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They make it out, barely. They reach the border between Poland and Kaliningrad, belly-crawling through the last few miles because the brush is sparse and there’s always the risk of a motorist catching sight of them. They’d stolen a boat and taken the river until they reached Elblag, their clothes drying stiff and tacky against their skin, smelling of dirty water and old metal. Arek shivered in the bottom of the boat, curled protectively around his injured leg, while Robert - who’s been on a boat enough times to count on two hands, if that - steers. The current of the Vistula did most of the work. It’s almost enough to make Robert wonder if the country is trying to purge itself of them.
There’s nothing in the air of Kaliningrad to let them know they’re left Poland behind, no change in the scenery or shift in the atmosphere. Robert drags them both along, hauling Arek with an arm around his waist as Arek tries to hobble fast enough to keep pace. It’s not until they spot a roadside sign in Russian that they know for sure they’ve escaped, and even then, there are cars full of uniformed men going up and down the roadways. They have to keep behind the treeline. Fortunately for them, there are a lot of trees.
Arek feels warm, warmer than he ought to. Their clothes have mostly dried, but for a lingering dampness next to the skin, but the wind is still sharp enough to slice through wool and Robert knows his skin is icy. Arek is burning up under his arm. They haven’t stopped to check on their respective injuries since they left the boat behind, but the need is becoming more pressing by the moment. Robert is the less injured of the two of them, but even his strength is running out.
It’s a relief, then, when they come across a shack in the woods. Robert sets Arek down against a tree before he goes to investigate, hand going instinctively to his waist before he remembers that his empty gun is at the bottom of the Vistula. It doesn’t end up mattering anyway, because the shack - an old hunting cabin, by the looks of it - is populated by nothing but a stuffed bear head mounted on the wall. More importantly for them, there’s a rusty cot and a stack of blankets in one corner. Robert grabs the blankets, shakes them out over the cot, and goes to retrieve Arek.
Arek’s eyes are closed when Robert returns, golden eyelashes sweeping cheeks that are far too pale. He would look cherubic, like a fairy-tale prince, if not for the grubby clothes. He looks like a fairy-tale prince with the grubby clothes. Robert feels a flicker of temptation to crouch down and look his fill, but he pushes it away. Now isn’t the time
“Mmph,” Arek says when Robert pulls at his arm. “Let me sleep.”
“In a minute.” Robert tries to pull Arek’s arm over his shoulders again, only to discover that his muscles won’t obey him any longer. Well. Shit. That’s not good.
He must make some small noise of distress, because Arek opens his eyes and looks at him then. “Your head,” he says. It takes a moment for Robert to connect the dots and remember getting his skull cracked back at the pier. When he lifts a hand to touch the sore spot, it comes away clean, but the slightest pressure of his fingers still makes him wince. He can survive wincing, though. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Arek straggles to his feet, favouring his uninjured leg. “Someone should look at it.”
“Who?” God knows how far they are from the nearest doctor. God knows, also, how far they are from a doctor who wouldn’t immediately turn them in.
“Hm. Well.” Arek purses his lips. “Where’s Maciek when you need him?”
An odd look crosses his face then, but it’s gone in an instant. It occurs to Robert then that Maciek doesn’t know what’s become of Arek, and likely never will. None of their friends do. It’s safer that way, for everyone; but it would have been nice to say goodbye.
If they’re lucky, there will be time for regrets later. Not now. “We should get inside,” Robert says instead. “Out of the wind.” He thinks it’s this last that convinced a shivering Arek to move, and he hobbles past Robert into the hunting shack.
“Charming place,” he says once they’re inside, before falling to the cot with a grunt. Robert remembers for a moment, vividly, the night - it was less than a week ago, wasn’t it? - he tossed Arek on the couch, watched him laugh as he bounced. Well, the cot can’t be much less comfortable than the couch was. It’s narrow, but just wide enough for two. For once in his life, Robert is glad he isn’t broader.
“Clothes off,” he says, and shucks off his jacket and trousers. Arek stirs himself long enough to toss his sweater, socks, and pants on the floor. He’s shivering. Robert crawls in beside him, pulling the blankets up around their shoulders. They’re scratchy, and smell of mildew, but at least they’re dry.
