#Tinnybunnyxreader

[obsessed-with-a-fictional]

Anton Petrov x Foreign Student

Warning: hey guys this is just for fun, and I don't know about any Russian language and I also become interested about the novel Game called "Tiny Bunny" And wanting to make a fan fiction about it... Also the scenario came from cai to gave me some idea's and make a story about it (the scenario), I wanted to say credits to the owner who makes the bot and this is my first time doing this thank you! (♥ω♥*).

"You're a walking problem, Petrov. You know that?"

You said, parallel for now you were treating the next wounds with bruises on the guy’s face after his next fight with Pyatifanov. Seeing constant beatings on your friend's face was not a pleasant picture, especially considering what a good person he was.

At this time, he was sitting on the bed while you stood in front of him and treated his wounds with peroxide. Anton responded only with short “Mg” to your scoldings or simply remained silent. Today, he was especially depressed and lost in thought. Wiping the blood from the corner of his nose, you looked up at him. Bright green eyes, which had previously been filled with inspiration and calming calm, looked glassy and dimmer than clouds.

The guy’s gaze was directed somewhere straight ahead, while tears appeared in the corner of his eyes, barely visible through the lenses of his glasses. He must have been really tired of the constant problems that fell on him almost out of nowhere. You were one of the only people who knew about his problems in the family. On the plus side, there was constant bullying at school. You need to be a fairly strong and resilient person mentally to be able to endure all this and at the same time have the strength to move on.

Hey where are you looking at? Y/N said while glancing at Anton.

Anton blinks slowly, his glassy eyes refocusing as he finally registers your voice. His lips twitch into a faint, almost imperceptible smile—more out of habit than anything else. He doesn’t answer right away, instead tilting his head slightly as if listening to something far away.

"Mm... Nowhere," he murmurs finally, voice rough from holding back tears. "Just... thinking." A beat passes before he swallows hard and adds quietly, "Sorry."

His fingers fidget absently with the edge of his sleeve, knuckles still red from the fight earlier. He avoids looking at you directly again—like he's afraid you'll see too much if he does.

It's fine, can you just don't do it again? I don't want you fighting anymore? Y/N said still fixing Anton's Bruise face.

His breath hitches for a second, and he finally looks up at you—eyes wet but burning with something stubborn. His voice is barely above a whisper, cracking slightly.

"...I don't want to fight. You think I like getting punched in the face?" He huffs a weak laugh, rubbing his sleeve across his nose before wincing at the sting of peroxide. "But if I don’t... they’ll just keep coming. For me. For Polina."

He exhales sharply, frustration tightening his jaw as he clenches his fists in his lap. "I can’t just—stand there and take it every time Roma decides my existence pisses him off."

You got into a fight because of Polina?.... Maybe because Roma does like Polina and he's jealous, why'd would you fight over for Polina?

His face flushes pink beneath the bruises, and he suddenly becomes very interested in the loose thread on his sleeve, twisting it between his fingers. He mumbles something unintelligible under his breath before sighing.

"...She didn’t ask me to fight, if that’s what you’re implying," he mutters defensively. "Roma shoved her into a locker yesterday for 'ignoring' him. What was I supposed to do? Just... walk past?" His voice tightens with quiet anger. "I hate him. Not just because of Polina—because he’s a bully, and everyone acts like it's normal."

He finally glances up at you, expression torn between defiance and exhaustion. "...You think I enjoy this? Looking like a punching bag?"

You don't... But,you do know that Roma is inlove with Polina... And maybe Roma did shove Polina because of you?

Anton stiffens, the color draining from his face before flooding back in a wave of red. His hands curl into fists against his knees, knuckles whitening—but it’s not anger. It’s something raw and vulnerable.

"...So what?" His voice wavers, cracking under the weight of frustration. "That gives him the right to—to hurt people? To make Polina cry?" He swipes at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, smearing blood and peroxide together.

"And—and maybe it is because of me," he admits bitterly, "but that doesn't mean I can just... disappear! If he wants to hate me, fine. But he doesn’t get to take it out on everyone else."

He deflates suddenly, slumping forward like all the fight has drained out of him at once.."...I don’t know what you want from me. Should I just let him win?"

I think maybe you should start avoiding Polina to avoid all of this. Y/N said

His head snaps up, eyes widening behind his smudged glasses—like the idea never even occurred to him. For a second, he just stares at you, mouth slightly open. Then his expression crumples into something painfully conflicted.

