Opposites Attract

potassiumboron

~I'm drinking coffee on a trampoline~
Original poster
MYTHICAL MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. Multiple posts per day
  2. 1-3 posts per day
  3. One post per day
Online Availability
3pm - 1am (GMT / BST)
Writing Levels
  1. Beginner
  2. Elementary
  3. Intermediate
  4. Adept
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Nonbinary
  4. Transgender
  5. No Preferences
Genres
Monsters, supernatural, fantasy, romance, criminality, slice-of-life (modern or set in past, usually with some twists)
;lm'lmlmmlm;lm.png

Artem Cheryshev had it all. He had money, power, notoriety... but none of that had stopped him from pushing the limits in order to get the one thing he felt he didn't have: his father's respect.

Truthfully, he did have that. His father had always looked at Artem with nothing but respect and pride, loving all aspects of his son. He loved that Artem was practically the younger version of himself, who would cope marvellously with the pressures of one day stepping in his shoes, but he also loved that his son wasn't afraid to show his vulnerability too. In a gang that were so infamous that even the police in Moscow refused to even attempt to bring them to justice, showing vulnerability only seemed counterproductive. It was often deemed a flaw; an element of weakness that authorities would pounce upon if it was shown. It was true that Artem knew better than to show his gentler side to them, but in the privacy of his lavish home, amongst his father and the gang he saw as his family, he really wasn't afraid to show that side of him, and that bravery was something his father deeply admired.

Nevertheless, Art never really believed he had won his father's respect. Every day, he worked his hardest in order to live up to the expectations placed upon him, and to simply make his father proud. It was true they had wealth and luxury, but slowing down would only allow other gangs in the city to take over their position. Stopping their activities wasn't possible and, knowing that, Artem often took it upon himself to ensure no other gang in the city got any ideas about taking over.

It was Artem that first had the idea of kidnapping Bartholomew when noticing the lack of security around the boy. It wasn't for money or even the attention; it was mostly to please his father. Art knew that, if he and his friends were successful, they would gain respect from their fathers in the gang and consolidate the gang's authority and status in the city. It was a win-win, but obviously came with a handful of risks. Bartholomew was known worldwide for a start, and the fame attached to his name would provoke interest from the world's media; it meant that Artem, if he was caught, couldn't get away with the crime as easily as he would do if he kidnapped an average guy off the Russian streets. There would be people across the globe calling for proper punishment and justice.

So, rather than storm the hotel, brandishing weapons and using brute force, Artem and the younger members of the gang had to sit down and actually plan things out properly. They disguised themselves as hotel workers and stole hotel room keys for easy access. Disguising themselves wasn't something they were used to doing, because normally, they had no need to hide their faces; authorities were too scared of them to even try arresting them. The last time they did, it resulted in a massacre after Artem's unexpected release from prison. In this instance, a disguise was necessary in order to evade recognition. Art had no doubt that people would suspect him and his friends, but a disguise (which in itself was uncharacteristic behaviour) would buy some time, at least.

Dealing with the guards outside Bartholomew's hotel room wasn't difficult; a few lies were made to get them to leave the door and then they were promptly dealt with, their unconscious bodies locked in a bathroom to keep them out the way. As soon as that was over, the 5 or so men entered the lavish suite and all quickly proceeded with their assigned duties. Some headed straight for the innocent Bartholomew, shoving a gag in his mouth and tying his wrists and ankles, whilst others searched the room for anything worthwhile to steal as self-given rewards for their trouble. Artem, meanwhile, stood back and observed the room calmly, only moving when seeing his friends struggle to properly tie Bart up. He was easily the tallest among the group -and probably the strongest- but he often only got involved if he was needed. He was much more happy sitting back and making sure things were going smoothly.

