Work Text:
The billboard has faded to almost nothing, the wood rotting and the hand-painted colours running. Only a worm-eaten picture of a giant, red apple remains above splintering text. Otabek breaks into the shoulder of the road to dig out his vibrating phone under the billboard.
“Hey, man, you’re still alive,” JJ greets him at the other end of the scratchy connection.
“My ass says the opposite,” Otabek replies, taking the chance to walk around a bit to bring life to his bike-seat-numbed backside. The rotten apple of the billboard hangs above him like a blood moon. Dark clouds crowd over the forest in the direction his bike is facing on the narrow road between reaped fields and forests at their edges.
“Told you to take the car,” JJ says. “Where are you now?”
“I think I’m near a town called Staraya Voda.” Otabek looks up at the looming apple. “And an apple orchard.”
“You think?” JJ isn’t a sigher, so he doesn’t sigh. He makes garbled noise. Or maybe it’s the connection fraying. Otabek doesn’t remember seeing any transmission towers for a while. He doesn’t remember any recent road signs either.
“Not a lot of wi-fi hotspots out here,” Otabek says. “Been following a paper map.”
JJ makes a low whistle. “Hardcore, man,” he says. “No wonder my calls didn’t connect. I was a little worried.”
“Sorry for the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. Just make it back in one piece,” JJ says. The garbled noise comes again, cutting into JJ’s following words with static and then fades to nothing.
Otabek listens a while longer, but the line is dead. When he starts down the road again, he hopes the town ahead—which he has painstakingly tracked on his precious map—has a service station or a garage to fill the bike’s tank. Derelict tractors rise from the fallow fields like ships in mist, lending their quiet observance to the lone traveller. Beyond the fields, the vanguard of evergreen trees stands to attention. Otabek doesn’t come across anyone else during the drive.
The town of Staraya Voda begins unceremoniously with a street sign bearing the name and the symbol for an urban area. Three copper-green domes visible above the rest of the buildings signal a church, and beyond the domes, down the main street and against the clouds, lies a body of water, as dull as the sky. The few people he spots stop to look at him as he passes into the township.
The stares aren’t hostile, just wary. The weight of them is tangible as Otabek parks his bike and takes off his helmet to survey the little diner on the edge of town. Its front is decorated with garlands of faded lights and two birch saplings on either side of the door. A fat hooded crow looms on top of the short building, not making a sound but turning a bright eye towards Otabek as he walks in.
The diner is empty. Its hazy windows filter out much of the light from outside, leaving the inside murky. There are only two tables, each with three mismatched chairs. A few more stools inhabit area by the counter. A rickety overhead speaker spills out crackly music, the words of the singer unintelligible, but the tune familiar. A red-headed young woman sits on one of the stools, tapping her foot and humming under her breath, nose buried in a book.
Behind the tables are bookshelves, filling in the rest of the space, and behind the counter, between the coffeemaker and the toaster and the stovetop, are sparkling curios and rows and rows of tiny bottles. Herbs and old tea kettles hang from the ceiling, rustling in the current of air caused by the door opening and closing.
“What can I get you?” the young woman says. She’s looking at Otabek over her shoulder, wearing a half-smile and a frilly apron.
“I came in for food, but-”
“But the books confused you?” She slides off the stool, dusting off her apron. “You’re new in town, right?”
“Yeah?”
Her curls bob as she nods and laughs. “Don’t look so worried! We don’t get a lot of people coming through, so anybody new stands out. Take a seat.” She gestures at the counter as she circles it, producing a laminated sheet from behind it. “Here’s the menu.”
Otabek places his helmet on the counter and picks up the chart of foods.
“Anyway, the only bookstore closed, so now I’m the bookstore,” she explains. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea.” Otabek takes a seat slowly, still looking around the shop. A small poster is attached to one of the bookshelves, advertising Tarot card readings. The purple edges and sparkly stars have faded.
“My name’s Mila,” the young woman says as she places a cup in front of him and fills it with steaming dark amber liquid. She taps the little nametag attached to her apron with a nail painted black.
“Otabek,” Otabek says automatically. “I’ll have the Ploughman’s Meal, please.”
“Coming right up!” She pushes a tray of condiments next to his elbow. Milk, honey, jam, and instead of salt and pepper, two little shakers of salt. “Feel free to look around while I get this ready for you.” She hums to the tune from the speakers while she works, and Otabek feels awkward watching her, so he gets up to study the poster, and then the books.
“You interested in Tarot?” Mila asks over the dink and swish of cooking, nodding towards the poster.
“Not really,” Otabek says vaguely. Nor horoscopes or crystals or anything of the sort.
“I used to play with Tarot cards,” Mila says. “Used to want to be a witch so bad.” She laughs as though it’s a joke.
“Mm.”
“What brings you here then?” she continues.