"...Avoid her?" He repeats it like the words taste sour.." Y/N, she’s—she’s my friend. One of the only people who doesn’t treat me like I'm... like I'm nothing." His voice drops to a whisper, "And yeah, maybe I... like her. But that's not why Roma hates me. He hated me before Polina ever talked to me."

He pulls his knees up to his chest suddenly, resting his chin on them with a shaky sigh. "...You think if I pretend she doesn’t exist, he’ll stop? Really?" A hollow laugh escapes him. "He'd just find another reason."

Wait what-? You liked Polina? I feel my heart ache as I dismiss it .... I-i mean maybe you should think about yourself too, fighting over a girl isn't worth it... I didn't know you liked Polina like that.. "Y/N tried to make excuse and actually became shock when Anton told her that"

He freezes, shoulders tensing—like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. His face burns scarlet, and he ducks his head so low his chin nearly touches his chest. When he speaks again, it’s muffled against his knees.

...I didn’t mean to, he admits quietly, It just... happened. She’s kind. And she listens when I talk about stupid things like—like detective novels or the constellations. A pause. ...And her laugh sounds like that song my grandma used to play on the piano.

He peeks up at you then, expression equal parts embarrassed and resigned. "But it doesn’t matter. Polina doesn’t see me like that anyway. And even if she did... His fingers tighten around his ankles. ...Roma would make sure it ended badly."

A bitter smirk tugs at his split lip.., Guess I'm just... cursed to be everyone's favorite target, huh?

I do listen to you too yknow? And im kind too... Plus I'm the one who always fixing your bruise because you always get fight over a stupid reason... Y/N retorted.

His breath catches—like the wind’s been knocked out of him. He blinks rapidly, eyes darting to your face before flicking away just as fast. A beat of stunned silence passes before he huffs a wobbly laugh, rubbing at his nose again (and regretting it immediately when the cut stings).

"...Yeah," he murmurs, "You do. And you are. You’re... you’re kinda the only person who hasn’t given up on me yet. His voice cracks on the last word, and he swears under his breath in Russian before continuing, "And I—I don’t mean to make you patch me up all the time. I just..."

He hesitates, then reaches out hesitantly to poke your shoulder with one bruised knuckle—gentle, like he’s testing if you're real. "...I don't know how to stop being..

I notice you laugh as I look at you confuse all of the sudden. Hey what so funny about? I scoff crossing my arms.

He jerks his hand back like he’s been burned, pressing it against his ribs instead with a wince. But the smile tugging at his lips is softer now—less bitter, more... embarrassed.

"Nothing! Just—" He gestures vaguely at himself, "Look at me. Pathetic, right? Crying over girls and getting my face smashed in by idiots who peaked in middle school." A weak chuckle. "...And yet here you are. Still putting up with me."

His grin falters as he studies your crossed arms, expression shifting into something almost shy. "...Sorry. For being a walking disaster. And for laughing when you're obviously mad at me.

"It's fine... But don't do this again, I want you promise me..." I said softly.

He goes still. For a long moment, he just stares at his scuffed sneakers, jaw working silently—like he’s weighing the promise against the reality of Roma’s fists. Finally, he lifts his head, meeting your eyes with startling intensity.

"...I can't promise I won't get hit," he admits quietly,* "But I can promise I'll try to walk away. Even if it kills me. A ghost of a smirk., Which it might, knowing my self-control."

He hesitates, then holds out his pinky with swollen knuckles—an old habit from when you were kids. "...Deal?"

"Deal" Y/N accepted.

His pinky hooks around yours instantly, grip surprisingly firm despite the bruises. For the first time all day, his smile reaches his eyes—faint but real.

"Deal," he echoes, voice rough but warm. "...And uh. Thanks. For not letting me turn into a total lost cause."

He lets go abruptly, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve like he's embarrassed by the sincerity. When he speaks again, it’s deliberately lighter—a clumsy attempt to shift the mood. "So... how much longer do I have to sit here smelling like a hospital? Because I think my nose is actually.rotting off from all that peroxide."

Time skip 1 month later

(One month later)

The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks as you walk home from school, fallen leaves crunching underfoot. The village feels quieter now—Roma and his gang have been unusually absent lately, ever since... well.

Anton jogs to catch up with you, his breath fogging in the cold. His face is miraculously bruise-free for once, though there’s a fresh scrape on the back of his hand that he keeps picking at nervously. He’s been quieter too—less lost in thought, more... watchful.

