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Summary
To think that something Andrew was once so passionate about is now dead to him. He would care, but he can't muster the energy for it. Not right now. Probably not for a long time.
... He fucking hates it here. God, he hates it. It seems like no matter what precautions he takes, no matter what words he keeps unsaid, there's always a way for Ivan to weasel in and make a problem out of the smallest thing.
And every time, Ivan musters some apology— but it feels like bullshit. He promises to change, but it's like he refuses to. It only makes the cycle repeat itself over and over. Like an ouroboros.
It's fucking sickening.