his feet brushed against the silkiness of the sheets.

The air around him radiated crispness, laced with a fragrance he could recognize anywhere: soft, floral - soothing, as if in a dream.

Vladimir’s eyes peeked open. The world blurred into vague shapes, then sharpened into the outline of a window and the flow of the curtains - a creamy velvet adorned with streaks of golden sunlight.

Before the windowsill stood a small table with a ceramic cup on top, and in the armchair beside it - a figure dressed in a white shirt and dark navy trousers.

Vladimir’s eyelids snapped shut.

He took a deep breath.

Counted inwardly.

His pulse quickened - reflex, muscle memory, a body unaccustomed to sharing a bed with anyone and staying afterward. Dangerous territory, his brain screamed. Run run run, it urged.

And yet, he stayed. Lips pressed tight, chest rising and falling, mind attuned to everything around him… Distinctively Xi.

By the time Vladimir’s pulse had slowed, he realized the surge behind his sternum wasn’t fear. Nor was it the instinctive drive to flee from danger.

No. His heart was racing because it was Xi.

Vladimir opened his eyes, taking a better look at the figure before him: dark eyes, dark hair neatly combed, the face no longer stern but intent on the document in his hand.

Yes. It was indeed the Chairman of China. His colleague. His friend. And more.

The man who had ventured into a dirty restroom stall to find him. Who had bypassed protocol to shield him from the public eye. Who had provided him with food, fresh clothes, a hug - and when Vladimir’s body finally crashed before he could swallow more than a mouthful of porridge, had ensured a cozy mattress was waiting.

Last night, even half-awake, Vladimir had felt Xi’s presence beside him. There had been no lust, no urgency - only the warmth of Xi’s skin when Vladimir unconsciously reached for his hand and let their fingertips touch.

It was then that Vladimir had at last accepted: for all that Xi’d done for him that day, he had asked for nothing in return.

Nothing except that Vladimir was safe and cared for.

****

“Are you awake?”

Vladimir turned toward the direction of the voice.

Xi didn’t lift his gaze from the paper. He simply raised the cup at his side and took a sip - unfailingly poised and calm, if not for the slight furrow in his brows.

Vladimir swallowed.

“G’morning,” he said brightly, voice still hoarse. His neck craned as he stretched, stiff joints emitting little cracking noise, the muscles of his back pulling taut - the discomfort had eased, settling into a pleasant soreness.

He could have sworn Xi stole a glance before hastily flipping a page.

Vladimir rubbed his eyes, pushed back the blanket, then rose to his feet.

The beige sweater hung loosely on him, the collar skewed below his collarbone. He tugged the hem so it rested along his thighs, the floor cool beneath his feet as he approached the other man. Xi’s fingers tightened slightly, and Vladimir doubted he was reading a single word.

It looked like Xi had been bracing himself - for rejection, indifference, for Vladimir fleeing. Again.

A sharp twinge of guilt pricked Vladimir’s chest.

“Did you sleep well?” Xi tilted his head, offering a sincere yet guarded smile.

“Good,” Vladimir said with a sheepish grin. “Like a well-fed cat in a sunbeam.”

That softened the creases at the corners of Xi’s eyes.

Vladimir’s gaze dropped to the cup on the table. The porcelain gleamed under the light, its surface decorated with elegant blue vines and blossoms.

He had seen Xi use this cup many times before - a favorite, it seemed.

Slowly, Vladimir extended his arm to grasp the small handle. He picked it up, cupping the porcelain in his palms. It was half-full, luminous to the point of translucent, yet the warmth was real and solid under his fingertips.

He threw a glance at Xi from behind the rim, but the other man only watched him in curiosity. Once Vladimir was certain Xi didn’t object, he finally brought the cup to his lips.

First, the aroma filled his lungs. Then, the tea landed on his tongue with fresh sweetness. A breeze rustled the curtains as he swallowed; the liquid settling his belly.

Vladimir let out a pleased sigh. It felt like a balm on a wound - the restoration of a land ravaged by violence, or the filling of an ache in his soul he hadn’t known existed.

When he lifted his head, Xi’s fingers were resting against his front, and the tautness in his spine had loosened.

“How was it?” Xi’s mouth formed a faint curve.

“Excellent.” Vladimir beamed. “Simply the best.”

To demonstrate, he took another sip. By the time he was finished, Xi’s face had lit up with unbridled tenderness, and Vladimir’s heart couldn’t help but skip a beat at the glint in those eyes - as though Xi would be perfectly fine with this: quiet mornings, Vladimir waking up in his bed, stealing his tea like a spoiled little creature.

