Theodore decker x Boris pavlikovsky OneShots

🌈Boreo🌈is there a name for what i'm thinking of? indecisivelarry

The clock reads 3:17 in the morning, but for Theo, it could be 6 in the afternoon and it would also make sense to him. His head is pounding and his throat is as dry as the desert outside the window. He hasn't had a proper meal in at least two days and he's absolutely not counting the stolen bag of chips Boris snuck inside his oversized jacket earlier that day at the supermarket.

Vodka on an empty stomach is not a brilliant idea, but no matter how many times he has come to confirm this, he doesn't seem to learn. They don't seem to learn.

He pushes his face into his pillow and is immediately attacked with the intense smell of chlorine. His hair probably smells exactly like that as well. He sighs as he reaches the floor where he last left his glasses in an attempt to try and sleep and puts them on.

Theo turns around and finds Boris in the same position he has been for the past hour: crossed legged, against the bed frame and reading his third poetry book this week. Some Polish author that Theo gave up on trying to pronounce correctly. Popper is on his usual place, sleeping peacefully between Boris' legs and the light from the lamp on the bedside table makes Bori's freckles on his cheeks and nose look like glitter. From time to time, his lips will curl into the tiniest smirk, proof that whatever he's reading is either fucking stupid or quite thoughtful and beautiful. Theo is still trying to decipher the difference.

He doesn't know for how long he has been staring at Boris, but suddenly, he's closing his book and placing it to the floor quite ungracefully. Popper is startled by the sound of it and decides to migrate to the end of the bed right next to Boris' feet.

Boris lazily gets inside the covers and turns his whole body towards Theo. They are both mirroring each other, faces half illuminated, half hidden by the yellow lamp light.

“Not tired Potter?”, Boris asks mid yawn. His hair is sticking out in every direction, like a dead spider turned around on top of his head. And yet, somehow, he looks strangely magical. Theo's personal enigma.

“My head…hurts a little”, Theo whispers, “your stupid mix.”

Boris just lifts his eyebrows and smirks. “I remember you asked me to make something that will make you forget your own name”, he answers proudly. Because intoxicating themselves has always felt like a competition, like everything else they did together.

“Whatever”, he shots back at him. Theo pulls the covers up to his shoulders and sniffles a shiver. The air conditioner inside his room sometimes feels colder than the freezing New York winds in January. It's okay though, because Boris is so close to him that it’s kind of easy to forget about it.

They are just looking at each other. It should be weird, it should be filled with words, this silence between them. But every time it happens, and it happens more times than any of them will ever be able to count, Theo feels like they are molding their own bones to fit together more tenderly. As if this physical closeness would mend the insides of their hearts and minds. It’s stupid, Theo thinks. It's quite delusional. But he wouldn't be surprised if someone cut Boris' skin, and the exact same wound appeared on Theo's own body. Since they've met each other Theo feels like he stopped belonging only to himself alone. It terrifies him.

“Is the book any good?”, Theo manages to say after what feels like hours.

Boris places a lock of hair from his face behind his ear and looks to the window behind Theo's face.