flesh against stone/like lovers in embrace

by isleofflightlesscrows

Summary:

Vasily never minded being alone; he preferred the silence. But the world was filled with noise and love he couldn't ignore.

If only his beloved could live like him.

Vasily preferred the silence. It was there for him when he’s stirred awake by freezing Moscow air and horrid cups of coffee. It lingered as he got dressed and gathered his tools: worn sculpting materials and sketchbooks tearing apart at the seams. Like a specter, it haunted him on his commute to work, the studio a merciful distance from his humble apartment. He regarded it as a friend, of sorts. An ever present, static one.

So why did it betray him?

Outside of a lovely cafe stood two strangers, wrapped in one another’s arms. A soft gaze painted on their faces, an expression foreign to Vasily. Flurries and chimney smoke danced around their hair, but neither one seemed to mind. They were so entranced by the presence of another, like two statues in embrace, unwavering in the face of adversity.

It was blaring like an alarm or an obnoxious peddler. Vasily nearly choked on his sandwich, a sour feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t find the resolve to eat anymore. Still, he pressed on. 

But the silence never returned.

Suddenly, the world seemed so loud. He became hyper-aware of the clacking of heels, their descent into concrete. The whispers between partners, friends, felt like they were being shouted at him. The small nudges bordered on shoves into oncoming traffic. Vasily thought he was going to have a panic attack. 

He found solace in his studio. The clacking only came from his heels pressing on polished linoleum, the sound echoing. No whispers or nudges threaten to bother him; he was alone. In a way.  

As he took off his threadbare coat, familiar faces greeted him. Busts of noblemen and their wives gave him steely gazes. Reincarnated legends of Greece and Rome shared Mona Lisa smiles, some staring off into the distance, too distracted with the prospect of a heroic kill. Vasily paid them no mind. His true companion of marble was waiting for him. 

Grabbing his apron, he tied it and headed towards the back wall. A figure, shrouded in a ripped, stained linen awaited him. He pulled back the sheet and, for the first time that morning, felt true relief. 

The statue loomed over him, but was not poised to attack like its peers. It leaned close, dangerously so, to reach for an object that wasn’t there. A rifle was the only article that it owned (Vasily wasn’t sure why, it just felt right), slung over its right shoulder. Its eyes, devoid of any color, were neither cold nor ambitious, but rather pensive. Twin scars adorned its cheeks, smoothed out by the marble. 

Vasily tossed the linen aside and inspected the statue, tools ready in his pocket. No cracks appeared and the marble was carved to perfection. With official business out of the way, he could finally admire his work. 

In spite of its meager platform the figure was quite shorter than him, as he recently noticed. Vasily wondered what it would be like for it to stand by his side, to walk with him, to embrace him.

Unconsciously, he caressed the statue’s cheek, its expression unchanging. Flesh against stone; it was poetic. Fantastical.

“Ah, there you are, Vasya! I didn’t think you’d come in early.”

Startled by Ilya’s hearty greeting, he shoved his hand in his apron’s pocket, staring at the floor. “Just wanted to finish today’s commission, that’s all.”

“I see,” Ilya stood beside him and took a glimpse at the statue. “So this is your magnum opus, huh? The one you’ve been hiding from me?”

“I haven’t been hiding it from you.” Annoyance lingered in Vasily’s tone. “I just finished it a few days ago.”

Ilya encircled his masterpiece, devoid of any intimate care. “I see why it took you so long. The detail on this thing is so intricate.” He held onto the side of the statue’s leg, giving it a pat that irked Vasily. “Did you name it yet?”

“Ogata.” The name felt awkward on his lips. It came to him in that weird dream he always had, of a gunfight in an area that felt familiar, with strangers watching.

With him watching.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, but shook his head. He knew better than to question the creative process of an artist. “Do you have the finished commission? I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

He pointed over to the busts of Alexander and Moina Dolgorukov, their features frigid yet sophisticated. Each minute detail was created painstakingly, from the stray hairs in Moina’s bun to the various military awards Alexander adorned. “You’ve completely captured their spirit. Your payment will come in soon. I’ll return later in the day to ship these out. The Dolgorukovs will be very pleased.”

Ilya turned to leave, but hesitated. His eyes were still fixated on the statue. Vasily noticed. “Why don’t you donate that statue? I know several parlors that would want a sculpture that captivating.”

“It’s not for sale.” Growing anger accented every syllable. 

“You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when you get paid five times its worth.” Ilya gave a small nod of farewell and went on his way. The silence returned, but Vasily felt no peace.

“Sell it? I can’t just sell it!” He hissed to himself as he gathered his tools. Plopping himself at his drawing table, he took out his sketchbook and went to work.

Hours felt like minutes in the studio. He labored over his newest project: a Grecian urn for a new parlor opening up soon. The sketches, littered all over the floor, were practically indecipherable to the untrained eye. The once plain slab of marble took the rough urn-like shape. He took very few breaks during the process, only stopping to eat or drink. 

The clock struck five as stray bits of sunlight receded from the windows. Vasily got up from his carving station and brushed off any remaining bits of marble. He glanced at his progress as he untied his apron. The rough shape the slab once had became more smoothed and refined, ready for detail. He was just about to gather his things when he stopped to take one last look at his statue. 

Vasily cupped its cheeks, thumbs gently tracing the twin scars. The marble felt cold under his grasp. He stared into its eyes, but the warmth couldn’t be reciprocated. The statue’s lips were pursed, adding onto its pensive expression. Briefly, he wondered if kissing it could bring it to life. 

That sour feeling came back in full force. He thought of a story Ilya once told him, of a sculptor that fell in love with his creation and brought it to life. If he tried hard enough, could he do the same?

Vasily shook his head. Don’t be a fool, he thought to himself. And yet, he closed his eyes and leaned towards the statue’s head, kissing still lips lightly. Vasily opened them slowly, bright morning blue against stark white. Reluctantly, he let go. 

He took his tools and put on his coat. The story may have not been real, but at least he tried. Without a word, he turned off the oil lamps and closed the door.

 

~

In the dead of night, the studio looked like a cemetery. The many faces that may have seemed inviting in the light appeared all but terrifying in the dark. What slivers of moonlight there were cast shadows onto the floor, imposing yet soothing.

The statue that Vasily had so loved was blanketed in this ethereal glow. Spared from the night’s curse, it appeared even more gorgeous than before, almost lifelike.

The marble on its cheek began to crack. A hairline fracture formed. The fracture grew. Rapidly. Pebbles, then chunks of stone fell onto the linoleum in shatters. Flesh appeared underneath, covered in white dust. 

The rest of the marble crumbled. The figure underneath collapsed.

Immediately the figure shot up, gasping for breath before finding it. White dust and pebbles fell from his hair, now raven black. His eyes adjusted to the dark. 

Moonlight illuminated the ground, cold to the touch. The outline of other sculptures was somewhat visible. 

He looked down at his hands. Gone was the milky white pigment of marble. Although he was somewhat pale, his flesh had a healthy pink tint to it. If he tried hard enough, he could see the veins.

The figure looked up to the glass ceiling. The world bled navy blue, black to his newborn eyes. Stars, small as zirconia, glistened against the dark. An orphan cloud or two tried in vain to cover up the view, but went as quickly as it came.

The figure shivered and retreated into the darkness.

~

The silence returned. Vasily wished it hadn’t.

He sat upright on his bed, the cheap iron and cotton creaking under his weight. In spite of his midnight wishes, morning arrived and with no mercy. The draft from outside slithered its way into his bedroom. 

Vasily rubbed his arms in a pathetic attempt to generate warmth. Sighing, he got out of bed and started his routine. 

Normally, his mornings were like a waltz, one that he had a lifetime memorizing. The silence was his partner, and they performed every move with ease, but Vasily didn’t want to dance.

He burned his fingers whilst taking his cup of coffee. “Shit!” The coffee cup shattered, sending liquid and ceramic everywhere. 

Vasily groaned. He’ll clean that up later. 

It didn’t get any easier. In rapid succession, his favorite pair of trousers ripped, his newest sketchbook disintegrated in his hands, and the cooks at the nearby cafe got his order completely wrong. It was nothing short of payback.

Once again, Vasily was relieved to arrive at his studio. He reached to hang his coat when something cracked under his foot. Head tilting, he stepped away from the object. It was a piece of marble, unevenly broken.

His heart began to pound. This couldn’t have been a vandal, right?

Eyes widened with fear. The statue. 

Racing, he prayed to any god hoping his statue wasn’t destroyed. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight. 

They didn’t listen. All that was left were piles of crumbled rock and a platform with no model.

His legs buckled under his weight. Vasily wanted to cry, to scream at the top of his lungs in anguish but he just stood there. Why bother making a sound if no one could hear you?

Papers shuffled in the distance. He ignored it. Something solid fell. A book, perhaps. A muttered curse followed. 

Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Did the vandal, that sick fuck, stick around? His nose flared at the thought. Vasily fished his pockets for a weapon, but only found a sharpened pencil. 

Slowly, he approached his drawing desk. A shadow formed, invested with whatever was in their hands. The closer he got, the more human it looked. 

Vasily’s breath quivered. He hadn’t killed anything since he was a child. 

Closer. Closer. The sun got in his eyes. For a brief second, he couldn’t recognize who the figure was. 

Vasily’s breath stopped. He dropped his pencil.

“Did you draw this?” The figure turned to face him.

He was more handsome than Vasily ever intended him to be. The figure was still covered in white dust, but for the most part, his skin was vibrant and alive. The scars were there, symmetrical, along with a bit of facial hair. His hair glimmered in the sunlight like obsidian, slicked back and shaved on the sides. 

What attracted Vasily the most was his eyes. As a statue, he never bothered to imagine how they would look. But now, glancing into eyes so brown they were black, he was wholly entranced. He could stare into them for eternity. 

“It… it worked.” The words tumbled out of Vasily’s mouth. 

The being raised an eyebrow, folding the paper. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t think it would work,” Vasily reached out to touch his cheek, but the stranger flinched. He lowered his hand, internally ridiculing himself for being so direct. “How did you… are you—”

“I’m pretty cold.”

That’s when Vasily realized. He was naked. Stark naked.

