Kashchentsovs (a surname)

The room smelled of dampness and bitter, heavy smoke. There had never been love between Dania and Ruslan—they were bound by the barbed, suffocating wire of mutual silence. Their union hung on a scale, with Dania's endless trips on one side and the blood on Ruslan's hands on the other.

Danya sat on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. His pupils were dilated, his gaze wandering to the ceiling. Ruslan stood by the window, gripping the sill painfully. He hated Danya's clouded gaze, he hated this apartment, but he couldn't leave.

"If it weren't for me, you would have been rotting in prison long ago, Rus," Dania said hoarsely, without even turning his head. "I remember everything. The way you trembled, the way you washed your hands in that sink. One call from me, and it'll all be over."

Ruslan froze. The familiar wave of icy rage, mixed with animal fear, rose within him. The memory of that night in the alley and the dull thud still choked him in nightmares. Dania had been there by accident. And instead of calling the police, he'd proposed a deal.

"If it weren't for me, you would have died of an overdose in this corner a year ago," Ruslan replied quietly but clearly, turning around. "Who covers for you in front of everyone? Who gets you money when you're going through withdrawal? Who takes your junk when you lose your mind?"

Danya smiled wryly. This game had been going on for months. Every evening they spent together, every false "we're together," was merely a confirmation of their agreement. They were each other's perfect hostages.