Translator: Schiotka
Editor: Pasadera, JacquelineMonaie
____________________
He screamed himself hoarse.
He screamed his lungs out. Until his throat hurt. Until he thought he'd puke his lungs up yelling.
Bending over, he held his hands over his diaphragm.
He felt the addition of a microphone was totally unnecessary today. But he liked to clench the slender object in his hand, to dance with the cable.
He was sure his screams could break through the noise of the instruments. He could fill the room with his voice.
And he did.
He filled it with his chaos, his regret.
With the emotions he was tired of holding back.
He was puking them up with his screams.
He needed it.
Oh yeah.
It feels so good...
Why unload his anger in the flat?
He could do it here. To the rhythm of their music.
Fool.
____________________
"I'm tired... damn..." complained the freckled man. He massaged his arms as he sat at his drum kit.
"Has there ever been a rehearsal where you didn't get tired?" Marcin shot back in challenge, lifting a brow. Before the drummer could answer, a tall, dark-haired guy approached Marcin and put his palm to his cheek in a typical "auntie" way.
"Well, well, our Marcin is recovering his mean old self," said the guitarist in an affectionate voice.
"Fuck off." Marcin grimaced; his cheeks hurt. He threw his head back, trying to push the guitarist away with his boot. The dark-haired guy evidently knew his typical reaction well, because he swiftly avoided the kick, smiling with malicious satisfaction.
"You'd better not make fun of him. Heartache is a serious condition," the drummer said, half-seriously, half-jokingly, as he watched their antics.
"What?!" Marcin cried, whipping his head toward the drummer whilst still trying to attack the tall guitarist.
"Marcin, Marcin, we've known each other for so many years now. You always scream your soul out whenever there are heart troubles in sight. Isn't that right, Zbychu?"
"Yep." The drummer crossed his arms over his chest and nodded his head gravely, as if there were not a truer statement in existence.
"You see, even Zbychu knows it. And Firka too, probably." Firyal, busy packing the equipment away, glanced at the dark-haired guitarist from the corner of her eye. She decided it wasn't worth interfering in the guys' conversation. "Today you howled more than your fair share, so we assume it's something big," he continued, looking down at an angered Marcin. "Isn't that right, Zbychu?"
"Yep," the drummer confirmed again.
Marcin was staring at them, wide-eyed. Not believing his own ears.
"Don't look so surprised. After all, we're one big family." The guitarist gave Marcin a heavy pat on the shoulder. Marcin grimaced again, turning his body in hopes of revenge. The taller guy had already retreated to a safer distance.
"Yo! Guys, maybe you could make yourselves useful and start packing this stuff away?" Firka gave them a fierce glare, impatient at the delay.
The guys smiled in apology, all at once. Those faces amused her.
"Yes ma'am!" they shouted simultaneously, starting to roll up the cables. Marcin, using the guitarist's inattention, approached his crouching form and pressed the sole of his boot into his black tee, leaving behind a brown stamp of dirt.
"Now at least you've got an interesting print on it," Marcin smirked triumphantly, satisfied with his artwork.
"You damn faggot!" The guitarist jumped to his feet and made for the already running, grinning offender.
Firyal rolled her eyes.
___________________
"So, tell us something about your lover boy," the guitarist started again, giving Marcin a good shove with his elbow.
"Are you writing a book? Or are you just jealous?" Marcin responded, with a mean smile.
"Whoa Jake, we didn't know that side of you," the freckled guy said, taking a mouthful of his beer.
"And whose side are you on?" The guitarist pointed at the drummer with his beer bottle menacingly.
"I always support the one with the better arguments."
"And you think that..."
"Zbychu, you do realize how ambiguous that sounded?" Firka interrupted the guitarist, speaking almost into the bottle's neck. She held it close to her mouth and smiled delicately.
They looked at her. After mulling this thought over, all four of them laughed loudly.
They were sprawled across a couple of old sofas they'd found in the local scrapyard. Drinking beer, just as they always did after band practice.
"Putting the 'better arguments' discussion aside, I'm curious too," the drummer said, turning to Marcin. "You could share some details with us."
The guitarist nodded enthusiastically, urging him to talk.
"Hey..." Marcin looked from one to the other, clearly shocked. "I really don't know what's gotten into your heads today. You never ask me about things like this. Why the sudden interest?"
"Because normally you spill everything without us even having to ask."
"That's right. And you stopped seeing that Filip of yours recently; you seemed so sad. Not really talkative. You weren't up for band practice either. So we started to worry," the drummer said.
Marcin's face said something along the lines of: "I have absolutely no clue what's going on here, and what the hell happened to my friends?"