With his heart still thumping in his ears, Vladimir returned the cup to its saucer. He glanced up at Xi, expecting affection - but Xi’s smile had faded, and the light in his eyes dimmed. Vladimir’s gaze followed Xi’s intense focus, drifting to his own wrist, now exposed as the too-long sleeve bunched at his elbow.

“May I?” Xi said softly.

Vladimir blinked. He nodded, taking one last glance at his wrist before hesitantly offering it. Xi reached out, holding Vladimir’s hand in his own. Vladimir’s fingers twitched by instinct at the touch, but he forced himself to stay put. The tension eventually ebbed as the other man rubbed soothing circles on the back of his hand.

Xi rolled back the sleeve, revealing pale skin beneath the cotton: a wrist where a bruise had already begun to bloom into a hideous purple contour.

His brows knitted into a line.

Vladimir pursed his lips, caught briefly by the surge of memory: oppressive hallway, Bush clutching him, the pressure on his nerves and skin and guts.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” he muttered.

“Did he—”

Xi stopped himself, breathing through the words that he didn’t say. His frown deepened as his thumb traced the skin around the swelling, which resembled the remnant of a manacle.

Vladimir offered a shrug.

“It’ll heal.”

He just hadn’t realized it would leave a mark. He’d thought the pain was phantom - a figment of his imagination. After all, he’d dealt with worse injuries in his lifetime; and judging by Xi’s expression, Xi knew this. Still, it didn’t stop him from treating Vladimir’s wrist like it was precious porcelain.

“I’ll get some salve for it.” Xi continued to eye the marred tissues.

Vladimir barely held back a sigh.

“It’ll take time, you know,” he said, not at all referring to his wrist.

“Then I’ll wait.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes.”

“And if it takes the rest of our lives?”

“Then let’s make sure our partnership survives it,” Xi said like a declaration - as if he were offering an impersonal handshake rather than cradling Vladimir’s hand with all the gentleness in the world.

Vladimir huffed out a dry chuckle, though his heart gave an unspeakable ache. “And if I ask you to leave?”

Xi schooled his expression - not quickly enough to conceal the warring thoughts flickering in his eyes, or the way his fingers trembled under the unbearable weight of possibility.

The sorrow behind his smile cut into Vladimir’s heart.

“Then I will leave.”

****

And yet.

In the end, there was no leaving.

The tension dissipated like a ribbon of clouds over the dawning sky, coalescing into quiet morning routines. The intimacy of the bedroom clung to them as they sat across each other at the table where freshly made food awaited.

The egg and tomato stir-fry glowed with a golden luster beneath the light. The tender porridge was paired with steamed bok choy, and beside the dishes sat a newly brewed pot of chrysanthemum tea.

The room was eventually filled with the soft clink of utensils, the steam rising from the pan, and Xi’s eyes gleamed - a mixture of wonder and tentative hope - as Vladimir picked up a spoon and dove into the meal with rekindled ferocity.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like the meal belonged to no one but them - a fragile reprieve cocooned in a sanctuary far away from politics.

Then a knock came, disrupting the illusion.

Xi gave Vladimir a reassuring nod before the handle clicked open and a familiar man entered the suite. It was none other than Xi’s aide, arriving to hand him what seemed to be his daily reports.

Zhong didn’t even blink as he offered a bow to each of them, as though it were an everyday occurrence to witness a shared meal between the Chinese Chairman and the Russian President - with the former deigning to busy himself in the kitchen, and the latter wearing a sweater far too big to be his own.

After Zhong left, Vladimir raised an eyebrow at Xi, who seemed unfazed.

“We can trust him,” Xi said, eyeing the report. Vladimir’s mind immediately jumped back to the hallway clearance, the comfortable suite, the arrangement of clothes and tea. The scarf.

He exhaled.

“Work?” Vladimir asked, eyes flicking to the document Xi had set aside.

“The Politburo.” Xi looked like he was swallowing a sigh. “They were displeased that I went off-script.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That we’re here to project unity. There’s no unity if we stand by and watch our own get hurt.”

“And they believed it?”

“It’s the truth,” Xi replied without wavering.

“Not all of it,” Vladimir said gently. Because he could see it in Xi’s eyes: Xi had paid the price with his own capital. The Chairman of China, who never made a diplomatic move without consultation, who calculated every risk and considered every contingency, had chosen to abruptly leave a global summit because the President of Russia was absent.

Or more precisely, because Vladimir was absent.