The misguided idea that I needed to go on a road trip in a part of the country I’ve never visited because I was bored at work. But Otabek doesn’t say that. He shrugs. “Just travelling. Never been in the area.”
“Everybody loves it here,” Mila says, saluting him with a spatula. “But not a lot of visitors. Probably because the internet’s really shitty around here, you know?”
“I noticed,” Otabek says.
“Anyway, summer’s a better time to visit,” she continues and laughs easily, then starts humming to the music again, leaving him to shuffle back to the counter. The scent of fried food is superseded by the brittle, medicinal smell of the herbs hanging from the ceiling above him.
“Do you have any maps of the town?” Otabek asks. His phone still has a bit of a charge and he wants to keep it that way.
“Mm, no. The garage has some,” Mila says. “Where are you staying? Or are you just driving through?”
“Is there a place I can stay?” Otabek sips at his tea, finding it cool enough to taste. His ass says to stay, but his need for an internet connection says to keep going. He’d been given the days off with the understanding he could still communicate and work remotely if needed. He digs the knuckles of his free hand into his lower back, prodding at the sore muscles.
“There’s a B&B,” Mila assures him. “It’s just outside of town, but it’s totally worth it for the view. I’ll draw you a map if you want. Or you can ask Pakha at the garage. Everybody knows the place.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Mila looks him over, still with a friendly smile. “Do you know how to swim?” she asks.
“No.”
“Oh. Really? That’s too bad. The lake’s really nice even this late in the year. The water stays pretty warm.” She’s expressionless until the speaker squeals, the song distorted beyond recognition, making a cold flash travel down Otabek’s spine. “Come on,” Mila groans, released. She drops the spatula and reaches up to smack the speaker with her hand until the sound returns to normal. She places a full plate in front of him and refills his cup. “Eat while it’s hot!”
Otabek’s hunger overtakes his questions. The food is hot, salty, and filling, and exactly what Otabek needs.
“Thank God for salt, right?” Mila leans her elbows on the counter, placing her chin in one hand. She’s pulled her book to her, but isn’t reading it. “Cures a variety of ills.”
Otabek puts away most of the food before he has enough presence of mind to think again. Mila is cleaning the utensils she’d used to prepare his food, swaying in time to the faint music by the sink. She’s wearing a matching white top and shorts, patterned with strawberries. The garlands rattle against the windows of the diner in a gust of wind, which makes the corners howl and the kettles hanging from the ceiling chime like bells. After a moment Otabek realises the bells come from outside, from the church.
“What do I owe you?” Otabek asks.
“Want me to call ahead to the B&B?” Mila counters.
“No, thanks. I don’t know if I’m staying.”
“Well, anyway,” Mila ignores him. “Here.” She slides a napkin with lines and directions drawn on it across the counter to him. At the end she’s drawn a little fish to signify the B&B. A noise from the back of the diner makes her look up. “Yura, is that you?”
“Ugh, who else, you witch?” comes a disgruntled new voice, followed by the slosh of water being poured from one big container to another.
“Come out here a second, will you?”
There’s another annoyed groan, then a slim young man appears in the doorway that leads into a back room behind the burners. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the hood pulled up and baggy shorts. And neon green crocs. His eyes pause on Otabek, then skip to Mila. “Whaddya want?”
“Otabek, this is Yuri. Yuri, Otabek,” Mila introduces them with a swish of her hand. “Yura’s family owns the B&B. He can show you there. Right, Yura?”
Yuri glares at her. “Sure,” he says sullenly, glare coming to rest on Otabek next.
“Oh, I’m-” Otabek raises his hand, then lowers it, not knowing what he’s objecting. “Do you have wi-fi?”
Yuri snorts, shoulders coming down a fraction. “As much as you can have it here, yeah.”
The face half-hidden behind the sweep of blond hair is pointy and pouty, and the best reason for staying Otabek has come across so far. After the wi-fi. “I’d like to look around town first,” Otabek floats the idea while paying for his meal. Yuri’s hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, and he’s watching Otabek from under his scrunched brows.
“So?” Yuri says.
Mila prods Yuri in the side with one black fingernail. “So show the tourist around, Yura!”
“Am I the fucking tourism centre?” Yuri mutters. “Fine. Meet you out front.” He turns with a squeak of his ugly shoe and stomps back into the room behind the kitchen.
“Thank you.” Otabek nods at Mila who smiles back.
“No problem. Enjoy your stay!”
Yuri trudges around the building after a bit, carrying a white plastic bucket. He stops to look at Otabek’s bike. “That yours?”
“Yeah.” Otabek makes sure the luggage compartments are locked. “Can I leave it here? Come back for it later?”
Yuri nods, clonking the bucket against his knee. “Yeah. That’s cool. Motorbikes are cool.”
Otabek falls into step with him, detecting a faint fishy smell coming from the bucket. “Motorbikes are a little less cool when you sit on them all day.”
