One

Lori catches hypothermia in the forest, but wakes up in Illya's house, having been rescued from a frozen death.

            Lori had a headache waking up. She also noticed how cold and shaky she was. Trembling, she tried to sit up and, as she did, noticed she was on a couch. And it was not her couch, nor was it her living room. The room she was in was solitary, with many paintings and frames of scenic photography. The lights were dim. Her thick blankets smelled like… pleasant cologne.

            She certainly did not wear cologne, and she lived with no males. This wasn’t her house anyway. Should she get up and wander? Why was she here--

            She remembered. She was running away from the horror of home, into the forest, ripping, tumbling down into the snow hills and falling unconscious in the ice. She was here because a stranger found her and apparently saved her life. Her pathetic life for that matter. Maybe she should get up and go find them.

            “Hello?” She called instead. There was a silence, but soon steady, light footsteps sounded nearby. The stranger came in, greatly surprising her. He couldn’t be described as quite a boy or a man. He was tall, gaunt, with short messy black hair, pallid olive skin and dark, brooding eyes framed by equally dark, heavy eyebrows. He had very high cheekbones with even colored lips. Lori noticed that he was oh, so dreadfully skinny--fragile, with sunken cheeks and empty broad shoulders. He wore a striped black t-shirt and jeans, 2 or 3 wristbands on either arm, an earring on the left.

            The stranger leaned in the doorway, saying nothing as he gazed at her. It was more of an observant look, so as not to worry her. She was a tiny thing, even more so delicate than himself. Long brown hair, soft hazel eyes, light skin and rosy cheeks. Of course he liked looking at her, but he was concerned with her age.

            “You saved me?” Her voice was small. Innocent. He felt stupid that it slightly aroused him.

            “Yes. I found you in the snow. You would have died.”

            Her expression twisted in puzzlement a bit. It was his thick accent.

            “I am from Russia.” He strode towards her. She slightly flinched as his skeletal hand rested on her forehead.

            “I had to wrap you up in the cold before treating you here so your body could safely adjust.” He put his knuckles to her cheek. “How did you get out there?”

            Her mind tried to battle with her conscience. Tell him, lie, question him.

            “I was taking a walk.”

            He instantly recoiled, somewhat in contempt. “I didn’t know I rescued a liar.”

            So he knew. Lori bit her lip.

            “Okay. I was running--running away.”

            “And went down into the ice. How foolish.” He rewrapped the blankets around her. “You weren’t asleep long. I must take your temperature.”

            He grabbed the thermometer from the coffee table and tried to stick it in her mouth, but she instinctively jerked back. Irritated, he forced it in. He stood over her, waiting for her temperature to finish recording--she was very uncomfortable. After a good long moment, he took it back out and read it.

            “Still a little below normal. Lay down. I’ll cook you something.”

            As he turned to leave, she began to stutter, “Thank you. But…”

            “But?”

            She bit her lip again. “I don’t know your name. If I should know it.”

            He glanced at her mouth absentmindedly for a split second. “My name is Illarion, but I go by Illya. What of you?”

            She stuttered, “My name…?”

            He snapped, “Yes, your name, child.”

            Her confidence shrank ever more. He was scaring her a little. “Lorraine. But I go by… by Lori.”

            “And how old are you Lori?”

            She hesitated. He was a stranger. Didn’t her parents teach her to never talk to strange people?

            “I’m--I’m 17.”

            So according to the state, she was legal. There was relief. The stranger, no longer a stranger but Illya, nodded a little before leaving the room.

 

            He was 28, lived alone, worked as a clinic doctor and was an isolated artist. This much she knew. He seemed more a seedy teenager, but he was tougher than he looked. Lori didn’t know how she felt about him; he was harsh, but not mean. A bigger issue was where she’d go after this.

            “Why were you running away?” he asked as he perched upon the arm of the couch she laid on. Her soup had already been consumed.

            “I… Why do you want to know?”

            His eyes dimmed. “I saved you.”

            “Yes, and I’m grateful, but why?”

            “Just curious.” He leaned back, getting more comfortable. Lori gnawed on the inside of her cheek. She guessed it wouldn’t be so bad to tell a bit.