“Do you regret it?” Vladimir asked before he could stop himself. He bit his lower lip the instant the words left his mouth.

Xi’s brow furrowed, and an unreadable emotion passed through his gaze.

“I made my choice, Vladimir,” he said, voice lowering to a whisper. “Just as you made yours.”

Even if Vladimir’s choices had hurt him irrevocably: every time Vladimir pushed Xi away, every night he shrank from Xi’s touch, and last night - when he’d offered his body like a penance - how Xi had looked as though his heart had been carved straight out of his chest.

And now, after everything, Xi was watching with something bursting at the seams, those eyes bright, beseeching: Don’t tell me it wasn’t worth it. Don’t tell me you’re not worth it.

Vladimir had never met a man so bound to duty, yet so desperate to love.

The realization curled inside him - immense. Vladimir’s legs moved before he could think. He stood up and walked over to Xi’s side, watching the other man push back his chair to face him. Xi blinked in surprise when Vladimir stepped forward and slotted himself between his knees.

Wordlessly, Vladimir reached out to cup that face in his palms. He noted the bags under Xi’s eyes, the tight press of his lips, the weariness deepening the lines around his mouth. And then, in a gesture of endless grace, he bent down to press a kiss to the greying hair on top of Xi’s head.

“Thank you,” Vladimir whispered.

And he didn’t need to explain, because Xi’s breath was hushed, and his shoulders were shaking.

Silence stretched. The air was thin. The molecules around them seemed to combust as Xi’s arms looped around Vladimir’s waist. His hands quivered as he pulled Vladimir close - swiftly, tenderly - and a ragged noise escaped him before he rested his forehead against the center of Vladimir’s chest.

Vladimir wrapped his arms around him, his palms on the smooth fabric of Xi’s back, Xi’s head buried in the soft cotton of his sweater.

Time stood still. The Earth stopped spinning. No words were necessary, for the sound of their mingling heartbeats was enough. It felt as if, in this very moment, nothing could separate them; as if, for once, they were freed from the politics that had dominated their lives.

But like all beautiful things, it didn’t last.

Peace was fleeting for people who lived within duty’s reach, and eventually, a phone let out a shrill ring, pulling them back into the clutch of reality at last.

****

The phone call was from a security attaché, who informed them that the Russian President’s assistant, Dmitry Peskov, had arrived with a new set of clothes and a prompt update on the current international situation.

Vladimir exchanged a quick look with Xi before they both returned to work, the warmth of the embrace still lingering on their skin.

Peskov, wise enough, didn’t ask how or why the Russian President had disappeared prior to a G20 ceremony, only to materialize in the private suite of his Chinese counterpart.

Vladimir accepted the fresh suit with a thank you before moving to the guest bedroom to change.

The dress mirror stood tall and ornate as Vladimir gazed at his reflection: severe, haggard, yet no longer pallid as a corpse. He tugged down his cuff to conceal the shadow on his wrist. His fingers smoothed the crisp, clean collar, straightened the seams of his neatly ironed shirt, then began fastening his tie into a perfect knot. When he pulled the lapel of his jacket, the fabric wrapped snugly around his waist and shoulders, every detail cut to exact measurement.

Vladimir inhaled. Tried not to imagine the odor of bile and antiseptic in his lungs.

****

“Sir, this is for you.”

Vladimir took the tablet from Peskov without comment. After nodding in gratitude to his aide, he turned on the screen and skimmed through today’s agenda - conference, bilateral talks, a short press conference, and so on - plus a slew of headlines, ranging from “The Russian President Fell Victim to a Terminal Disease” to “Is This the First Sign of Fracture in the Sino-Russian Partnership?”

Nothing unexpected. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

****

When Vladimir returned to the living room, Xi was standing by the window, speaking on the phone. He wore a dark navy suit, his posture stiff, his eyes fixed on some distant point as he spoke Mandarin in a deep baritone. The moment Vladimir walked in, Xi ended the call and turned toward him.

“Bush will be at the banquet.” Xi’s expression was closed off.

“I know.”

Silence fell. Vladimir’s gaze dropped to the table, to the official pins of the G20. His mind leapt back to the Politburo, the summit, the headlines - Xi’s presence at his side, despite the cost.

“We can’t skip it, Xi.”

Vladimir didn’t need to explain. There was too much on the line - Xi knew it as well as he did.

“I wish we could.” A trace of regret colored his voice.

They said nothing. The clock ticked. Muffled footsteps passed outside the door. And then, Xi straightened, adjusting the knot of his tie. “I’ll make the proper arrangements. We’ll tighten security, alert the host, create a diplomatic shield.”