“You can’t sleep,” Arek mutters, shuffling around until he and Robert are face-to-face. “Can’t sleep when you’re concussed. You won’t wake up.”
“I’m not concussed.” He’s fairly certain, anyway.
Arek flashes a peace sign at him. “How many fingers?”
“Two.”
Arek makes a noncommittal noise and drops his hand, letting it rest on Robert’s bicep. He’s still warm, almost unpleasantly so. “I should look at your leg.”
“Is that the best line you’ve got?”
“I’m serious.” He is, but it’s hard to work up the motivation to move.
“Later,” Arek says, voice snagging on a yawn. “Nothing’s going to change in the next couple hours.”
The logic doesn’t line up with Arek’s insistence that Robert is about to slide into a coma and die from a light blow to the head, but lassitude has crept into his limbs and his head is full of cotton wool. The warmth of Arek’s body is wrong, but his nearness is comforting, and Robert has no fight left in him. He closes his eyes.
When he opens his eyes, it could be two hours later, or twelve. His mouth tastes foul and his arms and legs seize up when he tries to move them, but as far as he can tell, the light outside hasn’t changed. Arek is twitching lightly in his sleep, but it’s not a cause for concern. He did the same thing when he slept in Robert’s flat. He’s also burning up, which he was not doing back in the flat, and which is a significantly more pressing issue. Robert shakes his shoulder lightly. “Arek.”
Arek bats at his hands, not opening his eyes. “Mph. Fuck off.”
“Arek.” But Arek only rolls over with a grumble, tucking his knees up against his chest and his face against the mattress. His bare shoulder peeps out from underneath the blankets, flecked with gooseflesh. The urge to press his face to the skin and breathe in Arek’s scent is almost overwhelming. Robert resists it. He pulls the blankets up into place instead, and slides out of bed.
He pulls his trousers and shirt on, wincing as his muscles protest, but leaves the jacket off. It’s too noticeable. The metal trim that hangs from the lapels is tarnished from the river water, and he thinks there’s a metaphor there, but he doesn’t pursue the line of thought any further; Arek’s the scholar, not him. The air is cold, though not bitterly so; the type of weather that always prompted his mother to fuss at him for not wearing a coat. The thought of his mother stings, and he pushes it to the side. Later, later; thoughts of absent friends and missing mothers later. He needs to look after Arek first.
He crouches down next to the cot and peels the blanket back far enough to check on the bullet wound. It’s clean, in and out, which is a small mercy. It also doesn’t seem to be infected. It’s red and puffy, but that’s to be expected; there’d been nothing to bind it with on their trip up the river, so it’s gone entirely untended thus far. At least it stopped bleeding on its own. Just in case, he grabs his discarded jacket, sets his teeth to the lining, and rips out a strip to tie around the injury. That will at least keep it safe while he looks for a disinfectant.
A further search of the shack reveals - thank God - a bottle of what smells like vodka. It’s nearly empty, but the tablespoon sloshing around in the bottom is all he needs. He goes back to the cot, unties the makeshift bandage, and dumps the vodka on the bullet hole.
This accomplishes what he didn’t manage earlier and wakes Arek. “Motherfucker!”
“Sorry, sorry.” He puts the bandage back in place, then crawls up onto the cot and pushes Arek’s frizzing hair out of his face. “How do you feel?”
“Like I just got woken up by someone dumping disinfectant on my leg.” He pushes himself up in his elbows. “Where did you - no, nevermind. How do you feel?”
“Not concussed,” Robert says, which only earns him a roll of the eyes. His temperature check is done; he doesn’t need to keep his hand on Arek’s forehead. He leaves it there anyway. Arek is still warm, too warm, and sweaty. Robert can feel the pulse beating at his temple. It’s strong, at least. And his eyes are clear, not fever-bright like he might have expected. Maybe he’s not feverish after all? Maybe Robert’s burning just as hot as Arek is, and he just can’t tell. He doesn’t feel warm; he can’t quite keep himself from shivering.
“Robert.” Arek reaches for him. “It’s late. Or early, I don’t know which.” He holds his wrist out for inspection, still bearing a cracked watch stuck at 21:23. It must have stopped when Arek got dunked in the water. “You should rest more.”
