Vodka Lips
Vodka Lips
Vodka Lips
To him love was always going to taste like traces of vodka on chapped lips. It was harsh and stinging, reminding him that he was still alive. Maybe Brian's concept of love was a little bit off, but he'd never learnt anything else. Vodka had been his father's fuel, his mother's comfort, and his sister's courage. To Brian it was a friend in cold nights, helping to chase away tomorrow's fears.
"Dude."
It took Brian some time to lift his heavy head and get his eyes to focus. Izmailovsky Market was closing down for the night, and while the lights in the stalls went out the streetlamps flickered to life. Moscow was a city that never slept and Brian could make out the blurred outline of flashy advertisements in the distance. His head tilted back against the dirty brick wall and Brian thought that if he squinted hard enough he was able to make out a few shining stars behind the smog of the city.
"Бриан."
Brian's gaze dropped from the sky to scuffed military boots in front of him. Their leather was worn and the tongue of the right boot revealed a faded military stamp on the inside where it fell forward. As far as Brian knew those boots had belonged to Robert's grandfather. They'd seen far away places and carried the man through war. Now they were witness to the dirty streets of Moscow and the desperate war a new generation was fighting. Their war cries were moans, their guns needles and their bullets drugs. The shots were the only thing that had remained the same. Brian idly thought that the boots must think that this was a war not worth fighting. There was nothing heroic about it, no bravery left.
Eyes traveling upwards over military style pants and a worn, black hoodie, Brian's gaze finally settled on Robert's face. His features were almost indistinguishable in the darkness, but Brian could imagine the unique mix of concern and annoyance that only Robert managed to convey. Brian felt small all of a sudden, sitting on the ground behind one of the market stalls, an almost empty bottle of Vodka clutched in one hand. He forced himself to smile, but his lips were numb with cold.
Robert sighed before he moved to sit down next to Brian. His blonde hair caught the light and for a few seconds Brian was transfixed, almost reaching out to touch it. Like a golden halo. His mind conjured an image of Robert as an angel, wearing a ridiculous white gown. Chuckling about it Brian was distracted enough for Robert to pry the bottle out of his hands. He took a healthy swig, grunting as the alcohol burnt down his throat. It was cheap and vile-tasting, but it'd to its job just as well. At the age of 18 Robert knew all about cheap alcohol.
"You been here long?"
Brian shook his head, eyelids fluttering closed when the movement sent his head spinning. His father had a stall at the market and Brian had come to help out around midday. Hours ago his father had taken off to go to a bar with friends, not once looking back at the son he left behind. They both had their own ways of finding comfort and making it through the night.
Without realising it Brian's body had tipped sideways into the warmth of Robert. He just wanted to rest his head against the other's solid shoulder for a minute or two, until the fog lifted and took the dizziness away.
They sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle of Vodka back and forth until it was empty. The glass made clanking sounds against the pavement as the bottle rolled away, abandoned just like the boys sitting behind a market stand on the dirty ground.
"Nikolai cut my pay again. Fucker."
Brian hummed as Robert broke the silence before offering "Blows." At least Robert was getting paid, even if it was below minimum wage. Brian helped with the family business and in return he could still live with his parents at home. It didn't mean a warm meal every day, but it meant a roof over his head.
"One of these days we're gonna make it out of here."
Robert scoffed, shaking his head. He wanted to believe Brian, he did, but the future was looking to bleak for him to grasp onto tiny rays of light.
"We will," Brian insisted, turning to face Robert. His eyes were glassy and heavily-lidded, a slight slur to his words, causing the consonants to sound even sharper. Robert knew that Brian needed to drink a lot for his words to get slurred. Their ability to hold their liquor had improved over the years.
"We'll go to America. California. Florida. Somewhere where it is sunny."
Brian was ridiculously fond of sunshine.
"Sure, Brian. That's what we'll do."
The smile on Brian's face was worth the lie twisting Robert's tongue.
Hidden from view behind the market stand Brian leaned over, pressing chapped lips against Robert's, chasing the sharp taste in his mouth.
~*~*~
America tasted like vomit and smelled like despair. After the plane had landed, Brian's palms sweaty and heart racing, he'd taken a cab. When the driver hadn't understood his heavily accented English, Brian had simply passed him a crinkled piece of paper with a hastily scribbled address on it. By the time the cab had pulled over and stopped in front of a building Brian's hands had been shaking so badly that he barely managed to get the key into the lock. The apartment was approximately the size of a shoe box and a moldy smell clung to its walls. Brian dropped his bag and ran to the bathroom.
