The splitting headache woke Misha up. He felt like his skull was trying to crush his brain and thick and sharp needles were pricking his temples; the deadly tools seemed to take their time, piercing his flesh leisurely. The agonizing pain pulsed like a heartbeat, sending waves of cold shiver down his spine, and Misha winced, then started to whimper like a little kid when the pain didn't decrease the slightest bit, even after a few dozen of minutes. 'Shit. My voice really sounds like the one of a kid,' thought Misha, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

In the end, he cried.

The pain was too much to bear, to the point where Misha almost wished to die right then and there. In the back of his mind, he also told himself that he would never drink again, not even a sip of alcohol, not even if his life was on the line. Half a bottle of vodka in less than twenty minutes wasn't his brightest idea – drinking and wandering in the middle of a snowstorm wasn't exactly better. Yesterday, he hallucinated talking with Santa Claus for God's sake! And now he was dying from a hangover! A hangover!

When nausea suddenly turned his stomach upside down, Misha swore and tried to crawl out of his bed, so he could at least reach the toilets before throwing up, only to realize that all of his muscles were sore as if a truck had hit him, then ran over his body a few times. Again, he told himself that he was done drinking.

Painfully dragging his body out of bed, Misha landed on his b.u.t.t in a loud thud. His head spun, but at least, his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

The first thing he saw was a tall mirror fixed on the blue wall beside the bed. A mushroom-shaped night light brightened the floor near the mirror, allowing him to see his reflection in it.

What Misha saw, though, wasn't an a.d.u.l.t in his prime, but a child with big round eyes as bright as the sky. The tears had reddened them a little, which only enhanced the crystal clear blue of its iris. He had a tiny upturned nose and pink, soft lips. The snow white cheeks looked particularly tender, and the short messy blond hair didn't diminish his porcelain doll-like appearance, on the contrary. Green dinosaur pajamas dr.a.p.ed his small body, adding another cute touch to his overall appearance. If the child didn't move, he could be mistaken for a doll.

Misha blinked. Then the boy inside the mirror also blinked.

"What the f.u.c.k," he muttered, and his eyes grew wide as he poked his cheek, then his nose, his mouth, and his chin before pulling both of his ears at the same time. That tiny little boy! That was him! And he looked awfully familiar.

Perhaps the emotional shock was too strong, but the pain suddenly lessened, becoming somewhat bearable. Thus, he forgot everything about the headache, cramps, and nausea and quickly inspected the small body in an attempt to understand why he had shrunk, although he didn't find anything useful in the end – only that his skin was incredibly smooth.

Misha could hear the gears moving in his head, his discussion with Santa Claus popping in his mind. However, he didn't have the time to delve into the matter for very long; the door of the bedroom opened slowly, and a sweet voice asked, "Are you okay, sweetie? I heard a loud noise…"

The little boy turned his head and froze. The woman who was standing in the door frame, he thought he would never see her again. At least, not in flesh and bones.

She was wearing a white nightgown that couldn't hide her short stature, the lace off shoulder cut showing her round, pinkish shoulders. She had the same crystal clear blue eyes, snow white skin, and strawberry blonde hair as Misha. All in all, she looked like an older version of the boy.

"Hey, what's wrong sweetheart?" asked Mrs. Brown, concern showing in her delicate face, as she got closer to the boy and kneeled in front of him.

Misha didn't answer, biting his lips. Instead, tears poured out of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks in silence, as he stared at his mother, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do. He felt like even his mind had regressed to the mental age of a kid.

"Sweetheart, tell mom what's wrong, ok?" his mother said, gently stroking his arms.

"I… I…" sniffed Misha, "I had a n-nightmare. I dreamt that mom…" The kid bit his lips, telling himself that at this age, he shouldn't know what 'death' meant. Probably. "That mom and Masha were gone… and… and that they would never come back."

"Oh, sweetie." His mother took him in her arms, hugging him tightly, and whispered, "Don't worry, mom is not going anywhere, Masha won't either."

His tiny fingers gripped his mother's nightgown, and Misha snuggled against her, his tears dripping and wetting the white robe. Since long ago, he didn't like physical contact since it always stirred up disgust and fear inside of him, but with his mother, it was different. He deeply craved her warmth; he wanted to make sure that all of this wasn't one of his wishful dreams.

It took a while before Misha could come to terms with his new reality. His mother was alive; her breath was brushing past his cheek; her sweet smell was filling his nose. It felt too real to be fake.

After crying for so long, the turmoils raging inside of him had calmed down, and he could think with a clear mind, though he was also drained from the intense emotions.

'F.u.c.k! The grampa wasn't senile!' Misha let out a discreet chuckle at the thought, chuckle that didn't escape his mother's attention.

"Your hair tickles," lied Misha, blowing a strand of hair that fell on his nose to emphasize his point. With a smaller voice, he added, "Don't go anywhere, mom. Stay with me."

"Of course I will stay with you! I won't leave your side, sweetie, but it's already midnight, and you need to sleep if you want to grow up."

"Then sleep with me tonight!"

"Oh my! Misha, you're already nine years old. You can't keep on sleeping with your mother. What will the other kids say?"

"I don't care about them! I won't be able to sleep if you don't stay with me anyway," said the child, lifting his head a little so he could look into her eyes. Without any shame, he purposely adopted a pitiful stance, cutely pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. He knew his mother was weak to this, so Misha disregarded all of his pride as a grown-up man.

Frankly, he couldn't bear to be separated from her so soon. If she were to leave right now, Misha felt like he would wake up the next day in his run-down apartment, all alone, with nothing but his old memories. That would crush what was left of his heart.

Sleeping in the same bed with his mother at the age of twenty-five was ridicule and weird, he was conscious of this, but who could blame him? After fifteen years, of course he wouldn't let go of his mother! Not even for a second! In any case, he was in the body of a nine years old kid, so it didn't seem that odd in the eyes of his mother. At least.

"Okay, but just this time," sighed Mrs. Brown, shaking her head.

The boy nodded happily, a dazzling smile curving his lips and his eyes in a crescent moon-like shape. He then jumped off from her knees, took her hand, and dragged her to the bed. Clumsily climbing on it since his muscles were still sore and uncooperative, he sprawled onto the mattress and tapped it excitedly as if he was telling her to hurry up.

As Misha was about to answer her, the discreet glint of the golden wristwatch laying on the blankets drew his attention. With a swift movement that seemed natural, he rolled on it to hide it with his body before pushing it beneath his pillow while stretching like a lazy cat, yawning in the process.

The watch was a.d.u.l.t-size and seemed pricy; it didn't look like something a child would have in his room, and Misha preferred to avoid his mother's questions – he couldn't even think of a good lie. Where the hell could he have found such a thing? Under a park bench maybe? Or under his desk at school? Probably not the best lies, hm.

Anyway, Misha didn't intend on putting the watch on display, so he stopped thinking about it and snuggled against his mother who pulled the blanket over their shoulders. She tucked his hair behind his ears, then kissed his forehead and whispered, "Sleep well, sweetie."

"You too, mom," said the little boy in a soft voice, quickly falling asleep.

______________

Author's note

ML: Misha, you have a mother complex, don't you?

MC: No, I don't!

Author: Yes, you do.