“I won’t hide from him.” Vladimir’s gaze locked on Xi’s.

When Xi’s brow furrowed, he went on, “I still need to stand on my own.” After all, he was a leader of a sovereign nation, and despite their partnership, Russia couldn’t be tethered to China.

Xi’s expression hardened. He crossed the room and gently cupped Vladimir’s cheek.

“You’ve stood on your own long enough.” Xi’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me be there for you. You don’t have to be alone.”

Vladimir held Xi’s hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. “But I won’t be alone, Xi. You’ll be there with me.”

At Xi’s look of confusion, he reached over to the table and grabbed the two identical badges bearing the G20 symbols. He swiftly fastened one to Xi’s lapel, then placed the other into the center of Xi’s palm.

“Here. Do it for me?”

Surprise lingered in Xi’s eyes, but Vladimir did not falter.

Xi’s gaze flicked to the golden pin on his own chest - just above the heart - then to the one in his hand, as if feeling its weight. His eyes softened. His hands were full of reverence as he placed the badge on the front of Vladimir’s suit, adjusted it to the right angle, and secured it with the tiny clasp.

Vladimir grinned.

“How do I look?”

“Presentable.”

“Enough to accompany you to the summit?”

“Enough to make me forget my own speech,” Xi said, his lips curling into an affectionate smile.

****

The badges stayed where they’d placed them - small, shining - catching the light as they walked the hallway and entered the auditorium together. Inquisitive eyes flashed, murmurs reverberated across the vast chamber, and headlines wrote themselves when the Chinese Chairman and the Russian President took their designated seats.

Each of the representatives delivered their speech. When it was Vladimir’s turn, he strode to the podium and began in a voice no longer raspy. His back was straight, his posture radiating the confidence that embodied the strongman persona that he had worked tirelessly to cultivate since the early days of his leadership.

Vladimir didn’t glance in Bush’s direction. Not even once.

His fingers curled briefly when he heard the man laugh, but he instantly moved his hand to the weight on his lapel.

****

“President Putin!”

“Mr. President—”

“Sir, will you take questions—”

“Was your absence related to illness?” yelled a British reporter from the back.

“The news of my decline has been greatly exaggerated.”

Follow-up inquiries exploded at Vladimir’s dry response. The snaps of camera shutters bounced across the lobby like rounds of gunfire.

“Is it true that security was called on your behalf?”

“Was there an altercation with a Western delegate before the ceremony?”

“Some sources suggest you were seen speaking with a former U.S. president—can you comment on the nature of that exchange?”

The muscles in Vladimir’s jaw twitched. His hand, inches from fixing the collar of his shirt, hung mid-air before transforming into a sharp wave of dismissal - just as another question was thrown into the open:

“Some interpret your absence as a sign of strain between Moscow and Beijing—”

“The Chinese–Russian partnership,” Vladimir said, his tone brooking no argument, “is strong. Chairman Xi and I continue our discussions on shared interests—directly.”

More mutters. More camera flashes. Vladimir’s words cut through the throng, and somewhere to his right, he could feel Xi’s presence - a steady point in the storm.

****

Once the Q&A was over, Dmitry Peskov immediately hurried to Vladimir’s side and handed him a sheet of paper.

“The Americans sent word they’d be open to a joint statement on energy cooperation.”

“Under what conditions?”

“Bush wants to discuss it with you face-to-face, Sir.”

Vladimir’s thumb pressed the briefing paper, though thankfully Peskov didn’t notice.

As he gestured for them to move through the hallway, the other man asked in a careful tone, “Should we approve his request?”

“No,” Vladimir said firmly.

Silence reigned as his fingernails dug into his palms.

“Not yet.”

Peskov looked no less perplexed. He hesitated, then asked, “Sir, does this have something to do with your—” he cut himself off, pausing as if navigating through a mind field, “—with what happened recently?”

Vladimir should have known that his assistant, aware of his phone call with Bush and of his disappearance and reappearance at Xi’s suite, would put two and two together.

Vladimir schooled his expression. “What happened was just a reunion between old acquaintances.” And before Peskov could object, he cut in, “Nothing more, nothing less.”

The sharpness in his tone silenced the other man, who swallowed nervously. The sounds of their heels striking the marble floor was loud, and when they made a turn, Vladimir could have sworn that he caught a stray comment from a passing American delegate:

“The old man still has a firm handshake—”

Vladimir felt his insides revolt.

****

“Is everything alright?” Xi was waiting for him at the end of the hallway.

