Chapter Text
Eventually, I got around to emailing him. I wasn’t sure at all whether I’d get a response. I’d been thinking recently that it’d be good to know for sure: if I’d ever see him again.
It had been a rough year. I’d knocked out about two-thirds of the work that needed to be done as far as buying back the fakes went, and then one evening in the throes of a depressive episode I did too much blow in Hobie’s bathroom, blacked-out, and woke up in an ambulance with a harried nurse keeping tabs on my heart rate. It was all very dramatic.
I ended up in a psych ward for about five weeks — got clean — and then, at Hobie’s behest, followed an outpatient program for a little under two months. In my email to Boris, I told him none of this.
Boris,
I’m going to be in New York for a while — finally finished buying back all the furniture. Any chance of catching you out here? It’s been a while.
Theo
Short and sweet and a little bit evasive. He’d left his email with me before dropping me off for my flight back to NYC; but it had been over a year (he was hard to reach in the first place) and who knew if he’d changed his email since then? It was more than possible — most likely, really, with the way his life was going. Jumping from one place to the next, light on his toes. No trace left behind. Our first hiatus had been (ostensibly) brought on by his guilt, fear of my disdain. I wondered if there was some other reason he didn’t reach out now — if he again suspected me of resenting him. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, of course, despite everything. I missed him. But I also wondered if he didn’t want to see me.
Was he avoiding me?
But his response took not a day. I opened it, anxious as a preteen with a crush, as I was closing up shop for the day. Read it on the work computer, Manhattan sunset yellow and liquid on the reflective old waxes, varnishes in the shop.
On my way!!!!
I couldn’t help smiling, even as that old annoyance flared up in me — my thoughts something like: If he’s so eager to see me, why didn’t he reach out sooner?
It was childish, but then my feelings, when it came to Boris, had always felt a little childish, a little vulgar.
We shouldn’t have ended that way: My thoughts kept circling back to this, obsessively. He shouldn’t have let me leave. I shouldn’t have left. (He should have come with me.)
In my institutional little cot, I used to roll around in bed at night — over and over, miserable and itchy with sobriety — imagining all the other ways it could have gone. I imagined begging him, bribing him, even offering him a job at the shop. He could have helped with sales — he would have been good at it.
Of course, there was the question of Hobie, and what he’d have to say about it; I had no idea what he thought of Boris — or me, for that matter. I knew he cared about me, of course, but there was a certain shame that I felt — that I’d always felt — when it came to my relationship with Boris. And saying it like that makes it sound like something it’s not, but it’s the truth.
Coming back after Amsterdam… It was like arriving fresh out of Vegas all over again — that identical fear of being judged, of being a burden. I was often sick with fear. And there was a sensory element to it: New York felt too close, too excited. Loud noises triggered me, made me flinch, made me hyperventilate. It was jarring and uncomfortable as being wrenched out of sleep. And then there was Kitsey to deal with, and Mrs. Barbour, and that bastard Lucian Reeves — thank God he fled the city. Good fucking riddance. It was all such a headache, such a miserable segue from almost killing myself (after, in fact, committing homicide) to winding up right in the same awful place as before: unhappily engaged, drug-addicted, and obsessed with a girl I barely knew.
And on top of all of it, wishing fiercely for my friend, who was God-knows-where, tangled up in God-knows-what, could be dead or alive, on a plane or in a jail cell — wishing he would call, show up, take me by the shoulders and drag me off to some frightening new adventure. To be swept away — I craved it.
The traveling helped. It was lonely — I recall taking night walks, wherever I was, pacing the motel corridors or circling the block, passing the same liquor shop three times before I finally caved. But those were the only days I felt I could sit still and, if only for a moment, relax. I was separated from the rest of the world — the rest of my world. The unfamiliarity of it all, the busy days, the run-of-the-mill old dudes in hotel bars — it was all so wonderfully plain, numbing like a morphine lollipop. The way I described it to my therapist, it was like existing within a weird grey dream. Not the labyrinthine unholiness of the museum — those dreams that sent me rattling awake, sweating and sick with fear — but a different sort of maze altogether, one that breathed fog instead of smoke, dawn instead of dusk. The blue hour. It all bled together like paint.
Now I had my own apartment; it was crazy to think that I was living alone. The last time I’d lived alone was when Boris started spending his nights at Kotku’s — even then, my dad and Xandra had been around some of the time. I was afraid, at first, that I wouldn’t be able to handle it — left to my own devices, I’d relapse, die for good, something along those lines.
But it wasn’t so bad. Not at first, anyway. I spent virtually all my free time at the shop, ate most meals with Hobie; and, when I wasn’t doing either of those things, I was doing my best to systematically jog down every street and avenue in Manhattan (and Brooklyn better watch out). I was turning into one of those guys.
