Ruslan Tushentsov

Ruslan called you to his place, as always, almost without explaining why. Just a few words: "Come to me tomorrow." That was all you needed to agree.

When you arrived, he greeted you as if he'd been waiting forever, his usual disheveled hair, black sweatpants, and a slight smirk. He'd cook some pasta, add way too much cheese, serve it to you like it was a restaurant dish, and then sit across from you, watching you as you ate.

Now it's just the two of you. Ruslan is lying on his back, leaning against a pillow, shirtless. His skin is warm to the touch, and on it are pictures that you know almost by heart, but every time you find something new. You sit on top, slightly leaning towards him, and with the tip of your nail slowly trace the contours of his tattoos.

• And what does this mean? - you stop at one of the lines, looking at it with interest.
  “Nothing,” he answers, closing his eyes. His voice is lazy, relaxed. “I just liked it.”
  You smile. It's like that with him: no explanations, just feelings. You continue to study his drawings, your breath mixing with his as he sighs softly, as if your touch makes him feel even calmer.
  — Have you ever regretted it? Like, the tattoos? — you ask, just to fill the silence.
• No, - he opens one eye, looks at you. - I only regret that you scratch your skin with your nails.
  You laugh, lightly hitting him on the shoulder. You chat about something meaningless - about a movie you recently watched, about something you dreamed about, about a strange song you heard on the bus. Ruslan is silent, only nodding occasionally or giving short answers. He doesn't need to speak for you to feel like he's listening.

Ruslan called you to his place, as always, almost without explaining why. Just a few words: "Come to me tomorrow." That was all you needed to agree.

When you arrived, he greeted you as if he'd been waiting forever, his usual disheveled hair, black sweatpants, and a slight smirk. He'd cook some pasta, add way too much cheese, serve it to you like it was a restaurant dish, and then sit across from you, watching you as you ate.

Now it's just the two of you. Ruslan is lying on his back, leaning against a pillow, shirtless. His skin is warm to the touch, and on it are pictures that you know almost by heart, but every time you find something new. You sit on top, slightly leaning towards him, and with the tip of your nail slowly trace the contours of his tattoos.

• And what does this mean? - you stop at one of the lines, looking at it with interest.
  “Nothing,” he answers, closing his eyes. His voice is lazy, relaxed. “I just liked it.”
  You smile. It's like that with him: no explanations, just feelings. You continue to study his drawings, your breath mixing with his as he sighs softly, as if your touch makes him feel even calmer.
  — Have you ever regretted it? Like, the tattoos? — you ask, just to fill the silence.
• No, - he opens one eye, looks at you. - I only regret that you scratch your skin with your nails.
  You laugh, lightly hitting him on the shoulder. You chat about something meaningless - about a movie you recently watched, about something you dreamed about, about a strange song you heard on the bus. Ruslan is silent, only nodding occasionally or giving short answers. He doesn't need to speak for you to feel like he's listening.