"...Keep still, don't struggle," he muttered to the other in English, brandishing his gun from his pocket with a smile - it often worked as a brilliant way to shut his victims up, anyway. "I don't want to have to use this, so quit squirming around before I get mad, boy. Or we'll... vybivat' tebya, hm? We'll knock you out. Just don't squirm and we won't have to give you a nasty bump on the head."
 
This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Bartholomew was only suppose to spend a few days top in Russia only to be shipped back home, just as clean and pristine as he was before his trip with the addition of a nifty contract proving that he had done what his father wanted with little resistance. He wanted the whole thing to end quickly from a mix of both separation anxiety and the impending doom he felt with the meeting, this being the first time he had ever interacted with these very wealthy, very influential men.

In fact, the next day was when the meeting was supposed to take place. With everything neatly set up... and reluctantly, with it all out in the open, it wasn’t very hard to steal his things. Not to mention the initial shock and inevitable gun pressed to his head were a bit higher on his lists of priority.

He wasn’t particularly tough and without a doubt would lose in a fight but that didn’t mean he was one to give up. He kicked and squirmed as much as possible with anger prevailing over his fear, though the gun wasnt something he could ignore and quickly stopped his attempts with ready eyes.

“Who are you? What is going on?!” He tried to yell, though it came as no surprise that his words were muffled by the gag in his mouth, the talking only causing him to drool. Looking around the room at the multiple thugs, it was then that he realized that he had managed to fail his father. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but he couldn’t push the thought from his mind.

“Please let me go, you can take whatever you want!” He pleases through the gag, his eyes wide as they locked on the barrel of Artem’s gun, his face pale and sweaty.
 
What followed was a mixture of mocking remarks and laughs from the others in the gang. They may have spoken in Russian, but the mere tone of their voices indicated that they were making fun of the frightened man. The wide smirks on their faces and the laughter probably helped with that. Artem joined in with the smiles, even managing a quiet chuckle, but said nothing to fuel the mocking that was taking place. He encouraged his friends to continue stealing what they wanted in the time they had, but joining in with their mockery wasn't something he felt comfortable doing.

Bartholomew hadn't done anything to him to warrant Artem mocking him. He was making a fuss, granted, but Artem knew he'd probably act the same way in his position. That wasn't to say he was going to smile and release him. Artem may be more sympathetic than his friends were, but that didn't mean he wasn't his father's son. He would hurt anybody if it meant making his father proud and earning himself more notoriety; even if that person was a completely innocent man who hadn't offended him or his family in any way. Unfortunately for Bart, he was a necessary piece of the overall plan and not inconsequential in the slightest.

Calmly, Artem did slide his gun away, only to do as he had threatened by giving Bart a swift punch to the face. He didn't see Bart shutting up or stopping his struggles, so knocking him out became a sudden necessity, and one Artem didn't struggle doing whatsoever. It gave him ample time to collect Bart's suitcase, shoving some clothes inside for him, and making a quick exit to the car waiting outside.

Though, the car wasn't heading to Artem's home. Instead, it headed across the city to a small house in the middle of nowhere that was often used for 'business' by the gang, where victims were taken to be beaten for information or, simply, murdered. It was the perfect place to keep Bart hostage, away from Art's lavish home. If police were forced to intervene by international pressure, they could search Art's house without finding any evidence that he was involved in the kidnapping, and hopefully that would help keep him from prison again. If he had to spend a few weeks sleeping in a small, run-down house with barely any decoration or furnishings, he would gladly do that to avoid imprisonment.

An hour after his arrival in the house, having gotten his things settled in a bedroom to change out of the uniform and into his much more characteristic hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, he headed to the basement where Bart had been left. Whilst his friends had tossed him there carelessly before heading into the kitchen to listen to music and grab food, Artem was much more considerate. He had gone out of his way to make soup for Bart, including several slices of buttered bread, and, alongside a warm cup of milk, he set the tray down and gave Bart a gentle nudge to wake him up.

