Skybound by Voinov Aleksandr

Author:Voinov, Aleksandr [Voinov, Aleksandr]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2012-08-17T22:00:00+00:00

I’ve never woken to another’s body in the same bed, not since I was a child. There is something about it that makes waking up alone seem unnatural. Man is not meant to be alone, yet men like us (or maybe men like me) appear to be lonelier than others. I watch his face in the morning light, and notice an occasional furrowing of his brow, as if he is focusing on something out there in his dreamscape. Maybe he’s flying even in his dreams, searching the skies for signs of an ambush.

I contemplate the prospect of breakfast. I’m ravenous, but this is a strange place and I’m not sure where the shops are, or his ration card. Snooping around the house does not seem as enticing as watching him. Eventually, I lean in and kiss him on the lips, just to confirm I still have the nerve for it.

He smiles and wakes with a stretch, then opens his eyes. “Have you been awake long?”

“No, just a little while.” I don’t know, don’t particularly care about timekeeping outside the rhythm of work on the airfield.

He runs the backs of his fingers down the side of my face. The touch is sleep-warm, a little clumsy, as he drags himself awake.

“Look at that, it was no dream.”

For that, I kiss him again, and he pulls me closer. I look down at him, thrilled that we are both naked.

“I promised my aunt I’d visit her when I’m home,” he says, interrupting all considerations of what to do with the morning that doesn’t involve getting up. “She’ll feed us, too.”

“Does she know you’re bringing a friend?”

“By now, people know. It’s a small town.” He gets up and gathers his clothes, taking them to the bathroom as he leaves. “You’ll have to call me by my first name, or she’ll ask questions,” he says over his shoulder.

His name puts me in mind of Ragnarök, the end of the world, again—Baldur, the god whose death sets the spiral of destruction in motion that none of the other gods can stop. Baldur the bright, Baldur the brave. It feels like a bad omen.

When he’s done in the bathroom, I go in to get washed and dressed and shaved, taking my time, unlike in the mad rush of duty. I remember all too well cutting myself badly one morning when I was too bleary-eyed to do a good job of it. Christensen laughed at me, but still sent me to get patched up so I wouldn’t bleed on the engines. The scar is noticeable enough to remind me not to be hasty around blades.

Baldur is wearing his dress uniform when we go down the street and turn left, left again, straight on, to his aunt’s house.

It’s a large, handsome farmhouse with a well-tended garden in the front. His aunt is much older than I expect; his uncle is gruff and lost a leg in the previous war against the French. I understand he is Baldur’s blood relation—his aunt has married into the family.

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