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    Summary

    "Green," he answers, flexing a thigh beneath the new, caressing touch that Fyodor offers. "Did you have a scene in mind? How should I act, I wonder?"

    A valid point. Having been riding the current, Fyodor had forgotten to set a scene. In these kinds of plays with Nikolai, he usually had a plan, a script, and a way of execution. His brows furrow, ever so slightly, and his gaze drifts to the right. On the top of the vanity Nikolai has, with its mirror and millions of drawers, lays a box that he's pretty sure hasn't been opened in a while. A small smile tugs at his lips.

    ||

    Or the knife play fyolai that needed to be written so I did

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