His cheeks and the tips of his ears singed with heat. He quickly looked away and handed his coat. “You—you can wear this. I’m sorry I don’t have anything else.” The living statue put it on. 

“I’m called Vasily. Do you—” He cleared his throat. “Do you have a name?”

The figure nodded as he fiddled with the coat. The fabric felt tough and itchy under his fingers. “Ogata—”

“Vasya! Is everything okay in there?” Both their heads shot up.

Shit. Ilya.

He grabbed Ogata by the arm and pulled him aside. “You have to hide. My boss is coming in and if he sees you, he’ll think we’re… involved.”

“Involved?” He yanked his arm away from Vasily’s grasp. His stature was so much smaller than the carver thought he was.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Vasily pulled open a crimson curtain, unveiling slabs of marble that have yet to be touched. “Stay right there and don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.” 

Ogata nodded with eyes that seemed both perturbed and disinterested. Vasily pulled the curtain back. 

His heart began to sing. He couldn’t believe it, the story was true! But how did it work? Was he made of magic? Did this all truly happen? Was he dreaming?

Wait, didn’t he say his name was Ogata—

“Vasily?” The metal door shook with frantic bangs. “Are you in there?”

Right. He pushed his hair back and tried to wipe the foolish smile off his face. He opened the door. “Ilya? I didn’t expect to see you this early.”

“I didn’t expect your doors to be closed this late!” He gave a lighthearted chuckle, taking off his soft hat. His breath smelled of hours-old coffee. “It’s so unlike you. What happened?”

Vasily got out of his way. “I just–I woke up late and–”

“Oh, Vasily, what happened to your statue?” Ilya exclaimed and ran over to it. He collapsed to the ground in disbelief, grabbing at the stones and dust. 

Vasily couldn’t help the smile blooming on his lips. “I came in this morning and I found it like that.”

Ilya sorted through the rubble, eyes wide with distress. “Did someone break in? We have to report this to the police!”

It was Vasily’s turn for his eyes to grow wide, “No wait!” Ilya glanced at him with narrow eyes. Vasily cleared his throat, strained nonchalance seeping in. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. It’s like you said, it's not worth much. I could make five, fifteen more without breaking the bank.” 

Ilya sighed and let go of the remaining powder. “I suppose. So much for your magnum opus.” He got up from the floor and dusted his knees. His tweed trousers were still stained white. “Anyhow, I came in here to tell you about a new project. Ms. Vorotyntseva is renovating her garden and wants you to carve a statue of Aquarius. Can you complete it by the end of next month?”

In a gap between the curtain and the wall Ogata could see the whole encounter. Vasily had his back towards him, talking to an older man. Was this the boss he mentioned before?

Even though he couldn’t see his face, Ogata studied Vasily. His hair was golden in the sunlight, as if it were actually made out of its rays. His clothes were modest, both shirt and pants were well worn with the apron’s strings tied into a neat, sagging bow. His leather shoes were fraying at the edges, a fleck or two coming off. 

The marble underneath him was cool. Ogata shifted to get a better view of the conversation when the boss’ eyes averted to his direction. He retreated back to his original position. Did he see him?

“... do it. It doesn’t need to be too big, right?”

“Not from what I remember. Either way, she stressed that you take your time.” Ilya put his hat back on, staring mournfully at the once gorgeous statue, or rather, the remains of it. “I expect at least a preliminary sketch at the end of next week. Are you going to stay today, or…”

“Afraid not. I’ve been feeling a bit queasy since the morning.”

“Go home and rest. I can’t have my best sculptor sick.” Ilya patted his shoulder and left. With the only intruder gone, Vasily let out a huge sigh of relief. He turned to the curtain at the back of the studio. “You can come out now!”

Slender hands, covered by a coat two sizes too big, pulled back the curtain. Ogata descended from the slab of marble he was sitting on. “Are you sick?”

Vasily tilted his head to the side until he remembered. “Oh that? No, I just said that so he can leave. He has a tendency of overstaying his welcome.”

Ogata nodded, then took out the drawing he so neatly folded, asking once more, “Did you draw this?”

“How did you…?” The question died in Vasily’s throat. That explained the noise from before. “Never mind. I did draw that.”

“Oh,” he looked back at the sketch. He opened his mouth to add a comment, but Vasily cut him off. “Listen, we can’t stay here, especially with you looking like… without any...” His throat went dry again, the heat returning to his cheeks. “You’ll get cold. I’ll take you home.”

“I can’t just go home with a stranger.” Ogata backed away as Vasily reached to hold his wrist.

“We’re not strangers.” Electricity ran through both of their gazes. Neither one wanted to look away. Ogata couldn’t come up with a retort and Vasily was surprised at his own earnestness. 

The latter checked the window above his desk. The courtyard was covered in a layer of snow, white as paper and unsullied by humans. Several feet in front was the back door to Vasily’s apartment building. “You’ll get frostbite walking. I’ll carry you.”

“I’m not a child. I can walk on my own—” Before Ogata could protest further, Vasily was already carrying him on his back. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt. You just woke up, after all.” He pushed the back door open and dashed across the snow covered concrete. 

One of his elderly, nosy neighbors peered out the window to grab some hanging laundry when she noticed the two running. “Be careful young man! And don’t tell me that’s a whore on your back! Too many good men are giving into their vices these days!”

“Whore? Is that what I am now?”

“Pay her no mind. She likes getting into everyone’s business.”

Finally approaching his apartment building, he went inside and let Ogata down. He shook off a few snowflakes and closed the door behind him.

The lobby was dead silent. The water-damaged green marble underneath absorbed their steps. Letters and telegrams pooled out of filled mailboxes. The oaken banisters were termite-ridden. The only feature that was mildly upkept was the staircase, but even the steps were covered in dirt upon closer inspection. 

Ogata touched the banister lightly, in fear of getting splinters. “My apartment is on the third floor.” Vasily led the way. 

The rotted door was sealed shut. Vasily had to push against it in order for it to open. 

The apartment, quite frankly, had seen better days. Flimsy wallpaper peeled in every room, revealing the asbestos underneath. The floorboards groaned under their weight, as if it was about to give way at any second. A slight scent of mildew hung in the air. The kitchen sink was filled with pots and pans that needed desperate cleaning. On the entryway table was a plate of few-day-old apples and framed drawings of people that Ogata assumed was Vasily’s family. The nearby dining room was soaked in wintry sunlight.

“Make yourself at home,” Vasily took off his shoes and almost went in the other direction before heading to his room. Rummaging through his closet, he reemerged with an old shirt, trousers, and some socks. “Here’s some clothes you can change into; you can use my room. I’ll make us something to eat.”

Hesitating, Ogata entered. Drawings covered the walls, some of which were half finished. His desk was buried in used sketchbooks and scrap papers. The bed, surprisingly, was saved from the chaos. Without wasting time, he unbuttoned the heavy coat and changed clothes. Of course, they were far too big, but Ogata didn’t seem to mind.

The smell of milk and vanilla extract filled the air. Ogata peeked from the room. 

A pan sizzled on the stove. Vasily focused on a thin mixture before pouring it into the pan. He grabbed a spatula and checked the inside. Feeling someone’s eyes on him, he turned around. “There you are. The blinis are almost done. Are you hungry?”

Ogata shrugged, “I suppose so.”

“Great, because I make some of the best blinis Russia has ever seen.” Smoke rose from the pan. “Shit.” Vasily flipped the pancake quickly, charring that side. Ogata snorted.

Once the blinis were done, they ate in the dining room, enjoying the mutual quiet. Vasily, already done with his dish, was the first to break it. “What did it feel like? Becoming,” he tried to find the words, “real?”

Ogata didn’t look up from his plate. “I don’t know.” A pause. “It felt like I was being pulled by something–someone, and they wanted me to exist. I assume it’s you.”

Vasily glanced away, “I’m that obvious, aren’t I?”

“Terribly.” He observed his surroundings with intent not yet clear: the walls, the rotting furniture and floorboards. “Has your apartment always looked like shit?”

”It’s all I can afford.” Vasily grimaced at the uncalled for comment. Ogata sat back, satisfied that he struck a chord.

“Oh, by the way, you can sleep on my bed tonight. I’ll sleep in the living room.”

“Letting a stranger sleep in your bed,” Ogata stuffed a piece of blini in his mouth, “you’re too trustworthy.”

“Only for tonight. Don’t expect my hospitality to last too long.” 

 

~

His hospitality did, in fact, last long. Not that he was proud of it.

The past few days were… interesting. Back when Vasily was carving Ogata, he didn’t put much thought into his personality. He simply wanted his vision to be seen through. To take up space. To be real. 

This completely blindsided him to the fact that Ogata was an asshole. He was like a human cat, stealing food from Vasily’s plate when he wasn’t looking, refusing to move when there was no space to sit, and using up all of his hot water. Had it been anyone else, Vasily would’ve kicked them out without another word, and yet…

Vasily entered his bedroom, trying to cure his serious case of bedhead. Morning sunlight flooded the room. Ogata was fast asleep, most of his face obscured by soft yet worn linens. His expression was still, an unconscious reminder of his statue days.

Vasily had to fight the tempting urge to brush a bit of hair away from the sleeping man’s face. Even though he was annoying, he was a welcome presence. Now that he was in Vasily’s life, he couldn’t imagine a day without Ogata.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get revenge.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, he shook Ogata with all his might. “Wake up! You need to start the day.”

His eyes opened, scowl forming on his lips. “Oh, it’s just you. I thought I was turning into a statue again.”

“Very funny. Now put something on. We’re going clothes shopping.”

“For me?” Ogata got out of bed and stretched. He really did look like a cat. “But I was getting so used to your musty old shirts.”

Vasily rolled his eyes, “Will you hurry up? I want to get there before the afternoon rush.”

It took a little more bickering before the two of them were ready to leave. Ogata insisted on wearing the coat Vasily first gave him. “I got used to its itchiness,” Sarcasm mixed with honesty bled from the statement.

The snow from the days prior had already turned to grayish slush, but the cold was still oppressive. People began to crowd the sidewalks, heading to grueling jobs or running errands. A few youths around Vasily’s age walked in groups, engaged in conversation, some holding hands. Vasily ignored them and the gnawing pit in his stomach. 

