Work Text:
Boris sat by the attic windowsill and rolled the last of his messy, haphazardly packed tobacco. He made these himself, unlike the ones soaking in the porcelain bowl of water. Those, despite their charred edges, were neat (perhaps not the best word for cigarettes), slender, and gentle—made by Will’s hand. Will had soft hands, warm through and through, not delicate, but the cold winds of Belgrade would turn them an unnatural bluish-white, because Will had never been to a place so bitterly cold.
Boris looked at the cigarette butts floating in the water like overturned fish, a pang of regret washing over him. He lowered his gaze, wanting to gather them all up and tuck them into the felt cloth inside the tin box. He shouldn't have just tossed them into the water like that.
The cloth curtain obscured his gaunt silhouette and unruly curls into a hazy outline. Under the honey-purple silhouette of the house at dusk, he resembled a slender, trembling black willow tree.
With a sigh, he slowly unclenched his hand holding the cigarette, swung one leg off the cold, hard windowsill onto the wooden floor, and navigated around books, liquor bottles, and carelessly discarded clothes to reach the bed. There, a sanctuary-like resting place was built from various pillows and blankets, and inside it slept Will. He slept deeply, exhausted from overexertion, the unaccustomed cold, and the overly warm bedding.
"Зая,"Boris sank into the fleecy blankets, gently tousling Will’s brown hair.
Will cracked open a sliver of an eye from his half-asleep state to look at him. Boris smiled, pressed his right hand against Will’s cheek, then leaned in until they were sharing the same pocket of air, and said, "Зая.”
"I'll never understand what you're saying," Will chuckled softly. "You smell awful." He saw Boris’s vortex-like dark eyes and felt as if he might be sucked in. Boris murmured to him, "Is that so," then dissolved the last bit of playful distance between them. He kissed him as if he were just learning to breathe for the first time. William Byers always tasted like the borscht bread his mother used to make.
He felt the warmth of Will’s nose against his cheek, the tickle of his eyelashes, deepening the kiss bit by bit, his hand slipping under the other’s sweater to touch his skin. Will pulled back abruptly, sucking in a sharp breath. "That’s cold."
"Прости (Sorry), зая." Boris smiled again, knowing Will understood the words. He couldn't help but look at Will’s hazel eyes tinged with green, the small mole by his lips, couldn't help but kiss him until they truly couldn't breathe. Boris brushed his lips against Will’s chin, then lay down, burying himself in the crook of Will’s neck. "Now we smell the same."
Will suddenly held him tighter. Boris could hear his heart beating fast. "What’s wrong?"
Will didn't speak. Boris knew. He raised his hand and gently traced down Will’s spine. Will smelled like a warm-colored dream that was too unreal to be true. The desert of Las Vegas, the nights of New York, the desert of California, the desert of Lenora, the clouds of Indiana, the winters of Serbia, the sea of Scotland, the soil of Ukraine, the snow of home. Being with him was like the dream you never want to wake from.
"You know, I think about collecting everything about you. Putting it in a box. Keeping it. Mailing it to you. I've thought about it, I tell you, when you receive it, you don't have to write back."
"Because you'll already have moved on to another place?"
"Yes, I don't know, солнце."
"You know I would definitely follow you."
"How can you be so sure. At the docks, I might let you go first, then lying that I would follow. I might leave you in a restaurant. Find an excuse to go to the bathroom during a movie and never come back. Or maybe I'll finally piss off the mafia while looking for you, or I'll jump into a river, freeze to death, or get drunk and fall off a windowsill, just like my mother did."
Will covered Boris’s lips with his fingers, staring into his pitch-black eyes. "None of that has happened to you yet, right?"
Behind the covering, Boris showed the saddest smile he had ever seen and said, "I did that to Theo."
"Fine." Will didn't look away. "Then I'll pack my things and leave right now. I don't want to see you suffer over such a possibility. You know my address, Lenora, Hawkins. I'll wait for your letter." His eyes were completely red, fighting to keep the tears from falling. "I'll move on. Until one day I'm not so sad anymore. Like I did with Mike. I'll survive, right, and then forget about you, all of you. Is that what you want?"
Boris’s answer was a hurried kiss that didn't let him finish speaking, urgently kissing those lips, tasting the salty tears. "I..." Will felt the rising heat, the dizziness from the previous night.
"You're resilient, Borya.”
He smiled, peppering Will’s cheeks, forehead, and the tip of his nose with light kisses. "Not as resilient as you. You're the strongest person I've ever met, William Byers."
How did he survive a week alone in the Upside Down? And the fear of being possessed. Even without experiencing it firsthand, Boris didn't dare equate his childhood displacement with the Upside Down as being of the same weight. Perhaps there was no need to compare at all; suffering can't be compared. They were just two deeply traumatized people. But he couldn't be without William. Not after knowing what it was like to kiss him, to laugh with him, to run around together, to sneak into each other 's windows at night like the Romeo and Juliet he once despised, not after all the madness they'd experienced together. He didn't think he'd ever be whole again after losing him. His soul would forever be missing a piece, drifting aimlessly, searching for direction.
When he first arrived in Lenora, not long after leaving Theo, he was filled with pain. Gradually, he let go of that pain, becoming numb even to his father's beatings. He had drugs, alcohol, bread with sugar, old movies, and philosophy books. Sometimes he wanted to scream, unable to escape the scorching sun and the desert. William Byers was an unreal dream; he dared not look at Boris for too long because he would blush. He would paint the most incredible pictures he had ever seen, and when Boris marveled at them, he would blush and say he wasn't worthy. When he talked about Dungeons & Dragons and arcade games, he was the most vibrant person. He could even make different breakfasts out of just sugar and bread. When he spoke or smiled, he always showed his short rabbit-like teeth. He would flinch when kissed or licked, and when sleeping, he would curl into a ball, craving intimate touch intensely. He loved his voice, wanted to kiss away his tears, to make him forget and to make himself forget the things he couldn't have. He loved everything about William Byers, even though William had once caused him immense pain, because he thought he was just a substitute for a childhood crush he could never have—he hated being a substitute most of all. He loved everything about William Byers, saying he deserved all the beautiful, maddening things in the world.
"Just now..." Will’s voice was low as he stroked Boris’s wild curls, "were you about to leave?"
Boris pulled him against his chest.
"What made you change your mind?"
"The way you were asleep," Boris murmured, "made me want to just hold you like that and lie there all day."
Will smiled through his tears, "One day, okay? At least we have one day."
He lifted his head and gently kissed the tip of Boris’s nose, "At least teach me what those two words you call me mean."
Boris wiped his eyes and kissed him firmly, "This is what they mean."
They embraced, and nothing else in the world mattered anymore.