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Anton knew he had a reputation. He wasn’t stuck up about it or expectant, he just recognized that people liked him. Being popular, though, offered him a variety of benefits. The first is relative anonymity. While being popular often leads to the opposite of this, he has used the opportunity to curate a public persona that is easily recognizable. Any deviation from this well-curated look would result in the failure of others to recognize him. Much like a celebrity putting on a hat and sunglasses, dressing in shabby clothing, and styling his hair a different way prevented others from actually noticing him. A smart sweater, coiffed hair, and a posh jacket was Anton Zvezdochkin. The man in a plain shirt, dusty jeans, and an old coat was a nobody. That nobody is the person standing in front of Oleg’s grave right now. He felt bad, standing here, like this. Oleg deserves more than this farce he is putting on. Oleg deserves his best clothes, his sunniest smile, and his tightest hug.
Oleg deserves to be alive.
The grave is covered in snow, the picture obscured. He wants to brush it off, to see blue eyes stare back at him like they did before. Anton’s hand is cold from where it hesitates above the gate around Oleg’s new home. Should he touch it? Does he deserve to? Does he even deserve to be here, staring at the burial site of someone he hurt? His hand falls back down, the gate untouched. Maybe he will do it next time.
It snowed the past few days, the wind whipping to the extent that most travelers stayed home. It was biting and cruel out there. Anton drove out anyway. His car’s heater couldn’t win the fight against the chill in the air, and his shitty jacket wasn’t doing enough to protect him. He didn’t know why he kept the old thing around, let alone wore it out.
“I think it fits you!”
“I hardly think blue is my color! It's more yours, if anything.”
“Come on Anton, is it really such a chore to wear?”
“For you? I guess I’ll manage it.”
He came prepared this time, though. When he approached the grave, the feeble cross still had snow covering it. Anton slid his gloved hands out of his pockets. Would it be less offensive if gloves prevented his bloody hands from touching the gate? From touching the marker? He imagines that Oleg would not be keen on his hands touching him ever again, so the gloves will have to be enough. His hand rests on the gate, a thin line of snow preventing him from touching metal. The hinges shriek open, startling the wildlife around. Now the area is positively empty, only Anton. And Olezha .
The cross is cheap and slanted, buckling wildly when he begins brushing snow away. He silently curses being so heavy-handed. It is not the first time that he wished he’d been softer, been kinder. He takes care as he continues wiping the snow away. Oleg deserves that kindness, at least. White flakes fall from the top of the cross and the two arms. There is a stubborn piece of ice covering the picture of Oleg that Anton knows is hiding there. With one tug, the snow and ice would fall free, revealing the face he misses so much.
His car is cold on the drive home.
The weather has been milder, with less snow and more sitting chill. Anton’s blue ratty jacket sits in the back of his closet, above the old box holding a certain red and black coat. He hasn’t worn that coat in a while, too afraid of the person he is when he puts it on. Anton considers that this is what it feels like to have an identity crisis. The dark coat with its red collar is the person he wants to be, the person he should be, the person he was. He isn’t so sure he can be him anymore. The blue coat is who he wishes he could have been, the caring partner, the loyal friend, the good man. The red scarf in his hand is just Anton. He wonders what it means that he cannot bring himself to wear it to visit Olezha’s grave.
This car ride is easier, with less wind whipping and fewer cars erratically sailing past. He’s in the blue coat again, hoping that the casual clothes will make Oleg more forgiving of him. He ignores how the dead cannot see and cannot forgive. He has the gloves on again, careful not to ruin the peace of the burial plot with skin contact. He eases the gate open again, more prepared for the screech it releases. He wonders, not for the first time, if the dead can walk the earth. He remembers how Oleg liked the quiet, soft music filtering through the air as he studied, read, or wrote. Oleg would hate that grating sound. Maybe Anton should bring oil next time he visits. For now, he settles on brushing the new dusting of snow off of the cross. Anton is startled to see a blue eye peeking through the snow in the center. The upturn of lips, the pink of a cheek. Anton’s hand is frozen on the left arm of the cross, captivated by the face revealed to him. It's been so long since he saw that face. It's been even longer since he has seen that smile. He stared at it for too long, unmoving and almost unbreathing. It took a long time before he could pull his eyes away. He stared at the ground and pulled a bundle from his satchel. He unceremoniously dropped the flowers and walked away. He never looked back at the grave.
