Chapter Text
In two weeks, Robbie would nothing but a memory to this no-name town, and tonight, Boris would get to hitch a ride out of fucking Nebraska with more money in his pockets than he’d ever had in his life.
The delivery was to Doug and Shirley.
Frequent buyers. Longtime users. Boris liked Doug. He had long hair and knew a lot about how old movies were made. He was kind and simple, and time always passed quickly with him.
But Shirley...Shirley could be scary.
It’s not that Boris didn’t also like her (he likes her plenty, even now), but he was always a bit nervous to stop by, because he would never know which Shirley he was going to get (Robbie said the drugs swiss-cheesed her brain the wrong way).
Doug wasn’t bothered by her erratic behavior; even puffed up like a fat, proud pigeon at the mention of it and said she was hellfire before they ever started using (the story about how they met as teenagers and ran away from home together so that they could be married in a different state at sixteen was told to Boris on their front porch while Shirley was locked in the bathroom for everyone’s safety. The sound of her screaming and hitting the door with the shower curtain rod could still be heard over Doug’s bootlegged recording of a Metallica concert blaring inside.)
Without Doug as a buffer, Boris has been yelled away, chased off with a frying pan that still had meat cooking in it, and once even (through closed blinds) been accused of tapping their phone lines for the feds.
But on good days, Shirley would share her cigarettes by the pack. She liked to re-lace his sneakers when she’d notice they’re frayed.
They’d go for long walks to nowhere, and she’d teach Boris about how the weather is different in the mid-west—how rain has a smell in this part of America that’s different than anywhere else; and even the leaves can tell when a storm is coming because they flip (“yawning for the sky”, she said).
Shirley was beautiful, Boris had realized.
She liked the feeling of grass on her bare feet and her thoughts and feelings got so big that they scared her. (In another life, she maybe would have been a philosopher) Meth-mouth and paranoia haven’t changed how lovely she is inside, they’ve only hidden it.
She liked to dance without rhythm and with the freedom of a child, and the night Boris saw her at sunset, spinning in circles in her long nightgown and belting out the lyrics to some Fleetwood Mac song as the thunder was rolling in, he understood why Doug would choose to stay with her.
But he’s not Doug.
He’s not Doug, and when Boris had knocked on their door on what was meant to be his day of freedom, it was immediately clear that he had just gambled with the devil and lost.
Shirley had ripped that trailer door open as though she were trying to tear it off it’s hinges. (One more pull, and she may have succeeded.) And though she was shorter than Boris, any creature with self-preservation would know to be afraid. She was panting, sweaty and agitated, her glassy eyes bulging in that same terrifying way that Robbie’s had not so long ago.
It was paranoid-pipe-rage kind of day. The worst he had ever seen on her.
Boris will never touch meth for as long as he lives.
Robbie could be unpredictable, but Shirley, even at her best, was always more likely to do something dangerous. Boris barely had time to shift a foot back before there was a fist in his eye.
The pain was an explosion that hit so hard, Boris had to remind his lungs to expand.
He has been hit a lot in his life, probably by more people than he can remember. He even prides himself on this. He had told Theo that there was a great dignity in taking a punch like a man. (Stoic, don’t look upset, not angry, don’t cry, stand back up, back straight, strong). But methed out Shirley somehow manages to hit as hard as that meteor that killed all those dinosaurs.
Boris had staggered back, off the low porch and into the yard, but she just kept coming. She was yelling, and cursing, and hitting. Some were punches, and others were slaps. At some point his hands had come up to guard his face and he fell. First onto his ass, then flat on his back. And still, she was yelling. And hitting.
Her nails gouged at the backs of his wrists and arms. There was blood in his mouth. His ears were ringing. She was hitting. He spit blood and curled up on his side. She was screaming. His ears were ringing. He was dizzy. She was screaming. She kicked him, hard, in the ribs. He curls up small. He was dizzy.
He woke up in the trunk.
....................................................................
Boris squirms, a pitiful little wail escaping as he does. It feels like it’s been hours since he found himself trapped in here. The way he’s positioned now, he can hardly tell if his eyes are open or closed. If he faces the other direction, there is faintest trace of light coming in through the taillights, but that only makes him feel more claustrophobic.
