Chapter Text
“Boris?”
“Eh?”
“What would you do if your girl was cheating on you?”
Boris—heading out the door—did a double take. “Come again?”
“If you thought your girl was cheating on you.”
Boris frowned. “Not sure? You have no proof?”
“No,” I said, before realizing this wasn’t strictly true.
“Then you must ask her, straight out,” said Boris decisively. “In some friendly and unprotected moment when she is not expecting it. In bed maybe. If you catch her at the right moment, even if she lies—you will know it. She will lose her nerve.” I considered this. He didn’t know Kitsey, I was fairly sure that trying to ask her in bed would only result in humiliation on my end— and the thought of that with Boris standing right in front of me brought a flush to my face. Suddenly, I feel like I’m 15 again. Asking Boris’ advice, seeking his approval, and Boris not giving the answers I want.
“I don’t think that will work with this girl” I settle on after a beat. “Well, she’s a good one then.” He says, and he’s looking at me so intently I start to wonder if there’s something on my face. I wipe my hand across my mouth and chin, “what’s wrong, Boris?” I ask.
“Well, I mean you have other option” Boris says, sly grin settling on his face, and the expression doesn’t help the strange feeling of deja vu that I’m getting. I remember back in high school when he thought Kotku was cheating on him and he gave her that fat lip (and the fact that he’d compared her to me afterwards). “I’m not going to hit her, if that’s where this is going” I say, my tone slipping into that bored drag it had when we were teenagers, too.
“No, no, I know you wouldn’t. Pettier option, less violent, still hurtful” Boris declares. I wait for him to continue and tell me what exactly his master plan is, arching my eyebrow to prompt him. Boris seems to hesitate a little, something he so rarely does. “Cheat back” he declares simply after a beat. I’m taken aback, and start sputtering, “Ha ha very funny. Who would I cheat with, anyway?” I ask, stomach dropping a little at the thought I’m trying to avoid— the thought I’ve been trying to avoid ever since I saw Boris on the street again.
“Well, could be anyone, doesn’t matter. But tell them to leave a mark” he says, leaning in a breathing against my neck as he drawls out the last part. I shiver against my will, feeling flustered and regretting bringing this up to Boris at all. “I-“ I try to think of some reason that I can’t cheat on Kitsey. I know I should feel worse about this, but I know I’m not in love with Kitsey. I care for her, and I love the way I feel in her company on occasion, but I don’t love her. I do respect her though, and clearly she doesn’t respect me because she’s cheating with Tom Cable of all people.
I know I could cheat morally, she’s cheating first, and with someone I despise. But it feels wrong to drag some poor girl into our mess. “Boris, I don’t want to drag some innocent girl into my shit” I say, but it sounds weak to my own ears. Boris rolls his eyes, sly smile returning. “I never said girl, did I? And I never said innocent, either” Boris says, tilting his head in a way that I recognize as suggestive, and once again I’m taken back to high school.
I don’t know what to say to Boris, how I should turn him down. I can’t believe he’s even offering. Back when we did this as teenagers it was messy fumblings that we didn’t speak of. Boris bringing it up now, after what he’d said just a few nights ago (“I think it happens at that age sometimes. We were young, and needed girls. I think maybe you thought it was something else.”), in broad daylight in the shop is shocking to say the very least.
It turns out I don’t even need to think of what to say to Boris, he takes a sweeping glance around the empty shop before pressing me against the silver case, easy as anything, and kissing me on the mouth. The last time Boris kissed me was the night I left for New York, which by now feels like a lifetime ago. It practically was. How is it that everything is so different, yet here we are ending up like this again? That night was one of the first times he’d ever kissed me. Like I said; drunk fumbling, no kissing required. Back then, Boris usually pushed me down or over, or knelt down and did what he pleased without even looking at me for all that long. The only times he kissed me were when we shotgunned weed, or when he was high and syrupy, and leaned in to kiss me all slow and hazy, and we’d make out for minutes or hours until we moved on to something better or got distracted.
Now, having Boris kiss me, it’s not like I imagined it would be. It’s not like I imagined it would be at all, and trust me, although I tried not to, I have imagined this. I imagined it a lot with Kitsey, oddly enough. I’d imagine Boris’ cigarette and stale beer breath in my mouth and his rough hands on me again. But that isn’t how he’s kissing me now. He tastes like alcohol vaguely, but the smokey staleness of his teenage years has been replaced by a richer and warmer taste. His hands aren’t on me rough and fast, he’s moved them to rest on my waist delicately, like I’m some girl he’s trying to ask to homecoming or something. It should be insulting, but I feel far from insulted.
His mouth has been open from the start, and he’s a lot better at this sober and matured. His tongue moves in all the right ways, and I’m helpless to kiss him back and let him press his tongue into my mouth. It’s gentler than I ever remember him being with me. I’m breathing him in and forgetting all about Kitsey and Tom, and it feels good to let myself drift. It’s almost like being high, letting my body relax and my mind drift. I grab onto Boris’ shoulders, getting more comfortable.
