Chapter Text
Landon wasn’t the type to celebrate occasions as frivolous as birthdays—unless, of course, they were his own. The idea of commemorating someone’s mere existence on an arbitrary date each year was absurd, especially when the universe would be vastly improved without most of them.
And sure, the parties were tolerable—plenty of forgettable nobodies to satiate his unquenchable sex appetite and distract him from perpetual boredom—but the expectation that he wasn’t meant to be the center of attention? Utterly laughable.
Landon had always been the sun around which everyone else orbited. Birthdays were nothing more than inconvenient detours from that natural order. Even Brandon’s birthday was only spared his disdain because he happened to share it with his other half.
So no—he hadn’t cared about Jeremy’s birthday. Not at first.
That wasn’t who he was. Landon didn’t do doting. He didn’t plan candlelit dinners, sunset walks on the boardwalk, or pretend to be soft just because someone happened to make his stomach flip in ways he didn’t particularly enjoy admitting. And Jeremy, for all his caveman-like charm and frustratingly warm eyes that resembled dark rain clouds like the prelude before the storm, had never asked for that kind of sentiment from him anyways.
But somewhere along the way–between shared cigarettes on the terrace, dazed kisses in the dark, and those mornings after where Jeremy looked at him with something other than fear, like he wasn’t monstrous–Landon found himself caring. Against his better judgement. Against his will.
Oh, how he resisted, rather viciously, at first. And trust him—he fought hard. He clawed and wrestled against it like it was beneath him, because it was, because it had been. But Jeremy… Jeremy didn’t back down. No, he fought just as hard, maybe harder. Because Jeremy was persistent. Stupidly, recklessly, infuriatingly persistent. And somehow, without Landon noticing, he managed to carve out a space for himself. Small. Quiet. Unassuming. Tucked carefully behind layers of bravado and walls so high that even kindness breaks against them like waves on stone. Buried himself into a quiet devoted part of his once-dead heart, a place Landon rarely let anyone touch.
A place that should’ve stayed locked.
But it didn’t.
So, this year has been different.
Because for the first time, he cared about someone other than himself.
Today was Jeremy’s birthday. And, coincidentally, it marked three months since they had made whatever this thing between them was official. Though ‘official’ might be too generous a word for their situation. They hadn’t told anyone. Not their families. Not the Heathens. Not the Elites. He hadn’t even told Brandon, his other half, and Landon told Brandon everything—at least, everything that didn’t make him look soft, weak, and he never really told him anything personal, not anymore. So maybe he didn’t tell Brandon everything, nothing that truly mattered, because he still couldn’t be himself around him, not in the same way he could with Jeremy.
They kept it quiet, hidden. Shared in the stolen margins of their lives. Lingering touches passed like notes beneath desks, tender kisses given like secrets in hallways, and whispers that felt like confessions when no one else was around to intrude. Entangled in one another’s obsession, neither willing to give in, nor let go.
They had the penthouse—a place that was entirely theirs—where they spent more nights than not. Only leaving to keep up appearances, to not be overtly suspicious, to not let anyone know what went on behind closed doors.
And, Landon had liked it that way. Mostly. After all, secrecy meant control. It meant no one else could ruin it, name it, cheapen it.
It was theirs.
But still… there was a part of Landon that wanted to be able to love him out loud. Love him in the light, even if he was only meant for darkness. To have what Brandon had with that mutt. Or Glyndon had with that absolute psychopath. Or what his parents had. And more than anything, he wanted what his Uncle Aiden had with Aunt Elsa, that one person who would stay despite the turbulent chaos, despite the arrogance, despite the fact that no one has ever stayed once they got too close and saw the rabbit hole that was his soul.
Because unlike the rest of his immediate family, he knew he wasn’t a saint. He knew exactly what he was—a monster. In the same way Aiden and Eli were. Like Creighton when he wasn’t too busy sleeping or snacking to indulge in his darker instincts. And if they had all found love, despite themselves, despite the blood on their hands and the sharp edges of their souls, then, couldn’t he have that too?
