Theodore decker x Boris pavlikovsky OneShots

🌈Boreo🌈A Journeymen's Goodbye Wordsmith8

Boris seized the unopened bag of chips, his hands already cradled protectively around a bottle of vodka, and tore open the cellophane seal with an undignified huff that sent crumbs flying onto the couch.

I couldn’t help it, “really?” I said. He made no attempt at a verbal response, but a quirk in his brow and a tilt of his head was enough as if to say, you can’t even dress yourself, Potter. Forget sofa.

He was right, of course— and yet something had made me very protective of my new apartment and everything in it. As much as I had loved the wear and tear of Hobie’s shop—the gentle tinkle of the bell over the door, the almost silent rapping of Hobie’s mallets in the basement, the ever-constant thrum of life in the house—it was time to move on.

Kitsey, even after our amicable separation, had helped me find it—a tiny bachelor flat not far from the shop that would, ‘do well for me until I decided it was time to grow up’. Although we were still friends, my suggestion to break off the engagement had stung her more than I’d anticipated, and though Tom Cable had quickly swung in to whisk her off into the sunset, Kitsey knew as well as I that Mrs. Barbour was not at all pleased about it. I couldn’t say I blamed her; Cable? Kitsey could do better.

I bought new furniture, some even from the hidden annals of Hobie’s changelings. Though he’d attempted to hide them away ever since my selling frauds, I was able to coax some of the better pieces from the basement and clean them up a bit for my new home. An 18th century mahogany desk inlaid by Hobie’s own hands with white pine to cover up cracks, a teetering bookshelf of cherry with a winding burn design running along its shelves as well as a fine table set spliced together with old bits of Hardwood and Tamarack (regarded as a true artwork by myself and the rest of Hobie’s friends, though he would never see it as such). The overall effect of the space was that of a confused decorator who had possibly spent most of their time careening about history, collecting bits and bobs for a home so stark and grey it was laughable. I half wondered how the previous tenants would react if they saw the place now without its ikea furniture and takeaway dinner containers.

Ironically, the only thing cheaply made was in fact the couch Boris was earnestly dirtying up. It had belonged to a friends of Pippa—some college kid or other that needed to be rid of it.

And yet, simply because it was a part of the new life I was creating, it was special and somehow worth preserving.

“Boris, seriously” I began, but the sight of him attempting to simultaneously coddle Popper while dipping a hand into the chip bag was too much for me not to crack a smile.

“Aha! Potter you are smiling!” he said, a mouthful of chip spritzing from his lips.

“This is good sign, you are too serious. Also, this band Aha! Is very good. Nice music”

He took another swig of vodka and patted Popper affectionately on the head. Hobie had let me keep the old dog, though he was sad to see him go. ‘He’s really yours’ he had said, ‘you came as a pair, it seems a shame to split you two up now’. And so Popchyk had moved with me and seemed content enough to find new places o sleep and watch the daily happenings of the street below. He was slower than before and less energetic, but whenever Boris decided to swing by, he’d suddenly regain some of his youthful spirit (though in hindsight, perhaps it was only because Boris always brought treats).

I glanced over at the pair. Boris was still happily munching, his eyes trained on the tv. I had put on The Magnificent Seven, one of his favourites from back in Vegas and he had gladly hopped into his seat to watch. Though he was facing mostly away from me, from where I sat on the floor I could see the lines of weariness in his features. I had begun to notice them as his visits in town became less frequent and even more rushed than before. He would call me in a flurry, almost like usual—just stepping off a plane from Antwerp, layover in Montreal, another few hours to New York. Stumbling into my apartment in the early hours of the morning, (Wake up Potter! Was my daughter’s birthday yesterday!) asking me to drive us up to the Met or down to Million Dollar Coffee House where he somehow knew the owners and their daughter. Though I had since stopped buying pills, I could see Boris was still reaching new highs, and often came in with pupils dilated almost to the edges of his blueish irises. I almost half expected him to offer me a go at his new fix, but somehow he never did.