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It's not just because he's tripping so hard he's seeing colours backwards that Boris doesn't quite get what's so horribly wrong.
Yes, he knows it's never exactly a fun experience to find out your parent is dead, even if they are the worlds shitiest caregiver, and if Theo was actually upset over this then maybe he'd understand. If he was screaming and raving over the fact that Larry was dead, that his car was tied in knots out in the desert and his father was tied in knots in some hospital morgue, then maybe Boris would stand a chance. Or maybe not. As it is, Theo doesn't seem to give a shit that Larry is dead, concerns focused on something much more pressing. He's emptying his draws, upending his whole room and cramming it into a suitcase, quietly spitting out his mantra of "I can't stay, I can't stay here, can't stay with her, I've got to get out- "
Boris is a little impressed by the suitcase, such a tiny thing to fit so much stuff, like the blue box on that British show he had seen once, and- woah, when did Theo have so many things? It's all bits of crap, junk they'd picked up over the last year, worn out clothes and odd ends. None of it is worth a cent to any other person in the world, but as Boris watches a plastic slinky they had unearthed in the desert disappear into the folds of the bag, he feels his heart ache with all the memories that are falling away from him into a fabric coffin.
The acid he took is wearing slightly, he had peaked before they had gotten back to the Decker house, but he is still very much under its influence, swaying in the doorway and mumbling in Russian, Polish, Ukrainian. “що ти робиш?” He's asking Theo what the hell he's doing tearing up the room like a hurricane with words he doesn't know, can't answer. He's a little disgruntled that there's no "English, fucker!" thrown his way, no fist to the face, no sign at all that Theo is paying him even the slightest ounce of attention. It frustrates him that other boy doesn't even seem to notice he's in the room, and oddly he finds that he's even slightly scared. The muted frenzy, the rushed packing, the crazed muttering - it's making Boris edgy. He really hates it.
"Potter." He slurs, tongue tying knots around the name. "Hey, hey Potter. посмотри на меня. Look at me, you crazy fuck. What're you doing, like tornado in teacup, destroying your room?" This gets him to stop, has him spinning around to look at Boris like he's only just realised he has company. Boris hates how obsolete he has become in this moment, but anger is a tricky emotion and slips away like oil through his fingers as he starts to preen under his freshly recovered attention. Theo himself doesn't seem to be struggling at all with this, irritation twisting into every line of his face as he registers Boris' words.
"Goddammit Boris, storm, storm in a teacup you useless ass. That's not even - you're using it in the wrong context anyway." He hisses out, turning away again to continue rooting around in the crevices of his room, and Boris laughs and shrugs his shoulders. "Who gives fucks about this? You are little tempest in small space, nie?" Theo lobs a plastic cup that had been sitting on the floor over his shoulder, nailing Boris in the head. He finds himself laughing again, almost relived by the dull throb at the corner of his eye where it caught him.
But then his laughter catches in his throat and morphs into the sounds of an asphyxiating cat, good humour strangled to death by the sight of Theo lunging towards his headboard, pulling out a familiar pillowcase. The way he slows with it in his hands, how he cradles the object with a reverence that squeezes Boris' heart, eyes adoring - the guilt threatens to choke him.
Boris lurches forward from the doorway, tripping into Theo's space as the other boy gently tucks the package in between layers of clothes, actively trying to increase the padding and protect it's contents even though- Boris shakes his head and shuts his eyes, blindly latching onto Theo's arm and pulling him away from the bag, from the pillowcase. Theo struggles for a second, trying to pull away from Boris and return to what he believes to be the painting, but then he goes limp in his arms, tension leaving his body as he leans heavily back on Boris. And Theo's not heavy, quite the opposite - he's tiny and malnourished and lighter than a feather - but Boris' head is fucked, and although he's much taller than his friend, that doesn't mean he's any stronger. In fact, despite the unfair height difference, it's usually Theo who ends up winning when they fight and wrestle, although Boris likes to think that his inability to stay focused for much more than a second around him plays a large part in his loses.
