Chapter 8- Petyr
I held out my hand in the dark. The flickering credits lit Dimitri’s face in pulses—white, then shadow, then white again. He stared at my open palm like it might bite him.
I said nothing. I didn’t need to. He understood what I was offering. Not just help from the creaky velvet seat, but something else. A question I couldn’t speak aloud.
After a long second—two, maybe three—Dimitri slid his hand into mine. His skin was warm. Warmer than I expected, and dry like paper in winter. I tightened my grip and lifted him to his feet.
And then I let go.
We shuffled down the narrow aisle with the other filmgoers, coats rustling like dry leaves, boots scraping the cracked tile floor. I kept my hands jammed in my coat pockets, fingers still tingling from that brief, stupid, beautiful contact.
Outside, the cold wrapped around us like a punishment. The night air smelled like burnt coal and wet stone. My breath came out in ghosts. I couldn’t look at Dimitri. Not directly. Not yet.
The streets were mostly empty—too late for commuters, too early for the drunks. A trolley clattered past on the far side of the square, its windows steamed up, casting yellow light like a terrible memory.
I should’ve left it there. Should’ve said goodnight, gone home to a mug of watery tea, and tried to pretend that a man like Dimitri never would have taken my hand in the dark. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw in the restroom earlier.
He was leaning against the cracked porcelain sink, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sergei. One of the old guard from Sanctuary. He nodded when he saw me and said nothing—but I knew what that meant.
“Is it still there?” I asked him casually, like I was asking about the price of eggs.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, eyes sharp. Then: “No. Moved last week. Same password. Bathhouse on Kirochnaya, three blocks from here.”
I barely had time to thank him before he stubbed out the cigarette on the sink and vanished like smoke.
And now here I was, walking with Dimitri, who might ruin everything.
If I was wrong—if I’d imagined the way he looked at me, the way he sat just a little too close in the cinema—then this was suicide.
If I was wrong, he could report me. One anonymous phone call to the wrong party official and I’d disappear like that cigarette smoke. Not just me, either. Every man at Sanctuary, every man who ever trusted me.
I had Vera, thank God. She could say all the right things. She could cry on cue. Our neighbors loved her. She’d never crack.
But if Dimitri ever found out that she and I were fake—just a pair of ghosts in a frame—then I’d be out of alibis. And Vera… she didn’t deserve to go down with me.
I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell him. If this night led to anything—if it became a story instead of a mistake—I’d tell him Vera didn’t know a thing. I’d lie through my teeth to keep her safe.
We walked in silence. Our boots crunched on the old frost. The bathhouse loomed just a couple of blocks ahead, abandoned by the city but reborn by us. Its windows were dark. Always dark.
Halfway there, Dimitri stopped walking.
“What is Sanctuary?” he asked.
My heart made a noise I didn’t care for. Not a beat, no, something worse. Like a hinge breaking.
I turned toward him. Dimitri looked serious. Not angry. Not frightened. Just… wary. Like someone listening to a song he didn’t know the words to.
And that was the moment. The moment to turn around, to say “Forget it, let’s get a drink,” to laugh it off like it was a joke.
But I looked at him, like I really looked at him. And something in his face, his eyes, maybe, or the way he tilted his chin like he expected pain, made me want to put my hands on his shoulders and promise him everything would be okay. Even if it wouldn’t.
“It’s a club,” I breathed. “A secret one. Very exclusive.”
He frowned. “For what?”
I exhaled, fog billowing between us.
“For men,” I said. “Like ourselves.”
He blinked. “Like—what do you mean?”
I didn’t answer. Just started walking again, slowly. He followed.
I didn’t know if that meant Dimitri understood, or if he just didn’t want to be left alone on the street. Maybe both.
Each step closer to the bathhouse felt like a countdown. To what, I wasn’t sure. Salvation, or exposure. Either way, I’d know by the end of the night.
The old bathhouse loomed like a relic of some forgotten empire, all crumbling stone and ironwork detail blackened by years of soot and cold. The windows had been boarded up long ago, and the glass that remained was warped and yellowed like old teeth.
As we approached, I spotted a man lingering just to the side of the main entrance. Heavy coat, fur hat pulled low, cigarette glowing between his fingers. I knew his face. Mikhail, or maybe it was Milosz—names were slippery here, rarely used.
I nodded once. “Where’s the entrance tonight?”
He didn’t speak, just jutted his chin toward the alley that snaked down the left side of the building.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and led Dimitri down the narrow passageway.
The alley was quiet, shielded from the wind, but no warmer for it. A rusted drainpipe dripped somewhere behind us. Halfway down, we found the door—plain wood, painted gray, with a handle that looked like it had been yanked off an industrial freezer.
I knocked. Once, then twice, then once again. The rhythm, like always.
It opened a crack. A man with sharp cheekbones and a shaven head peered out, face cast in shadow.
“Who sent the invitation?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “The conductor’s baton,” I said.
He nodded, unimpressed. “Two rubles each.”
Of course. I pulled my hand from my pocket and handed him a folded bill. He took it, inspected it like it might be counterfeit, then swung the door open wider and stepped aside.
“Welcome to Sanctuary,” he muttered.
We stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the heat. Not just warmth—heat. The kind that made you want to rip off your coat and shirt and skin. It smelled like old steam, sweat, cigarettes, and the ghost of something floral—someone had brought cologne, bless them.
The lights were dim, with low-watt amber bulbs that made everyone look better than they were. The ceilings were high, still arched, like in the days when men came here to sweat out their sins. Cracked tiles lined the floor, and the walls were flaking paint in pastel shades of green and blue.
There were maybe twenty, thirty men. Some milling about in twos and threes, talking in low voices. Others leaned against the walls like they were part of the furniture. At the far end of the room was a bar—more of a table with bottles on it, but it did the job. A mirror hung crookedly behind it, and a fan turned lazily above, doing absolutely nothing.
“I’ll get the first round,” Dimitri said suddenly.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You paid to get us in.” His jaw was set like he was volunteering for the front line. “Let me get the drinks.”
I didn’t argue.
We approached the bar, and the bartender, a man who looked like he’d lived through several regimes and hated all of them, eyed us with suspicion before grunting. Dimitri ordered vodka. Two shots. The genuine kind, not the potato-flavored turpentine they served in worker bars.
The bartender slammed the glasses down and swept the money away before we could blink.
We took our drinks and started walking. I didn’t lead. I let Dimitri take it in, his eyes darting to the shadows, the alcoves, the archways that once led to changing rooms and now led to secrets.
That was when he stopped.
He froze mid-step. Glass still in hand.
I turned to follow his gaze.
In the far corner, half-hidden behind a concrete column and a threadbare curtain, two men stood very close. One pressed the other against the wall, his hand buried in the other’s hair. Their mouths moved together, slow and hungry, like they had all the time in the world.
Dimitri stared. He didn’t blink. His jaw slackened just slightly.
I said nothing.
The noise of the room fell away. It always did in moments like this, when the rest of the world didn’t matter. Only the breath between us. The beat of a heart. The truth rising up from somewhere too deep to deny.
I took a breath. Held it.
Then, with all the calm I didn’t feel, I reached for his hand.
He didn’t look at me. Not yet. He stared at my hand like it was something that might explode.
Then Dimitri looked up.
His eyes—God, those eyes—widened, not in fear, but in recognition. Something clicked. Some ancient lock deep in his chest finally gave way.
And then, slowly, he slid his hand into mine.
It was warm. Steady.
I wanted to shout out loud and drag him out onto the cracked tile floor and dance until our boots fell apart. I wanted to kiss him right there, just to prove I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I just squeezed his hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I hadn’t been wrong.
I didn’t say a word as I led him away from the soft murmur of voices and the flickering amber bulbs. Just tightened my grip on his hand and walked, careful not to rush, careful not to let go.
There was a quiet alcove off to the side, half-shielded by an old shower curtain still hanging from a bent rod. The tiles back here were chipped worse than the rest, the air damp with ghostly memories of water and steam. It was far enough from the others to feel hidden, but not so far as to feel dangerous.
We stopped.
I turned to face him, and he looked at me like I had just pulled him underwater. His eyes searched mine, restless, unsure whether to fight or surrender.
We still held our drinks.
“To surviving another week of blankets,” I said, trying for humor, but my voice cracked halfway through.
He blinked. Then nodded, and we both tipped back our vodka. It hit like fire and smoke.
Dimitri lowered his glass and stared at it for a long moment.
Then, in the quietest voice I’d ever heard from him, he asked, “Why did you bring me here?”
His voice trembled. Not with fear, at least not only that, but with something heavier. Hope, maybe. Or a longing that hadn’t yet found a place to land.
I took the glass from Dimitri’s hand and set it down beside mine on the low ledge. Then I stepped forward, into the small pocket of space between us.
He didn’t move.
I reached up, rested my fingers on his jaw, and saw his throat jump as he swallowed.
“Because I couldn’t keep pretending,” I said, my voice low. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you might taste like.”
And then I kissed him.
There was no music. No crescendo of violins or clamor of trumpets—just the wet click of our lips and the pounding of my heart, too loud in my own ears.
He gasped into my mouth, like he’d forgotten how to breathe until now.
It wasn’t a perfect kiss. Our noses bumped, and my hand shook a little, and I felt him trembling beneath his coat like a storm just starting. But when he kissed me back, God, when he kissed me back, it was like the world cracked open.
I broke away first, only because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I was going to fall apart right there.
We were both breathing hard. Not like men who had climbed stairs, but like men who’d been holding their breath their whole lives and had finally exhaled.
“This,” I said softly, brushing my thumb against his cheek. “This is why I brought you here.”
Dimitri blinked, dazed. “Because of the kiss?”
I nodded. “Because of everything leading up to it.”
And Dimitri kissed me again.
This time, there was nothing gentle about it. It was hunger and terror, and his hands clutched at my coat like he was afraid I might disappear. I pressed him back against the cold tile wall and gave him everything I had.
We broke apart, panting, eyes locked. Every part of me felt like it was sparking.
There was a pause. Long. Heavy. Beautiful.
Then Dimitri whispered, “What happens next?”
Preorder your copy of The Fire Beneath The Frost from your favorite online bookstore now.
Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 