Yuri snorts again. Otabek has a feeling that it’s a noise of amusement. “I guess,” Yuri says, but looks at him from under the rim of his hood, face a little less tight.
The wind comes up to meet them on the main street, cold for early autumn. It brings the smell of water, deeper and more pungent than Otabek had expected of freshwater. The wind rattles through the garlands and birch branches decorating the fronts of the shops, and it even catches the bucket hanging from the crook of Yuri’s elbow. The town is both bigger and smaller than Otabek thought a lakeside village would be.
“It is a lake, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just big.”
The opposite shore isn’t visible, and the wind catches on the top of the waves, making them white against the dark grey, rolling forwards, carving a negative space just on the edge of visibility.
“That’s Seal Islet,” Yuri says. “A lot of ringed seals. You can hear them over the water, especially at night.”
“Freshwater seals?” Otabek knows next to nothing about seals, but he’d thought they were saltwater creatures.
“Yeah, I guess since they live in a lake,” Yuri says pointedly. He’s about the same height as Otabek, but has a body type that could be described as willowy, despite the lumpy hoodie. The bones at his wrist and ankles are sharp and protruding. “There’s the grocery and the garage. The church.” He makes desultory gestures at the buildings, directing Otabek’s attention to squat dwellings with tall flood cellars.
The town centre is small, and streets radiate from a plaza with a small garden in the centre. A single, massive birch tree stands in the middle of drooping fall flowers. Their colours have bled away into the sunless evening. Nearer to water, many of the houses have even taller foundations. Small boats line the quay, nets spanning the space between them. Otabek watches the vessels bob on the waves, then notices movement on the islet.
“Seals move kind of strangely, don’t they?” he says.
“I’ll show you the old town.” Yuri nudges him down a street that is laid almost parallel to the shore instead of leading towards it. The wind comes again, just as they cross a street, taking Yuri’s hood with him and making his hair fly like a streamer. The street becomes cobblestone, and the houses become older while Otabek is occupied with watching his guide.
“The town was founded a while back,” Yuri volunteers while Otabek takes in the new surroundings. The buildings blocking sight of the lake. “Like, some hundreds of years ago. The fishing was really good, and the town got bigger, fast. And then…” His voice has little inflection, and he scuffs his crocs along the cobblestones. The few people they pass by are all older, giving Otabek curious once-overs. A few times he catches movement in the windows of the houses, curtains twitching shut just as he looks.
“So what happened?” he asks.
“We-ll…” Yuri says, raking his hair back from his face and behind his ears, presenting Otabek with the sight of two green eyes, and then a flash of his nape as he pulls his hair aside and turns away. Otabek lingers. “The war happened. A lot of people had to leave, or were forced out, or just… died. There.” He points past the last houses on the street. “Old Town.”
The street itself continues, although overgrown from a certain point on. The houses beyond are rotten and falling apart, with blackened, empty windows and doorways leading under waterlogged, sagging roofs. Two capsized boats, half-sunken into the earth, lie on the street, which terminates into a stand of dark evergreens that seem to be creeping closer and closer. Between the broken structures, Otabek spots Seal Islet again.
“Much of the place got razed during the war,” Yuri continues, rocking on his feet. Otabek drags his gaze back to him, following the taut line of his legs, the flexing calves. “The fishing boats were sunk. The water’s pretty murky now, but you can still find a bunch of those boats at the bottom of the lake.”
“You’ve seen them?” Otabek can easily imagine Yuri diving into the water, smoothly like a water fowl.
“Yeah.” He takes one foot out of the slip-on shoe and bends his leg behind the other, curling and uncurling his toes for a bit, then repeats with the other foot. “You wanna go take a look?”
Otabek drags his eyes up to Yuri’s face again. “I mean…”
“Well, it’s stupid, yeah.” Yuri rubs his hair again, then pivots and stalks up the street.
“No.” Otabek hurries after him, glancing back at the ruins. “No, I just can’t swim,” he says.
The plastic bucket on Yuri’s arm clacks against its own handle as Yuri whips around to look at him. “Seriously?” His mouth hangs open a second. “Seriously?”
“I’d like to check in now to have some of that wi-fi.” And Otabek thinks, as Yuri’s mouth warps into a smile, a grin, and he tosses his head back, yanking his chin to make Otabek follow, that if these small towns and villages all had someone like Yuri in them, he’d definitely take more road trips.
On the way back to the diner, Yuri points out more local sights. The now-closed bookshop, a small school, the church, again, and its accompanying graveyard, and an antiques shop that seems to sell only fishing-related items, although Otabek does find the glass buoys fascinating. He ends up buying one, bright green and holding a sparkle.
At the diner he stops in discomfort, staring at the lopsided profile of his bike. “What the hell?” Otabek mutters at the slashed tyres. Yuri looks on too, grimacing, stopped a few paces behind. Then he drops his bucket and stomps into the diner.
