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The journey from his homeland to that of his new mentor would be a long one, and the thought of being in a foreign country so far away did little to calm his nerves; the sight of lush, open fields of grain in place of bustling vendor streets did even less. He would miss the biting winters, the cry of the seagulls from the nearby ports, being surrounded by unfamiliar faces speaking a familiar language. His stomach growled at the thought of Mama’s borscht.
The price one pays for having a god-given talent, he supposed.
“If you keep sighing like that, one will think you have difficulty breathing.”
At the dismissive tone beside him, the young artist only groaned and sunk further into his arms folded over the edge of the carriage’s open window. “I can’t help iiiiittt, Nikolay, I’m sooooo booooorrred.”
“And if you keep whining like that, people will mistake you for a child instead of the adult you are.”
I’m only sixteen.
The artist turned to look at the man accompanying him in the carriage. Nikolay was old enough to be the boy’s father -- tall and broad in the chest, a full and well-maintained beard, one long leg crossed over the other as he turned the page of the same book he had been reading an hour ago.
“We have only just crossed the border not,” Nikolay paused to bring out and check his pocket watch from the front pocket of his coat, “fifteen minutes ago. Have patience, mal'chik. We will be reaching our first stop in about two hours’ time.”
The artist only groaned again as he flung himself back into his seat. Nikolay remained silent for a moment before he sighed in defeat, closed his book, and set it aside. “Then, how about we practice? China is a large country and knowing at least a handful of basics will be beneficial.”
He played with a lock of his hair, pulled up into a ponytail, and hummed in contemplation before he agreed to the lessons.
A group of countrymen and young farmers gathered around their small caravan, talking amongst themselves and calling over the rest. There was one boy who stuck out: a bit taller than the others, despite his soft cheeks and lightly tanned skin placing him two, maybe three years their junior.
The artist felt himself stiffen under everyone’s gaze as Nikolay engaged in discussion with the older men; he was probably negotiating a trade, as he kept indicating towards various teas and other goods they had brought with them.
"Nǐ de tóu ài jiù xiàng xuě..." the boy breathed in something akin to reverence. He flinched at one of the farmers hissing a sharp ‘Nánhái!’ his way.
"Ah, he says you look like snow," Nikolay clarified. The artist blinked at him in confusion as his translator stared at him, raising an eyebrow and glancing up to just above his forehead, before it dawned on him that Nánhái was referring to his hair.
"Oh, thank you! Uh...s-shee-shee!" He held his right fist in his left hand and bowed in gratitude, then again out of respect, then once more just for good measure. The farmers around them erupted into boisterous laughter. Nikolay only sighed and shook his head.
"Stand up straight, you don't have to bow to him." He patted the artist roughly on the back to make a point. "He's apparently the lowest ranking member of their village. It's not expected for you to show any respect or equal treatment."
The artist nodded in understanding, and he moved to stand upright. When he glanced up, he met Nánhái's gaze boring back into him, eyes wide and bright. It was then that he realized they were different from the other farmers' eyes -- deep and rich, like his favorite chocolate dipped in wine.
There was a sparkle in those eyes that reflected something just beneath the surface, and Nánhái’s smile cracked free for just the briefest of seconds before he broke eye contact and muttered something too rushed and soft for the artist to pick up on.
“Come along, mal'chik. They’re being gracious enough to lend us food and shelter while we rest up for the trip.” Nikolay called him over as the farmers split -- one group leading the Russian travelers and the other, Nánhái included, back to the rice fields to work. The boys looked over their shoulders at each other one more time, and he could’ve sworn he caught another glimpse of Nánhái smiling before he was quickly ushered away.
“How did I do, Nikolay?” He turned back to his translator, a new bounce in his step as they walked beside the carriage while the farmers took lead. Nikolay looked back down at him, and under that beard he had this large, childlike grin that puffed out his cheeks and turned them rosy with pride (in the short time they had known each other, he always did think Nikolay resembled Ded Moroz).
“Your accent is atrocious, mal’chik.”
~ * ~
Later, long after the sun had descended past the horizon and gave way to the moon, after the rest of the villagers had retired to their own homes and crickets singing broke through the night air and fatigue from travel weighed down heavily, sleep still didn’t come.
The villagers were naturally curious but had treated the artist and his group with nothing less than sheer kindness and hospitality, offering changes of clothes, tea, bags of rice (so, so much rice), even shelter in one of the older houses long abandoned by a family that used to live there. The youngest members of the village all huddled around Nikolay, shrieking out questions and joy that the man couldn't help but coo back and let them play with his beard while a handful of the older children simply gasped in awe at the strangers from another land a safe distance away. They settled into the house, undressed into more comfortable attire, and made to rest.
Unable to rest, however, the artist quietly snuck away to wander around the village. It was so quiet compared to the streets of his home town, the air so fresh and crisp and...off. He sighed, shaken out of his thoughts, and continued to wander until he found himself taking a spot along a stream just outside the village. He dipped a toe, relished in how cool and clean it felt against his skin, and let his mind shut down a bit as he stared blankly up at the sky.
“Xuě!” The artist turned his head towards a familiar voice approaching him. There was Nánhái, making cautious steps towards him with a bundle of reeds in his arms. He raised a hand and lightly tipped his head in greeting as the other boy took a spot beside him along the edge of the stream.
“‘Shay’?” He blinked, and when Nánhái gestured to his hair he made an ‘ah’ noise in understanding.
That’s right. Snow.
