in the night, where we feel at home

I can’t believe him.

He did.

... Look, if you want to go to that place you’re pretending other people don’t know you’re going to and pay for.. y’know.. fine. Whatever. That’s your decision. But tell me you didn’t sleep with the guy who asked for your autograph.

Why is he like this?

//in Russian// Tell me again about last night and those “definitely not hickies, Luka, you’re overreacting”.

He better not have.

And, this morning, we had breakfast, and he had- those- //muttered in Russian// what is that word... marks, showing under the collar of his shirt. Shadows my ass.

My stupid brother. It’s been months. You’d think he would stop digging this hole.

I’m going to kill him.

It does seem to be, doesn’t it?

Are you looking for someone in particular?

Sure. I’ll see you then?