The tyres are gutted. Sharp, straight lines cutting through both the hard outer rubber as well as the soft inner shell, like someone had been filleting a fish. The luggage compartments haven’t been touched. Yuri flings Mila out of the diner by her arm, her apron fluttering.
“Oh no,” she says upon witnessing the bike and Otabek. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see anything.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Yuri grunts. “You were right there!”
“I was cleaning out the fish you brought!” Mila crosses her arms, a scowl twisting her face. “In the back!”
“It’s- it’s fine,” Otabek says although it emphatically isn’t fine. “It’s just the tyres.”
“I’ll call Pakha,” Mila says. “Sorry. I really didn’t see anything.”
Otabek had already decided to stay, but having his ability to choose taken away is still upsetting. “I guess somebody doesn’t think motorbikes are cool.”
Yuri makes a horrific face, sweeping his hood up to hide his hair and shadow his eyes. He scoops up the bucket and kicks one of his crocs into the wall, then hops over to slide it back onto his foot. “Sorry,” he mutters like it’s his fault. “The wi-fi’s shitty. It’s not worth staying for. You should’ve just driven out after you ate-”
Otabek sits on the edge of the curb, leaning on his knees. Yuri joins him a moment later, rolling the bucket between his legs restlessly. Mila comes out too, leaning against the doorframe.
“Won’t take long,” she says. “The garage’s already closed, so Pakha’s only going to transport the bike tonight. Is that okay?”
“I guess. I was staying anyway,” Otabek says reluctantly. He can’t blame them.
“He’ll change the tyres first thing tomorrow morning,” Mila promises as an old truck trundles up the street. A similarly old man comes out of it, back bent and a bald head covered by a tattered cap. His hands are enormous and knotted, and he only grunts, giving Otabek a suspicious look from bulging eyes. Yuri and Otabek ride with him to the garage, where Otabek watches his bike get locked into the single-bay garage after he’s taken his things out of the luggage compartment.
“Thank-” Otabek starts, but Pakha enters the garage without a backwards glance and slams the door. Yuri’s sigh is so long it warbles at the end as he empties out his lungs.
“I’ll give you our best room,” he says. “Half-price.”
The night is coming down fast as Yuri leads Otabek across the village to a large house set away from the street by a spacious garden. The low clouds cling to the tops of the trees, misting the scenery with fine water droplets. Seal Islet disappears from view, shrouded both by dark and rain. It smells stronger of the lake by the big house, a little bit like fish, but also of mud and seals and damp bulrush. Swathes of the tall plants frame the sloping beach, joined by the flat dishes of waterlilies on the surface and a variety of other reeds.
The inside of the house is also dark and a little chilly, some of it dispersed by the light Yuri clicks on at the reception desk, grabbing a key off the wall. There’s an old-fashioned sign-in book, but Yuri makes no mention of it, so Otabek doesn’t ask. The stairs have a worn, green runner which mutes their footsteps on the way up. The room itself, at the end of the corridor, smells a little musty, but it’s spacious and furnished in a similarly old-fashioned way. There’s a large balcony behind a set of glass doors, giving out towards the lake instead of facing the street at the front.
“The view’s really nice,” Yuri says. “I mean, when it’s not raining. Shit.”
Despite his circumstances, Otabek finds there’s something adorable in Yuri’s shoulder-slumped embarrassment. “It’s nice,” he says.
“Okay. The wi-fi password’s on the table there. Um, do you want tea?”
“Yeah, sure,” Otabek says. Yuri shuffles in place for a bit, then heads out.
“An hour!” he calls out over his shoulder, then rattles down the stairs, out of sight.
Otabek takes in the room again, then gets his laptop and sets it out, finding that the wi-fi really is rather shitty. He leaves it to download his work emails and cracks open the balcony door to air out the unused feel of the room. The bed is wide, but strangely short, and the pillowcases have lace on the edges. He gets out of his leather jacket and boots, then decides that a shower wouldn’t do any harm. The bathroom is tiny, and the tub has little clawed feet. The water takes a while to warm up, and the pressure isn’t great, but the provided towels are very comfortable.
Fresh out of the shower, the soft misting of cool air from the balcony feels nice. He stands in the doorway a while, breathing in the aggressively rural scenery and scent. Something strange moves in the fog above the lake, but in a moment the shape reveals itself to be a lone man on a rowboat. In the wake of the boat, three round heads move, black against the gleaming grey of water, with hair fanning out behind them. Kelp on seal heads. Otabek relaxes his grasp on the curtains and watches the man pull the boat on the shore and empty out a bucket in a lurid splash of red. The seals dip underwater and disappear. The man is wearing a raincoat with a hood and moves in a lumbering, awkward way, disappearing around the edge of the house.
