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The bus ride home took longer than usual. The seat stuck to the small of my back, itching with sweat. I picked at a loose strand of thread on my chinos, digging my fingernail beneath the fabric. When I first moved to Nevada, my five pairs of dress pants had been perfectly clean, ironed and everything. Now the knees were ripped in some places, the tan fabric stained in others. They were wrinkled. They hadn’t been washed in weeks.
I guess I cared more before I moved. About being presentable, I mean. Nobody really talked to me at school now, nobody but Boris. But Boris hadn’t been at school today. Or the day before. Or the day before that. And I mean, that wasn’t necessarily unusual- we both skipped frequently. But I hadn’t seen him in three days. Not since we’d fallen asleep on my couch watching horror movies. He always insisted on the terrible old ones from the 1950’s.
And they really were terrible. Black and white with the worst effects I’d ever seen. But he loved them.
But I hadn’t woken up beside him the next morning as usual, and he hadn’t turned up at school a couple hours later. I’d walked over to his house after school to knock on the door and his father had answered. This was another unusual occurrence, he was almost always working, sometimes for weeks on end. He’d looked stoned out of his mind, sunken face, wiry hair, and when I asked where Boris was, he’d responded with a grunt, something like “Dunno,” and slammed the door in my face.
I wasn’t really worried, Boris could handle himself, but we hadn’t spent this much time apart in ages. I’d forgotten how depressing it is to get fucked up alone.
I wouldn’t admit I missed him.
A little bit.
Once the bus pulled up to my stop, I stood, wincing slightly at the sound my shirt made as it parted with the leather seat cover. I walked quickly through the aisle of the most boring kids known to humankind- straight hair, empty eyes, B averages, sober heads- they were so painfully straightforward and down-to-earth it hurt. I jumped the steps of the bus down to the dirt, my ripped vans smacking the earth in a satisfying way.
I coughed a few times and watched as the bus drove away. It was a faded yellow color, the red stop sign on the side barely even reading stop anymore. I wiped my glasses and began to walk towards my house, running a hand through my hair. It was damp with sweat, something I’d had to have gotten used to. My bangs stuck out over my forehead, irritating the skin, causing me to break out there. I’d never had bad acne until Nevada.
I thought about where Boris could be. With his dad now, maybe, but I didn’t want to risk going back there. Maybe he’d taken a bus the few miles towards Vegas- he’d been talking about getting a fake ID from some girl at school and maybe he’d finally achieved it. I didn’t think he could pass for twenty-one, though. If that was where he was, gambling somewhere, I hoped he wasn’t blowing off all his money.
The thought of AC kept me going, finishing the last few steps up to my porch in exhaustion. The door was unlocked as usual, so I pushed right through, breathing a sigh of relief as the cool air hit me with a hiss.
After toeing off my vans, I headed straight for the kitchen, ignoring Popchik’s barks for attention, and grabbed a bag of Goldfish. The white cheddar kind. Another thing Boris insisted on. I pounded up the stairs, the dog right on my feet, nipping at the skin. The backs of my ankles were already raw with blisters from not wearing socks enough.
“Popchik, I swear to god, you fucker…” I trailed off as I pushed open my door. Boris sat on the bed, up against the pillows, half-buried in some magazine. He had a cigarette in one hand, clutched between two fingers, almost burned out.
He looked up with a grin and I winced. His face was all fucked up. His right eye was bruised a nice shade of purple, his upper lip covered with dried blood. He had also obtained a cut on his forehead, a deep one by the looks of it, slicing right through his eyebrow. His own ankle was propped up on a pillow, bandaged clumsily. He was wearing nothing but one of my cream button-ups and a pair of boxers.
“Hey Potter,” He put out the cigarette and motioned me over, stumbling over his words a bit. “Found this quiz- perfect girlfriend quiz. Is hilarious . You have to-”
“Boris.” I interrupted. “What the fuck?”
“My father.” Boris explained with a shrug.
I ran my tongue over my teeth, grimacing. “Yeah, no shit.” I shook my head. “Is this where been for the last three fucking days? Recovering ?”
“From the leg, yes. Sprain, I think. The nose- that was hours ago.” He said simply.