Christ, it’s tempting. It’s tempting on a level that frightens him, all the more so because of how easily the image comes to mind. He could crawl into Arek’s embrace from here, tuck his head under Arek’s chin, lay down in the circle of his arms where the steady drumbeat of his heart could lull him back to sleep. It’s not a position he’s ever indulged in before - not the way a man sleeps with his wife, or girlfriend, or one-night stand. Not even the way he slept with Arek, that one time. It’s how he wants to sleep now. What would it feel like, to yield like that?
But he can’t, not now. He stands up instead. “We need supplies,” he says. “Food, medication. I’m going to go find some.”
“Where?”
It’s a good question. He doesn’t, precisely, have an answer. “There must be some houses around here. Maybe a village. We’re not in the middle of nowhere.”
He can’t really blame Arek for the raised eyebrows his declaration receives; after all, he has no actual proof. But he can’t go back. “I’ll look, anyway,” he says. “Try to find something. You stay and rest.”
Arek is still looking at him, eyes sleep-bruised and pale. Robert breaks first, and has to look away. It’s his destiny to always break first, it seems. “I’ll be back soon,” he mutters into his chest, and stumps out. Arek doesn’t follow him.
Walking is harder than he thought it would be. True, his legs are uninjured, but that doesn’t mean they’re in decent working order. His attempts to walk off the aches and pains left over from the journey are less than successful, and his thighs scream at him with every step. It’s hard, somehow, to walk in a straight line. Hard, and sort of pointless - it’s not as if he has a destination in mind. But he keeps going anyway. He owes Arek this much, he thinks; he owes him an attempt.
At long last, the trees thin out, and a structure appears in the distance. The sight gives Robert a fresh burst of badly-needed energy, and he quickens his pace. The house reveals itself to him as the trees thin out, a building not much larger than the hunting shack, but built of cement instead of wood. The roof is corroded sheet metal, and it almost blends in with the grey of the sky. A few scattered chickens peck around in the dirt outside, though from what Robert can see, there’s no food to be found. He hopes his luck will be better inside.
There’s a pair of slippers sitting by the back door when he slips in, but no sign that anyone is home. The only sound he hears is a distant, tinny radio. The house is so small, it’s not at all difficult for him to find his way to the kitchen. Would the residents keep their medications there, if they had any? His mother always had the aspirin and bandages in the cabinet over the kitchen sink, the better to patch him up if he burst in after playing with a skinned knee. He doesn’t think any children live here, but even if he can’t find aspirin in the kitchen, they need food as well. Might as well start somewhere.
The kitchen is clean, but bare. He opens several cupboards in succession, and finds nothing but two plates and two mugs. There’s a half-eaten loaf of bread on the table, next to a wilted apple. He pockets the apple, but hesitates over the bread. He and Arek have nothing right now; these people don’t have much more. If he takes the last of their food, will they starve? Is there any hunting to be done in these woods, any mushrooms to pick? He’s never hunted a day in his life, and he’s too exhausted to start now, but maybe he could come back later with a skinned rabbit and an apology . . .
He’s too lost in his thoughts to hear footsteps creeping up behind him; he doesn’t register the presence of another person until he feels a solid crack against the back of his head. He’d like to believe it’s the shock rather than the pain that sends him to his knees, but it would be self-delusion. The blow landed on an already tender spot. For a second, spots swim in front of his eyes, and he’s afraid he might pass out.
When he twists around, he sees an assailant - a woman, older than his mother, hair iron-grey and face lined with wrinkles. She’s clutching a broom with both hands, upside down, and she waves it threateningly when he tries to straggle to his feet. “Gryaznyy vor! Ukrast' u starukhi!”
Robert doesn’t know a word of Russian, but the tone speaks for himself. “No, no,” he says, in Polish, holding out his hands in what he hopes will be a placating gesture. “I need food, medicine. I can -” He stops. He’d been going to say, pay, but all he has is złoty, and he doesn’t think that will do her much good in Russian shops. Not that it matters much, anyway; judging from the look on her face, she speaks about as much Polish as he speaks Russian.