Otabek closes the balcony door, which sticks a little in its damp frame. There’s a round-faced alarm clock next to the bed, straight from the previous century, and its ticking makes Otabek aware of how quiet the place is, except for the hum of his laptop’s fan. The wi-fi isn’t enough to make listening music off the internet possibly, so Otabek turns to the small TV set, clicking through channels to find something for background noise. Then he dresses in his clean change of sweatpants and hoodie and scrolls through the emails, firing one off to JJ to let him know what’s happened, venting about the vandalism against his bike.
When there’s a clangy knock on his door, Otabek realises that in his sweatpants and his hair falling over his forehead without having been styled, he cuts a far less interesting figure than he’d like to when facing Yuri again. The thought warms his cheeks, making it impossible to deny his attraction.
How long does it take to make tea? he wonders as he swings open the door and receives an answer immediately. Behind the laden tray, Yuri is in a fresh set of clothes, hair still damp from a shower. So, no, not the tea. The sports two cups and two plates, and a pile of scones and biscuits and a little jar of jam next to the tea pot and the small pitcher of milk.
“Oh,” Otabek says. “Oh.” He steps out of the way, opening the door fully.
“I forgot to ask how you take your tea,” Yuri says. He shuffles by in fluffy slippers, a pair of garishly purple and clingy sweatpants, and a soft-looking long-sleeved t-shirt. He’s carried the precarious tray up the stairs without spilling anything.
“Are you alone here?” Otabek asks, closing the door.
Yuri looks up from the tray he’s set on the table by the two armchairs, swiping back a line of damp hair. “No? My mom’s around, and… my grandpa.” He frowns down at the cups, then starts pouring the tea. “This is complimentary,” he states flatly. “’Cause of the shitshow with your bike.”
It’s really cosy. The scent of tea and warm scones, the steam rising into the air, the rain muttering against the roof and the glass doors. The company. Otabek slides into one of the armchairs. “Thanks.”
Yuri kicks off his slippers and takes the other chair, filling his cup to the brim with milk, which dilutes his tea to a light tan. “How’d you end up here?” he asks, acknowledging the out-of-the-way status of the village.
“I like to drive around, I guess,” Otabek replies, choosing a scone and pulling it apart with his thumbs. “It’s pretty hard to get lost with GPS tracking on your phone.” He sighs a little, offering Yuri a smile. “You weren’t kidding about the wi-fi though.”
“I know, right?” Yuri nods. He follows Otabek’s fingers very steadfastly as he spreads jam on the scone and when he brings it up to his mouth to bite. “This is a really boring place.”
“You ever consider leaving?”
Yuri squirms, bringing his feet up on the chair. “It’s complicated.” Then he leans forwards a little, eyes picking up the warm yellow of the lamps in the room. “If you hear anything really weird during the night, it’s just the seals.”
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
“Is it?” Yuri looks into his tea, fingers playing with the handle of the sweetly round cup, like a large onion with gilded edges. “They get really loud, and it can sound creepy, so I’m just giving you a heads-up.”
Otabek doesn’t think some animal noises are going to stop him from sleeping. “Is the company complimentary too?” he says, finishing his scone. “Or just the tea?”
“The company is… voluntary,” Yuri says. It warms Otabek right up.
“The company is appreciated. And really hot,” he says, stilling Yuri’s squirms with a look. Sometimes his road trips come with the added bonus of meeting someone. Nothing that has led to anything long-term, but enjoyable nonetheless. Maybe he won’t get the opportunity to hear the creepy seals if Yuri is up to providing further voluntary company. The dash of collarbone visible from the stretched neck of Yuri’s shirt looks very inviting. It moves as Yuri raises that shoulder.
“Same,” Yuri says, teacup clinking against the saucer as he sets it down with a shaky hand. A pink blush spills upwards along his neck and cheeks. He slowly unfurls one leg and reaches it into Otabek’s lap, bare toes digging into his thigh.
Otabek settles his hand over the top of Yuri’s foot, stroking the warm skin with his thumb, and watches Yuri slouch deeper into his chair, lips parting in relaxation. He isn’t quite pretty, but his wide-set green eyes and pointy chin and the way his hair keeps falling over one eye, and the strong legs make Otabek’s core heat up, making his limbs heavy with anticipation.
Yuri doesn’t break eye-contact when he moves, sliding off the chair and onto Otabek’s knees, straddling him. He breathes in quick little bursts, puffing air over Otabek’s lips when he presses close, arms dangling over Otabek’s shoulders. They nuzzle together, tilt their faces to find the angle, and when Otabek grabs Yuri’s hips and digs his fingers in, they kiss. Yuri’s mouth is already open; his tongue tastes sweet licking under Otabek’s lips.