Vladimir didn’t reply. He walked until he reached Xi’s side and clasped their hands together.

Xi blinked in surprise, but he didn’t let go.

Vladimir’s hand trembled.

Their fingers touched until they reached the lounge and the crowd was watching them once again.

****

The evening passed in the blink of an eye.

Conference.

Q&A.

Bilateral talks.

The banquet was no stranger. It was the kind of event Vladimir had attended a thousand times before, and this reception hall he’d just entered was no different - or barely so - from the ones he had marched into during his KGB assignments.

Only this time, it was warm.

Perhaps too warm.

The heat was more than the temperature. It was the chandeliers overhead, their sparkles like tiny suns. It was the heady mixture of perfume and the scent of canapés carried by white-gloved servers. It was the clinking of champagne glasses, the casual hum of conversation, the laughter that sounded overwhelmingly rehearsed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vladimir registered Xi standing beside him, shielding him with his body until Vladimir breathed - slowly, evenly - and trudged forward.

****

The mingling began. Vladimir talked with the Indian Prime Minister, shook hands with the Brazilian President, exchanged words with the Prince of Saudi Arabia.

Everything was fine.

So when Vladimir heard the voice, he almost thought he was imagining it.

Then he froze - and heard it again.

Gruff tone, Texan inflection, laughter that once lifted his heart above the sky - it was there, on the other side of the room, its echo like a shard of ice stabbing into his back.

“And I said to him—”

“Still in the business of ranching?”

“Don’t matter how far the cattle roam - a good rancher always knows where they’re at!” Bush said, and a roar of laughter followed: British, French, German accents - the Western powers, trading casual jokes about cowboys, as though not even twenty-four hours earlier the American hadn’t cornered Vladimir in a deserted hallway, determined to drag him kicking and screaming into the Western ranch.

****

Two meters away, Xi was engaged in an animated discussion with the Indonesian President, something about trade routes, strategic alignment, and maritime movements in the Indo-Pacific.

Always remained in Vladimir’s direct line of sight.

They exchanged a glance before Vladimir turned away with a brisk nod, reluctant to alarm Xi with a threat still in the periphery.

****

“Bush’s just asked about you.”

“Who?” Vladimir asked, only half-listening.

“The American Special Envoy,” the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia said. “He’s encouraged the Europeans to increase the consumption of Russian oil. Said it would stabilize prices.”

When Vladimir didn’t respond, the other man added, “You should talk to him.”

Vladimir’s lips curved into a strained smile.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” he said. His own voice sounded distant in his ears.

****

A flash.

Vladimir thought he saw a man’s reflection in the window behind them.

White hair. Dark gray suit.

His heart started pounding like thunder.

“Excuse me. I need to exchange a few words with my minister…”

****

As he drifted through the circles of delegates, Vladimir could feel Bush’s presence saturating the atmosphere, smothering the air like the scent of ozone before a storm.

The sharpness of his cologne, the harsh edges of his laughter, his name on people’s tongues - the American, American, American.

Vladimir didn’t turn around.

Someone brushed his forearm. He flinched. Barely acknowledged the apology.

The tightness of his collar felt like a noose.

He straightened his lapel, fingers drifting unconsciously to the G20 badge.

****

Someone tapped his shoulders.

He swerved. A face - familiar - but not Bush.

“So glad you’ve arrived, President Putin,” Macron said slyly. “The show can’t start without its main actor.”

“I’m sure my absence was a great loss to Western theater.”

“How about a toast? Bush is waiting.”

Vladimir’s gaze sharpened. “No, thanks. I’ve drunk enough for tonight.”

Macron gave a laugh. “No need to play hard to get—”

“Hard to get?” Vladimir’s temper snapped, his voice rising despite himself. “I’m not playing some parlor game with you or your friends. I’m not one of you. Never have been. Better we go our separate ways.”

He didn’t wait for Macron’s reply. Turning on his heel, he pushed through the crowd, the sting of his own outburst burning hotter than the champagne in his veins.

****

As soon as he was out of hearing shot, Vladimir immediately chided himself.

What was he doing?

Sure, Macron was a fool. But Vladimir was the President of Russia - the cold-blooded Tsar, the West had called him. And yet, here he was, losing his temper with the French President, whom he should at least treat with diplomacy.

Vladimir heaved a sigh. He downed his champagne, swallowing heavily. It left a sourness in his mouth.

