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“...a nd I woke up in Finland, in the infirmary of a naval base. To this day, I still don’t know exactly what happened. I think my father told that man to knock me out so I wouldn’t try to swim back to Petyr.” I leaned back on my stool, sighing. “Would’ve done it too, stupid bastard that I was.”

Nova blinked slowly, her false lashes like the wings of some overly glamorous bird.

“Damn,” I added. “This is the first time I’ve told the complete story to anyone. You have a strange effect on me, Nova.”

“Honey,” she said, tossing her platinum curls, “I have that effect on all men. But that…” she tapped a glittery nail against her glass, “that has to be the most romantic story I’ve ever heard. A Cold War Romeo and his not-so-distant Juliet.”

I grunted. “Romeo didn’t have to survive a Soviet blanket factory.”

She cackled, delighted, and took a dainty sip from her drink.

The Stonewall was humming around us, louder than usual.

It was Saturday night, and the regulars were out in force.

Old queens, young hopefuls, twinks in crop tops, a leather daddy playing pool in the corner.

The speakers pumped out some mid-2000s remix, and everything smelled like perfume, sweat, and faintly of hot glue.

Then a man in his thirties sat down next to us at the bar.

Nova turned to him, smiling like the cat that found the diamond collar. “Well, hello there, stranger,” she purred, then glanced at me with a wink. “Looks like your luck’s turning around, Dimi.”

The man turned slowly, as if drawn by the sound of the name. He looked at me, really looked. His eyes were green, startlingly green, and he wore an expression like he’d seen me in a photograph once. Or a dream. His mouth parted slightly.

Who the hell is this guy staring at me? I’m an old man, for Christ’s sake, way too old for him.

He hesitated, then said carefully, “Is your name Dimitri Morozov?”

I narrowed my eyes, all the warmth draining out of me. My fists clenched on the bar. “Who’s asking?”

Nova waved a hand, smoothing the tension. “You’ll have to forgive my friend here,” she said to the man. “He’s not used to handsome men approaching him sober.” She turned back to me, her smile gentler now. “He looks nice to me, Dimi. He’s got the same accent as you. Russian?”

The man straightened, his brows tightening. “Ukrainian.”

“Mm,” Nova hummed. “Touchy. Well, maybe this handsome young stud wants to buy you a drink?” She gave the man a theatrical wink, and to my surprise, he actually blushed.

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “Yes. My name is Dimitri Morozov. What of it?”

His entire face lit up. He stood so fast he nearly knocked over my drink.

“Please don’t go anywhere,” he said. “Just wait. Please.” And then he bolted toward the back of the bar, vanishing into the crowd.

I turned to Nova, eyebrows raised.

“What the hell is this about?”

She kissed my cheek, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Showtime, darling. Me and the girls have to make magic.”

I wiped my cheek with my sleeve and grumbled something half-hearted at her as she disappeared into the dressing room hallway, trailing glitter like a comet tail.

The bartender slid a fresh shot of vodka in front of me without a word. I gave him a nod. He’d seen weirder. Probably thought I was being cruised by some overeager guy with daddy issues.

I lifted the glass halfway, letting the sharp bite of it rise up my nose.

Then I heard it.

Russian.

Soft. Urgent. And right behind me.

“Papa, I think it’s him. Please. We’ve been searching for a long time. Just talk to him.”

I froze.

I run into Russians all the time in New York. Brighton Beach is practically a Moscow suburb. But here? At the Stonewall? Almost never. I turned, slow as winter.

The man from before stood beside someone else now. Another man, older, maybe in his early sixties. His shoulders were slightly stooped, his silver-streaked hair combed neatly. He wore a camel coat over a pressed shirt, completely out of place in this chaos of crop tops and neon fishnets.

His eyes locked on mine.

Wide. Uncertain.

And then he spoke.

“Dimi?” he said, in Russian. “Is it really you?”

My hand slipped.

The shot glass shattered against the bar.

I stared.