Landon thought he did.
After all, Jeremy and him were good. Uneven, chaotic, and intense, sure. But, they fit. In that brutal, inexplicable way that only people who lived too long in the shadows ever could.
They were good.
Jeremy loved him. And Landon found himself loving him back. Not in the soft, digestible way poets wrote verses about, but in the only way he knew how—Intimately. Profoundly. Violently. With a terrifying devotion that ached something deep in his bones.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t always kind. But it was real.
So what if that love existed in silence? So what if their adoration went unspoken? He understood it, appreciated it. But, that didn’t mean he didn’t long for more.
He had thought Jeremy would make an exception, just once. For today.
Because, yes—today was Jeremy’s birthday.
But it was also theirs—three months since they’d stopped dancing around each other and finally gave in to the undeniable pull. What they had wasn’t loud, not in the way he was. But it mattered to him.
He knew Jeremy wasn’t ready though.
And for once in his life, Landon hadn’t pushed.
Despite never giving a damn about other people’s comfort, he didn’t want to ruin what they had, he didn’t want to chase, not after spending all this time running. And that’s exactly what would happen if he tried to stake his claim in front of the whole goddamn island, in front of the heathens. In front of people who would tear them apart with just one whisper of vulnerability.
He knew how quickly things shattered when claimed too loudly.
So, he let it be. He stayed quiet. Bit his tongue.
And in spite of every greater instinct that screamed at him to throw a grand celebration fit for a King, Landon decided for something smaller.
Something private.
Something sacred.
Just them.
Which was how he found himself in a godforsaken kitchen of all places, sleeves rolled up like a common peasant, attempting to create Russian delicacies with meanings and spellings he couldn’t decipher, but that he knew Jeremy adored. Childhood comforts that his mother used to make on her good days, when she was more present, and that his father introduced to him when it was just them against the world.
Between the two of them, Landon wasn’t the cook. Not even close. He much preferred to sit back and let Jeremy take the reins in that particular domain. Jeremy, who was akin to an artist in the kitchen. Maybe that made Landon a brat, maybe it made him spoiled, but whatever. Sue him. Jeremy liked cooking, and Landon liked watching him do it. Liked being fed. Liked being cared for without having to admit that was what he wanted.
Jeremy was his own personal five-start gourmet chef. Never once complaining, not after Landon’s prior attempts had nearly set the fire alarm off more than once. Although if you asked Landon, he thought that it was a rather humorous albeit slightly disastrous recollection, much to Jeremy’s chagrin.
By all means, Landon should have been better.
But he wasn’t.
He never had to be.
He hadn’t grown up in a kitchen. That role had always fallen to his dad and Brandon. Landon had gravitated towards less menial tasks, preferring to not dirty his hands with domestic work. If food appeared, he’d eat it. If not, he was perfectly content to order in or make use of the King's endless stream of money by throwing it at someone else to solve the problem—problem solving via excessive wealth was his preferred language.
But this time was different.
Because he wanted to try.
Not because Jeremy deserved culinary excellence, but because Jeremy deserved his effort.
And Landon King didn’t try for just anyone.
He wanted to create something tangible that said:
I see you.
I remember what you love.
I care.
Maybe Brandon’s unsolicited empathy lessons were finally rubbing off on him. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud, like hell he’d want to give that win to his brother. They had started a few weeks into Jeremy and him becoming ‘official’, he had demanded—because Landon King didn’t do ‘asking’—help under the guise of a hypothetical. Like some sadistic psychological quiz, a way to manipulate the easily manipulatable by understanding the weak psyche of the neurotypical.
During these sessions, Brandon didn’t pry. Just raised that irritatingly knowing brow and handed over advice like it wasn’t soaked in suspicion.
Oh he was curious. But Landon never offered context. And Brandon never asked.
It was their unspoken agreement. One of many.
