It started with the too-long brush of fingers as Alfred turned in his test. Mr. Braginski smiled as he always did, polite and cordial, with that air of authority mixed with his buddy-buddy act. Yet there was something in his eyes, gauging, watching, waiting for a reaction.
Alfred smiled back, cocked his head and nearly winked. "Hope I don't get too many wrong," he said.
"I am sure you have nothing to worry about, Alfred," Mr. Braginski returned.
His voice was knowledgeable as usual, with all those fancy words and eloquent tones, his rolling accent and wisdom. All of it Alfred was used to, but something snuck in beneath it all, curled like smoke under a door. It was the sound of a secret wanting to be told.
Alfred got an A+ on his test, even on the questions he made up answers to, or drew pictures of giraffes where there should have been lengthy explanations. There was no hint of a red check or deducted mark, simply a grade scribbled on the top along with the message, "I told you not to worry, Alfred."
Alfred. Alfred. Even Alfred's own parents didn't call him by his name so often. It was nice though, a treat to his ears to hear it again and again. It was never spoken in an angry tone, like the kind that followed a forgotten chore or the discovery of a messy room. It was like his name but better, said as though it were an honor, an interesting thing that slid along the upper palate and lilted on the lips.
During an open discussion the next week, Mr. Braginski walked the floors as he tended to, calling on students to share their thoughts and opinions. He wound around each desk with slow, deliberate steps. When he passed behind Alfred, his presence remained. Stoic and steady, the rustle of well-pressed fabrics and rolled up sleeves. He smelled like half-finished cups of tea and memories of the Old Country, folk remedies and aged books.
His hand skimmed along Alfred's back, nothing more than the light graze of fingertips, nails catching on the back of his shirt. Alfred's heart fluttered fast as a hummingbird's wings, rose up in his throat and refused to budge as he swallowed around it. And quick as the hand was there, it was gone, Mr. Braginski moving on to the next row.
Alfred's thoughts blurred, confusion overtaking him. His fingers curled tightly around his pen, toes tensing inside his socks. Was that supposed to feel good? Did teachers even do that? It was hard to think back to any other times he'd been touched by a teacher with how his head was swimming, warm and pleased. A smile came easily to his lips as he sat and basked in the feelings that had been stirred, wide and goofy and unabashed. He didn't bother hiding it either, not even when he caught Mr. Braginski looking at him as he moved back to the front of the class.
The next week their seating arrangement changed. It was the monthly shuffling all students were used to. Friends were kept apart to keep down chatter, trouble makers moved to the front and the more astute to the rear. Alfred tended to float from area to area, finding himself seated nearer to Mr. Braginski's if he'd been dozing too much, or close to the wide bay windows if he'd behaved unusually well.
This was the first time he had to sit in the back row. He never thought of himself as particularly good in the class, wasn't sure how he'd earned the honor. If anything his attention strayed more than ever, though no longer due to the lazy rays of the sun that made Alfred grow tired.
He was distracted by Mr. Braginski. By his natural grace and steady steps. How he carried himself, tall and comfortable in his own body. Mr. Braginski was so sure of himself in his words and his movements. Alfred wondered if he'd skipped over puberty completely, gone to bed one night a child and woken up a man. And he envied Mr. Braginski for who he was with all his poise, while Alfred was relegated to a body with too-long limbs he hadn't grown into yet.
Alfred studied Mr. Braginski instead of textbooks. He traced the curve where Mr. Braginski's hand met his wrist, the tendrils of light blue veins that spread down his arms. He picked up on Mr. Braginski's tics and quirks, the way he'd roll his scarf between his fingers as he thought, or the funny way he smiled whenever Alfred raised his hand. It wasn't like that of a catalog model or a face caught in a snapshot. It was fluid and quick, evaporated fast as a drop of water in a frying pan.
It made Alfred's heart shudder and grow light at the sight of it.
His heart didn't fare any better when Mr. Braginski started wandering the room more. It was a gradual thing that happened in measured paces and days that blurred. Where once Mr. Braginski had posed the plainest of questions to Alfred before moving on, he now stopped. His hand would settle on the desk, his eyes meeting with Alfred's as he asked if he needed any help.
Alfred never turned him down.