The toilet was dirty, the sink and shower stained yellow. Brian's breathing was labored as he fell to his knees, not quite knowing how to do this. In the end his anxiety caused his stomach to revolt and the matter was taken care of. Coughing turned into gagging and retching until he threw up over the dirty bathroom floor. The small packets almost got stuck in his throat a few times, tearing it and making the entire thing more painful.
By the time he was done Brian was drenched in sweat. His hands were shaking just as badly as before, but he scrambled for the packets full of white powder. They were slick and warm and it didn't even register with Brian that he was sticking his hands into his own vomit.
13.
14.
…14.
Brian stared blankly before recounting the packets, twice. 14. He looked around wildly but there was just bile on the floor, no more white packet hidden in it.
14.
His stomach turned again and Brian dry-heaved. There should've been 15 packets. 15 packets of pristine, 90% pure cocaine. If he didn't manage to throw up the last one it would slowly dissolve and he'd die before he'd gotten a chance at life. Despair dug its nails into Brian's heart and he forced himself to cough, retch, anything. His body was sore and protesting, stomach cramping painfully. Tears were streaming from his eyes but he didn't care for them. Brian didn't want his dream of freedom, of a life worth living to end in a dirty apartment in a puddle of vomit, before it had even gotten the chance to take its first breath.
With another sob Brian curled into a small ball on the floor, his body crumbling under the strain.
~*~*~
The bustling of Sheremetyevo airport overpowered Brian's thoughts with its loudness. He hadn't seen much of America before returning to his personal prison. After the first night, which he'd spent retching until that last packet finally came up, covered in blood, his body had rebelled, seeing Brian in bed for most of his four days stay. Boarding the plane back to Russia had felt like signing his own death sentence.
Brian had considered staying in America, but he knew that it was impossible. He had no money, no means, and the people who'd paid him to smuggle the drugs wanted him back in Russia. Right after his first night Brian had promised himself that he'd never ever do this again, never go through that crippling fear anew.
Back in Moscow Brian felt that he was going to die in this place if he stayed. If he had a chance to get out, why not take it? He had nothing to lose.
The cab driver understood him without a problem and as the familiar landscape passed outside the window Brian closed his eyes until the car came to a stop. The building Brian and his parents lived in was still shabby, the walls covered in graffiti. Getting out of the cab Brian's mind was already settled on going straight to bed and sleeping for days, but before he even reached the door he was pushed against the wall. Robert's face was twisted in anger, his eyes sparkling like the sea before a storm. He was holding Brian by the scruff of his shirt, almost lifting him off the ground.
"You stupid asshole."
Brian tilted his head back against the brick wall, blinking tiredly. He really, really didn't want to go through this.
"Robert-"
"Why couldn't you just trust me?" Robert's fingers tightened in Brian's shirt to the point where he was afraid that the fabric was going to rip.
"You couldn't just fucking trust me to get us out of here, could you? No, instead you go and do something fucking stupid. Asshole."
Brian tilted his head to the side as he stared up at Bob before smiling.
"I brought you cookies."
"Fuck you." Robert's grip on his shirt finally loosened.
~*~*~
They weren't old enough to drink legally in the US. Obtaining alcohol was fairly easy compared to the task of obtaining fake visas and scraping together the money for plane tickets though. Brian had wanted to do more jobs smuggling drugs into the US, but Robert had suffocated those ideas before they could fully bloom.
"I told you to trust me," Robert pointed out with a smile, holding a bottle of Vodka out to Brian. Taking a swig he had to admit that the Vodka was probably the only thing that was better (and cheaper) in Russia. He was more than willing to make that compromise.
"Whatever, fucker," he muttered, bumping his shoulder against Robert's. In the distance the San Diego skyline was bathed in golden light as the sun went down. Brian fucking loved the days filled with sunshine. Despite the warmth Bob was still wearing his military boots. They were probably happy to witness times of peace after all those years.
They were still poor, crashing with a friend of Robert's and sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and they were still not sure what tomorrow had in store for them. But they weren't hopeless anymore because Robert had found them a fucking flower in the stony wasteland of their future and his lips still tasted like vodka and freedom.
The End.