But the point was—he was making progress.
He understood the basics. Didn’t cut his beloved hands. Didn’t burn their place down or set off the fire alarms. Perhaps some of the dishes were off, but he didn’t think Jeremy would mind all that much.
It was the thought that counts… or something mushy like that.
Tonight, Landon was trying to give him home.
Even if he’d never say the words out loud. Because it meant making it more real than it already was.
He spent the morning and the better half of the afternoon like this, cooking and baking and reflecting on the highs of being in a relationship with a heathen of all people. By the time he was done, he had an assortment of dishes prepared and some specifically imported.
He’d done his research and found that in the past, high ranking members of the Bratva feasted on expensive red caviar on bread, so he had bought some a while back in preparation for today and stored it back at the Elite’s mansion so Jeremy wouldn’t see it.
He’d cooked pilaf and pelmeni, planning to serve the dumplings with a dollop of smetana, the sour cream of Jeremy’s childhood, and set aside a charcuterie board filled with a plethora of fruits. Of course, Landon couldn’t help himself and added an abundant, bordering on egregious, amount of cherries. What? It was his day too. And after his endless suffering slaving away in domesticity, he deserved a treat for his troubles.
For the cake he had tried his hand at baking, making a white Russian bundt cake topped with a coffee flavored glaze. He’d mainly chosen it because the vanilla cake was soaked with a significant amount of vodka and liqueur, something he learned fairly early on that Jeremy couldn’t live without.
Finally, he had even dipped into the pool of money he had been stashing away from various art exhibitions he put on in the past to buy a bottle of Russo-Baltique Vodka, because a cake drenched in vodka simply wasn’t enough to satiate his caveman. Did it cost a small fortune of nearly a million pounds? Perhaps. But it was beautiful. The bulletproof glass encasing the vodka prevented even the clumsiest of hands from spilling a single precious drop and the diamond encrusted replica of the Russian Imperial Eagle, along with the white and yellow gold that made up the flask, made it truly exquisite.
Its purpose of creation had been to ‘woo Russian royalty, tycoons, and wealthy aficionados worldwide,’ which was fitting in its own right. Landon just knew Jeremy would savor every drop like a King claiming his throne, even if he might pretend otherwise.
It was a symbol of status. But for Landon, it was a symbol of his devotion to Jeremy. That he was willing to invest in what they had, that he wanted to spoil him.
He hopes Jeremy will like it. He hopes Jeremy will see it.
His mind wandered to a few days ago, during a conversation with Brandon, when he stumbled upon a piece of information he didn’t think Jeremy wanted him to possess.
It had been normal, or it started off that way. Casual as always, nothing too deep, just surface level talks. His latest creations. Academics. What they were up to. Landon trying to convince Brandon to finally let go of the mutt but being firmly shut down. It was typical, ordinary. But then, Brandon let something slip—something about Jeremy. Something about his plans for that day.
Brandon had said it lightly, laughed about it, really. “So are you coming Friday? It’s going to be huge, though maybe try not to scowl at the cake. Or, I don’t know, the decorations. Or people existing.”
The words had hit him like a brick, but he kept his mask up, forbidding himself from revealing the fractures burying themselves in his heart.
He laughed in response, his smile automatic–a matter of principle, practiced and smooth. Controlled. Outwardly, he seemed composed, unshaken, as though he hadn’t just been left reeling and gasping for air. He pretended like he knew, like he didn’t care for an invite, because why waste effort on a man who was clearly playing a one-sided, obsessive game of chess against him? He kept quiet about the truth: he was the one obsessed, gnawing at every move, acutely aware that Jeremy wasn’t even on the board, hadn’t bothered showing up to the game at all.
Jeremy was spending his birthday and their anniversary with the heathens. The ones he called his friends, his family. Landon tried to understand. Tried to take Brandon’s advice that he couldn’t be so self-centered in his relationships if he didn’t want to be alone. Tried to pretend it didn’t matter. But—the heathens, and their partners. Landon’s own relatives, his friends, the people who had accepted Jeremy into their world so easily, but still tiptoed around him—they were the ones who would get to see Jeremy on that day.Not him.