That was when Alfred understood why he was in the back. No one could see the two of them, Mr. Braginski leaning in close, Alfred hanging on to his every word. Not that he retained any of it. Instead of recalling the named and dates, the facts and numbers that Mr. Braginski spoke of, only the impression of his voice remained. It was a sound that soothed Alfred and made his blood quicken all at once. It was never impatient or bothered. It was simply there for him.
It was something for him to look forward to in the morning when his body ached and the alarm rang. It got him through his early classes he wanted to crash in, kept him chugging through lunch and out of trouble. He was bright-eyed by the time he entered Mr. Braginski's class, a pencil in hand and focused on everything but learning.
Mr. Braginski stopped putting his hand on Alfred's desk when he made his rounds. Instead it started to settle on Alfred's back, resting against a tightened shoulder blade that eased under the touch. There were times when his fingers would skirt Alfred's collar, tuck a stray tag in that was sticking out, occasionally remark on his brand loyalty.
The touches became normal, a commonplace, everyday occurrence that gave Alfred something else to look forward to in Mr. Braginski's class. His heart never grew used to it though, continuing to flutter and twitch and flop with anticipation the second he entered the classroom. It shivered when Mr. Braginski came near, squeezed when that hand settled on his back.
And it nearly stopped the day Mr. Braginski happened to trail those trimmed, clean nails along the nape of his neck. It was something done in passing as he made his way to the front of the room, without so much as a glance back, a barely-there touch that hit all the sensitive spots.
It played along the raised bumps of vertebrae, made each baby-fine hair on Alfred's neck stand on end. It brought to life goosebumps and a pulse in his ear, a heady buzz that made his thoughts fog. The nails scratched lightly, almost affectionately, with all the fondness one might show a cat. It ended by twining through his hair for the briefest of seconds, an adoring ruffle that made Alfred's knees go weak.
Throughout class he could think of only that moment, hold onto it as tightly as he could, relive the sensations it conjured and how it made his heart beat with an impossible intensity. His stomach was filled with a sensation both uneasy and exhilarating, like taking the first drop on a roller coaster.
Alfred decided he most definitely had the hots for teacher that day. He'd heard girls twitter on about that sort of thing before, boys trading lewd comments in the same vein. It was a topic tackled in movies and books and shown in nightly headlines. It was a forbidden fruit if ever there was one.
He tried to battle back the feelings, rationalize them in his head. Mr. Braginski was all sorts of tall and handsome, smart and mature. He didn't baby or coddle Alfred, never spoke in patronizing way. He treated Alfred not as a child, but as a person, pure and simple. The experience was wholly new to Alfred, something he'd long yearned for but never been treated to. It made sense he'd develop this puppy love, a heavy-handed infatuation that would be sure to dwindle in a few weeks.
Despite his feverish reasonings, Alfred's interest grew. It surfaced in his thoughts when he showered, slipped into his dreams while he slept. It became a constant white noise in the back of his head, manifested itself whenever Alfred heard a snippet of Russian being spoken or saw a nesting doll in a window. It insinuated itself into his bones and transfused his blood, became a constant, pleasurable pain that beat in his heart.
It tripled when Mr. Braginski put a plain little box on Alfred's desk one day while passing out the homework for them to do over winter break. It was brown and ordinary, without an emblem or suggestion of what it might be. Alfred stowed it in his backpack and spent the rest of the period idly doodling snowmen with familiar scarves and distinct noses.
He opened the box once he was home, the door closed and his shoes kicked off. His heart was racing, breath coming quickly from the sprint home. His eyes focused as he pried off the lid, exposed a thin layer of cream-colored tissue paper that crinkled under his fingers.
There was a weight held within the wrapping, there but not heavy. Alfred sat on the edge of his bed and peeled it carefully away. He found a watch at the core, the time shown in Roman numerals with slim golden hands pointing at them. The faceplate gleamed with the shine of fine metal, the wristband smelling of good leather.
He stared at it for a moment, the soft tick tick tick sounding in his ears. Was this... his now? He put it on gingerly, moved his wrist back and forth and watched how it caught the light. He smiled absently as he admired it, fascinated by its every movement. It was fancier than any watch he'd had before, no digital display or velcro bands.
And Mr. Braginski had been the one to give it to him.
