SEVENTEEN #3
The warehouse spits us back out into the night. The cold air slams into my face, and I suck in a breath that feels like the first real one I’ve taken in an hour. The door thuds shut behind us, and the bass drops away slowly the further away we get.
Ari adjusts his jacket, his movements already calmer and more controlled, as if he slid the soldier back into place over whatever just happened.
We start walking. The streets are slick with reflected light, and the canals are black and still beside us.
The high is fading in layers, leaving exhaustion behind.
I bump my shoulder into his, but he doesn’t budge.
After a few steps, he speaks again. “What do British men usually eat,” he asks, his tone thoughtful, “after fucking their boyfriends in rave bathrooms?”
I stop dead. “My what?”
He keeps walking, completely unbothered. “It seems like a cultural moment. I’m trying to understand.”
I hurry to catch up. “Firstly, that’s rude. Secondly, kebabs,” I say automatically.
He nods once. “We find kebabs, then,” he decides.
“Wait.”
He slows down and glances at me. “Yes?”
“You said... boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
“That’s... what I am?”
He stops walking this time, his eyes fixed on mine.
“You flew from the UK to Russia for me,” he says calmly.
“I flew to Amsterdam for you. I went to a rave I did not want to attend. I tolerated British music. And you let me fuck you in a bathroom that definitely violated several health regulations.” I stare at him.
“I believe that is boyfriend behaviour, yes?”
“That’s your criteria? You make it sound like a checklist.”
“It was,” he says. “You passed.” I open my mouth again, then close it.
He studies me for a second, then his expression softens.
“Your stoned British brain is very cute, detka,” he adds, almost absent-mindedly.
I blink at him, then he reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing once.
I look down at our connected hands and stare, too scared to blink in case his hand disappears. “Would you prefer a different title?”
“No,” I say quickly, dragging my gaze back up to his face. “No, that’s — that’s good.”
“Good.” He starts walking again, tugging me along. “Now. Kebabs.”
The canal slips past beside us, the lights trembling on the surface, and somewhere behind us, the bass fades into memory.
We stop at a little place that looks questionable at best. The window’s fogged, the menu is half worn off the board, and there's a rotating column of meat that I decide not to think about too hard because I’m tired and starving.
I step up to the counter and order the food while Ari watches the meat turn. “What is that?”
“It’s a donner kebab.”
“What’s in it?”
“Just eat it.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue with me either.
We eat most of it standing outside the shop. Because apparently I don’t have the coordination to walk and chew at the same time. By the time we start back toward the hotel, my mouth is on fire, and I regret nothing.
“You’re sweating,” Ari observes.
“That’s commitment.”
“That is chilli.”
“Same thing.” He shakes his head, but he’s still holding my hand. We reach the hotel, and Ari is still half-eating his kebab, his fingers sticky with garlic sauce. The lift ride is quiet, just the hum of cables and our reflections staring back at us. We look a mess.
In the room, I drop the remaining food on the desk and immediately start stripping layers off like I’m shedding skin.
The bathroom light is too bright at first. I blink at my own reflection and wince.
I step into the shower, and Ari steps in behind me.
He reaches past me to turn the shower on.
The steam fills the space quickly, curling against the mirror, and we step under it together without even thinking.
The water is almost painfully hot, and it feels incredible.
Ari takes the bottle of soap from my hand and tips my chin up slightly.
“Stand still.”
“Yes, sir.” He ignores that, lathers his hands, and starts working the soap into my hair, slow and methodical. It’s oddly soothing. His fingers slide down the back of my neck, over my shoulders, rinsing away the sweat and smoke from the warehouse.
“You’re very domestic when you want to be,” I mumble.
“I’m practical.”
“You’re washing my hair.” I point out. Instead of answering, he leans in and kisses me.
The water runs over us until we’re both too tired to stand upright without leaning.
Eventually, he turns it off, and we towel off in a mess of elbows and damp skin.
I nearly trip over the bathmat, and Ari steadies me without comment, saving my face from hitting the sink.
Back in the bedroom, we don’t even bother with clothes.
I drop onto the mattress face-first and groan.
“I’m never moving again.” Ari settles behind me a few seconds later, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling my back against his chest, his hand resting flat against my stomach.
“I’m glad we came,” I mumble sleepily, already half gone.
“Me too,” he whispers against the back of my neck, his grip tightening slightly as sleep drags us under.
Full, clean, and stupidly happy.