"...Wake up. You need to eat, keep your strength up," he muttered, his brow raised at the bruise he had caused. He didn't care all that much about hurting people, but they were usually people who had done him wrong. Bart being a complete innocent did cause some guilt to take hold, enough to make him kneel down and take the gag from his mouth. It wasn't something he would do normally with hostages, but Bart deserved a little sympathetic treatment.

"If you start fucking screaming for help, it goes straight back in your mouth," he warned coldly, moving back with an unsubtle nod to the tray. "Eat. I don't want to force feed you."
 
“What.... why am I here? Where am I?” He groggily replied, his body sore from being so carelessly tossed. It wasn’t until he tried to squirm out of the zip ties holding his leg and hands together that he remembered what had happened, dread sinking in. The last thing he remembered clearly was being attacked in his hotel room, surrounded by lavish furniture and a soft bed that he was eager to get rest in. Now he was left on a cold stone floor with a complete stranger, bound and freezing in his simple pajamas.

“Why am I here? What did I do wrong?” He quickly asked, his voice beginning to crack as tears stained his cheeks. “I... I swear, I don’t have anything you want. I-I just - please let me go! My... My father will pay handsomely for you to release me,” he promised quickly as he nervously squirmed only to remember just how stiff the zip ties were.

“.... why are you doing this?” He questioned in a whisper after a moment of pause, his cheeks reddening as he grew more emotional. “I just want to go home! I-I didn’t even want to come to this s-stupid country, I just wanted to stay home and focus on the latest reports. I-I... I didn’t do anything wrong,” He babbled out with a nervous glance to the soup.

The situation was, while being terrifying, was also incredibly confusing. Here he was, bound tight in a strange basement like he often saw in movies, yet was somehow being given ‘somewhat’ alright food - not as good as he would be given at home, but far better than prison food, he assumed.
 
Moving to untie the man's hands once realising he needed to use them to feed himself, Artem sat back and fiddled in his pocket for a cigarette. He didn't smoke just to stay calm -he smoked because he was addicted at this point- but it did have a calming influence on him, and he definitely needed it the moment Bart decided to start bargaining for his life. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but he usually didn't need to hear someone offering money for their safety and release. Most people in Bart's position already knew who Artem was, and in knowing that, they realised he had enough money; more than enough not to be influenced by someone offering it to him.

Because he was unused to that, it did catch him by surprise - something he wasn't used to at all. After the initial surprise wore off, the inevitable anger kicked in. He didn't like people not knowing who he was, having worked far too hard over the years to establish himself as a someone to suddenly be ignored, and by Bart no less. He knew the man had been to Moscow countless times in the past with his father -he knew lots about Bart, in fact- so he at least expected him to know of the gang and to make an educated guess who he was dealing with. To have no recognition and then to be insulted with the offer of money was unbelievably offensive. It took a long drag from his cigarette and several seconds of calm breathing to even look at the hostage without flipping out.

"You're lucky you're talking to me and not my father. He would have snapped your neck by now for your uneducated remarks," he pointed out, leaning his head back against the wall, a slight grimace appearing at how horrible the surroundings were. "...You're necessary in the grand scheme of things. I blame your father. He shouldn't send you here with two or three men as security, that's asking for trouble, don't you think? We don't want money, we don't need it. We're just... sending a message is all. Now please eat, you're already on the thin side. Eat up and maybe I can find something for dessert; some nice traditional Russian cake."
 
“What are you going to do with me?” He quickly asked as he glanced back at the food again all the while feeling his wrists and wincing at the deep marks into them. “I’m... I’m not my father, I-I.... I told him I needed more guards and he said I’d be fine. God, I’m such and idiot,” he hissed under his breath to himself before reluctantly moving to take the bowl of soup. For all he knew, it could be poisoned or drugged. He had been taught as a child not to trust strangers without his father by his side, and it took an idiot not to realize that this was more than just a strange man offering him candy.

