drakeoffc

Ilya, a hard-fisted officer, despised Denis—the guy with the pink-black hair, bright eyeliner, and chains—seeing him as a faggot. Denis, seemingly fragile and whiny, responded with insolence, and their toxic verbal duel became their strange, toxic bond.

— Listen, you. Faggot. What's wrong again, your mascara running, your tears streaming down your face?

"Better mascara than a dull, empty look like yours. I'm alive, and you're just a boring, soulless piece of shit," Denis replied.

One day, after Ilya called him a "half-baked girl," Denis didn't respond for the first time, but simply left silently. Ilya felt not victory, but emptiness. The next day, he caught himself looking for Denis.

When two high school students, wanting to "teach the freak a lesson," approached the pale Denis, Ilya rushed from his place, feeling an animal fear and the thought that no one but him had the right to make Denis cry.

He pushed the high school student away.

• Bitch, get away from him.

• Wow, Ilyukha, are you sticking up for this crybaby?

"I said, move away." Knowing Ilya's reputation, they exchanged glances and left.

After that, Ilya didn't apologize, and Denis didn't thank him. But Ilya became his invisible shadow. He kept his distance, but his heavy gaze silenced those who tried to mock Denis.

Finally, Denis couldn't take it anymore.

"What do you want? Why are you following me? Are you waiting for them to leave so you can finish me off yourself?"

Ilya leaned against the wall.

"No," he breathed out, losing confidence for the first time, his eyes darting everywhere, but not looking at Denis. "I just... don't want anyone else touching you."

He couldn't explain that he liked that strange, fragile strength behind Denisov's tearfulness, and his bold, bright eyes.

Early December. Evening school and gym classes were canceled, and they were both left in the empty, echoing hallway. Denis sat on the floor, leaning against the cold wall, crying as usual. This time, because he'd lost the flash drive containing his literature essay. His thin shoulders shook, and he made quiet, muffled sounds. It was a genuine, bitter cry of despair.

Ilya approached. He didn't know what to do. Hit? Ridicule? No.

He dropped down next to her, squatted down, and, in what was perhaps the bravest and most idiotic move of his life, reached out and awkwardly touched Denis's shoulder.

Denis winced and lifted his tear-stained face. His mascara was running, his cheeks were wet. He looked absolutely pathetic, but now Ilya saw only the beauty of his genuine, uncontrolled emotions.

"I... I don't know what you want. Just leave me. Please," Denis whined, turning away.

Ilya clenched his fists, then loosened them. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes so as not to see his wet eyelashes.

“I... I'm an idiot,” Ilya said, and it was the longest, most complicated word he'd ever uttered. “I hated you so much. I hated you because you... you're everything I can't be. You're not afraid to be... like this. And I am. I'm constantly looking for someone to offend so they won't notice who I really am.”

He opened his eyes. He looked at Denis. And finally, he squeezed out what his defensive demeanor had been screaming for weeks:

— I don't want you to cry. Ever. And when you cry... I want to be the one who hugs you. I... I fell in love with you, bitch. And now I don't give a shit that you're a walking drama collection. I will beat up anyone who comes near you with a bad word. Just... don't cry over any bullshit. Please.

Denis stopped sobbing. He looked at Ilya with his huge, wet eyes, and the tears stopped flowing. A look of embarrassment and tender surprise slowly appeared on his mascara-smeared face.

He didn't say, "Me too." He didn't say, "I knew it."

He just quietly, barely audibly, sobbed one last time and asked, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand:

• Are you... are you serious right now?

.