His face itches. His tongue keep sticking to the roof of his mouth. His feet feel like television static. His body hurts, some pains sharp, and some deep and aching. But the worst thing of all is that his heart hurts. All he’d wanted was to find William, and he fucked it up. Worse than he’d ever fucked anything up with his dad or with Theo; worse than any mistake he’d ever made his life.
Boris is going to die in rural Nebraska and nobody will ever know about it. He’ll be a nameless murdered hitchhiker, forever the nothinghe always feared he’d be. He’ll be buried in a shallow grave, with nobody to mourn him.
He clutches at his chest, grasping at his shirt. Anguished. Frightened. Heart pounding.
He’s still here. Right here, alive. (And if you are alive, there is room for hope)
The trunk pops open.
The light is so bright and unexpected that Boris no longer feels any pain. All he can do is close his eyes. And he’s so sure that it’s Shirley that adrenaline fills him, a strength that’s sharp and strong enough that he can taste it behind his teeth. He makes one last half-assed fight for his life.
Boris, tied as his is, flails his entire body up and out as hard as he can. He hits his head on the open hood and lurches, still blind, over the lip before a pair of arms catch him.
A woman is screaming. Not in rage, but in shock. And perhaps fear, too.
“Holy fuck!” she shrieks. “Oh my God! Holy fuck!”
It’s not Shirley.
“Doug! Doug there’s a guy in your wife’s trunk!”
He hears Doug’s confused ‘huh?’ in the distance, and it calms immediately, body slumping in the stranger’s hold. Boris still squints against the light. It’s not so bright as he initially thought; it must be nearing sundown.
He must have been in there for hours.
The woman raises her voice even more for Doug. It makes Boris’s head throb.
“There is a whole entire fucking bloody ass, beat to shit, human man being held hostage in your wife’s trunk, Douglas!”
There’s the crunch of feet on gravel, rapid, as if running. Boris squeezes his eyes shut hard one more time in a long blink, desperate to clear his vision faster.
“Jesus Christ,” Doug curses, “Boris! Oh my God, what the fuck?!’
Boris hears the click of Doug pulling out the knife he always keeps on his belt, and then, he’s there, in all his dirty, slightly stoned glory, cutting his hands and feet loose.
Boris smiles at him in gratitude, that static, pins and needles feeling spreading as he moves his arms out to his sides in a long stretch and, wobbly, like newborn fawn, stumbles from the trunk.
The woman behind him keeps a firm hold around his ribcage, and he’s grateful.
When he’s out and moving, he takes a long inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth, making a noise like an old man afterwards, “ah.”
Doug ruffles his hands through his own hair, making a mess of it. His eyes are red and small, and he smells-herb sharp.
“What happened,” Doug meekly asks, voice small.
Boris spins around, small grin still on his face.
“Delivery today,” he answers. “But...uh...today was not good for Shirley, I don’t think.”
“Fuck…” Doug groans, putting his face in his hands. “I am so fuckingsorry.” He starts moving his hands in a very animated way as he begins to explain. “We’ve been short on cash so she’s been smoking that shit from Lincoln and it makes her paranoid, ya know, and I knew you were comin’, b’cause we just got paid, but like...I went to go see the kid and just...I like lost track of time...Fuck I’m just so sorry.”
Boris looks around then, finally observing who’s with them. She’s in her early twenties. Long, straight brown hair. Big, bright eyes. All of her is bright, actually. Her clothes are bright colors, even her shoes, nails, and bag. Her nose is long and slightly upturned at the end. She has the type of face that naturally looks mischievous. She seems unbothered by his staring, and actually steps into his space to dab at the dried blood on his face with the long sleeve of her shirt. It comes of in flakes.
“You are the kid?” Boris asks.
“Winnie,” She offers with a bright smile, as if all the bad around them didn’t exist.
Boris likes her immediately.
“Douglas is my uncle. I don’t live around here, so I visit when I can,” Winnie explains, brushing some of the blood flakes stuck to her shirt onto the ground. “I try not to come to his house because,” she gestures to Boris with wide eyes as if that explains everything, and it kind of does, “but...ya know...life and shit.”
