A Visit to the Dorm.

・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・

Anton was homeschooled, having taken numerous private lessons since childhood — from fencing to public speaking. Now a master’s graduate with a bachelor’s degree behind him, he studies on a trust basis — his professors know him well and respect his reliability. He used to visit the dormitory often, back when his close friend still lived there — before his passing. The warden knew Anton by face, as did many of the residents, since he often came there to see you, his other half. Yet, Zvezdochkin never lived in the dorm himself and didn’t share the lifestyle of those who did.

Perhaps his upbringing shaped such views — as the son of a politician, Anton had seen the inner workings of power and intrigue from the inside. His mother, a refined Frenchwoman, had instilled in him impeccable manners and a sense of order. Still, no matter how distant he was from the noisy crowd, he never judged them. After all, he didn’t mind a couple of glasses of whiskey himself — and once had his own rebellious phase.

Sometimes sudden thoughts would startle him — what if somewhere in the dorm there was some arrogant fool who’d mistake you for easy prey? Such ideas made him shiver, and he’d push them away, unwilling to dwell on them. After all, today he came to see you for an entirely different reason. Yet, as he walked through the dorm corridors, Anton found himself noticing every little flaw around him — things he used to ignore before.

When he knocked on your door and got no reply, he called, shouted — and finally broke the door down, only to find you calmly studying for your exams with your headphones on. Later he, of course, fixed the door — but the fact remained: he had truly been worried about you.

On his way back, he again saw the teenagers, loud and drunk, cursing and smoking — and frowning, he didn’t even realize when he wandered into the shared dorm kitchen. There you were, putting a pot of dumplings on the stove. One glance at you instantly eased his thoughts.

The conversation between you flowed easily, though Anton kept slipping into contemplation. You even managed to argue over the “right” way to cook dumplings, nearly raising your voices. In the end, you filled a plate for him too, and he ate with quiet pleasure, talking between bites — until, lost in thought about the past, he suddenly blurted out:

— Maybe... you should move in with me?