“You didn’t even wipe the blood up!” I motioned to the button up he was wearing, the front stained with a deep wine-ish color. “That’s my fuckin’ shirt!”
Boris snorted. “You care?”
I rolled my eyes. “Obviously not, but it’s still my shirt!”
“Whatever.” Boris went back to the article he was reading, and I grumbled something and threw myself on the bed, pinning Boris to the mattress.
“Don’t- Don’t ruin my fucking stuff, you asshole!” I struggled to keep his wrists pinned beneath my fingers. He let out a grunt of brute force and pushed me up off him, flipping us over so that he was on top of me now.
“Is just blood.” He grinned. “Right, Popchik?” The dog was yapping crazily from beside the bed.
I slammed myself forward and wrapped my arms around his torso in one quick movement, pulling him into what might’ve been an embrace. I was fueled by adrenaline and nothing else, pushing my fingers into his hair and pressing my face to the space between his chest and his chin.
Boris reacted the same, clutching me close to him, sharpie painted nails digging into my shirt. He was warm. It felt nice. Really nice. It was a rough hug, something we did often to comfort each other in a subtle way.
I breathed him in- he smelled like cigarettes and cinnamon cologne, something he’d stolen from a fancy shop a few months back. The smell lingered for a long while, days even. It had become a comfort to me.
“You okay?” I asked into his- my - shirt, and I could feel him hesitate.
“Don’t know.” He said honestly. “I got kicked out.”
I felt myself go cold. “What?” I pulled away.
He shook his head. “Is nothing. He beat me up once and decided to lock me in room for day and a half. Then beat me up again and pushed me out door.” He grinned toothily. “My stuff is in your closet. Assumed I could stay here a while.”
“Why’d you get kicked out?”
He shrugged again. “Got caught messing around with a guy at school, Monday. I went home with you that afternoon. Went to my house later that night to grab weed. He got call from school.” The grimace on his face was obvious. “Was on me as soon as I walked through door.”
“Messing around?” I furrowed my eyebrows. “Your dad cares that you got in a fight?”
Boris snorted. “Potter, I didn’t get in fight. Do not be daft .” He shook his head. “Use head for once.” He tapped his temple with two fingers.
“Oh.” Realization dawned upon me and I felt my eyebrows raise above my glasses. My heart sped up the tiniest bit. “ Oh . Like-” I cut myself off, face warm.
Boris rolled his eyes. “Is apparently against school rules. Dumb, I think. Sex is normal.” He shook his head. “Dad does not want faggot for son, though, does he?” He looked genuinely upset for a moment.
“You’re- You’re-” I couldn’t get the words to slither from between my lips. I felt sick, for all the wrong reasons.
Boris made a face. “Dunno. Doesn’t really matter to me. I fuck whoever. Boy, girl- as long as they’re hot.” He shook his head. “Do not care.”
I felt very, very warm. “Did you like the boy you… messed around with on Monday?” I asked breathlessly.
Boris eyed me. “No.” He said. “But he is hot. Good with tongue. Christopher from History?”
From what I could remember, the only Christopher in our History class was Chris Chambers, a blond guy who always wore tight white t-shirts. It was obvious he worked out- his arms were perfectly toned. He was pretty hot. By society's standards, I mean.
“He’s…?” I trailed off, still not able to say it.
Boris shrugged. “I do not know what he is. Doesn’t matter now, we are not doing anything like that again.”
“Why?” I asked, strangely relieved.
“He is moving away. This weekend.”
I furrowed my eyebrows. “Because you guys got caught?”
Boris snorted. “No. He was always moving. Fucking Maine , that fucker.”
I nodded slowly. “Are you sad?”
He looked towards the window, tongue between his teeth. He hummed softly, the sound coming deep from his throat. “No, Potter. Not really. We did not have anything between us.”
I felt another rush of relief. “Oh.”
“I told you. I do not like him.” Boris said in a low tone, not meeting my eyes. We sat in thick silence, until I finally found it within myself to speak.
“Do you… want to clean that?” I reached out a hand to brush at the cut that sliced across Boris’s forehead. The blood had begun to clot, leaving it bruised and painful looking. He winced back, eyebrows furrowing. “It could get infected if you don’t.”