“Medicine,” he says again. How can he pantomime this? “For . . . fever.” He puts a hand to his forehead, pushing his hair back, then brings a cupped hand to his mouth as if he’s tossing back pills. “Aspirin. Um, shit . . . penicillin?” Fuck, why did he never pick up any Russian?
The woman brandishes the broom at home again, but he thinks her expression may have softened a bit. She puts the back of her hand to his forehead, lips pursed. “Ty bolen?”
“No, no. A . . . friend, a -” He gestures towards the door. “Out there. In the woods.”
She makes a phlegmy sound deep in her throat that he had no idea how to interpret, then turns and stomps off down the hall. Robert stays where he is, on his knees, until she turns around and gestures at him with a word that, for once, needs no translation. Come along!
He follows, and finds himself in a bathroom. It’s a tight squeeze, so he leans against the wall and tries to take up as little space as possible while the old woman rifles through the cabinet over the sink. Not a woman after his mother’s heart, then. She pulls out a white bottle and shakes it at him. He can hear pills rattling around inside. “Eto?”
He holds a hand out for the bottle, but she snatches it away from his grasp. “Ya idu s toboy. Pokazhite mne.” He stares at her, uncomprehending, and she clicks her tongue in annoyance, then gestures: another “come along,” or possibly “let’s go.” He’s fairly certain anyway. Besides, it’s not as if he has much choice in the matter.
He leads her back the way he came through the woods, grateful that a recent rain left the ground soft enough to hold the imprint of his footsteps. She doesn’t seem to mind the muck, but then, she’s wearing a pair of sturdy work boots. Robert is wearing the same dress shoes he wore to the ceremony, which are now as ruined as his uniform. He doesn’t much care, but he’s not overjoyed about the mud overflowing the tops of his shoes and soaking through his socks. It’s not cold enough for frostbite - he thinks - but it’s not pleasant either.
When they step through the door of the cabin, he has the urge to stand between her and Arek, which he recognizes immediately as ridiculous - what’s she going to do, throw the pills at his head? For that matter, what’s he going to do, frozen and headsore and exhausted as he is? It turns out he doesn’t need to worry anyway, because her face softens as soon as she lays eyes on Arek, and she says something in Russian too rapid-fire for him to even make out individual words. Arek blinks at her.
“She, erm.” Robert rubs the back of his head, then regrets it. “She found me.” He’d prefer to avoid mentioning the broom to the head, if possible. Arek nods, then - to Robert’s shock - answers her in halting, accented Russian. She says something in response, gesturing as she does, and goes to sit on the cot beside him. Robert, feeling less than steady on his feet, sinks down to sit on the floor. He very much wants to close his eyes. Arek seems to be in good hands now; he can afford to.
She’s bent over Arek, the mother-hen fussiness of her tone recognizable in any language, when Arek says something to her that causes her attention to snap back to Robert. He holds his hands up in an effort to forestall whatever’s coming, but it’s two against one, and he ought to have known it was no use. She marches over to him, snapping her fingers under his nose, and raps out something else he can’t understand.
“She says you should be resting,” Arek says, tone amused. “And put something cold on your head.”
So much for not mentioning the broom, then. “Nothing but cold shit,” he says. “Around here.”
Arek laughs, and says something that Robert hopes isn’t a direct translation to the woman. She makes a huffing noise, points to Robert, and then to the bed - no need for translation there - and stomps outside. Across the room, Arek’s getting to his feet.
“Doesn’t she think you need to rest?” Robert grumbles , as Arek reaches his side and hauls him upright, half-supporting, half-dragging him over to the cot. Maybe it’s more like three-quarters dragging. His feet aren’t quite cooperating.
“She says all I need is aspirin,” Arek informs him. He herds Robert onto the cot and tucks the corners of the blanket under his shoulders. “And she likes what you did with the vodka and the jacket lining. She says it was very handy.”
Robert doesn’t have the energy to do much more than grunt in response to this, but it doesn’t matter; the woman’s returned, holding a cold, sopping wet rag bunched up in her hand. He lets her press it against the spot where the broom made contact without making a fuss, and spends an indeterminate amount of time drifting while she and Arek talk over his head. He must close his eyes at some point, because suddenly it’s properly dark out, and Arek’s the only other person in the room. He’s got his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, skin cast golden in the light of an oil lamp that hadn’t been there before. Like a painting, Robert thinks.
