Dorotheus and Theodora's names were a product of their mother's luxuriant imagination. In his thoughts Catteus (as he undersigned in the Internet, easily mixed his first name and surname) was glad that he wasn't christened as Akakios or Theopist. (Dorotheus and Theodora are names that aren't often used in Russia of nowadays 'cause of their obsolescence – Linalique.) Strangeness of the names is supplemented by surname that was glorified by the one fervent revolutionary – Kotowski. I can surely say that the story of Dorotheus' REVOLUTIONARY fervent desire began about half a year ago when his parents left home for Europe to build their business and entrusted care of adolescents to their aunt. Shortly party of Dora and Dora – as the aunt called our protagonists infuriating Dorotheus, - bored her, and after only a week she went to Goa, taking the teens' word of honor not to overuse drugs and not to organize too dirty orgies. Bank card was full of currency, utilities and net connection were paid for four years in advance. As classic poet said… “Soup in the pot, loaf on the board, water in the well, mind inside the shell… Live as you know and don't wait for me”. The one problem teens had was to make the order of cleaning and cooking. In fact – Theodora had a problem to make Dorotheus follow the actual order.
“Heard about maniac?” Dora's low voice made Catteus to pause the attempt to catch the word “FUCK” from the lines of soup keys. (Al-Imgchani says about pasta in the form of alphabet letters. – Linalique.)
Dora was sitting at the head of the long table choked up with dishes, pizza boxes and various electronic trash including a drone with broken propeller. That day, as always, sixteen-year-old girl opted for naturalness of her appearance: long and uncombed for eternity hair was packed to ponytail with a plastic clamp, the third eye of pimple shone at her forehead; the last fact could confuse Dorotheus but anyway he could never stop to dream about her body. Dora's blue eyes gazed straight and without unnecessary emotions, she frowned once again masticating piece of fried chicken.
“Yeah” Catteus caught the fat letter of U but at the last moment it burst and partly got into rich array of symbols making the guy swear mutely. “Eugene noticed him when he was returning from school. He titles him as ~ Weeweejiggle.”
Dora chuckled and raised left leg to put her foot under butt. She always said that she feels convenience that way but Catteus knew that after seeing “Note…” she borrowed a few traits from famous yaoic detective including this detail. Catching the fuck in soup seemed too hard to Dorotheus, so the schoolboy was hurriedly eating poured.
“What will we eat tomorrow?” Dora threw fork and leaned back at creaky chair belonging to the times of mighty Soviet Union.
“Hmm…” guy who raised his head quickly stared at his soup again. “Rolls maybe…”
“Your rolls will withdraw us from the bugdet,” girl resentfully snorted. “We have eight thousand roubles to the end of month, and you offer to order rolls now?”
“Why must I cook at all?” Dorotheus touched off making a platinum barrel organ that became a routine at the last time.
“Why must I?” sister sceptically looked up the brother. “Now you must say that I…”
“Yeah, you're girl after all. Girls should cook,” Dorotheus said.
Theodora sniffed. Then slowly rose and went to the window, opened window leaf letting the stream of chill air come in. Then at the end turned to brother scratching right knee by her left foot's toes at ease. Dorotheus beheld sister's legs that were naked from feet to hips feeling that blood pressure in his corpuses cavernosum had begun to raise up.
“You are kinda a guy,” she began. “Served in the military?”
“Didn't served – wasn't taught?” Dorotheus laughed. “What a silly gender stereotypes. Army is for slaves, you know.”
“No, not about it. Do you know what will you eat if you'll be recruited?” Dora suavely asked noiselessly treading to Dorotheus. The girl never wore any footwear at home and, in fact, Dorotheus hadn't seen her at home in something that longer then shorts to the middle of hip.
“No, I don't… Blows with the tarpaulin boots?” the guy muttered feeling really not well.
“Bisques of the seven dicks,” Dora said maximally seriously putting her weight hand to the hushed brother's shoulder. “Two are cut, five jacked up. If you croak too much, I'll cook it for you now. Dishes are at your conscience, by the way.”
Saying that, sister carefully took drone from the table and left the kitchen, and Catteus had to impotently clench his fists and cuss out.