I don’t know why I cared. I wasn’t supposed to care.
He shrugged. “Too tired.”
“I can do it for you,” I blurted out, ducking my head as soon as I said it. What the fuck? “ I can, y’know, clean your cut and bandage it. If you want.” My face blazed.
He nodded. “Okay.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Is your leg good to stand?”
He nodded. “Fine.” He stood, wincing as he stretched out his ankle.
Popchik followed us right into the bathroom, collapsing on the bathmat with a little grunt. Boris hopped up on the sink counter while I rummaged through the drawers, my mind continuing to return to the conversation we’d just had. Boris was gay. Or something. He wasn’t- he didn’t only like girls.
Maybe that meant that it was okay. To be like that.
Maybe-
I pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and a couple bandages. I was pretty fucking skilled in cleaning cuts, but I was surprised Boris was letting me do this- he usually hated help. And he could’ve done it himself, easily. I turned on the water, drawing my fingers through it until it was warm enough, and ran a worn hand towel under it until it was damp enough.
“It might sting a bit-” I muttered, stepping closer to Boris, who nodded. I could see his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. I reached out a shaky hand to dab at Boris’s cut, and he winced. The cloth came away faintly red. I continued to dab at it, holding a hand under his jaw to keep his face straight. His skin was warm, scattered in freckles, and he stared up at me with this look in his eyes- the soft one I’d only ever seen him give me. It was content and almost syrupy and- and- Boris’s eyes were just so damn pretty.
My stomach fluttered as I brought the towel down to wipe the blood that had clotted on his lower lip. His nose wasn’t broken, but a deep purple bruise had begun to grow across the bridge, matching the ring around his right eye. I drew the thumb of my hand holding his jaw across the skin of his lower cheek, and he blinked up at me, silent.
Once his skin was back to its usual pale tone, I dropped his jaw and turned away, throwing the bloodstained cloth against the tiled floor. Popchik sniffed at it suspiciously. I doused a second cloth in antiseptic, and reached out a second time, aiming for the cut on his forehead again.
He cursed as the alcohol stung at the thin gash, leaning back a bit, so I put a hand to the back of his head to steady him. His hair was soft. I’d known that, but it made something inside my chest burn regardless. Almost like I’d just chugged the body of isopropyl alcohol myself.
Once I was done, I turned away quickly, fumbling to open a bandage. My damp fingers slipped against the paper.
“I’m scared.” Boris said suddenly. My stomach seized up a bit, and the red, white and blue Band-Aid wrapper fell from my fingers. It fluttered to the tile floor, like a bird that had been shot down with a hunting rifle. Boris was never scared. Well, of course he was sometimes. We just didn’t talk about things like that.
I turned to face him. He was staring at his hands, something akin to shame plastered over his features. “Why?”
“I do not have anywhere to go.” He raised a shaky hand to his cut, almost as if to touch it, and dropped it again. “My father- He has let me go with him, always. Not now.”
I looked at him properly. He did look frightened. His face was paler than usual, his eyes glazed over. His mouth was turned downwards at the sides.
“Been kicked out before, of course.” Boris said. “But he will not forgive for this. This is worst of sins.” He slumped against the wall.
I swallowed thickly. “It’s not- it’s not a sin, Boris. People are idiots.”
He laughed aimlessly. “Sure, Potter. Not a fucking sin.” His tone was laced with sarcasm and a deep, dull, anger. If I didn't know better I’d think he was seconds away from crying. This was a big shift from his I-don’t-give-a-fuck-who-I-fuck attitude from earlier.
“It’s not!” I tried to reassure him, grabbing his hands in mine. If Boris liked boys- then it couldn’t be bad. He was too… too… I mean, I couldn’t even describe him if I tried. “Boris, drinking is a sin. Smoking, shoplifting, everything we do-” I shook my head, squeezing his hands. “If there's a hell, we’re going there anyway. Both of us.”
“But…” He trailed off, biting at his lip. “You do not understand. Not completely. Is different. From drugs and drinks.” He sighed, pulling his hands away. “This is something I cannot control.” His eyes glimmered.
