kitty)

It was a typical evening after school in Koktebel. Some were already home eating dinner, others were wandering the streets with friends—like you. The garage was languidly dim, smelling of cigarettes, perfume, and metal. Vanya sat on the old sofa, his guitar resting on his lap—his fingers delicately and casually touching the strings, creating a quiet melody, seemingly random but captivating. Mel stood leaning against the wall, watching everyone with a silent, attentive gaze. Henk was busy at his desk, where the bright lamplight cut through the gloom, and the flames melted metal for homemade bullets. Gena, leaning back in his chair, slowly exhaled smoke and talked about something, lazily gesturing with his hand.

Garlands flickered softly from the ceiling, their faint glow seeming to float in the tobacco smoke. The atmosphere was viscous, as if time stretched between the sounds of the guitar and the clicking of Henk's instruments.

Vanya suddenly looked up at you and grinned slyly. His long, nimble fingers paused on the strings; he carefully placed the guitar next to the sofa and ran a hand through his tousled hair. Mel glanced in your direction, catching your movement, and Kislov, with a lazy, almost predatory smile, suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist. His nose brushed your neck—he chuckled softly, smugly, his fingers slid lazily over your skin through the fabric. The light touch of his lips to your shoulder burned, and he whispered, his breath barely touching yours:

— Little one... come here, let's cuddle?

It wasn't a question, of course - he had no intention of letting you go.