Chapter Text
луна
noun ; UA
a sound that is heard after it has been reflected off a surface such as a wall or a cliff.
He often doesn’t bite all the way he had to be where he’s now. Because how a problematic asocial child with no many interesting aspirations achieved to things he should’ve only dreamt of, craving with his nails in the world a path for him and anyone who wanted to follow it. He goes to sleep and sometimes dreams about that rough acid teen with scraped knees who got high and above, running away from daylight and hiding under the shadows, somehow and somewhere that he’ll wake up and look himself in the glass of the photos framed in the wall the same scared scraped teen, lost and alone. He, Boris Pavlikovsky, is forever a lost acid kid that turned nineteen in a blink.
❝Hey!❞
He has to snap back, he notices he’s been holding the same whiskey bottle since another of his coworkers gave it to him for whatever table it is, he scolds himself for earning that call from his nasty boss, hoping him to discover her girlfriend fucking with the morning shift bartender.
❝You’ve been distracted more, Boris, pay attention or that fucker might use it as an excuse to fire you now that you’re checking it late more often❞, said a mate, taking his order for him.
But at this point, he’d gladly take that as God’s sign to find something better or else. But he can’t help it, to go back to the same ethereal love lyrics repeating like broken records of what he wants or what he thinks he deserves: the Red desires on an illusion that’ll never come again, the life he wanted with Theo, and how he’s Enchanted with the growing feelings towards Will. It plays, but it always answers itself with the analogy of an addicted person jumping between pot and molly as if they wanted to believed his body is less fucked up with one than the other.
He wonders then who he pictures a better life with in hypothetical cases. He used to imagine a life he could call his, to leave Las Vegas’ empty space and travel to a pacific life somewhere in a lost small town with Theo, in a house full of sunflowers and maybe more dogs than Popchick, him making breakfast and dinner, watching news like an old married couple and being themselves. But as he wanted and waited, it just bittered. Because he got stuck in New York, tried to enjoy the crumbles of life and destroying himself to his pain wasn’t only because of love and shit. And then Will steps in, and it makes him imagine a life somewhere as long as his starlight doesn’t leave because nothing seemed to be important, nor the house, nor the place nor the roles.
He felt like he discovered he just waited and wanted all that, to feel a sip of joy.
❝Stop slacking, you Putin, we are saturated!❞, his manager screams again, snapping his fingers in his face, ❝move!❞
And there wasn’t a wrong choice, just decisions, and he doesn’t know to choose if he’s part of the people who always search to figure out what’s their place in the world.
✦ ––––—–––—–––––––—––– ✦
When he stated that he’d confront his problems, he didn’t mean to stand for the worst sooner than later as that well known frown was a few inches away from him. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen him when they clearly saw the other from the cereal aisle. If The Hole was the first of Dante’s hell circles, Joseph Berryfied was the closest to Lucifer.
Where’s Marina when he needs her?
❝Pavlikovsky❞. His name is called out by that one baritone tone. He doesn’t want to look up, but he has to pretend the bravery that slipped from him. ❝long time❞.
❝A very long time❞, he whispered.
He’s stills the way he remembered and met him, a serious version of Marina, just now in an italian styled suit that screamt to everyone that he has money to bail out Argentina from its peso devaluation (or whatever Eddie said about economy shenanigans) and he’s the perfect candidate to every conservative old money mother to have as a son-in-law or every magnate to be his friend. He tries to relax with the fact he stills being Marina’s brother, same dark brown curls, same green eyes, but without all trace of sweetness she has.
❝I heard you found a new vocalist for your band❞, Joe finally says again, looking at the shelves, ❝Bill?❞
❝Will. William Byers, he has natural talent after all❞.
❝And that you might have an opportunity to play at The Oniric, isn’t it?❞
His Windows Vista system stopped for a second. He forgot Marina and him weren’t the siblings who fought and hated each other, they’re always been closed since he remembers, she must’ve told him about their situation, surely about all and if that’s the case, he’s screwed and needs to wait a little more for a legal citation because of The Hole’s play. He cursed at his eurasian ancestors, probably jews who weren’t burnt to death, for how life wasn’t giving him a rest.
