Sasha Volkov's Guide to Living and Dying

Tension

They're so close, pressed side by side against the wet brick wall in the alleyway. If Sasha turns his head he can see Jess's silver hair curling around his neck, wet and matted from the rain that falls out on the street. He wants to run his hand through it. He wants to brush and comb and pull until all the knots are undone and Jess is smiling at him like he used to when they would lay on top of the jungle gym past midnight, staring up at the stars. He wants it to be just the two of them against the world again. But light pollution makes the stars impossible to see from the city and a lit cigarette has long since replaced any soft hair, so he settles for taking a slow drag. The smoke wraps around his lungs like an embrace. Or maybe it's more like a snake, constricting his chest with every inhale. It's not like it matters.

"Sasha," Jess sings his name, pivoting forward until he's in Sasha's line of sight. When he gets no reply he plops his head on Sasha's shoulder and repeats himself. Each syllable of his name is drawn out, a sickly sweet whistle, and it echos around the alleyway like a curse.

He stares harder into the wall ahead. There's a few stickers peeling off of the bricks, the largest of which is for a local rock show. It's long over now, the show was nearly a full year ago, but the advertisement still stands. Sasha focuses on it like a lifeline even as Jess's pale hands steal the cigarette from between his fingers and bring it up to red lips.

The smoke in his ear is what finally breaks him, and Sasha whips his head down to see Jess smirking from his shoulder. His glare only makes him smirk harder, though that's par for the course. Jess just flips the cigarette around and places it back into Sasha's open mouth and suddenly he's 15 again, hiding out under a tree to escape the rain when Jess pries his mouth open to slip the cigarette they'd been passing around in. His hands are far tougher than they used to be. The only thing that's really stayed the same is the rain, drenching the world outside their bubble.

"You're going gray already," Jess comments now. It's ironic, considering how in the nearly ten years they've spent apart Jess's hair has gone from a honey brown to a startling white. His transformation was unnatural, an effect of the moon and its patronage, but the streaks near Sasha's roots are only tangentially related to the paranormal.

"Yeah, you're the reason," Sasha shoots back. It's meant to be jagged, an insult. It misses the mark.

The rain keeps pounding against the street and they keep smoking in the alleyway, until the last embers fade and Sasha crushes the butt beneath his boot. But instead of moving to leave Jess nuzzles further into his shoulder, trapping them there in the dark. Sasha could choose to believe that the shiver that runs through his body is from the cold and the blush that creeps up his neck is from embarrassment. There are no stars here, but it is just the two of them again, so Sasha chooses not to lie.