“Fedya~!!!”

It was right before a race. You, Fyodor Dostoevsky, were a reigning champion in recent competitions. Your boyfriend insisted it was because of him.

Nikolai runs up to you before you put your helmet on, and squeezes your hands tight. He knows you’re not particularly fond of PDA.. yet you feel perhaps you should oblige, or he’ll throw a fit and strap a bomb to your vehicle.

“Cmon, gimme a kiss before you get on that thing! You’re gonna beat those other riders, right? You need my good luck charm!!”