The problem was — I couldn’t actually afford the apartment. Even sharing virtually every meal with Hobie, who was kind enough to cook for me much of the time, living alone wasn’t cheap; I would likely have to downsize to a space farther out from the store. There was an extra bedroom, but I couldn’t imagine rooming with somebody.
For now, Boris would be sleeping in the extra bedroom; I would pick him up from the airport tomorrow. He’d sent a text at 2 AM the night before to my cell:
thurs 8pm est @ jfk! be there!!! 🥳🤪🗽✈️🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸
“Potter!” He pulled me firmly into a hug, all leather and warmth, and then he held me at arms length and gave me the once-over. “Fuck, is good to see you.”
I laughed, kind of startled and pleased at once. “You too, man.” He looked healthier than he had in Antwerp; it was a relief. He had his hair half pulled back in a bun, a scarf around his neck, roses in his cheeks. And his ear pierced, I noticed. (I recognized immediately that it was the “gay” ear, but I didn’t have the heart to inform him.)
“You like?” He waggled it, gave me a toothy grin. Laughed before I could answer. “Come on, I need my bags. I think is number seven.”
His bags were on the ninth belt, actually, and they took forever to come around. We stood a little ways away. “Big fucking flight,” he opined. “There was tiny baby sitting in the row ahead, size of my thumb. But damn did he cry like a motherfucker. Couldn’t sleep for whole flight.” I noticed the shadows beneath his eyes. “Hope your bed is comfy.”
I laughed, but suddenly I was wondering what he meant: surely he didn’t mean my bed? The one that I slept in? I was almost shaking with that weird, unsettled feeling of seeing someone dear to you for the first time in a while. I wished suddenly that I had some blow to take the edge off. Old habits die hard.
I noticed him glancing at me. And then we saw his bags emerge, and I turned and called him over as I jogged to catch them.
I grabbed one; he took the other. We kept up a friendly banter all the way to the sidewalk, and I tried not to think about the logistics of him sleeping over. There was an extra room — everything was going to be fine.
“So, ah,” Boris glanced at me, “what’s a guy gotta do to get a cab around here?” His New Yorker impression was predictably awful.
“No Gyuri?”
He shrugged. “Figured, is high time he gets a vacation. Also, I don’t imagine your invitation to stay with you extended to Gyuri, mm? He would make a mess of your place — he is not very cleanly. Learned this the hard way.”
Neither was Boris, I thought; his apartment in Antwerp was overflowing with books, bottles, drug paraphernalia…
He must have seen the look on my face because he cuffed me on the arm and laughed. “Don’t make that face at me. You’re no Mr. Clean yourself, Potter.”
“Fuck off,” I said, laughing.
I hailed down a cab and helped load his bags into the trunk.
“You know,” I said, once we’d piled into the back seat of the cab, “the place I’ve got now is pretty clean. You’ll be surprised.”
He looked at me sideways. Streetlights flickered past us in the dark. “Then you must spend very little time there.”
“That’s not true,” I protested, though he was right. “I just take care of my things.”
“Hmm,” he said, as though he couldn’t quite believe this. “I think I will be the judge of this.”
Of course, when we got to my apartment, he said the same thing.
“Is like you’ve never set foot inside this place!” he announced. “Looks like model home. Like those soulless shells of houses back in Vegas. You know the ones I mean.”
“Thanks so much for letting me stay in your lovely home, Theo,” I mocked. “You’re so welcome, Boris, thanks for coming.”
He snickered. “I do not sound like that.”
“No, because you’re an ingrate.”
“For starters,” he continued, as though I hadn’t spoken at all, “I would never call you that.”
“What,” I said, “my name?”
“What do you take me for, some kind of stranger? No need for such pleasantries between us.”
I helped carry his bags to the spare bedroom, where he continued to pile on the compliments. “This looks like hotel room!” he exclaimed. “So bleak and barren.”
“Boris, shut up,” I said without heat. “You’ve got a down comforter in here and — and art on the walls and fucking nice furniture, so shut the fuck up about my interior design abilities.”
“You know what this reminds me of? That hotel room in Amsterdam you holed up in for days. Hah! Remember?”
I drew a sharp breath. “Yes, I remember,” I snapped. “Go ahead, make yourself at home in your bleak little servant quarters. I’m getting dinner.”
“Potter.”
I shut the door behind myself and left the building. I needed air.
It wasn’t Boris’ fault — he didn’t know I’d tried to kill myself in that room. Something in me had reared up and bit me in the throat; I didn’t feel like I could speak without crying. I made myself sit on a bench and count my breaths before I went on.
My phone chimed in my pocket.
u safe? It was from Boris.
Yes, I sent back. Sorry. Back soon.
I bought us pizza slices and a piece of tiramisu in a deli container for Boris. On my way back to the apartment I stopped inside a tourist shop and got an I ♥ New York shot glass for him as a peace-offering, which seemed pretty stupid thereafter and which I handed to a couple of French tourists who stopped me for directions.