He had watched Jeremy carefully that night. Listening to his body language, the subtle tells in his voice. Asked him if he wanted to do anything small, maybe. Maybe just the two of them.
Jeremy had smiled. Had lied. “Raincheck. I’ll make it up to you, Lan. Promise.”
It was a deflection at best, and a bitter deception in truth. But Landon didn’t tell Jeremy he knew.
Instead, he smiled. He joked. He laughed. Like he always did. Like he hadn’t already bought the ingredients. Like he hadn’t made a note on his phone. Like he hadn’t stood in line at some overrated restaurant for a recipe because Jeremy had mentioned, once, reminded him of his mother’s cooking. The kind of thing Landon normally let slide out of his memory.
He should have this time, too.
But he didn’t.
Because Jeremy Volkov had been different. And maybe that was Landon’s first mistake.
Nevertheless, he kept the hurt buried, the sting of it. Even if the pain flared like a paper cut that kept opening.
He never directly asked about it. He didn’t want to ruin Jeremy’s mood. Didn’t want to add weight to a day that should’ve been easy. And most of all, he didn’t want to be pitied. Landon King didn’t do pity. He had already given up so much of himself, softened the edges that pierced too deep. He refused to give up his dignity as well.
During the following days, the smile never quite reached his eyes. Oh, Jeremy wasn’t any different. But Landon was.
Jeremy was dedicated to continuing playing the part. He ‘made love’ to him every night, as if he weren’t carrying around sins during the day. He held the parts of him he hadn’t bared to anyone else, the same parts that needed to be held because of his deceit. He was still a violently possessive man when they were alone. And to everyone else? They were two leaders of rival clubs whose animosity had seemingly subsided overnight.
He was fine.
They were fine.
The morning of, he had asked again. He allowed himself to foolishly hope for just a moment. But Jeremy murmured the same pretty lies. Something vague about how he’d be kept up all day, busy with meetings and deadlines and work that was too boring for Landon to be kept entertained.
The usual lies that fall too easily from people who think charm is a substitute for honesty. And he knew those kinds of lies, because they were the same ones that he used to use on the nobodies at the clubs, on the bodies who would fall too deeply in love with him after just one taste. He just never thought he’d be so pathetic as to be on the other end.
“Back before dinner,” he’d promised, pressing a kiss to the crown of Landon’s head with the kind of tenderness that did dangerous things to Landon’s heart. “You’ll see. I’ll make it up to you.”
He nodded. He smiled. He kissed him back.
He didn’t mention that the university, the studio, everything had been closed for the past two days due to the impending snow storm. Didn’t remind him that his dad hadn’t assigned him any Bratva work, wishing his son would be able to hold on to the last bit of normalcy before Jeremy took over his position of Obshchak.
So here he was, spending the day preparing anyways for a day that was supposed to be theirs and now as he watched the minute and hour hands tick by, he waited for Jeremy to spend the last few hours with him.
After finishing the dinner preparations, he went to an out-of-the-way flower boutique—the one he’d overheard Glyndon and the girls mention months ago—and bought a bouquet of camellias. He’d never paid attention to the language of flowers before, but lately Ava wouldn’t shut up about their significance. Supposedly, they were the ultimate sign of care from the ‘useless existences known as men’. Ava’s words, not his. So, if he chose them now as his silent declaration of love and devotion for Jeremy, well, it was a truth he intended to keep to himself.
At six, he returned to the penthouse. He set the scene, meticulously giving attention to every detail. The table, draped in a deep orange-red cloth, sat at the center of the room, velvet runner adding richness beneath ivory napkins and polished cutlery. Tall tapered candles flickered in slender holders, their light weaving gold threads over the plates, one for each of them. Petals and tealights dotted the windowsill and lined the floors, making the shadows dance gently against the walls.