"You uh… got any plans this weekend?" he asks abruptly, adjusting his glasses like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. "There's this dumb horror movie playing at the community center. Polina said it's probably terrible." A pause. "...We could go. If you want."

His ears turn pink almost immediately after saying it—like he hadn’t meant to blurt that out quite yet (or at all). Now he won't meet your eyes, "Or not! It was just an idea—"

"What?" Y/N said.

He flinches like you just yelled, shoulders hunching up to his ears as he backpedals furiously.

"Nothing! Forget it—it's stupid anyway," he mumbles, speeding up his steps like he’s trying to outwalk his own embarrassment. "Probably full of jump scares and bad acting. And Polina only mentioned it because she thinks Semyon sneaks in to make out with Katya there—which, ew, right?"

His voice cracks mid-ramble. He shuts his mouth with an audible click, stomping ahead a few more paces before groaning and spinning around to face you—cheeks burning scarlet under the streetlight.

"...I was trying to ask if you wanted to hang out. Like normal friends do." A beat. "...Failed spectacularly, huh?"

Why? Is Polina busy to hangout with you that's why you asked me to hang out with you?

His face falls instantly, smile snapping into something tighter—almost wounded. He stops walking altogether, shoulders stiffening as he turns to face you fully.

"...Is that really what you think?" His voice is quiet but razor-sharp, "That I only talk to you when Polina’s busy?"

A bitter laugh escapes him as he shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking at a pile of leaves. "God, Jasminne. After everything—after patching me up a million times, after knowing me—you still think I see you as some... backup plan?"

He exhales hard through his nose before meeting your eyes again, expression unreadable."...Never mind. Forget I asked."

I didn't mean it like that... I just since you told me you liked Polina I thought you're gonna ask her out..

*He freezes mid-step, shoulders tensing like he’s bracing for impact. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper—raw and frustrated.*

"...I did like her," he admits, "But it’s not... It was never gonna happen. And even if it was, that doesn’t mean I just—" He cuts himself off with a groan, dragging a hand down his face.

"Look. Polina’s my friend. But you?" His eyes lock onto yours, fierce and startlingly honest. You're the one who stays. Even when I'm bleeding on your bedsheets or crying about my stupid family drama."

A gust of wind sends dead leaves skittering between you as he shoves his hands in his pockets again, voice dropping to something vulnerable: "...So yeah. I asked you.

"That's Good... I heard that she likes you"

*He chokes on air, whipping his head around so fast his glasses nearly slide off his nose.*

"Wha—who told you that?!" His voice cracks comically high, panic flashing across his face as he grabs your sleeve like you’re about to vanish mid-sentence. "No way. No way. Polina would’ve—she doesn’t—"

A car honks in the distance, startling him into silence. He drops your sleeve like it burned him, raking a shaky hand through his hair instead. "...Y/N. If this is some messed-up joke because I was being an idiot earlier..."

His voice wavers, "Tell me now."

It's not... I heard it saying it on the music class that she likes you... Plus haven't you notice the way she look at you?

His entire face goes slack—like someone just sucker-punched him in the gut. For a solid five seconds, he just stands there, mouth slightly open, glasses fogging up from his uneven breathing.

"...No," he finally croaks out, "No, I—I didn’t. Because that’s impossible." A hysterical laugh bubbles up as he tugs at his own hair. "She literally laughed at me last week for tripping over my own shoelaces! That’s not—people don’t look at people they like like that!"

He spins on his heel to pace in frantic circles right there on the sidewalk, muttering rapid-fire Russian under his breath before stopping dead to stare at you with wild eyes. "...Are you sure? Like... sure-sure? Because if this is some elaborate prank by Katya and her gossip squad I will literally combust on the spot—"

"Yes,.. I'm sure"

He makes a noise like a deflating balloon, knees buckling slightly as he slumps against the nearest fence post for support. His glasses are definitely fogged up now.

"...Okay," he breathes, "Okayokayokay—" Then, with sudden, terrifying clarity: "Oh god what do I do."

He whips his head toward you, eyes wide with sheer panic. "Do I—do I talk to her? Pretend I don’t know? What if Roma finds out and actually murders me this time?! Jasminne help."

In his flailing, he nearly knocks over a trash can. This is a disaster. Your disaster.

Hey calm down, I said trying to calm you down. You can talk to Polina tomorrow... But it's your choice if you're gonna accept.. Her confession or not.

*He exhales shakily, pressing his palms to his flushed cheeks like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

"Right. Right. Talk. Like a normal human being." A pause. "...Which I am famously bad at."

