The light had not touched his soul in a very, very long time. It avoided him like a butterfly avoided the cold winter months. Any beam of light that so easily settled in the eyes of the rosy-cheeked passersby on the street below the one tiny window of his apartment would wither and fade like those frozen brightly-colored wings…

Had he slept at all this past week? Between the drained bottles of vodka and the restless, flitting rose-colored memories of a distant past, there had been no time left for even brief respite. He felt so, so tired. Even through tightly shut eyelids he could feel the few cruel rays of morning sunshine that had managed to make it past the cheap white shades over that one cursed window. His whole body burned from the light and the alcohol and that very pain he had drunk so much to relieve. Just laying there seemed to be safe, but he couldn't stay like this forever; there was work to be done. Working from home had its perks, like never having to leave the apartment, but there were still set hours to follow.

One violet eye opened gingerly, and then the other. Catching sight of himself in the mirror the previous occupants of the room had left hanging on the door, the man quickly looked away. Ivan Braginski had seen better days. Skin that had once glowed with health and youth through the coldest of winds and brightest sunlight now seemed unusually pale in the semidarkness of the room. He was quite tall, but his figure looked almost frail. Dark shadows under the shining eyes and a nearly empty vodka bottle clasped weakly in a thin hand completed the pitiful image. At least no one could see him like this, Ivan decided. He set the bottle down carefully onto the dusty carpet and pushed himself into a sitting position on the worn striped couch. Like every other piece of furniture in the apartment, it had belonged to the previous occupants and was exceptionally ugly. Ivan hadn't bothered with décor. He even doubted that he had a working phone: the thing hung innocently on the wall but he had never had to pay any phone bills. There wasn't anyone who would call anyway, and you could order pizza online here (something Ivan greatly appreciated). The only things in the room that were his were the countless bottles and pizza boxes strewn over the floor and the computer that resided on the otherwise unused dining table. It was an old machine, but reliable for work. The thought of the good pay he would lose by being late to his job spurred Ivan to haul his aching body from the mass of cheap material and creaking springs.

Even through the glass of the window, he could hear the sounds of the bustling city below. Laughter and wailing sirens drifted into the dusty room, dragging Ivan's thoughts deeper into melancholy. He tried to isolate himself, to shut off the sounds, anything to feel less alone. He so very much wanted a place where he could forget everything, to concentrate on his work. But instead all he had was a filthy two-room apartment and pizza boxes on which he would often absentmindedly doodle the sunflowers he so longed to see again.

Another mouthful of the liquid from the bottle at his side did not dispel these thoughts. He still felt like a useless failure. To end his life would be a favor to the world…

"Shut up," he growled at his thoughts, grabbing hold of the lank locks on his head, pulling as if the pain in his scalp would stop the constant rambling of his mind. It wouldn't be the first time he heard voices. Another drink would do him good, and then to work.

Humming no tune in particular, Ivan set about looking for a fresh bottle. He stumbled towards the machine on the dinner table, jiggling the mouse to awaken the monitor. He kept the computer on constantly. The sound had often lulled him to sleep at night, before this strange insomnia.

His life was right on schedule. He would work for three hours now, then would order pizza and have his lunch break. Then work until six. Then try to sleep and fail miserably.

A loud knock startled Ivan from his reverie. His first thought was pizza delivery. But he hadn't even ordered yet. Then it could only be trouble, he decided. There was no one to come over just to say hello.

The knocking persisted. It most likely wouldn't be some official, Ivan thought. They knocked in a more dignified manner. This guy, whoever he was, was too obnoxious.

"I'm coming," he shouted irritably over the racket of fist-on-wood. He unbolted the door and opened it just a crack. He figured that even the sight of a narrowed violet eye and a loud voice with a Russian accent would be intimidating enough. "What is it," he growled even before he could look at the unexpected visitor properly.

"Mr. Braginski?" the bright male voice chimed through the grimy hallway. Through the crack in the door, Ivan caught sight of a lock of hair so blonde and shiny that it put the fluorescent lighting around the man to shame.

"That's me," Ivan didn't even try to sound polite and welcoming. The man's smiling face and blue eyes sparkling with life only made Ivan dislike him even more.

The man beamed at what he could see of Ivan and heaved up the two battered suitcases that had stood at his feet. "Great!" he exclaimed, pushing the door aside and Ivan along with it. Before the bewildered man knew what hit him, a warm hand was vigorously shaking his own cold one.

"The name's Alfred F. Jones!" came the slightly belated introduction, "You're doorbell's broken. Oh, and by the way, I'm your new roommate! Nice to meet you!"

What? Of all things, Ivan could not have foreseen this. Of course, there were two rooms in the apartment, not counting the kitchen, and one of them was all but unused. But shouldn't he have a word in this?

"And w-who told you that you could room in my apartment?"

"Well, I saw this advert in the newspaper," the man, Alfred, was busy bouncing around the room, poking and grabbing things as if they were his own, "You know, it's kinda messy in here. And dark," he seemed to get distracted very easily, "Had some Chinese guy's name under it, like Wang or something, ha!" with a comical double take, he stopped to look Ivan over once more. The man suddenly felt very uncomfortable in his stained t-shirt and old sweat pants. Alfred's clothes were much better: a brown pilot jacket with a '50' printed on the back and a pair of clean, new-looking blue jeans. "You're not Chinese," Alfred said at last.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

"Oh waaait!" Alfred jumped up again. He had way too much energy, in Ivan's opinion, "They said the other guy and his family moved out, but the offer was still open. Ivan Braginski, yeah, that's what they said. They said they'd give you a call."

This guy was a genius. He had come to the right place, looking for the right man, but had forgotten that it was Ivan he had asked for at the door in the first place. Ivan felt a headache coming on. Just what he needed.

"I don't have a phone," he said shortly, leaning back against the wall, "No one told me about this."

He sank back against the cold painted surface. Despite the headache and the intruder's constant ramblings, he suddenly felt very tired…