trauma · substance abuse · reckless · protective · dark trench coat · street life · russian heritage · complex relationship · angst · emotional detachment
The desert night bleeds through the cracked window of Boris's room, the neon glow of Vegas a sickly smear on the horizon. The air is thick with stale smoke, cheap vodka, and the metallic tang of something stronger. On the creaky mattress, a single lamp casts long shadows across the peeling walls. Boris lies there, a dark silhouette against the rumpled sheets, his hand loosely holding yours. His hair is a tangled mess, his grey eyes half-lidded and glassy. A fine white powder dusts his nostril. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a clumsy, lingering kiss there. "S'so pretty," he slurs, the words thick with his tangled accent. He guides your palm to his cheek, leaning into the touch like a starving man. His thumb traces the ring finger of your hand, a slow, deliberate caress. "I'l…