The Weathervane People

His hand was shaking, making the tiny orange cigarette tip dance like a firework against the grey dawn.

“That’s new,” he thought, looking at the tremorous fingers.

Orest swallowed with a dry throat, his stomach imploding under the ribcage. He looked around without really looking, unfocused eyes swimming over the rotting farm equipment and the mud rings on the floor. He listened for the steps but it was hard to hear anything over the deafening bird chorus in the attic, the feathered hadn’t shut up since the thunderstorm ended.

“No one comes here,” he told himself. “No one ever comes here.”

Failing to believe his own affirmations, he looked out of the barn doorway, half-expecting to spot a glimpse of headlights or his old man walking in, asking what in the hell he was doing there. The barn was noisy and alive with the winds in its holes and the attic dwellers but so far free from two-legged intruders.

Finally, the view showed a familiar shape peeling off a tree trunk down the road and moving uphill towards the barn. The shape slipped a few times on the red mud, sweared audibly, climbed up to the barn door and dropped the black raincoat hood.

Orest exhaled, feeling his heart beating in his whole body. Mark looked different: shirt buttoned all the way up, hair washed and combed. He looked pale and tired in the morning light, irises like black cutouts in his eyes.

“Got your note,” he said, pulling out a grimy piece of paper. “Some cryptic shit.”

Orest smiled a little, taking a drag with an unsteady hand. He looked up at the sky, it was starting to drip again. It had rained all summer this year.

“You wanted to talk, so talk,” Mark motioned his hands around.

“Come,” Orest turned around, dipping back into the shadows of the barn, unbelieving of what he’s about to do. One second with no thoughts, like jumping off a bridge. One move, one chance.

He heard Mark’s shoes rustling the gravel behind him, waited for the guy to come in, away from view.

“Orest, I don’t want to die here,” Mark’s laughter echoed through the empty space.

One turn, one step, one chance. Orest grabbed the black raincoat, closed his eyes before he could aim properly, and kissed the corner of Mark’s lips. Hands pushed him away, the boy’s terrified eyes darting around, freckles standing out against the blushed cheeks.

A sinking, suffocating feeling, a hundred-ton weight tied to his chest. Orest swayed, seeing the answer in the terror, holding back a sob, making a run for it.

“Wait!” Another echo.

Orest froze, chest rising, hands numb.

“That’s...You...” Mark caught him by the elbow, turning around. The terror was gone, the new expression unreadable. Mark’s hand stayed on his arm and pulled on the zipped shoulder pocket.

“It was sudden,” he said quietly.

“Sorry,” Orest scouted the boy’s face.

Mark shook his head, breathing heavily, then took a step forward, locking their lips, bringing him in. The world stopped, the sounds died, the earth moved.

Two long years of looking at his back in class, two desks to the left. Orest thought he’d developed a squint from always looking a bit to the left. A different shirt, a different hat, an ink streak on the back of his neck from absent-minded pen-scratching. Dirt on his knees from the rain-soaked soccer game, an iron burn from when he tried to look good for his birthday. Two long years.

Two years of nothing but conjectures, waking up with an airless impossibility of this, living with a wish so hurtful it was easier to inflict damage on yourself. No short sleeves for the summer. There’s a tipping point in every system, a moment of overflow, when the cost of your apostasy matters no more. If Mark had pushed him away, it would’ve still been a better resolution than to continue at an impasse.

Today, a tired equation developed another variable, a poem Orest knew so well it made him sick suddenly had a few new stanzas. His wish was not unrequited anymore. The dream he’d dreamed, biting a pillow, howling from the inability to make it true, was happening. The real lips, the cold hands, the scent of saliva and toothpaste.

And then happened something entirely cosmic: Mark smiled. Pulled away, stroking the other boy’s jacket, and smiled with luminous warmth, deliriously beautiful. Orest wasn’t sure if it was possible to contain his rapture, worrying his body might just come undone and dissolve, burnt from the inside out.

He put his hand out, half expecting his fingers to swipe the air, right through the mirage. He’d always wondered what Mark’s hair felt like, watching Elushika play with it, watching her being so casual about the ability to touch him. His raincoat was stiff and rugged, probably his dad’s. His hair was thin and softer than it looked. He was a tad shorter than Orest, they’d never stood this close before.

A low rumble rolled through the sky and the birds in the attic quieted.

“Imagine if the lightning hit the barn,” Mark looked up.

“Not the worst way to go.”

“Nah, not true. I would hate to die now, I just got this,” he poked the boy in the chest, half stepping back, tilting his head to the side, smile shifting to his usual smirk.

“I hated you this year,” Orest bit his cheek.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to Coach, he’ll put you back.”

“It’s not just the team.”

“Not the party...” Mark rolled his eyes.

“You literally shut the door in my face.”

“It was funny in the moment. The party was lame.”

Orest gave him a cold stare.

Mark swallowed, the smirk faded, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“A ‘sorry’ would do.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’d like to say something about ratting me out.”

“It wasn’t even me.”

“She’s your friend, guilty by association.”

They stood in silence for a bit, not looking at each other.

“Orest,” Mark took his hand, making him shiver. “If only I knew...”

“Then you wouldn’t have been such a dick?”

Mark chuckled, “You make me sound worse than I am.”

Orest looked at their hands, smiling more to himself, “You’re the root of all of my evil, Mark.”

The next four months were the best and the worst of his incomplete sixteen years on Earth. Marks’ affection was a cardiogram of a panic attack, he switched gears like a drunk on a race track. One day he’d drag him into the barn by the collar, make him skip class, shoplift alcohol, they would dance on the old straw bales, and kiss until their lips were swollen. The next he was off and distant, would move his hand away when Orest reached for it. The high was in the stratosphere but the low was in the Mariana trench.

Orest still told himself this was all he’d ever wanted. He’d dreamed of it for so long and there he was, the coveted golden boy, the school’s pride, right here with him, on mom’s picnic blanket, as perfect as ever. Just a bit distracted. He repeated the words that tasted of understatement, hoping to believe them.

The last week of October was particularly bad. Orest hunted the crumbs of attention like a starving animal, leeching onto every look and touch that Mark had to spare. He grew resentful of his own weakness, remembering with uncertainty the times when his center of gravity had been internal, and he’d been content.

That day he was surprised to see Mark already at the barn, fidgeting with a pair of rusty gardening scissors. They boy looked up. Guilt. Orest felt a little stream of cold air inside his chest.

“Hey, um, I’m not going to come here anymore. It was fun, just...run its course, I guess. So yeah, no hard feelings?” He smiled.

Orest nodded, the ground under his feet felt soft and far away, knees giving, making him hold onto the wooden board.

“I’ll see you around, Orest. Thanks for...for all that,” Mark looked back at the barn, then walked up to Orest and hugged him close, warmer than in the last weeks, relieved to be done with it. Pulled away, gave him another smile and nodded, awkwardly formal, before turning around and walking out of the barn.

Orest looked up, the birds in the attic were getting loud.