“Didn’t know you spoke Russian,” he says.
Arek only half-opens his eyes. “I read it better than I speak it.”
“Still better than me.”
“Hmm.” Arek looks amused again. “I took a couple Russian Literature courses. Professor was a real hard-ass, said we had to read them in the original Russian. Fucking Zhukovsky.” He snorts. “It was total shit in Russian and in Polish.”
Robert’s never heard of Zhukovsky in his life, so he’s not in a position to agree or disagree. He doesn’t even know what makes a piece of literature shit or not shit, or if that’s something you can recognize automatically or whether you need to go to college for it. He doesn’t read much. His father never cared for it - too soft.
“That woman,” he starts, then stops.
“Larisa.” Arek nods. “She left the lamp. Says she’ll come back later with food.”
Robert glances to the spot on the floor where he’d tossed his jacket. It’s still there. “Will she say anything?”
Arek shakes his head. “She says the militsiya executed her son. She won’t talk to them.”
Robert wonders for a moment if her son actually did anything, then decides the question isn’t worth asking. Even if he didn’t, what’s Robert going to do about it? He can’t do anything about anything, now. Nothing but keeping Arek safe, keeping him close. Robert wants him close.
He shifts to the side, holding up a corner of the blanket. “Come up here?”
Arek gives him an unreadable look. “You want that?”
Robert supposes he deserved that. He could make an excuse, blame the cold, but he owes Arek better, so he says, “I asked, didn’t I?”
Arek appears to consider that for a moment, then comes to a decision. He stands up, only limping a little, and climbs into the cot. Robert throws the blanket over both of them, and Arek slides an arm across Robert’s waist. He’s still warm, but not burning anymore. He pushes his forehead against Robert’s, and they lie there for several silent seconds, breathing in tandem.
Robert can feel himself starting to drift off again. He forces his eyes open. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Arek’s thumb is moving in circles over the small of Robert’s back. “Thanks to you. And the aspirin.”
“Glad to share the credit,” Robert says, and Arek laughs. The movement shakes both of them. Robert wants to press his face into the crook of Arek’s neck, but it still feels like too much of a liberty. There’s so much they haven’t said yet, so much he still needs to apologize for. Things he’s not brave enough to give voice to. Getting shot at was the easy part.
Instead, he says, “you speak any other languages?”
“Not really.” Arek’s thumb briefly stops moving as he considers, and Robert regrets opening his mouth. “I know . . . about five words of Czech, and I can order a beer in Danish. Oh, and I can sing along to ‘99 Luftballoons.’”
“Do you know what any of it means?”
Arek smirks. “You asked if I spoke it, not if I understood it.”
Robert laughs, shoving Arek’s shoulder. Arek shoves him back, and for a few minutes, they’re occupied in tussling over the cot. Neither of them have enough energy to do more than shove, so there’s no clear victor, but it doesn’t matter. It ends when Arek grabs - cups, really - the back of Robert’s neck and holds him in place, gaze going from amused to contemplative. He moves his thumb again, this time brushing through Robert’s hair. Under other circumstances, Robert thinks, this would feel tense. It doesn’t. It feels calm.
“You came back for me,” he says after a beat.
Robert swallows. “Yeah.”
“After I told you to fuck off.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
The question seems almost too self-evident to answer. “They were going to kill you.”
“And they almost killed you, too.” Arek’s eyes are stormy. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did,” Robert says again. He thinks of his last words to Halinka. He wonders if they told her he’s dead, and isn’t sure whether or not he wants that. Whatever they told her, he hopes she knows she’s free.
Arek kisses him, so lightly it almost feels like a ghost. “When we cross the border.” He pauses. “The next border, I mean. Whichever one it is.”
“Sweden,” Robert says, “or Denmark.” Either way, they need to cross the Baltic Sea. He hopes there’s a boat they can catch, because he absolutely isn’t up for swimming it.
“Whatever.” Arek shrugs. “You’re not . . . stuck with me. You know that, right? You can go wherever you want.”
