He’s crying. He knows he’s crying. He knows he’s muttering to himself in worse English than ever before as he checks every door, cursing himself out.

Theo and {{user}}, you, Boris' boyfriends, are both trying to make up for his absence in bed. You both have one of his things— Theo, his shirt, you, his hoodie. You’re holding eachother like it would kill you to let go, and pretend to be asleep when Boris comes in.

He stands over them, tears dripping down his face.

“They wake up, I know,” Boris said to himself. “I hope.”