The two sat there in an awkward silence, the artist lightly tapping his knees while Nánhái fiddled with the reeds. He wasn’t expecting company this late at night. Well, then.
After what seemed like forever, Nánhái reached for his pouch and pulled out what looked like dried leaves. He broke off a piece and offered it to him with one hand, motioning to his mouth with the other (“Oh, thank you,” the artist accepted the offered piece.). It was hard to tell what kind of plant this was with just the moonlight, but if Nánhái was eating it then it should be safe, right?
It may have been edible but holy Christ above it was salty.
He couldn't help but sputter at the salt, and he didn't dare miss the way Nánhái stifled his laughter and shook his head as he plopped a piece into his own mouth. As the taste settled, however, he grew to like the saltiness, and Nánhái was more than happy to share. They stayed like that for some time: relatively silent, toes dipped into the stream, snacking on some plant that reminded him of the sea while he traced shapes along his thigh and Nánhái began to weave the reeds. Yet, despite the unfamiliarity with this country and with each other, the artist felt at ease, like this was perfect and right. So, so at ease.
“...I didn't want to leave.”
Nánhái stilled beside him. He really shouldn't have kept talking, it wasn't any of this boy’s business; he did, anyway.
“I’ve been painting since before I could even walk,” he went on. “I liked it-- I mean, I still do. Just…”
Just not when someone else is telling me to do it, he wants to say.
It’s to hone his craft, he's had to remind himself many a time prior to departing from Russia. He had fought and pleaded the first time some well-renowned artist decided to take him under their wing; back then, at least he was still in his homeland even if he was on the other end of it, and Mama would make the trip every summer to visit.
Mama.
The salt left on his tongue brought him back to the coast. He tried to recall the scent of the sea air, of the aroma in the kitchen as Mama baked bread or cooked stroganoff or borscht or any other of his favorite foods, of her perfume. The way her fingers would brush through his hair, she always said how pretty it was, like he was born of stardust. He didn't know when -- if -- he would ever have that again, and he felt the weight of being in a foreign place crashing down on him for the first time.
He registered a warm, callused hand on his cheek before he felt the tears. Startled back to the present, he shooed the hand away with a muttered apology and turned to the side to wipe at his own tears. Even after crying in front of a stranger, though, he wasn't embarrassed; if anything, he felt relieved. He could be honest, even if he couldn't be understood.
Nánhái seemed to feel the same way; before long, he had curled in on himself and spoke, the words foreign but fluid on the artist’s ears. He was able to follow along based solely on Nánhái’s expressions and tone, and while he didn't know why the boy hurt, at the very least he knew he did.
There came a lull in their one-sided venting. Unlike the silence between them before, this one was...comforting. Like coming home to a tended fire and warm stew on a cold winter’s day. The artist looked at Nánhái, and he looked back and smiled, cheeks puffing up slightly to crinkle the edges of his eyes.
And in that moment, the artist saw the heavens reflecting in those eyes, then in the sky above them. They turned to watch as stars streaked across the night, and with the salt on his tongue and warmth in his chest and lights dancing above them, the young artist was back home. The stars continued to fall even as the sky lightened with dawn, and so they mutually decided it was time to part ways.
“Thank you, Nánhái.” The artist bowed slightly and smiled. He didn't catch the way the other boy’s smile seemed to waver, but the way the shine faded from his eyes bothered him all the same.
“Hey, Nikolay,” he began after sneaking back into the house provides to them.
“Hm?” Nikolay grunted in response, one foot in the realm of conscious but otherwise still asleep.
“What does Nánhái mean?”
There's an exaggerated yawn and the smacking of lips as Nikolay groans and shuffles in his bed. He thought his translator had fallen back asleep and prepared himself to ask the question again when the man responds with, “Boy.”
“Hm?”
“‘Smeans ‘boy’. Now go back to sleep.”
The artist settled under his own sheets then, listening as Nikolay stilled and began to snore once more.
He stared up at the ceiling, watching the first waking rays of sunlight bleed through the window. As the knowledge rattled in his mind, a vague sense of guilt swept over him as the realization dawned on him along with the sun.
Nobody referred to either of them by their names.
~ * ~
Here he was, fifteen years after leaving home, still stuffed up in his studio along the coast of Italy and surrounded by canvases both blank and marked all over in disgust. He leaned against the edge of his windowsill with a long drag of his cigarette and watched aimlessly at the blur of people walking the street below.
Inspiration was hard to come by these days; the urge to paint was even harder. As an artist, he supposed he had been mildly successful with his earlier works, but as his apprenticeship went on and people’s expectations grew, he felt it all constrict around his throat. ‘They're just lovely,’ he had been told. ‘Truly beautiful.’
They had been what the people had come to expect, and he often wondered if they would be able to tell which pieces were devoid of any of his own emotions.
He's not quite sure if it's the smell of the nearby port or the briefest flash of light across the night sky in the corner of his eye or the red of the wine in his glass as he brings it up to his mouth, but he's suddenly taken back to that night so long ago and the boy that had allowed him that little bit of breathing room.
A smile broke free upon his face, and he put out the cigarette on his windowsill before he took a swig and returned to his work station. Before he even sat in his stool, he had an image already there in his mind to draw out and bring to life.
This is for me, he told himself, resolute, as he gathered the colors and tools, as he tried to remember how he felt that night, the morning after as they continued on their journey and he watched the boy and the village grow further away. This is for my eyes alone. I can paint what I want.
And so, for the first time in a long time, he did.