The depth of the groan Yuri utters surprises Otabek. It’s so needy. It travels through Otabek and settles into his groin. He skims his hands along Yuri’s sides, up under his shirt, finding the bumps of his ribs and smooth skin. Between the soft smacks of their mouths, Yuri’s shameless grunts, and the way Yuri’s hands settle on the back of Otabek’s head, fingers scraping against his undercut, Otabek starts feeling positive about the slashed tyres. When Yuri draws back a bit, mouth red and round, Otabek’s mind supplies the image of a lamprey, and he shivers with strange, aroused chills. And the way that red mouth and sharp teeth clench onto his neck just below his ear, slowly fills Otabek’s cock.
“Your skin tastes good,” Yuri murmurs when they help each other out of their shirts. “Salty.”
“I washed,” Otabek says, and Yuri’s lips crack open in a smile.
“I said it’s good.”
Otabek likes short relationships of little consequence. He likes having and holding the fascination that comes with newness. He’s also a leg man, and once free of the purple sweatpants, Yuri’s legs are everything he likes, especially when spread open on the bed. Yuri’s voracity is everything he likes. The round bites he leaves, the unashamed trembling of his thighs, the way he licks sweat off Otabek’s skin, and even afterwards keeps sucking on Otabek’s fingers as if he really does enjoy the taste.
Otabek dreams of sinking under emerald green water, into a graveyard of ship bones. Dark shapes flit past him, long hair streaming behind their unfamiliar shapes. His nostrils fill with the heavy smell of watery undergrowth, then the unpleasant, silvery stench of fish. He surfaces to wakefulness, but the odour doesn’t wane. In the dark of the room, he can only tell Yuri isn’t beside him in the bed.
Before his fumbling hands locate the lamp by the bedside, he catches the thread of voices in the house. Indistinct and gloopy. He leaves the light off and stumbles out of bed to look for his clothes, finding that the stripe of light from under the door gives just enough illumination for him to see shapes. The door isn’t locked and gives out as he pushes at it. With that layer removed, the voices are clearer.
“Your grandfather is hungry,” a woman says. She slurs the words as though they’re difficult to pronounce.
“I know.” Otabek recognises Yuri’s voice immediately. He creeps along the corridor, finding striped light coming up from the stairwell. Some shadows move.
“He’s waiting,” says a third voice, male. The way he speaks is so gurgly that Otabek can hardly understand the words.
“I know! I’ll go now,” Yuri says.
“Your grandfather is hungry,” the woman repeats with emphasis.
“You got the human to stay,” the man adds.
“No,” Yuri says, sullen and pointed. “No, somebody slashed his tyres.”
“You brought him here.”
“What else was I- No. No.”
The stairs creak as though someone is mounting them. Otabek catches sight of a blocky figure in a wide-brimmed hat and dark, gleaming skin and pulls back, bewildered.
“Which room?” the man grunts.
“No!” Yuri repeats. The sounds of a scuffle drive Otabek back into the room.
He’d left the key on the desk next to his laptop. To lock the door from the inside, he needs the key. He hears footsteps coming up the stairs just as his hand closes around the metal object.
“You’re not giving him to grandpa! He’s mine!” Yuri’s voice is muffled by the door.
Otabek shoves the key into the lock and turns, making the latch click loudly. The two sets of footsteps stop just behind the door, the conversation halted by the obvious sound of the lock. Otabek backs away, stumbling over his boots, then into the armchair Yuri had sat in. The door is tried, its frame creaking against the weight of being pushed. Then the pressure disappears and there’s silence in which Otabek’s thoughts stray and bump against each other like panicked sheep.
Because it had sounded a lot like they wanted to hand Otabek over to Yuri’s grandfather to eat.
His eyes land on his boots, and then he moves, pulling them on, snatching up his phone, his wallet, his jacket, his backpack on the way to the balcony. The wind from the lake pushes the door open and flutters the curtains. It smells sour, and waves lap at the shore, sounding awfully close. The clouds have passed, and the lake is calm. Seal Islet is a dark shape in the middle of soft, moon-licked waves. On it, a shape moves, big enough to be visible from the distance, wet skin only suggesting at shapes that are far from human. The hoarse chorus of voices could be seals. Otabek doesn’t know. His thoughts jumble again.
He registers the familiar blond-topped figure below him too late. The lake has risen, and the water crowds around Yuri’s feet in restless shifts as though a tide is coming in. Yuri stares at him, then points to the right and up. His mouth forms words Otabek can’t decipher. Yuri makes a hurry-up motion, stabbing his finger upwards again.
There’s a ladder on the wall next to the balcony. The room door rattles behind him. It’s easier to follow orders than to contemplate what can’t be known. Otabek clambers onto the balcony railing and hurls himself at the ladder, palms stinging at the contact. He clings on for a while, catching his breath once he’s sure he’s not going to fall. The metal rungs creak under his weight. He gains the slippery roof, pulling himself flat against the moss just as the heavy-footed figure rushes onto the balcony.