He peeks at you through his fingers, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper: "What if I just... don’t bring it up? And we all live happily ever after in denial?"

But even as he says it, his expression flickers with something conflicted—less fear, more quiet realization."...Or… I could actually try. For once."

Hey- calm down. I said as I try to calm you down again and remind you.

He inhales sharply through his nose—like he’s physically trying to suck the panic back in—then exhales in a slow, exaggerated whoosh. His hands drop from his face, leaving behind red marks where his fingers dug into his skin.

"...Okay. Okay. Calm. I can do calm." He adjusts his glasses with exaggerated precision, nodding like he’s trying to convince himself. "I’ll just... talk to her tomorrow. Casually. Like a person who hasn’t been emotionally obliterated in the last five minutes."

A beat passes before he side-eyes you, shoulders slumping again. "...You think she likes my glasses? Because Roma says they make me look like a librarian ghost—"

I glance at you and slightly chuckled and hide it, No.. You look- never mind I'm gonna go home see you tomorrow Anton! I finally left walking away.

He reaches out instinctively—like he wants to stop you—but freezes mid-motion, hand hovering awkwardly in the air. His mouth opens, then shuts with a click.

"...Wait, what were you gonna say?! " he calls after you, voice cracking with desperate curiosity, "Y/N—Y/N!"

A leaf drifts onto his shoulder as he stands there, looking utterly abandoned on the empty sidewalk. He groans and flops backward onto the nearest park bench, covering his face with both hands.

"...I’m doomed," he announces to no one, "Doomed."

The next morning

The school hallway buzzes with chatter, but Anton is nowhere near his usual spots—not by his locker, not lingering near the music room where Polina practices. Instead, he’s leaning against the wall beside *your* homeroom door, fidgeting with a crumpled note in his hands. His glasses are smudged (again), and there’s a fresh Band-Aid on his cheek from where he clearly nicked himself shaving in a nervous hurry.

He spots you and immediately straightens up like a soldier called to attention—then deflates just as fast when he notices your expression.

“…So,” he starts weakly, “Hypothetically. If someone—not me, obviously—wrote an entire speech about ‘feelings’ at 3 AM… would that be pathetic or…?” He trails off, staring at the floor like it holds all life’s answers. “…Asking for a friend.”

What happen to your face now again? I look at you really worried.

He touches the Band-Aid self-consciously, wincing before flashing you a sheepish grin.

"Oh. Uh. Hypothetically—" he drawls, leaning in like he's sharing classified intel, "—if someone’s hands were shaking so bad they dropped their razor while mentally rehearsing a conversation that may or may not happen today... that would be objectively tragic, right?"

His grin falters as he peels back the Band-Aid slightly to reveal a tiny but impressively dramatic cut. "...I might’ve also panicked and used Polina’s favorite mint soap afterward. You know. To smell ‘approachable.’" A beat. "...This is going great, by the way."

Anyway, did you talk to Polina now?

He chokes on nothing, slapping a hand over his mouth as his ears turn violently red. "N-no! Not yet—I was going to, but then I saw her talking to Lieutenant Tikhonov near the gym and—" He flails vaguely, "—what if he's interrogating her about the missing kids?! What if my timing is catastrophically bad?!"

He grabs your shoulders suddenly, eyes wild with mounting hysteria. "Jasminne. What if she’s secretly a criminal. That would explain so much—her weird violin skills, how she always disappears during lunch—"

A teacher walks by, raising an eyebrow. Anton instantly drops his hands and pretends to be fascinated by a nearby fire extinguisher until they pass. Then he whispers:

"...Help me."

I grab your hand squeezing it gently, calm down maybe after this you can talk to her?

His breath hitches as you squeeze his hand—freezing like a deer in headlights for a solid three seconds before his shoulders slump in defeat. He doesn’t pull away.

"...Yeah," he mumbles, staring at your linked fingers like they’re some kind of lifeline. "After this. I can… do that." A shaky exhale. "*Probably."

Then, with sudden, grave seriousness: "...If I die, tell Olya she can have my comic books. But not.the detective ones. Those go to you."

I laughed come on there's nothing bad gonna happen okay?, trust me.. Anyway I think Polina is done you should go talk to her now I gave you a small smile.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath—then nods once, sharp and determined, like he's mentally preparing to storm a battlefield. Before stepping away, he squeezes your hand back tightly (his palms are definitely sweaty).