It didn’t take long for the tram to come. Stuffed like a pack of sardines, Vasily and Ogata stood practically on top of each other. Both were aware of how close they were, but neither dared to mention it, either out of sheer stubbornness or bashfulness. 

“How long are we taking this?” Each word took effort to say.

“For the next few stops,” Vasily struggled as well.

Babies began to fuss and wail. Grannies gossipped about their neighbors and friends. Someone in the tram car reeked of garlic and poorly aged cheese.

“And you can’t buy a car?” Ogata hissed.

“Do I look like I know how to drive?”

The two huffed, not meeting each other’s gaze. After what felt like hours on the crowded tram, it finally arrived at their stop. They pushed and shoved their way out of the medieval torture device, grateful that they could once again breathe fresh air.

Once they were finally able to catch their breaths, Vasily motioned him to follow. Luckily for them both, the tram left them in front of the department store. Men and their nagging wives were pulled toward the glass doors, the women excited for a sale. 

“And where did you get the money to afford this?” Ogata looked up at the limestone building, the facade reminiscent of the Gothic era. 

“My last commission paid well, and I had some money to spare.” Vasily opened one of the doors and held it for an exiting trio of girls. 

“And you decided to spend it on me?” Ogata raised an eyebrow.

“Again, you can’t wear my old clothes forever. Besides, we’re living together. It's the least I can do.” He stopped at the directory and gave it a quick look. “Right, second floor. Come on.”

Ogata learned an important lesson that day: shopping was boring. For the past half hour he had to watch Vasily painstakingly debate over buying two flannel shirts that looked exactly the same. “I don’t like this one’s fabric, but it does look a bit cleaner than the other one. After all, you only deserve the best. What do you think?”

“I think I should buy this shirt and call it a day,” he held up a hideous striped shirt, embellished with vomit green and piss yellow hues. 

Vasily folded his hands, covering his lips, brows furrowing. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh but I am. Don’t they compliment my look?” Ogata held it close to his eyes, further proving the shirt’s own off-putting palette. 

“If you know so much about fashion, why don’t you just choose your own clothes?”

“Thank you, you’re so kind.” He started piling shirts and trousers on his forearm that were, objectively speaking, the ugliest articles of clothing to ever grace the Earth. “Now how well does this green cardigan go with this silk front shirt?”

“Looks fantastic.” Vasily gritted his teeth. Ogata snickered.

Feeling merciful, he placed the ugly clothes to the side and chose the cleaner shirt that Vasily was stressing over minutes before. Wandering around the floor, he picked a few more outfits that were much more pleasing to the eye. He stopped at a mannequin wearing a dashing navy suit.

“Do you want to try it on?” Vasily approached him, fiddling with a newsboy cap.

“When would I even wear it?”

“It’s good to have at least one for special occasions. I have one at home.”

“I’ve seen it. Moths chewed holes through the whole thing.”

“Good thing you told me now,” Vasily peeked at the other suit designs the store had to offer. “Try it. See if you like it.”

Minutes passed by without a snide remark or complaint. For a good moment, Vasily believed him dead. New suit slung over his forearm he called, “Everything okay in there?”

Ogata stepped out of the dressing rooms, looking everywhere but at Vasily. The navy blue fabric complimented his eyes well, as if they were both made out of the night sky. The red tie served as a good pop of color. “I feel stuffy.”

“Suits are like that for a reason,” Vasily walked over to fix his tie, crumpled under the vest. His hands lingered, not really wanting to let go. He could feel his own heartbeat increasing as Ogata’s fingers intertwined slightly with his. Before they could connect, he let go and stepped back. 

“Well?”

“You look… great,” Vasily swallowed the lump that was growing in his throat. “Yeah, great. I should—you should buy it.”

“So I look great at that special occasion we’re never going to,” Ogata headed back to the dressing room, eyes glazed with surface level contempt. 

The tram ride back to the apartment wasn’t nearly as cramped as the one before. For once, Vasily and Ogata finally got to sit down, the air free from the stink of before. 

Their hands brushed against one another but did not interlock. They did not say a word.

 

~

As time went on, the two bickered less and fell into a rhythm. Ogata remained snarky, but grew curious, and Vasily was there to reign him in before disaster struck. It was a new dance, one that Vasily was all but happy to learn. 

That week he called in sick, promising Ilya that his preliminary sketch will be done the next time he saw him. The weather in Moscow was particularly awful, so Ilya didn’t even bother questioning him. 

The two grew restless in their homebound state. Vasily was better at controlling it, but Ogata was close to losing his mind. He had a brief taste of freedom the day before, when Vasily mistakenly asked him to buy a few things from the grocer. He almost got run over by a car and got into a fight with a granny over the last can of evaporated milk. Regardless, it was a solo adventure, but once again, he was stuck. In the apartment. With the strikingly gorgeous yet irritating sculptor. 

Ogata laid down on the bed, staring at the water-damaged ceiling, counting the cracks. He would bother Vasily, but given that the other was so engrossed in his work, he left him alone. 

If only he learned to do the same.

Ogata’s static features broke into a frown, remembering how overbearing Vasily was that day. He knew that he’d only been alive for barely two weeks, but he wasn’t a child that needed to be coddled. 

Just the thought of Vasily was enough for him to launch out of bed, scoffing in disgust. Boredom quickly replaced it. 

He sauntered over to his desk, planning on knocking some stuff to the ground. Curiosity got the better of him, though, as he started looking through the papers. Most were scrap, garbage, even, with useless notes written in an alphabet he’s seen but otherwise couldn’t decipher.

Ogata was about to give up on finding anything remotely interesting when he saw a paper with weird lines drawn on the corner. He unearthed it and immediately recognized the image.

It was him. Granted, he was wearing a military uniform he didn’t recognize and holding a rifle, but it was still him, pushing back his hair with a scowl on his face.

He fished through the desk and grabbed more pages. They were all of him. Of his eyes. Of both his side profiles. Of his body and posture. Of smiles that looked unnatural on him. Of outfits he never wore. Of him wearing nothing.

Ogata held onto the papers. A flurry of emotions painted his face, until he settled with disinterest. It only made sense that Vasily had so many sketches. He used to be a statue, after all, and in a weird way, he still is.

This reasoning didn’t quell his rapid heartbeat.

He held up the first sketch he found. Now that he took a closer look at it, the outfit and weapon did seem familiar. Memorizing its details, he placed it back on the desk. 

Gently, he knocked on the living room door. Without looking up, Vasily called, “Come in!”

Ogata peered through the doorway, irrationally fearing the place to still be off limits. Vasily let out a soft chuckle. “Don’t get all shy on me now. You live here, remember?”

“Just making sure I don’t face an artist’s tirade,” he said as he took in the new surroundings. A weathered but well loved couch was pushed to the side, decorated with half-stuffed throw pillows and a threadbare blanket. Shelves decorated the other side of the room, haphazardly filled with books worn at the spines. 

“I’m surprised you read,” Ogata’s fingers grazed each one with care. 

“Those are sketchbooks. You can look through them if you’d like.”

Ogata instead wandered over to the desk and peered over at Vasily’s sketch. A maiden with a despairing gaze stood suspended on the page, half complete and basked in afternoon sunlight. “How do you do that?”

“Do what? Draw?” Vasily’s eyes tore away from the paper to gaze at him. “It takes years of practice.”

Ogata stole an abandoned pencil from the desk, cutting through the sliver of space in between them. “Can you teach me?”

“Since when were you interested?” Vasily raised an eyebrow.

“Since now. So are you gonna teach me?”

“I suppose,” he sighed and fished through the desk to find a scrap piece of paper. “We’ll start easy. Try drawing a circle.” He handed the paper to Ogata without turning back. 

Ogata plopped onto the couch. With a bored expression, he did as he was told, using his thighs as a table. The circle was so crooked that it looked like a limp square.

Pausing from drawing, Vasily glanced over. The sculptor’s lips contorted to a frown. “Maybe you should try drawing it in strokes. See how that works.” 

He tried again. The circle was still square.

“Maybe I’m just inhibiting your art style. How about you draw something from life? Like these books, or the windowsill?"

Without so much as a retort, Ogata made one last attempt. Vasily was quite surprised at his dedication. Unconsciously the sculptor leaned close. Too close. 

“You’re staring.” Ogata fought back the urge to push Vasily away, loathing the fact that his desire was so minuscule. The rendition of the windowsill and books were slightly crude, but far better than the pathetic excuses for circles.

Vasily averted his eyes. “Only at your drawings. They’re… uh, well…”

“Terrible, I know,” Ogata unceremoniously dropped the pencil, flexing his dominant hand. “I don’t understand how you do this.”

“Practice. Yours weren’t bad.”

“You don’t have to lie to me just because you like me,” Ogata teased, a wry smirk blooming. The words felt like arsenic in his mouth, regret rising like vomit. The last person he wanted to humor was the sculptor he called his roommate. Even if a dangerous part of him enjoyed it. 

“I tolerate you. There’s a difference.” Vasily retorted, cheeks light pink. 

The two sat in silence. Vasily sketched and tossed away other various drawings that seemed unfit, working with no real goal. Ogata attempted to master the art of still life sketches, all to no avail. It was a tiresome process.

Time slipped through their fingers. It was nighttime when they both realized they were starving. 

“I don’t feel like cooking anything big. Do you want blinis?” Vasily got up and massaged his neck, then stretched his arms. “I’ll put sour cream on them.”

Ogata sat solitary on the couch, glimpsing at his imperfect sketch. “Just don’t burn it like last time,” he looked up and smirked.

“That was one time!”

If this was his new waltz, Vasily would be an expert in no time.

~

After a few days of bitter cold and snow, the weather finally let up, and Vasily had to go back to work. Ogata, who was once satiated by the few activities at his disposal, began to ask, no, demand: “I want to go to work with you.”

“Why? I thought you liked lazing about,” Vasily stared into the fractured bathroom mirror, fixing the collar of his shirt. 

“Perhaps I’ve changed.” Ogata lifted his chin up, defiant.

Exasperated, Vasily left to grab his sketchbook. When he couldn’t find it, he started pushing the mess on his desk aside. “Yesterday you begged to stay home when I went to the hardware store.”

