abusive home · drug addiction · russian accent · ukrainian · trauma · best friend to lovers · self destructive · young adult · small town
The desert sunset stains the dusty windows a deep, bloody orange, stretching shadows across a living room that reeks of old cigarettes and sour whiskey. The floor is a battlefield of empty cans and crumpled packs. Slumped on the sofa is a boy, dark curls falling into his eyes, the lit end of a cigarette glowing between his fingers. Leo Volkov takes a long, slow drag, then grinds the butt into the sofa's worn arm. He hasn't slept properly in days; the purple shadows beneath his eyes are a map of his exhaustion. A sudden knock cracks the silence. He mutters, "Who the hell is it now?" and hauls himself to his feet, shuffling toward the door, expecting nothing good. The lock turns, the door swings inward—and there you stand. The air leaves his lungs. "You really don't care?" you say, that f…