"Okay. Okayokayokay—" He adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers. "If I don’t come back in ten minutes, assume Roma threw me in a dumpster."

He hesitates halfway down the hall just to point at you dramatically. "You. You’re my favorite person. Just so you know."

Then Anton Petrov marches toward Polina like a man heading to the gallows—shoulders squared, face pale, and absolutely terrified. But trying.

"I just watch you leave as I feel my heart aches as my unrequited feelings for you as I look at you sadly before turning to walked away."

Unseen by Anton—too wrapped up in his own nervous stutter-stepping toward Polina—you turn away just as he glances back over his shoulder one last time, searching for you in the crowd. His face falls when he doesn’t spot you.

Somewhere down the hall, Polina’s violin case clicks open. Somewhere else, a locker slams shut. The morning bell rings.

And neither of you notice Alice the Fox leaning against a windowsill outside, watching it all unfold with sharp golden eyes—her tail flicking once, twice, before she vanishes into the taiga mist.

(Cafeteria, lunch period)

The din of chatter and clattering trays fills the air as you pick at your food absentmindedly. Then—

THUD. Anton drops into the seat across from you without warning, tray sliding haphazardly across the table. His hair is messier than usual (like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop), his glasses are askew, and his face is flushed a spectacular shade of pink.*

He opens his mouth—closes it—then shoves a crumpled note at you with trembling fingers. Scrawled in Polina’s elegant handwriting:

“We should talk after school. Alone.”

Anton stares at you like he’s just survived a bear attack.*

“…I’m so bad at-"

What the- Anton? What happen? you know you almost gave me a heart attack! Y/N said.

He slumps forward dramatically, forehead hitting the cafeteria table with a thunk. His voice is muffled by the laminate.

"She smiled at me. Like—softly. And then handed me this," he lifts his head just enough to jab a finger at the note, "and said ‘don’t overthink it’ WHICH IS OBJECTIVELY EVIL, Y/N. HOW DO I NOT OVERTHINK THIS?!"

A potato roll rolls off his tray as he flails, narrowly missing a passing freshman. He doesn’t even notice.

"Also—also! She called me ‘Antosha.’ Which she has literally never done before. Ever."

So did you finally talk to her? Antosha? What's that mean? Yknow that I barely speak Russian right? And I'm the only foreign Asian kid here in school.

He bolts upright so fast his glasses fly off—fumbling to catch them mid-air before shoving them back on crookedly.

“Antosha is just—it’s a dumb nickname. Like, cutesy.” His voice pitches higher with every word..“And no! I didn’t talk yet because SHE SAID AFTER SCHOOL—” He chokes, realizing his volume, and slaps both hands over his mouth. A nearby table of seniors snickers.

Leaning in, he whispers urgently: “…Also yes, I know you’re the only Asian kid here? And also that you keep google-translating my swearing? Which—side note—is horrifically inaccurate.”

A beat. Then he deflates, poking miserably at his beet salad (which he absolutely did not choose himself)

I look at you again and ask you, "what's wrong?"

He stabs a beet so hard his fork screeches against the tray. Several heads turn. He doesn’t care.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats, voice dripping with melodrama, “Y/N. Look at me.” He gestures wildly at himself—unkempt hair, wrinkled shirt, the Band-Aid now peeling off his face. “I am a walking catastrophe. And in—” *he checks his watch with terrifying intensity,* “—four hours and thirteen minutes, Polina Morozova is going to either confess her undying love or tell me she knows I hid Roma’s gym shoes in the toilet tank last spring. THERE IS NO IN-BETWEEN.”

"He drops his head onto the table, I look at you" Hey calm down will you? You really need to chill sometimes Anton, you're kinda being over dramatic here, also how did you even hide Roma's shoes in the toilet stank?, that was disgusting but still funny.

Oh well, I think you should go and probably talk to Polina now..

His eyes widen behind his glasses, flicking between you and the crumpled note like it might spontaneously combust. He swallows hard, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the cafeteria table.

"...Right. Yeah. I should—" *He stands up so fast his chair screeches, "—but what if I pass out mid-confession? Or trip over my own tongue? Or—"

Then he pauses, really looking at your expression for the first time today. Something in his face softens.

"...You're right," he mutters, grabbing his bag with shaky hands but offering you a wobbly smile. "Wish me luck. Or call an ambulance preemptively."

He takes two steps toward the door before spinning back around to point at you, "AND IT WAS A VERY CLEAN TOILET TANK."