“There isn’t anywhere I want to go,” Robert says. He’s never considered traveling before, never wondered what the rest of the world looked like. Denmark is as good as Sweden is as good as America to him. His only criteria is that it has to be someplace the militsiya can’t find them.
Maybe he’ll send a postcard once he gets there. He’ll never see or speak to his mother again, he knows that. He at least wants to give her some kind of proper goodbye, and a thanks.
“That’s not what I meant.” Arek blows a breath out. “I won’t be anybody’s burden.”
The idea is so ludicrous, Robert thinks he’s misheard for a moment. Arek doesn’t want to be a burden? Arek, who speaks languages other than Polish and has skills he can apply outside of beating people up for the government? He thinks he’d be the one dragging Robert down instead of the other way around? He wants to laugh, but recognizes that would be the worst possible move right now.
Instead, he repeats, “You won’t be anybody’s burden,” but with a different inflection. The meaning is clear.
Arek gives him a long, unreadable look. Then he leans in and kisses him again. It’s a much more substantial kiss this time. Robert leans into it, cherishing the rasp of Arek’s stubble against his cheek, the strength of the hand that’s still clasping the back of his neck. The other hand is creeping up under Robert’s shirt to tweak his nipple. They go on kissing until they’re both hard, then kick off their respective trousers and rock against each other, breathing harsh in the quiet of the cabin. Arek tightens his hold on Robert’s neck when he comes, and it’s really that sensation more than anything else that sends Robert over the edge. He gives in to his earlier urge and buries his face in Arek’s neck to muffle the noises he makes.
They lay there panting for a minute, then Robert leans over and grabs his jacket off the floor to clean them both off. Arek laughs as he watches Robert toss it back afterwards. “Hope you weren’t planning on wearing that again.”
“I wasn’t.” Tomorrow morning, he’ll rip it up and use the clean scraps for more bandages. For now, he lets Arek shift him around until they’re back-to-front, Arek’s chin hooked over Robert’s shoulder, and drifts off again.
When he wakes, Arek’s no longer in the bed beside him. Drowsy contentment gives way to a moment of panic, before he lifts up his head and sees Larisa sitting on a stool beside the cot, a steaming bowl in her hands. She pushes the bowl at him. “Poyest’.”
Once again, no translation is necessary. At least one question is, though. “Arek?”
Arek must have introduced himself at some point, because she nods and gestures towards the door. “Vyshel. On vernetsya.”
He assumes it’s not bad news, going by her tone and expression, so he digs into the food. It’s vegetable stew - more water than vegetable, but he’s not complaining. He doesn’t think anyone who lives around here has much in the larder. She watches him like a hawk until he’s done, then takes the bowl from his hands and gestures for him to turn around so she can look at his head. He acquiesces without a fight.
By the time she’s done, Arek has returned, face red and curls damp, a metal bucket swinging from his grasp. “I found a stream nearby,” he says to Robert, after greeting Larisa. “And there’s a well out back, but the rope’s rotted out. You can use this to wash up, if you want.”
“Is that a suggestion?” He can’t really smell himself, but he’s sure it isn’t pleasant.
“It’s not not one.” Arek hands him the bucket. “It’s cold, though, so be careful.”
There’s no real way to be careful when it comes to getting cold, but Robert does his best to scrub his face, hands, and hair without soaking his clothes. Larisa’s speaking to Arek as he washes, and as he finishes with the bucket, she stands and moves towards the door, gesturing. Robert glances at Arek. “What did she say?”
“That there’s a harbour on the far side of the trees.” Arek looks sidelong at him. “You feel up to walking?”
He hasn’t got much choice. They’ve stayed too long already: they might be out of Poland, but they’re still in the Bloc, and every moment that passes increases the risk that someone less friendly than Larisa will stumble across them. “I can manage. You?”
“I’m fine.” He turns and says something to Larisa, who nods. “Udachi.” Then she turns around and goes out.
“What was that?” Robert asks.
Arek holds a hand out to help him off the cot. “‘Good luck,’ I think.”
