The dim light of a single bulb flickered in Vova’s cramped apartment, casting jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The air smelled of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of rust from the radiator that hadn’t worked properly since Brezhnev was still alive. Somewhere in the crumbling Soviet tenement block on the outskirts of Leningrad, 1982, Vova stood before a cracked mirror, the edges spiderwebbed with age. He squinted at his reflection, running a rough hand over the graying stubble on his jaw, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as if daring the man staring back to disagree.
“Still the best-looking bastard in this whole damn block,” he muttered, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. “Let the others rot in their misery. I’ve got it. I’ve still got it.” But the words felt hollow, even to him. His shoulders slumped under the weight of another soul-crushing shift at the factory, his hands still smudged with machine oil that no amount of scrubbing could erase. He hated it all—the drudgery, the endless gray of his life, and most of all, the people who dared to smile through it. Especially Dyoma.
That wiry, infuriating plumber from down the hall, always humming some godforsaken tune under his breath like the world wasn’t a steaming pile of shit. Dyoma, with his easy grin and his casual, lingering touches on Vova’s shoulder during their hallway chats. Dyoma, who looked at him a little too long, a little too intently, with those bright, mocking eyes. Vova’s lip curled at the thought, a bitter resentment simmering beneath his skin. He didn’t know what pissed him off more—the man’s unshakable cheerfulness or the way his own pulse quickened every time Dyoma leaned in too close.
He turned away from the mirror, snatching the bottle of cheap vodka from the wobbly kitchen table. The glass was cold against his calloused palm, a small mercy. He unscrewed the cap with a flick of his wrist and took a long, burning swig, the liquor searing a path down his throat and settling like fire in his gut. “To hell with it all,” he growled to the empty room, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “To hell with Dyoma and his stupid songs.”
But as the warmth of the vodka spread, so did the thoughts he’d been fighting all day. Unbidden, half-formed images crept into his mind—Dyoma’s lopsided smirk, the way his fingers brushed against Vova’s arm, the heat of his breath during one of those too-close conversations. Vova’s grip on the bottle tightened, his jaw clenching hard enough to ache. “It’s the damn drink,” he spat, slamming the bottle back onto the table. “That’s all it is. Nothing else. Nothing.”
He paced the small room, his heavy boots thudding against the worn floorboards, trying to outrun the heat creeping up his neck. He wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be. Not here, not in this godforsaken place where even a wrong look could land you in a gulag of whispers and suspicion. But the more he drank, the louder the thoughts became, until they were a roar he couldn’t ignore.
A sharp knock at the door snapped him out of his spiraling haze. He froze, his heart pounding against his ribs like a hammer on steel. “Who the hell—” he started, but he already knew. Only one person knocked like that, quick and confident, like they owned the damn building.
“Vova! You in there, comrade?” Dyoma’s voice, bright and teasing, cut through the door like a blade. “Don’t tell me you’re passed out already. It’s barely nine!”
Vova’s hands curled into fists at his sides, a mix of irritation and something darker flaring in his chest. He stomped to the door, yanking it open with more force than necessary. There stood Dyoma, leaning casually against the frame, his wiry frame draped in a faded work shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy forearms. His dark hair was a mess, as if he’d just run his hands through it, and that infuriating smile played on his lips, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“What do you want?” Vova snapped, his voice rougher than he intended. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the way Dyoma’s gaze flicked over him, lingering just a fraction too long.
Dyoma raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “A wrench, if you’ve got one. Pipe burst in 3B, and I’m out of tools. Figured you’d be the man to save my sorry ass.” He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Unless you’re too busy brooding over… whatever it is you brood over. Women? Vodka? The meaning of life?”
“Shut up,” Vova growled, but there was no real venom in it. He hated how easily Dyoma got under his skin, how every word out of his mouth felt like a challenge. “You think I’ve got nothing better to do than play hero for you?”
“Oh, I know you’ve got better things to do,” Dyoma shot back, his tone dripping with mock innocence. He stepped closer, just enough to make the narrow hallway feel suffocating. “But come on, Vova. Be a good neighbor. I’ll owe you one. Maybe I’ll even sing you a song as thanks.”
“If you start humming again, I’ll throw you out the window,” Vova warned, but his eyes betrayed him, darting to Dyoma’s lips for a split second before he forced them back up. His face burned, and he prayed the dim light hid it.
Dyoma laughed, a low, warm sound that sent an unwelcome shiver down Vova’s spine. “You’re all bark, you know that? Bet you’d miss my singing if I stopped. Bet you’d miss me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with something Vova refused to name. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing with a thousand things he couldn’t say. “Just… wait here,” he muttered, turning to rummage through a drawer for the damn wrench. Anything to break the tension coiling tighter with every second Dyoma stood there, watching him.
He found the tool and thrust it at Dyoma, avoiding his gaze. “Here. Now get lost.”
Dyoma took the wrench, his fingers brushing against Vova’s for just a moment—long enough to make Vova’s breath hitch, though he’d die before admitting it. “Thanks, comrade,” Dyoma said, his voice softer now, almost earnest. But that glint in his eye was still there, sharp and knowing. “You’re a lifesaver. Sure you don’t want to come watch me fix this pipe? I could use the company. Gets lonely out there.”
Vova’s throat felt tight, the vodka and the heat of the moment conspiring against him. He should’ve said no, should’ve slammed the door and drowned himself in another glass. But instead, he heard himself say, “Fine. But I’m not here to help. I’m just… bored.”
Dyoma’s grin returned, triumphant. “Bored, huh? I’ll take it. Grab that bottle of yours, then. We’ll make a night of it.”
Against every screaming instinct in his head, Vova snatched the vodka from the table, his movements jerky. “Don’t think this means anything,” he grumbled, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind him. “I just don’t trust you not to break something else.”
“Whatever you say, Vova,” Dyoma replied, his voice laced with amusement as he led the way. “Whatever you say.”
But as they walked down the dimly lit corridor, Vova’s grip on the bottle tightened, his mind a storm of confusion and half-acknowledged want. The night stretched out before him, murky and dangerous, and for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure he wanted to turn back.
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