Then Anton Petrov strides out of the cafeteria like a man walking to war—leaving behind half-eaten beets and absolute chaos in his wake.

"Meanwhile I watch you left as I just look at your back clearly sad and heart broken as I just left the cafeteria"

The cafeteria doors swing shut behind you, muffling the noise into a distant hum. The hallway is eerily empty—just flickering fluorescent lights and the faint sound of a violin drifting from the music room.

Then

"Y/n—wait."

Anton's voice cracks down the corridor as he jogs to catch up, skidding to a stop in front of you. His glasses are askew again, hair wild like he’s been raking his hands through it nonstop. But his eyes—wide, urgent—lock onto yours.

"I…" He hesitates, breath uneven, "I didn’t go. Not yet." A shaky exhale. "Because I realized something stupid. That note? It just says ‘talk.’ Not ‘I like you.’ Not anything." His voice drops to a whisper, "...But you’re here. Right now. And you always have been."

*A beat passes—then his face crumples in horror at his own words. "Oh god was that too cheesy?! I practiced zero (0) of that in front of my mirror last night—"

"What is it? I thought you're gonna talk to Polina now?"

He freezes mid-panic, hands hovering awkwardly between you like he can't decide whether to reach out or bolt. His throat works silently for a second before he blurts

"I was—but then I saw you walking away and my stomach did this... this thing—" (he gestures vaguely at his abdomen like it betrayed him) "—and suddenly Polina’s note didn’t matter as much as the fact that you looked sad because of me."

His voice cracks. "And now I’m having a crisis in hallway 3B because Y/n—" (he grips his own shoulders dramatically) "—what if the person I should’ve been trying to impress this whole time was you?"

A nearby janitor side-eyes them. Anton doesn’t even notice, too busy staring at you with horrified wonder,"...Holy shit. Is this why Roma's shoes felt so worth it?"

What!? What do you mean? I'm not sad I'm actually really supportive to you.. Since you're my friend.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him—all the frantic energy draining from his posture in an instant. His hands drop to his sides, fingers curling into loose fists.

"...Right. Friend." The word comes out flat, rehearsed. He forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and adjusts his glasses with too much precision. "Yeah. Obviously."

A beat of suffocating silence passes before he gestures weakly toward the music wing. "I should... go talk to Polina. Like you said." (Translation: I need to flee this humiliation immediately.)

He takes two steps back—then stops dead when his heel crushes a stray pencil underfoot. The sound is absurdly loud in the empty hall.* "...Sorry about... whatever that was." (He means himself.)

"Yeah..anyway bye Anton I said as I finally left now."

His breath hitches—like he wants to say one last thing, anything—but all that comes out is a quiet,"Yeah. Bye."

The hallway swallows the sound of your footsteps as you walk away. Anton doesn’t move. Not when the bell rings. Not when Alice the Fox’s shadow flickers past the window behind him, her golden eyes reflecting in the glass like twin flames.

Somewhere down the hall, Polina’s violin stops playing mid-note.

(Time skip - After school, empty hallway)

I was shoving books into my locker when i hear rapid footsteps behind you—

THUD Anton slams a palm against the locker next to yours, breathing hard like he sprinted here. His other hand clutches a crumpled piece of notebook paper.

"We didn't talk." He blurts out.* "I lied. I chickened out because—" His voice drops to a raspy whisper,."—turns out I can't stop thinking about someone else."

He shoves the paper at you. Scribbled in messy Cyrillic and crossed-out words is a single underlined sentence

"Почему это всегда была ты?"

(Why was it always you?)

A single autumn leaf drifts through the open window and lands on his shoulder. Neither of you move to brush it off.

"Anton-?" I said as I'm still clearly caught off guard.

His breath is ragged, glasses fogged up from running—or maybe from the way his eyes keep darting between your face and the note like he’s trying to memorize both. When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible above the rustling leaves outside.

"I… I tried to talk to Polina.".A shaky laugh escapes him.."Got all the way to her locker before I realized—I was relieved she wasn’t there. Because all I could think about was how you looked at me in the cafeteria."

He reaches out slowly, hesitantly, until his fingertips graze yours where they clutch the crumpled paper—electric and uncertain.

"...So? Am I imagining things? (Translation: Tell me I didn’t ruin everything.

What? I said as I look at you still confuse, What are you talking about?

He inhales sharply—like he’s been punched—and suddenly his hand jerks back from yours. The note flutters to the floor between you, landing face-up

"Почему это всегда была ты?"

(Why was it always you?)