“That’s different. I want to do something, and you do something at your studio.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. “If anyone asks, you’re my secretary. And don’t say anything about being a statue,” he grabbed both of their coats and began to button his own. 

“You must take me for a fool,” Ogata hissed under his breath as he put on his coat, but was pleased nonetheless. The statue comment burned in his mind, but he wasn’t sure why.

The studio was in the exact same shape they left it. The debris from before was covered in an extremely light layer of dust, the particles illuminated by the sun. The blood-red curtain stood slightly open, reminders of the day they met.

“I’ll clean that up. Go ahead and hang up your coat,” Vasily did the same, afterwards opening a nearby closet and taking out a broom. “And feel free to look around.”

Besides the sounds of the broom sweeping the floor, the studio was deathly quiet. Ogata took a step. It echoed. 

He walked around and observed each sculpture with intent. The faces appeared so real, to the point where Ogata thought the busts would turn around and start talking to him. As if they would recognize him as one of their own.

A spark of self hatred singed his chest. No matter how much he longed to forget, he will always be made of refined marble instead of flawed skin and bone. Ogata suppressed the ache and moved on to the sculptures. 

With great care, he caressed the face of a Grecian figure, eyebrows furrowed and lip pursed with determination. Briefly, he wondered if Vasily put the same care into carving his features. 

“You have talent.” It was practically a whisper.

Vasily heard, his heart humming with appreciation. “Thank you.”

Ogata faced him, his hand falling back to his side. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

“Not at the moment. I have books on my drawing desk if you want to look through them. It’s nothing interesting, though. They’re mostly on technique and a biography on Michelangelo’s life.” Vasily placed his broom to the side.

“You need a book to help you with technique?” Ogata smirked, raising a brow.

“Well, there’s different ways to carve–” Vasily’s cheeks grew hot with realization. “I don’t need a book to help me with that!”

Ogata burst into genuine laughter, the sound reverberating across the otherwise empty studio. Vasily wanted to hear it for as long as he lived.

If only he heard the goblin shriek of an iron door opening.

“What’s with the noise? I could hear you from down the street,” Ilya closed the door behind him, throwing his coat to the side. The two turned to face him and blushed furiously. 

“Ilya, this is my, uh, my secretary,” he gestured towards Ogata. “I, uhm, I hired him a day ago,” Vasily stammered, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

“Secretary, huh? And who do I owe this pleasure?” Ilya stuck out his hand to shake. It took a few seconds for Ogata to process what was going on. “The name’s Ogata.”

“Hmm, that name sounds familiar. Perhaps I’ve heard it before?” The old man gave a curious glance to Vasily, who still refused to look him in the eye. 

“It’s a popular name,” Ogata blurted out, continuously shaking his hand. Ilya released himself from his grip and leaned over to the sculptor. “He must not be from around here.”

“He’s not.” Vasily answered rather quickly. “He’s a friend visiting from the countryside.” The lie would’ve been more convincing had Vasily’s face hadn’t got so damn red.

Ilya glanced at the two of them, as if they were alien. “Don’t worry, I’ll be taking my leave soon. I just need to see the preliminary sketch you promised me.”

“It’s in my bag.” Relief washed over Vasily as he went to retrieve his sketchbook. From a safe distance, Ogata observed the encounter. There was something fascinating about Vasily from afar. His presence dragged the other close, as if there was a string pulling them together.

Ogata hated it. He convinced himself he hated it.

“The urn is right here. I managed to finish the designs on this a weekend or so ago. I hope Andronikov likes it.”

“He’ll love it, I’m sure. This is exactly what he was looking for! Stunning job as always, Vasya.” He patted Vasily on the shoulder, perhaps a bit too hard. Ilya gazed upon the piece with a father’s pride, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Clearly I interrupted something private between you two, so I won’t stay any longer.”

“No it wasn’t–” 

“You weren’t–” 

“It was nothing really.” 

“Just a stupid joke.” The two spoke over one another in rapid succession. 

“I see.” Ilya put on his coat. “Welcome to Moscow, Ogata.”

After his departure, they stood as still as the surrounding statues. “What did he mean by–-”

“Ignore him,” Vasily quickly cut him off, still red from embarrassment. “I, uh, I have commissions to finish.” Terribly flustered, he set to work sketching a new design. Careful as to not disturb him, Ogata took a book on sculpting and left him be. 

A few hours passed, both enjoying the comfortable quiet. Ogata put the sculpting book away with the same care he showed prior. “You’re right. I didn’t learn anything about technique from that.”

Vasily dropped his pencil and covered his eyes in resignation, chuckling softly. “I hate you.”

~

“I’m back!” Vasily shouted as he slammed the door shut. Stray dew drops cascaded from his jacket to the flimsy, uneven tile. Thunder boomed outside.

Ogata rose from the couch. The book once covering his face dropped to the floor. Rain tapped persistently against the window. “By all means, disturb my afternoon nap.”

“As if you don’t have five a day.” Vasily placed his bags on the kitchen counter. Groceries appeared. Eggs. Flour. Ground pork and chicken. He took down spices from the cabinets, the inside covered in crumbs.

“What’s all that for?” Ogata inspected the ingredients. 

“We’re making pelmeni tonight.” Vasily grabbed a pot from the dryer’s rack and filled it with bay leaves and water. Before he forgot, he sprinkled in a bit of salt. A soft smile spread on his lips.

“No, you’re making pelmeni tonight. Feel free to tell me when it’s done,” The other man slinked back to the living room until Vasily held his wrist.

“Please help me,” his pleading eyes glistened under the lamplight, like the oceans that Ogata had heard about in passing. How could he say no to that?

A beleaguered sigh follows his approach to the kitchen counter. The rain pitter-pattered behind him, the rhythm matching his heartbeat. “Fine. What should I do?”

“Mix the eggs, flour, water and salt together to create the dough. I’ll season the meat.” Dill, salt, garlic, and other condiments disappeared in the ground meat. The smell made both of their mouths water.

Ogata went straight to work. Mixing the concoction, he was surprised at how sticky it initially was. Overtime, the dough took form. 

“Now divide it into three balls and roll each one out thin.” 

He obeyed.

“And you layer it one on top of the other. Watch.” From behind Ogata, Vasily reached over and overlapped each ribbon of dough, the space between them negligible. Cutting it into strands and, eventually, squares, he took a sliver and handed it to his partner.

Vasily took a scoop of seasoned meat and put it in the center of the dough. He guided Ogata’s hands, their heartbeats rapid. “First, you fold the dough, and once that’s done, you bring the ends together. Press them down firmly so the meat doesn’t fall out.” 

Once he finished folding, Ogata grabbed Vasily’s hand. Compared to his pristine hand, it was slightly bigger and calloused from years of carving and other physical labor. In spite of this, they were the softest things he ever held.

Quietly, his fingers intertwined. Vasily did the same. Their thumbs tenderly rubbed each other’s skin. They stood together for a moment that felt like years.

“I didn’t think they’d fit so well,” Ogata whispered. 

Vasily let go. “That’s how you hold—fold the dough. Just tell me when you need help.” Both immediately missed the presence of the other.

Neither one dared speak, fixating on each of their tasks. Once each pelmeni was finished, they were dumped into the now boiling pot for a few minutes. The process repeated until all of the dumplings were cooked.

Relocating to the dining room, Ogata stopped and picked up the drawings he had first seen weeks ago.  

A man and woman sat suspended, as if they were getting their picture taken. Their clothes were modest, and both adorned small smiles, filled to the brim with affection. Yet, there was a twinge of sadness present. Their eyes appeared glassy, as if they were about to burst into tears at any second. A close glance revealed that the paper was also tear-stained.

An unfamiliar feeling twisted in Ogata’s gut, the pain sharp like a knife. He grimaced, if for a moment. “This is your family, correct?” 

Vasily looked up from his plate, cheeks stuffed with pelmeni. He finished chewing and wordlessly beckoned for the drawings. Ogata handed them to him, eating his meal as soon as he sat down. 

He nodded. “They’re my parents. I drew these when I left for my apprenticeship.” His breath hitched. “It’s been years since that day, but I still feel like I just got here.”

“You must miss them.”

“More than anything.” A pause. “My mother… She used to make these for me. I fear hers is far superior, though.”

“Yours aren’t too bad.” Ogata blurted out. He would be more embarrassed, but it was the truth. 

“You think so?”

Ogata nodded. He pushed his pelmeni across the plate, grazing it with his fork before puncturing it. He chewed softly. “I wonder what that must be like. Having a family. Having someone love you.”

Vasily gazed at the pensive figure with a spring-like warmth bubbling under his skin. If only he knew.

~

By the afternoon, Aquarius began to take shape. What was once a giant rectangle of marble took a human form, an urn of water held over its head. Both Vasily and Ogata observed the progress, taking bites out of their ravaged lunches. 

“Do you see any flaws so far?” Vasily wiped stray crumbs from his cheeks, his lips.

“The jawline is less defined on the left than the right.”

He turned his head in that direction. Tools ready in hand, he said, “You’re right,” and went to fix it. 

From the side Ogata watched. The whole process seemed fascinating to him, how slabs of rock can turn lifelike with a tooth chisel and hammer. How each fleck of marble could elevate or destroy the piece. 

Vasily himself seemed like one of his works. Each aspect of him was carefully constructed like a statue. Golden brown hair that grazed his shoulders. Gleaming aquamarine eyes that perfectly contrasted Ogata’s. Beard well trimmed against a sharp jawline. Brows furrowed and lips pursed in deep concentration. The facial features of an Adonis trapped in a lowly sculptor.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Ogata snapped back to reality. Fuck, he was staring. “No I… zoned out.”

“Ah. I thought you were gonna tease and say, ‘You got a big piece of fish in your beard’,” Vasily mimicked Ogata’s tone of voice with precision. The tools returned back to his apron pocket.

Ogata wished there was fish in his beard. Anything to blemish his flawless perception of him. 

The two focused on their separate work, Vasily with carving the intricate details on the statue, and Ogata with organizing old sketches. Oftentimes the latter would pause his task to admire the sculptor’s handicraft. Even though the notes were still unintelligible, largely due to Vasily’s messy handwriting, each stroke was placed with intention, with weight. It was mesmerizing.

