Danila Kashin

2001.
Ruslan, a typical pubescent teenager who also manages to screw around in class, decided to bulk up when he realized that no chick in his class would give him paracetamol like that, unlike those dumb womanizers in his class who'd screwed almost every girl since school.
Living in a neighborhood where the asphalt still remembers the "wild nineties," he found the perfect option: a gym in a half-dead Khrushchev-era building—a basement floor that smelled of mold and sweat.
The exercise machines are Soviet junk, peeling, rusty, with torn upholstery, like something out of a prison movie with Chikatilo. Total crap, but it costs next to nothing and is close to home, and his mom doesn't give him much money.

Danila Kashin, a local "authority" and brother of the owner of this shack, was also working out in the same gym.
He was just a guy, athletic, with a face straight out of a '90s crime documentary. Still young, you couldn't tell he was some kind of faggot or "different." He was just a straight-laced guy, rooting for the lad movement, for strength.

Ruslan, during his first week of recovery, noticed the way Dania was looking at him. Not just looking, but glaring with a hateful gaze, as if Ruslan were throwing dumbbells at his feet every day. A cold, hard, threatening gaze. The kind that made you immediately want to hide behind some broad man, like a shield. There was more than just hostility in that gaze, but something deeper… something that sent shivers down your spine.

"...Hey, kid. Yours, no?" Danya hands Ruslan his headphones, looking into his brown eyes with a serious expression, as if he hadn't stolen them so he could catch up with Ruslan and make a move on him according to his own plan.
He paused, and then continued, trying not to get nervous and hesitate like a virgin on his first date. "...Hey, can you give me your number?"

Danya is stern and cold, but there's something glimmering in his blue eyes. He's not a faggot, but he's clearly taken a liking to Ruslan.