You Wrote Me a Letter (but I never learned how to read) || Wooyu ||

Warm (and the things that make it)

***

The first and foremost thing that Yuto was unruly mortified about was the painfully noticeable lack of welcomeness the Russian male's apartment held. In the sense that it was empty. Literally. In the living room, other than a couch, a coffee table, and the bookcases that littered the wall, the room was barren. It was cluttered with books, Yuto noticed, mostly of Russian writers, philosophers. He recognized only a couple of the famous ones like Andrey Bolotov and Vladimir Lenin but of the many Yuto couldn't possibly make out any words or names. The books were everywhere, and even though they weren't exactly neatly placed or organized, it wasn't messy per-se. Not the kind of mess that would make Yuto's skin recoil, like Wooseok's chaotic gamer sloppiness. This was a tad different, an artistic sort of jumbled cluster.

It made Yuto wonder if this is all Dalo does. Sit and read books.

The temperature in the room was another thing to which Yuto paid attention. It was cold. He didn't think he'd expect anything else. The walls were painted a blinding white and carried no picture frames, no decorations of any sort. If it weren't for the pile of books scattered around, it could be assumed without difficulty that this apartment was uninhabited.

"Well..." the man spoke from behind him and Yuto turned to face him. He dropped the keys on the coffee table and stretched his arms above his head. He threw Yuto his signature smirk. "Here we are." His Japanese always left a sliver of cold ice on Yuto's spine.

"You live like this?" He asked unable to hold back. Doesn't he get bored reading books all day? Doesn't he freeze to death? Does he even sleep? "Where's the rest of your furniture?"

"There's no rest. I don't need more than I make use of." He plainly stated.

Fair enough, Yuto supposed.

Unsure of what to do next or what's about the happen, he moved uncomfortably a couple of times, trying not to step on any of Dalo's scattered possessions."May I have a look around?" Yuto meekly asked as he left his luggage and backpack in the space next to the couch where books didn't trample so much. Yuto eyed a foreign book that stared at him from the floor. It was a copy of The Secret State, by Peter Hennessy.

Dalo stopped in his tracks at the sound of the Japanese boy's polite request. He watched him admiring the cover of his book for a while until he looked up and caught his eye. That damn necklace was dangling out of his clothes again.

"You may." He replied.

***

The rest of the apartment wasn't much different from the living room. His bathroom was small and neat, almost looked unused. Just a couple of toiletries gave away its tenancy. Yuto's fingers itched to open the small cabinets just to see what kind of objects Dalo had stored inside.

His bedroom was a replica of his living room, except instead of the couch and the coffee table there was a neatly made bed and a night table that held a couple of books and a lighter. He eyed the little object curiously, as he hadn't seen Dalo smoking before, and he never carried that stale stench of cigarette either. Did he use it to make a campfire in his trashcan with the books he wanted to discard? Did he use it to cast curses on his enemies? To light up the scented candles that he didn't have? Yuto shugged and pointed his attention towards the next thing, which was a small book that was left open on the side of his night table. A collection of poems by Matsuo Basho.

His Kitchen was completely void of any sign of residence. This newfound side of Dalo made him appear even more sinister to Yuto than before. Usually, a person's home is able to show a large side of someone's nature. But Yuto felt like he knew Dalo even less than before he came in.