The man calls out to Yuri, and even though he’s closer now, Otabek can’t understand the speech at all, full of bubbles and clicks. He sounds angry.
“I didn’t see him,” Yuri calls back. “But he can’t have gotten too far.”
The height of the roof, for better or worse, gives Otabek an even clearer view of the lake and the islet. He scrabbles for purchase on the slope, unable to parse together the shape in the dark, only its writhing arms spreading across the islet. He hears the man leave the balcony and peers over the edge. Yuri is still there, but he’s facing the dark lake and figures rising from the water, their stringy hair falling across shoulders and arms that are barely humanoid. Otabek pulls back in a hurry.
He slips and slides across the roof, heart hammering, tasting blood. He loses his grip once, skidding down until his foot wedges into the gutter with a dull clang. He only moves again when he feels the malleable metal starting to give under his weight, pulling himself into the shadow of the chimney on his hands and knees, and listens for any sign of having been spotted. He hears talking and splashing, heavy footsteps around the house, stomping on twigs and gravel.
Clinging to the chimney gives him time to see the second ladder, stretching across the slope of the roof to the peak and dipping down over the edge towards the ground. It gives him time to listen to the sounds fade and concentrate on the shoreside of the house. It gives him time to start shivering in newfound disbelief, trying not to gasp out loud for breath that’s suddenly in short supply.
It’s quiet when he finally sets his feet on the ladder and climbs down as slowly as he can, trying to make no noise. He crouches in the shadow of the house until his legs stop trembling, then forces himself to follow the wall to the corner towards the street. He rushes across the short distance, the sharp edges of a rose bush scraping the backs of his hands and clinging to his sweatpants. He can go back to the village. Maybe the diner. The garage? Even if he could get his bike, it’s been rendered useless.
The road coming up from the village to the house is empty and winding, forested on both sides. He can’t see the lake when he’s under the dark trees, hiding under the low-sweeping branches of spruce, glad of the carpet of fallen needles to keep his tread quiet. He can still smell the water and hear it moving, even despite the buffer of trees and the scent of pitch.
The bites Yuri had left on him chafe under his clothes and the straps of his backpack. His skin tasted good. Grandpa is hungry.
The village looks quiet when Otabek reaches it. Some houses have lights on. The fishing boats bob on the waves, shadows against the starry sky. When Otabek steps out of the forest, he steps into water, a coolness spilling over the toes of his boot. It had rained, but it isn’t a puddle. It’s the lake, spilling onto dry land and across the village streets. Then he sees the people, walking in twos and threes, painting the water green under the bright flashlights in their hands. Otabek shrinks against the first house on the edge of the township, then makes a decision.
The Old Town is a straight shot from where he is, just across the width of the village. Nobody will have any reason to look for him there. He sets out but is immediately driven back into the wall by a low roar vibrating across the lake, making the light on the water’s surface break into little shards. The sound isn’t loud, but it’s low.
After travelling the distance of just a few houses, he’s already knee-deep in water, crouching in the shadow under an awning when a group of people passes by him on the other side of the same house. Their flashlights sweep across the waves.
“Grandpa sounds mad,” someone says.
“Sure does,” she replies. Otabek is stricken to recognise Mila’s voice “Didn’t think the guy was this slippery when I saw him.”
“He ate at the diner?”
“Yura even came by right when he was there. Perfect setup.” When they round the corner, Otabek can see her wearing fishing overalls, but her bright red hair is uncovered. “Can’t believe Yura fucked it up.”
Their voices and lights dwindle as they keep walking. The water is up to the middle of Otabek’s thigh when he gets to the church, it’s doors wide open and the hall inside lit. The tall flood cellars and foundations make sense. Otabek skirts the lighted area, spotting people inside. Under his fear is the burn of humiliation, almost dwarfing the burn in his legs from fighting the weight of the water. Apparently he was just that easy a target when great legs were put in the equation.
He forges through, powered by frustration and fright. He questions all his choices.
The Old Town is dark and still, and Otabek feels much safer when he tucks himself into a shadowy doorway, pulling his feet out of the water. Watching it move around the shapes of old buildings makes Otabek wonder just what is at the bottom of it. The water washes against the stoop in little movements, making a soft sploshing noise. Cold comes over Otabek, and his breath begins to shudder, until he notices a v-shape on the top of the water coming closer, lit by the bright moon—the wake of something swimming just below the surface.
White-blond hair appears first, floating in tendrils, then a familiar face and bare shoulders as Yuri gains his feet, the water too shallow to swim in. His gaze sweeps across the ruins. “Otabek,” he says softly, still searching.
But Otabek is frozen, staring at the gaping slashes on both sides of Yuri’s ribcage, fluttering and frilled and slowly closing as he walks farther out of the water, revealing more skin. He looks unreal. The moon paints his skin faintly silvery, glistening. The gills on his ribs open when he draws breath, then close again, sealing to nothing.