“You really love those, don’t you?” Vasily stretched his cramping arm, standing behind a seated Ogata. 

“It’s… interesting to look at.” Beautiful almost spilled out of his lips.

“Only interesting?” Vasily found his hand and held it. 

“Like I said, you have talent,” Ogata placed the sketch in a safe place. He turned towards Vasily, refusing to meet the other’s eyes. Their fingers interlocked. The two came closer, drawn to each other’s gravity. Two rapid heartbeats melded into one. Their foreheads were close to touching. Too close.

Ogata changed. Vasily wasn’t sure when, but somewhere along the line nightlike eyes that wore apathy like a badge of pride filled with interest. Lips no longer contorted into crude scowls. Now they remained peacefully shut, like two pale pink petals conjoined. Hesitant to touch, he held the carver’s hand with the confidence of a mythic hero.

It was as if spring unfurled right before Vasily’s very eyes. He wondered if this was the real Ogata, or yet another layer to this mysterious creature.

“Ogata—”

“I think you have work to do,” a devilish grin tried to sprout, but was too genuine to hold even a hint of malice. Ogata gently pushed him away, letting go in the process. “And I still have to clear your mess.” 

Vasily stood dumbfounded for a second. He wanted to reach out and grab Ogata’s hand once more, but kept it at his side. “You’re right. I should… finish.” As if feeling displaced, he walked back to his station and continued working. 

A thick layer of silence enveloped the room. At least it was better than an unwelcome guest.

~

“The radiator shut off.”

Vasily’s eyes flew open, chest heaving. Ogata’s void-like eyes stared back at him. In the dark of the apartment he appeared to be a demon, standing over the edge of the bed, as if he was about to strike. Vasily immediately felt the chill. 

“You’re right. But shit, don’t scare me like that again!” He hissed sleepily as he headed towards his bedroom. The whole apartment was cast in a midnight glow, as if they’ve both stepped into another dimension. Snowflakes cast shadows across the wallpaper and uneven planks. The wooden floors creaked with light footsteps. 

As Vasily set to work on the radiator, Ogata lay languidly on the rickety bed. Once flawless skin was now blemished with circles under his eyes. He pushed his hair back.

“Did you get any sleep?” Vasily yawned as he turned the knob.

“Not really. I don’t think I’m the type to sleep.” Ogata fought to keep his eyes open. 

“I think I’m the same way. I always have this dream where I’m in the woods. It’s snowing, and I have this rifle on me.” Vasily briefly pantomimed holding the rifle. “I’m searching for someone, and he…he watches me. But before I can find him I’m shot, and I wake up. It’s hard to fall asleep after that,” he continued to babble as the radiator refused to turn on. 

Ogata’s interest piqued. He sat up. “That dream... I feel like I’ve been having it too.”

“Really?” Vasily turned around, tired eyes slightly wide with surprise. “Do you remember it?”

“Only the snow. How cold it is on my tongue.” Unconsciously, he touched his lips, as if it were still there. 

“Odd.” Vasily returned to the radiator. “I pay a rich man’s rent for a damn radiator that doesn’t work,” he grumbled. If Ogata were more awake, he would’ve snickered. 

After twisting and turning the knob in every direction known to man, the radiator whistled with very, very low heat. The carver groaned, utterly defeated. As he got up, he muttered, “Give it a minute for the heat to kick in.”

Ogata grabbed his wrist, stunned with his own directness. He pondered over his next sentence, hesitancy holding him down. “Stay.”

It was a command that Vasily had no problem following. He sat on top of the bed cross legged. “Are you tired?”

“No.” It grew harder for his eyes to stay open. 

“Me neither,” he yawned once more. “You woke me up.”

“Sorry.” 

In the darkness, Vasily searched for Ogata’s hand. He traced over the palm lightly, continuously fascinated that it was flesh and not stone. 

“Why did you pursue sculpting?” Ogata asked as their hands interlocked.

Vasily pondered over his thoughts for a moment. “I started out with drawing first. I loved to sketch on all the scraps of paper I could find around the house, and after a while, I created little sculptures out of clay based on my drawings. After years of practice, and changing mediums, I got so good that I got taken up as an apprentice, and came here,” 

Vasily focused on their intertwined hands, a mix of sorrow and reminiscence danced in his eyes. “For me, it was either that or a life in the countryside, and I would rather die than not be able to do what I love.”

“It’s a passion, then.”

“More than that. It’s my life.” Aquamarine eyes met onyx. “It's how I made you.”

A chill ran down Ogata’s spine. His existence had hinged on Vasily’s work. He couldn’t help but feel conflicted at the thought. “I’m glad you were able to pursue it.”

“So you can exist?”

“So you can feel complete, and do what you love.” Sentiment oozed from the statement. He let go, a light layer of perspiration coating his hand. Vasily was taken aback by his honesty, but said nothing.

Once comfortable, the two held hands once more, thumbs rubbing smoothly amongst each other’s skin. 

“Is Vasya your nickname?” 

“Yes. Everyone’s been calling me that since I was a kid.” Mild aversion bled from his words, remembering all the times peers and coworkers and Ilya would call him that unsolicited. 

“Could I call you that?” Ogata leaned in dangerously close, grazing his cheek.

Vasily did the same. “Might as well.” 

“Vasya.” The name rolled off the tongue. Low, like a secret. “It sounds nice.”

His heart skipped a beat, maybe several. He would fight wars and rise from the dead just to hear Ogata call him that again. 

As if on cue, the radiator rose from its slumber and hissed to life, spewing hot air into the already steamy room. Vasily quickly pulled away, dizzy from the intimate moment, “The radiator’s finally working.”

Whatever expression Ogata adorned shifted back into boredom. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Do you want me to go?”

He parsed over this response. “No.” A welcoming hand reached out to the sculptor as his muse got under the covers. “Come here.” 

Vasily took his hand, cold and devoid of any deformities. He tucked himself in. The two got settled, their backs touching one another. Words battered and banged against both of their throats but were not set free. Time marched on elsewhere, but in this icy bedroom, it slowed to a stop.

Ogata turned around after what felt like hours. He tugged Vasily’s shoulder, forcing the other to face him, and pulled himself close, arms wrapping around his waist. He rested his head on the limp pillow, their noses grazing another lightly. His heavy-lidded eyes finally closed. “Goodnight, Vasya.”

Euphoria flowed through Vasily like an unruly stream. Carefully, as if it would break the dreamy atmosphere, he did the same, resting his head on top of Ogata’s. He brushed that jet-black hair to the side and murmured, “Goodnight, любимый.” Before he could panic, sleep had taken hold of him.

Sunrise soaked both of their faces, but neither stirred. Cold breezes battered Vasily’s cheek. His eyes fluttered open.

True to his cat-like nature, Ogata laid close to him, hair amuck and legs entwined with his. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, head rested on and arm draped across Vasily’s own chest. His lips twisted and shut in sleep, most likely insulting someone in his dream. 

In vain, he tried to fix Ogata’s unruly hair. It felt soft under his calloused hand, but did not stay put. Vasily’s hand traveled to his cheek, stroking the smooth skin. He traced the scar with his thumb. This peaceful moment, free from the world’s distracting noise, was his and his alone.

Ogata frowned and opened his eyes halfway, caught in between slumber. “You interrupted my dream.” His deep morning voice cracked. 

“I’m sorry. Was it good?” Vasily brushed his hair to the side once more, a rebel strand refusing to stay down.

“Not better than this.” Ogata buried his head at the crook of Vasily’s neck, shifting even closer than before. As gentle as holding a bust, Vasily wrapped his arms around the other, letting out a content sigh. Their chests collapsed in unison, lulling each other back to sleep as the rest of the world woke up. 

~

The peaceful routine that both of them established was quickly uprooted. Commissions pooled in like floodwater. Vasily jumped from sketch to carving with ease, albeit with a physical toll, and Ogata kept track of all requests and payments, along with any stray sketches. Neither one dared mention that night, but the longing that it left behind gnawed at them like parasites burrowing into their stomachs.

“Has the Water Bearer arrived yet?” Vasily dusted off leftover stone and debris from his latest carving: the sorrowful maiden from his previous sketches.

“Did so last week. Mrs. Vorotyntseva sends her gratitude.” Ogata checked the envelope, filled with rubles. “All her gratitude. How’s the Europa sketch going?”

“Finalized it yesterday and sent it to Ilya for approval.”

“And the bust of Madam Khilkova’s daughter?”

“Started the rough outline for it. I’ll carve the details tomorrow.” Catching a flaw in the maiden’s eye, he grabbed his tooth chisel and scraped it off, dusting it lightly with his finger when he was done. The muscles in his hand throbbed. Vasily grabbed ointment from his pocket and tried to ease the pain.

Ogata observed him intently as he separated letters requesting commission by completion. “We should go home.”

“I think you’re right,” Vasily winced. Ogata walked over to him, coat in hand. “You worked hard today, and if you try any further you’ll hurt yourself. Then who’ll make me blini?” The statement was meant to be more bothersome than earnest. He handed the carver his coat.

After gathering the rest of their belongings and making sure everything was in order, Vasily closed the studio. On all sides, they were surrounded by early winter darkness, with only solemn lamplights and cheery storefront candles to light their short way home. 

“I’m thinking about making soup. How does shchi sound?” Vasily put on his leather gloves. 

Ogata shrugged, “I can eat.”

The late night chill settled into the city, but the two evaded its frigid grasp. Decently warm in their apartment, they settled down and prepared dinner. 

In a comfortable silence, they gathered and chopped the ingredients. It was then that Vasily realized he missed the noise. He waited for a smart remark from Ogata, a tease, a question. Nothing. Ogata’s lips pressed into a frown, brows knitted with concentration, seemingly focused on the task at hand. It unsettled him. 

Several minutes passed by. The draft wormed its way into the now significantly warmer home. A welcome presence, as the heat from the radiator and finished soup stifled the two. They ate in the dining room, the sounds of drunken neighbors singing folk songs and jovial conversations spilling into the room. 

Vasily couldn’t take it anymore; the silence between them was suffocating. “Ogata?”

He looked up, curious night skies staring at their maker.

