Trasmundo: BOOK ONE: Escape by Varian Krylov

Author:Varian Krylov
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2015-08-05T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN: Sisina

Without realizing it,

the individual composes his life according

to the laws of beauty

even in times of greatest distress.

Milan Kundera

Alone. Luka gone. Luka's warmth, Luka's lithe, eager body no longer pressed to his own. Tarik writhed free of the sleeping bag and rolled it up before any less pleasant guests could crawl inside.

When he spotted Luka at the edge of the stream, a warm, heavy contentment sifted through the vague, chaotic anxiety that had started bouncing around inside of him when he'd recalled and realized in a sudden simultaneity what they'd done the night before, and that Luka had slipped away without waking him. But that lulling contentment upended and capsized when Luka startled at the sound of his boots crushing the branches and desiccated Sweetgum pods underfoot, and threw Tarik a quick, anxious glance over his shoulder before turning away again, his head half sinking below the horizon of his shoulders.

Later, watching Luka peck at his meager breakfast, Tarik realized he'd fucked up. He'd caught and trapped his luminous alien as cruelly as those pathetic shits in that unsafe house, scared him as badly, used him as selfishly. How could he have been so reckless? Why, after everything Luka had suffered already, hadn't he been more careful with him?

All day they trekked in strained silence. A dozen times he sensed Luka sneaking a glance at him from the corner of his eye, but each time he tried to meet his gaze, Luka dodged him. When they stopped for the day, Luka slipped away into the fluttering darks and brights of the woods while Tarik dug the tarp out of his pack and lashed it over a few sturdy branches he gathered and propped up for a lean-to, since it looked like it was going to rain.

When more than ten minutes had passed, Tarik succumbed to his suspicion that Luka hadn't just retreated a polite distance to relieve himself. Following his tracks, Tarik spotted him sitting, back to the massive trunk of an elder oak, forehead resting on his knees, arms wrapped around his shins. Maybe he was crying. When Tarik took a few steps toward him, Luka's whole body seemed to tighten and shrink in on itself.

“Can I sit with you?”

No answer.

Tarik sank to his haunches. “You okay?”

No answer.

“Luka? Could you look at me? Please?”

Silence. Stillness.

Heavy worry filling him up until he could barely lift his arm, Tarik rested his hand on Luka's back. When Luka flinched, Tarik pulled back. “You're afraid of me again?”

Tarik couldn't tell if Luka was shaking, or just breathing erratically. A wet, garbled noise that might have been, “No.”

“Last night, I didn't mean to...” Corner you. Trap you. Take advantage.

“Okay.” Wet and choked. Fuck, he was either crying, or trying to swallow back the urge.

“Luka.”

He probably shouldn't touch him. The last thing he wanted was to scare Luka, hurt him more than he already had. But he couldn't talk to him like this, Luka curled up in a ball like a frightened animal hiding from the hunter and his hounds.

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