#valeriya valerov

[souls-ocs]

zlatko and jakob meet

i got possessed to write for these two dudes, it was originally just gonna be zlatko describing what jakob looks like but i got into the family dynamic

There was a sweaty white man on his sofa. He could only call him a man because he appeared the same age as Zlatko himself, who considered himself a man, but really he looked more like a boy, shrivelled and pathetic. His light brown hair stuck to his clammy forehead and he shuddered under the thick blanket (that was his, Zlatko noticed with a raised brow) that covered him and wrapped under his feet (it barely fit Zlatko anymore, mind the jealousy). This was definitely his mother’s doing - she couldn’t help herself from helping people, especially if they were her sons’ age. This may have been only the second time but it was twice too many. 

He was pale, in both skin tone and sickness, with almost blue undertones, especially in the lips - he was confident enough to look at another man’s lips, yes - that were cracked and peeling (his mother would probably lend him lip balm when he woke up). His eyelashes, far darker than the hair on his head and closer to Zlatko’s, fluttered with every hoarse unconscious breath and bore dew drops of sweat that dripped like tears down his temples. He shifted in his sleep and it ran over his nose instead. If Zlatko were the type to give into his curiosity, he’d have leant over and lifted his eyelids to see the colour of his eyes, as he’d done as a little boy, but he’d long learnt restraint. Besides, he was cooking food. Couldn’t get distracted. 

A white boy with brown hair. Wholly unremarkable if not for his sickness - and how he ended up on his sofa.

It was a goddamn miracle his legs weren’t broken, was Zlatko’s first thought as he heard the story - falling from that height onto Brad’s roof? Taking that many hits from his cane? The fever could have been the least of this man’s issues. Now he had a name to put to the lump taking up the three-seater sofa. “Jakob. He specified with a ‘k’,” Valeriya, his mother, added, stirring her tea with the same spoon she’d used to stir her soup. Cleaned, of course. “Strange priorities that boy.”

“Habit, maybe?” Eban supposed, sucking his cheeks to his teeth, his eyes fixed on the stranger across the room. He’d always been nervous around strangers, that was part of his anxiety, but this wasn’t his first rodeo to Val bringing someone their age home and nursing them to health - that was how Eban met his best friend. Maybe this was how Zlatko met his - he doubted it though; he wasn’t anxious, just antisocial. Sure, being homeschooled helped with that but he’d just never seen a need to bother, especially when he had hobbies such as cooking to busy himself with. 

“Maybe.” That was that for the conversation about Jakob on the sofa, Valeriya swerving to discuss Eban’s school life - prom, exams, his crushes (aka Klara) - as if there wasn’t a stranger in their home. Again, not the first time (aka Klara). Probably for the best that he didn’t wake up to a conversation about him because a loud groan gave Eban mercy from their mother’s prying questions as Jakob’s eyes flickered open, light blue irises against bloodshot whites that were juddering around and struggling to say focused. Zlatko tensed. Valeriya rose from her seat, practically jumped, as she noticed him even before Eban nudged her shoulder. Her hand settled on Zlatko’s shoulder, squeezing in quiet request. Medicine, jug of water, plastic cup. Par for the course. His own hand was already reaching for his cane.

Food would have to wait. Good thing they had a microwave. 

Uncovered from the blankets, Jakob looked even worse for wear. His shuddering was more violent, sudden jerks up as if grabbed by God at the waist, the sweat sheen on his face made him look like he was melting. His hair was sodden, like it’d need to be scraped away from his head, and his shirt, an unnecessarily bright orange (no wonder why his mother had given him a blanket), was in a similar, if not worse, position. Yet it could have been worse - his bones were still intact, he wasn’t bleeding and he definitely wasn’t dead, even though he fell from the sky. That’s what Val said and Zlatko had to believe his mother.

The medicine could only work if he actually took the tablets and he seemed too out of it to realise that there was a woman trying to offer them to him, yet the only thing that could help with that was indeed the medicine. Or a smack across the face. The Valerovs weren’t accustomed to slapping their patients - God, that made them sound like doctors, which they really weren’t, not anymore in Valeriya’s case (Eban dabbled and Zlatko studied and that was the extent of it) - and even if that were the case, Zlatko wouldn’t dare in case his hand stuck to his cheek like glue. His skin rather resembled that, glue. 

His mother, the former doctor who had taken the Hippocratic oath and had never risen her hand to anyone, didn’t seem to harbour any qualms or worries as her palm struck gold - silver, rather - across his cheek. Jakob sat up with a gasp and nearly knocked his head against his knees, directly against skin, his ripped jeans wouldn’t have cushioned the hit. Valeriya’s hand darted in between the gap, her hand on his forehead easing him back as her free hand jostled the cushions to hold him up. “Here, take these. They’ll help with the migraine,” she said, handing him white round pills first, then brightly coloured pills and vitamins that had always reminded Zlatko (and Eban as he remembered that near incident when he’d been four) of stretched out Skittles. “And the fever. These will also help.”

Not waiting for her glance and nod, Zlatko filled the cup of water half full and handed it off to her. They’d learnt their lesson to use plastic a long time ago: Zlatko himself had been sick, not so bad as this but every illness was the worst thing ever to a child, and glass shattering over him and water soaking him hadn’t helped. At least this way, it’d be just water. No harm in that. Valeriya raised the cup to Jakob’s lips as he hesitantly put each tablet, one by one, in his mouth and took a generous swig each time. Now that he was awake, his eyes darted around the certainly unfamiliar room; the only thing wider than those were his pupils, dilated and hungry. They’d dimmed the lights for him - Klara had struggled with the bright artificial lights when Val had brought her home - and the daylight was starting to give way to sunset. Zlatko didn't realise he was staring until Jakob's eyes met his.

“That’s my son, Zlatko,” Valeriya spoke for him and the appreciation went unsaid. “I’m a doctor. Or I was ten years ago. It’s like riding a bike.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Shush.”

Jakob’s eyes flicked between mother and son before clutching the side of his face with a groan. “What happened?”

Valeriya rubbed his back comfortingly despite how the shirt was closer to brown than orange with sweat. “No clue. I’m sure you’ll remember when your head clears up. We planned to interrogate you later on.” The last part was said in jest but that didn’t make it wrong; it was as if Jakob intuited this from the loud, sorry-for-himself groan he let out that was definitely more related to his sickness. Zlatko nodded to the sentiment. He loved his mother but sometimes… she could be pushy. She squinted at him like she could read his thoughts. He smiled like she could. Giving mercy, she helped Jakob shift his long spindly legs back down against the sofa as he settled against the wad of cushions propping him upright. 

“I don’t remember anything,” he mumbled. When they weren’t scrunched up, his eyes searched the air, hunting for something. “Got any pills for that?”

“No, I don’t. As I said, you can’t think properly like this.” She handed him the cup. “Drink this, then get some rest. We can talk later, Jakob.” Clearly, he remembered telling her his name, either that or he was too out of it to wonder why she knew it, because he had no more questions and happily drank. 

Jakob was wholly unremarkable, Zlatko decided, even in sickness. And yet that captivated him because everything else in his world was very remarkable.