Page 88 of Pioneer Summer

“Yes, it’s right here.” Misha handed him a big box with jars and brushes and reminded him, “I’ll pick it back up tomorrow.”

As soon as the artists left, Volodya turned to Yurka and asked, “Well? Shall we get to painting?”

Yurka groaned in despair. “Now? But, Volod, you’re exhausted, worn-out, and I’m tired too ...”

“The clock is ticking! There’s two days’ worth of work here, at least—we have to paint it, then it has to dry ... and then we’ll have to touch some things up, too.”

“Maybe it could still wait until tomorrow?” asked Yurka, with no real hope of success.

“Nope! But if you’re tired, I can do it myself.” There was no accusation in his voice. Yurka knew Volodya’s enthusiasm was such that he could spend all night in the theater to get everything done himself. But could Yurka really allow him to do something like that?

So they both stayed there to paint the stage decorations. They laid the giant panels out right on the stage floor and crawled around on them like partisans in the field, wielding their brushes. The work wasn’t hard, but it took a long time and there were some tricky bits here and there. It had gotten dark long ago, and it had been at least an hour since the bugle had sounded lights-out, but they were still painting away.

It was past midnight when Yurka looked at all their work, estimated they’d done about half, and surrendered. He tossed down his brush and lay spread-eagle on the floor.

“That’s it. I’m tired. Volod, let’s wrap it up, we’re working like draft horses here.”

But Volodya kept moving his brush like a windup toy. “No, we have to finish it today. You heard them: tomorrow we have to give the paint back.”

“Have to this, have to that ... ,” grumbled Yurka. All of a sudden he leaped to his feet, stomped over to Volodya, and tore the brush from his hand. “No, we don’t have to!”

Volodya glared at him angrily and tried to grab the brush back, but Yurka skipped away and hid his hands behind his back.

“Look at that! You’re painting outside the lines! You’re tired!”

“We have to—”

“We’ve still got a whole day and a half to go!”

“We only have a day and a half left!”

“Your stage decorations aren’t going anywhere! They’re fine!”

Yurka angrily threw the brush away and took three steps toward Volodya, so he and Volodya were nose to nose. He looked Volodya right in the eyes and said, in a much quieter voice, “But we are going somewhere. Do I have to remind you what’s happening the day after tomorrow? Apart from the show?”

Volodya frowned and looked away. But he immediately lifted his eyes back to Yurka’s, and in them Yurka saw both understanding and regret simultaneously.

“I remember,” Volodya replied sadly. “You’re right.”

Yurka put his hands on Volodya’s shoulders and rubbed them. Then Volodya’s neck. Then he ran his fingers through the hair on the back of Volodya’s head. Volodya responded by embracing him, wrapping his arms around Yurka’s waist and holding Yurka tight, reaching for Yurka’s lips. But he didn’t kiss Yurka the way Yurka was expecting.

“No, kiss me like you did in the boat,” Yurka asked, pressing Volodya even more tightly to himself.

“It’s no use,” responded Volodya gravely. He paused for a moment, lost in thought, then added, “Yur ... Yura, do you think we’re maybe doing this all for nothing?”

“For nothing? What do you mean? Don’t you want to anymore?” Yurka was expecting Volodya to hasten to assure him of the opposite, but Volodyajust shrugged silently. Then Yurka started worrying in earnest. “But I don’t want to stop doing this, Volodya! I like it! Are you really saying you don’t like it anymore?”

Volodya turned away. He looked up at the ceiling, and then he looked down at the floor, and then he finally answered, “I like it.”

“Then why do you say it’s for nothing?”

“What if I let myself get out of hand again? And this is strange, you know. It is. It’s against nature. It’s not right. It’s disgusting.”

“You think this is ... disgusting?” said Yurka, flabbergasted.

He thought about it. Okay, maybe from the outside they really did look strange. But that was only from the outside. Being “inside” their relationship, their friendship, maybe even their love, felt completely natural and wonderful to Yurka. Nothing was better than—nothing could be better than—kissing Volodya, holding him, waiting to see him again.

“I don’t think so,” said Volodya dejectedly. “But other people do. But that’s not even the point. I feel like I’m leading you down the wrong path with all this, Yur.”

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