“Otabek,” Yuri says again. “We don’t get a lot of visitors,” Yuri says, and Otabek wants to laugh. He makes some noise, making Yuri’s eyes snap towards him, and then he wades over, strong thighs working.
“So- So that’s the welcome party?” Otabek croaks. Yuri climbs into the same doorway. He’s naked. His eyes are very pale.
“You gotta go.” Yuri’s arms pull at him, fisted in his shirt.
“Why? What-” Otabek whimpers, clenching his hands around Yuri’s wrists. “What the fuck are you?”
Yuri opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. His teeth are very sharp. “Well,” he finally says. “I’m mostly human.”
“Mostly?” This time Otabek does laugh, desperately, a sound not far from the barking of the seals. It ricochets around the ruins, and they both stay silent. Yuri’s shoulders heave, and he turns his head swiftly, looking in every direction. There’s nobody there.
“Your Old Town was razed for a reason,” Otabek realises.
“Well, yeah,” Yuri admits. “But you can’t burn what’s at the bottom of the lake.”
“You feed it people. That thing. Whatever the fuck it is.”
“Grandpa,” Yuri says, almost absently.
“So, I, what-”
Yuri’s fingers dig into Otabek’s forearm, tightening and relaxing at turns. His face is so close, pale and sharp in the moonlight. “Listen. Listen. He keeps us safe. He lets us fish. He gives us… more. In return, we feed him.”
The moonlight is not kind. From this angle, with no cloud in sight, it lights up the glassy surface of the lake and the islet alongside its cyclopean occupant, and Otabek can’t look away, even knowing the sight will never leave him. The grandfather’s barrel-like body is dragged around by squid-like arms. Its head bulges out on top of a short neck, ringed with blubber. When it opens its maw, it reveals a gullet ringed with teeth on all sides, curving down. It wears a grown of eyes and massive pearls, like a water-living spider.
Otabek squeezes his eyes shut. He covers his ears with his hands and huddles against the doorway at his back, but his paltry attempt at protecting himself from what he’s seen and heard is unsuccessful. Yuri pulls his hands away.
“Grandpa is gonna be so mad,” he whispers. “But I kinda like you, and I don’t want you to get eaten. By him, anyway. So you really gotta go.” He paws at Otabek. “They’re gonna come here soon.”
As if to prove Yuri’s point, voices reach them from over the water. Moving points of light mark the people in boats on the lake. They call to each other in words and tones that are incomprehensible to Otabek. Yuri pulls him up off the damp ground.
“Go into the forest,” Yuri guides him. “Keep the moon at your back. There’ll be a road. Just keep going. I’m sorry.” His voice is hushed. “You tasted really good. It was fun. I’m sorry.” Against the paleness of the moon and his skin, the blush on his cheeks is obvious. He lands an open-mouthed kiss on Otabek’s lips, then dives for the water, cutting into it like a knife. The last Otabek sees of him his the white of his hair disappearing off the black surface.
When Otabeks finds the road, the moon at his back, he just walks along it, shaken and soggy, until the sun rises.
There’s something unreal about the square glass in his hand. Otabek turns it around on the counter until the condensation leaves it in a puddle. JJ is on his second one.
“You’re far away, bro.” JJ nudges him. The noise of the bar floods in. It’s not bad noise, not loud, just the normal murmur of background music, people talking, and glasses clinking. The sounds are warm, just like the light, closing away the cold rain and city lights outside.
“I know,” Otabek says, cheek sinking against his knuckles. He continues to turn the glass around, watching the wet smear it leaves behind. “I keep dreaming of- of what happened to me.” JJ had listened to his story and kept his disbelief mostly to himself. A feat from someone gifted with such a large head and easy-to-read face.
“The good sex part, right?” JJ knocks him again with his elbow. Because that part he’d believed.
“All of it,” Otabek mutters. The sunken boats he hadn’t even seen. The emerald green water. The curved teeth. Seals and lampreys. His body bitten up and bleeding, and Yuri sitting on top of him saying he tastes good. The smell. The reek that follows him to when he’s awake.
“You party the hardest on your holi-”
“I can’t stop thinking about it.” Otabek empties his glass in one go, the drink diluted and tasteless. The bites on him haven’t faded. “I feel like I should go back.”
“Bro.”
Otabek braces his elbows on the counter and buries his fingers in his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. There’s a taste in the back of his throat that he can’t shake. A sweetness. A longing. “I can’t even swim!” he groans.
JJ pats his shoulder. “Mhm.”
“What the fuck is wrong with me? They were going to feed me to a lake monster!”
JJ squeezes his shoulder. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but you sound crazy.”
The pictures play in his mind again. The inhuman shapes on the islet. And then Yuri, Yuri, Yuri.