𝒄𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒔 .* : ｡ﾟ

i. 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐲

~

We woke up late, and I was face down into my mattress, my glasses no where to be seen. Literally, I couldn't fucking see anything. I tried to sit up, supporting myself with my arms, but I felt my stomach drop and I collapsed again, groaning.

Beside me, Boris stirred awake and sat up. I turned my head— face practically suffocating in my pillow— to look at him, but I couldn't quite look him in the eyes. His pale features were completely blurred.

All at once, the night before came flooding back to me, so quickly I thought I was gonna throw up.

"God!" I muttered under my breath, but everything around us was so quiet, anyone could hear.

Boris scoffed and leaned over, and I felt my whole body tense up. Like that feeling right before getting on a roller coaster, or just as you fly down the biggest hill.

"Good morning to you too."

I realized he was reaching for something on the other side of me— he had my glasses in his hands.

"Blyad, give them to me," I reached over but he pulled away quickly.

"Calm down Myshka, I'm cleaning them." He said, and breathed into the lenses, wiping them with the edge of his boxers.

"Disgusting."

"Ha! Here, they're all clean."

I took my glasses from him and slid them onto my face. We sat not saying anything for quite some time, but I could feel Boris staring at me. He lit a cigarette and started to smoke.

For some reason I had no idea what to say, and this silence wasn't the usual peaceful kind we were used to.

Boris interrupted my confusion and broke the silence with an annoyed tone, "What, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?"

"Well." I finally sat up a bit, leaning my head against the wall.

"Is not like it hasn't happened before," He took a hit, and looked in the other direction, his collarbone sharp and very visible.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I spat angrily. I had a feeling he would bring it up, but I pleaded that he wouldn't. I knew stuff like this had happened before, but I didn't remember any of it as vividly as I did now— and I'm not sure that I wanted to discuss it quite yet. And I really didn't want to think about the fact that I was the one who initiated it.

"Don't worry about it Potter."

"No I-" I sat up fully and was about to get angry again, but my sentence was lost and my heart felt like it was about to take off and leave me completely.

Boris straightened up and turned to me, "You're a blackout drunk, you know that right?"

Shocked, I looked at him with wide eyes, "I—"

"It's hard to tell with you Potter. You'll come in with a glass the size of yourself sometimes— no, I don't let you drink the whole thing, but before I know it, boom— you've gone completely. Lots of things happen, you don't remember though."

"Bullshit." I scoffed, dumbfounded.

"It's true! There were days, nights more— I'd turn my back, and you'd disappear! I'd find you upstairs in closet, crying and being all sad. Going on about your mom, how you wish it were you who had died instead of her. It hurts my heart Potter, you think things like this. I do my best to comfort you, but multiple times it's happened." His gaze on me was strong and I felt like I was about to cry. All this time I have been trying my best to hide these things, but little did I know Boris had known the whole time.

"You drink too," I manage to get out.

"That's very true, yes I drink. But—" He takes a puff of his cigarette, "It's all for the fun of it. I have better tolerance to tell the truth. You— not so much I think. It's different."

We were quiet for a moment before he spoke again, "I'd find you in the middle of the street. Just laying there, 'leave me, Boris, leave me!' and I would have to drag you back to bed, or lay there too when you'd desperately refuse. It's lucky we're out here in the middle of nowhere, yes?" There was another silence, "And sometimes, I don't know— it's not so bad but. Things get— what's the word," waving his hands around, waiting for the word to come to him, "Heated. I guess. But— you don't remember, do you?" He noticed I was staring. I really didn't know what to say.

"I— I don't know."

"Just forget it. Doesn't matter anyways." He started to crawl off the bed and call for Popper in his high pitch voice. I sat still, my mind going a million miles a minute. There was so much to think about— all the things Boris has done for me, that I've done, that I don't even remember. I can only imagine the pain I must be, and I don't want to imagine it.

Boris had pulled on a white tee shirt, and picked Popchik up in his arms. He was about to head downstairs, until I jumped up and ran over to him. He'd stopped and turned to me, showing a look of concern.

"I'm sorry." I said softly. My eyes were watering and I didn't know what to do about it. There was really no point in hiding anything now.

Boris placed Popchik back on the ground, after in which he scurried away as fast as he possibly could. I adjusted my glasses and wiped away a few tears, waiting for him to say something.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he pulled me closer to him in a warm hug— something I don't remember feeling for a long time.

Boris, being basically twice the size of me, held me in his arms and nuzzled his face into the back of my neck. "It's okay, don't apologize." He whispered loud enough for me to hear.

I accepted the hug and wrapped my arms around him, smelling the stench of beer and cigarette smoke— which anyone else would be repulsed by. I found it oddly comforting.

He released me for a moment, taking a deep breath before blowing into my face.

I laughed, swatting at the air. He put his hands on my shoulders, shaking me in a way to stable himself from laughter.

Without thinking much— or at all, I leaned closer to him. I was sent into full panic mode as I noticed how close our lips were to touching, but I couldn't bring myself to go further, or move away. The look in my eyes must've been so utterly terrified, but Boris wasn't looking at my eyes anymore.

It all seemed to happen so slowly, but I knew it was just in my head. He brought his lips to mine, and with a feeling I couldn't quite place, I placed my clammy hands on his shoulders as he brought me closer.

It was over quick, we didn't talk about it. Which was for the better, and right away we were back to slapping each other over the head, and practically shoving each other down the stairs. I almost fell flat on my ass when we made it to the bottom.

I paused suddenly and looked around. I wasn't sure if Xandra or my Dad were still in the house— or even what time it was. "Is there school?" I turned to Boris, who was bent over and scratching Popper behind the ears.

"Bylad, Of course. Shit," He chortled, "Should we skip?"

"I don't know." I mumbled. "Up to you. We have sandwich meat, so we should be fine."

"We'll make a day out of it then," He shouted, overjoyed— grabbing two beers out of the fridge, "Cheers!"

"To what?" I asked. And in response he just snorted and raised his thick eyebrows making me smile.

The rest of the day was strange, but a good kind of strange for the both of us— I could tell things would be a little different from here on out, but we watched cartoons, blasted music— pushed and pulled at each other in the pool— It seemed we were living in our own little world. And I felt a little happier than usual. If happiness was the right word for it.

~