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His muscles ached in protest as he forced them to move. It felt like he was operating on autopilot as he walked down the familiar streets. He wasn’t in control.
He had never been in control.
There had always been an inevitable outcome hadn’t there? He had always been doomed to love and lose. You play with fire and you get burned and all that pseudo-philosophical shit. But at the time Boris didn’t consider the consequences, he dove head first into inevitable tragedy because it had been the first time in his entire life that he had felt something so clearly.
Most of his life could be categorized as varying levels of numbness, a grey cast and miserable life where he was destined to die and fade away, obscure and unremembered. And Boris had been at peace with that, because at least if he was numb he wasn’t suffering. He had already witnessed the great deal of suffering from those considered family as they worked to repair their long broken lives.
All the while Boris remained numb, an arrested development.
“I didn’t like the way they were looking at us,”
The sudden and bitter reminder of his own words brought Boris to an immediate standstill. He gazed at the dimly lit buildings on either side of him and he longed for a sense of belonging, in a world as colourless as him.
He grit his teeth and allowed an uneven sigh to escape him. It couldn’t be more apparent that the worst thing that had ever happened was Garland forcing his way into his life, staining everything with brilliant jewel tones. And while those colours were faded and dim now they were still stuck on him.
He could only hope with time, his world would return to the comfortable ashen hue he remembered.
He kicked at a piece of debris on the ground, sending it hurtling towards the building it had eroded from. The old concrete shattered into dust on impact, and Boris almost found it silly how much he resonated with the unrecognizable remains. Its final resting place towered over by the thing that had birthed it, and abandoned it.
He had to wonder whose shadow would tower over him when it was his time? Boris pushed himself onward to his destination, ignoring the twinge of pain that spread through his calves.
There weren’t many options.
His mother—she had left him a long time ago, succumbed to the addiction that had slowly and meticulously torn their lives apart. What had remained was a father who could only see the woman he resented in his son's eyes. So instead of beating him in all his drunken rage, he wordlessly left him on the steps of an old monastery.
Boris wonders if his father had considered those actions merciful.
What a tragicomedy.
His black hair would be completely grey before his tenth birthday.
Vladimir Volkov presented himself with an air of piety from the moment Boris had laid eyes on him. A charitable man who was just doing his God’s work, taking in the children of families broken and destroyed by the collapse of the Soviet Union. Offering safety, shelter, and a chance to escape the generational trauma they shouldered.
Perhaps it wasn’t completely a lie, none of them would ever be like their parents.
Because the majority of them would never have the opportunity to see age thirteen.
When Volkov’s exploits finally came to light, all that remained were a couple dozen traumatized teenage boys who were destined to be shuffled endlessly through a broken system that didn’t want nor care to help. Only keeping them alive until they were old enough to send to work in the mines in Norilsk or some other shitty remote city.
And Volkov had disappeared into the night, his actions and involvement downplayed by a government he and his companions had come to accept had funded their abuse.
“How were they looking at us?”
Boris inhaled sharply, he could remember the brightness of his voice, the carefree spirit unbothered by all the expectations whispered around him. A man who hadn’t been forced to come back to reality yet. He subconsciously moved his left arm into a lonely, incomplete embrace.
Perhaps it was also inevitable that it would be him.
Their first meeting had been irreparably tainted. A teenage Garland stood arrogantly beside the same man who had put him through a life of hell, only to silently fade into the night free to live his life unburdened by the lives he’d destroyed.
That teenager, who had grown up surrounded by wealth and affluence, had not a care in the world for who he’d have to step over to get the fame he desired… and Boris had found him reprehensible for it. The first colour he’d seen in years and it was the colour of blood.
So when their lives converged almost a decade later, he could never have anticipated the very different person he was faced with. He’d hesitate to call it maturity, Garland still gave off an atmosphere of self-importance, but hidden beneath it was something else— guilt.
He could tell immediately when they shared a glance across the dingy automotive workshop. His rental cars' back windows had been shattered by petty thieves doing a smash and grab, and there was a nervousness in Garland's voice as he greeted Boris, thanking him for assisting so late in the evening because he certainly didn’t have to.
He had waved it off: “The sooner I fix it, the sooner I can get rid of you,” he’d declared dismissively. Garland had almost smiled.
Boris found himself still wishing he had.
