Page 7

Chapter Six

Petyr

I ’d made it my mission to get Dimitri to laugh before lunch.

We were side by side at the loom again, drowning in the mechanical roar of the factory, the churn and clatter of a dozen machines spinning green wool into government-approved rectangles.

It smelled awful as usual—unless Dimitri leaned close, and then it just smelled like pine soap and the faintest trace of whatever cologne he used that probably hadn’t been available in stores since Brezhnev croaked.

“So, tell me, Dimitri,” I said, slicing through the noise, “what exactly do you think they do with all these blankets? I’ve seen this shade of green in three places: army barracks, prisons, and my grandmother’s sofa.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept threading the yarn like he was doing delicate surgery.

My shoulder brushed his. I didn’t apologize.

The music in my head was louder today—strings and something mournful, like Shostakovich with a hangover—but every time Dimitri looked at me, it crescendoed into something bold and dizzying.

“I think,” he said finally, “they stack them all in a warehouse until the weight collapses the building and buries a party official alive. That’s the five-year plan.”

I barked a laugh. Not a polite one, either—a real, surprised one. “You do have a sense of humor.”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Victory.

“And here I thought you were some silent, brooding hero type,” I went on. “Tragic past, and a mysterious demeanor. The kind of man who says things like ‘don’t get close to me, I’m dangerous’ right before kissing someone senseless in the rain.”

“No rain in Leningrad this week,” he said. “Just sleet and moral decline.”

“God, marry me.”

That got a genuine laugh. Brief and soft and gone too soon—but it lit up his entire face, and I swear the music in my skull went orchestral.

Grinning like a fool, I was drunk at the sight of it.

I needed him to look at me again. I needed to keep talking.

Keep joking. I’d never been so pathetically motivated in my life.

He glanced over, our hands brushing as we reached for the same thread. Static cracked against my skin.

“What now?” he asked.

“I just realized I’ve completely lost track of the war. Are we still at war with basic joy?”

Dimitri gave me a look. It was half a smirk, half something that made my stomach twist. “Yes. And you’re losing.”

“I never stood a chance.”

I was just about to lay on another ridiculous line—something about how if he kept smiling at me like that, I’d start seeing visions of Lenin applauding from the afterlife—when I saw movement from across the factory floor.

Vera.

She was talking to one of the supervisors, her hands gesturing briskly. She looked beautiful and smart and efficient, just like always. Then she turned—and her eyes landed on me. On us.

On Dimitri smiling. On me laughing.

Her brow furrowed. Just a tiny wrinkle between her eyes. Then she turned on her heel and walked off.

My chest tightened.

I’d done nothing wrong. I hadn’t touched him. But something about the look she gave me made my skin go cold. Like someone had caught me with my hand in a drawer labeled Do Not Touch .

I cleared my throat and looked down at the loom. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what step came next. My hands moved, but they weren’t sure of themselves.

Dimitri noticed right away. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said.

I forced a smile. “I just realized we’re making blankets, not conversation.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded. The silence between us stretched.

A whistle blew—mercifully—and we both stood, stretching sore muscles and brushing wool fuzz from our overalls.

“Want to eat together?” Dimitri asked.

My heart flip-flopped like an excited puppy. I nodded too fast. “Yes. Of course. Definitely.”

We walked to the break room, grabbed our usual mystery-meat sandwiches and watery tea. A crowd of workers filled the room, but we found a quiet corner at the edge. I picked at the crust of my bread for a moment, trying to calm down.

“So,” I said, as casually as I could manage, “what did you do before becoming a blanket artisan?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers tightened slightly around his tea glass.

“I just came back,” he said finally. “From Afghanistan.”

The music in my head faltered, and my mouth dropped opened before I could stop it.

“I’m glad you came back in one piece,” I murmured. “Unlike most of our comrades who served in that hellhole.”

Dimitri’s face went still. Pale.

Shit. That wasn’t patriotic. That was—honest. Too honest. Dangerous.