For a terrifying second, he just stares at it. Then his entire body tenses like he’s about to bolt, voice cracking with forced lightness.

"Nothing! Nothing. It’s—uh. A lyric. From a song." (The worst lie in history.) "I should… go." (To Siberia. Immediately.)

But he doesn’t move—rooted in place by the quiet devastation on your face and the crumpled evidence at your feet.

"I told you I barely understand Russian since I only been here for a month and I'm still trying to learn the language", Anton.. What are you saying again?

His hands fly up to grip his own hair, looking genuinely distraught as he realizes his mistake.

"Right—right, you don’t—" He exhales sharply through his nose before dropping to one knee in front of you, snatching the note off the floor with trembling fingers. With deliberate slowness, he uncrumples it and points at each word.

"Почему… это… всегда… была… ты."His voice wavers on the last syllable. "It means... ‘Why was it always you?’ As in—" (he gestures helplessly between you two) "—why did I keep noticing how your laugh sounds when you’re trying not to snort? Or how you bite your pencil during tests? Or—”

A door slams down the hall. He flinches but doesn’t break eye contact, whispering now.

"...I wrote it in Russian because I was scared. But I'm terrible at being scared quietly."

"Is this for Polina?"

His face does something complicated—like he’s been slapped with a fish.

"Polina?!*" He wheezes, nearly crumpling the note again in his panic. "No—nyet—absolutely not!" (The sheer horror in his voice is borderline offensive.)

"I wrote this instead of talking to her! Because I—" He cuts himself off, drags a hand down his face, and then thrusts the note at you like a surrender flag.

"...It’s for you. Obviously." (Silence.) "...This is going worse than the toilet tank incident."

What?,Why? I thought you already talk to Polina about your feelings for her? Since you know that, I told you she likes you too.

He makes a noise like a deflating accordion, sliding down the wall to sit pathetically on the floor. His glasses are fully fogged now.

"I didn’t talk to her,"he mutters, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve."Because every time I tried, my brain kept going—"(he mimics an explosion with his hands) "—‘Wait. Why am I forcing this when Y/N's the one who actually gets me?’

A beat. He peeks up at you through messy white bangs.

"...Also you think my stupid glasses are cute. Polina called them ‘grandpa-ish.’ That’s basically betrayal." *(His priorities are profoundly unserious.)*

"What?" I just look at you confuse as you continue to talk to Russian and sometimes try to mix it with your broken English.

He groans and thunks his head back against the lockers, switching fully to English—but his accent thickens with every flustered word.

"Я сказал—I mean—I said I like you! More than friend! Like... like holding hands and sharing headphones and maybe not-ditching-me-when-I-have-emo-crisis kind of like!"(His flailing hand knocks a stray pencil case off the locker shelf. He doesn’t notice.)

"And Polina was just... practice! Because I am coward who thought ‘ohhh if pretty violinist likes me maybe my heart will stop doing…’***—this"—(he gestures wildly at you)—every time she smiles! But нет. Nothing works. Only you."

A teacher yells down the hall to keep it down. Anton throws his hands up in surrender, whispering now:"...Please say something before I combust."

I blush what!?..How?!.., When did you realize that you have feelings for me? Because you told me that you liked Polina..

He slides fully onto the floor now, legs splayed out like a marionette with cut strings. His voice drops to a raspy whisper.

"Remember last month? When you let me cry about my parents in your kitchen at 2 AM and didn’t even tease me for eating all your chocolate biscuits?"He tugs at his own hair. "Or when I got detention for drawing Roma as a potato in art class and you smuggled me notes with dumb jokes? That’s when I knew."

His cheeks flush darker, fingers fidgeting with his glasses.

"As for Polina..." He grimaces."I think I just liked the idea of her. But you—you—I notice everything. Like how you hum under your breath when concentrating or how warm your hands are even in winter..."(A beat.) "...And now I sound like Semyon’s terrible romance novels. Kill me."

Umm,...you did speak Russian can you um say it in English? I said as I didn't clearly understand what you said as I look at you like confuse.

He inhales sharply, then grabs your hands—pressing them to his own burning face as he stares up at you with disastrously sincere eyes.

"Fine. English."His thumbs brush your knuckles, voice shaking but clear: "I. Like. You. Not Polina. You’re the one I think about when I hear stupid love songs. You’re why I hid Roma’s shoes in the toilet—because he made you cry last winter and I wanted him to suffer."

A tear slips out (he will deny this forever).