“Do you remember anything from when you were a statue?” Vasily brought a spoonful of piping hot soup to his lips. 

He pushed back his hair. “Not really. It was like being in between sleeping and waking. I saw nothing but I always heard a voice. Your voice.” 

“And nothing else?”

“Why do you care?” Contempt coated each word.

“I want to know.” Vasily leaned forward.

“There’s nothing to know. I am a blank slate, with no memory, no past. Hell, I can’t even remember the dreams I have,” he said matter-of-factly, but one could detect the bitterness in his tone. “I don't even feel like I'm living.” Ogata leaned back, creating tides in his soup, now half full.

Vasily’s heart sank, briefly. “But you are.” 

Ogata looked up from his meal.

“All the time we’ve spent before, shopping and making dinner and you complaining at every turn, are those not memories? And dreams? Everyone forgets those. I often forget mine,” Vasily sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. “Your beginnings may be unconventional, but you have a life, Ogata. You’re human.”

The man stood quiet, processing his response. In the distance, the drunken neighbors continued with their performance, their off-beat voices vibrated off the walls. Vasily stood up and lent out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Ogata’s lips pursed. “I don’t know how.”

“Follow my lead, then,” Vasily’s hand beckoned. Ogata grabbed it and stood up. 

Dinners abandoned, the two embraced. Slowly, they swayed, going forwards, backwards, a simple routine. Space negligible, they could hear another’s heartbeats. The chorus proved to be good background noise, but downright terrible as a music performance. One man tried to reach a too-high note and ended up cracking his voice. 

Vasily visibly cringed. “Maybe next time I should take you out to dance.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” The ends of Ogata’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. 

They continued to sway, Vasily wrapping his arm around Ogata’s waist. He eased into the sensation. The singing, if it could even be called that, tempered down into jeers and obnoxious laughs. 

“This is my first time doing this.”

“You never danced with someone before?”

Vasily shook his head. “I never had someone to dance with. Also I’m terrible at it.”

“From someone who’s never done this before either, you’re doing a decent job at it.” Ogata’s eyes met his. “But only decent.”

“That’s fine with me,” Vasily pulled him closer. Ogata put his arms around his dancing partner’s neck, idly burying his fingers in the other’s hair. 

Time didn’t seem to exist in their space, a small galaxy where only two stars roamed. Drawn together by each other’s gravity they orbited one another. Slowly. Silently, observing one another with an emotion both were too afraid to summon, but felt to their core.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Vasily murmured, brushing the wayward strand of hair away.

“Why did you make me?” Ogata matched his tone, gazing at him.

He averted his eyes, if for a second. “I was lonely.”

Silence. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I was lonely too.” 

Vasily’s heart leapt in his chest. He cupped Ogata’s cheeks, thumbs gently tracing over the twin scars. His skin felt warm to the touch. Ogata did the same, Vasily’s beard lightly pricking his palm. Their foreheads pressed together, eyes half-lidded and slowly exhaling. Taking a shaky breath, Vasily surged forward and kissed him.

Their lips united perfectly, as if they were handcrafted for another. Petal soft, each kiss was delicate and deeper than the one before. Ogata pulled him by the collar, rooting him in place. Vasily ran his hands through his partner’s hair and caressed the back of his head. 

He didn’t want to let go. It would shatter the dream. Ogata’s lips were warm and inviting and kissed back with the same tender passion. It would be foolish for them to stop, but fools they were. Reluctantly, they parted. 

The room was oppressively quiet. No one spoke; no one backed away. Taking the silence as an invitation, Ogata initiated one final kiss. Vasily smiled, leaning back in and sighing contently, dreamily. Not as long as the ones prior, but tainted with wanting. 

Wanting to say what they did not have the courage to.

Outside of their galaxy the world continued to turn. The drunken neighbors returned to their singing. Families talked amongst themselves, laughing at stories of the past. Couples basked in each other’s glow. The weary ran to the forgiving clasp of sleep. 

And yet they stood still, artist and creation, wholly human, lovers in embrace.

~

Ogata Hyakunosuke was as still as a stone. 

The snow underneath him was freezing solid, the temperature so cold it nipped at him through his layers. Wordlessly, he took a fistful of the hardened stuff and chewed. It melted instantaneously. His head was starting to get warm, but he ignored it. There was prey to hunt.

Through his binoculars he could see the Russian scouting the terrain, scouring for a trail that did not exist. Amongst the pale white snow and saplings, he stuck out like a deer in the open, waiting for the wildcat to pounce.

The border of Alexandrovsk-Sakhalinsky was the last place Ogata expected to meet a sniper as skilled as he. This was supposed to be an easy cross, after all. And yet, in such a mundane road, he found his match. His equal. 

The soldier still scrutinized the terrain without taking a shot. His meticulousness read as cowardice.

Ogata smirked to himself. The odds were in his favor. He takes his gun and adjusts it properly. The angle is perfect for an instant kill. 

Dumbstruck with realization, the Russian turned around and aimed at the casket nestled high in the trees. He fired. Nothing. 

For a split second, Ogata felt a pang of guilt, if he could even call it that. Such a handsome face, that Russian has. It would be a shame to ruin it.

He draped his finger over the trigger and pulled. 

Ogata shrieked and lurched forward, eyes widened. He gripped onto the sheets so tight his knuckles turned white. Gasping for breath, his hand passed over his lips. They were cold, as if he'd eaten a fist-full of snow.

“Is everything alright?” Vasily rushed into the room, plate in hand and shirt stained with batter. 

Ogata nodded, letting go of the linens. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m fine. Just had a bad dream.”

“It sounded like you were getting murdered.” Vasily leaned against the doorframe. Remembering the cheap china in his hand, he offered it. “I made you breakfast. It’s syrniki. And I didn’t burn it this time.”

“I can see that.” He got up and began to change clothes, his pajamas coated in sweat. “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure you don’t want a bite? It tastes pretty good,” he cut a small piece and chewed.

“I’ll have some when I get back,” Ogata buttoned his flatiron shirt and stood in front of the sculptor. The silence slunk its way between them. It had been a day or so since their dance, and neither one dared mention it. For acknowledging it roots the moment in reality, and the emotion they couldn’t quite name.

“You got batter on your cheek,” Ogata sighed and wiped it off with his thumb. He rubbed lightly and saw the cheek unravel before his eyes. Vasily’s cheeks were a bleeding mess, gaping holes on both sides. Eyes that shone cerulean were as dull as stone. 

Ogata backed away, hand shaking erratically.

“Are you okay?” The light returned to Vasily’s eyes, face unscarred. 

He shook his head. “I told you I’m fine. I just need to breathe.” The scratchy fabric of his coat felt soothing under his fingers. Quickly, Ogata fished through Vasily’s coat pockets for some spare rubles. “I’ll be right back.” Before Vasily could even say goodbye, he closed the door.

Ogata pressed a hand to his temple. The stairs disappeared under him. It wasn’t horribly warm, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling of a snow-induced fever.

The streets were sparse with people. The few passerby present were all swaddled to the point of no recognition, protection against the harsh cold. The sky was overcast, but no snowflakes fell. They were saving their show for tonight. 

Ogata pushed past these people. There was no time to care. His heart beat so fast that it threatened to pop out of his chest. His hands quivered, spiraling from the shock. 

It all made sense. The military uniform. The gun. The cold tongue. In this dream, a completely other world, Ogata killed him. 

But why? Why would he extinguish eyes that exuded a warmth he’d never felt? Why would he chill calloused hands that were soft and safe? How could Ogata ever do such a thing when he loved—

“Watch where you’re goin’!” Spat an old man, cigarette between his teeth. Ogata ignored him, clutching his chest like a stroke victim.

After a few minutes of turning corners and crossing streets, Ogata realized he was lost. None of the storefronts looked remotely familiar, which felt comforting now but was going to be such a pain later. He gazed over to the closest store. 

Its awning was dyed jet black, radiating sophistication. In gold lettering the window read art supplies: paints, brushes, and more. The inside was bathed with warm lamplight, beckoning one to come in. Sketchbooks and pencils stood on display.

Maybe it was the wintry wind forcing him to seek refuge, or the thought of the sculptor giving him ease, but regardless Ogata went inside. 

A miniature bell affixed to the doorway rang, its sweet sound cutting through the frosty air. The smell of freshly printed sketchbooks and whale oil was overpowering, but welcome. Rows of newly packaged art supplies filled the shelves. Intrigued by a set of gouache paint, Ogata picked it up.

The old man at the counter stared, interest buried under judgemental eyes. “Can I help you?”

Ogata’s head whipped in his direction. “No.” He looked around, taking a second to think. “Actually, do you have well-made sketchbooks?”

“Every sketchbook here is well made,” the old man scoffed, feigning personal offense. “But if you want one that’ll last for years, check the center table.”

He followed his advice. The sketchbook felt light in his hands, the leather armor it adorned smooth under his palm. Leafing through the book, each page was stark white and sturdy. Ogata kept it in his hands and scavenged through the few aisles, not expansive at all but packed with interesting merchandise. After a minute or so of wandering around, he approached the counter with two sketchbooks, a set of pastels, and some charcoal pencils. 

The old man rang up the prices of each item on the cashier. He yawned. “So who are these for?”

“My…” Ogata fell silent for a moment. “No one in particular.”

The old man raised a brow, but ultimately said nothing. “That’ll be 4008 rubles.” 

Ogata pulled out the crumpled bank notes and counted. He was some 1000 short. “Uh…” He searched through his pockets, hoping to find an excuse nestled inside. Surely this old man would understand, right?

Behind the counter, said old man gave a glare of disinterest.

A blood-curling smash echoed in the store. A cry of pain shortly followed.

The old man rolled his eyes and headed to the storage room, its source. “Dmitri you idiot! What did you break this time?” The cashier was left unmanned and open. 

Ogata gave a quick gaze around the store. There didn’t seem to be any other employees working there, and the old man was completely out of view. Leaning over the counter, he swooped down and stole a ruble. 

The old man came back to the counter, rubbing the back of his head. “Damn fool,” he muttered under his breath. Ogata put the cash on the counter, hiding the crisp, stolen note underneath all the others. 