He took a sip anyway, mostly to counter the cold of the basement. He had been to Russia a few times before with his father, Sure, but not long enough for him to see anything outside of hotel rooms and business meetings. He chose to press it against his bruised cheek after a sip of the soup. Sure, it wasn’t slime but not only was he far from hungry but the soup was... okay.

“How long do I have to be here? You’re not going to kill me, are you? L-Like I said, I won’t tell anyone you did this and it’s not like I know your name! I just want to be back home and... we can both live our lives normally,” he suggested weakly, though the presence of the other admittedly terrified him.
 
"I won't kill you, no. What would that solve? We'll wait until your father hands over the ransom, then we'll refuse to hand you over until we uncover some dirt on him. A man like that has some secrets, they always do. We'll promise him we won't reveal that secret to the world as long as you keep your mouth shut about who we are. He won't be very eager for you to reveal who kidnapped you if it ruins his life in the process, will he? So you'll get to be safe, he'll have his secrets kept secret, and I get to stay out of jail, even though I'm sure everyone who knows who I am will realise I was behind it, so I still get the infamy and recognition-- it's all very straightforward."

Tapping his finger against the cigarette, he broke the serious expression with a smile the moment he heard his friends laugh up in the kitchen, the loud sound of music and their general happiness being something that gave him some enjoyment. He wasn't the biggest fan of partying, but he had nothing against his friends celebrating their successful start.

"I'm Artem. Art's fine. You should know my name, you'll be here awhile. I'll fetch you blankets, it's too cold down here without them. And we'll get you a bed. I thought my friends would sort this out but clearly they... forgot," he shrugged, having no doubts that his friends simply didn't give a shit. He, on the other hand, knew better than to let the kid die. He could get Bart's father to keep his mouth shut if he got his son back to him alive. If Bart died, any chance of that would go out the window.

"It's not in my interest to let you get hurt. I had to punch you. You wouldn't shut up," he mumbled as he eyed the bruise again. "...I can fetch you ice if that'd help. I'm normally the one causing bruises, not healing them, so I don't know what's most... helpful to you. Just ask if you need anything. Like I said, you're not here to be hurt-- though don't take advantage of my kindness, yeah? I don't like that."
 
“If you were truly kind, you’d let me go,” he whispered to himself as he stared down at his bound legs to at least get his mind together. He was already stressed to begin with immediately coming off his private plane and this had just escalated everything, though it was a common thing for him to hold back his emotions only to leave him with a full breakdown. It wouldn’t be a surprise for him to have a breakdown over the whole situation.

“.... can I at least use my legs? I promise I’ll stay here, I’m just in a lot of pain,” he admitted before cautiously moving to take a bite of the bread to at least force himself to eat. It was far to late and he just wanted to sleep but if he was going to be forced awake, he needed to have the proper energy to at least defend himself if need be. “I could use a blanket, too, yes. Will... I be able to shower? God, I don’t want to be treated like an animal...”
 
"How many times do I have to tell you that you'll be treated fine here? My friends make jokes but we won't hurt you unless you bring that on yourself by doing something dumb, like trying to escape. So you'd better not fucking attempt it," he warned, switching easily to the more intimidating side once realising the situation demanded it. He was trying his best to be as accommodating as he could, however difficult the situation was, but he also knew it wasn't being appreciated. He could understand why it wasn't, because Bart was clearly too scared and bewildered to do so, but Artem wasn't all that happy about showing that more kinder side to someone who wasn't capable of appreciating it. It was wasted on him at the moment, but he did seem to respond to Art when he was threatening and intimidating, and acting like that at least established who was in charge... even if there was no denying that anyway.

"...I don't like your father. I find him to be a megalomaniac who has let his fame get to his head. Why else would he send you here without security? He knows who I am; at least, he knows who my father is. He knows we target men like him. Why he sent you here without protection is precisely why I hate him. He thinks he's above being hurt," he spat, leaning in in order to undo the rope around Bart's ankles, muttering under his breath in his native language to communicate his disgust without upsetting Bart too much. The last thing he needed was for him to be even more emotional than he already was.

