Trust- Boreo

Папа

A/n: Inner character thoughts and sentences meant to be spoken in Ukrainian will be italicized. I don't actually speak Ukrainian, and I don't trust online translators for anything other than the one word title.

The sunshine came in at exactly the right angle. It managed to wriggle its way through the eternally drawn curtains through a thin little sliver of window. And it shone, like a pinpointed bullet, right onto Theo's eyes.

This, obviously, elicted a grunt from the young boy, who let his eyes flutter open. He woke up and stretched upward with a soft sigh. Blinking a few times as the blurred surroundings of the room came into focus, he found that he could vaguely see past the bedsheets that were hampered onto his body.

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, it was a lovely Tuesday morning: ripe for boys his age to be enjoying themselves outside, going to school, chatting with friends, getting ready for the long day ahead of them.

Theo stares at his picturesque surroundings, before promptly letting out a prolonged, agonized groan as he flops back onto the bed, writhing like a fish pulled out of water and onto a dry ship deck. "Fuck fuck fuck.... my head...." He whimpers, his entire body sore like he had been running for hours before this.

He noticed that there were no comfortable sheets on his body, far from it. Dingy, old, and somewhat smelly shirts and jackets were just haphazardly thrown on top of him, whoever done it clearly did so in haste.

Theo couldn't find the power to sit upright. He felt like he was in the worst stages of a cold. That same all body ache, the paralyzingly powerful feverish feel....

What the actual hell had happened last night?

That would be a question Theo would have loved answered. He looks next to himself, finding nothing. He looks to his left this time, still seeing nothing but a large red, USSR flag draped crookedly on the wall, crudely nailed into place with a bent nail.

Hearing footsteps, Theo didn't know what to expect. Fragments of the night before, gathered from staring around at his surroundings, were starting to surface back inside his head. He remembered being laid down in this room, told to sleep, coaxed away by sheer exhaustion.... being high in the clouds....

Oh, Theo realized. High in more ways than metaphorically, it seemed.

"Morning, little Potter." That same voice he spent the last 12 or so hours with. Boris was back from wherever he had gone. He also looked like he hadn't slept at all, face sunken, bags under his eyes. But he didn't seem miserable, far from it. It felt almost natural to see him like this, like the sunken face, the baggy eyes, the pale palette and the unruly hair, were all a part of him.

It made Boris, Boris.

"My head feels like someone's slipping it open with an ax." Theo responded in place of a greeting.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. First time, side effects? Going to happen." Theo usually thought Boris's foreign accent was something intriguing, a refreshing new thing to listen to aside from the New Yorker accents he grew up with, or these new bored and rough Nevadan ones. But right now, it almost sounded condescending to him. Maybe it was his head, or the fact that he was never a morning person. And of course, the pain.

Rolling to his sides so that he was facing away from the doorway in which Boris stood, Theo let out another groan. "What do I do about it, idiot?" He complains, feeling like a spoiled, sick 10 year old all over again, in his mother's room.

"Wait it out, I brought ice." Boris instructs, coming over to plop down next to him. His added weight made the cheap spring mattress swish awkwardly to one side, bending under their undistributed weight.