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With the gentle whispering of the wind grasping his hair, Shane sat silently on the train, watching as the drab grey and tan landscape rushed past him without change, lulling him into a strange feeling of comfort. He tugged at his bag that lay at his feet, the canvas gently bumping against his calves at even intervals that slowly grew larger apart as the train edged closer to his stop, the dead grass giving way to an ugly, bleak town that sat atop a hill, made up of brick buildings that sagged under the grey sky.
As the train finally came to a gentle stop, his hand clasped around his bag, pushing its large rectangular form out in front of him, allowing his long legs to follow after. He listened to his footsteps on the uncarpeted flooring, his face set in a neutral state. Stepping off the train, he took a deep breath of the steppe air, clean and pure. It filled his lungs and he couldn’t help but shiver, lifting his bag up and throwing it across his body. It was strangely silent, only gentle whispers of wind running through the grass could be heard besides the train chugging as it began its journey home.
A brick pathway scarred a path through the grass-covered hillside, leading up to the steppe’s village. He took a tentative step forwards, then began his way to the grey settlement above him. As he walked, he let his mind wander, thinking about how he had gotten here. Moscow had become too much for his lungs, sending him coughing at even the slightest amount of strain. The doctors had told him the steppes would be the best place for him, away from the bustle of the greyscale cities he had grown accustomed to. With his extensive budget, he had easily rented a small house tucked away in the town by the river he stood in now.
The boy grimaced, feeling his insides burn with effort and a choked cough writhed its way up his throat, forcing itself out and seeping into the cold steppe air. As he caught his breath, he couldn’t help but feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise in rolling fear as the feeling of eyes on him became apparent, his head wrenching upwards to look at the path’s peak. Standing there now sat a young boy, with windswept brown hair that had recently been neatly cut to frame his pale face.
Unsure of himself, Shane took a step backward, wary eyes glued to the boy in front of him, who copied the movement. The boy turned and ran further into the town, shouting something in Russian, likely to bring word of his arrival. Shane steeled himself, brows furrowing as he continued his journey up the winding path, the long steppe grasses grasping at his legs and whipped across his sides, growing increasingly angry as the sky began to darken and the cloud-covered sun ducked below the horizon.
The path was not particularly steep, but in Shane’s condition, it gave him much trouble. He found himself needing to stop frequently, to allow his lungs time to recover. The steppe remained quiet, eerily noiseless. Smoke rose in isolated columns from the homes he passed, not a soul in sight. There was evidence of inhabitance, but Shane was alone on the path, any residents having retreated inside with the news of his arrival. Shane had expected this, the village was isolated. It didn’t often see visitors like himself, but that didn’t bother him. Shane was used to being isolated. He approached the small home he would be staying in.
It was made of brick, and was rather ugly looking, but Shane didn’t need anything more. It was settled on the western edge of the village, a fair distance from the other ugly brick homes on the hill. It allowed him an excellent view of the unending grasslands of the steppe, and the river that cut through the village and ran parallel to the train tracks until they split, the tracks pointing east and the river flowing to the south.
The interior of the house was simple, but practical. There were no real decorations, only heavy wooden furniture. It seemed as if someone had come and cleaned before his arrival, as there was no dust and clean sheets on the twin bed provided. A note was gently folded on the small dining table, corner tucked beneath a small blue clay vase of pale yellow flowers, native to the steppe. The note was short, the paper having been ripped in half in an effort to waste none. The lettering had been done by pencil, the cyrillic characters neat and unsmudged.
Hollander, your rent is paid in full for six months. Speak to a Rozanov if you find yourself in need of anything.
Shane gently refolded the note, tucking it in his pocket. He hadn’t heard that name previously, though his correspondence with his landlord had been minimal. He didn’t need anything for now, and he had no intention of seeking out the townspeople. He figured that they too had no desire to interact with him.
The sun had vanished now, sunk too low under the horizon.
The dark clouds continued to roll in, and Shane found himself disappointed that they covered the stars, much clearer here than back in the city. Everything seemed so much clearer here, and Shane wondered if that was truly a good thing or not.