"Your name is Bart, yes? I know it is, I'm just... trying to converse with you. I don't like awkward silence, it makes me uncomfortable," he sighed, running his hand through his hair with a faint smile, the effort to be intimidating breaking down when he realised he wasn't in the mood. "...Do you like the soup? I made it myself, so be kind."
 
“It’s... good,” he replied as nervous eyes locked into Artem, irrational thoughts hitting him. What if this man decided to sudden cut his ankles so he couldn’t walk? What if he was punched again? This thug could be lying and fully planned to kill him for all he knew. He didn’t know how sane this man even was, so for all he knew he could be beaten up for just the slightest critique. If he had to lie to keep everything at peace, he would... it was very similar to the business meetings he watched.

“It’s good, yes, but I’m not hungry,” he admitted as he moved to rub his sore ankles. He took this opportunity to take in the surroundings, a slow frown growing upon realizing that the only escape was through the basement stairs where he assumed he would be greeted with other criminals. His mind was far too frazzled to think of a plan.
 
"Is he not going to eat? You aren't going to eat anything, you pompous little prick? Is it not good enough for a spoilt brat? Can't say I'm surprised. Stick a bullet in his head and get this shit over with, Art--"

"He's not hungry, he'll eat when he is. It tastes nice cold, I'm sure-- don't antagonise him. Just leave it, Denis," warned Artem towards the man that had entered the basement to hand his friend some beer. Artem wasn't so naive that he expected the other to enter without saying something, but the insults were hardly helping matters. Neither was the murderous look Denis had on his expression. Artem had no doubt that his friends would kill Bart and not worry about the consequences of their actions, simply because they never usually needed to consider repercussions. Artem was wise enough to know that this crime wasn't going to be brushed under the carpet, and the less damage given to Bart, the better.

That said, it was tempting to kill him and be done with the stress, but the consequences were too severe to even consider doing that.

"Denis is... joking. He's the joker of the group. He's... very funny. It's... a different type of humour to yours, I suppose," continued Artem with a forced smile, glaring subtly at his friend as he left the room, muttering under his breath. Physically relaxing in his absence, Artem sipped at his beer with another glance around the room.

"It's pretty awful down here, I know. It won't be for long. It'd help us if you let us in on some of your father's secrets-- something he'd hate the public to know. If we knew that, we'd release you as soon as the ransom's paid. I'm sure you want to leave, don't you?"
 
“He’s not joking,” he decided the moment the other man leff, swallowing nervously. His eyes followed the man only to immediately land on Artem again. It was true that the other seemed to be the lesser of many evils, apparently. Taking another nervous sip of the soup after the blatant threats of ‘Denis’, he’d happily chug back the damn thing if it meant he’d stay alive longer.

“I-I don’t know what you mean by ‘secrets’,” he quickly replied after slurping back the soup without hesitation. “My father - you’re being vague. What do you want? I’ll... give you almost anything. I just don’t want to be here any longer. No offense but this... isn’t a very good vacation,” he tried to tease, though it was a bit hard when his expfesssion was that of fear the entire time.
 
"You don't know what I mean? I'm not sure I can make it any clearer-- and I'm not the native English speaker. Does you father have anything he doesn't want the public to know about? Without some little secret, I couldn't let you leave to go home, it's really all very simple. You can go if I have something to blackmail your father with to keep him silent about this whole thing. I don't want you dead. It'd end with imprisonment for me and I don't want to go back to prison," he shrugged, his eyes rolling in disbelief that he had to explain everything again. He assumed that the stress of the situation was causing the other fear, so much so that he couldn't take in everything around him. It was understandable, but that didn't mean Artem particularly liked repeating himself. He was someone that, when he spoke, people automatically listened. Having someone constantly not understand what he was hinting at was frustrating, but he managed to put his irritation aside. Nothing would be accomplished if he showed himself as the 'bad' guy. Unlike Denis, he wanted to try and build some sort of bond and trust, deciding that that would help move the plan along more than fear and intimidation would.