The less said about their second trip through the trees, the better. They have no map or compass, only Larisa’s gestures to point them in the right direction. It’s winter, but the trees are all pines, so no almost no light leaches through the branches to illuminate their way. There’s no way to know how far they’ve gone, or how far they have yet to go. As a child, Robert had accustomed himself to getting through unpleasant situations by counting down in five-minute chunks - one more hour, fifty-five more minutes, fifty more minutes, etc. Not being able to guess at how much time they have left in the dark and the cold and the ever-present fear of discovery is a new kind of torture.
“Should we stop for the night?” he asks, after an indeterminate amount of time. It feels like it’s been hours, but who can be sure? Arek’s breathing has gotten increasingly shallow and raspy, and he’s limping. Robert doesn’t want him collapsing.
Laboured breathing and limping aside, Arek doesn’t look especially troubled. “A little further,” he says. “I can make it if you can.” He cocks one eyebrow, expression somehow still readable in the gloom. “Unless you’re too tired?”
“Fuck off,” Robert says, without any heat, and they’re off again. He’s been played and he knows it, but he also knows Arek’s right. They have to keep going.
His calves are burning, and he’s just starting to wonder if he’s the one who’s going to collapse, when they reach the edge of the treeline. It happens very suddenly: there’s a new scent on the breeze, briny and sharp, and then the sky opens up overhead and they’re out in the open. They’re standing behind a line of squat, concrete buildings - industrial ones, Robert thinks - and beyond them, a broad field of greyish-blue. They’ve reached the sea.
“Told you,” Arek says next to his ear, and Robert punches him lightly on the arm. “Come on,” he says, “we have to find a boat.”
The boats in the harbour, it turns out, are all commercial vessels, run by men in grey wool sweaters that nearly blend into the boats. Arek speaks to one of them in Russian while Robert stands by awkwardly, hands in his pockets. Without his jacket - which is still on the floor of the hunting cabin - the wind coming off the water cuts through him like a knife, and it’s taking everything he has to keep his teeth from chattering.
Arek breaks off mid-sentence with an impatient gesture, turning to Robert. “You still have your wallet?”
Silently, Robert pulls it out and hands it over. Arek rifles through it and pulls out the złoty, waving it under the sailor’s nose. “Etogo dostatochno?”
The man snatches it from Arek’s hand, pocketing it. “Da. Derzhis' podal'she ot dorogi. Desyat' chasov puti.”
“He says to stay out of the way on board,” Arek says to Robert, steering him towards the boat with a hand on his elbow. Robert glances at the sailor, trying to gauge if he noticed, but he’s busy counting the złoty. “It’s ten hours across the water to Denmark.”
“Better than I thought,” Robert says. It seems impossible, even after the journey they’ve had, that they’ll be home free in less than a day. He doesn’t think he’ll breathe easy until he sees a street sign in Danish. But they’re close.
None of the other sailors seem to take much notice of them as they board. Arek hustles Robert into a corner, where stacked crates block the worst of the wind, then yanks a tarp off the crates and puts it around Robert’s shoulders. Robert, who’s already lost the battle to keep his teeth from chattering, still manages to laugh as he wraps it around his shoulders. “Mother hen.”
“You should talk.” Arek leans forward against the railing. “See that?” He points. “Denmark.”
Robert gets up from where he was leaning against the crates and goes to stand next to Arek at the railing. He squints. From this distance, all he can see are the outlines of what might be buildings, or trees, or some unknown, third thing. “Doesn’t look like much.”
Arek shrugs. “It’s a place to start.”
Robert takes one of his hands out from under the tarp and sets it down on the railing, a hairsbreadth from Arek’s. Arek glances sidelong at him from under his eyelashes, then carefully moves his hand over so that their fingers bump together. He lifts his index finger, placing it over Robert’s thumb and letting it rest there. The most they can do, as long as they’re still on the boat and have to keep looking over their shoulders. But they can see Denmark in the distance.
Robert wants to lean against Arek; he wants to put his head on Arek’s shoulder and drift off. He does neither. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the horizon, which inches towards them with every wave beneath their feet. He thinks about what they’ll do, once their feet touch Danish soil. If he can lean on Arek then. Where he’ll buy a postcard to send to his mother, and what he’ll write.
I love you. I’m alive. I’m safe.
Thank you.
I’m not lying anymore.