“We made pot brownies,” Doug says.
“HA!” Boris’s laugh erupts over them like a crack of thunder, and the unexpected sound sends Doug practically doubling over in a fit of giggles.
“I’m glad we fucking did! If Winnie hadn’t gone to the car for that fucking bowl to pack it in, we wouldn’t have found you, man!”
And for some reason that makes all of them break down. Boris, who’s been so full of anxiety and adrenaline for hours, finds the laughter cathartic, and immediately crumbles to his knees. Winnie follows, rolling onto her side in the gravel while Doug eventually has to flop on his back, clutching his gut as huge barrels of laughter steal all the air from him. He kicks his feet like a toddler before squeaking out, “I can’t fucking breath.”
“It’s so sad it’s funny,” Winnie laughs.
“Stop, that is my life,” Boris says mid-wheeze.
For some reason that sets Winnie off again.
It takes a few minutes for them to calm down but when they do, and, still on the ground, Doug digs through his pocket and pulls out his wallet.
“I’m gonna pay you extra, Boris. For the trouble. I mean it, I’m so fucking sorry, man. We can meet up somewhere else from now on.”
Boris tosses him the bag he’s had tucked deep in his pocket as the cash is passed to him. His hand is shaking. He sits up to count the bills quickly before tipping them up in a very new and very American gesture of ‘thanks’ before tucking them away.
“Nah,” Boris sighs more than says. “This is last drop. Leaving tonight. Been wanting to for a long time. I have family to go to.”
“Ah, well...shit. Sorry my wife fucked up your last day.”
Boris laughs so hard his head tips back.
“I thought I would die more than one time in there,” he scuffles to stand, and the others follow his example, “but I am the one that chose to come.” He steps closer to Doug. “Shirley is...just being Shirley…is a bad day for her too, I am sure. Hope you find more things that work for her, so that there are less bad days.”
Doug pats him on the shoulder, firm and warm. His eyes, though still small and red, are now glassy and wet.
“You’re a good one, you know that, kid?” he says.
Boris places his hand over his, on his shoulder. The touch smarts, but he doesn’t mention it. It’s not the time.
“You are one as well, Doug.”
Doug softly smiles, and it looks like he’s about to say something else, but Winnie interrupts him.
“This is very touching and all that, but...uh...how exactly do you plan to get to your family, Mr. Beat to Shit and Clearly Underage and Foreign Drug Dealer?” she asks flatly.
“Boris!” Doug sighs, exasperated. “His name’s Boris, Win.” As if that’s the important part.
She raises her hands in submission, but the expression on her face is playful.
Boris sticks on arm out, thumb raised, in the universal hitchhiker gesture. Winnie raises a dubious eyebrow at him in response.
“Is how I got here,” Boris says. “Is how I’ll get there, yes?”
Winnie scoffs.
“No. Because nobody is gonna pick up a kid that looks like that,” she says, gesturing to all of him with one hand, the other on her hip. “No one safe, at least.
Boris shrugs with one shoulder.
“I clean up first.”
“Doesn’t matter, by tomorrow, you’ll be bruised to shit. And it’ll keep looking worse for weeks.”
Boris groans in exasperation like the teenager he pretends he isn’t.
Winnie laughs.
“We’re you going? I’m going home, which is in Illinois. And I’ve got a lot of family. We can probably get you were you need to be.”
He stares at her for a long moment.
“How far is Illinois from Indiana?” He asks.
She laughs again and slaps him on the back; friendly and eager, but far too hard. He grunts at the pain.
“They’re next door neighbors! If I can’t gettcha’ there, Annie can!”
Winnie wraps an arm around Boris’s shoulder and tugs him close, “Douglas!” She barks “Pack us two brownies and come give me a hug! I’m taking your dealer on a road trip!”
“Who’s Annie?” Boris tries to ask.
“Older sister,” Doug says as he walks away, presumably to get the brownies. “There’s four of them.” He pauses at the door and looks back at the two of them. “You’ll hate Winnie by the time you get there, but you’ll like Annie, I think.”
The door is shut before he can hear Winnie’s undignified “Hey!” shouted behind him.