Alyosha, how do I become better at kissing?
Alexei coughed on his drink in their shared bedroom, dribbling some of the homemade vodka he had pilfered from his father's still down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and blinked hard, but when he opened his eyes Yazov was still looking at him with an oddly intense gaze. The fifteen-year-old held his cup of moonshine in both hands like a talisman—much differently than Alexei, who held his own cup one-handed with the affected casualness of someone who was seventeen years old and knew it. Alexei was the older one, after all; he had to be cooler than Yazov.
Why do you ask?
Alexei demanded after he had regained his breath and composure. And then, because offense was always the best form of defense when it came to conversations with his adopted brother, he added: Do you have a sweetheart, Yaza?
Yazov scowled. No!
They had to keep their voices down; it was the middle of Novograd's night cycle, and Alexei's parents were asleep in their own bedroom just down the hall. If Stepan learned that they had skimmed the top off the latest batch of vodka from his still (for no particular reason beyond teenage bravado and idiocy), there would be Hell to pay.
I just…
Yazov said, and trailed off. He was much paler than Alexei, and even in the dim light of their singular, turned-down bulb Alexei could see his ears flushing red. I just want to know, alright? It's important.
Why is it important?
Alexei pressed, although he had an inkling of the answer already. Stepan and Olga, his parents, still required the two boys to shower together to ease the burden on their water ration. It had been a long time since Yazov had asked Alexei to wash his hair for him or leaned against him under the spray in a show of vulnerability he would never admit to when dry, but lately Yazov had taken to turning away and pretending that Alexei didn't exist when they bathed together. He seemed… shy, almost… as though he was hiding something…
Alexei didn't dare pursue the thought of just who Yazov wanted to kiss, because if he went down that avenue he would be confronted with the question of: would he let his little brother
kiss him? And then, even more damning, was the further question of: would he enjoy it?
It's important because I want to know,
Yazov grumbled, in that tone that Alexei had come to recognize as meaning that Alexei wouldn't make any headway in trying to push him further. Yazov could be a stubborn little bitch when he wanted to be.
Fine,
Alexei said, and took another gulp of vodka. It tasted like engine cleaner and burned the back of his throat like liquid fire as it went down. He gagged.
Yazov grinned in response, then coughed hard on his own mouthful when he tried to drink. Most of the vodka slopped back into his cup alongside a good bit of saliva. Alexei snickered as he watched.
Shut the fuck up,
Yazov wheezed.
Alexei adopted an expression of injured innocence. Who? Me?
Whore!
Yazov growled, and set his cup on the nightstand. He leaned forward from his sitting position on the bed, his brow furrowing into a scowl of rage.
Alexei licked the pad of his thumb and used the digit to rub at the spot between Yazov's eyebrows as though wiping away the other teenager's anger. It was a gesture directly copied from his mother, and Yazov reacted accordingly.
Ew! What the fuck, Alyosha?
It's two o'clock in the morning,
Alexei said. I'm not going to tussle with you now, Yaza, because then Dad will wake up and strip our asses raw with the belt.
Yazov huffed in annoyance, but settled down anyway. Are you going to answer the question or not?
Alexei hesitated, shifting uneasily on top of the blankets. The mattress springs creaked beneath his weight, and a train passing by the window made the glass panes rattle in their frame. For a moment, the train's headlight threw Yazov's face into stark relief: his blue eyes shone like Europa's ancient, alien ice, and he was growing into the angular panes of his adult face—a face that Alexei had a feeling would tug even harder at his heart if he let himself think about it too much. And then the head of the train passed them entirely, and the small bedroom was thrown into darkness once again.
Practice,
Alexei said at last. Find someone you like and trust and ask them to kiss you, I guess?
Yazov leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Alexei's own. Someone like who?
Alexei looked away first, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. I don't know,
he said. Find a girlfriend—or a boyfriend, it doesn't really matter; all mouths are the same. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually.
Can you show me?
Alexei winced and closed his eyes. I think that's a bad idea,
he whispered.
How come?
Because… because you're my…
I'm not your real brother, Alyosha,
Yazov pointed out. His voice was much nearer now. Alexei opened his eyes and realized that Yazov had crawled forward across the expanse of the narrow bed, and was now close enough that he was all but sitting in Alexei's lap. And I know what I want,
he added.
You want to practice kissing?
Alexei asked.
Yeah, I do.
Okay,
Alexei whispered. So long as it's just practice.
That's okay,
Yazov whispered, and knee-walked the rest of the way into Alexei's lap. Alexei leaned back to accommodate him. His adoptive brother was all bony knees and equally bony elbows, as spindly as Alexei was heavyset; they both had growing to do. Yazov's hands cupped Alexei's face, and Alexei's eyes slid closed. He smelled the vodka on Yazov's breath a moment before their noses bumped together—and then their mouths met.
…Alexei groaned and sat up, rubbing at his crusted eyes with one hand. He looked around at his small, private studio apartment, rented with the rubles he earned chauffeuring Papa Sergei around Novograd. It was so, so much different than his childhood bedroom—bigger, for one thing, and fully his own… but also lonely.
I miss you, Yaza,
he whispered into the emptiness of the apartment.
There was no response. Yazov was in prison now, after all.