To him love was always going to taste like traces of vodka on chapped lips. It was harsh and stinging, reminding him that he was still alive. Maybe Brian's concept of love was a little bit off, but he'd never learnt anything else. Vodka had been his father's fuel, his mother's comfort, and his sister's courage. To Brian it was a friend in cold nights, helping to chase away tomorrow's fears.
"Dude."
It took Brian some time to lift his heavy head and get his eyes to focus. Izmailovsky Market was closing down for the night, and while the lights in the stalls went out the streetlamps flickered to life. Moscow was a city that never slept and Brian could make out the blurred outline of flashy advertisements in the distance. His head tilted back against the dirty brick wall and Brian thought that if he squinted hard enough he was able to make out a few shining stars behind the smog of the city.
"Бриан."
Brian's gaze dropped from the sky to scuffed military boots in front of him. Their leather was worn and the tongue of the right boot revealed a faded military stamp on the inside where it fell forward. As far as Brian knew those boots had belonged to Robert's grandfather. They'd seen far away places and carried the man through war. Now they were witness to the dirty streets of Moscow and the desperate war a new generation was fighting. Their war cries were moans, their guns needles and their bullets drugs. The shots were the only thing that had remained the same. Brian idly thought that the boots must think that this was a war not worth fighting. There was nothing heroic about it, no bravery left.
Eyes traveling upwards over military style pants and a worn, black hoodie, Brian's gaze finally settled on Robert's face. His features were almost indistinguishable in the darkness, but Brian could imagine the unique mix of concern and annoyance that only Robert managed to convey. Brian felt small all of a sudden, sitting on the ground behind one of the market stalls, an almost empty bottle of Vodka clutched in one hand. He forced himself to smile, but his lips were numb with cold.
Robert sighed before he moved to sit down next to Brian. His blonde hair caught the light and for a few seconds Brian was transfixed, almost reaching out to touch it. Like a golden halo. His mind conjured an image of Robert as an angel, wearing a ridiculous white gown. Chuckling about it Brian was distracted enough for Robert to pry the bottle out of his hands. He took a healthy swig, grunting as the alcohol burnt down his throat. It was cheap and vile-tasting, but it'd to its job just as well. At the age of 18 Robert knew all about cheap alcohol.
"You been here long?"
Brian shook his head, eyelids fluttering closed when the movement sent his head spinning. His father had a stall at the market and Brian had come to help out around midday. Hours ago his father had taken off to go to a bar with friends, not once looking back at the son he left behind. They both had their own ways of finding comfort and making it through the night.
Without realising it Brian's body had tipped sideways into the warmth of Robert. He just wanted to rest his head against the other's solid shoulder for a minute or two, until the fog lifted and took the dizziness away.
They sat in silence for a while, passing the bottle of Vodka back and forth until it was empty. The glass made clanking sounds against the pavement as the bottle rolled away, abandoned just like the boys sitting behind a market stand on the dirty ground.
"Nikolai cut my pay again. Fucker."
Brian hummed as Robert broke the silence before offering "Blows." At least Robert was getting paid, even if it was below minimum wage. Brian helped with the family business and in return he could still live with his parents at home. It didn't mean a warm meal every day, but it meant a roof over his head.
"One of these days we're gonna make it out of here."
Robert scoffed, shaking his head. He wanted to believe Brian, he did, but the future was looking to bleak for him to grasp onto tiny rays of light.
"We will," Brian insisted, turning to face Robert. His eyes were glassy and heavily-lidded, a slight slur to his words, causing the consonants to sound even sharper. Robert knew that Brian needed to drink a lot for his words to get slurred. Their ability to hold their liquor had improved over the years.
"We'll go to America. California. Florida. Somewhere where it is sunny."
Brian was ridiculously fond of sunshine.
"Sure, Brian. That's what we'll do."
The smile on Brian's face was worth the lie twisting Robert's tongue.
Hidden from view behind the market stand Brian leaned over, pressing chapped lips against Robert's, chasing the sharp taste in his mouth.
~*~*~
America tasted like vomit and smelled like despair. After the plane had landed, Brian's palms sweaty and heart racing, he'd taken a cab. When the driver hadn't understood his heavily accented English, Brian had simply passed him a crinkled piece of paper with a hastily scribbled address on it. By the time the cab had pulled over and stopped in front of a building Brian's hands had been shaking so badly that he barely managed to get the key into the lock. The apartment was approximately the size of a shoe box and a moldy smell clung to its walls. Brian dropped his bag and ran to the bathroom.