The realization heated his cheeks a deep red, a goofy grin gracing his face. He looked around as though expecting to find someone to talk to, to tell of this wonderful gift. The little brown box caught his eye again, the opened lid now revealing an envelope within.
He fished the envelope from the box and slid his finger under the seal, whining softly as the entire top tore off in a jagged, uneven row. There was a card with the standard winter scene, snow banks and swirling snowflakes, a sleigh pulled by horses and a happy couple nestled together.
The inside wished him festive greetings and good cheer, while a few words were written beneath the stock message in Mr. Braginski's neat, cursive handwriting.
"A gift for my favorite student for his inexplicable, but admirable, enthusiasm. And it is from your favorite company, is it not? I hope you will find it somewhat useful. If not, let it at least remind you of me when you wear it."
Mr. Braginski's signature trailed off in a flourish at the end. A criss cross of loops and ink that reflected his talented penmanship. Alfred found himself running his fingers over it, tracing the shapes, the name, the complicated burst that trailed along the finish. He leaned in closer when he found a symbol emerging, tucked away but certainly there.
It was a heart. Small and unassuming, hidden until closer inspection was given. It was like a face or shape that emerged from a wallpaper, impossible not to see once it was brought to light. Alfred almost could have passed it off as coincidence. But with the wording of the letter, the gift itself, the memories of how much time Mr. Braginski was willing to spend with him and how his touch was a constant, it all started to come together.
Alfred did a lot of thinking over break. He got out and stretched his legs, wandered for hours at a time, soaking up the mild weather. It never snowed where he lived, barely got any rain either. Instead the skies were usually cloudless, the sun bright, crisp, warming him as he walked.
His mom said he looked healthy and happy when he came back, his skin taking on a slight tan from the outside exposure. She asked why he smiled like he did nowadays, wondered aloud if he had someone special in his life. Alfred reddened and shrugged, mumbled vague answers that sent his mother simpering.
His evening were spent in his room, thumbing through textbooks, scribbling down thoughts and notes, fragmented sentences that made sense only to him. He wrote of star-crossed lovers and their stories. How it was their love that was remembered through the ages, not for being wrong, but for struggling against the odds. They were the subjects of song and poem and story, held up as an example of true love. And while more often than not the pair were forced apart, there were exceptions.
When class was back in session, Alfred went through it in a haze of nerves and nausea. He played with his watch, tugged at the strap, fiddled with the knobs. He spent lunch staring at his food without ever touching it. While classmates spoke of how they spent their vacations, he sat back and twiddled his thumbs, his tongue numb and heavy as the hours passed.
There was a new seating arrangement in Mr. Braginski's class, students milling about as they found their spots. Alfred bumbled through the rows, studied the nameplates as he ambled by and the students that had already found their seats. There seemed to be no spot for him, his place forgotten in the grand map of the room.
His throat went dry, tightened as though cinched in a corset. He couldn't find the words to ask for help, nothing but dry rasps coming from his mouth when he spoke. Was his name gone because he wasn't meant to be here? Had he been transferred into another class during the break, missed out on the memo? Was the watch was a sendoff gift for Alfred, a way to let him down easy?
But then he found it, plain as day, the fear evaporating as quickly as it had struck him. It wasn't that his seat had changed, but that it hadn't. While everyone else had been shuffled about, taken to their new spots without a thought, Alfred had been kept in his little corner in the back.
He sat down with a relieved sigh, backpack thumping against the floor as he settled himself in. His lanky legs stretched out beneath the desk, back forming to the hard plastic curve of the chair. He slapped his binder on the desk and flipped it open, snapping the metal rings open before fishing his report out.
Mr. Braginski stood at the front, smiling softly as he greeted the class, nodding his head as they greeted him in unison. He rattled off the usual spiel welcoming them back, hoping they enjoyed their time away, lightly scolding those who waited until the last minute to get to work. There was a handful of uneasy laughs courtesy of the offenders and the serene expressions of those who finished long ago.
Alfred's knees took up an anxious jog as Mr. Braginski began collecting homework. His fingers rapped the desk with no rhythm. He'd waited the entire break for this moment, two long, seemingly endless weeks filled with a feverish pining he wasn't accustomed to.
