sick to the stomach

you can say what you mean, but it won’t change a thing

I’m sick of the secrets

And also

come here, oh my star is fading

and I see no chance of release

and I know I’m dead on the surface

but I am screaming underneath

and time is on your side now

Theo and Boris are having Christmas Eve dinner.  It’s their first holiday being a- whatever it is they are now, and neither of them knows exactly how to approach it.  Hobie’s ornate Christmas tree seems too formal, and Boris’ traditional drunken bacchanal with his gang seems too rowdy.  Instead they settle for a quiet evening in, Chinese food at the still undecorated apartment Boris is renting now that he has a real reason to visit New York.

It feels oddly reminiscent of Vegas- just the two of them, cheap Christmas lights taped to the walls, the hum of the TV in the other room, and Boris’s boots discarded by the door.  Only this time there’s food on the table, this time they’re just a call away from Hobie and Gyuri and as many loving embraces as they can give.  This time they’re safe.

“Chinese food on Christmas,” Boris says.  “Bobo would be proud.”

Theo laughs- he laughs at everything Boris says lately, making up for years of emotion swallowed and buried.  Laughing and weeping and talking, actually talking, shattering the silence he hadn’t known had been killing him.  It’s tiring, all this feeling.  More tiring than he ever could have believed.  But nights are always easier with Boris beside him, even if he does spend half the time checking text messages.

Tonight though, tonight is just for them.  Whatever they are now.  Blood brother isn’t right, though they are bonded in blood, but lover catches in Theo’s throat.  Old habits die hard, and he still finds Kitsey’s forgotten socks in his drawers sometimes.  But at night, looking at the way Boris’ hair curls across the pillows, and the way the moonlight catches his nose- crooked in a way you would never notice unless you studied his face as devotionally as Theo does- and the way his eyebrows wrinkle and dart at messy dreams, Theo can just see something over the horizon.  He’s getting there.  A few more therapy sessions, a few less drinks, and he can see himself arm in arm with Boris at one of Hobie’s little parties, discreet gold wedding bands on their fingers.  Holding hands in Central Park like they had never been afraid.

But that will be then, and for now Theo is content to work on falling in love all over again with Polish nursery rhymes and too-strong coffee.

Boris smiles at him from across the table.

“I know you said wait.  But I got you a present for Christmas Eve.”

Theo protests with a smile- they’d agreed to leave the presents at Hobie’s, open everything on Christmas Day with Popchyk and Pippa and lots of silly smiles.  Tonight, they’d agreed, was just going to be them together, nothing flashy, just a few Christmas specials and hot chocolate and Theo’s head in Boris’ lap.  Of course, Theo has broken his promise too- there is a carefully wrapped dvd of S.O.S. Iceberg hidden behind the TV that he plans to pull out with a smile later that evening- oh no this one must not have made it to Hobie’s, oh well might as well open it here- but still he plays the part Boris is clearly hoping he will.

“No, not ‘til tomorrow- Popchyk will be disappointed if he misses anything!”  Boris waves his hands in one of his almost apologetic shrugs.

“Well, this seemed a little- ah, personal, to give in front of everyone.”

Theo cocks an eyebrow, and with a nervous grin Boris reaches under his chair and pulls out a ribbon wrapped tube of paper.

“Here, just see for yourself.”

As Theo picks at the ribbon- Boris isn’t so good at the delicate bows, and overcompensates by double knotting- Boris stares, almost nervous.  There is still something within him, a remnant of the boy who wept by Theo’s pool, begging Xandra to let him in, that is always afraid he will somehow tear down the world he has built for himself with one misplaced word.  Sometimes, when he watches Theo doing the ritual of wiping his glasses, studying the way his nose scrunches at the smudges, everything burbles in a hot mass of joy and dread.  As many times as Theo tells him he is not a thief, it is still hard to believe.

Theo has gotten the ribbon off, and stares at Boris, who is biting his lip and watching with brows furrowed at the way Theo’s fingers hover over the paper.

I am, Theo thinks to himself, opening a Christmas present from my boyfriend.  He pulls the rolled up poster flat, and doesn’t know what to say.

It is, of course, not even a shadow of the real thing.  The image quality isn’t particularly good, a little pixelated at the edges, and it doesn’t catch the light or reflect itself in feather-light brushstrokes.  But even flattened and drained, it is still so familiar it catches Theo’s heart and twists it viciously.

His Goldfinch.

He lower the poster so that he can see Boris’ eyes and sees he is grinning.

“Did you get this made custom?”

“No, no- a museum in Amsterdam was selling them in the gift shop.  Celebration for it’s return, you know?  I thought it- I don’t know, I thought it was funny.  For the kitchen, maybe?”

The golden throat, the beady eye, and the gossamer thin chain around its ankle.  It all seems so sacrilegious, printed on cheap cardstock.  The museum’s logo is in the corner, and for a moment Theo feels something that is almost jealousy.  That the thing he agonized over, wept and treasured, the thing that was his and only his so profoundly it was practically a part of him, was now being mass produced and distributed to who- tourists?  He can’t stop staring, eyes tracing familiar patterns across wings and delicate feet.

“Well?  Is it a bad gift?  Am I cruel to make fun of you like this?” Boris asks, and even though he is laughing, Theo hears the quaver of real insecurity in his words.  He forgets sometimes that Boris- perfect Boris, confident and jovial and worldly, is as terrified as he is.  As unfamiliar and fumbling with pet names and coffee dates and saying ‘I love you’ at the end of phone calls.

He looks at Boris again, at his narrow eyes and teeth too big for his mouth and the single black curl winding over his cheekbone, and for a moment the entire world is transparent.  The Goldfinch poster will hang in the kitchen, and the edges will start to curl as Boris constantly fills the kitchen with smoke insisting he can cook.  How Hobie will insist on contributing to the apartment’s decor and it will suddenly be filled with embroidered pillows and antique books.  The postcards Boris sends from all over the world taped up at the posters edges, though the sometimes utterly incomprehensible notes that Boris writes him on legal pads and hotel stationary are always stashed in Theo’s drawer.  Pictures from the first- second really- time Boris convinces Theo to come on a trip with him and they spend three weeks gallivanting in Italy like every other tourist, Boris kissing Theo’s sunburned neck and Theo dragging him along to museums and historic sites.  The puppy photos of their new dog- Popchyk Two, Boris calls him, though Theo always flicks his arm- that’s morbid dear, his name is Myshkin.  That even though the nightmares will never really stop, neither does Boris tossing an arm over Theo’s waist and pressing his forehead to his shoulder, and when that doesn’t work he flicks on the bedside lamp and reads aloud his foreign language books until Theo at last eases himself back into sleep.  Pippa gives them a rainbow flag for their anniversary and they actually hang it out the window and nothing bad happens and they wear each other’s shirts so often they stop differentiating between them and they all smell like the same mix of shampoo and wood varnish and things grow warmer and smaller and while there will always be years they both lost to sadness and hurt there are so many more that they give to each other with smiles and whispers and promises.  And even though it is a poor quality picture and will only get worse in the flickering light and inevitable water damage, the beauty of things comes not from within themselves,but from the love they are given, and Theo will love Boris and Boris will love Theo so much that everything near them will radiate with it.

“You like it then?” Boris asks, tapping a chopstick against the side of his plate.

“Yes.  I love it.”

And he does.