            “I don’t want to get too personal. Things just don’t work out at home sometimes.”

            He rested his chin on his hand, saying, “What, fighting with your family?”

            She shook her head, not looking at him. “No, not necessarily.”

            “Then what?”

            The words wanted to come out, but couldn’t. This wasn’t a movie where all the lines were easy and planned--thought she wished it were that way. She pulled the blanket up to her neck and replied, “Bruises. That’s all I left with.” She paused. “My godmother and cousins.”

            He was silent for a moment. She scrutinized his face; she wanted to feel his cheeks. Or, what his cheeks were supposed to be.

            “So you have nowhere else to go.”

            At his question--no, statement--her voice got quieter with nervousness.

            “No… But I understand. I’ll leave. I was actually--actually going to try and find my… friend’s house.”

            What a lie. She had no friends.

            He stayed quiet again. Then he stood and walked all the way to the closed-curtained window, staring at it--not out of it.

            “Does she care if you return home?”

            “Not really.”

            He gave no response. After maybe five minutes, he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

 

            Lori never saw him return. She stayed curled up on that couch, faintly enjoying his smell on the blankets. Night came like it was nobody’s business, and she wanted to wander as she always did. She did just that, maybe to even look for him, though unsure of the whole situation.

            Coming out of the room, she saw another open, unoccupied room and let her curiosity get the better of her. In there was a desk with a lamp scattered with papers, drawings, art media; somewhere in the corner was a painting canvas and easel. The paintings against the wall were haunting, but nonetheless, too beautiful. She’d always longed to be creative, but never was able to.

            On the desk, drawings, poems and many other lyrical pieces littered the area. At this point she forgot just who’s house she was in. She picked on up and proceeded to read it.

 

            Sunshine and butterflies

            It’s all lies

            With flowers as a bed

            But all the flowers are dead.

 

            Most were in his native tongue, of course, and couldn’t be read. She had no time to read another because rough hands gripped her frame and jerked her around.

            Illya’s eyes smoldered and his hand was pulled back as if to backhand her. She closed her eyes, waiting for it to come. Upon seeing this reaction, he dropped his hand, but still gripped her.

            “What are you? Huh?”

            She flinched as he shook her.

            “I--I’m sorry, I just--“

            He let go of her. “Just what, huh? I treat your damn hypothermia, let you sleep in my house, and you go through my s**t? I feel so thanked.”

            Lori put distance between them. “I’ll be on my way then. I should have left at the very moment I woke up.”

            As she made to go past him, he stopped her. They gazed at one another for a long moment, his eyes searching hers; in them he found fear. It felt weird for him. He’d never frightened someone.

            “What do you intend to do with me, then?” She asked.

            He studied her a second more before grabbing a bottle from the desk. He held it before her; it was a sedative.

            “I won’t have you wandering.”

 

            He was himself unsure of just what he was doing. Carrying her sleeping form up the stairs and to his room, he laid her on his bed, then sat beside her. It had been many years since he touched a female. Thoughts of touching anyone really in any way revolted him; yet, here he was, a girl in his same bed.

            He propped her against the headboard, got on his knees, and pulled her legs so that they were wrapped around either side of his waist. Still she slept so very soundly, and it compelled him to want more. He leaned forward and touched his cheek to her forehead. Just a bit cold, but not too serious.

            That made him remember the situation. He pulled away, put her under the covers, and left, rather disgusted with himself.

 

            No more headaches. Only the feeling of a ghost lingered.

            Lori knew she was in his bed. She pulled the blankets up to her nose and inhaled their scent. He didn’t smell strong, but it was sharp and she decided she liked it.

            She also decided to go looking for him again. She had to know what was going to happen next… where she would go.

            Downstairs was where he was found, his hair flat, wearing a gray sweater and black corduroy pants. He had his canvas and easel out by the window. She didn’t have a clue of what he was painting, with its moody low-key colors. All she knew was it was good.

            “You slept for a while. It’s 12:30,” He said coolly. She bit her lip--that was a bad habit.

            “You sedated me, so….”

