Chapter Text
California is hot and dry, just like Nevada was. One wouldn’t think it would be with the ocean and all, but somehow it is. Maybe Lenora is just far enough away from the beach that the desert keeps all the damp away. Boris shrugs at the thought. It slides the straps of his backpack higher up on his shoulders. It’s a foreign feeling. He hardly ever wears a bag, and if he does, it’s mostly empty and tossed over one arm like an afterthought.
Absentmindedly, he tucks his thumbs under the straps, in the front by his chest. He scuffs one dirty shoe against the pavement as he walks, and walks, a small frown pulling his mouth downward. It feels like everything he owns is on his back. He silently counts his steps in french: dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt, and shakes a sweat-damp curl off his forehead.
Carrying this much, and walking so far, it reminds him of when he was small. When he was running away in Ukraine because the abandoned warehouse lot where the unhoused built fires after dark felt safer than the nights at home. Boris sighs. No need for lots now. Not when he has William.
He’s tried calling, and at first it rang, but now the line is disconnected. It happened fast. He was there only days ago. His life has gone to shit since then, but it seems like maybe his Sweet Boy’s has too. So, on a surprisingly hot day for the spring season, with the most important things in owns in the world, Boris is walking the three miles across town to the Byers’ house.
If Boris ignores the swooping pit of dread in his stomach, he can almost pretend it’s nice. As though he’s just going for a long walk on a sunny day. But he’s seen enough bad in his life to know better than to hope. The caution tape around the Byers’ yard is visible from the end of the street. That swooping pit of dread turns into ice.
He inhales deep through his nose, and exhales slow and shaky through his mouth. His steps are slow and steady. His grip on the straps of his backpack tighten. There’s nobody around, the street so empty it feels almost eerie. Boris stops by the yellow tape, wrapped around the yard and driveway, and crossed over the open doorway in a haphazard way. He glances around, eyes sharp and alert, and ears straining for any sound.
There’s nothing.
Boris glances over his shoulder and ducks under the tape.
There are many marks in the bark of the tree near the front windows. Some are small and others are larger, but all of them are deep and reveal the lighter color beneath. Bullet holes. That’s the first thing he notices as he moves up the driveway. He speeds up his steps, plowing through the tape on the door without any care at all, ripping two of the strips down on his way in. His breath catches in his throat.
Broken glass. It crunches under the soles of his shoes. Boris trails his fingers lightly over the bullet holes in the wall as he makes his way down the hall. It feels like his brain is only absorbing it in snapshots, almost like Polaroids: overturned chair, broken vase, holes in the paneling, blood on the carpet. He wanders into William’s room, and heaves a gasping, broken sound when he sees it’s pristine.
Untouched.
Boris feels like he’s floating when he approaches the bed, only to flop face first onto the comforter and inhale as deeply as his lungs will allow.
It still smells like him.
The rest of the house smells wrong.
Stale. Acrid.
But here? This smells like home.
He turns his face to the side, toward the window. There’s a view of the street from here.
Not so long ago, William was splayed out next to him, eyes bleary and red, smile stretched Mary Jane wide and impossible to erase. Boris may have been stoned himself, but he can remember clear as day what was said:
“There are things…things I wish I could tell you…but I can’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because I legally can’t. It’s the whole reason we moved to California in the first place. Like, something bad happened, and the government got involved, and we had to sign all these papers saying we’d never talk about it. And we can’t break that agreement, or else bad things could happen. I just…I want you to be safe, Boris.”
Boris grits his teeth and sniffs. He will not get upset right now. He shoves himself up and readjusts the pack on his shoulders. He glances around. Behind him, next to the desk but behind the door is a bag. A duffle with clothes. Like someone was anticipating having to leave, but was too slow. He sniffs again.
Then, he moves quickly, with purpose; skittering from room to room, stuffing things into his pack. If the Byers have a secret with the government, they most likely aren’t back where they used to live. But it’s the best place to find out what’s going on. In the kitchen, he finds almost half a carton of cigarettes (four packs!), and in Jonathan’s room, in a nightstand drawer, he finds a wad of cash ($72). And in the dresser, he finds four pre-rolled joints, rolling papers, and a small baggie of weed.
Boris puts his hands together as if in prayer and tilts his head upward.
“Thank you,” he says. And he doesn’t know if it’s to God or to Jonathan or to the Universe itself. Because now, if he’s in a bind he has the option to sell and make some money, or if he’s really at his ‘fuck it’ point he no longer has to do this sober.
He tucks everything away, tossing out two shirts and one pair of his pants in order to make everything fit. Boris pats himself down once he stands, making sure everything is where it should be, and then, instead of leaving out the front door, he, like so many times before, escapes out of William’s window. He scurries around the side and through the back yard, then through the yards of neighbors and across two different streets until he hits a bigger road.
It’s fairly busy, with a car passing every minute or so. Boris walks backwards so that he can see the cars coming, and when the next one approaches he sticks out his thumb.
It immediately slows. It’s an unremarkable vehicle. Old. Tan. A small dent in the front. Boris hurries to the passenger door and leans toward the open window. A woman is driving. She’s probably in her sixties. Her hair is gray, and she’s very small and thin. Kind looking, but fierce too. Like Joyce. Boris smiles at her, eyes crinkling in the corners.
“You’re awful young to be hitching, hun. Where’re you trying to get to?” she asks, voice soft but with the distinct lilt of the southern United States.
“Indiana,” Boris says. “Hawkins.”
She huffs a laugh.
“Well that’s a quite a trip. M’afraid I can’t get you to Indiana. But I’m going to Reno, and it’ll be a smidge closer. Wanna join me?”
Boris opens the car door.
“Sure!” He agrees, sliding into the seat. He places his bag on top of his feet.
“I’m Maude. Though I prefer Maudie.” she continues, checking the road before pulling away from the curb.
“Boris,” he replies.
“Well, Boris. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s taking you to Indiana?”
He glances at her and grins.
“Family,” he says.