We hear a noise outside, some bang of movers or something, and Boris leans back with slick lips and a smile. It tugs me somewhere in my chest, I’ve never gotten to see him like this. “Well, do you feel better?” He asks. I nod dumbly, and realize my hands are crumpling his shirt at the shoulders so I slowly slide my hands down his arms to let go. I’m breathless and embarrassed while Boris smirks at me, this part familiar.
“I hate to go so soon, but I have business I must attend to. I’ll call as soon as I can, we can go to my apartment here.” Boris says, pulling away from me. He clapped me twice on the shoulder and then departed, leaving me to stare into the silver case with a renewed sense of despair at my dirtied-up life.
----
Later, after the shop had closed, I thought for a long time about if I should call Boris or not. A large part of me was inclined not to. After all, why wouldn’t Boris do what he’d done times before this and act as if nothing at all has happened between us? I didn’t want to let Boris have the satisfaction of breaking my heart, and it wouldn't be the first time he’d done it. It struck me then, that maybe Boris didn’t have any idea what he was doing to me at all. Maybe he didn’t even know he’d broken my teenage heart. It’s not as if I ever told him.
I remember when he started dating Kotku, and I was so depressed about it that I could hardly make myself get up and go to school. I remember when I got back to New York after running away from Las Vegas, and missing Boris was like missing a limb. It hurt in the worst way, and Boris was no help at all. I got scarce random texts and calls from him until it was nothing, like I’d made Boris up. He has to know that hurt me, right?
I thought about not calling Boris, but after some contemplation I decided that I really didn’t have anything better to do. It was either call Boris, or go see Kitsey. I wanted to wait before seeing Kitsey, I didn’t want to fight with her tonight. I knew I was supposed to have dinner at her apartment, her bitch roommate out with some guy, but after what I’d seen earlier I felt no obligation to go. I sent her a text, ‘Work dinner came up. I’ll call when I’m home.’ And called Boris.
“Potter! Wasn’t expecting a call!” Boris says, sounding upbeat. For some reason his exuberance startles me, and I don’t answer for a beat. “Potter?” Boris asks, and I’m snapped out of my unease. “Boris. You- uh-“ I start to flounder, “you told me you’d call when you could” I say, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to call me. I’m reminded yet again of our teenage years, eagerly waiting by the phone, and getting nothing from him. “Ah! Yeah, figured you’d better call me when you were done manning shop. I got to my apartment a few hours ago. Want to come by?” Boris asks, easy as anything, not faltering at all. I feel out of my depth, like when Boris would throw me into the deep end of the pool and my feet couldn’t touch the bottom.
“Sure, do you… uh- do you want anything?” I ask, trying to figure out what the right thing is to say. The thing about us starting this up so suddenly and so many years later, is that I’ve forgotten my lines. I don’t know what comes next anymore. “Nah, just bring your pretty self” Boris says casually, and I can vaguely hear him moving around his apartment— maybe cleaning up in anticipation for my arrival. I flush at the compliment, that feels new, and shake my head to get back on track. “Alright, just text me the address” I say. Boris grunts in acknowledgement, and then he hangs up at the same time that I get a message with his address.
I catch a cab over to his apartment. It’s sort of near where my mother and I lived, but far enough that I don’t dwell on her for too long. I wonder, not for the first time, how my mother would feel about me not liking girls. I like to imagine that as loving and genuinely kind as my mother was, she would’ve supported me. But it still throws me when I think about the fact that she’d never know if I decided I didn’t.
After the short taxi ride, I appear outside Boris’ building. It’s nicer than I would’ve expected of him, but it’s still quite casual. I get buzzed up, and when I stop at Boris’ door, I almost consider turning around and leaving. Before I can do anything like that, Boris’ door swings open and I see him. He looks— I don’t let myself think it often, but he looks handsome and I wonder if he’s put in any special effort or if he just happened to be looking like this.
His hair is clean, a rarity, and it curls prettily around his face. He’s wearing a simple grey sweater and sweat pants, but he makes it look nice. He steps aside to let me in, and when I do I smell the faint smell of cigarette smoke, but also something citrus. I wonder if he sprayed something in here before I came. I look around and the apartment isn’t anywhere near as dirty I assumed it might be. I guess because Boris doesn’t actually live here very often.
“Do you rent this year round?” I ask, looking around at the simple living room with a brown couch and coffee table in front of a television. “Nah, belongs to… work associate. I pay him some to stay in it when I’m in town. I don’t think he really lives in it, though. Never here when I am here.” Boris says. “How- I mean how often are you in town?” I ask, feeling a little needy and pathetic but also wondering how many times we could’ve ran into each other and didn’t.
