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Pav was the only person in his bed this Sunday morning; the boy must have left already. Not that he minded. Dealing with the fallout of last night—whatever had happened, whatever he’d said and done—was only another woe added to the pounding headache and his churning stomach.
He needed some tea and some fresh air. Though, as he thought on it more, what he really needed was to be far away from here. He began to piece together the night: the chance encounter, the motorcycle ride home, the desperate kiss and the stupid decision to invite him inside.
Pav had to admit: he was adorable. But he’d made a vow to burn all the bridges leading back to the past, back to Prehevil and the empire, and that included Levi. They’d had their fun, and they would go their separate ways. No strings attached.
He sat on the stoop, hunched over, hoping the pressure of his knees could alleviate the churning in his stomach. Pav was getting his bearings, slowly but surely. He had gotten used to many Sundays in this pattern. A bit of grousing, some gagging, and he would be in tip-top shape.
He noticed the motorcycle, parked against the side of the street. It was a fine vehicle. Nothing top of the line, but clearly well-kept; Pav was no engineer, but he could tell that much. Someone cared greatly about it—the boy crouched next to it, buffing off a speck of dirt. With the sleeve of his red coveralls, he caught a bead of sweat rolling down his face. He glistened in the sun: the sweat of work on his brow, and his eyes that even now seemed perpetually wet.
Focused on his work as he was, it took a few minutes for Levi to notice Pav, sitting on the steps. He didn’t speak right away, almost falling into the comfortable “speak when spoken to” of their army days. It was easier that way for the both of them. But Pav wanted no part of it: he was no one’s lieutenant anymore, least of all the Bohemian boy’s. No, he’d have to figure that out for himself.
Finally, Levi paused. He looked at Pav. Pav looked at him and sipped his tea. The wind whipped the leaves overhead. Levi buffed at the grease spots on his hands. Barely audible from where he stood, Levi asked: “Sleep well?”
“Fine enough.” He motioned to the bike with his mug. “Getting ready to head out?”
Levi shrugged. The cleaning of his fingers became more rough, more repetitive. “I was just checking a few things.”
Pav sighed. It wasn't much of an answer. He just wanted to get on with his Sunday: throw up in the toilet, clean up the splatter so it wouldn’t get too disgusting like it was last month, turn on the radio, tinker at the shitty violin he’d bought at the secondhand store a few blocks down, sleep, dream about having enough money for a piano, wake up in the middle of the night, eat whatever required the least amount of effort, sleep, dream about Prehevil, wake up in a cold sweat, sleep at sunrise.
Levi still didn’t answer.
“Do you have anywhere to go?”
Why bother getting involved? Why bother asking? He knew the answer: no. For army boys like them, of course not. If boys like him got lucky enough to leave the front for home, they would never find it. Home left them behind. They could pack up and travel all of Europa’s face and they’d never find it anywhere else. Not men like Pav. Not men like Levi.
Levi shook his head. He turned away, picking at something on the handlebars—when he turned back around, the ghosts of tear tracks shone on his face. His tone low and even, he asked with all of the effort in his short frame: “Can I sit with you?”
Pav moved aside and patted the cool stone. Levi sat next to him, close but not touching.
“Where’d you get it?” he asked.
“I was working for a mechanic up in Valland. Real nice guy. He showed me all about how to take care of cars and bikes. Eventually I saved up for my own, so I wouldn’t have to hitchhike.”
He drained the rest of his now-cold tea. Maybe he wouldn’t have to throw up today—the nausea had gone away, but it had been replaced by a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t name. He might’ve preferred the nausea.
“How long have you been here?” Levi said.
“A few months,” he said nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t been counting up every day, wondering if he’d hit a new personal record for time spent in one city.
“Does it get better?”
“You get further from it.” Pav rubbed his throat. “But it doesn’t go away completely.”
He wanted to laugh at himself, going sentimental for this boy with a wet puppy dog stare. Pav knew that on some level, they understood the full scroll of their unsaid histories. Once upon a time, such a plea he made for "understanding", "to be seen" he would have met with derision. But now, undeniably alone, it was all he knew he wanted. And perhaps he had found it here.
Levi leaned his head against Pav’s shoulder. His wide eyes sought his as soon as he made contact, begging permission, afraid to break the delicate shard of understanding they had just found.
“Don’t get any grease on me, now.”
Levi nodded, clutching his coveralls. He was perfectly still against Pav’s shoulder. He found didn’t mind it.
They stayed like that for some time, watching the passerby. On a lazy Sunday morning, most were in church. The few that ambled by took no note of them; soldier boys, camouflaging into the gray stone steps, feeling the air on their faces and listening to the beating of their hearts.
One of their stomachs growled. Levi looked away. After a few minutes, Pav offered: “Want to see what I have in my pantry?”
He helped Levi to his feet. Their hands stayed intertwined for a few moments; Pav didn't really care about the grease.