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Yuri yawned. It was hard walking up the dew-kissed lawn with the giant comforter draped about his shoulders. His slippers were in no way made to provide such traction, and in the short climb to the street from the lower terrace, he slipped and fell a good number of times, wetting the knees of his cheetah-print pajamas. He was tired, and his head was throbbing from the shrill chatter and drunken shouting downstairs.
Having caught his fall a third time, Otabek was now busying himself with a cigar at the top of the hill, his face wrinkled slightly with exhausted concentration in the flickering light of the flame. When Yuri caught up to him, shivering slightly in the chill, ears ringing from the noise which was now dwindling slowly as they walked farther and farther from the open door, Otabek took the glowing cigar from his mouth and handed it to him with a vague and sleepy smile. Yuri accepted it gladly, and as Otabek lit another for himself, Yuri stood silently on the sidewalk, breathing in deeply, letting the smoke invade his airways.
"Where we headed, anyway?" Otabek muttered, pocketing his effects and taking a long drag.
"Nowhere," Yuri suggested. "Anywhere."
The party was stupid. It was some basement something that JJ had thrown in celebration of the end of his band’s latest tour. The two young men felt weirdly out of place here in Pittsburgh of all places, a strange taste of the United States that left them both feeling weary and worn. The stars were glistening overhead. Some winked down at them with a coy appreciation of their venture into the night. Some looked close enough to touch; some looked billions of miles away. No crickets' song. By the soft porch light, a bat danced, gracefully scooping out of the still night air what little was left of the insects of Purple Summer.
"The truck?" Otabek asked, quietly accepting a corner of the blanket as Yuri offered it. Yuri nodded, coughing lightly, and the two shuffled in the direction of the parked cars.
The truck was a celebrity among vehicles, apparently. Each piece of the body was a different color, in varying states of rust and decay. The color of the tailgate was long-forgotten, for every inch was plastered with colorful stickers for bands, charities, or clubs, or promoting political views, or sporting a popular cartoon character. No one knew to whom the worn-down truck properly belonged. It was always parked at these parties, anyway, no matter what city JJ’s tour took them to, and its six-foot bed was ideal for a private conversation or a peaceful smoke or a little bit of secluded intimacy.
The dew had already gotten to the plastic lining of the truck bed. Yuri learned this upon sitting straight down, now wetting the seat of his pajamas along with the knees.
They giggled as Otabek climbed over the tailgate and laid out the comforter beneath them. They sat facing each other, leaning their heads and shoulders on the opposite sides of the truck, looking into each other's eyes. There was silence. Yuri flicked his ashes behind his shoulder occasionally. Otabek flicked his straight onto the comforter. They sat and smoked.
Just sitting and smoking was boring.
They tried talking. As fragrant smoke lingered around their heads and lifted their hushed voices gradually higher and higher into the darkness, towards the twinkling stars, and diffused itself casually into the brisk air around them, they exchanged every bit of information which had been locked away before, but which had been unleashed, were it by the exhaustion or the privacy or the burning cigars or the dew blanketing everything.
Otabek watched Yuri’s face as he spoke. He watched the way his body melted into the blanket as he exhaled. He realized he knew nothing about this boy, but he wanted to know everything.
He asked if Yuri knew Plath. He didn't. He asked if he knew Hughes. He didn't. Otabek explained the complexities of Kerouac and Kafka and Tolkien. (Yuri knew Tolkien. He loved Tolkien.) He became a storyteller of iconic tales. He summarized his favorite transcendental novels and recited his favorite beat poetry, and together they analyzed syntax and gave birth to new meanings and possibilities and opinions. They laughed at how nerdy there were. Otabek got out to relieve himself on the pavement.
Yuri didn't look. He lit another. He could feel the dew creeping through the fibers of the blankets. They were silent again for a while, unsure what there really was to say. What could they say, anyway, that would improve upon the stillness of the twilight?
"You're shivering," Otabek said.
"No, I'm not cold." Yuri coughed again.
"Come here." Otabek returned to the truck bed and sat stiffly beside him. "You are freezing." His sweater was soft and warm. Yuri leaned into him, nestled in the crook of his arm.
The stars looked down silently. They knew a secret. How cheeky they were.
Otabek lit another and smiled. "Go to sleep if you want," he muttered. "Let's not go back." Yuri smiled and sighed and nodded. Otabek looked up at the bright stars. They winked down at him. He winked back.