I scrambled. “I mean, uh, glory to the heroes and all that,” I said, hastily. “We’re all grateful for your sacrifice and your… noble suffering.”

He blinked, and then he snorted.

It turned into a laugh. Not a belly laugh—he didn’t do those—but something real. Soft and wry. “That’s the worst Party line I’ve ever heard.”

“Please don’t report me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He smiled, and I smiled back at him. The music came back—different this time. Sweeter. Like the beginning of something.

I took a bite of my sandwich. It was terrible. But sitting across from Dimitri, seeing him smile, hearing him laugh—I barely noticed.

The tea had cooled by the time I found the courage to ask another question. Dimitri still hadn’t touched his sandwich.

“You don’t like factory meat?” I asked, nudging his tray with my pinky.

He glanced down at it. “I’ve eaten worse.”

“Ah yes,” I said with mock solemnity. “War. Hunger. Bureau-supplied mayonnaise.”

He cracked a smile again, and I was starting to think I could live off his smiles alone.

Just then, the break room door creaked open, and in walked Vera—looking freshly powdered, coat open, cheeks rosy from the cold. She scanned the room, spotted us, and made a beeline for our corner.

“Mind if I join you boys?” she asked, already pulling up a chair. She dropped into it and leaned across the table to kiss me on the cheek.

“Good afternoon to you too,” I said, grinning, but I felt it—Dimitri tensed. Subtly. The way a cat tenses when it hears something just outside the window. His face didn’t change, not exactly, but something rippled through it. And then vanished. Like the expression had been erased.

I blinked, suddenly giddy. Was that… was he jealous?

“So,” Vera said brightly, taking out her lunch. “Did I miss anything exciting on the floor today?”

“Oh, just a revolution,” I said. “Dimitri defected to humor.”

She laughed, but Dimitri didn’t. He focused very seriously on the edge of his tray, as if the mystery meat had whispered something seditious to him.

“Dimitri?” Vera said, teasing. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. Silent. Unreadable.

The music in my head had softened—still playing, still steady, but quieter now, like it was waiting.

Vera and I slipped into an easy rhythm, talking about the fool who dropped an entire bolt of wool into the gear assembly last week. Dimitri said little, just chewed his food, drank his tea, and watched—his gaze flicking between us like he wasn’t sure where to land.

Was he annoyed? Or… intrigued?

Or—my heart skipped—was he jealous of Vera?

A ridiculous thought. Dangerous, too. But it thrilled me.

Maybe Vera was right. Maybe he was one of us.

Then she stood up abruptly and reached into her coat pocket. “Oh! I nearly forgot.”

She pulled out two small, off-white slips of paper and set them on the table in front of me.

“Surprise.”

I squinted at them. Movie tickets.

She smiled. “Mira got them from the ballet. For that movie, Kin-dza-dza! Ever seen it?”

“No, but I’ve heard of it!” I picked them up. “It’s that weird sci-fi satire, right? A violinist ends up on another planet and everyone talks in this one-word language, and pants are a class symbol—?”

“Exactly. Sounds ridiculous.”

“Which is why I’ll probably love it.”

She grinned. “Well, I can’t go. I have to stay late tonight, then there’s a Party meeting.” She wrinkled her nose. “But you should go. Take a friend.”

She winked at me, then kissed my cheek again and floated off like she hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in my lap.

I watched her go, blinking, brain sputtering.

She saw us together. She saw how I laughed, how he looked at me, how I looked at him—and now she was practically gift-wrapping him.

Or maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe she really didn’t care.

But the look she’d given me earlier… and the wink now…

I turned slowly back to Dimitri. He was watching me. Eyes calm. Waiting.

“Do you know about the movie?” I asked, heart racing.

He shook his head. “I don’t really follow that kind of thing.”

“Oh, you’d like it,” I blurted. Too quickly.

“It’s a cult film, satire. It makes fun of the system without making fun of the system, if you know what I mean.

They couldn’t say anything outright, so they set it on a desert planet where everyone wears bells on their pants to show class.