Morning came quicker than Shane had expected. He had risen with the sun, the distant sound of a rooster calling, setting a domestic mood. He didn’t have much in the way of food, but he found whoever had readied the home for him had given him a loaf of bread, some jam that Shane believed was cherry, and a half dozen eggs. He created a simple breakfast for himself, far less lavish than the meals he was used to, though he found it to be much more satisfying. He had no need to worry about time, and so he ate slowly and began to set up his studio once he was finished. Despite the orders from his physician, Shane refused to stop painting. It used to bring him immense joy, but the fame it had brought him put endless pressure on Shane. He had hoped that by spending time isolated from his peers and fans, he would be able to paint without the underlying stress of trying to please those around him.
He had set up beside one of the windows, his easel settled with a blank canvas on it. His pallet had dollops of paint on it, a variety of oranges, yellows, and browns. Shane picked up his brush, coating it intentionally with a sandy shade he had mixed. He lifted the brush, pressing it to the canvas. He was startled from his concentration by an aggressive knock at the door. He considered who it could be, for a moment, figuring it was either his landlord or one of the Rozanovs mentioned in the letter.
Shane set the paintbrush down, resting the paint-covered head on the palette. He rose from his stool, and made his way to the front door. He disengaged the lock with a satisfying click, then pulled the door open to reveal who knocked.
He was tall, and quite broad, and dressed in the simple clothing the villagers favored. He had a sheepish smile on his face, and a bundle of flowers in his hands. The sun caused his blonde curls to look almost copper. “Hello,” the man greeted. “I am Ilya.” He introduced, as if that answered any questions.
The confused look on Shane’s face must’ve been enough, because the man began to speak again. “Rozanov. My father is the constable. I’ve been sent to ensure you’re settling in okay,” He explained, stepping in without being invited. Ilya looked around, peering at the sparse decor and white canvas, which sat waiting for Shane. “You are a painter?” He asked, watching as Shane gave a nod.
“Yes, I guess so,” Shane replied. He felt a chord of discomfort with this stranger being in his space. Shane enjoyed privacy, and it was clear Ilya either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Shane wasn’t sure which it was.
“You guess? I figured you either are, or you aren’t.” Ilya answered, peering at him with those piercing eyes, as if he could read Shane like an open book. Shane hated it.
“I was. I used to be a painter. Not so much anymore.” He explained. Ilya looked dissatisfied with the answer, but he did not press any further. Ilya replaced the old flowers in the vase on the table with the new ones. Shane watched, noticing the way Ilya’s hands looked. While it was clear he came from a wealthy family in comparison to a majority of the village, they were still callused from work, nails neatly kept in contrast to the scars on his knuckles.
Shane couldn’t help but stare.
“Well, Mr. Painter, find me if you need anything.” Rozanov replied, exiting the home, giving Shane a smile as the door shut behind him. Shane sat in silence, watching the figure retreat up the path through a window. Shane moved back to his painting, though he had different inspiration now.
He spent the better part of the next week painting. Various shades blended together, expertly shaped by Shane’s talent and skill into an image. A hand, callused and scarred, but still beautiful, adjusting the way yellow steppe flowers sat in a blue vase. The image of Ilya’s hand lingered in Shane’s mind uninvited, the dichotomy of the calloused palm and the carefully manicured nails something worthy of obsessing over. Shane was an artist above all else, the need to translate the beauty he saw in life onto canvas engrained in him. It was this creative clarity Shane had been lacking in Moscow, with his lungs slowly giving out.
The painting claimed his focus completely, but by the fourth day, Shane found himself needing to break that focus to venture into the village. He was out of food, having finished the eggs, bread, and jam that had been gifted to him. He dreaded the idea of leaving, but he laced his shoes and donned his jacket anyways.
It was around noon when he made his way up the path, the sky clear and blue. It was a chilly day, but it was far better than the overcast, rainy days that had come before. The general store wasn’t difficult to find, settled in the center plaza of the village. The building was made with the same ugly brick as everything else, drab and dark. He bought some basics, like coffee and more jam. The store owner gave him directions to the butcher and bakery, which Shane followed. He was returning to his home, canvas bags holding his groceries. He heard footsteps behind him, and he lifted his head.
It was Ilya, who seemed completely unbothered by Shane’s shy nature. “Hello, Hollander. Making friends, yes?” He asked. Shanes let out an unexpected laugh at the childish question. This wasn’t university, or a playground.
“The woman at the butcher was nice,” He managed with a shrug. The woman, older than him by about a decade, had flirted relentlessly with him. He found it awkward to reject her advances while she butchered a chicken in front of him. Ilya nodded sympathetically.