"Is it still the Filip problem? Or is it the love you feel for Winter that won't let you sleep?" the guitarist said, smiling mischievously.
"Bugger off, I saw him," Marcin answered, almost hissing. He didn't like this topic. He saw Winter on their three-day trip to the band review, end of story. Jake didn't have to believe him.
"Yeah, yeah, love does strange things to us," the guitarist said skeptically, raising his eyebrows.
"Marcin, tell them, will you? Otherwise they won't stop pestering you. And you risk having a hole drilled in your stomach," Firka said, observing their conversation.
"Besides his stomach, Jake could probably drill another hole," the drummer barked out through a laugh.
"Your jokes are cheap..." the guitarist said, looking at him with disgust.
Marcin was amused by his friends' behavior.
He was in the mood for some banter. For some revenge on his friends, who seemed to be enjoying themselves at his expense.
He smiled to himself and leaned toward Jake. He moved his long fingers seductively along his neck, up to his chin, gently tickling him. He moved his face closer. So close they were mere centimeters apart.
The guitarist felt his breath on his skin. He saw his smiling lips and hooded eyes all too well.
"Maybe... maybe YOU are my "lover boy", Jake... What do you... think... of that?" he uttered, drawing the words out, whispering into his mouth, giving him the barest touch with his lips.
The guitarist's eyes flew open, his face flooding with a scarlet blush. He tried to move his body away immediately, only resulting in him falling over a laughing Firka.
The drummer laughed so hard he spilled his beer.
"Well," said Marcin shortly, "I thought I'd lost my "gift", but apparently not." He smiled with satisfaction, looking down at Jake. It had been a while since he'd done such things.
"That wasn't funny at all!" the guitarist yelled, keeping his distance from Marcin.
"Do you want a hug?" said Marcin, leaning over him, surrounding him with his body, bending like a cat. The drummer was still laughing.
"Get away from me, you faggot!" the guitarist said sternly, trying to push him away with his feet.
"Easy, he's joking." Firka patted him on the head and pushed him back in Marcin's direction, because he was becoming too heavy for her.
Marcin sat down and gave the guitarist a patronizing pat on the shoulder.
"Don't you worry, we'll make a good faggot out of you yet."
The drummer howled with laughter.
"You better watch your back, or else you might lose that beautiful mohawk of yours," the dark-haired guy said dangerously.
"Are you threatening me?"
But Marcin didn't hear the guitarist's reply. He was interrupted by a male voice whose melodic tone filled the room.
"I advise you to keep your hands off that hair."
Marcin had heard that voice before. But he couldn't understand why a cold, unpleasant shudder crawled up his spine.
They looked toward the sound of approaching footsteps.
All eyes widened as a figure stepped from the shadows.
He was tall; well-built. With light blond hair, and a fair complexion, like snow.
Cold blue eyes.
And an arrogant smirk.
Winter.
The lips under the brown gaze whispered the name soundlessly.
A second shiver spread down Marcin's spine.
Just as cold as the first. But somehow more pleasant.
Yes, now he was certain.
He had seen him that day.
Winter approached the group, giving them a cool, attentive stare. He stopped before the shocked band, looking down at them.
"The vocalist, in addition to exceptional charisma, should have the "wow" factor," he continued, putting his hands into the pockets of his leather Ramones jacket. "And he," pointing with his head at Marcin, "has it. Partially because of that hair of his."
The band was dumbstruck.
Winter smirked at their stunned silence, satisfied.
"I approve of your reaction to my entrance, but that will be enough. I don't have to introduce myself. So I'll move on to my business here."
Marcin only now noticed the second figure, standing behind Winter. And a third, still hidden in the shadows. "I'm bored with my band, so I decided to play producer for a while. And I chose you."
"Us?" the guitarist asked.
"Did I not express myself clearly?" the light-haired guy said coldly. "I saw you at the last band review. You have a lot to work on, and you are one guitarist short, but you have potential. Especially your vocalist. He knows how to play with his voice."
Winter looked intently into Marcin's eyes. His cold stare made Marcin feel strangely warm.
"You look good on stage and seem to understand each other well. Who is the leader?" He looked them over, lingering on Marcin's face.
"Me," Firka said coldly, squeezing her beer bottle between her legs.
Winter nodded to the person standing behind him. The woman approached the band and passed a business card to Firyal.
She took it nonchalantly, as though she didn't really care one way or the other.
"I don't have any more time for you today," the light-haired man said. "If you decide to work with me, and I think you will, then you can come to me..." He looked toward the woman, who quickly opened her planner, leafing gracefully through the pages.
"Thursday at two o'clock," she replied.
