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"Potter,” Boris gasped as he felt the pads of Theo’s fingertips grazed the pale inner skin of Boris’s thigh.
Theo let out a soft hum in acknowledgment.
Boris didn’t look down, instead turning his head to the side. The smooth, cool expanse of the cheap pillowcase stung against the warm flush of his cheeks. If he looked down he would be met with Theo’s drunk and equally flushed face and eyes filled with permissive love and adoration that was seldom present when sober.
He didn’t want to be met with Theo’s cloudy blue eyes and faint freckles that became easier distinguishable with every drink. He didn’t want to be met with the face of the boy who would forget how Boris felt against his lips and fingers in the morning.
Somedays, Boris is glad Theo only faintly remembers these late nights of intertwined legs and warm hands cupping breasts. He’s glad Theo can only look at the dark bruises sucked onto each other's skin, his face blank and closed off. It’s easier that Theo forgets every imperfection on Boris’s body, that he forgets every angry scar and green bruise littering his pale body. He’s glad Theo doesn't remember what he says to him, what he whispers into his ear as they both reach the height of their pleasure.
There's also times he wishes Theo would remember.
Somedays, after Theo falls asleep, head tucked under Boris’s chin, arms wrapped around his waist, Boris stays awake, staring into the messy closet across the room. He feels Theo’s heart beating steadily against his own and wishes, prays, begs silently for whatever’s out there to let Theo wake up and remember.
Remember not just the nights they spend wrapped around each other, loving each other in the way only they can, but the nights when Boris would drag Theo back to his fathers house from those desolate, sandy roads, the heavy and tired body pressing into him. Remember when he would bury his face in Boris’s shoulder and cry and weep until his collarbone was slick with tears and Theo’s face was dry, his sobs turned to smooth and even breathing.
But most of all, he wished that he would remember how he told Boris he loved him. How he had kissed every thin scar on his arms and legs and called him beautiful. Like he meant it. He wished Theo would remember how his voice hitched when he would rub small circles into his hips with his thumbs, telling him he was good, and stunning, and how he never felt like this with anyone else.
He would give anything to have Theo like this sober. To be loved like this in the light. To be able to tell him how perfect and beautiful and wonderful he was. But he wouldn’t remember in the morning. So Boris keeps the words in the hollow of his chest, feeling them burn and crackle, begging for escape that could not be rewarded.
Life isn’t a fairytale, and boys like Boris; skinny, teen, immigrants who do drugs and cut themselves to feel something, don’t get a happily ever after with the boy they love. He’s lucky to even get a night.
So, he tried to be grateful. He settled for what he was given and ignored the gnawing chasm growing in his heart. He ignored the scalpel that dug down into his chest, preparing to bear his twisted and rotting insides to the world. Instead he listened to the faint breathing of the boy he loved and slowly drifted off to sleep.