He was lying on the sofa with a book when I came in. He looked up at me; I couldn’t read his expression.
“Hey,” I said. I hung my coat and put the food on the kitchen counter. “I got pizza.”
He stood and came to join me. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” I busied myself getting us plates, napkins.
“We don’t need those,” he said, unwrapping his slice. He took a greasy bite, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come here. What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t meet his eye. I found a fork for him and brought it over with the little carton of tiramisu. “Nothing’s wrong. Here, this is for you.”
I glanced at him; he cocked an eyebrow. “Why are you avoiding this?”
“What —?”
“Don’t play stupid, my God.” He took another bite of pizza. “Cut the crap. Why you rushing out of here like your arse is on fire?” Another bite. “Shit, this is good, where you get this?”
“Place called Lorenzo’s,” I said.
He moaned quietly. “Mm. Show me tomorrow.” Another bite. “You got beer?”
I fetched us two bottles from the fridge.
“Nice.” He knocked his open on the lip of the counter; the bent cap clattered to the floor. “Shall we stand around here eating at kitchen counter like boys?”
We brought our things to the sofa and sat in silence for a bit, drinking and eating, making ourselves comfortable. Or — Boris was making himself comfortable; I was sitting at the edge of my seat, wishing I’d taken a little longer getting back. Maybe he’d have fallen asleep.
The sky was black outside, empty but for the moon. Only the floor lamp was on in my apartment. Corners sunk into shadow, softening the space into roundness. Boris’ book had a title in Cyrillic; with my elementary grasp of Russian, I could only parse out that the author was Mikhail Kuzmin. I’d never heard of him.
“O-kay,” he said finally, setting his beer on the coffee table, “let’s talk.”
“What about,” I said flatly.
“What you been up to, hmm? How was your year?”
“My year,” I repeated. I couldn’t help but laugh. Where to begin.
“Start with January,” he said. “What did you do that month?”
I must have looked to be in sorry shape, the way he was talking to me. “I was, uh, I was buying back the furniture.”
“Yes? And February?”
“Are we really gonna do this?”
“What? I want to know how you’ve been.”
“I’ve — Not great. Not too fucking peachy.”
“Tell me about it.” He took my shoulder; I looked at him. “Theo.”
“I don’t need your pity.” I rubbed my eyes; realized I was crying. “Fuck.”
“You think I don’t know this? Me — biggest fuck-up in history. Was in rehab for months this year. Let’s talk about that, yes?” He was rubbing circles in my back as he spoke, gesticulating as I sobbed into my hands. “I wake up in Danish hospital, no memory of past 48 hours, sick as a dog. Gyuri had to sneak me out — IV still attached, skating on the pole, some vigilante nurse pops out of the escape car to un-poke me — how you say — I get the IV out, thinking am free at last, suddenly Gyuri is dumping me at a clinic with duffel bag full of too-big clothes. One pair of trousers that fit — these drawstring sweatpants, you know — and the medics take the drawstring, thinking I may hang myself with the thing, so what have I got? No fucking pants that fit, had to roll the waist over three times before anything stayed up. Good thing you think is fucking hilarious, hm?”
I was laughing a little hysterically — hiccuping, kind of. He left to get me a glass of water and came back with a mug.
“Can’t find your cups,” he explained. “Kitchen is badly organized.”
I laughed some more. “Fuck off,” I said. “You’re a terrible guest.”
He scoffed. “You are terrible host.”
This made me laugh hardest, painfully, until he put a hand over my mouth and commanded me to stop; he was trying to keep a straight face and failing, calling me all sorts of names. Finally I calmed down and he made me drink the whole mug of water. Occasionally I’d start crying again and I’d have to stop for a moment before continuing.
I never used to cry. It was getting sober that opened the floodgates; I cried at everything, now. I was mostly too exhausted to feel embarrassed about it.
At some point he made me get up and go with him to my bedroom; he sat on my bed and wouldn’t leave until I’d taken my meds. Diazepam, venlafaxine, prazosin. He cracked my window open a couple inches and stood there looking out at the city. I could hear an engine running outside; thousands of living things in the distance, voices overlapping, the orchestra of life.
“You have nightmares still?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The meds help, though.”
He was a black shape in the dark of my bedroom. Faint light from the street cast his face in profile. I closed my eyes.
“Good,” he said.
“I should be the one,” I yawned, “showing you to your room.”
“Bah. Don’t say such things,” he said. “What did I tell you? No need for this between us. May as well be brothers.”
“Mm,” I said. Did he think of me as a brother? I supposed I’d always known this.
I felt him looking at me. I was afraid he might lie down next to me. I was afraid that I’d let him. “Sweet dreams, Potter,” he said. I opened my eyes and watched him walk to my bedroom door. Away. “We talk tomorrow.”