"Thursday at two o'clock," the man repeated. "I'll see you then." He smiled at them strangely. A bit arrogantly. Daringly.
He disappeared with his team faster than he came.
They were silent.
____________________
"I don't like him," Firka said at last, squinting. "What was with the theatrics?"
"He's arrogant and self-confident, that's a fact, but we knew that... well... we knew it without meeting him in person," Zbychu said to her, still in shock.
"I can't believe we actually saw him. You have my apologies." Jake slapped Marcin's shoulder.
"No problem." Firka had given Marcin the card; he was turning it over in his hands. "Do you guys know what a chance this is for us? It never occurred to me that we could actually record an album... I always considered the band more of a... hmm... a hobby, I guess."
"Me too. That last review was a big deal to me. Too big, even," the drummer told him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, frowning at his own confusion.
"Well, I always knew we were capable of more than small concerts in our own backyard. But Marcin preferred to chase ass instead of focusing on singing," the guitarist said with a raised brow.
"Hey, fuck you, don't exaggerate!"
"Hey, hey, no brawling." Firka tried to calm them down. "We need to decide whether or not we really want it. Whether our current lives are enough for us, or if we want to try for something bigger. Besides, aren't you curious why Winter knows our language so well? And why he's here? Why he's in our country, our city? And what he was doing at a small band review?"
The guys looked at one another.
"We should look online, maybe he has Polish roots. Marcin, you should know this already, since he's your lover boy."
"Shut up, will you? You're really pissing me off today."
"HEY, I SAID ENOUGH!" She raised her voice. She was fed up with their arguments. "I'll speak with Marcin, you two think about it in peace. We need to make a list of questions as well, to find out as much as we can." She got up from the sofa, adding: "I still can't believe this myself."
____________________
They walked home in silence.
She and he.
Both equal.
Wondering at the significance of what happened.
Their simple pleasure had spontaneously turned serious.
Because their pure, carefree love of music could so easily be transformed into something huge.
Did they want that?
So unbelievable... so suddenly.
Puzzling.
But love has many different forms.
And many stages.
Maybe it was time to change the shape of that love.
Maybe.
____________________
"Nivan, you won't believe it!" He entered the flat with the words on his lips. But his excitement was abruptly extinguished by a big object blocking his way, to which he quickly lowered his gaze.
"What the...?" Firka bumped into Marcin's back. She looked down.
"Nivan? Alex? What are you two doing on a sofa in the middle of the hallway?!"
"We are actually sitting, would you believe it? Hi Firyal, hi Marcin!"
The reply came from a short guy with white dreadlocks sitting next to the Redhead, who briefly lifted his gaze from his laptop to greet them.
"That I can see," she frowned, shifting impatiently from one leg to the other. She wanted to go to the toilet and couldn't get past.
"No really, what are you two up to?" Marcin asked, trying to break through the tangle of legs. The Redhead lifted his eyes, watching his struggle without making an effort to help. He passed the laptop to Alex, then grabbed Marcin's wrist and pulled him into his lap.
Their faces were suddenly so close that Marcin found himself feeling hot. He looked at him questioningly, eyes wide. The Redhead took his feet off the wall, pulling them in close.
"I wanted you to let Firka through, I think she's in a hurry." The Redhead smiled with the corners of his mouth. He looked into Marcin's eyes.
Alex moved his legs quickly and Firyal dashed to the bathroom, throwing a long "thank you" over her shoulder.
"Oh my, your kindness knows no bounds..." Marcin returned the smile and ran his fingers through the red hair. "Did you light something up?" he asked quickly. He wanted to make sure he wasn't sitting in the Redhead's lap just because he was stoned.
"Nope, we've been good boys today," Alex replied, looking intently at the screen in search of something on the net.
"Okay..." He looked at the Redhead, who was smiling mischievously. "So then what's with this sofa?"
"It's mine, from my old flat. I've got some old furniture in Alex's basement, and decided to move it here. We carried the sofa here all on our own."
Marcin looked at him with brows lifted high.
"You were in such need of a sofa that you decided to go to Alex's, shove it in a car, drive it over here and then carry it upstairs to the fourth floor?" No, that's impossible. The Redhead is too lazy for that, he thought.
"Are you trying to say that I'm too lazy for that?" Nivan asked.
"No, no way," Marcin grinned. The Redhead looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"This sofa is now yours. That's why it's in front of your room. If you don't want it then I'll move it to mine."
"What do you mean, mine?" Marcin was bewildered.
"I thought you might want a normal room."
"What do you mean, normal?!" Marcin raised his voice a little.
"Normal. Without the cardboard boxes and with some furniture. So that when we walk into your room, we don't feel like you're about to move out."
