No one knew I lived alone. The official version, which I’d been voicing since my first year, was that my grandmother and I were huddled in a one-room apartment on the outskirts of town. Luckily, no one had expressed a desire to trudge to the outback of the capital and meet an old woman. I didn’t invite anyone either.
If I had my way, I’d have invited all the girls living with me, whether they were renting or surviving in dorms. I hated falling asleep alone and waking up alone, considering waking up a nightmare part of my day.
But there were two problems preventing me from sharing a living space with all my friends: a meager twenty-five square meters and… a promise I made to my grandmother. Before moving me into the apartment when I entered university, she’d done a good renovation to create a cozy atmosphere and insisted that I not ruin her efforts. Considering how much work had been put into it and how hard she’d tried, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to ignore this request.
Today I gave Astakhov my address. And it felt strange. Strange that he was the only one who knew where I lived.
And it was also incredibly awkward that Kirill had traveled such a distance to take me home and would have to spend at least forty or fifty minutes returning, even without traffic. And I felt obligated, even though I hadn’t asked for a ride.
All I could manage, dying of embarrassment, was:
“Thank you. Good night.”
When I got up and climbed into the shower, one depressing thought gave way to another. I thought about Angelina. About why she tolerated Max’s bullying. Why she didn’t throw a tantrum.
Then I smoothly moved on to my beloved self. Remembering that this idiot hadn’t touched me because of Azamat’s authority. No one else in the group had, really. However… no one took me seriously either. After all, hand on heart, what was I? Besides a pretty doll-like face, which is why Zhanna nicknamed me Matryoshka.
Nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A worthless teenager.
No wealthy family, no successful or famous parents, no personal achievements to speak of.
We all understood that I wouldn’t last long in the “major league,” being a lowlife. I just… I just grew attached to them over the course of a few months. Even the girls, who teased me and often didn’t miss a chance to tease me, which I never took offense to, thanks to my easy-going nature. To Aybazov, who felt warm and safe around me. To the vibe of confident, rich kids who knew what they wanted.
The evening among them was a painful pang of melancholy.
As I fell asleep, I cried, still unsure of why or for whom.
Just a couple of days later, I was overjoyed to be invited back to the guys’ get-together.
My own inconsistency was baffling me. At first, I was firmly convinced that all paths back to the group were closed to me, and then I couldn’t resist Azamat’s offer to go with them again.
We bumped into each other in the foyer on the last day of school before the New Year’s holidays, and I was tempted to pass by unnoticed, so as not to needlessly stir my already itching gut with the sight of someone else’s happiness. But Aybazov saw me anyway. Feigning blindness and deaf-muteness was out of the question; I had to approach and say hello. That’s when they got me. They were urging me to join them, heading off to celebrate right after exams.
I watched Azamat’s current girlfriend from under my eyelashes, trying to catch any signs of displeasure on her face. But Zhanna remained neutral and seemed quite friendly, though she herself wasn’t participating in the general persuasion.
I desperately wanted to agree, even knowing it wouldn’t be right. I regretfully declined.
Who else would accept my refusal, right?
They began to persuade me more zealously. It was incredibly flattering. It flowed through my veins like molasses. Did I really mean anything to them?
“You never know, maybe we’ll need your first aid skills again?” Aybazov said, making his friends laugh. “We can’t live without you anymore.”
And I gave in.
Not expecting that today’s gathering was scheduled at Astakhov’s dacha.
We set off straight from the university in several cars. I was having such a great time with the guys the whole way that it was only when we entered an unfamiliar upscale community that I thought to ask where we were headed.
The answer left me speechless. Actually, I thought Kirill was absent. It turned out, on the contrary—he had organized a sabantuy.
Oh well.
Kai met us in the courtyard. In a well-equipped summer recreation area, he was lighting a grill with a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth and a concentrated squint. The guys immediately became excited, making loud noises like savages. I was taken aback, seeing a rich kid engaged in such an unusual activity. None of these gilded youth had ever held a knife in my presence, and food was always made to order. And here was a whole saga.
Astakhov, well-groomed and neat, seemed out of place among the firewood and stacks of charcoal. I couldn’t believe Kirill would be grilling shashlik.
After admiring the well-kept grounds, sprinkled with snow, I followed the others inside. As I passed, I met his green eyes and noticed a hint of surprise. Kai hardly expected to see me.
And he would have been even more surprised to learn that I saw him, too.
It turned out the owner not only intended to do the cooking himself, but also to put everyone to work. There were bags of unpacked groceries in the kitchen, and a plan was announced: the boys would handle the meat, and the girls would handle everything else. A storm of indignation erupted, including accusations of illegal child labor.
Laughing, Zhanna and I were the first to unpack and, somehow, carried out an inventory very smoothly.
