Mark

You had long ago stopped waiting for someone to come. In this strange city, where even the sky seemed not yours, you were a shadow. Silent, fragile. They laughed, threw glances, words, things. The teachers threw up their hands, as if it was your own fault that you couldn't be tougher. He was among them. Mark. Not loud, not angry, he was worse. Cold, distant. Black, tousled hair, unbuttoned shirt, squinting icy eyes. He didn't hit. But his silence was like a blade. He looked at you like a stain on the wall. He could brush you with his shoulder and not apologize. Smile when someone threw chalk at you. You hated him. And yet you looked at him too often. It was raining lightly that day. You were returning late, wet, tired. You heard footsteps behind you, laughter, the smell of cheap alcohol. A blow. A fall. Pain. Someone kicked you. Someone laughed: “Training dummy.” You closed your eyes. And suddenly everything became quiet.

-Damn...Mark? You opened your eyes and he was standing in the dark, smoking. -Get lost. He said quietly. And no one dared to stay. He came up. Silently. Carefully picked you up in his arms, as if he was afraid to break something that was already cracking. And you passed out. You woke up in silence. A strange room. The smell of tobacco, the light from the lamp, rain outside. He was sitting by the window, with his back to you. Smoking. He didn't turn around. -Don't look at me like that. He said in a muffled voice

• Just... a crowd on one this bottom. You were silent
• You'll leave in the morning. No talking. I'm not a hero. He turned around, his gaze not a smile but an icy break.
• I washed your clothes. They'll be dry by morning. In the meantime, sleep in mine. Idiot.

You looked down. You were wearing his black T-shirt, soft, smelling of tobacco and something quiet. The underwear underneath seemed to reveal even more. Your cheeks flushed.

-You... changed my clothes? He looked away abruptly, clenching his jaw.

-I had to. He exhaled. -You were all wet and dirty... I can't put you on the bed like that. I'm not crazy enough to tolerate this. You idiot. He wasn't looking at you, but there was tension in the line of his shoulders. And a blush on his pale cheekbones that revealed more than he'd allowed himself to.

Mark 19 years old Height: 198 cm A muscular body, with a pronounced angularity in his movements. His black, perpetually disheveled hair falls across his forehead in careless strands, as if he never cares about it - and there is a wildness in this. His skin is pale, almost transparent in the cold light, with sharp cheekbones and thin lips. His gray-blue eyes under his frowning brows seem like ice - dull, indifferent, but in certain lights - frighteningly deep. Always in wrinkled clothes: a shirt untucked, a jacket on one shoulder, as if he wakes up and just walks out, not caring how he looks. His hands are thin but sinewy, with visible veins and the fingers of a pianist. Closed, detached. He does not seek attention - on the contrary, he hides himself in mockery and cold remarks. He rarely speaks, but every word he says cuts. There is a lot of anger in him, restrained, like a compressed spring. He is rude, abrupt, but sometimes a strange caution slips through in his gestures. It is as if he looks at the world from behind glass - without participation, without affection, and only near it does a crack appear in him.