"Nivan's right," Firka said, returning from the bathroom. Still wearing her jacket, with her arms crossed over her chest. "I thought I could paint you something nice on the wall." She was instantly consumed by her thoughts. Wondering what she might draw.
Marcin looked from the smiling Firka to the pleased expression on the Redhead's face. It was considerate of them, and it warmed his heart.
"Loons." He smiled at them, a little embarrassed, but happy.
"You can buy us a slab of beer and we'll be square," the Redhead replied.
"I want a share as well, since I helped carry it," Alex threw in, raising his hand as if answering a question.
"You can drink Niv's share, since he's on a diet." Marcin smiled. Widely and maliciously.
"Fuck off." Nivan pushed him off his lap. Marcin landed on the floor with a thud, laughing with the rest of them.
____________________
"What are you doing here?" the Redhead said, in a tone that suggested it was more a statement than a question. He was staring at a half-naked figure in his bed, lit softly by the lamp on the nightstand.
Marcin was lying on his back with his hands hooked behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
"I thought that..." – he turned his head toward the Redhead – "I would sleep with you, since I come in here every night anyway. And sometimes I wake you up, so I thought it would be better if I'm here from the beginning."
Nivan lifted a brow at him and took a deep breath. He was still standing in the doorway, a towel loosely looped around his hips.
"And if you thought," Marcin continued, "that a sofa would make me sleep in my own room, then you are wrong. It doesn't work that way."
Nivan's lips lifted in the barest of smiles.
"Are you aware that you're really obnoxious?"
"Of course," Marcin replied with a vexing smile, then bent his knee and began slowly smoothing the duvet with his foot.
The Redhead smiled and shook his head.
"I want to put some pants on, turn around. Don't look."
"Can't you go to the bathroom?"
"It's occupied. Besides this is MY room and this is where I always put my pants on. One more comment like that and I'll kick your ass out. See if you'll be so mischievous then."
Marcin grimaced, but turned his head away. The Redhead watched him for a minute, then turned his back to him. Letting the towel fall to the floor.
Marcin didn't even consider keeping that dubious agreement. He craned his neck.
He felt something pleasurable stir in his abdomen, seeing the long red hair cascading over his broad shoulders. Bare, well-built back and a good ass. He bit down on his lip gently.
His hand involuntarily travelled down his body.
He watched Nivan's shoulder blades and the curve of his spine.
Visible muscles of the lower back.
And the gentle light dancing across every curve and dip of his back.
His hand started to move of its own volition over the fabric of his boxer shorts.
It had been a while since he last...
He would love to...
He almost forgot himself. At the last moment he moved his hand away, putting it under his head. He quickly turned his face toward the wall.
The Redhead looked at him.
He closed the door and approached the bed.
"I sleep next to the wall, move over," the Redhead said, looking down at his slim body.
Marcin moved to the right to make him some space.
Nivan climbed over him and covered himself with the duvet, then turned his back to Marcin.
"Turn off the light."
He turned it off.
"Goodnight."
Marcin didn't want to sleep anymore. But he pulled the duvet tighter around him, cuddling up to the Redhead's back.
He felt small.
Safe. He liked that difference between them.
He hoped Nivan wouldn't lose too much of his overall size on his new diet.
He didn't want that.
He liked the way his skin felt.
He touched his back with his palm. His fingers slowly danced over his skin.
"Marcin..."
He took his hand away. Reluctantly. Unwillingly.
And was silent for a moment.
Stupid. You get hard by merely looking at him, or touching him for a moment.
"Nivan?"
"Yes?" the Redhead asked reluctantly.
"Would it be okay for me to jerk off?"
"... "
The silence was palpable. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."
Marcin leaned on his forearms so he could look at his face.
"I always do it before I go to sleep," he said, as if it was his highest right to do so.
The Redhead turned a bit and looked up at him.
"You can do that in your own room. What are you actually asking me?" Niv frowned.
"But..."
"Okay, Marcin. Let me be clear," the Redhead interrupted him. "I'm with Jim. The fact that I let you in my bed at all comes too close to crossing the boundaries of my relationship. I have a soft spot for you, and I allow you more than I should. So please respect what I give you and don't be a jerk. Because I'm not sure if you realize, but this situation isn't easy for me either."
Marcin was looking at him with wide eyes. After a minute his expression changed.
Cold. Scornful. Genuine.
"You don't love him anyway," he hissed. His chin quivered.
He lay down on his side of the bed.
The Redhead gritted his teeth.
Neither of them found quickly sleep that night.
They lay like that, back to back.
So close, yet so far away.