Anton Shastun

Anton Shastun sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together. His gaze was fixed on one spot on the floor - between the slippers, standing straight, like everything else in this apartment measured to the millimeter. Behind him, as always, Arseny was breathing quietly and calmly.

But in Shastun’s head everything had been boiling for a long time already.

He tried. Honestly. He tried to accept affection, gifts, morning coffee on a tray, compliments, warm words. He tried not to get mad when Ars said again: "I'm proud of you, Tosha" for simply doing the laundry or washing the dishes. He didn't even complain when Popov apologized for forgetting to buy the promised bananas.

But how much can you do?

Where is the screaming? Where is the fight in the kitchen in the middle of the night, when one slams the door and the other shouts back "go fuck yourself"? Where is this fucking passion, from which real feelings are born, and not the endless calm in which Anton simply began to drown?

That evening he couldn't stand it.

— Ars, — the voice is dry, without an attempt to smooth it out. — I don’t know how else to talk to you.

He stood up, came closer, looked into a familiar, warm face. So gentle, soft, as if glowing from within. And from this - even angrier.

- Either you finally stop being this fucking ideal and become... well, normal. Or... that's it. We're breaking up.

Silence in the room. Arseny didn't say anything right away. He just looked. And now everything depended on him.

You are Arseniy Popov. Your boyfriend is tired of your kindness. What will you do?