He stored the money away and handed Ogata the items. “I hope ‘no one’ enjoys them.”

A numbing sensation spread across Ogata’s cheeks. He snatched the goods and left without another word. 

Surprisingly enough, he was able to easily navigate his way out of the labyrinth that is Moscow’s streets. Granted, Ogata pushed against a few people, narrowly avoiding harm, and confusedly walked in circles for a solid five minutes, but nonetheless he found his way back home. Relief washed over him as he immediately recognized the block he lived on.

By the time Ogata got back to their humble apartment, the syrniki were as cold as ice. Vasily sat on the decrepit couch, eyes adrift and leg shaking erratically on the hardwood floor. The door slammed shut thanks to the draft. 

His head shot up. “Are you feeling better?”

“I suppose so. I had the time to clear my head.” Ogata took off the coat and hung it on the rusted coat rack. He sat next to Vasily, their kneecaps touching. The silence between them was suffocating.

He handed over the supplies. “These are for you. It’s a thank you… for the other day.” Their fingertips grazed for seconds too long. Ogata refused to look at him.

A lovestruck smile spread across Vasily’s features. His cheeks tinted carnation pink. “You didn’t have to, really. I didn’t–”

“I wanted to repay you. For the dance… for saying what you said that night.” Ogata gazed back, finally summoning the courage. 

It was Vasily’s turn to look away from him. As if forbidden to touch, he gingerly glanced at each present. The sheer joy in his face grew more evident, childlike. 

Ogata noticed. He couldn’t stop his heart’s free fall. A part of him didn’t want to. 

 “This is… thank you. This is the best present anyone has ever given me.” He gently placed it to the side. “Are you still hungry? I can heat up the syrniki if you want.”

“Sure.”

In spite of its frozen state, the pancakes took little time to heat up. Topped with sweet jam and a bit of syrup, Ogata quietly ate his meal as Vasily set to work on a brand new sketch. Even as he worked, the ecstatic smile couldn’t be wiped from his lips. Charcoal residue quickly stained his fingers.

Ogata rested his head on Vasily’s shoulder, ease seeping into his bones. Vasily let him. 

“I need to tell you something.” The statement was barely a whisper.

Vasily looked up from his sketch, lively aquamarine eyes full of curiosity. “What is it?”

“You know that dream that we share? The one I keep forgetting?” Ogata lifted his head off the sculptor’s shoulder.

He nodded. “I remember.”

“I know how it ends.”

Vasily turned to face him, task abandoned. “What happened?”

“We were at a border stop. I think that’s what it was anyway. I was trying to cross with some… people… I don’t really know who they were.” Ogata ran his fingers through his hair. “We started shooting. I forget who started it.”

Ogata looked down at his fingers, obsessively cracking the joints. “You…you were trying to find me, but you couldn’t.” He could feel Vasily’s eyes on him. It made him want to shrink into a speck of dust. “I was watching you the whole time. The minute you got close I…I…um…” His throat grew dry. His entire body had gone stiff while explaining. 

He cleared his throat and started to move his shoulders. “I shot you. I shot you through the cheeks, and you… died.” Ogata’s tone was devoid of any emotion, but his twitching hands gave him away.

Vasily sat back, quiet. After a few moments he shifted on the couch. “I had a feeling it was you. I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

It took even more moments, but the snark that Ogata had so naturally oozed came back in force. “But I could never shoot you.”

Vasily glanced at him quizzically. Ogata moved closer, to the point where he was kneeling on top of the other man. 

“Because if I shot you through the cheeks—” Ogata mimicked the trajectory with his pointer fingers, lightly touching Vasily’s face. Vasily admired him with an unwavering fondness, hands wrapped around his waist. “—that would severely damage your jaw, and the last thing I’d want to do is ruin your pretty little voice.”

The admittance hung heavy in the air between them. Their foreheads touched. Heat radiated from flushed cheeks, from mouths slightly agape, yearning to close the distance. Their gazes, dead set on one another’s half-lidded eyes, moved to their lips. 

Vasily leaned forward to close said distance. Ogata appreciated the gesture, his left hand caressing Vasily’s face, thumb rubbing smooth circles. Vasily’s lips grazed his palm, staring right at Ogata.

“You think my voice is pretty?” Vasily purred. 

Ogata’s lips crashed into Vasily’s, overflowing with desire. Immediately he kissed back with the same tenderness. Both of their eyes shut as they lost themselves in each other’s glow. Just like before, it was delicate, but as it deepened both men lost composure. 

Tongues shoved in with no real direction, panting into each kiss. Ogata parted briefly to lick Vasily’s lower lip. Vasily groaned, stunned to the point where his eyes slightly opened before shutting again. Teeth clumsily bashed into one another, Vasily wincing. It was a sloppy affair, one that came so naturally, as if they rehearsed it a hundred times before.

Ogata snaked his fingers into Vasily’s hair and pulled, satisfaction sinking into his skin. He’s denied himself this pleasure, this sheer intimacy, for far too long. Out of fear? Distrust? Ogata wasn’t even sure anymore. That hesitancy was long gone. He didn’t let go. 

Vasily pulled Ogata closer to him, both easing into the embrace. The newfound confidence was mutual, solidified by firm hands and chapped lips that felt impossibly soft. A part of Vasily wanted to break away for just a moment, to finally invoke the emotion that both of them have refused to name, the one that he felt from the very start. Though all he could focus on was the heavy press of Ogata’s body, who bit down on his lower lip and groped at his chest.

Warm, charcoal-stained fingertips marked Ogata’s chilled waist, traveling under his shirt. The sensation made him moan. Vasily swallowed the sound as if he’d never eaten in his life. Ogata grinded his hips, pleasure mounting. Vasily anchored him, his bulge straining in his pants. At that moment, he was sure he wouldn’t last.

Ogata clawed at Vasily’s shoulders when the latter pulled away. His breath was heavy. His lips glistened with saliva. “Ogata I—“

“I know.” Ogata leaned forward to kiss his jaw. Vasily held him back, “No, I want to say it.” He slumped under the carver’s grasp.

Vasily took a nervous breath. “I love you. I’ve loved you ever since I carved you.” His tone grew harried. “I’ve always longed for you on pages and in marble, and now you’re here and alive and…” Vasily brushed aside the stray strand of Ogata’s hair. His hand caressed the other man’s cheek. “And I love you.” 

Ogata sat paralyzed. His hands traveled up Vasily’s neck, cupping his face. The words that had long been scratching at his throat, that reigned true in his heart, were set free. “I love you too, Vasya.”

Vasily’s smile was wide, eyes crinkling. He peppered his lover with kisses on the cheek, neck, jaw, lips. Ogata kissed back when their lips reunited. Breathless from their previous activities, they parted, wrapping their arms around each other’s necks in a loving embrace.

“Can I draw you?” Vasily’s eyes shone.

Ogata tilted his face upward, squishing his cheeks. A soft smile bloomed. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

~

The silence never returned. Each day was filled with noise: the idle conversations of passersby, the fluttering of stray newspapers, the screeches of the tram. Vasily got used to it rather quickly. Yet, he couldn’t focus.

How could he? How could he bear to work without glancing at void-like eyes that seeped love he thought could never be reciprocated? How could he sketch, carve even, without wanting to hold onto Ogata and never let go?

The world slowed to a crawl around Ogata. Vasily could feel the pull of his gravity, too strong, too alluring to ignore. Two oscillating stars, their heat more intense than before. 

“Vasily, did you hear what I said?” Ilya snapped his fingers in front of the smitten sculptor, who was far too busy admiring his lover’s features from afar instead of working on his current commission. With a light shake of the head, Vasily crashed down to reality. The stool he sat on bobbed with the movement. “Can you repeat that?”

“Something’s wrong. You’ve been acting strange all day, spacing out and such,” he groaned and took out his flask, once nestled snugly in his breast pocket. He took a brief sip. “What could you possibly be thinking about?”

Vasily’s mouth grew dry. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The last thing Ilya needed to know was the intricacies of his love life. “My upcoming commissions.”

Ilya snorted, giving him a knowing glance. “I suppose I should’ve asked who instead of what.” 

Before he could defend himself a thick envelope thudded on top of the slab of marble Vasily was working on. Uncertain, his hand hovered over it. “Is this…”

“Your latest commission payment, yes. For rent, groceries, utilities...” Ilya huffed as he took one final sip from his flask before putting it away. “Two tickets to the ballet.”

Vasily’s eyes did not meet his. Was he that obvious? “I don’t need… I mean… we’re not…”

“I finished organizing your mess. It's a miracle you haven’t lost any of your sketches yet,” Ogata yawned. The tension in the air was immediately apparent. “What were you talking about?”

“Oh nothing. I’m sure Vasya has something to ask you.” Ilya fixed his coat. Vasily shrunk in his current position. Ogata glared at the old man briefly. “Now if you may excuse me, I have quite a few things to attend to.” Ilya glanced over to Vasily and gave him a knowing nod, which Vasily avoided. The door screeches as it’s shut. 

The two remained in awkward silence. “So, are you going to tell me, or…”

“Would you like to go somewhere with me?” Vasily cut him off, flustered. As if the two were never romantically involved. As if rejection was somehow on the table. 

“Somewhere?” Ogata tilted his head to the side, intrigue rising.

“Yes. Somewhere. On a date. It’s a date, I mean,” Vasily intensely focused on the callus forming on his palm, rubbing it. 

“A date? Like, a special occasion?” Ogata raised an eyebrow, a smug grin beginning to form. Vasily would’ve retorted if he wasn’t so damn nervous. “Exactly what I mean.” 

“It took you long enough,” Ogata planted a kiss on his cheek, “Too long, in my opinion.” As he went back to work Vasily gingerly touched his cheek, a small smile forming.

~

The day of the special occasion came in no time and, quite characteristically, they were running late.

“Ogata, hurry up! The performance is going to start and we haven’t even left!” Vasily shouted as he buttoned his jacket, as black as ink. He straightened out his cuffs, and once he was done he knocked on his bedroom door. “Ogata?”

The door creaked open, Ogata stepping out. The suit was still crisp and vibrant as the day it was purchased, the navy blue a perfect match with the all-encompassing black of his eyes. Expectantly, the crimson tie was bunched and hidden under the vest.