He figured it would leave, all these feelings and thoughts. One morning he'd wake and Mr. Braginski would be his teacher and nothing more. His heart would beat as it would for any other person, and that beautiful hurt would cease. But it never so much as faded in the least.
And seeing Mr. Braginski now in the flesh again, no longer an image in his mind, made his heart flare. It burned in his chest, wild and red hot, the sight of Mr. Braginski coming closer only fueling the fire. Blood roared past his ear and his fingers tightened on his paper, its thin sides denting and crumpling beneath the pressure.
Mr. Braginski didn't take Alfred's test when he offered it. Instead his hand went to Alfred's wrist, fingers gently encircling it, pulling it closer. His touch was cool and firm, turning Alfred's wrist over as he took it in, heather-colored eyes drawn to the watch.
"I see you like my present," Mr. Braginski said. His voice was too flat and collected, hiding something beneath it. Still waters with a shark below the surface.
"Oh, yeah. I like it loads! I mean, thanks, y'know?" Alfred gave a flimsy shrug and a shaky smile. "The best present I got by far, I gotta say. A-and it works."
"Well, I would like to think it would have no trouble working," Mr. Braginski murmured absently, his thumb insinuating itself between the skin of Alfred's wrist and the watch's band. He worked it loose with a little wiggling, easing it toward the base of Alfred's hand. The faint tan line that was exposed turned Mr. Braginski's smile cat-like.
"A'course it tells time," Alfred said, compressed and fast as though his voice was being forced through a vacuum. "But I mean it works how you wanted it to."
Mr. Braginski paused at that, thumbing the paler skin that had been hiding beneath the watch band. The light in his eyes went thoughtful for a moment, traveled back to the past and skimmed over memories. Alfred watched him, studied the slight hollow of his cheeks where youth had left them, the barely there crow's feet that edged his eyes, and the laugh lines that never quite left his face.
It made Alfred's heart beat all that much harder, words crawling up his throat and forcing themselves from his mouth before he could swallow them down.
"It makes me think of you," he blurted.
Mr. Braginski gave Alfred's wrist a fond squeeze as he released it. He said nothing as he took the paper held up for him, though his usual pallor was dusted with the slightest pink. Alfred wouldn't have even noticed it if he hadn't been looking so intently, waiting for a sign of how his response was received.
They watched a movie in class that day. It passed by in a mess of colors and voices, with information that never quite sank in. Mr. Braginski spent the period flipping through papers, pen held at the ready to mark and comment, dispense commentary and critique, face passive as sorted through them.
Alfred knew when Mr. Braginski found his. It was in the way his posture stiffened and his shoulders tensed. In how he sat up straighter and held the paper closer, eyes flickering from line to line. He was quick with his pen, jotting something down within the first few seconds. He set it aside then and moved on to the next without looking up.
The rest of the period was filled with Alfred deciding he was dying. Anticipation could do that to people. Or at least to him. His breath came shallow and short, fingers ripping up scrap paper. Mr. Braginski hadn't read it. Not the whole thing, at least. Two weeks of effort couldn't be read in twenty seconds.
Mr. Braginski passed back the graded papers as the credits started to roll. There were little cheers and moans throughout the room, sighs of relief and the whine of those who'd been expecting better. Alfred willed his body to melt into his chair, his head a complicated mess of fears and hopes that fought tooth and nail for dominance.
His paper was placed face down on his desk with not a word spoken as Mr. Braginski returned to the head of the class. He addressed them then in his usual way, said he was pleased with the majority of the work, but that there were a few students he'd thought could have managed to invest more effort. His words faded in Alfred's head as he told them what they could expect from this semester, writing down an outline of what was to come on the white board.
"See me after class," was all Alfred could focus on now.
There it was, written on his paper, blaring and obvious the second he turned it over. Nothing but those four words, circled for extra emphasis. It was red ink. Red was bad. It was what made you stop at a light, or warned you of danger. Red in nature was a sign of poison, a color meant to ward off predators. It was a color that said, "I'm more trouble than I'm worth."
But which of them wasn't worth the trouble?
Alfred sat perfectly still when the bell rang. His classmates filed past him, backpacks bumping against hips and slung over shoulders, snippets of chatter filling his ears as one by one they left the room. The door closed with a click as the last student left, nothing but the muted road of people in the hallway filling the room.
