boreo ; 𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔰:

the goldfinch.

night number  10

boris'pov

On New Year's day, we sat nestled on a Potter's bed, sipping beer and watching Doctor no in telly. We were not interested in the world around us, but only when we heard the echo of fireworks echoing in the distance, did we realize the importance of that moment.

"Happy new shitty year!" exclaimed Potter, absolutely drunk with a wide grin on his face and awkwardly clinked his bottle of beer with mine - except for the beer, he seemed to have secretly mixed his drinks, because only beer couldn't get him to this kind of alcoholic state so easily, many advanced alcoholics managed to get drunk from small doses during some time of period! (unfortunately, I learned this  the hard way while I was growing up, often thinking about my father, when only one drink was enough for him). Then he turned on the radio, loud, climbed up on the bed, and he started jumping like a madman. Potter was truly a mystery, once manic, full of energy, and then suddenly leaping into depression. He offered me his hand, I grabbed him and climbed up after him. We jumped, bumped into one another, and we just messed around foolishly, the yellowish liquid spilling out of the bottle on the Potter's blanket (though that blanket had already experienced various things).

"Shit! Xandra will kill me!" he swore, fell on his back on the wet place. I looked at that fool and then fell on my back near him, t-shirt soaked from beer, my curls on his shoulder.

"Da, comrade Potter! Happy new shitty year!" With a  smile I drank with him, then we stood up and dreamily walked to the window, staring through the dark windows at the fireworks for a while, looking like a couple in a romantic movie, except we were not fully functioning, actually toxic, and the magical moment has passed, and we have come to the daily monotonous routine of watching TV. But that was ours. In Doctor No James Bond just dealt with the disappearance of the image of the Duke of Wellington from the London National Gallery. I could see from the corner of my eye that Potter's good mood had passed, the corners of his mouth slipping slowly, and he suddenly looked into my eyes, white blurry reflections from the television in the frames of his glasses.

"I'll show you something," he said quite seriously, I almost thought that I heard his voice had broken in the middle. I nodded. Then he disappeared under the bed and I didn't quite understand what he was doing. He emerged with an object wrapped in several layers of newspaper and a tarp at the top,  he was gripping it to his chest as if it was his last rescue. "Promise you won't be making fun of it."

"Ya obeshchayu!" I swore, still looking at him.

"In English, you dickhead!" 

"Okej , okej, angliyskiy, angliyskiy. I swear." I murmured under my breath and rolled my eyes.

He came as close as possible and began to unpack his precious object. "This is very important. . . . I didn't show it to anyone else . . ." He said drunkenly, finally got through the layers of paper until he revealed gentle brush strokes, golden and brown colors in the form of a small bird with a chain on its feet. It was a portrait.

"Okay, I always knew you were an art lover. . . Potter, you are an absolute nerd, that could be never overlooked." I grinned, but still didn't understand.

He rolled his eyes and thrust his fist into my shoulder, but he missed, so his hand landed in the air where my crotch is. He quickly pulled away. "No, listen. This here . . . I took it from a gallery in New York . . . when the- when that explosion h-happened. It's a Goldfinch, the famous portrait everyone is now looking for!"

"Oh no, Potter, you're a thief of paintings!  Famous paintings, even!" I gasped, realizing what he was saying, but at first, I took it as a joke. I was just  teasing him.

"No, it's not like that! I'm not a thief! I didn't steal it! ..." he spoke quickly and bewildered, sweat beads sprinkling on his forehead while he held the picture, defending it with his whole body. He looked like a little boy who's been hurt. Oh, Theo . . . Then he told me his whole story, with loud weeping and shaking as always when he has talked about his mother, I had to calm him down and caress him, then he finally overslept in my lap, so I put him carefully in bed, covered him with the duvet.

When I knew he was peacefully sleeping I came to the painting. Does it really have such power over him? Anger began to boil in me. Theo has experienced all the agonizing mental trouble and torment for it. Why not get rid of it? I have to. . . I simply couldn't look at it anymore. So I took the picture, wrapped it in newspapers and blankets again and hid it. I wrapped my thick Civics textbook under the bed, so he wouldn't be scared at first. When my work was done I slid into bed with him and spooned him from behind, leaning my chin on his shoulder, it fitted there as if it'd always belonged there, I finally closed my eyes. Unfortunately, he didn't wake up, and I wanted him to wake up so bad that night and remember - I wished him to feel every caring touch, I wished him to always know I was there for him. And I was just a pathetic fool full of wishful thinkings because I knew Theo would never remember this.