❝Yes, we might❞.
He gazed at him, also wondering how he managed to keep his cool around him without strangling him for everything he has done. He knows Joseph Berryfield isn’t exactly the peacefullest man alive, much for his own delusion, because he’s more his father’s son than his mother’s. And it circles again, that thought, "Our mother”, Marina called it, as if his ghost was wandering their house and maybe it’s kind of true. And he wondered how Joe never killed him when he had the chance.
❝Good❞.
The man with green emerald eyes took a cereal box and left him on the aisle with his jelly legs and trembling hands, wondering if all this was a bad dream. He rushed to get out of there and avoid the soft raindrops sprinkling in the supermarket.
A few text messages were left after that too.
You were here too!?
Joe told me he talked
to you. Boris, are you
alright? Answer me…
✦ ––––—–––—–––––––—––– ✦
After that, he swears he hasn’t done anything too bad for a while. In fact, he’s been a decent citizen and student, going to all his lectures and classes, actually doing his homework instead of paying for someone to do so, taking notes, eating medium healthy food, cleaning his place from time to time, even spending time on himself to write or drink vodka trying to reduce his marijuana consume.
God, he’s been a decent human being.
❝Zirka?❞. He saw his phone screen light up with Will’s distinctive phone call notification, he gave him the guitar intro of Boys Don’t Cry. It’s odd from Will to call him, but he didn’t might at all, he just answered. ❝William, my rockstar, missing me so bad?❞
If he, who’s the worst person alive, hasn’t been bad, and karma knows, why do people who never do bad things happen to live the worst things? He heard Will’s shaky voice trying to explain himself in a hurry, stumbling over his own sobs, begging him to come for him. And his heart shrank on every pitiful sound.
❝My God, zirka, is something wrong?❞, he asked, grabbing his crimson red hoodie from the couch, searching for his shoes as the sobs just started to be worst, letting out not understandable words, ❝Will, please, I can’t understand you, please, ca–calm down, Will? Shit, shit, I’m on my way, where are you?❞
As much as he wanted to understand, it wasn’t the time when he barely understood where he was. And as much as he wanted to magically appear there, he had to deal with NY’s traffic. He grabbed Will’s yellow helmet and linked his own helmet to his cellphone to follow the call, running the engine at almost thousands of miles per hour, dodging the stopped cars and cutting through small streets to get there in record time.
❝Don’t hang up, please, Will…❞
He loses no time when he’s finally there, searching everywhere for him, but it didn’t take more than a few minutes to find him sitting on a bench, porcelain pale face and lost watered eyes, wandering and stunned. His heart got smaller than it had, shocked to think that the first time he saw him that bad wasn’t so long ago.
❝William, are you fine? You’re fucking shivering❞, dares to ask, knowing the main answer.
❝I don’t know❞, the mentioned whimps, squeezing the fabric of his jeans.
God, if Will has been one of the best people alive he had the fortune to meet, a twinkling star, a small ringing bell, why do these kinds of things need to happen to him? He holds his warm left hand, he takes time to call Richie and half explain the situation, promising he would take care of him as he has been doing. Then, they are walking to get out of Pinwheel Park.
Will spoke, like he never heard him before, in his apartment. The first things didn’t make sense, they were strange, like broken pictures trying to glue themselves without a clear image, but the more rambling he heard, the more he understood and things seemed to fit in. And he got horrified with them, childish horror tales forgotten inside his mind, things he never expected someone like Will could’ve lived. Even if he lived similar nightmares and called them a Tuesday afternoon, hearing of them from someone so bright like Will…
He fell in the fact that no one deserved those kinds of horrors, no one deserved to be abused or be afraid of the dark, none of them deserved to be a burden or unwanted, none of them deserved wanting to die, and Will sure deserved to hide them until he couldn’t escape from them. Then, somebody tell him, why does someone so gentle and caring like Will, who didn’t ask for suffering, have to suffer? And he despite God one more time, for everything that happened in Will’s life.
