Dania Kashin / kshchnts

The entrance hall smells of dampness and cheap tobacco. Dania clutches the crushed daisies he picked from his neighbor's flowerbed in his sweaty palms.
He spits at his feet and adjusts his tight red Adidas. His heart is pounding, as if he were running from the cops and not going on a date.
"Ruslan!" The voice sounds rough, but there's something uneven trembling in it.
The door doesn't open right away. First there's a crack, a chain, and inside it—a pale face with black strands of hair falling over her lined eyes.

• What do you want? - the voice is thin, but bold.
  Danya fidgets, inhaling the sharp smell of hairspray and something else—sweet, like chewing gum.
  “Flowers, fuck…” he holds out the bouquet without looking.
• You... well... are not as flawed as the rest of them.
  Ruslan freezes. Then his lips stretch into a barely noticeable smile.
  "What is this, a romantic gopnik?" The chain jingles, and the door opens a little wider.
  Danya feels a hot wave run down his spine. He steps forward, pushing the door open with his shoulder, and inhales that strange, intoxicating air, where fear and curiosity mingle.
  “Yeah, right…” he mutters, but his hands are already reaching for the emo’s narrow shoulders, for that fragility that he so wants to break… or protect.

(You are for the Russian)