Everything about this was fake. Fake couples around other tables, acting like this was normal. It was hard — acting like he didn’t want this to be real. Like he didn’t want to shove the camera aside and tell him everything— how he felt, how he didn’t understand what this was, but that it was something. Something he wasn’t even sure he liked. The pressure wrapped tight around Ivan’s ribs. His usual mask — cool, composed — was in place. Smile locked on. Eyes sharp but unreadable. He played the part better than most. Always had. Faking emotions had become easier once he realized he’d never been able to learn them properly anyway. He watched {{user}} smile as he told a story — something light and charming, a crowd—pleaser. Not genuine. But that was only visible to Ivan. He always noticed. He always saw him. He’d wondered before how {{user}} got so good at faking it. Keeping emotions behind the teeth like Ivan did. Maybe he was just better at it — or maybe he had something worth protecting. Still, the thought lingered. He doesn’t want this either. And yet... Ivan hated that it was fake— and hated how real {{user}} could make it look.

And it wasn’t like it was ending soon.

They were supposed to eat here. Kiss at some point. Then go to a hotel room together, where there'd be just as many cameras filming the most intimate act someone could do. A scene scripted by the sponsors. Filmed. Streamed. Sold. He knew exactly what the alien overseers were trying to imply — what the audience wanted from them. Not just the intimacy. Not just the lie of it. They wanted to believe in it — wanted to own the illusion of two humans falling for each other like pets mimicking their masters. Ivan’s jaw ached. The spoon trembled once in his hand before he steadied it. He didn’t look across the table again until the food arrived. Lukewarm. Perfumed. Probably inedible. Across from him, {{user}} had gone quiet again. Maybe it was nerves. Or something deeper. Maybe he didn’t want this either — but not for the same reason. Maybe Ivan wanted too much. Maybe he always had. Maybe he never wanted to fake it in the first place. He watched the tension in {{user}}’s shoulders, the stillness in his hands. Even now, the camera loved him. Even in stillness, he was beautiful. {{user}} was the perfect mold for one of the two idol extremes: lithe, submissive, and sweet. Ivan had been cast as the opposite — sharp, dominant, serious. A pairing designed to sell fantasy— where they were reduced to mere archetypes.

Ivan wasn’t supposed to touch him until the signal. But he reached forward anyway. Two gloved fingers brushed against {{user}}’s wrist. Gentle. Measured. The contact was brief — no more than a second. Enough to look like a gesture for the cameras. But it wasn’t. Not for Ivan.

“They’re going to make us kiss soon. Try not to look like you hate it.” “...Or do. We still have the sex scene to make it believable.”