My stomach hurt, fluttering with nerves. I wanted a cigarette. “Fuck , Boris. Maybe I do understand. More than you think.” I said quietly, looking in the other direction. There was a painfully long silence.
“Theo.” His voice curved around the O , accent thick and lovely. Like red wine.
He never called me that.
I’d gotten used to him calling me Potter, and nothing else. My breath caught. I loved the way he’d said it. “Yeah?”
Boris slid down slowly from the sink counter so that he was at my height. Or relatively, anyway- he was about three or four inches taller than me. He propped two fingers underneath my chin, lifting it a bit, and my breath stopped. “Have you ever kissed anyone?” He asked, and I could feel his breath on my face.
I took in a shaky breath. “What?”
“Have you ever kissed anyone?” He asked again, voice soft. “Besides your mother.” He added and I felt the urge to laugh hysterically.
“No.” I swallowed, and it hurt.
“Would you kiss me ?”
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes- “I- No.” I said, stepping away from him. My heart beat against my ribs.
He stood there, all limbs and curly hair, and for a moment he looked completely lost, like a sailor at sea. I’d never seen him like that. He was always so sure about everything. “Oh.”
I felt horrible. “It’s not- Boris, look at me.” His eyes had shut tightly. “ Look at me.”
He did.
I gathered up all the courage I could. “I don’t want to be like Chris. You’re my best friend, I don’t want to just mess around with you and have it mean nothing.” I knew I was close to tears. I knew I was risking everything.
"But it does mean something to me, Potter.” he said quietly. "You mean something to me.” He muttered, stepping closer again. He was never like this. I felt hot all over. “You mean everything .” He said quieter.
“Yeah?” I had never meant everything to somebody.
Boris nodded. I could see every single freckle on his nose, every little spot across his flushed cheeks. “Yeah.”
“Then kiss me.” I muttered. “Fucking kiss me.” And he did.
He put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled me in, lips hot against mine. My stomach felt warm and all fluttery. It felt good. It felt right. The kiss was slow at first, clumsy, as I didn’t know what exactly to do. I just followed his lead.
His hands twisted in my hair as our noses bumped, and I laughed. He tasted like cigarettes and pomegranate and something sweet. The smell of his cologne enveloped us as he kissed me harder, all messy and fast and hot, and I felt like crying. This was so much better than any goddamn drug.
“Theo ,” He whispered into my mouth, and I had to do everything to keep from crying. The way he said my name. The way his mouth curved over the syllables…
Popchik began to bark, prancing around the room and yipping as if he’d seen a squirrel. I broke away from Boris, and we both laughed. Boris took the dog in his arms, kissing him on the nose. It yipped again, licking his cheek, and he groaned and set the dog right back down. He wiped his face and his hand drew across the cut on his forehead, wincing.
“You still need a bandage for that,” I said, grabbing another one from the box. He rolled his eyes but leaned towards me.
“What’re you, Potter, a fucking nurse?” He laughed.
“It could get infected, is all.” I smirked. “You didn’t seem to mind me touching your face earlier.”
He glared at the floor but didn’t retaliate, letting me press the bandage over his cut. I gave his forehead a light slap and he cried out, hitting my shoulder. I hit him back, but of course, height won and he shoved me into the wall. The tiles were cool against my back. He took me by the shoulders, pulling me up by my shirt, and kissed me again. I kissed him back, inching my hands behind his back.
He pulled away after a moment. “Want a smoke?”
I groaned. “Please.”
We made our way to my room, and I fell back on the bed as he grabbed a lighter and a package of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans, which had been thrown against the floor. He fell back beside me and lit one with a bit of struggle, and handed it to me before lighting his own.
I inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out into the warm air of my bedroom. I closed my eyes. “Boris?”
“Yes, Potter?”
“You can stay here. As long as you need. Xandra likes you and my dad won’t care.” I said it all quickly, not sure where my nerves had come from.
“Yeah?” Boris’s voice was low, eyes hopeful and soft. He looked beautiful. His curly hair was tangled and a right mess, his eye still bruised a deep shade of eggplant. His lips were chapped and the back of his neck was sunburnt and his shirt was stained with blood, but at fourteen, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
"Yeah." I exhaled, feeling almost painfully happy in that moment. "Always. I promise."