A passing waiter slowed beside him with a silver tray. The scent of salt, cream, and salmon curled in the air, but Vladimir wasn’t feeling hungry. His gaze had already wandered to the far end of the hall, to the double doors thrown open toward the balcony and the garden beyond.

Xi’s voice carried from the other side of the room as he spoke to the Brazilian President. Even across the crushing crowd, Vladimir felt the glance flicker toward him, a brief tether of awareness.

Vladimir lifted the champagne in a half-salute, then went on his way. A breath of fresh air. A reprieve from the fog of perfume and the feverish glow of chandeliers. Xi would know exactly where to find him.

****

Vladimir managed to avoid most guests and servers in the hallway. To a few who spotted him, he only nodded and smiled. The hair on his nape itched with a peculiar feeling, but he shrugged it off once he turned left and the sky was there - vast and cloudless.

Vladimir stepped into the spacious balcony. It was tucked into a hidden corner where he could stand in the shadow of the lamplight, unnoticed by passersby.

He steadied his hands on the carved marble, leaning forward.

Night had fallen. The air was temperate, the breeze cool, shedding the banquet’s heat from his skin. Before him stretched a minimalist garden: olive and palm trees, a dash of purple flowers decorating the stone paths, a fountain shimmering under the pale light of the moon.

The spectacular sight eased his frayed nerves.

Which only made him feel worse.

Vladimir had promised to himself that he must face Bush, that he couldn’t keep hiding. And yet, his body was a machine no longer answering to its operator; every cog spun out of sync.

Vladimir shook his head. He lifted the champagne and took a small sip. A touch of lightness spread through his veins, lowering his defenses and dissolving his heightened sense of alertness.

The sound of chatter approached, then faded. Footsteps passed by the balcony, but he didn’t stir.

Vladimir was imagining Xi’s warmth again - those arms wrapped around him on a frosty night.

Xi had said he wanted to show Vladimir the jasmine.

He wouldn’t keep him waiting long.

A gust of wind disturbed the still atmosphere as Vladimir tipped up his head.

No sign of Xi. Instead, footsteps were drawing closer - and this time, something about them began to nag at him. The rhythm, the pace, the faint scent of cologne carried on the breeze.

Eerily familiar. It prickled like needles on his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Vladimir squeezed his eyes shut. The alarm bell in his mind roared, nerves snapping with an electric sense of recognition.

No. It couldn’t be.

A shiver ran down his spine.

Vladimir summoned his bravado - the stoicism that had helped him weather political storms - and forced himself to straighten.

There could only be one person.

Vladimir wished it were a bad dream. But fate enjoyed playing cruel jokes on him. It had happened before. Why not again?

He drew a deep breath.

And turned.

“Hello, Bush.”

And there the American stood - a shadow blocking the entrance. Under the shade of the balcony, something sharp glinted in his eyes. A twist of lips, an aging face, a tall suited figure outlined by the lights spilling from the hallway.

Vladimir almost huffed out a laugh at his own foolishness.

Why had he let himself believe he deserved a reprieve from his past?

Why had he made the mistake of thinking there would be anyone else waiting for him other than his specter?

“Hey, Volodya,” Bush said casually. “Glad to see you back.” A mask of false apology slid into place. “Kinda missed you there when you didn’t show up at the summit. Hope I didn’t scare you off.”

“I’ve faced worse than your cowboy jokes.”

Bush cocked an eyebrow. “So Macron didn’t make it up. You’re prickly today.”

Vladimir swallowed a sharp retort at the reminder of his own outburst. “What do you want?”

“Just wanna check in on you.” Bush stepped closer, his silhouette cutting into Vladimir’s line of sight. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

“There was no avoidance,” Vladimir said coolly. “I rejected your offer for a private audience. That’s my right.”

Bush leaned in, and there it was again - that cologne, spicy and sharp, filling Vladimir’s nostrils. “I thought you wanted to talk. We’re here to negotiate. Right?”

“I’m happy to have further discussions. But there’s nothing we can’t address in our bilateral talks.”

“Nah. I think I prefer it hands-on.” Bush’s knuckles brushed the front of Vladimir’s suit, and Vladimir recoiled before the American could touch his badge - the one Xi’d pinned for him this morning.

“Don’t,” he warned.

Bush blinked in disbelief. He moved forward, attempting to grab at Vladimir again, who slapped his hand away.

“I said—don’t.”

Bush’s face fell. “I see. Finally learn to bite back.”

Vladimir’s palm felt clammy. Yet, he was still standing - not running, not collapsing on the floor.

“Touch me again,” he bit out, “and you’ll get more than a stiff knee.”

