Chapter Text
It had been raining nonstop for the past three days, water bucketing down from the heavens, lashing against windows. It was like God was crying and perhaps he was. Crying at Boris’s drinking habits but Boris didn’t care. He wasn’t an Orthodox Christian anymore, it was the 70s, Bulgaria was under communist rule. There was no time for what his flatmate Ivan called the ‘opium of the masses' and ‘spiritual oppression’.
And there he stood, completely drenched with a bottle in hand, walking down the path that snaked through the graves. The rains had drenched the ground, turning it into a slippery mess. But he wasn’t going to give up his weekly habit, the highlight of his week because of some rain. Every week on Fridays after work, he’d go to the graveyard and drink in peace. Sure, it was dangerous walking around in the dark, but it was a relaxing end to the week, soothing, a place where he could get his thoughts in order.
It was a macabre place, but it was beautiful in its own way with the curling snaking trees that had grown awry and the old graves from the 1800s, their stones crooked and covered with vegetation. The graveyard itself was actually situated in a gully of sorts, or at least part of the gully before it got too steep, but he didn’t know. He had never ventured down far, so for all he knew, there could have been jagged cliffs at the bottom. He wasn’t really a geography expert, and he didn’t care. He only cared about putting his feet up at the end of the week.
Before him, he saw a flash of red before it was gone, obscured by the thick rain, nightfall, and a particularly knobbly tree which grew over the old graves without a care.
“Hello?” he shouted but heard no response.
So carefully, foot in front of the other, he started to walk down the path.
“Anyone else here?” he tried again but the graveyard only returned silence.
One wrong placement of his foot was enough to do it, the water splashing up around his ankles and he could feel it seeping into his shoes. He swore. All he wanted was to drink, to relax but now his toes were going to be pink and crusty. His evening was practically ruined.
And when he looked up, he saw the red again. It had moved but not by much, no longer obscured by the trees but still stationary. And as he approached it, he could begin to make out a figure. The ground was level where the man stood, four or give moss bedecked graves which were arranged nearly sat. The figure was crouched beside one of the graves, trying to scrape away moss with his fingers, especially in the areas where the text was. He was seriously one bedraggled man; blond hair like a wet cat, a sodden funky little hat, and a red overcoat which was also soaked.
He hadn’t noticed Boris, so he just cleared his throat.
The other man nearly fell over.
“Shit you scared me,” he said, his voice slightly accented. Romanian, Boris noted.
He watched the other man stand up and walk towards him, his hand stretched out and Boris took it. He was the almost the same height as Boris and extremely nonmenacing. There were worse people and things to run into in a graveyard for sure.
“Nice to see someone else here. Hi, I’m Ionescu. Alin Ionescu.” said the man said with a friendly smile, though it never reached so far that he opened his mouth.
Boris took his hand and shook it firmly, the strangers dirty and calmly palms in his.
“Boris. I’m only here to drink.”
“Oh well then, sorry for holding you up. Though shouldn’t you be inside? It’s raining after all.”
“Aren’t we both in the rain?”
The other man just shrugged. “Yeah, true. Well then, can I at least join you for a drink if you’re not leaving?”
This time Boris shrugged. “Why not?”
Boris sat down on the edge of a nearby grave and Alin followed suit, the incline of the gully turning it into a natural seat. It was disrespectful and everything, but the dead wouldn’t know, or at least that’s what Boris thought. So, he just opened the nearly empty bottle.
He took a big sip from it before passing it to Alin.
“That’s a bit gross. Aren’t you worried about germs?”
“Alcohol is a disinfectant.” he shivered, the cold of the rain starting to seep into his bones.
He finished what little was left in the bottle with the stranger, the other man cracking the occasional joke with an ever-present smile on his face. Boris stood up, his shoes squelching in the mud.
Alin looked up at him, “Same time next week?”
Boris shook his head, “sounds good.”
Alin looked at him, confusion flashing across his face for a second before smiling again. And with that, Boris left, beginning the miserable descent.
His wet fingers struggled with the keys, too slippery and too fumbly. Or maybe locks and doors just hated him but either way, he got inside eventually. He pulled his coat off, chucking it along with his shoes and socks into the bathtub. Ivan was asleep on the couch, some ice hockey game blearing in the background. He was a large man, all soft rounded features like a Raphaelite painting but he was also fucking terrifying.
Boris tiptoed past him and into his room, flinging himself into his bed, sinking into the sheets. And he sighed. His mind drifted to Alin. He really was an odd man. Far too friendly though he wasn’t Ivan-friendly at least? Ivan-friendly was unsettling but this Alin man genuinely seemed harmless.
The next week, after he had finished his shift, he popped home, grabbed an unopened bottle of something, and headed out to the familiar graveyard again. Thankfully it wasn’t raining this time and it was a beautiful night, the streetlamps illuminating the entrance though the light didn’t penetrate far into the shadowy graveyard.
And he started the descent again, making his way to the same section of graves, and just like he had predicted (and hoped). Alin was there again, sitting waiting for him, a smile on his face.
“Hey, Boris. What did you bring this time?”
“Rakia,” he replied, proudly displaying the bottle.
Alin squinted, trying to make something of the label but quickly gave up.
And together they sat, sharing the plum liquor. And it wasn’t the last time either as they quickly fell into a rhythm. Every week, they’d share the alcohol, Alin started bringing his own out of guilt. It was far better tasting than the cheap shit Boris brought but he wouldn’t ask Alin where he got it from. And in return, Alin never complained about his smoking though Alin genuinely probably didn’t care.
Alin wouldn't shut up and he needed to chill the fuck out, but that's what made talking with him good. Boris would just sit there nodding his head, listening to everything the other man had to say as Alin rambled on. And he was funny which was a bonus. Though one thing he noticed was that he never shared much about his personal life. He never said anything about where he came from or what his job was or where his parents worked. The only family he ever mentioned was his little brother, who he missed.
And then Alin would prod into his own private life, letting Boris bitch about his boss who worked him to death or about the rent or about what Ivan did the other day. It was almost like free therapy, Alin would talk and then gave Boris time to talk about his own problems, whatever was on his mind. And honestly, it felt good. It was catharsis and the perfect way to end the week.
They sat there on the edge of the grave, Alin swinging his legs waffling on about something.
"Alin?"
"Hrm?" the other man turned to face him.
"How come you never share anything about your home life or your job?"
The other man laughed nervously. "I don't have a job. Anyway. I don't want to talk about it." he said, his voice utterly void of any emotion.
Rich, Boris thought. That was probably the only explanation for why he didn't have a job and had decent alcohol.
"Where do you live?"
"Huh?" the question caught Alin off-guard.
"Where do you live?"
"I don't have a home," said Alin. He looked down, watching his legs swinging.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Anyway, pass me the bottle," he said, a smile growing again on his face. Boris smiled back and handed over the bottle.