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*
In the end, it works. The Goldfinch returns to the museum, strikingly beautiful and untouched, and Boris returns to him.
Strikingly beautiful, yes.
Boris's fingers clasps onto Theo's hand as they weep and laugh to themselves in this little Amsterdam cafe. Rain streaks the windows. Monochromatic glass. And, there, he and Boris hover to a sense of cynosure, sweet-bitter longing.
They've been, existed and torn apart, and felt that urgency. Hewed their aching, quivering desires from shadow-spaces.
Waking feels heavier.
Theo can smell the old, molding plates and hotel sheets. Boris's cologne. He's hardly himself, curled onto a mound of pillows, lightheaded and languid. The pale flag of Theo's underwear hangs off a bed-knob. Featherlight breathing. Theo slides up on his elbow, his ribcage tightening. His bed-partner shifts with him, muttering in a thick, drowsy accent.
"Where do you think you're going…?"
Boris's voice somehow calms the rising panic.
"To get more vodka," Theo mumbles, smirking, rolling over on his back.
He's there—right above Theo, with him, all of his sinewy muscles and Boris's lips a plump, pallid pink. Too-real. Unforgiving. A dark mop of curls lying over his brow. Boris mutters something else, grunting while stretching, and Theo glimpses down at more dark, wiry curls encompassing Boris's naked prick.
"Is that so…?"
Boris aims a covetous, secretive grin down on him, leaning and flattening the bridge of his nose to Theo's forehead. It's so clear. An affectionate gesture winding back years of sudden, childish memories burning Theo's eyes. "I'm… not…" he protests.
It's harder to say this with Boris looking him in the eye, piecing together every fragment of his soul, and recognizing a lie.
"Of course not," Boris tells him quietly. His expression stiffening. He reaches for his half-lit cigarette behind him, arching.
Theo stutters an exhale when Boris's other palm falls to his bare chest.
"That would explain why you are in this bed with me, Potter."
The smoke has a faint, musky odor. Theo gladly accepts the distraction of his cigarette, pursing his lips and inhaling deeply. Exhaling up into Boris's face.
He curses out in low, harsh Russian, slapping Theo's cheek and pinching him.
On another hit, Theo conjures the idea from the smoke-remnants. He pushes up, smiling, drifting into Boris's airspace, blowing against Boris's mouth. Wisps of smoke passes into Boris, as he inhales, Theo's forefinger and thumb wrapping to Boris's jaw, sliding to his chin.
He wants to live and thrive in the cavernous heat of Boris.
Head, heart, hands raking fondly through Theo's golden hair, as their lips meet, caress, opening wide for tongues to press and slick-slide, memorizing every trembling sensation.
*