"Not a good vacation? Give it time, hm? You might end up enjoying it. I'm very good company," the man smiled, taking a long swig from his beer with a content sigh. "...I know this isn't ideal but nobody will hurt you, I guarantee that. You aren't here to be hurt or upset. I'm... sort of in charge so you should trust my word on that. Besides, they're too busy drinking and having fun up there to bother you; it'll mostly be me and you down here."
 
“ ‘You aren’t here to be hurt’? You hit me with your gun and tied me up. T-That is a pretty clear sign that you don’t have any intentions of treating me like a normal person,” he countered, thankful for his free hand so he could run them through his curly locks, trying his best to slowly relax. No matter how ‘calm’ he tried to be, though, didn’t mean he could forget the fact that he was in a cellar somewhere in Russia with a gang of criminals.

Deciding to grow quiet, it was mostly to stew over his situation with the body guards. He knew a handful weren’t enough and he knew he was noticeable by others yet his father couldn’t be bothered to get more protection?! It was all a big mistake, and the sudden tears only helped with the headache that came with the hard bump to his head.

“I... I just want to be alone,” he eventually whispered. “I need - I need to just be alone and try to calm down, I-I... need some sort of bed, or are you going to have me sleep on the concrete? I need a nap, this is all really overwhelming.”
 
"...I had to hit you, it was necessary. You were being tiresome and I can't deal with that, it was best to give you a knock to the head. It made things much easier for us-- and trust me, I didn't hit you that hard. I know how hard to hit someone, you'll be alright in a day or two after some rest and plenty of food. I can bring you a mattress tonight and I'll set up a bed tomorrow night for you, if that works? Again, it's not ideal or the luxury I assume you're used to, but it's all you're going to get," he muttered, his kindness seeming to edge out at the end of his sentence once realising none of it was going to register to Bartholomew until he had rested up and was less stressed out. So, after fetching the promised mattress, along with plenty of thick blankets, Artem quickly left the basement and remained away for several hours. In fact, he didn't return until lunchtime the following day, carefully unlocking the door with one hand as he balanced a tray of food on the other.

The gentle smile on his face was a stark contrast to the state he was in. His knuckles were clearly bruised and bloodied, presumably from beating someone up. The blood on his white t-shirt consolidated that, and he wouldn't deny if pressed that he had hurt someone. Bart wasn't the only mission he had on the go; he still had other work to attend to, and that morning had consisted of the usual - paying someone a lesson for disobedience and ensuring they kept their silence.

He wasn't going to show that behaviour to Bart, however. Instead, he carefully set the tray down and took his place opposite him again, nodding to the food in an attempt to urge him on to eat.

"Denis is going to set the bed up while you have a shower or a bath-- I'll have to accompany you so you don't climb out the window, but we'll get to that after you eat up. How was your night? The boys didn't disturb you, did they? I know they were partying well into the early hours..."
 
While the mattress wasn’t exactly like his pleasant, hand crafted King at home and the count on the sheets were most likely pretty low, it was better than nothing. For all he knew, concrete could have been his sleeping arrangements.

That being said, he didn’t sleep very well in it anyway what from the mix of the bed just not being what he was used to, it being particularly cold and the general stress from the situation. It wasn’t until around 3 AM that the young man finally fell asleep, however light it was. He woke up officially around 7, which was clearly not a normal situation, having followed a very closely monitored schedule to keep him at peak performance. So, with tired eyes and am achy body, it hit him again of just the situation he was in.

“... you’re going to let me shower?” He questioned slowly as he took in the food. “That’s... thank you, I suppose? I feel disgusting,” he admitted as he adjusted one of the blankets that were still wrapped snuggly around him. “How long do I have to stay here?”
 
