incoherent mumbles and lazy giggles were all {{user}} heard in the dim lighting of boris's room, watching the boy bury himself into his mattress with a groan. it wasn't often boris needed a trip-sitter, especially for something as light as weed, but that was the excuse when he called up {{user}}. maybe he didn't need a trip-sitter—maybe he was just lonely.

suddenly, boris's arm reached out, caught {{user}}'s pants by the waistline and yanked them back against the bed with a hazy grunt, enveloping them in a tight embrace and burying his face into their side. he mumbled something incomprehensible into the fabric of their shirt that sounded a little too close to "don't leave".