He placed the bouquet in a marble vase he had carved and stored for a special occasion like this. Soft instrumental music played in the background, just loud enough to fill the silence, but gentle enough to let conversation linger. The meal is plated immaculately, pristine and neat, heated to perfection until you could see the steam rise into the air, filling the room with mouth-watering aromas. He paused before turning down the last lamp, taking in the tableau he’d created: warm, elegant, inviting—a haven carved out for two.
He rechecked the wine glasses, straightened the napkins folded into origami swans, and, finally, stood back. Everything felt purposeful–every candle, every flower, every note, a quiet echo of hope and care.
At seven, the food began to cool slightly, the warmth fading into the room’s steady chill. He poured himself a small glass of the vodka, trying to loosen the tight knot in his chest. It goes from half full, then full again, then empty. His eyes flicked frequently toward the door, each time met with nothing, with silence, with disappointment. The meal remained largely untouched. The empty glass felt heavier with each refill.
At eight, the candles burned low, their flames dipped and twisted like silent screams in the quiet. His stomach grumbled faintly, but the food stayed mostly cold on his plate. Landon ate slowly, absentmindedly, the flavors dulled by distraction. His body went through the motions even if his mind didn’t. Another glass emptied, the vodka burned as it slid down his throat, smooth but offering no comfort.
At nine, the food was long forgotten, the camellias drooped slightly in the soft heat of the candlelight from where they rested in the vase. The vodka bottle was nearly empty, the table growing colder, the quiet louder. The night felt heavy, filled with absence and grief.
Landon didn’t know if he was more angry, or just tired.
The room felt smaller, the air thick with expectations he never said allowed, but pressed against his chest, suffocating him in a way that left no room for words.
At some point, he’d stopped waiting for a sound. Instead, he picked up the glasses and dishes, placing them gently in the sink. Only one set was used, but he still cleans and sets both in their proper places. He folded the table cloth. Wiped down the table. As if erasing something. The uneaten food, the untouched glass–he doesn’t want to keep any of it. He did all this with a terrifying amount of clinical detachment that would make his childhood therapists’ heads spin.
He tossed everything out. The only thing that remained was the candles that hadn’t yet been extinguished, the bouquet, and a glimmer of hope that held out in Landon’s heart.
At ten, he drained the last of the vodka, the bottle now completely empty. He took the cake from the fridge and placed it onto the now bare table, reaching for the candles and lighting them anyway, a small, stubborn act of ritual against the silence. The flames shimmered bright, casting an amber halo, mocking the empty seat across from him. Landon’s breath caught when he realized Jeremy was truly not coming.
At eleven, he sat on the couch with his knees drawn close to his chest, the soft remnant flickers of candlelight casting long shadows on the wall as the final hour stretched thin. He blindly turned on the tv, not even bothering to switch the channels, not even when that waste-of-a-psychopath, Hannibal, popped up. He tuned it out, sitting back with his eyes glazed, watching without really seeing it. A thousand possibilities rushed through his mind. Maybe Jeremy was running late. Maybe the heathens kept him longer than expected. Maybe—no, no. Landon shook off the thoughts.
His phone felt like a heavy presence at his side. No messages. No justifications. No excuses. No apologies. Just a silence given in absence.
Then—
A buzz.
The screen lights up. An Instagram notification from @brandon-king.
He doesn’t open it right away, lets it linger. His fingers hovering over his phone but not yet descending.
He lets it sit until that deep ache bubbles up, threatening to choke him if he continues to delay the inevitable. When he taps Brandon’s icon, it’s exactly what he expected. The story unveils.
Loud music pulses beneath a sea of voices, some shouting, others cheering, and yet more caught mid laugh, all entwined in celebration. Flashing lights, champagne flutes raised in a chaotic toast, people pressed so close together they’d almost be mistaken for one. An obnoxious banner—scrawled in handwriting that looked suspiciously familiar to Brandon’s dog’s scribble—hangs over the mess, ‘KING OF THE NIGHT, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR OVERLORD’.
