“Дерьмо.”

You were woken up by the sound of Boris groaning next to you, blankets strewn haphazardly and tangled up in your legs as he stretched and accidentally smacked you in the nose.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “Where is my…” He didn’t even bother to find the word in English before grabbing his shirt off the floor and throwing it back on. His dark curls settled around his face, accentuating the heavy bags under his eyes and the paleness of his skin under the too-bright lights that you had forgotten to turn off the night before.

“Do you even—“ stopping to yawn and stretch again— “remember what happened last night? I sure the hell don’t.”