He had been planning to visit Oleg today, but when the time came to walk out the door, he couldn’t do it. Instead, he was sitting on his couch, dressed in his boots and coat, and unable to get up. That was the problem with grief; it made you do funny things. So he sat, car keys in his hand, and wondered how to go on. He didn’t realize, until after his death, how much space Olezha took up in his life. His apartment felt bigger. His days felt emptier. There was less music, less dancing, fewer fun facts, and fewer funny conversations. He had hoped that seeing Oleg again, despite being under six feet of dirt, would help fill his days again. Would help him feel connected to him again. It hasn’t worked. There was a wall between them, a barrier greater than simply death. Oleg was something beautiful in Anton’s life. And Anton had never given beauty to Oleg, he had only taken and taken and taken. He took from Oleg until he had nothing left to give; not even his life. And now it was too late. Too late to stop taking, too late to apologize, too late to give anything back. It was too late for Anton and Olezha.
One week later, Anton drove down the familiar road to the cemetery. It was clean and glittering with snow in the sunlight. Such a beautiful scene for such a grievous place. Anton walked from his car across the familiar tombs, noting the quietness of the space. He always tried to go when people were least likely to be around. He tried not to feel guilty for still hiding his relationship with Oleg from the world. He wanted to be alone with him but felt bad for hiding Oleg again. Oh well. The grave was the same as every other time Anton had visited. Snow sitting on the cross, gate closed and iced shut. Anton pulled oil from his bag and gently coated the hinges. For the first time, the gate opening didn’t disturb the peace. Anton went about dusting the snow off of the grave marker, hesitating over the icy picture of a young Olezha and ultimately leaving it covered. He looked at the cheap cross and wondered why Oleg was given such a lackluster piece. Didn’t he deserve more? Didn’t he deserve everything?
Didn’t he deserve to live?
Anton did what he could to straighten the cross, but it was stuck in its crooked place. The cheap wood bent, but at least it wouldn’t fall. Anton removed the fallen leaves and sticks on the plot, cleaning it to give the space the honor it deserved. Oleg deserved that much. Anton began to feel peace at the grave, taking in the silence and millennial tasks with gratefulness borne of guilt and grief. He could not save his Oleg, but he could do this for him. And, he could finally return some beauty to Oleg. He pulled a bundle of flowers from his bag, taking care to increase the paper and petals. He didn’t know what kind they were, and he hadn’t bothered to ask the store attendant. He had walked in and seen them from across the shop, the same hue as Oleg’s eyes. Olezha had loved everything blue and had drifted towards anything in cool tones. He enjoyed greens and purples too, accessories with exceptionally bright or dark colors that added visual interest to any look. Anton used to joke how Oleg didn’t match him, what with Anton’s own affinity for reds and golds. Now, he missed their mismatched looks, the juxtaposition of Oleg against his own red sleeves. He wondered if Oleg would ever grow to hate the warm tones Anton brought into his life. Instead, he placed the blue flowers at the foot of the cross, an offering to someone who would never really get it. The blue seemed to fit with the somber scene; the white snow against a backdrop of dead trees and grey tombstones. The vibrant blue of the flowers added much-needed color to the empty scene. He hoped Oleg would have liked it if he had ever gotten a chance to see it.
For once, when Anton left the cemetery, he felt at peace. Each time before he had felt guilty for showing his face, felt like he was forcing himself into a place he was not wanted. But today, he had realized that there was more to be done. Oleg is gone, but Anton could still do good by him. His Oleg had been young in death and had left little legacy behind. Anton could protect that legacy. He could keep the memory of Oleg alive, if only in the cleaning of his headstone.
Anton stood before his closet, his blue coat hanging in its place, ready to wear. Behind it, he could see his black peacoat, red scarf draped over it from where he left it after yesterday. The set is a vastly different look than the blue coat he had been wearing on his journeys. But it is a look that is distinctly his; not who he was or who he hoped to be, but simply who he is. He wonders if Oleg would be happy to be visited by the real Anton, not the facade he had been wearing there. He put his shovel into the car, preparing to clear the path in and around Oleg’s grave. Turning onto the road, Anton hoped today would be the day he could actually face his Oleg.