By the end of those two weeks Boris had to wonder if Garland was really cursed with incredibly bad luck, or if he was intentionally wrecking his own vehicle. Two more smashed windows, a flat tire and a dented bumper. As Boris stared at him in disbelief the fifth time, Garland sheepishly commented that the rental insurance was usually more expensive than to pay for the repairs out of pocket himself.
That was bullshit when you were paying more than triple the going rate, in euros, for a mechanic in this part of the world. But Boris snatched the keys from Garland's hands and rolled his eyes, throwing the door open allowing him entry into the shop he’d familiarized himself with by now. As he stalked towards the automotive bay to open the doors he heard Garland offering to buy him dinner, and the words were a serene deep forest green.
He had known it was the beginning of something.
Yet, he didn’t put a stop to it.
“Like this was temporary… that you weren’t really mine,”
Boris scowled, fishing a key out of his jacket pocket and shoving it into the old weathered oak door in front of him. He turned until he heard the loud click and aggressively threw the door open. The sound it made when it hit the wall reverberated through the small apartment. He kicked off his boots, tossing them haphazardly onto the rack to dry. From deeper inside the residence there was a familiar sound of a chair scraping across the old scratched hardwood floor.
He figured his day of reckoning awaited, as messy red curls emerged from one of the doors down the neglected hallway. Instead, Yuriy almost seemed surprised to see him.
“You brought booze at least?” Was all the asshole asked as he moved his arms behind him, straightening his back into a stretch.
“Just some overpriced shit from the airport,” Boris said flatly.
“Guess it’ll have to do,” came Yuriy’s nonchalant reply as he sauntered down the hallway towards Boris, giving him a once over before disappearing through a doorless opening to his left. Boris followed him quietly into the small kitchen dropping his lone bag on the tiny shaky dinner table in the corner of the room. A small silver keychain of a hawk jingled as it made contact with the wood and there was a pain in Boris’ chest.
“Leftovers not too good for your tastes?” Yuriy asked, pulling Boris back from a dangerous ledge he’d been edging himself towards.
“Depends if it's something you cooked or some crap from that dive down the street,” Boris retorted.
“Of course I made it, as I recall I’m not the masochist who kept ordering food from the place,” he said with only a hint of malice as he opened the fridge and pulled out a small assortment of containers.
Boris unzipped the main pocket of his backpack, removing a single bottle of amber liquid from it and setting it down on the empty counter. With a frown he replied: “Should be fine then.”
Silence.
The room descended into silence, and all Boris wanted was for Yuriy to boil over, to berate him, to call him a traitor and ask him if it had been worth it? Abandoning his oldest friend in this hellscape of a country to fuck off with some rich foreigner. A rich foreigner who had put him in a coma ten years ago.
But instead the calm, patient silence continued to engulf the room as Yuriy shuffled around the kitchen, and suddenly Boris was faced with the fact that in the last year—
Yuriy had changed without him.
And it felt like he was still the same as he’d always been.
If Boris believed in divine punishment, this would be the perfect example of it. He’d run away, chasing the first flash of colour he’d seen since his mother had departed from this world, and inevitably cycled back to the same monotonous existence. All the while the people around him took another step ahead of him.
Another step further away from him.
The sound of a dish clinking against the wood table in front of him brought him back down to earth. He looked up and met Yuriy’s indifferent gaze.
“Figured you were accustomed to being served at this point,” Yuriy quipped but he could tell there was no real hostility to it.
“Not really,” Boris muttered, straightening himself in the chair and reaching for the fork that lay on the table beside his plate. In his periphery he watched Yuriy slide into the chair across from him. He picked up his own fork, tapping the end gently on the table, as if in contemplation.
“So then… why are you here?” Yuriy finally asked, as he moved to take a drink of the glass of whisky Boris hadn’t noticed he’d poured for them.
“You can rejoice! What you said would happen, happened!” Boris ground out, his words acid laced as he formed a fist underneath the table with his free hand.
Yuriy’s eyebrows furrowed and his nose wrinkled slightly. His face was completely absent from the satisfaction Boris had anticipated him to have as he derided him for his stupidity.
Disappointment.
Instead all that was present was an unmistakable disappointment.
After dinner, Boris trudged down the hallway and opened the door to his bedroom. He tossed his bag onto the crummy old bed and slammed the door shut. Yuriy had calmly informed him before he had left to attend one of his evening classes that the room should be relatively clean because he’d used it as a guest room a couple times. Boris had scowled at his friend but didn’t put up too much of a fuss, he could have just thrown all his traitor friends shit in the trash after all.