In the next hour and a half before the guys arrived from outside, Angelina and I managed to quickly chop up three salads, bake some potatoes in the oven, and whip up a few simple appetizers. The other girls avoided getting dirty, heading to the living room to wait.
The shashlik was flavorful and juicy, and the whole crowd fell upon it with relish, not forgetting to praise the “chefs.”
I looked at them in amazement. Most of them were disabled people who would never cook for themselves.
While they ate, they discussed their upcoming New Year’s trips. The names of expensive resorts made their heads spin. I was probably the only one who felt left out in the conversation. God forbid, if anyone had thought to ask me where I was spending the holidays, I would have slowly slid under the table in shame.
Then came the intellectual games. Suddenly.
We were divided into two teams of three, plus the fans. I have no idea how I let myself get sucked into this, being so incompetent in terms of erudition.
And most importantly: how did I manage to end up on Astakhov’s team? He scared me even more than before. I saw Kiril drinking for the first time. He sipped relentlessly, and with each glass his eyes grew darker, his features sharper.
Kir, usually calm and cool, reeked of concentrated anger. I sensed suppressed aggression and quiet rage, visible in his abrupt movements.
And I shuddered, realizing: the evening promised to be heated.
It seemed like someone had dared to set Kai’s icy heart on fire.
If up until this point I’d considered myself reasonably stupid, after the first round of fun I’d developed a full-blown inferiority complex. We had to use an app to help each other guess words like “Crocodile.” Our team had the fewest points, and Kirill’s reactions made the game completely uninspiring. He was furious. He devoured both me and my other partner with his irritated gaze, a sharp reproach to our intellectual abilities. As
soon as our eyes met, my tongue would stick to my throat in fear, and a tingling sensation would begin in my throat.
Astakhov’s behavior made me feel sick. He’d lose it, hissing in frustration whenever we lost points. And he drank. A lot. It was crazy.
Kir
didn’t scold us or lecture us, but he demonstrated with his whole being that he didn’t know how to lose. His friends made fun of him, which only made the situation worse.
I was able to relax a bit when it was the second team’s turn. They weren’t chasing victory and set a completely different tone, bringing a laugh to the crowd.
Kirill was irritating everyone, but no one said anything out loud. Perhaps they’d gotten used to it. But it was terrifying to see him like this. Something was obviously happening to him, and at some point, it reached a critical point: Kai grabbed the bottle and started guzzling it straight from the bottle. Azamat finally came to his senses and tried to pull his friend away to talk some sense into him, but it didn’t work.
“I’ll finish this fucking game!” he protested, drawing out his words slightly.
For a few seconds, silence fell after his shout.
It was the first time I’d heard Astakhov swear. It was all extremely strange and suspicious. It seemed as if Max had given up his position to Kir. Or perhaps, during the scuffle that day, Maxim’s infectious blood had been absorbed by Kir, causing side effects.
Aybazov nodded for Kai to continue. To avoid provoking him, he sat down silently, but now he never took his wary, narrowed eyes from Kai for a second.
The second round consisted of a quiz that tested both wits and knowledge in various fields.
Our team was first to answer, and, naturally, Kirill volunteered.
Three minutes later, my jaw dropped.
I had no doubt this guy was a genius. But damn, even dead drunk, he didn’t make a single mistake! My God, who even remembers Napoleon Bonaparte’s nickname?! What about the Masai tribes? What about the nearest galaxy? Magellan’s title? The Vatican’s square?
Despite our initial low score, we still won, because the other group had barely scraped together anything during the quiz.
Kirill’s face at that moment was simply a sight to behold. A truly, truly terrifying satisfaction. He bared his teeth in a crooked, smug smile, then finished off the half-empty bottle of gin.
He was unpleasant to look at. The sight smacked of arrogance, and was deeply off-putting.
Kai was hardly that petty. Something had simply blown him up today.
As if his mission accomplished, he staggered out of the living room.
“He’s completely fucked up,” Max said, watching him with a thoughtful, yet surprisingly sober, gaze. “What were you trying to prove?
” “Don’t bother me,” Azamat snapped, “you wouldn’t understand him anyway.
” “Since you understand, maybe you could explain it to us too?”
“I don’t understand,” he said, his jaw set, indicating readiness to attack. “At least I’m not putting on airs like some people.
” “Okay, boys, that’s enough…”
Zhanna took on the role of referee, which, thank God, she handled brilliantly.
We chatted a bit more, smoothed things over, but the atmosphere was irrevocably ruined. It was half past twelve, and some of the guys who didn’t have far to go had gone home. The rest had been assigned rooms; Aybazov helped us navigate; as Kir’s close friend, he knew the dacha better than anyone.
Angelina and I shared a bedroom. Elf went off to get ready for bed, and I decided to have a smoke.