The camera sways, momentarily unfocused before panning out and sharpening. And there he is—Jeremy Volkov. He stands at the heart of the party. Nikolai and Killian surround him, arms slung around his shoulders, each claiming half of his attention. The sight burns Landon with something close to envy, but more bitter, stained with a sense of loss. Jeremy’s grin, broad and brilliant, looks effortless, as if it always belonged there. Jeremy was never one to smile easily. Landon had to draw it out of him, had to wait patiently before he was rewarded with that soft smile, like coaxing sunlight out from behind nimbus clouds. But now, he watches Jeremy smile in real-time, as if happiness was never a struggle. Like Jeremy didn’t need Landon to fill a void in his life—the way Landon had needed Jeremy to fill his own.
Landon stares, letting the video etch itself into memory.
He replays the story twice, then once more, slower, before finally letting the phone slip from his grasp. Maybe the screen shatters; maybe it remains whole, stubborn as the heart he once believed unbreakable, the way it used to be.
He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, despondent, and so, so tired.
At 11:54 pm, the candles dwindle down to one, the lone flame still shimmering as if it doesn’t know it’s alone. He lets out a soft breath, extinguishing the light as he whispers into the hollow space, “happy birthday Jeremy…”
When midnight arrives, ushering in the start of a new day and consequently, marking the end of what they had, Landon breathes out a quiet sigh, gentle and final. There’s nothing left to do. Nothing and no one left to wait for.
He takes the cake—the first he’s ever made—and disposes of it without ceremony, without any fanfare. It tumbles into the trash where it lays ruined with the rest of the uneaten food.
He unlatches a window and tossed the camellias into the night, soft petals carried by the wind like secrets that would never see the light of day because they’d never been given the chance, like they’d never been a voice. He leaves the window open, letting the winter air to seep in, numbing his skin to better match the cold pulsing inside him.
When every trace of the day is gone, he walks to their bedroom, every step exuding a calmness he doesn’t possess. The corridor mirror catches his reflection in the dark, lit by the subtle hues of moonlight cascading through the open window. And for a fraction of a second, he sees it. Sees it hidden under the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his lips are drawn tight. He looks tired. Not unkempt. Not broken. But tired in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be. A look he’s spent his whole life hiding behind sharp smiles and even colder eyes.
He moves away before the image can settle.
As he lies in bed, all he can think about is that he was alone, while Jeremy was surrounded by people who didn’t know him like Landon did, who weren’t supposed to have him.
The insult burned deeper than the betrayal.
Because it wasn’t just that Jeremy hadn’t come. It was that he hadn’t even thought Landon needed to be there.
And that? That was unforgivable. Not when Jeremy had been the one to pursue him. The first person to look at him not as the cruel, beautiful monster the rest of the world feared or worshipped–but as something real. Something breakable.
And Landon let him in.
Not all the way. No, never that. But enough to matter. Enough to hurt.
Which is why the silence tonight wasn’t just an absence. It was rejection. Dressed up in lies of omission, sparkling wine, and Instagram filters.
Jeremy had made his choice, and it hadn’t been Landon.
Not publicly.
Not privately.
Not even as an afterthought.
Landon cursed himself, because he should’ve known, should’ve expected it.
He should’ve.
Because people like Landon? They didn’t get chosen. They got used, admired, envied, hated, feared. But never truly loved. Not in a way that mattered.
And now? Now Jeremy would come back, probably smelling like alcohol and other people, people who he’d let cling to him in Landon’s place, bleary-eyed and flushed from a good time, thinking a kiss and a mumbled, “sorry, got carried away” would be enough to soothe every frayed edge.
It wasn’t.
Not this time.
Because Landon King had set the table.
And Jeremy Volkov hadn’t even bothered to sit down.