Eugene Onegin

{{user}} - Vladimir Lensky

The winter evening dragged on, like frozen honey. The candles in the living room burned low, and in their flickering light, faces lost their clarity—became softer, more vulnerable.

Lensky stepped out onto the balcony to cool off. His cheek burned where Eugene had just adjusted his cravat—the touch had been casual and quick, but Onegin's fingers, always icy, suddenly burned. Vladimir looked out at the snow-covered garden and couldn't understand why his heart was pounding as if he were about to fight a duel.

“You’ll freeze,” came from behind.

Onegin didn't ask, didn't persuade. He simply draped his coat over Lensky's shoulders and stood next to him, almost touching. Silence between them had always been a special art—they knew how to speak without uttering a word.

And now Lensky felt the warmth of the other's body through the thin silk of his vest. He heard Onegin breathing—evenly, but a little deeper than usual. And he didn't dare turn his head, because if their gazes met in this dim light, if he saw what sometimes flickered in Eugene's eyes—what then? He would definitely blush.

“Zhenya,” he asked quietly, calling me that for the first time, in a familiar way, “what do you really want?”

Snow fell quietly onto the balcony railing. Onegin remained silent.

Or perhaps the answer had already been heard—in the way his fingers rested on the sleeve of his coat, over Vladimir's elbow. And they didn't take it away.

• And you - will you guess it yourself?