           He did not pause as she trialed off. He spoke, his skeletal hand painting delicate strokes with the utmost skill.

            “When are you leaving?”

            His question threw her off. Did he want her to leave?

            “I… I guess now.”

            Only then did his hand slow to a stop. She turned to leave, not noticing his hesitance. To stop her would be selfish, he concluded.

            As she was about to open the door however, he called, “You don’t have to, you know.”

            Her head turned. Now he was looking at her.

            “I don’t have to…?”

            “Leave. Don’t have to. Where are you going to go? Back to your godmother? I would think not. That’s why you ended up here. I suppose I could tolerate your presence. But if you can’t tolerate mine, then by all means, go.”

            And he turned back to his art. She stood there, contemplating his words. Stay. Go. Live with a complete foreign stranger. Leave and die for nothing on the way. Stay and live. Leave and die.

            She walked back over to him and sat on the same couch as yesterday. She thought for a split second he smirked.

           “You’re a great poet,” she stated after a while. His hand stopped again, and his eyes looked up to stare ahead. Worry came over her. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.

            But he returned to his task, voice cooler as he spoke.

            “No. I am not.”

            The silence that followed was awkward and nearly unbearable. Lori wished he was more social in the very least. She guessed he only verbally interacted with her because some things he had to respond to.

            “I guess I should get used to this then?”

            It was a thought said out loud. Illya set his paintbrush down, irritated. The painting would have to wait.

            “Yes. Because you can probably see I hate people. So naturally, I loathe communication.” He paused to get a good look at her. A new thought came to mind.

            “You need clothes.” He stated. She looked down at herself: indeed she did. She hadn’t thought on it.

            “I didn’t have time to pack,” she said. For sure he will kick me out; no male wants to tend to the needs of a female.

            Illya stood. “Come with me, then.” He started up the stairs. Lori followed hesitantly; was he about to offer her his clothes?

            Upstairs he beckoned her to his room. She stood unpleasantly to the side as he rummaged through his drawers. A few T-shirts were thrust at her, as well as some shorts. He went to a second drawer, and she was surprised to get pairs of girl jeans, girl clothes.

            “Those were my sister’s,” he said, voice monotone. She decided to be friendly.

            “Sister? Oh, where is she now?”

            Couldn’t forget this.

            “She’s dead.” No expression. He was gone before she could react.

 

            In the evening, he became interested in her background.

            “Did you grow up here?”

            She answered, “No, I spent my childhood in Little Rock, Arkansas.”

            “Why did you live with your godmother?”

            The lip-biting started up. It was something he noticed.

            “My parents were killed in a car accident. Too common a fate. So I had to go somewhere, and my godmother was the first option. If I knew how to hate, I’d hate her so much and…”

            She trailed off. If she went any further she’d start crying and wanting his non-existent comfort--that was so cliché.

            Illya looked at his watch. It was suppertime…. Maybe they could go somewhere.

            “Did you go to school?”

            She leaned back on the couch. “Yeah, I graduated last year from high school.”

            “How was it?”

            Well, at least now he was able to talk to. “I guess it wasn’t so bad. It was an escape from home.”

            Illya thought for a bit, watching her eyes going all over the place, her leg shaking up and down, biting her mouth. She was an anxious mess. He was so calm and relaxed; she probably never knew peace.

            “You don’t have any friends, do you?”

            That surely caught her. Her parents had been her closest things to friends.

            “… Not really.” She was very quiet. He very much pitied herm but he’d never say it. She was so weak, but weak in a way that didn’t disgust him. It was passivity.

            “Neither do I.” He said. She looked up, but he ignored the hope in her eyes. He decided it was time to switch gears as he stood and walked in the kitchen to grab his car keys.

            “Come on, you need to eat.”

 

            They ended up coming out of a gas station, Lori happily chewing on a sweet baked pretzel.

            “My mother used to back these all the time,” she said. “They were my favorite. Sometimes I would help her.”

            He did not acknowledge her cute comments as he looked around. At the corner, two men watched them while they smoked. He’d seen them before. They were not safe. He gingerly grabbed her arm and whispered in her whilst leading her back to the car.