Silence fell as Bush froze at the reminder.

Then something shifted. His face hardened, and a sinister look burned in his eyes - the fury of a master confronted by a defiant pet.

“Why, you little—”

“Vladimir?”

The wind had stilled. The bright moon broke free from the clouds. Vladimir turned, glancing past Bush’s shoulder, and realized his ears weren’t deceiving him: Xi was there at the threshold of the balcony, his figure framed by silver light, looking for Vladimir.

Bush’s head snapped toward him, and the moment he caught sight of Xi, his face turned frosty. “Oh, look. Your knight in shining armor is here.”

A protest hovered at the tip of Vladimir’s tongue - because he didn’t need anyone to rescue him - but the tender part of his soul, the part that craved Xi’s feather-light touch and sun-drenched gentleness, ached with relief.

Xi stood still when he saw Vladimir. His eyes immediately swept over him, searching for injuries, and when Vladimir gave a reassuring nod, lips curling into a faint smile, he saw Xi’s expression soften.

Only for it to turn to stone when his gaze shifted to Bush. Calculation flickered in Xi’s eyes as he pieced it together. It wasn’t hard, not when the American looked so smug and Vladimir was unconsciously rubbing the cuff where an old bruise was blooming purple.

“Special Envoy George Bush,” Xi said at last. “We’ve met.”

“Pleasure to see you again, Chairman Xi.” Bush gestured between himself and Vladimir. “Volodya and I were just having a chat.”

Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. “And I believe we have nothing more to say.” He pivoted on his heels and strode toward Xi’s side.

A hand caught him.

“Hang on. What’s the rush?” Bush squeezed his bicep, and Vladimir couldn’t help but flinch.

This time, the first objection didn’t come from him.

“Mr. Bush,” Xi said coldly. “It’s undiplomatic to put your hand on another person—let alone a head of state—without his consent.”

Bush’s grip faltered for a moment, giving Vladimir the chance to yank his arm free. “Quick to come to his defense, huh?” Bush replied, uncertainty threading his voice. “He must be giving you a lot. Anything you ask for.”

“I don’t ask for more than he’s willing to give.” Xi’s eyes lingered on Vladimir even as he spoke.

“How noble. No wonder he clings to you like a lifeline.”

“I’m not,” Vladimir shot back automatically, just as Xi said: “Good partners support each other.”

Vladimir didn’t correct him.

“And you’re his perfect partner now, aren’t you?” Bush cocked a haughty eyebrow at Xi. “You might think you’re special, Xi, but I know how this ends. First, he’ll suck up to you. Then he’ll shut you out.”

“You seem to think you know him well.”

Bush shoved a hand into his trouser pocket. “I do. What kind of man do you think he is, anyway?”

“A remarkable man,” Xi answered without hesitation. “Brave. Loyal. Someone who did not betray, even when threatened by his former partner.”

Bush scowled. “He needs you only because China’s the biggest consumer of cheap Russian gas.”

“Our countries benefit from an equal partnership. Beijing values what Moscow has to offer.”

“And yet you’re parading him around like an accessory in front of the whole summit.”

Vladimir - steadier now that he stood shoulder to shoulder with Xi - shot back, “A show of unity, not coercion. Unlike your so-called allies.”

Bush snorted. “Let’s face it. Without him, you can’t even defend yourself.” A slow smirk spread across his lips as his eyes locked on Xi’s. “Did he tell you about our little encounter in the hallway? How much did he share?”

“I told him enough,” Vladimir said sharply.

“Really?” Bush drawled, that Texan accent no longer endearing - now gravelly, conceited in Vladimir’s ears. “Did you tell him how I cornered you?”

Vladimir’s shoulders stiffened, sending a spark of sick delight into Bush’s eyes.

“Pinned you against the wall?”

“I—”

Bush let out a dark chuckle. “You should’ve seen him, Xi. Eyes shimmering, mouth pinched. Trying not to cry.”

Vladimir’s teeth clenched so hard he thought his jaw might crack.

Bush went on, every word a knife driven into the place he knew would hurt most. “Same old Volodya. Under all that ice and steel, you’re soft.”

Vladimir was rooted to the spot, his fists shaking with repressed memory: a murky, heavy cloud that only dissipated when he felt a palm on the small of his back - a tether to warmth, a gentle but steady presence enveloping him.

When Vladimir stole a glance at Xi, there was an unmistakable flare in those eyes - fury mixed with astonishment - like turbulent waters rolling beneath an otherwise peaceful lake.

“You had him,” Xi said.

“What?”