Boris stumbles, trying desperately not to drop the boy on his ass. He slowly lowers them to the ground, shifting them about until Theo's sitting in between his legs, back pressed against his chest and head lolling on his shoulder, nose tucked into the hollow of Boris' clavicle. His glasses are digging into Boris' neck, skewed awkwardly on Theo’s nose, but neither of them move to take them off.
Theo's breathing is light and flighty, like his lungs are about to take to the air. His eyes are shut, but not tight, and his mouth is open slightly. Boris can feel the shallow rush of breath over his skin, and it makes chills run along his bones. If not for the frenzy he had been in a minute earlier, Boris might have believed Theo was sleeping. If not for the wet itch of tears running onto his neck, he might have believed he was peaceful.
His crying is silent and fast, and Boris tries not to bring attention to it for fear of making it worse. He just runs a hand through Theo's hair, silky and tangled, fingers working through the knots and brushing away the desert dust. For a second he considers singing to him, but before he can open his mouth to start, Theo's lips are moving against him, etching words into his skin. "I can't stay here, Boris. I've got to go. I've got to go back, to New York, to- to the Barbour's? No- no, maybe I'll go to Hobie's. Or not. Just- just fucking anywhere, anywhere but here. If I stay, stay with her, she'll- she doesn't like me, fuck, she's going to get rid of me and then- what then? God, Boris, I've got to go, I've got to go."
It hurts, burns like a brand, but Boris shuts his ears to the flow of his voice and tries to ignore the pain in it. Theo keeps talking, but he doesn't make a move to get up, to go. He stays in the circle of Boris' long limbs, sheltered by the body curving around his own, and the neon numbers on the bedside clock - which somehow, miraculously, survived Theo's purge - tick upwards one hour, two hours, three hours.
Boris blinks when the time hits 02:12, but when his eyelids come back up again it says 04:36 and Theo is gone. Boris is cold, meaning that he left a while ago, and the suitcase has disappeared from his bed. Boris feels ice drip through him, freezing his blood, and he bolts to his feet. No no no no. He can't be gone. He can't have left, not without Boris, not without saying goodbye, not without the painting. He sprints down the stairs, stumbling and nearly falling, and it takes him years to reach the bottom. The door is open, light spilling onto the driveway, and Theo is pacing at it's edge, back and forth along the roadside. His bag is still by the door, and Boris nearly trips over it as he head out.
"Potter! Ублюдок! What is this? I wake up and you're gone, you are going to leave with me still sleeping in bed? In your fucking bed?" He's angry, he's got a better grip on the emotion than he did before and he's determined not to let it go so easily. He's tested almost immediately though, Theo turning around with puppy dog eyes and a pinched expression. He looks like he's about to pass out, fear and stress and the flight half of adrenaline flitting about his face. For a moment, Boris wants nothing more than to pull him close, hold him safe in his arms, take him back to bed and bury them both in the blankets. Surely nothing could get them there.
Блядь, he's already failing again. He shakes off the distraction, pulling his escaping anger back by it's collar and walking purposefully down to Theo.
"What are you doing, Potter? Leaving? Leaving here, leaving me?" He asks, but it's blunter than a question should be. Theo is twitchy, eyes darting from Boris to the road and back again, fingers picking at the sleeves of his sweater. "I- no, no. I'm not leaving you. It's just- you were spark out, fucking impossible to move, I was gonna come and wake you up when the taxi got here." Boris scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning away. "Likely story, врун." Theo reaches out, fingers grazing against the back of Boris' hand before he seems to think better of it and drop his arm. It's enough though, enough to drain Boris of all his hurt. He spins around again, and for a second Theo is illuminated, back to the light. It steals his breath, and then his vision adjusts and the moment passes.
"Why are you doing this, Potter? Where are you going to?" Boris asks, voice barely a whisper in the quiet night air. He looks the boy dead in the eyes, searching for an answer behind tortoiseshell. Theo doesn't drop his gaze, staring back just as intensely. There's a desperateness at the edge of his iris, fear evident, but he still doesn't look away. Boris wants to move closer, but he doesn't, becasue Theo isn't the only one who's scared.
