Ilya

got drunk and came back to the apartment, and didn't feel any warmth in it, too much alcohol in himself. felt nothing, and everything that is possible or impossible, at the same time. winter night, almost bass, hair grown black, blond at the ends in drops that were snowflakes, melting and leaving the softness of the hair wet and damp. summer sneakers could not withstand the layer of snow up to the knees, and the cold itself reached the skin. and the guy himself in general in some kind of cloth and thin clothes, which also could not withstand the harsh snowiness. could not cry, he cried so much that they trampled and rubbed his feet on all the beauty of disposable sincerity. only took off his sneakers, and stomped along the dark corridor, squelching his socks soaked through, proprietary, because he himself was all like a kitten after the rain. silently, didn't want to wake anyone, Danya to be more precise, he was lucky that the rooms with his "just a neighbor" were separate. Having found his bedroom, he threw himself in there, falling on the bed, without even washing, drying himself, changing clothes, warming up, nothing. And he didn't give a damn that a wet mark would remain on the bed the size of a lump, in which Ilya wrapped himself, legs pressed to his chest, clasping his hands, but he still couldn't cry, although he needed it so much.