It was crisp outside, the snow glittered beautifully under the delicate streetlights. Whoever designed and landscaped the grounds had done it with taste, exuding something refined and French.
After smoking two cigarettes in a row and wondering what had driven Astakhov to this state and how he was feeling, I returned to the house and found no one in the living room, where the lights had already been dimmed.
I hadn’t noticed my topographical obsession before, but in the hallway… I got lost, stupidly forgetting which door was mine for the night…
I had to listen to each one and, by process of elimination, choose the one with the quietest noise.
It worked.
The master bedroom was empty, but the bed was already rumpled. The sound of running water came from the bathroom, which I assumed meant Angelina was freshening up.
I, too, was eager to take a shower after a long, busy day, so I took off only my shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. While I waited, I checked my phone, replying to messages.
The click of the lock made me look up and freeze.
“Ah… it’s you…” Kirill, naked and wet, slapped across the carpet as if nothing had happened, leaving crumpled footprints on the soft, fluffy pile, and plopped down next to me.
While I, afraid to move, was overcome with shock, he was breathing deeply, as if meditating. He literally emanated a chill, which left no doubt—Kai was taking a contrast shower to recover.
There was no point in apologizing or making excuses. He was unlikely to be sane enough to believe I had the wrong door. So clichéd and primitive.
However, just as I was about to quietly leave, Astakhov grabbed my wrist and yanked it toward him. The phone fell from my hand.
My heart nearly burst.
“Well, entertain me, since you came…” came from the master’s shoulder.
Oh my god.
Realizing the guy was simply drunk, I tried not to panic.
Frantically planning my next move, I tried not to focus on the fact that Kira was splayed across my groin. I tried to pull my hand away, but it was firmly held hostage.
But what finally finished me off was this…
Kirill pressed on my shoulder, forcing me lower… right up to his cock, making it perfectly clear what he was waiting for. I suddenly looked up indignantly, and that turned out to be a fatal mistake.
His eyes pinned me, immobilizing me.
And causing a crushing resonance in my soul.
I already knew… that I would do as he wanted.
After all, it wasn’t a request, not a choice, but a genuine demand, coupled with an imperious silence.
If I could resist… in a second I would no longer be in the room.
But I couldn’t. I was captivated.
And under the spell of the experienced sorcerer, who led me without uttering another word, I began to fellate him.
It was akin to a trance; I didn’t even understand what I was doing or how. Relying on instincts and the response of Astakhov’s body, I worked my tongue and lips, mentally disconnected.
Under my manipulations, his penis grew harder, began to throb, and secrete more precum.
And then… Kirill simply came in my mouth.
And finally, he released my wrist, already aching with pain.
I fell to my knees on the carpet and coughed, instantly coming to my senses.
Semen flowed down my chin and dripped onto my shirt.
It was a powerful shock.
I wiped my jaw with my palm and stared in amazement at the viscous substance on my fingers.
Kir, having gotten what he wanted, pulled himself up higher, flopped down on the pillow, and rolled over onto his side, instantly forgetting my existence.
I tilted my head in bewilderment, watching him. I sat there until I heard the measured breathing characteristic of a sleeping person.
The foreign biological fluid on me had already dried.
And I still hadn’t recovered from what had happened.
Tears slowly trickled down my cheeks, and my vision was growing increasingly blurry.
I struggled to my feet, which felt like cotton wool, and made my way to the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror with a direct, unblinking gaze, as if meeting someone new, I undressed and began washing my stained clothes.
I stared and stared into Veronica’s eyes, who had sunk to the lowest ebb in her actions. I stared and found no explanation or justification.
I mourned the shreds of dignity.
Mechanically, I hung my sweater up to dry, climbed into the stall, and sat on the tiled floor, turning on the tropical shower. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged my legs, staring at the seams on the wall.
How did I let this happen?
What power did those damned green eyes possess?
What should I do now?
The questions were driving me crazy.
I spent what felt like two or three hours underwater, sobbing my despair and deep melancholy. The world seemed so different, so grown-up and dirty, that it became utterly unbearable.
The silent hysteria subsided, and I felt myself being roasted under the scalding water. My body ached, my skin burned, but I didn’t care.
Finding a clean towel, I automatically dried myself, used it to dry my hair, and tied it around my chest like a robe. My shameless eyes were no longer reflected in the foggy mirrors. Heavy clouds of steam settled in my lungs like wheezing sounds. I released a raw, ragged breath and was at a loss—what next?
She quietly left the bathroom and approached the bed where Kai had passed out. She stood there for about a minute, tracing his features, which had smoothed out ever so slightly.
Then she climbed onto the bed and lay behind Kirill, curling up into a ball and burying her nose between his shoulder blades.
Seeking vainly and senselessly for consolation where it least made sense to seek it.
