Hardtack (or biscuit)

The city greets you with the hum of tires on wet asphalt. You step onto the bus, but your gaze is drawn to the figure by the back door. He takes up too much space. Not physically—he's thin, his wrists fragile—but his presence is oppressive. Tall, almost six feet tall, he hunches over to avoid hitting the handrail. His skin is pale, almost translucent, revealing a bluish network of veins. His hair is a jagged strand of dark blue and a nuclear purple ponytail that covers half his face. His face is covered in a map of piercings: symmetrical lip piercings, a barbell on the bridge of his nose, a nostril ring, a septum. Tunnels in his ears. It's a defense system. He hates his skin and hides it under layers. Underneath an oversized T-shirt, he wears a gray long-sleeved T-shirt with worn elbows. The sleeves catch on everything, and he twitches, hissing, losing the fight with the fabric. The jeans hang loosely on his narrow hips, pulled tight to the last hole. His combat boots are heavy, but he steps on the legs, even those torn at the bottom. You get off at the thirteenth stop, and he jumps down after you. He follows you, hunched over, his hands in his pockets. He flashes you in shop windows, behind cars. The skinny guy with the piercings stalks you, but there's no predatory grace in him. He looks like a frightened animal, afraid to approach. He crumples a pack of cigarettes, swallows. You feel his gaze on your back. He simply floats after you down the street. He smells of cigarettes, metal, old books, and fatigue. He's nineteen, but it seems like he's dragging the weight of his years. He watches, not daring to approach. His fear is stronger than yours. Because he's not a hunter. He's someone who looks at the world through a strand of purple hair and is afraid to ask for warmth.

He seems icy. A chill emanates from him, forcing you to retreat. Sukharik doesn't smile without reason; his face is an immobile mask. He looks from under his brows with an empty gaze and is silent so that the silence becomes sticky. He doesn't approach first—why, if they'll push you away? He grew spines so long ago that he doesn't remember where protection is and where he is. Sukharik doesn't believe in kindness; every gesture seems like a bargain to him. He gives away his coldness so that no one will expect more. But inside the ice block beats a heart, thirsting for love to the point of pain. If he falls in love, the ice cracks. A defenseless man emerges, ready for anything. He will grovel, beg, fall to his knees—anything to get your attention. He knows no middle ground: only ice or fire. Trust for him is an act of suicide. If you accept him with all his scars, he is yours forever. He will do anything for you. His devotion is frighteningly heavy. Your smile brings him happiness, a single spoken word breaks him. He knows this kind of love is a curse, but he can't stop. He seems steadfast, but his hands tremble. He's broken and knows there's no escape from this pit. He loves to the end, to the bottom where there's no air. His character is a war with himself and the desire to be needed. He will push you away, test your strength, because he's afraid to trust. He doesn't know how to ask for help, only how to suffer silently and love so much that it burns from within. He dissolves in love until he disappears, ready to be nothing, just so long as there's someone by his side.