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Sasha did not have good dreams.
He either awoke in a cold sweat, throat sore as if he had screamed through the night, or he did not dream at all. Sometimes, the dream was an abyss. Most times, it was about Nastia, and others, it was a border. He should not care, but it bothered him endlessly. It made the corners of his eyes wet – when he was ten, he used to say his allergies were acting up, he only wished he could hide behind that reason again.
He rolled over in his bed.
"Did you not like it?" The words echoed in his mind, bouncing off of the walls inside. That mixed accent left a bitter taste in his mouth, and the wetness in his eyes grew thicker, blurring the lines of his blanket until the grey blended into the brown of his wooden floor.
He picked at the edge of the friendship bracelet, edges frayed from the repeated action, he always remained careful when fidgeting, he did not wish to undo the careful braid. He traced his calloused thumb over the letter 'B', for 'best', followed by an 'F', for 'friends'.
Luke, Luke, Luke. Always about Luke. He haunted him even in his dreams. He got up to fetch a glass of water, bed creaking at his shifting weight. His legs shook when he stood in a way that made him grimace. The wind blowing from the crack in his window cooled the sweat that had gathered around his neck, making it sticky.
He stepped quietly, ensuring that he only stepped over the creakier floorboards, he did not wish to wake Sonya or his mother. It always took time for Mama to fall asleep, but for the past few days, it had come easier, Sasha would much rather it not be ruined. Sonya had school in the morning, she needed rest.
Soon, he stood in front of the sink with a glass, turning the tap slowly so that the water pressure remained weak, and he filled the glass to the brim – he was not that thirsty, but maybe more water to drink meant more time awake and away from his bed.
He took a sip, the cold water soothing his dry throat. Some of it dripped down his chin pattering against the floor and wetting his feet. He finished half, and slowly walked towards his room. A pit was forming in his stomach, like a heavy rock had replaced the acid inside, it was weighing his steps down.
He followed the same path, avoiding creaky floorboards and now being careful of his glass, things always managed to shatter when he held them.
Stepping back inside, he placed the glass on his drawers, he had not planned to do so, he was meant to finish the water, but maybe his hands had a mind of their own, and he was not inclined to stop them. Maybe he sometimes became softer at night, and it made him angry.
Sasha's fingers traced over the first drawer, he never put them there, it was too out in the open, someone could see. He eyed the third, he did not put them there either, not wanting them far away from his side. He opened the second drawer.
Sasha picked up his favorite picture, one of many Luke had sent along with his incessantly long letters. In it he was all thin limbs and freckled shoulders, yet he still wore the same type of white wife-beater from when he was eleven. Every photo pushed Luke away from that eleven year old boy, the one Sasha imagines in his head. The wife-beater did not sit on him right anymore.
The picture did not show much of his face, half covered by curly hair and half turned away from the camera. But Sasha could piece together his appearance from other pictures, he thought about it often enough to have memorized the arch of his button nose, and defined curve of his jaw. It wasn't like the soft features they had when they were kids.
Maybe if there weren't any borders, and Luke had stayed in the Soviet Union, Sasha wouldn't have noticed the way his features sharpened over time, because they'd see each other every single day.
He traced the Luke in the picture, over and over again. Until his eyes squinted and dried out from not blinking. It was clearly summer in the photograph, but it was winter now. Sasha had not seen the sun in weeks. Maybe if Luke were here, he would be able to see the sun again.
He followed a whisp of curly hair that caressed Luke's ear before bringing the picture to his lips. He just let them linger on it. He had kissed Luke's forehead once. Awake and trembling, he had clung onto Sasha's arm, whining about the Mean Boys List.
Sometimes, when he thinks too hard or imagines too much, he can still feel the warm skin on his mouth.
"Shit," he whispers into the empty room. This wasn't a normal thing, he knew that, nobody dreamt about their best friend, nobody hallucinated them so vividly that they could picture the glint in their eyes in the pitch blackness of the night. That was queer. That was something only a sissy would do. A sissy would also cry under their covers, holding a stupid bullshit picture of another boy.
Bogdan had once pushed him to the ground. "You fucking queer, c'mon, get up and go again." They had fought about something, maybe Sasha said something that set him off, he always managed to do that. Sasha did not win that fight, but he had been proud when blood trickled out of Bogdan's nose, all crooked and bent in the wrong places. The cry Bogdan had let out had almost been enough to forget what he had said.
I'm not a queer, he thought, and tucked the picture under his pillow.
"Sasha," a voice called out. Sash-uh. That butchered English pronunciation made him blink up instantly. Luke was looking at him, standing in front of the bed they had shared at Babushka's house, the same orange lighting from those years ago shaded his features. He looked much like the picture.
Another blink, and suddenly Luke was only a few inches away. When did he get closer? Or was it Sasha who had moved.
"Do you miss me?"
He had so many questions, what was happening, how was he here?
"Yes, I miss you," his voice answered for him, slightly muted and faded at the edges like a memory.
"I miss you, too," Luke said, and it was so believable, yet it sounded more akin to the way Sasha had imagined he would say it when he felt particularly lonely.
He blinked again, this time he opened his eyes to find Luke sprawled out below him, blankets meandering around his body. His curly hair draped over the pillow below his head. Did he push Luke?
"Sasha, moya lubov'." Sasha froze, the way he said the words – all sloppy with that drawled out accent. Who taught him to say that? Why did he call him that? What —
Luke pulled him downwards, tugging lightly at Sasha's nape, he couldn't recall how his hands had got there.
A soft mouth pressed into his, tasting like sweets and tangerines on a hot summer day and everything else all at once – that pine smell that he had tried so hard to replicate amidst pathetic tears filled his lungs to the brim. A small snaggle tooth pricked against his bottom lip.
What are we doing?
Luke's hands traced the curve of Sasha's jaw, down his clavicle then onto his arms, tracing a path towards his wrist, where the friendship bracelet was. When he found it, he smiled into Sasha's mouth, stroking the braid carefully.
Push him away.
"You really wore it, Sasha?" Luke teased, and Sasha inhaled his every word like oxygen. He always figured Luke would be shorter than him, despite how he towered over him when they were kids. He had wanted to win their bet, after all – who would grow taller than whom. He was at the perfect height, perfect distance from Sasha's own mouth.
You fucking queer.
He licked up into Luke's mouth, wet and warm. The boy parted his lips like he had done it thousands of times before. The sound was slick, loud in the silence of the evening. He traced every ridge inside and soothed every bite to his lips with a flick of his tongue. He was so cold and the hands touching him were so hot, like the sun peaking out from between the clouds in the winter to caress your icy face. Everything felt so right. He pushed his knee between Luke's thighs.
And Luke keened.
It was like his body was doing whatever it wanted. He mapped the planes of Luke's chest, dug his nails through soft locs and littered his filthy touches over every small expanse of skin he could find.
When he pulled away for air, Luke only let out a laugh.
"Why the rush, Sasha? We have all the time in the world."
Sasha awoke again, only this time parched, and hot all over. Flashes of sticky kisses and the feeling of hands roaming over his body would not leave him. Tears streamed down his face, and his throat ached with the effort of holding back his cries.
Of all the people to taint with these thoughts, why him?
He took the picture of Luke he had stored beneath his pillow and shoved it back into his drawer. He did not look at it again for weeks.