this is a compilation of me trying to write something every one or two days for a month.
a lot of things in here will be unedited and most of it will most likely be inspired by things i've watched/read or just straight up fanfiction.
i'm really ju...
When I'd wake up in a cold sweat from those repetitive nightmares that seemed all too realistic— gasping and sobbing as if I'd almost drowned, looking around quickly at my blurry room, shaking and almost confused— I would practically pray for someone to kill me.
I would hope that in that mad rush of fear and sadness and frustration that someone, anyone, would burst through the door and shoot me. Stab me. Strangle me. Just end the horrible feelings and thoughts that came after those nightmares.
At least that way my thoughts would be quiet, at least that way I wouldn't have to worry anymore about the painting and my relations to it, at least that way I could maybe even see my mum again.
But then, almost as instantly as I'd woken up in the dark, Boris had reached over to me. A slim, pale arm thrown across me limply. Most of the time, mainly out of shock, I'd try to roll clumsily out of his grip which was when Boris would just simply pull me closer to him. He'd hush me and mumble things in Russian that I didn't understand.
Then as soon as the tears had started, they seemed to stop and slowly the cold of the desert night settled in again.
"Shh, Potter, is only me.." he'd repeat quietly after I tried to move away again once I'd calmed down, "ty v bezopasnosti, vse v poryadke.."
So I stayed. I stayed in his arms, with Popchyk laying curled up by Boris's head, it really could've been seen as cuddling. I always stopped myself from thinking too much about it, refusing to let my mind wander and see it as anything more than it was. That would be weird. It would be weird.
In the mornings after, we never spoke about it, never mentioned it to one another or anyone else. Like many other things that would happen between us, an unspoken agreement that it was what it was and nothing more. We didn't mention these things to the point where if either of us had been too wrecked, it would've been seen as an oddly vivid dream.
None of which meant I ever necessarily forgot those moments, the unfamiliar sympathetic side that Boris expressed during them or the way it had felt to be so close to him. I never went too deep into those memories though, never let myself think about them for longer than an odd few minutes at most.
Even years later I always force myself to avoid having to confront both the situations and the feelings that accompanied them. Though there wasn't a day that went by both after and during my time spent in Vegas in which I didn't think of Boris and wonder where he is and what he might be doing,
I hated the memories. I hated thinking of them and what could've gone differently if I had stayed a few days with Boris or if he had come with me and stayed with Hobie too. Hobie probably wouldn't have minded much, Boris would be able to live out of my fund too. He probably could've stayed in my room, shared the bed if we had to as well, considering we did so practically every night in Vegas.
For all I know Boris could be dead right now, he got himself into so much shit so often so I wouldn't be surprised. And that's the part where I distract myself. Every single time these thoughts come up they always end up in the same spot eventually. I hate it.
Instead of going back to my russian work, which I'm getting nowhere with, I avoid the urge to reach for the drawer that hides the things I stole from Xandra in a small tin container and stumble downstairs to the workshop; the smell of the wood making me smile ever so slightly.
a/n
i wrote this at one in the morning so sorry for any mistakes and such the end is definitely rushed but i couldn't think of another way to finish it off at that moment so oh well
inspiration from book:
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