They walked together for several moments, until Ilya fished a cigarette from his pocket. Shane recoiled, and Ilya made a face at the reaction. “Not a fan of smoking?” Ilya asked, prodding for information. Shane met his eyes, tense like a rubber band pulled taut. He shook his head.
After a few awkward moments of Ilya staring, as if expecting an answer. Shane was helpless to resist. “Not really, no. It messes up your lungs,” Shane answered. He could feel his own weakened lungs, burning from the effort of doing so much walking. He’d never been a smoker, he was just unlucky. Ilya tucked the cigarette back into his pocket, swallowing thickly. Shane watched, entranced by the way his throat worked. He said nothing more, and yet Ilya continued to follow.
Shane wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell him to go away or not. Ilya had been polite, but Shane struggled to understand what motivated his friendliness. He had friends in Moscow, other artists or famous people or people Shane met at galleries. They were all friendly towards him because he was Shane Hollander, the famous artist. Here, he was nobody. It was unsettling to be wanted for anything other than his fame, and he was completely unable to pinpoint what Rozanov wanted from him.
Ilya looked over at Shane again, and began to speak much softer than Shane had ever heard. “You’ll learn to ignore the butcher. She flirts with anything that moves,” He offered with a laugh. Shane felt himself relax some, the smallest of smiles forming.
“I wasn’t sure what to say to her.” Shane admitted, the atmosphere now amicable instead of tense.
As Ilya walked him home, Shane found himself distracted by Ilya’s golden curls, looking like spun gold.
When they parted, Shane wasn’t sure why he felt so sad.
As days dragged on in the small village, Shane found peace in the endless quiet.
Shane sat alone, looking out over the endless steppe from his spot on the ground. He had found a small area near the riverbank, where a small, gangly tree had managed to twist its way from the ground. Shane had arrived in the early spring, and as summer grew closer, the weather had warmed considerably and he no longer needed his thick coat, though the cold still bothered his lungs. It was midday, the sun hanging overhead. It was a peaceful day, the grass swaying languidly to a small, occasional breeze. He had finished his first painting since arriving, and he was seeking new inspiration. Shane would stay here forever, if he could.
But he couldn’t. Despite the beauty of the land, Shane’s thoughts remained on Ilya, and his golden curls and pretty hands. He stood, gathering his sketchbook and pencils, and the blanket he sat on. He had to make his way up to his house, which was a moderate distance uphill. He began to walk, though the burning of his lungs he was now accustomed to seemed to worsen far quicklier than what was normal. He continued despite the discomfort, but it only continued to worsen. The subtle burning turned to what felt like open flames, his short breathing becoming painful wheezes. He doubled over, only halfway up the hill. He looked down at the grass, as if it would give him some unknown knowledge. Shane didn’t understand why this was happening to him.
When he looked up again, Ilya stood at the top of the slope. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he approached Shane, nodding as if confirming an idea. His big hand encircled Shane’s bicep, helping to steady him.
Shane let it happen, despite feeling the burn of humiliation in his gut. He was a grown man, he shouldn’t be so helpless.
But he was.
Ilya remained quiet as they slowly made their way up the hill, towards the sad brick of the village.
“I’m sorry,” Shane managed, which only served to draw a confused look from the local.
“Why? You did nothing wrong. You did not even ask for my help.” Ilya replied with a shrug. They had finally reached the stop, and Shane’s lungs were finally given a chance to recover. Shane shrugged, unable to shake the guilt and shame from his gut. He felt weak like this, and so horrifically exposed. “But I know now why you do not like smoking,” Ilya added, trying to lighten the mood.
“You didn’t ask what was wrong.” Shane stated, trying to see Ilya’s motivations.
“Didn’t need to.” Ilya replied in the same tone.
They were both quiet for a long time, standing at Shane’s door. “Do you want some tea?” Shane finally asked, and Ilya nodded.
Shane did not see Ilya the next day until the afternoon. After the incident the previous day, he felt on edge. Tea with Ilya had been awkward at best, as Shane had been too embarrassed to really maintain a conversation.
Wherever Shane went, Ilya seemed to appear. He liked to show Shane around. Shane liked to use the time to memorize the beautiful things about Rozanov. He was a constant in Shane’s solitary lifestyle.
“Why did you come looking for me yesterday?” Shane had asked.
“Because you are interesting,” Ilya had replied simply.
Much to Ilya’s amusement, Shane had turned a shade of bright red that accented his freckles.
