It was a Friday night when I finally decided to say something to Boris. The bruises under his eyes had grown dark enough that a few people at school had started to comment on them, but if that bothered Boris in any way he didn't show it. He didn't eat anything at lunch, and neither did I. Instead I found myself staring at him, taking in his hunched position as he stared at the black table we were sitting at. He had gone home the night before and now looked worse than ever. He was wearing that red-knit sweater I loved. It was baggy on him, though he was skinny enough that everything he wore was, but it brought color to the lifeless sand dune that we lived in. His soft, black curls were blowing slightly in the breeze, and although he looked beautiful, his eyes were sad. In addition to the dark circles that were alarming me, his right eye was swollen and a dark purplish, rimmed with red as though he'd gotten punched. I'd noticed when we got off the bus that he was walking strangely, almost stiff. I may have been imagining it, but I thought I could detect a small shimmery line running down his face: faded tear tracks.
He must have felt me staring, because he slowly lifted his head, his eyes turning to meet mine. They looked almost empty, and for a second I could see the blood and dead look from my dream all over again. I couldn't lose Boris, I just couldn't. But I had no idea what was happening and was at a loss of how to ask.
"My dad came home last night," he said to me, his voice flat. I suddenly realized how different he was. I missed the spark of mischief in his eye, the way he bounced around as though on top of the world, the passion-filled lectures he would randomly give me on capitalism, the wild energy that he always seemed to have, everything that made him Boris had seemed to just drain out of him, and I was too preoccupied in my own head to realize it sooner. I didn't really know what to say to him, but I moved closer to him so that our shoulders were brushed lightly against each other, and my eyes settled on the hook-shaped mark on his forehead. It was a pinkish color, darker in the middle and lighter on the edges. It was raised and tight-looking, clearly going to scar but taking it's time to do so. We spent the remains of the day in silence, but I made sure to sit close to him, close enough to touch so that he knew I was there.
That night we lazied on the couch together, munching on chips and sipping hot tea. I wondered a few times about getting up to grab a beer for him and me, or changing the channel which was on a boring news show, but I didn't want to disturb the odd sense of peace that filled the room, even though I was uneasy at the quiet. My eyes didn't start to feel heavy until much later, around 1:53 am. I yawned, not bothering to cover my mouth and I felt Boris punch me softly in the arm.
"Ha! Sleepy Potter," he announced laughing, and soon I was as well. For a few minutes, it was though everything was normal, and I so wanted it to be. I wished that Boris' black eye, the hook-shaped scar, and his frightening dark circles that no matter how many times I saw still shocked me every time, were just a bad dream. But my laughter died as I noticed his hands shaking. He was clenching his fists, which were pressed to his side, as though attempting to hide it from me, but when it came to Boris I noticed everything. I pretended not to though, standing and stretching, another yawn coming forth and causing Boris to snort.
"We should go to bed," I said, my tone making it sound more like a statement rather than a suggestion. But Boris shook his head, eyes still fixed on the television as though it were something interesting.
"Eh, I'm not tired," he said dismissively, waving his hand as he did. Something surged through me at that. He was lying, and it was hurting him. I remembered his dead eyes, his hand reaching towards me, his bloody mouth and then nothing, just death. Fuck that.
"Bullshit," I snapped, startling both of us. I grabbed his arm suddenly, pulling him up and forgetting about my earlier observations about his odd walking. He groaned, his hand covering his chest protectively. I wasted no time in lifting up his shirt, despite his half-hearted protests, and gasping at the dark bruises that littered it. He had taken off his shirt in front of me many times before, but my vision was usually distorted by alcohol and I never got a good glimpse of it. His stomach was concave, and I could see every single one of his ribs. There were odd scars on his side that almost looked as though he'd been attacked by an animal. His face was red, staring everywhere but me. I blinked, shaking my head slightly.
"First I'm getting you an icepack." I murmured. Once I had realized that the only form of disinfectant I had was Xandra's perfume I had immediately bought a first-aid kit when Boris and I had returned to the store. He had fixed me with a questioning gaze, and I had shrugged, the cut on his forehead had been a dark angry red, and when he'd insisted he was fine I'd asked him if he'd rather the perfume over rubbing alcohol. He'd glared at me but didn't argue any further.
I hadn't let go of his arm and now I gently led him to my room. He sat on the bed with a wince but didn't seem to be in any life-threatening danger.
"Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back," I said. He rolled his eyes. "Where the fuck would I go?" But I was serious. I couldn't get the raw feeling of pain from my chest ever since I'd seen him "die".
I returned with an ice pack and pain-relieving cream, and despite his protests and insisting that he could do it himself, I rubbed the cream on his bruises with the utmost care, and after sliding his t-shirt back down (he had changed when we'd gotten home) I held the icepack over his eye, sitting next to him on my bed. I handed him an aspirin which he swallowed without water.
After a few minutes, he moved away from the ice, giving me a soft smile and a quiet "thanks". I put the pack on my nightstand before sliding under the covers on my side of the bed. Boris eyed me warily and I stared right back.
"Boris, what's wrong?" I ventured, watching him tense slightly. He seemed to be debating something in his head before he shook his head at me.
"Nothing." He moved to crawl underneath the covers too and reached to turn off the light. I watched him, at a loss of what to do. I didn't close my eyes until his breathing had slowed to the tell-tale signs of sleep.