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. That face. Older, yes. Softer in places, weathered in others. But those eyes. Those goddamn eyes.

“Petyr?” My voice broke in the middle. “Oh, my God, I never thought I’d see you again.”

He bit his lower lip, just like he used to when he was holding back too much.

“I never gave up hope,” he whispered. A single tear slid down his cheek.

I blinked hard. My heart was galloping like it was twenty-five again. “Sit. Please. Sit.”

He did, slowly, like the chair might vanish out from under him. The younger man hovered close until Petyr motioned to him.

“This is my son,” Petyr said, turning to me with something like pride. “His name is Anton.”

“Hi!” the man said brightly. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, grinning widely. “My papa only ever talked about you. I mean it. You’re like, legendary.”

Before I could say anything, Anton whipped out his phone and held it up like we were a couple of rock stars at a fan meet.

“Wait, hold still!”

“Bozhe moy,” I muttered, holding up a hand. “What the hell are you doing?”

Petyr grimaced. “Anton.”

“What?” Anton said, already snapping a few pictures. “This is amazing! I want to share this moment on Instagram.”

I looked helplessly at Petyr, who just shrugged, then finally smiled.

Anton glanced around the bar, his nose wrinkling slightly at the strobe lights, the glitter-slick drag queens dancing near the jukebox, and the gaggle of giggling men wearing not enough clothing.

“Papa,” he said gently, “you know this isn’t really my scene. Will you be okay getting home by yourself? I know you want time to catch up with… with Dimitri.”

Petyr nodded, eyes still locked on mine. “Yes. Thank you, solnyshko. I’ll be fine.”

Anton hugged him tight, and Petyr pressed a kiss to his temple. When Anton turned to me, I stood to shake his hand. The grip was firm, and his eyes were brimming with emotion, even if he tried to cover it.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything. Papa missed you so much.”

Then he was gone, weaving through the crowd and out the door like he’d never been there at all.

And we were alone.

I looked at him.

Really looked.

The same mouth, and the same sharp cheekbones. His hair was grayer, his hands thinner, but it was still him.

Still the handsomest man I’d ever seen.

And I didn’t know what to do.

How do I react? I prayed for this moment my whole life, and now that it was here, I was afraid.

I clenched the edge of the bar, breath shallow. I was about to say something, anything, when he reached out, brushing the back of his fingers over mine.

His entire face was wet.

Without thinking, I pulled him into me.

He sobbed against my shoulder, all those years of silence and longing boiling over in an instant. I held on tight, tight enough to make up for lost decades.

And then I cried too.

Not quiet, dignified tears. Big, stupid, old-man tears. The kind I never let myself cry. Not after Finland, or after Afghanistan. Not after I lost Petyr.

The bartender came over, and we finally let go of each other like a pair of awkward teens caught necking behind the school gym.

I cleared my throat. “Another vodka,” I said, nodding to the empty glass in front of me, “and one for him.”

Petyr sat back down, wiping his face with both hands, as if that could do anything about how red and wet he was. I was no better. My eyes were puffy, and my throat raw. A mess, the both of us. But we were a beautiful mess.

We stared at each other, the drinks sweating between us.

“I don’t remember anything,” I said, finally. “After I lost consciousness in the boat. Just… waking up in Finland. And silence. Like I’d been ripped in half.”

Petyr looked down into his glass. Then he smiled. A soft, sad smile.

“After that man hit you in the back of the head, I jumped into the water,” he said. “I was determined to pull you back to shore. I thought I’d bring you back, whether you liked it or not.”

He laughed, but there wasn’t much joy in it.

“Your father stopped me. God, he was so angry. He shouted that I’d ruined everything. I screamed right back at him. Then you were too far offshore, and there was nothing I could do. I stood there, shaking, watching the boat disappear.”

I swallowed hard, the edges of the glass cold against my fingers.

“But what I remember most…” he said, tapping his chest lightly, “…was the music. It disappeared.”

I blinked at him. “Music?”