He sighed and sank onto the hard mattress beside his discarded bag and rested his head in his hands.
Just fucking breathe he quietly repeated to himself,
but he still failed to suppress his silent sobs.
“Then prove to everyone I’m yours.”
Boris saw the cracks in the facade not long after the party. The hushed fights Garland had with his family that abruptly ended when he entered the room. Garland felt physically anchored to him but mentally adrift. Empty smiles and empty touches.
Hesitation.
All the while his mind reminded him of what those who surrounded Garland thought of him. He was an act of rebellion, a phase, something to inevitably grow bored of and throw in the trash when it was time to get himself a wife and give his parents heirs. Garland would eventually get his shit together and fall in line like they all did, and Boris would be left to pick up the pieces of the shattered heart he had dared to trust someone with.
He’d seen Garland holding her hand when he was running some errands. They were sitting in the outdoor terrace of some fancy restaurant, chatting amicably, hands held on the table, and the smile— Boris hadn’t seen such a warm smile on Garland's face in months.
A familiar cold began to creep across his skin as he hastily made his way to the apartment they’d been sharing for almost a year now. Even if he’d refused to believe what everyone else had been saying for months, even if he’d rolled his eyes and uttered a few choice words at them. He couldn’t deny what he’d seen with his own eyes.
He was scheduled to be discarded.
It must have been then that his survival instincts kicked in because Boris spent the next few weeks in a fog, going through the motions of living while his mind frantically concocted an escape plan.
So he slipped away one quiet overcast morning when Garland had brunch with his mother and sisters. Making his way back to the grey concrete world he’d known all of his life, ready to bear whatever punishment he had coming to him. He’d taken with him only the things he’d arrived in Germany with, or so he’d thought, until his eyes had caught on the shiny keychain still attached to his bag just before dinner.
Boris shifted on his bed, gently grabbing onto the tiny ornament and unclasping it from the zipper it dangled from. Closing his fist around it, he brought it to rest against his chest and exhaled.
Garland had held the little silver hawk out to him and laughed at his baffled expression. Boris remembered the warm orange of his voice as he commented: “hey it kind of looks like you.” He had laughed as Boris snatched it out of his hands and grimaced at him before eventually offering an awkward thank you.
It was unknown to Boris how long he had sat there clutching onto this fragile tiny memory scared it would turn to dust like the concrete buildings surrounding him. It was the only reminder of a happiness that felt like it had been stolen from him prematurely.
He should toss it.
He didn’t have the heart to.
The sound of banging on the front door startled him from the conflict inside him. Just his fucking luck that Yuriy would have some fucking parcel that needed a signature, and of course he wouldn’t make mention of it before pissing off to school.
The bang came again, strong and insistent that he answer it. Boris pushed himself off the bed, shoving the tiny hawk into his jacket pocket, swearing to himself he would definitely deal with it later. As he neared the front door there was another series of knocks, Boris snarled before shouting angrily in Russian:
“Hold the fuck on, I’m fucking coming.”
He disarmed the lock and turned the handle, throwing the door open ready to chew out whoever was delivering packages at this time of night.
And what stood on the other side was a familiar vibrant blue in the middle of this faded city.
“Thank god you’re here,” Garland said, his voice frantic but his body visibly relaxing.
“Yeah, but why are you here,” Boris asked, his hand clutching onto the open door.
He replied with an unintelligible noise before he stepped forward and shoved Boris back into the apartment. He slammed the door shut behind him leaving them standing in the dimly illuminated entryway.
“You have some nerve,” He finally answered with a breathy laugh that Boris could only suspect was out of some kind of frustration.
Boris said nothing.
Garland inhaled deeply before grabbing onto Boris’ jacket and using all his strength to push the larger man backwards until he hit a wall.
After a few quiet moments the man finally released his hold on Boris’ jacket, instead laying lax on his clavicles. Garland didn’t create any physical distance between the two of them, he refused to allow Boris any freedom to push himself away from the wall, to escape.
His hands slowly moved from where they rested on Boris’ clavicles to gently cup his face, Garland finally dared stare into the other man's eyes before he finally spoke with a conviction Boris had never expected:
“I— came to get back what’s mine.”