            “Don’t look at them. Pay them no mind.”

            It annoyed him when she tried to glance back at them.

            In the car he became even more serious. Rules would have to fall into line.

            “Listen up. If I tell you to do something--something important--you do it. Like that. I tell you not to look and you look.” He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. She winced; no matter where she went, she’d live with an angry person.

            “And furthermore,” he continued, “In case you haven’t noticed, I like my privacy. I like solitude. Don’t bother me when I’m painting. Don’t bother me period, unless you’re sure you need something. Stay out of my stuff. Are we clear?”

            She feebly nodded.

            “I can’t hear your head nod,” he snapped.

            “Yes, sir.” She stammered out. Nothing more was said between them.

 

            Lori observed the house more. It was relatively small, even for two floors, in a neighborhood far away from hers. The houses had much space between their neighbors. Trees in the backyard protected against unwanted viewers. It told her much about him; a lonely person who liked being alone and probably would love being the only person on earth. Scratch that--not much. There was a story that was surely untold. Would she ever hear it, maybe, maybe not. But somehow she would try.

            This morning Illya cooked for her. Perhaps he was feeling sentimental. She didn’t like awkwardness and preferred to live without it. Trying to get on his good side, she said, “Good morning Illya!”

            He lazily waved and sat next to her at the round table. He had on a blue T-shirt over a black and white long-sleeved shirt, the usual jeans, more wristbands and 2 earrings on one ear. The striped sleeves covered part of his hands, leaving only the long fingers exposed. The light from outside hit his face, and she realized something.

            “I thought your eyes were brown,” she said. He lifted an eyebrow.

            “Hm?”

            “They’re green-ish. Like peridots.”

            He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s just in the light.”

            She smiled. “It’s nice.”

            A shrug was her mere response, but she took it well. It meant he was in a better mood. Yet another thing, another mildly crucial thing crossed her mind that she missed.

            “Illya, do you eat at all?”

            Boredly he laid his head on one arm. “I’m sorry?”

            “Do you ever eat? It’s just I haven’t seen you do so once. You only fed me and not yourself.”

            He sat up a little straighter, eyes nearly expressionless. “No, I am a f****t. I’ve better things to do.”

            Lori gawked at him. At this point she really didn’t know what to… say to that. He stared back, boring hard into her bewildered eyes.

            “I’ve been called a f****t hundreds of times,” he explained. “I figured out a long time ago if I was one, I’d be a content one at least.”

            He looked her up and down--it was the fourth or so time he’d done that. He’d have to refrain from it, but she was very pretty. So he decided to ask questions.

            “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

            Lori came out of her stupor in slight surprise. She guess it was okay enough to answer. “No… I was always secluded to the side, so naturally no one valued me.”

            No boyfriends? Ever?

            “Never been with anyone?”

            She looked down. “Nope.”

            This was a slight shock to him--but an opportunity. Would he follow through with it? Mostly not.

            Or, maybe.

            “Well, you’re very pretty, in case you didn’t know.” He leaned back, pretending to be bored. Her eyes seemed to sparkle; no one ever told her that before. She smiled.

            “Thank you.”

            He was amused.

            She peered out of the window. “Do you ever go outside?”

            He squinted his eyes slightly. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”

            “I just want to get to know you better.”

            He raised an eyebrow again. “I’m supposed to know you. You don’t want to know me. No one wants to know me.”

            She turned. “I guess if you weren’t so nonchalant, I’d feel bad for you.”

            “Well, I’m glad you don’t.”

            Lori touched the cold glass of the window. “Christmas is coming soon. Do you celebrate it? I used to.”

            Illya stood and slowly strode to stand next to her. It was snowing again. “When I lived in Russia, but because of calendar differences, we celebrate it on the 7^th of January. When I got here I was alone, so I saw no reason to further partake in the holiday.”

            She was tempted to ask why he was alone, but stopped herself. It would’ve only irritated him much. Instead she said, “The last time I celebrated it was with my parents. I was 10.”

            “I was 18 my last Christmas.” He said. She put a hand to the cold glass.

            “You know,” she said, “I’m really grateful that you saved me.”