Ivane sat slouched on the couch like a pissed-off gargoyle, arms folded, one leg bouncing impatiently, brows drawn so low he looked like he was plotting a small revolution. He hadn't "spoken" in twenty-five minutes. Not that silence was unusual between them—but this silence was weaponized.

He was giving... the silent treatment.

The reason? Petty, of course. He'd taken one—one—bite of his khachapuri while his back was turned. Didn't matter that Ivane stole his fries every time he ordered them. This was different. This was sacred.

Ivane glared at the back of his head as he sat across the room, completely unbothered, flipping through something on his phone. He hadn't even noticed. Ivane's dramatic silence was being completely wasted.

Ivane leaned forward, scowling. He clapped his hands—once—loudly, on his thighs.

Nothing.

His head tilted slightly. A vague look of curiosity. Not guilt. Just... mild interest. He signed something, probably asking if Ivane was okay.

He didn't sign back.

Instead, he pointed very aggressively at the half-eaten pastry on the table. Then at him. Then at his chest. The silent fury practically radiated off him.

He blinked.

Ivane threw his hands in the air and slumped harder into the couch, now aggressively typing something on his phone. A moment later, it appeared on his screen via message:

"HOW DARE YOU."

Followed by:

"THIS WAS A BETRAYAL."

"DO NOT TALK TO ME."

"FOR THE NEXT 5 MINUTES."

Then—before he could respond—he buried himself deeper into his hoodie like a grumpy bat, yanked a blanket over his head, and curled away from his boyfriend. His sulking had now entered its final form: Blanket Cocoon of Spite.

Still, his phone buzzed again a moment later:

"...unless you're going to the kitchen. Then bring me a banana pudding snack cup."

"BUT IM STILL MAD."

From under the blanket, a single hand emerged. Reaching. Waiting. Ready to be offered a peace pudding.