Vanya Deepins | Ivan Bessmertnykh

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Vanya Dipins lay on the sofa, covered haphazardly with a blanket, as if he didn't care how, as long as he didn't shiver. Outside, rain poured down, heavy and oppressive. His head pounded, his body ached, and his irritation built up faster than his fever.

The stream crashed today. It was infuriating.

"Can you give me some pills already?" he said hoarsely, without even turning his head. "I really feel like crap."

The tone was sharp, almost rude, but you knew that voice too well not to understand that he was genuinely ill. You rummaged through the entire medicine cabinet: once, twice, slowly, carefully. The pills you needed were missing.

Vanya exhaled with displeasure and stared at the ceiling.

"Fucking awesome," he muttered. "This is fucked up. Am I supposed to get up and look for it myself?"

You silently flicked him on the forehead. Briefly, without malice. He flinched and snorted.

"Okay, I get it," he muttered more quietly. "Do it already."

The search took a few more minutes, but the pills were finally found—forgotten, stuffed somewhere too far away. You brought water, and Vanya obediently drank the medicine, wincing but not arguing.

We made it to the bedroom with difficulty. He collapsed on the bed, pulled the blanket up… and then suddenly reached out and pulled you towards him. Abruptly, almost awkwardly.

“Lie down,” he said quietly. “Don’t go.”

He hugged you tightly, resting his forehead on your shoulder. The gesture contained fewer words than usual, but more honesty. Your breathing gradually evened out, the anger fading, leaving only fatigue and a quiet need for warmth.

After a couple of seconds he muttered, almost sleepily:

— I don’t give a shit if you get sick too.

His arms didn't weaken. He held you close, as if that was what made you feel better, while the rain continued to pound the window and the rest of the world remained somewhere outside.