It’s totally absurdist and low budget, and there’s this violinist who ends up stranded because of a teleportation mistake—it’s funny, but kind of sad, too. ”

Dimitri didn’t interrupt. Just kept looking at me. His fingers had gone still on the rim of his tea glass.

God, he was beautiful when he listened. Like the entire room dropped away, and I was the only one speaking his language. The music swelled—hopeful, questioning, delicate.

I swallowed, my throat dry. My courage fraying at the edges.

“Anyway,” I said, glancing down at the tickets in my hands. “You could… come with me. If you wanted.”

There was a pause.

Then Dimitri said, voice soft, almost careful, “You’re inviting me?”

My stomach did a complicated little waltz. “Yes,” I said. “I mean. If you want to. It’s probably nonsense, but at least it’s not green wool.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

He looked at me, and there was something new in his eyes. Something testing. Like he was trying to see how far I’d really go. Or how far he could allow himself to follow.

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll go.”

I tried not to beam. Failed.

“Great,” I said. “It’s a date.”

I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh.

He just looked at me—really looked at me—and the orchestra in my skull played a single, suspended note.

And then he said, “Alright.”

We finished our tea in silence, the way people do when something important’s just been decided, but neither of them has the guts to say it out loud.

The bell rang.

Dimitri stood, collected his tray, and gave me a small nod. “Back to the looms.”

“Duty calls,” I said, a little too brightly.

I trailed him out of the breakroom, every step feeling like my boots were filled with helium. He said yes. He said yes. My stomach wouldn’t stop doing gymnastics. The music in my head was practically dancing—something orchestral and soaring now, like Shostakovich in love.

The factory floor greeted us with its usual cacophony—grinding metal, clattering wool, the rhythmic thump of machines gnawing through bolts of green. The smell of oil and damp fiber hung thick in the air.

As we stepped into the din, I spotted Vera. She stood by one of the support beams, clipboard in hand, speaking to a knot of workers near Line 3. Probably handing out Party talking points. Something about production goals and the glory of labor. You know—stuff that would really get a man hard.

She glanced over her shoulder, then turned to go. I hesitated.

Dimitri was already heading toward our station.

I hesitated again, then I jogged after her.

“Vera!”

She paused halfway down the corridor between the production floor and the admin offices. When she turned, her brows lifted, amused.

“Already bored with your looms?”

I caught up, panting just a little. “Can I steal a minute?”

She looked around, then nudged the office door open. The room was small, all gray metal filing cabinets and crooked posters of steelworkers and Lenin. No one was inside. But the windows—oh, the windows—lined the front of the room like a fishbowl. Anyone could see us.

Didn’t matter. She stepped in, and I followed.

She shut the door.

Then—without a word—she opened her arms.

I didn’t hesitate. I walked right into them, resting my forehead on her shoulder. She smelled like cigarette smoke and those cheap violet-scented candies she always carried in her purse. Her hands rubbed circles on my back.

“He said yes,” I murmured, half-laughing.

“You look like you’ve won a gold medal.” Her voice was low.

“It feels like that.”

She pulled back, hands on my shoulders now, searching my face with that sharp, curious expression of hers. “So why are you chasing me down like a schoolboy?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I guess I just… needed someone to know.”

She smiled. It was soft this time. Sad, almost.

“Well, someone does.” She let go and walked to her desk, fiddling with a stack of forms that didn’t really need fiddling. “Just be careful, Petyr.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.” She turned back to me. “You were giggling like a love-struck fool in front of half the line this morning.”

“I made him laugh.”

“You did,” she agreed. “And it was beautiful. But people notice that kind of beauty. And around here, noticing is dangerous.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“Good.” She gave me one of her pointed brief nods and picked up her clipboard. “Then get back to work, Comrade.”

I was halfway to the door when I turned and said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the tickets.”

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Oh, were those good tickets?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You knew what you were doing.”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to sit through another Soviet allegory in a dust-colored auditorium with sticky seats.”

I opened the door, stepped out into the hum of machines and wool and silent men.

But inside, my blood was singing.