A life that should’ve been full of love, loving parents, friends, never worried about what he’d eat tomorrow, if his father was in the mood to let him leave one more day, about warmth and company or about why he wasn’t afraid of death the same way others were.
❝To start with something, you need help, professional help❞, he says after a silence and a tea sip.
❝I can no longer afford me that and I can’t ask for more to my parents❞.
❝I said you aren’t alone on this, William Byers. I still had the number of my old psychiatrist, she will help us❞.
Somewhere under the pile of unfolded clothes must be the business card of the therapist and psychiatrist he had while he was under the Berryfield’s legal care, a calm lovely miss assertive on her responses. Will laughs from nowhere.
❝God, this, this isn’t fair, Boris❞, he speaks. The laugh lowers, the space falls under pressure, something he finds strange and wants to understand, ❝no for me, no for us. I’m done of this, we’re just hurting ourselves with this complicated feelings, we both know we aren’t letting go what we felt was ours, this isn’t fair for any of us❞, reminds them.
Boris didn’t expect that face to face either, more than a self answer than a shy fearful lingering question between them he knows he’s been hiding from. His doomed heart was still holding Theo and the memories they had, but wasn’t letting go Will for so many envious reasons, and Aster’s party left him wondering more, wondering if it ever mattered to be complete adults to be loved, because broken people desperately also needed it. He wondered if he’s making a dumb play again. But what else does he have to do?
What else he wants?
“Love”, he answers to himself, he wants love. And he’ll never have it until he tries again and again, breaking his heart even worse, finding them on the same page of not caring to love someone, but to feel loved.
❝I– I think we can do it if we try❞.
(𝘪𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.
𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙢, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐
𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦…)
The dense atmosphere broke, his starlight chuckles.
❝That was so cheesy, even for you❞.
❝I know❞.
❝Boris, you know–❞.
❝I know, but we know and it’s fine for us❞.
They know it’s fine. They had enough time to know if they didn’t.
✦ ––––—–––—–––––––—––– ✦
The Cabin never felt warm, it wasn’t that kind of place, but now he can feel it. The trash he's too lazy to pick up and the smell of sweet mixed with alcohol still there, but when he looked at those hickory brown eyes gazed, telling how much he enjoyed being there, even if they weren't mended, it felt right. He misses time to time chords because he’s looking at Will, Will might miss lyrics because of him, they'll stay side by side, listening to the world go by, painting stars in the freckles of his collar bones, pretending all those love songs are for them and staring like fools.
His leather jacket started to smell like Will, like his cheap soap mixed with lavenders, the fresh paint with solvent, the charcoal and graphite of his hands when he brushes them off; the same way his red sweater used to. And he doesn’t stop to find it strange that he’s enchanted by him and they’re now resting on a dusty complex, as if he found out his twin flame.
❝Too tired to think, zirka, help me on this. I’ve been thinking too hard I’m empty❞.
Will would make that thinking face while he stroked his messy straight hair, he found himself loving those peaceful un-high moments, sometimes a bit drunk, but never too much.
❝Just think about what Bev said, I’m with her, maybe another love song isn’t that bad, what do ya’ think?❞.
Love, the kind of lyrics on his head that play in repeat, the same old broken record about love and feelings, illusions and circumstances, that answer the question: love wasn’t his. Love, being ethereal and joyful, was this chain around his ankle that didn’t let him fly away. He understood for a moment the poor little bird on Cabritus’ paint, bound to be tied to love, but never loved enough. He looks back at his mistakes, at his envy and needs and his answers, the memories and the thing he falsely called a new beginning, he wished and hoped for love to be his, he remembered Las Vegas’ afternoons and nights, and he never needed more than Theo, he’ll never need Will himself and he’ll remember someday how he was desperate for love. Love songs weren’t enough to describe this kind of love.
He’s missing summer, he’s missing love, he loved to love, but he forgot how to. Because he remembers when he asked him to come along, and he just couldn’t, and Will sure remembers the things Mike said and how he changed all himself to him. Love in their lives turned out to be some kind of shitty late night show.
But he knows it’s fine. He will find a new better self with or out of love, if Will was happy, he’s happy too.