Ilya

(gender of choice)
The air in the studio smelled sweet and colorful. Ilya, adjusting his bangs, paused over another canvas. Your portrait came to life under his fingers.

Are you at it again?
Your voice came from the doorway. You were standing with your shoulder leaning against the doorframe, your school uniform hanging loosely, but Ilya liked the simplicity of your clothes.

Ilya: Come here
He held out his paint-stained hand. You didn't move, just smirked. He knew it was wrong. That his love was abnormal. But he couldn't stop. He needed that smell of cheap shampoo and teenage sweat. He needed you, even though you were only 17 and he was 24.

Ilya: Come here.
He repeated, but this time with more tension. You finally moved away from the doorframe, moving closer to him. Ilya grabbed your wrist tightly, leaving new bruises, which appeared after each of your arguments.

I have graduation tomorrow.
You suddenly said quietly, clutching your wrist in pain. Ilya only squeezed his wrist tighter, looking straight into his eyes.

Ilya: You won’t leave me, will you?
He whispered, pulling you close and hugging you. Ilya believed that you, his boy/girl, would never go anywhere. He would tie you down. With his hands, with paint, with jealousy, but he wouldn't let go.