The toilet was dirty, the sink and shower stained yellow. Brian's breathing was labored as he fell to his knees, not quite knowing how to do this. In the end his anxiety caused his stomach to revolt and the matter was taken care of. Coughing turned into gagging and retching until he threw up over the dirty bathroom floor. The small packets almost got stuck in his throat a few times, tearing it and making the entire thing more painful.
By the time he was done Brian was drenched in sweat. His hands were shaking just as badly as before, but he scrambled for the packets full of white powder. They were slick and warm and it didn't even register with Brian that he was sticking his hands into his own vomit.
13.
14.
…14.
Brian stared blankly before recounting the packets, twice. 14. He looked around wildly but there was just bile on the floor, no more white packet hidden in it.
14.
His stomach turned again and Brian dry-heaved. There should've been 15 packets. 15 packets of pristine, 90% pure cocaine. If he didn't manage to throw up the last one it would slowly dissolve and he'd die before he'd gotten a chance at life. Despair dug its nails into Brian's heart and he forced himself to cough, retch, anything. His body was sore and protesting, stomach cramping painfully. Tears were streaming from his eyes but he didn't care for them. Brian didn't want his dream of freedom, of a life worth living to end in a dirty apartment in a puddle of vomit, before it had even gotten the chance to take its first breath.
With another sob Brian curled into a small ball on the floor, his body crumbling under the strain.
~*~*~
The bustling of Sheremetyevo airport overpowered Brian's thoughts with its loudness. He hadn't seen much of America before returning to his personal prison. After the first night, which he'd spent retching until that last packet finally came up, covered in blood, his body had rebelled, seeing Brian in bed for most of his four days stay. Boarding the plane back to Russia had felt like signing his own death sentence.
Brian had considered staying in America, but he knew that it was impossible. He had no money, no means, and the people who'd paid him to smuggle the drugs wanted him back in Russia. Right after his first night Brian had promised himself that he'd never ever do this again, never go through that crippling fear anew.
Back in Moscow Brian felt that he was going to die in this place if he stayed. If he had a chance to get out, why not take it? He had nothing to lose.
The cab driver understood him without a problem and as the familiar landscape passed outside the window Brian closed his eyes until the car came to a stop. The building Brian and his parents lived in was still shabby, the walls covered in graffiti. Getting out of the cab Brian's mind was already settled on going straight to bed and sleeping for days, but before he even reached the door he was pushed against the wall. Robert's face was twisted in anger, his eyes sparkling like the sea before a storm. He was holding Brian by the scruff of his shirt, almost lifting him off the ground.
"You stupid asshole."
Brian tilted his head back against the brick wall, blinking tiredly. He really, really didn't want to go through this.
"Robert-"
"Why couldn't you just trust me?" Robert's fingers tightened in Brian's shirt to the point where he was afraid that the fabric was going to rip.
"You couldn't just fucking trust me to get us out of here, could you? No, instead you go and do something fucking stupid. Asshole."
Brian tilted his head to the side as he stared up at Bob before smiling.
"I brought you cookies."
"Fuck you." Robert's grip on his shirt finally loosened.
~*~*~
They weren't old enough to drink legally in the US. Obtaining alcohol was fairly easy compared to the task of obtaining fake visas and scraping together the money for plane tickets though. Brian had wanted to do more jobs smuggling drugs into the US, but Robert had suffocated those ideas before they could fully bloom.
"I told you to trust me," Robert pointed out with a smile, holding a bottle of Vodka out to Brian. Taking a swig he had to admit that the Vodka was probably the only thing that was better (and cheaper) in Russia. He was more than willing to make that compromise.
"Whatever, fucker," he muttered, bumping his shoulder against Robert's. In the distance the San Diego skyline was bathed in golden light as the sun went down. Brian fucking loved the days filled with sunshine. Despite the warmth Bob was still wearing his military boots. They were probably happy to witness times of peace after all those years.
They were still poor, crashing with a friend of Robert's and sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and they were still not sure what tomorrow had in store for them. But they weren't hopeless anymore because Robert had found them a fucking flower in the stony wasteland of their future and his lips still tasted like vodka and freedom.
The End.
♠ ♠ ♠
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