Page 117 of Pioneer Summer

“Oh, my dear Yurochka.” Yurka heard the smile in Volodya’s voice. Volodya stroked Yurka’s cheek and kissed his nose. “For now, just sit down. And help me a little.”

Volodya dug around in the backpack again. When he was finished, he turned back to Yurka and whispered, “Can I kiss you again?”

“Volod, you don’t need to ask permission.”

“Right ...”

He pressed his lips to Yurka’s. This time the kiss wasn’t as long and tender as it had been a few minutes ago; now it was quick and insistent.

Volodya was very close to Yurka, but he wasn’t pushing Yurka away. On the contrary, he pressed close. Yurka embraced him awkwardly, somehow rucking up Volodya’s shirt in the process. But he didn’t tug it back down, instead running his hand boldly along Volodya’s back near his shoulder blades. Volodya was hot. Yurka buried his nose in the little hollow at the base of Volodya’s neck between his collarbones and inhaled, drinking in the beloved scent. He gathered his courage and kissed a bare patch of skin there, making Volodya shiver and take a ragged breath as he raked his fingers through Yurka’s hair.

“Volod, wait.” Yurka opened his eyes and looked up at Volodya. He reached up and, without asking, took off Volodya’s glasses and put them on the ground next to the blanket. Volodya squinted comically. “It’s like you’re helpless to defend yourself without them,” said Yurka.

“Not ‘without them.’ Against you.” Volodya kissed him and turned off the flashlight.

And a few minutes later Yurka had forgotten who he was and where they were. He couldn’t understand what he was feeling. It was both pleasant and strange at the same time; it was absolutely unfamiliar, not remotely like anything else. He did remember he could say stop, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t want to stop. And he didn’t have the strength to speak anyway.

Yurka soared and plunged. With Volodya, it was easy to rise up to such heights that there was no oxygen, leaving him dizzy. And it was equally easy to hurtle down with Volodya onto burning sand, or dive into boiling water and drown in it. Yurka felt a compression, a smothering, as though he were about to explode into smithereens. His heart was pounding in his temples so loudly that he could hear nothing else. But Yurka wanted to hear Volodya,to find out whether he was just as breathless, whether this was all just as strange to him. Was it as sweet-smothering-hot all at once for him, too, or was it different? And what was he, Yurka, allowed to do? Whatshouldhe do? He wanted to move, but he was afraid of ruining everything, of doing something wrong. He gathered up his courage and held Volodya, pressing in as tightly as he could. Then he lost himself completely in sensation; he forgot how to breathe; he went deaf from the hammering of his heart.

And then, just as the sensations were becoming almost unbearable, there was a release.

When he came back to himself, Yurka held Volodya close and pressed his forehead into his shoulder, listening to Volodya’s heavy, raspy breathing. Volodya had relaxed, too. When he seemed about to draw back, Yurka held him even tighter, saying, “Don’t leave. Let’s sit here a little longer, okay?”

Volodya obeyed. He pressed his body, still burning hot, into Yurka’s and gave Yurka a kiss right on the earlobe. It tickled again, but it was pleasant.

They sat like that for a little while, silent and completely still, until they began to freeze. Volodya moved away and turned around. Even though it was dark and he couldn’t really see anything, Yurka started feeling awkward. His cheeks burned. He was probably beet red all over.

“Everything okay?” asked Yurka in a shaky voice.

“Just got a little stain over here.” Volodya yanked at his shirt as he turned back to Yurka.

The pale rays of the moon pierced through the willow’s narrow herringbone leaves to fall on Volodya’s face. He was unusually darling, so tender and abashed, as he rubbed his shirt and smiled, his cheeks flushed.

“If only we could do that our whole lives, huh?” Volodya asked quietly.

Yurka nodded. “You said something about next time. When will that be?”

“When we meet. I’ll come see you, or you’ll come see me. For a long time. For a whole summer.”

Yurka’s heart leaped and filled with hope: Volodya had said that so firmly, without a hint of doubt.

“Yes! It’ll be so great,” said Yurka excitedly. “I’ll play the piano to wake you up, and you’ll always be losing your glasses ...”

“But I wear them all the time and haven’t lost them in ages now.” Volodya looked around, squinting. His gaze landed on his glasses, lying on thegrass, and he reached over and got them and put them on. “Almost squashed them,” he noted with relief.

“Well, and I haven’t played in ages before this summer,” Yurka reminded him.

“But you will, right?” asked Volodya, and held him close, more tenderly than he ever had before. He had his arm around Yurka’s shoulder and kept stroking and squeezing it.

“Ha! If I do, you won’t last three days, much less a whole summer! You have no idea what torture it is to live in the same apartment as a musician. It’s constant, continual music! And this isn’t pretty little compositions; this is sounding things out, and hitting wrong notes, and sometimes playing the same part or even the same note over and over. And all this is loud, so you can hear it in the whole apartment. No, you have no idea what hell it’ll be!”

Volodya couldn’t stop smiling. All of a sudden he took his glasses off again. He put them on Yurka’s lap, then buried his face in Yurka’s hair and whispered in his ear, “Oh no, it seems I’ve lost my glasses. You have no idea what hell it is to live with someone who’s always losing his glasses!”

It got hot again from Volodya’s breath.

“I’ll find them for you.”

“And I will love your music.”

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