Vas reads my face anyway, a soft puzzlement in his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, laughing. “I’m just relieved your tattoo isn’t a cliché. I was worried I was going to have to pretend to like it.”
He grins. “Well then I’m relieved too.”
My fingers follow the black ink on his skin—words and lines contorted and twisted to make the shape of a wolf.
С волкáми жить, по-вόлчьи выть
“What does this say?” I ask, his breath quickening beneath my touch.
“S volkámi žit´, po-vólč´i vyt´. It means ‘When you live with wolves, you learn to howl,’ ” he says.
“Is that kind of like ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do?’ ” I ask.
“A bit. I think of it a little differently. To me, the wolf is dangerous, and the howl is a kind of pain. If you spend too much time around people whose souls are hurting, eventually your soul starts to cry out too.” He presses his hand against mine, flattening my palm over the words. “It’s a reminder to stay away from people who only bring trouble. One of the few things my brothers taught me.”
The ache I hear when he plays the violin is what I see in his eyes now.
“Do you—” I start.
“Want to talk about it?” He smiles, and the ache disappears. “No.” He kisses me gently on the mouth. “I’d prefer this.”
At some point we’re walking backward toward his bed, and he lowers me onto the mattress, his body pressed against mine. And even though we’ve been this close a hundred times during practice, it’s never like this.
Like he wants to trace his fingers over every inch of my skin.
Like I’m drunk on chocolate and trees.
Like we want to be contortionists and aerialists and a vanishing act, all at once.
His lips brush against my cheek, and then I feel his breath against my ear. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” His voice is warm and sweet, like the sbiten we drank together. I can still taste the blackberries from his kisses.
“I’m comfortable doing this,” I say, and I turn my face so that our lips meet again.
He presses against me a bit more firmly, his mouth moving against mine like we’ve somehow rehearsed every kiss, our hands and tongues and bodies in perfect synchronization.
Vas pulls his face back, his breathing growing more rapid. “I just… I want you to tell me if anything is too much.” He gives me a weak smile. “I don’t do this very often. I want it to be perfect. I want it to be right—for both of us.”
And then I realize what he’s saying. Because he isn’t just asking about the kissing, or the staying in his room. He’s asking about sex.
I trace my fingers along his arms, trying to ignore the pounding in my chest. Mom’s told me enough times that these conversations can be awkward, and that they shouldn’t be, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Talking about sex is awkward.
At least for me.
“You were the first person I’ve ever kissed,” I say, and the confession feels like it’s echoing through the room.
Vas looks genuinely surprised.
And then I feel like I have to clarify. “I mean, real kissed, anyway. I kissed someone as a dare in second grade, but I don’t think that counts. It wasn’t even my dare, actually. The other girl didn’t want to do it, and so I just—did. I thought I was being helpful or funny or brave or… something.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that counts either,” he says with a soft smile, resting his body alongside mine, his head propped up by his hand. Clearly, he knows I like to ramble.
“I know everyone’s different, but for me personally, I’ve never really had those moments where you look at someone and think, ‘I can’t wait to kiss them.’ It always felt like there had to be something more there first. And maybe I’m sappy and romantic at heart, but I always liked the idea of crushing on someone for a long time before a kiss happens. And I guess I’ve never really had a crush before. Not until you.” I take a breath. “But I also don’t care as much about the sex part. I know on paper it’s a big deal—or at least everyone says it’s supposed to be. But I guess I feel like if two people like each other and they both want to do it, there doesn’t