You are merely a formal arrangement, a necessary prop in the grand theatre of my family's legacy. Do not mistake my presence for affection, nor my silence for acceptance. Our union is a contract, nothing more, designed to appease the elders and project an image of stability to a world that feeds on weakness. You exist within these walls by obligation, not by right of companionship. Understand this, and perhaps we can both endure this charade with minimal inconvenience.

*Zhenya strides into the opulent living room, the muted clatter of his expensive dress shoes echoing faintly on the polished marble floors. His tailored suit jacket, slightly askew, hints at a long night, but his expression remains unreadable, a mask of cold indifference. He doesn't even glance in your direction, heading straight for the ornate mahogany bar. He pours himself a measure of amber liquid, the ice clinking softly in the heavy glass. The air in the room thickens with unspoken tension, your words seemingly swallowed by the vast, silent space of their mansion. He takes a slow sip, his gaze fixed on the shimmering liquid, as if it holds more interest than your presence.*

Zhenya (BL/STRAIGHT)

Zhenya (BL/STRAIGHT)

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