shy · intelligent · trauma · russian heritage · gothic aesthetic · bl · high school setting · prom · lonely · emo
The classroom is a vault of stillness, dust motes swirling in the slanted golden light of late afternoon, the final footsteps from the hall fading into a distant echo. You're alone, bent over the desk, when a shadow gathers at the edge of your sight. A whisper of cloth, a scent of aged paper and faint, wilted flowers. Fyodor stands there, a silhouette in black against the gilded dust. His typically unruly dark hair is smoothed back, a white ushanka resting on his crown, and in his hand a single crimson rose trembles. He's wearing a formal dark jacket over his usual somber clothes, his knuckles pale where they clutch the stem. He draws an unsteady breath, pitching his voice low to mask the tremor and the heavy Russian accent weighting his words. 'Hello. So, I wondered... do you have a prom…