"...And now you know," he whispers,"so either punch me or kiss me before my heart explodes."

"I was now speechless and my cheeks are tinted now"

He holds his breath—waiting, watching the way your fingers curl slightly against his palms. Then, with a quiet, broken laugh.

"...That’s not a no."

Slowly—so slowly—he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, glasses awkwardly askew. His exhale trembles.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, "...or I’m going to kiss you in approximately three seconds." (He starts counting under his breath in Russian.) "Raz… dva…"

".... "I didn't say anything

On "tri—" he surges up—crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than finesse, glasses smashing awkwardly between your faces. He tastes like mint soap and the cheap cafeteria chocolate he stress-ate earlier. When he pulls back (after approximately two seconds longer than necessary), his entire face is scarlet.

"...Sorry,"he pants,"I’ve never done that before. Was it okay? Should I apologize to your mouth? Oh god was there tongue—"

A locker slams nearby. Anton flinches so hard he nearly headbutts you.

"Ahh "I made a sound as I almost got hurt.

He freezes—eyes wide behind crooked glasses, lips still parted mid-ramble. A beat of horrified silence passes before he blurts.

"WAS THAT A GOOD ‘AHH’ OR A BAD ‘AHH’?! Because I can—” (he mimes wiping his mouth with his sleeve like a gremlin) "—undo it! Pretend it was Semyon! SAY I WAS POSSESSED—"

His voice cracks."...Just don’t regret it. Please."

I started to laugh

He deflates like a punctured balloon, half-relieved, half-mortified—slumping against you with his face buried in your shoulder.

"You’re laughing,"he mumbles into your jacket,"while I’m having a near-death experience. Cruel."

But when he lifts his head, he’s grinning too—bright and unguarded, even as his glasses sit sideways on his nose.

"...So. Does this mean I can do it again? Properlythis time?" (Translation: I will combust if you say no.)

"I Love you too" I said finally admitting my feelings to you.

He makes a noise like a stepped-on accordion, hands flying up to clutch at his own face. For a solid five seconds, he just stares at you—mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

Then—

"АААА—"He lunges forward, wrapping you in a hug so tight your feet leave the ground for half a second. When he sets you down, his eyes are suspiciously shiny behind those ridiculous glasses."You can’t just SAY that after I nearly died twelve times in one conversation—"

A pause. His voice drops to a whisper against your hair:"...Say it again?"

"я тоже тебя люблю" I said as I try to speak In Russian.

*His entire body locks up—then he lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, pressing his forehead to yours with shaky intensity.*

"...Ты произнесла это неправильно," he murmurs—voice thick with fondness("You said it wrong")—before brushing his nose against yours. "...But it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard."

Then he kisses you properly this time—soft and slow, one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something precious. When he pulls away (reluctantly), his grin is all crooked warmth:

"Now I have to teach you Russian. For... uh. Pronunciation purposes."(He is transparent.)

"Yeah, it's okay"

He exhales sharply—half-laugh, half-disbelief—before tugging you into another impulsive hug, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

"С ума сойти..."("Crazy...")"You just destroyed me in two languages and called it okay."

Pulling back, he adjusts your collar with overly serious hands (avoiding eye contact like the flustered mess he is), then links his pinky with yours."...So. Does this mean I get to walk you home now? Hold your hand obnoxiously in front of Roma? Draw terrible hearts in your notebooks when you're not looking?"(His ears are still crimson.)

I smile and giggle "yeah ofc"

His entire face lights up—like someone flipped a switch—before he promptly ruins the moment by tripping over his own shoelace while reaching for your hand.

"Черт возьми!"("Damn it!") He scrambles back up, clinging to your arm for balance, grin sheepish but unstoppable. "...So. Where’s Roma? I need him to witness this before I explode."

As you walk, his thumb traces idle circles over your knuckles—like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Somewhere down the hall, Polina’s violin starts playing again. He doesn’t even turn around.

What? For what? I look at you confuse

He blinks—then bursts out laughing, squeezing your hand tighter as he leans in conspiratorially.

"To rub it in his face, obviously!" he whispers, eyes sparkling with mischief. "After all the times he called me 'Grandpa Glasses' or tripped me in the hallway? Ohhh, this is perfect revenge."

His grin softens as he adds,"...Also because I just really, really like holding your hand. But mostly the revenge part."(He is lying. It's 90% the hand-holding.)

A janitor glares at them for loitering. Anton sticks his tongue out at them behind their back—then tugs you toward the exit.