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Cowardly? Maybe.

Necessary? Absolutely.

I am not ready for him.

So I distract myself.

Aggressively.

At some point I’m by the drinks table and somebody hands me another glass. By the third drink, I am objectively more talkative.

This is not ideal, but it is at least distracting. Eventually I wedge myself between Alexei and Dimitri and start yapping.

About what? God knows.

Everything.

Nothing.

Dimitri laughs sometimes and Alexei contributes the occasional dry observation. I can feel myself playing to them a little, winding brighter and louder than necessary, because if I keep talking maybe I won’t glance up and find Kento staring.

It’s working.

Mostly.

Until Dimitri, in the middle of whatever I’m saying about someone’s ugly suit, catches my arm.

His hand closes around my forearm, and a wince slips out. Dimitri feels the reaction immediately, his fingers going still around my arm as Alexei turns his head toward us.

“What was that?” Dimitri asks.

I force a laugh and try to play it off.

His eyes narrow as they move from my face to the sleeve bunched beneath his hand, and I can practically see him putting the pieces together. “Dima—”

“Ilya.”

“It’s nothing.”

Across from us, someone says something loudly. Glasses clink together, and the party carries on around us. Dimitri, however, seems to have forgotten the party exists.

He grabs me again even when I tell him to let me go, and he pulls my sleeve up. The fabric catches against my skin, dragging over the bruises until they’re exposed, not just bruises, cuts too. It’s horrible to look at. Even I don’t like looking at it for too long.

Dimitri goes completely still. Beside him, Alexei’s expression changes too.

I’m not entirely sure if they are saying anything.

Because it isn’t them I’m focused on.

It’s him.

Across the room, Kento is staring at me.

No. Not at me.

At my naked arm.

Kento