“You remember, Dimi,” he said, his voice gentler now. “I told you. Whenever you’re around… I hear music in my head.”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

“And now?”

“Oh, yes.” He grinned, eyes glinting. “Strings. Lush, cinematic strings. Big, sweeping violins like something out of a Tarkovsky film.”

I looked away and swiped at a tear before it had the chance to fall. Then I remembered something.

“Anton said he was Ukrainian. But… he’s your son?”

Petyr nodded. “Not by blood. But I’m the only father he’s ever known.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky bar top. The lights caught in his silver-streaked hair.

“Right after the police arrested us, after we’d been beaten bloody, Vera seduced Pavel. You remember him? Lived with us? Big hands, bad poetry?”

I snorted. “Big and stupid. I think he actually believed all that Communist bullshit.”

“Exactly. Vera carried on an affair with him until she was sure she was pregnant. Then she dropped him cold. She said it was the only way to protect me. Said she never wanted me to be in danger again, and that having a child would be the perfect shield.”

I nodded slowly. That sounded like Vera. Calculated, brave, and loyal to a fault.

“When she made the announcement, oh my God, was it awkward in our apartment. Nina, Pavel’s wife, hadn’t a clue about their little side project. And with the housing shortage, they couldn’t move out. We all had to live on top of each other in that tiny place.”

He took a sip of vodka, grimaced, and then continued.

“Then the USSR collapsed. Chaos, confusion. Both Vera and I lost our jobs. We ended up moving to Kiev, where things were... okay. Quiet. We lived happily enough, I suppose. Anton was a good kid. Smart. Thoughtful.”

I felt the question before I asked it, like a bruise I didn’t want to press.

“What about Vera?”

He set the glass down slowly.

“She’s gone,” he breathed. “Cancer.”

My stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, eyes glistening again. “She was the best friend I’ve ever had. And I miss her so much, Dimi. Hey, what about your parents? I never spoke to your father again after you escaped.”

I sighed. “My father and mother both lived happily in St. Petersburg until they died. By then I could safely return to Russia, and I went to both of their funerals. My father refused to speak about what happened that final night, saying he was doing the best he could in a rotten situation. I searched for you while I was there, and now I know why I never found you. You were in Ukraine. I wish…”

The lights in the bar went out with a dramatic thunk, followed by a thunderous blast of pop music through the speakers.

A strobe light flickered overhead. Then she appeared.

Nova, decked out in rhinestones and blue feathers, strutted onto a small stage like a disco peacock.

Lip-syncing like her rent depended on it.

Which, come to think of it, it probably did.

She kicked and twirled, and the crowd cheered like she was the second coming of Cher.

Petyr and I both winced.

“I don’t even know what song this is,” he muttered, leaning toward me.

“No idea,” I said. “But let’s get out of here. How can we talk with all this noise?”

He nodded quickly, grateful, and I flagged down the bartender to pay. I left a tip, too. Maybe I was feeling sentimental. Or maybe I just didn’t want Petyr thinking I was cheap.

We slipped out through the crowd, dodging wigs and waving arms, and stepped out into the quiet of Christopher Street.

It was night, but the city buzzed with its usual mix of sirens, laughter, and passing conversations. The summer air was thick and smelled like beer and hot concrete. I took a deep breath and reached for Petyr’s hand.

His fingers twitched in mine, and then he froze.

Petyr’s eyes darted around the street, quick and sharp like a cornered animal. Watching for uniforms. Listening for boots.

“Petyr,” I whispered, pulling him closer. “It’s all right.”

I wrapped my arms around him.

“No one’s going to arrest us. No one’s watching.”

He shook against me, just a little.

I whispered, “We can touch each other now. The police won’t bother us. In fact, nothing will bother us. Ever again.”

I pulled back just enough to see his face, then brushed my lips across his.

“We’ve got all the time in the world, Petyr, just you and me.”

* * *

Thanks for reading The Fire Beneath The Frost. It truly was a work born out of love. If you loved the story, please leave a review!