“You had him,” Xi repeated, more firmly. “He was willing to negotiate. He still is. He wants peace. But you keep hurting him.” Xi’s composure - the way he laid it out - made Vladimir’s heart swell.

Bush’s smirk faltered. “You don’t get it. He wasn’t sincere. He’s never loved me.”

The resentment dripping from Bush’s voice jolted awake the deepest part of Vladimir - the small, shivering part of him that clung to American soil, Texas summers, and a toothsome grin.

“I did,” Vladimir said quietly. “I did love you.”

Bush snapped, “You left.”

Vladimir’s throat ached as he swallowed. “Because you never respected Russia’s concerns, George.” His voice quivered, but he kept going, bolstered by confidence he hadn’t known he possessed. “You didn’t listen.”

“You’re the one who didn’t listen!” Bush jabbed an index finger toward him. “If only you had done as I said, we wouldn’t have broken up. We never would’ve gotten into this mess.”

And yet his voice was pitched high with something Vladimir hadn’t noticed before: the stubbornness of a man who refused to see the truth even as it stared him in the face.

“No,” Vladimir said firmly. “We would have broken up anyway. I’m not catering to your demands. Not then. Not now.” He had walked away because he would rather die on his feet than live on his knees. Some might call it pride or obstinacy, but he would never apologize for it.

Bush’s face darkened. His silence was the quiet before the storm: a black, all-consuming void that swallowed the rustle of trees, the murmur of conversation, even the bursts of raucous laughter bouncing off from the hallway.

Then Xi’s voice cut in. “You’re angry because he’s chosen dignity—not subservience.”

Bush’s head snapped toward him, and Vladimir, freed from the weight of that glare, felt the pressure lift from his chest.

“What dignity?” Bush sneered. “I offered him everything. Power. Riches. A chance for Russia to join the club. He should’ve stood by my side. And instead he—”

His fists clenched at his sides.

“He’s groveling,” Bush spat, bitterness coating every word. “Cozying up to you.”

“No,” Xi replied, his expression as unshakable as a mountain. And whether it was his calmness or his words, something in them struck Bush like a slap. “He allows me to stand by his side. There’s a difference.”

Bush’s hand slashed through the air, his fingers trembling. “Whatever. Don’t pretend you don’t like it—having him around. That he’s depending on you. Looking up to you like you’re his savior.”

“He doesn’t depend on me,” Xi corrected. “He can take care of himself.”

He turned to Vladimir. “But if he ever needs me,” Xi said, no longer addressing Bush, “I’ll be there for him.” His words were soft. Yet his hand on Vladimir’s back spoke louder than any treaties: an ever-present touch, light yet secure; supportive without being intrusive.

Vladimir could have shrugged it off at any time. Instead, he leaned in, settling deeper into the curve of Xi’s arm, their shoulders brushing.

Vladimir didn’t falter, even as Xi glanced at him in surprise.

“So you trust each other,” Bush cut in, still resentful, but weaker now. “Trust—what a laughable thing.”

“One that never existed between us,” Vladimir said sadly, his gaze steady as he met Bush’s.

“Because it doesn’t matter. It never does.” Bush’s eyes darted between them, searching for cracks even as he panted, his skin flushed red. “He’ll leave you eventually—”

“That is not for you to decide,” Xi cut him off - for the first time since the conversation began. His tone was a stone wall, a door slammed in the face of an ex-President desperate to cling to what was no longer his. “You’re not welcome here. Vladimir has the right to choose, and it isn’t you.”

“Why you—” Bush started. “How dare—” He blustered, then snapped his jaw shut. His silhouette seemed smaller now, a fading figure eclipsed by his own irrelevance, throwing a tantrum because he could no longer spin the world as he pleased.

The fear that had reigned over Vladimir was swept away like a breeze. He inhaled, then stepped forward, brushing his forearm against Xi’s, fingertips tingling as their hands touched.

“Come on, Xi,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Xi met his eyes, then gave a nod. His arm slipped into Vladimir’s, interlocking them at the elbow, and together they headed toward the entrance, undeterred by the wildness on Bush’s face.

“This isn’t over. There will be consequences—”

Bush seethed behind them, but Vladimir didn’t reply.

The night was cold. His wrist ached. Inside the lobby, the banquet went on, full of heat, spectacle, and machinations that would reshape the global order for years to come.

Still, he held onto Xi, clinging to the tea and the sunlight and the badges pinned to their lapels. For in that very moment, he knew: whatever storm awaited them, he was no longer alone. He had chosen to remain here - at Xi’s side.