"Alfred, please come to the front of the class," Mr. Braginski said.
Alfred's body moved of its own accord, forced him step by shaky step to the desk at the head of the classroom. His gaze fastened itself to the floor, one hand clutching his homework still. Mr. Braginski held out his hand palm-up, fingers making a coaxing motion as he cleared his throat.
"If you would, Alfred," he said as he cleared his throat. "I would like to be able to fully enjoy your paper."
Alfred handed it over without looking at Mr. Braginski. He stood, awkward and gangly, limbs all out of sorts as he waited for what was next. His whole body seemed to belong to someone else, swaying and shifting without any input, sluggish and clumsy when he did try to command it. His tongue darted along his lips, wetted them only to find them too dry in moments. His Adam's apple bobbed relentlessly.
"Sit," Mr. Braginski said.
Alfred obeyed.
The minutes crawled along, a sick, cold dread roiling in Alfred's chest. Sweat beaded at his temple, the baby-fine hair on his arms standing on end at the little hums Mr. Braginski was emitting as he read. He nodded from time to time as though agreeing with a point, his pen poised to write but never coming down. He expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts, careful and passive, no sign of opinion in his eyes.
"A very well written paper," Mr. Braginski finally said, looking up with a smile. "Thoughtful, eloquent. Certainly enlightening."
Alfred brightened, his heart floundering in his stomach.
"However," Mr. Braginski continued, "I believe your homework was to write about the constructed varieties of English."
"I know," Alfred said quickly, scrubbing his hand along the back of his neck. "And─ and I'm not gonna lie. That isn't my homework. I didn't even start that."
"Then what would you call this?" Mr. Braginski asked, holding the paper up as he stood.
"A love letter. I think."
Mr. Braginski moved to where Alfred sat, set the paper before him and let his hand rest on the desk. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat, eyes fixated on Mr. Braginski. He was so close, leaning in without a second thought. Those impossible purple eyes touched with amusement, pale lips forming a secretive smile.
"A love letter," Mr. Braginski echoed. "From what I read, I would almost go so far as to call it a confession."
"Oh, yeah," Alfred said. "A confession. Definitely."
Alfred had never been kissed before. He saw other people kiss, had wanted to be kissed, but it never happened. He was the one who observed from the outside, never participated in. The mechanics were foreign to him, something he'd only thought about, unable to test.
But when Mr. Braginski kissed him, his body seemed to innately know what to do. His eyelids fluttered shut, the tenseness that racked his body ebbing. Mr. Braginski's lips were warm and soft against his own, tinged with the slightest touch of authority, an exercise of control. There was the barest hint of teeth, a light nip that caught on Alfred's plump lower lip.
Something slipped under Alfred's skin then, a sensation with no name, composed of shivers and a sweeping dizziness. It settled in the beat of his heart and skipped along each vertebrae, swam up his spine and poisoned his thoughts with a delightful haze.
The hand that now settled on his cheek, thumbed at the freckles on his skin, was a welcome touch he leaned into as the kiss was broken. Alfred tasted Mr. Braginski's sigh on his lips, sweet as any nectar and just as intoxicating.
"You do understand how much trouble this could get me in, do you not?" Mr. Braginski asked, fingertips grazing Alfred's heated skin, tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear.
Alfred nodded.
"And with that in mind, would you care to explain why I should continue?"
Alfred looked away, eyes skittering along the desk. The red on his paper caught his attention, dredged up the mess of thoughts he'd been consumed with before. He was red, the one that promised trouble and a questionable reward to those who ignored the warning. The answer to Mr. Braginski's question leapt to the front of his mind, spoke itself with the confidence of the truth.
"I'm worth the trouble," Alfred said.
Mr. Braginski laughed at that. It was a rumble of a noise, rolled like a warm thunder and echoed in the classroom. His smile turned indulgent then, lips turning up at the corners, the barest hint of teeth showing. He leaned in close again, their noses almost touching, Alfred's vision growing unfocused at the nearness of it all. Their breath mingled and Alfred's pulse doubled.
"Prove it to me," Mr. Braginski said.
So Alfred did.