We still fuck the moment I walk in the door. Sometimes, Yulian will jump me before I’m fully in the house, but even when we’re not fighting to top, I love talking to him.
Yulian is actually very intelligent, street-smart, in a sense, and he has a high range of emotional IQ, which, honestly, can’t be said about me.
I can listen to his bold opinions about politics and the state of affairs for hours. His only downfall is that he believes a lot of conspiracy theories, and when I rightfully pointed out that they’re stupid, he says, “Those who believe all conspiracy theories are idiots, but those who believe none are also idiots.”
Other than that, he loves watching the most random shit on TV, from those fake wrestling matches to spy thrillers to mindless sitcoms. I’ve kind of grown used to his taste and lie there on the couch, allowing him to crawl on top of me as he flips through the channels.
I’ve grown used to a lot of stuff with Yulian. Such as his messiness, his reckless behavior, and the way he hugs me to sleep, crushing me beneath him every chance he gets.
But mostly, I’ve gotten used to how he makes me laugh.Honestly, I’ve never laughed as much as when I’m with him; sometimes, his expression itself is hilarious.
Even when I’m in New York, he manages to make me bust out laughing. Now, I only read his random texts when I’m alone, because Mom and Dad started giving me looks.
They can truly be random as fuck and entirely full of his conspiracy-theory nonsense. Such as:
Ever notice pigeons don’t fly at night? Government drones gotta recharge. Don’t argue, Mishka, I know this one’s real.
Cy just tried to explain probability theory to me. I told him I already know my odds of dying stupid are 100%. He didn’t laugh. You would’ve. Or maybe not, but come on, it is funny.
Squirrel stole my Snickers bar today. Stared me in the eye the whole time. You think he’s also a spy?
Ever thought about how toothpaste companies invent cavities just so we’ll keep buying their crap? Capitalism, baby.
Trees communicate through underground networks. Cy told me it’s science. I say it’s so they can gossip about us when we piss on them.
The Vatican has a giant telescope called Lucifer. Google it. They’re watching aliens. I’m telling you, Mishka, Jesus had friends from space.
There’s a stairway in the woods that leads nowhere. Saw it online. People who climb it don’t come back. Wanna test it together?
Your Ivy League friends probably drink adrenochrome. Look it up. Actually, don’t.
Octopuses have alien DNA. Don’t roll your eyes. Scientists said that. Google it.
I don’t really google the nonsense he sends, but he still insists it’s backed by evidence and that I should broaden my horizons.
Usually, I’m half exasperated, half charmed by his random declarations. Sometimes, I find myself wondering if, maybe, some of them are true.
He’s clearly muddying my mind. He’s a bad influence.
Still, I find myself looking forward to his texts, to his random conversations at three in the morning while I’m lying in his arms or the other way around.
And I look forward to just…being here.
Every week, I leave New York as early as possible on Friday and leave the island as late as possible on Sunday—sometimes, early Monday morning—just so I’ll have more time in Yulian’s company.
It’s been the happiest month of my life.
I’ve never looked forward to the weekends as much as I do now, practically counting the hours until Friday.
This secluded little house has become my lifeline and the one place where I feel like myself. No mask, no worries, and no thoughts about responsibilities.
I only exist.
Breathe.
Fuck until I can’t move, then do it all over again.
I laugh and smile and shake my head at the messes Yulian makes on the regular.
