Archive of Our Own

Of all the times I spent with Boris in Vegas as a kid, we both remember one particular supermarket venture.He always laughs into my chest when we bring this up.We have both agreed that it was not the supermarket trip itself, but what followed it that made it worth remembering from time to time, on a drousy morning.
Back when we hadn't even started to understand why Kotku's company irritated me so, or why exchanging clothes was one of our favourite pastimes, Boris suggested that we go shopping together.I knew what that implied, as we had scurried out of the shops giggling and holding our sides before. The supermarket downtown was ideal for what Boris had in mind, having no cameras, a shortage of security guards, and multiple blind spots. Just as we were preparing to step inside, he made me empty my school bag."I know what I'm doing, Potter.Just take notebooks out and leave them by the door."
When we got to the kitchenware aisle, he beelined to this ludriclously expensive stainless steel toaster. "Fuck no, Boris." I was thinking, out of all the things he could have stolen...but then I realised his father did have the habit of throwing household items around.Boris had told me so himself, and not only once had I seen bruises on various parts of his face.
"Don't be a fucking pussy, Potter.Give me your bag."
When we got home, we both collapsed on the lawn in my backyard. The cashier had noticed something bulging out of my backpack and called a security guard. We had run all the way back home for him to lose trace of us.Boris was panting next to me, with his head on my thighs.He pulled a joint out of his pocket, lit it with the lighter he'd "borrowed" from Xandra.We went quiet for half an hour or so, passing the blunt back and forth, when he finally broke the silence:"I can't believe you did that, Potter.", still resting his head in my lap.
"If i remember correctly, you were the one to push it into my bag!I could barely even fit it inside, you dingus!"
Ignoring everything I said, he headbutted me in the stomach, then whispered "Good Potter.Good Potter" pressing kisses to my now bare midriff, which thrilled me as much as it disgusted me. I was not ready to process this new sensation, so I elbowed him away and stood up suddenly.
"The fuck are you doing, you fag?!"
He had never really done anything like that before.I did know of his Eastern European touchiness, he would hug me every time we saw each other, and I had seen him kiss people on both cheeks when greeting them, which sometimes made them recoil in confusion.That would crack both of us up.
He also stood up, towering over me."The fuck did you just call me, Potter?"His voice was shaky and his arms were crossed over his chest, making him look more hurt than angry, which instantly made me regret my poor choice of words.
He took a few steps towards me, grabbed me by the collar with both hands.I was expecting him to push me over or knock my glasses off, but he didn't.He just stood still, his hands tense around the hem of my shirt, his eyes glued to mine.I tilted my jaw towards him, closed my eyes, and kissed him.He froze for a second, until he came back to his senses, let go of my now crumpled shirt to cup his hands around my face, and kissed me back, slowly and deliberately.It was then that he took off my glasses. When we broke off, he put them back on with his typical tenderness.But he didn't look at me, and I couldn't bring myself to look at him.A few hours later, we were both laying down in separate bedrooms, at different houses, both dizzy after what had happened, none of us knowing what to make of it. He didn't say goodbye that night. Although we did have interactions of a similar nature afterwards, on drunken nights when we rolled around, the only other time we were so intimate was when he kissed me in a rush, in front of the cab driver, which filled me with equal pleasure and embarrasment, knowing that the driver had been watching us. We only really brought that up again years later, shortly after the Amsterdam episode, me wincing in pain because of my bullet wound, and yet happier than ever, and him stroking my hair with one hand, brushing my fingertips with the other, our legs hanging from the edge of the bed.