Early in the summer, Shane found himself walking again. He turned a corner, and of course, there he was. Ilya, with his stupid smile and kind eyes. “Hello, Shane,” Ilya said.
“I swear, sometimes it feels like you’re following me,” Shane replied dryly. He was in a foul mood now, but Ilya remained undeterred, like always. The local shrugged, smirking.
“There isn’t much else to do here,” He answered simply. Shane couldn’t find it in himself to remain irritated, and smiled a little, letting Ilya trail after him as he continued his walk.
“It’s always so quiet here. It’s a lot different from what I’m used to,” Shane said, looking out across the empty village. Even during the day, people didn’t seem to linger. “It’s strange to me.”
Ilya nodded in understanding. “People don’t stay out here. Nothing bad ever happens, we just don’t. Just like the doors. People leave their doors unlocked.”
Shane looked up at him with surprise. “Really?”
Ilya nodded again, shaving his hands into his pockets. “Really. Not because it’s safe- I mean, it is, but here it’s rude not to trust.” He explained, and Shane found himself nodding. It made sense, even though it was the opposite of what he was used to.
“In the city, you trust no one.” Shane replied. “Things are just so different here. The stars are so much brighter, and it’s so quiet. None of the city noise I’m used to.” Shane found himself explaining, despite his wariness. Ilya, despite being still relatively new to Shane’s life, was simply so easy to trust.
“I’ve never been to the city. I’ve never left the village.” Ilya replied, his voice quiet. “The city seems so alien,” Ilya explained. “So big and unforgiving.”
They walked side by side, shoulders brushing together. Shane smelled like paint and fresh air. Ilya smelled like cigarettes and the steppe.
“It is. But it’s beautiful. I’ve been all over, to London and Amsterdam and whatnot. I love the city, but it was killing me.” Shane admitted, cheeks flushing as he realized he had overshared. He swallowed thickly, realizing he would need to explain further. “Too much smoke and other nasty things, is what my physician told me. The only cure is fresh, clean air, I guess.” Shane continued. He didn’t like feeling so vulnerable, of revealing this part of him. Trust could be dangerous, but Shane couldn’t help it.
“If I don’t show up one day, will you assume I’ve gone back?” Shane asked suddenly, halting. Ilya looked at him quizzically.
“Yes,” He answered initially, the word slipping from his mouth before he had a chance to consider it further, like he was protecting himself. “I mean… no. I’d check.” Ilya admitted, a subtle blush tinting his cheeks. “It’s boring here without you, Shane.” He furthered, causing Shane to become flustered too.
They walked silently, side by side, shoulders bumping together. Neither made an effort to part. Shane took it as an opportunity to study Ilya more closely. He focused on the high cheekbones, the full lips, the gentle eyes.
“If someone asked, would you go to the city with them?” Shane asked, turning his head further to make eye contact.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I could. I’d be like a fish out of water.”
“I’m one already,” Shane replied.
“And would you stay, if you were asked?” Ilya questioned.
Shane did not answer, because he himself did not know. Ilya seemed to understand and did not press the matter further, but Shane missed the subtle look of hurt that crossed Ilya’s brow. Shane let himself think of the city, of the people who used him, of the friends who only valued him for his fame. He thought of Ilya, and about how confusing he was. The unknown scared Shane, and Ilya was motivated by something completely foreign to Shane.
“Things are boring here without you,” Ilya admitted suddenly, breaking the awkward silence.
“Back in the city, everyone thought I was boring,” Shane mumbled, unwilling to take the compliment.
“You are boring, Shane. But you’re different. A different kind of boring. A kind of boring that I really like.” Ilya continued, and Shane stopped walking. They were in front of Shane’s house, like usual, but the energy was different. “All you do is paint. Sometimes you take walks. That is all you ever do. But you make it look so perfect,” He continued.
Shane swallowed. He looked at Ilya, really looked at him, with his golden curls and gentle smile and perfect hands. He wanted to say something, but he found no words that could express what he felt properly. Instead, Shane took a step closer.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to gather the courage, but there was no need. Ilya’s lips were on his before he opened his eyes again. They were so soft, so perfect, and Shane let it happen.
When they broke a moment later, Ilya tried to pull him in for another, but Shane stopped him with a firm hand on his chest.
“The answer is yes,” Shane said, causing Ilya to pause.
“What?” Ilya asked, breathing heavily with flushed cheeks.
“You asked me if I would stay if you asked. The answer is yes.”