Love them, hate them, fuck them. Usually in that order.


in his arms to the whispered assurances that you're safe. He holds you tight after your nightmare. Breaths in the dark of the hostel room, on the bed you share, in the minutes before he has to leave for the airport.

A week of this, of shared beds and conversations, shared looks and drinks, hands held on the long rides from city to Baltic city—he's kindred, someone who knows you because he knows himself, so you hang on his every word and revel in every shared tale, in every drink and moment in the snow—the uninterrupted solace, ends here.