“Oh… I should’ve looked for you sooner, Theo” he says, clearly getting what I meant when I ask, and against my will I am hit by a wave of tenderness because of his use of my real name. I nod hastily, wanting to move on before this gets emotional, something we so rarely got with each other. “No, I mean it. I just… I didn’t know if you’d be here, or if… I didn’t know if you’d want to see me” Boris says honestly, looking at me with a nervous and almost sad looking face.
I pull back a little, “why wouldn’t I want to see you?” I ask. I’d spent years wanting even a phone call from Boris, how didn’t he know that I’d have given a million things to see him again in New York? “Well… I never called you. I never… I didn’t write or any of the things I should have. By the time I got to New York, we had not spoke in years.” Boris says, trailing off and picking up a cup from the coffee table. He offered the cup to me, and sat down on the couch while I processed what he was saying. I took the cup and let the words I wanted to say roll around in my mouth.
I don’t want to admit this out loud, but I feel like it’s the only way to get my point across, and suddenly I am struck by an intense desperation to make sure Boris never leaves me again. It feels like clinging to something impossible to have, but I want to try like I didn’t when I was a teenager. “I missed you,” I breathe out, “a lot”. Boris looks up at me and his face shifts for nervous to relieved, and then to sad again. “I missed you too, Potter. I know I was… Not the best to you. I hope you understand now that I could not come to New York with you” he says.
I don’t really get it, not all the way, and sometimes over the years I had desperately wished Boris had come with me, somehow convincing myself that everything would’ve been better if he had. I nod anyway, always eager to please Boris. Boris moves over a little on the couch, expecting me to sit next to him. I finally do, feeling almost out of place in my slacks and nice button up shirt among his comfortable and casual apartment. I smell the cup he’s given me, expecting some mix with vodka, or strong coffee, but it’s actually tea. I’m taken back to when we were younger and Boris drank black tea in my house all the time, boiling it in a pot on the stove the Russian way, with loose leaves.
I take a sip, and it’s still warm so he probably put it on the stove when I told him I was coming over. My chest feels lighter with the realization. I notice that Boris has another cup of tea on the table and he starts drinking it. “Not much in apartment, if you want a beer or food we have to buy it” Boris says. I figured once I got to Boris’ we’d get straight to… getting back at Kitsey, no time for all this small talk. “I’m- I’m fine” I say, almost unsure of my answer. I’m not sure what Boris wants me to say, if he wants to go out or stay here in the apartment.
“Tell me about your girl” Boris says, and I’m taken aback by it. Why on earth does he want to hear about her right now? I certainly don’t want to talk about her right now. “Well, she… you remember the Barbours?” I ask, and Boris nods in agreement. “She’s- it’s Kitsey Barbour. Andy’s little sister.” I say. Boris laughs a little at this and I bristle, “What’s funny about that?”. “Nothing! Just… Well, she’s so connected to everything. How are you sure you really love her?” Boris asks. I take a deep breath in. I hate to admit it, but it’s Boris, so I know I have to. “I don’t” I say exhaling.
Boris raises his eyebrows a little, but doesn’t seem as shocked by my admission as even I am. “Well, that is good. Here is my experience. Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you. What you want to live and be happy in the world is a woman who has her own life and lets you have yours.” Boris says. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I remember Boris’ wife and children. “Your wife?” I ask, with a little uncertainty in my voice. Boris shrugs, “She sleeps with men in Stockholm, I sleep with people wherever. No matter. We don’t see each other too often. Mostly she is just…”, Boris searches for words before settling on, “Mistake I made when I was young”.
I’m taken aback by this, the fact that him and his wife are both apparently so uncaring for one another. But my brain gets stuck on the part where he said ‘people’, like a record scratch, over and over it loops on in my head. Boris said I was the only boy he’d ever been with and that we just needed girls, so maybe it was just a slip of the tongue or poor word choice that I’m getting too stuck on. Boris senses maybe that I’m loosing the plot, “Maybe you could do that with this Kat girl?” Boris suggests. I don’t correct him on Kitsey's name, but I do wonder if he’s expecting me to.
I consider this, but almost as soon as it comes up I dismiss it mentally. I don’t think I’d feel good having an arrangement like that with Kitsey. As much as I think marrying her would be good, we’d have to be genuinely faithful I think. We’d be actually living together, and I’d be spending time with the Barbours. How could I do that and also sleep with whoever I please? And how would I be okay with her sleeping with whoever she pleases? Especially Tom Cable. I don’t think I could really stand being around Mrs. Barbour knowing I was cheating on her daughter constantly yet presenting myself as her perfect husband. I don't think I could handle knowing I was lying to Mrs. Barbour, that Kitsey and I would both be lying.
I shrug, “Maybe”. Boris shrugs back and his sly smirk from earlier returns, “Well let’s just see how things go with making her jealous, letting her know you have other option” Boris says, and he starts to trail one hand down my stomach. His tea is on the table now. I let out a shaky breath and put my tea down next to his, and then Boris is leaning in and kissing me before I can think about it.