"Just Kids"

There was always something, it seemed. The Dosdrovskis had never been all that stable as a family unit, but Ambrose seemed to get the short end of the stick most often, and tonight was no different. Despite the blood wine in his system, the course of unwanted adrenaline and anxious energy pulsed uncomfortably through his veins and made his head swirl. He needed to leave. With a quiet growl and a toothy grimace, he slunk from the ballroom with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. He hid the flame from the wind with his hand as he lit it, and with a shake in his breath, he put the lighter back in his jacket pocket and leaned against the wall. He began to tap his foot in an attempt to calm himself, but he couldn’t quite force himself to stop. To simply watch the smoke rise into the cool night air while the nicotine slipped through his system wasn’t proving enough, however; he needed to move. With a huff, he pushed off of the wall and began to wander wherever his feet decided to take him, no clear direction in his mind. Just away.

He paid little attention to where he was going, lefts and rights passing in an anxious blur. His ears remained pressed against his skull, his brow remained furrowed, and his lip kept twitching. Despite making the effort to suppress it, his head tic forced its way to the surface and made him snarl at himself. At least he was alone. 

The cigarette was nearly burning his fingers by the time he finally put it out and puffed the last breath of smoke from it. He was about to pull the pack of cigarettes from his pocket again and light another until he heard a small noise, a rustle so quiet he wasn’t even sure if he’d actually heard it or if he was going crazy- it wouldn’t be the first time. But as he looked around from where he stood, he found a figure in the dark, an unmistakably large one. He felt a new jolt of anxious energy strike him right in the heart, and before he could even really think about it, he let a breathy whisper slip past his lips.

“Pasha.”

Ambrose immediately regretted not keeping himself more in check- he would have preferred to slip away unheard and unnoticed, but his little slip-up was all it took, and he had the misfortune of noticing Pasha flinch. He also had the misfortune of imagining with clarity the way that Pasha’s lip curled up and quivered before his tears inevitably spilled down his face. He was all too aware of Pasha’s easily-startled nature- it was hard to forget the mannerisms of someone who he used to be so close with. He wished he could escape it. It took a moment of thumbing the tip of his index finger, but he finally worked up the confidence to clear his throat and speak. 

“Pasha,” he repeated, more directly now. “I, uhm… I apologize.” He couldn’t quite look the other man’s way, but noted that he didn’t turn to face him. He didn’t expect him to anyway. He did manage to catch his all-too-familiar voice, however.

“I-It’s fine,” came the squeak from across the courtyard, just loud enough for Ambrose to hear. It comforted him in a way, but also made his heart jolt at the same time. He hated to upset him, especially when they were no longer anywhere close enough for either to offer comforts of much substance, something that Ambrose had become painfully aware of. He could use the comfort of a friend. It wasn’t time for that though, he decided. He contemplated lighting another cigarette now that his presence was known, but decided against it. He did, however, decide that he might as well stay for a moment, leaning against the cold metal of the garden gate. He coughed and tried to fill the awkward, anxious silence.

“So, ah, how is, uh... how are the flowers?” Ambrose immediately turned his head away and grimaced at himself as he felt his face flush with an uncomfortable hotness; how could he fumble with his words so? He had all the time in the world to prepare for that sentence and get it right, but it was anything but. He clawed lightly at his thumb with his index finger now, an anxious habit he’d had since early childhood. 

“Good,” was all the response that Pasha gave, but for a moment it soothed Ambrose’s nerves. Pasha was never judgy, and though he had surely heard how much Ambrose had stumbled through his question, Ambrose knew for a fact that he hadn’t held even a twinge of judgment for it. Once more, he felt another surge of anxiety, as if a bird was living right beneath his ribcage and was trying anew to escape each time there was any lapse of silence or the obligation to say something, to carry on that silly little conversation. There was no need for such worry, he knew. Pasha wouldn’t judge him for his anxiety either. He hadn’t really judged him for much of anything at all throughout their entire friendship. Not until his relationship with Modest. 

Modest... at the thought, Ambrose had to force himself to stifle a growl. Modest was the reason everything had fallen apart, for him and for Pasha and perhaps even for himself. Their whole friendship put a sour taste on his tongue merely thinking about it. It was the best... until it wasn’t. That was what made it hurt so much when it all crumbled, and what made it hurt so much now. He cast a sympathetic glance over to Pasha for a moment before returning his gaze to the ground near his feet. Pasha, my dear friend, he thought solemnly, he wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t fair. I wish I could have taken that away from you. He realized now that he hadn’t given Pasha more than a nod back yet, and he shuffled his feet as he straightened himself up against the gate. 

“Good, good... You ah, don’t mind if I stay a while, do you?” Ambrose asked hesitantly. “I can leave if you would rather be alone with your plants.”

“No, y-you can,” Pasha replied, the shake in his voice more evident. Ambrose let out a quiet sigh, contemplating whether he should move from where he was or not before deciding to stay. For the second time that night, he reached for his pack of cigarettes and almost pulled one from it, but he stopped when he noticed Pasha stiffen and then shuffle. 

“The plants don’t like it,” Pasha told him weakly. Ambrose nodded and pushed the cigarette back in place with a quiet chuff. 

“I should have remembered,” Ambrose replied, his voice now taking on a warmer quality. “You had to remind me near every day when we were younger.” And Modest, he thought, but he stopped himself from doing much more than crinkling his nose up for a quick moment. He sighed before continuing.

“That doesn’t bother me of course... not anymore. I think it’s funny how we used to make such a big deal of it all... fondly so of course. We were just kids.” Just kids. The thought sent a pang of grief through him. How many years has it been now? Too many... he bit his tongue to stifle the wave of emotion that came over him, but he couldn’t stop a long sigh from leaving his throat. He heard Pasha hum a noise of agreement and saw his ear twitch, and his face softened once more. 

Do you think we could ever be ‘just kids’ again, my friend?