"Where are you escaping to без меня, without me?" Theo shakes his head. "Not without you. Never without you. Come with me, Boris. Come to New York." But Boris is laughing. He can't, doesn't Theo see? He can't leave, not with his father down a mine, not with a painting wrapped in a sheet under his bed, not with a lie eating away at him. Boris had called him врун, but he is the one keeping secrets. Besides, what do boys like Boris know of New York? Of people like the Barbours? Of attention and working surveillance and sneers? No, he is much better suited here, living in a timeless limbo with Theo, desert sand and rusty swings and empty bottles. Here no-one sees, here no-one matters. It goes unnoticed when things go missing, it's irrelevant if hands brush together. How will they steal, how will they touch, how will they live if they are away from the apathy of the desert?
"Stay with me Potter. Stay here with me." He knows it's a long shot, that Theo made up his mind the second Xandra had screamed in his face that his father was dead and he was just like him. But he needs to try. Even if he can delay him for a day, a week, he needs to try. "Птичка моя, stay." He startles at his own words, uncertain as to where the term of endearment came from, but it fits. There's something avian about Theo, about the cut of his eyes and his slight stature, the feathery quality of his hair. Boris spends most his time harboured with the irrational worry that Theo is going to take to the sky, to fly away from him. And then there's the picture.
It's so inseparable from his perception of Theo that it's as though the painting may as well be of him. Every brush stroke is echoed in Theo's face, the colours highlighting his every atom. Boris finds himself repeating the name again and again, Птичка моя whispered softly in an unending stream. He can see Theo's resolve weakening with every utterance of the word, and although he certainly doesn't know what it means, he can hear the soft desire in Boris' voice. He's swaying, and for a second Boris is lit with hope. 'Maybe,' he thinks 'maybe he will come back to bed now, and we can forget all about New York.'
The taxi horn blares.
It's pulling up the road, idling just inches to their left, and Theo snaps out of whatever reverie Boris had lulled him into. He steps back, stumbling back up the driveway to his bag, and Boris is frantic now. He was so close, so close, he can't lose him now. He follows after, catching Theo's arm, and spinning him around before he can get to the bag.
"Proszę, Potter, please. Don't go, stay here." Theo shakes his head and pulls his arm away, reaching for his bag and pulling it back down towards the cab. Boris tries again, staggering in his wake and begging in every language he knows. Please, Proszę, пожалуйста, будь ласка, Bitte, on and on. Theo stops by the door and turns to face him again, hands reaching out and grabbing Boris' forearms. "Come with me." He says to the space between them, eyes not meeting Boris' own. He's so afraid, shaking like a leaf in a storm, fine china in an earthquake. "Stay with me." Boris replies.
He can feel it when Theo begins to pull away, and so he tries a final resort. Something he would never have dared do without anything left to lose. He grabs Theo this time, hands blind and frenzied in the dark, spinning him and holding on like he's a lifeline. He's still speaking, "One week Potter, or just a day, please wait for me", so he shuts himself up and pushes forward.
When he kisses him it's desperate, and it's pleading.
It's begging, every midnight-poolside-crossfaded wish pressed between them in supplication. Eyes raking over inconspicuous bandages, brushing fingertips over bruised faces, running lips along bloody knuckles. Sharing bottles and cigarettes, forehead to forehead and breath intermingling, indirect kiss after indirect kiss, afraid to make it real until now, until they've got nothing left to lose. 'Please' it whispers, soft into the night. 'Please stay with me.' Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me'
Proszę nie zostawiaj mnie.
будь ласка, не залишайте мене.
пожалуйста, не оставляй меня.
There's static in his ears, high and furious, and he can feel it in all the spots where their bare skin is pressed together, hands on cheeks and lips on lips, tingling like- what is the phrase? needles and something, needles and pins, spikes and needles? Skin static. It's harsh and raw and open and so, so desperate.
And so when he stops, when he pulls back, eyes intense and seeking out Theo's own, he doesn't run. He wants to, muscles tense and heart pounding and head fuzzy, but he doesn't move an inch. He simply rests his forehead agianst Theo's own and waits for him. Anxious for an answer, for a 'yes, yes I'll stay, I'll stay with you Boris'. Птичка моя is slipping from his lips again, falling like a prayer into the cold pre-dawn dark over and over. And Theo-
Theo steps away from the cab and into his space, into his waiting arms.