  • Like
Reactions: potassiumboron
"Like I said, as soon as your father pays the ransom and as soon as we have some dirt on him to keep his and your mouths shut about the situation. We'll get cash and some dirt on a high-profile businessman, and you'll get to go home and live out the rest of your life. It's all simple, I told you all this. I'm a man of my word. Until then, you'll be here-- but it's not so bad, is it? You'll have a bed and the food's great and you can have some beers if you want," he offered easily, laying his legs out with a tired sigh. His night hadn't been the most peaceful either. He, like Bart, was used to sleeping in a luxurious bed. However, because of the situation, he had had to go to sleep on a less than comfortable bed with a mattress that felt as thin as cardboard, so his night hadn't been particularly great either.

It was worth sacrificing a few weeks of comfort if it meant the plan went without a hitch. If he pulled it off, he would make his father proud, and that was all he really wanted to do.

"...Sorry about lunch. I know it's soup again, but it's all I can make," he mumbled, eyeing the untouched bowl with a faint smile. "I'm not the best cook, I guess-- but I'm the best out of the guys. If Denis had to cook, you'd be given a plate of, like, dried up beef and some sour cabbage, so..."
 
Slowly letting his eyes drift to the bowl, he was hesitant from the sight. The soup wasn’t great and like hell did he want any more, though he reluctantly moved to sip the soup despite wanting to do anything else. If it was all he was going to get to eat, he had to at least keep his energy up.

“I really want a bath,” he admitted. “I just want to get clean and, like, stretch. Not to be rude but the concrete floors aren’t very comfortable,” he explained with a nervous laugh. “Ah... Yeah. M-Maybe I’ll give you some information if I can have a proper warm bath.”

He didn’t want to seem spoiled. Everyone but Artem seemed so rugged and uncivilized, and Artem was hardly perfect, what with the blood and whatnot. He didn’t want to flaunt his privilege but it was just... very hard to re-wire that whole lifestyle
 
  • Like
Reactions: potassiumboron
"...Are you playing that game with me? You won't reveal any information until I get you to the bath? That's... brave of you. I would have thought you'd rush into handing over any information in order to get home as soon as possible, not bargain with me for the sake of a warm bath. That's definitely... ballsy of you, I think. Now, if I were Denis or Viktor, I'd probably slap you for it," he admitted with a faint snort, his brow arched in genuine surprise at the remark. He was sure that Bart hadn't meant to bargain with him, given how nervous he had seemed most of their time together, but it didn't mean he could overlook it.

However, unlike how his friends would take it, Artem found himself smiling in amusement.

"It's fine, I think it's... funny, actually. You're not just some timid little thing, are you? That's... surprising, but I like that. Makes you interesting," he laughed, his smile growing wider. "Sure, I'll accept that, then. You can have a bath and then I'll have the information, that's fine. I don't usually let myself get talked around by anyone but... hey, I'm a kind guy. Just eat the food up first, yeah? You look way too pale and I don't need you dying in my care."
 
"I'm my father's son, I could never be 'timid'," he quickly defended, albeit quietly as he took in another sip of the soup that had now become cold sitting against the chilly concrete. It was true, after all - he was the future heir to his father's company and he was known for his likeable and strong personality to cameras. Sure, most of it was a lie but there was still some truth in the persona he gave off. Once finishing enough of the soup that he deemed enough, he nervously got to his feet, grimacing a tad from the bruises he felt.

"I... am fine," he reassured as he dusted himself off a tad. "... did you at least bring my clothes with me, or do I have to spend time in my pajamas?" He questioned slowly, knowing that it might have sounded a bit arrogant or needy. It was in his blood to get what he wanted and, while he would tiptoe around the whole thing just a bit, he still wanted to be treated well enough to get a fresh pair of clothes. "They don't have to be nice, just... anything would be better than these clothes."