Vasily stood silent, mouth slightly agape, entranced. 

Ogata’s eyes stared directly into Vasily’s. “How do I look?”

“As handsome as the day I met you,” Vasily sighed dreamily. He walked over to fix his tie. “Even if you still can’t tie a tie.”

“Who knows? Maybe I do it on purpose.” Ogata gave a wry smirk. 

Vasily’s hand lingered, refusing to let go. Ogata’s fingers intertwined fully with his. With his free hand, Vasily caressed Ogata’s face, both incredibly close. 

“Then don’t stop,” Vasily whispered and pecked his lips. A moment passed by. “Are you ready now?”

“If I say yes do I get another kiss?”

“Quit it,” Vasily squished Ogata’s cheeks in playful retaliation, only stopping to hand him his coat. He put on his own and opened the door. “Let’s go.” 

Ogata did the same and the two left the apartment without another word. The soft clack of cheap leather soles followed their exit, silenced by the fresh white snow blanketing the concrete.​​ 

Vasily reached for Ogata’s hand, and smiled when they quickly intertwined. He reveled in his partner’s beauty, when a question sprouted in his mind. “Why don’t you buy a new coat? This one is practically hanging by a thread.”

Ogata rubbed the fabric in between his fingers and sheepishly replied, “You gave it to me. It's the first thing you ever gave to me. I…I don’t want to throw it out.”

Vasily had to restrain himself from kissing Ogata all over. 

Luckily enough, the tram was waiting at its stop, surprisingly empty like the streets outside. The ride was short, barely making any stops if at all. The two continued to hold hands, easing into their seats and looking at the outside world, draped in darkness. 

Snowflakes began to fall as they arrived at the theatre. The architecture appeared regal, far too opulent for the carver and his partner. The fountain that stood before the entrance was completely frozen over, a light layer of black ice forming around its lip. Patrons, adorned in the finest of furs and fabrics, entered with little haste, in spite of their lateness. 

Neither Vasily or Ogata bothered to mimic the same grace, opting instead to race inside, nearly slipping on the ice that coated the steps. 

Pitch black was the interior, the only source of light being the blinding white light that illuminated the performers from the stage. Attendees were too mesmerized by the delicate dancing to notice the two awkwardly shifting into their seats. Once settled, Ogata rested his head on Vasily’s shoulder, as if it belonged there. 

Luckily for them, the performance had just begun. A royal court gathered in luscious gardens, a congregation of friends, of non-equals, feasting and enjoying each other’s company. Pristine regal costumes billowed with precise movement, fluid and graceful. Sharp melodies accompanied the dancing, an unseen partner, each note played with intention. 

Night fell onto the stage. A bevy of swans entered stage left. The prince, once celebrating with his fellow noblemen, snuck out for a midnight hunt. He pointed his crossbow at one of the swans, but did not fire. The foul before him transformed into a beautiful woman. At once he was arrested by her presence. They danced, delicate leaps and intimate twirls, accentuated by gentle violins and flutes, slowly growing in power.

As one scene bled into another, Vasily found Ogata’s hand and intertwined them together. He glanced at Ogata, captivated by how flat, button black eyes shone with wonderment and refracted stage lights. 

Ogata met his gaze. Vasily brought his hands to his lips and planted a soft kiss. They smiled, the gesture so delicate that it threatened to crumble in the dark.

Once the ballet ended and the theater emptied, the two loitered outside, waiting for the midnight tram to come. What few lamplights they could see appeared as illuminated dots in the darkening maw of the night. The streets were abandoned, those with a mind staying home on such a night.

“We should do this more often,” Ogata stared at the cobblestone beneath his feet, black ice glistening under muted lamplight. Vasily leaned closer to him, breaths foggy in the wintry air. “What, go to the ballet?”

“Going out for the night, just you and me. It’s tedious, going to work and back with no spare time.” Ogata started to stroll ahead of him, hands held behind his back.

Vasily followed him. “You’re the last person I’d expect to say that.”

“I told you I’m capable of change,” the corners of his mouth curled, streetlight glow reflecting in his eyes. Comfortable silence envealoped the space between them. Ogata focused on each step he took, staring down at his unpolished shoes. Vasily reached over to grab Ogata’s hand, but stopped himself. Simply being next to each other was enough. 

“Do you think I could be a dancer?”

Vasily raised an eyebrow. “Where did this come from?”

“I don’t know. Just watching those ballerinas on stage, twirl around and leap. I can do that. I can—” Ogata lept. Once. Twice. “See? It’s easy.”

His foot slipped on black ice. Ogata lost balance. 

“Ogata!” Vasily caught him by the arm before he could fall flat on his face. “Are you okay?”

Ogata nodded, wrapping his arms around Vasily’s neck. Deep breaths that looked like smoke and miniature snowflakes danced around their cheeks. His hand traveled up to Vasily’s cheek, pink from the biting winter wind. He gazed into Vasily’s eyes, lost in their oceanic color. 

Vasily stared back with the same intensity. He couldn’t—didn’t—want to look away. 

He leaned in and kissed Ogata, who happily reciprocated. Vasily found that kissing Ogata came naturally to him, as if his lips served no other purpose. Their kiss started off firm, slowly opening their mouths to let their lips slot in, puzzle pieces fitting perfectly. Yet Vasily wanted more. Without time to overthink, he slid the tip of his tongue into his mouth, deeping the kiss. Ogata gasped and tugged at Vasily’s hair, an invitation to continue.

How he longed for this. Vasily was a solitary man, comforted in his own company, but ever since he carved Ogata, he had started to pine for gentle touches and infinite conversations, for a companionship deeper than he ever had before. Vasily had never thought he’d get that chance with Ogata, but he was wrong.

Vasily’s teeth dragged against Ogata’s bottom lip. Ogata whined, the only sound Vasily wanted to hear. He dragged his teeth across again. Another whine, a melody to his ears.

Their lips parted, flushed rose red. Ogata buried his face in Vasily’s neck, nipping at the exposed flesh. Vasily could feel Ogata’s excitement pressing against his own stiffening dick. At least the feeling was mutual.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Vasily wanted to finally mark that soft skin underneath the layers of clothes. He wanted, no, needed to thrust his length inside of him. He needed the closeness, that warmth that he longed to share back when Ogata was still nothing more than a statue. 

Vasily’s hand slithered its way under Ogata’s outer coat, past his cotton tuxedo and undershirt, finally resting on top of his skin. He could feel Ogata’s skin quiver at the touch. Delicately, his fingers traced the curvature of his spine. He was so consumed in the euphoria of Ogata’s existence that he almost didn’t hear the high-pitched moan that escaped Ogata’s lips.

His dick felt heavy, straining his pants more so than before. He needed to hear that sound again. He’d kill to hear Ogata moan against his ear over and over until he lost his breath. 

Vasily looked at Ogata, who emerged from the crook of his neck with hazy eyes and a shit-eating grin. He knew the intentions of that moan, and who was he to refuse?

“We need to go home right fucking now.” 

~

Vasily had barely closed the door when Ogata’s lips were upon him. He didn’t think Ogata was that impatient. Not that he was complaining. He kissed back, Ogata whining with appreciation. 

He wasted no time divesting Vasily of his coat and jacket, all the while deepening their kiss. Vasily picked Ogata up by his thighs and returned the fervor, Ogata wrapping his legs around his waist, pressing closer and closer while struggling to rid each other of their garments. Clumsily, they kicked off their shoes and socks, scattering them across the hardwood floor with muted thunks. 

Ogata resumed his task of kissing Vasily’s neck, the tender skin underneath his teeth turning pink. He only stopped to help Vasily get rid of his layers, his beloved jacket slumping from his shoulders as Ogata pushed it off and away. Ogata clung tightly to him; Vasily’s arms were the only place where he felt safe. 

Ogata pushed Vasily down onto the rickety bed, ominously creaking with the movement. Ogata crashed his lips onto Vasily’s, impatient, shaky fingers fiddling with the vest buttons. Noticing how they quivered, Vasily took his hand and kissed it.

Ogata chuckled, half frustrated, half amused. “You’re breaking my focus.”

Vasily caressed his hand. “It’s worth breaking.” He placed Ogata’s hand back on his own chest. 

With a newfound confidence, Ogata unbuttoned Vasily’s vest and then the shirt underneath. Chest exposed to drafty apartment air, Ogata could finally rest his hand on Vasily’s chest, fingers treading through blonde chest hair. His hand traveled down further until it rested on Vasily’s still clothed cock. 

Ogata ran his palm across Vasily’s bulge, reveling in the shaky breaths that Vasily let out with each minute movement. He gave it a squeeze, for good measure, Vasily groaning at the pressure. Whatever patience Ogata had, if he ever had it in the first place, was running thin. Ogata set to work unbuttoning Vasily’s pants, freeing his length of its fabric prison. 

Oh. Bigger than anticipated. A stiff cock with a bead of precum on its head, waiting to be ravished, to claim Ogata his. Ogata chewed on the inner part of his lip, reveling in the sight.

Vasily propped himself up by his elbows, a flush settling in his cheeks. “Are you…intimidated?”

Ogata’s wide eyes narrowed with a grin, dark eyes pooling with desire. “Not at all.” 

“Good.” Vasily smiled and embraced Ogata, throwing him off balance. A breathless laugh escaped Ogata’s lips, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer proximity, that this was happening at all. Vasily peppered Ogata’s cheeks, neck, collarbone with kisses, nearly ripping his dress shirt off to expose more tender skin to ravish. 

Ogata tugged on his hair. “Watch it,” their eyes locked for a moment, “that’s my special occasion outfit.”

Vasily’s half-lidded gaze was intense, unbreaking. He brushed back Ogata’s hair, that unruly strand falling back into place. “Of course, how could I forget?” Ogata leaned in for a tender kiss, slipping in his tongue as Vasily’s fingers unbuttoned his shirt, causing the careful motions to falter for a moment. Ogata’s hands nestled in the crook of Vasily’s neck. An anchor. 

Finally disrobed, Vasily was able to examine his lover sprawled out on the sheets, lying in wait. A blank canvas, in desperate need of a new color. It could use some red. 

Vasily nipped at Ogata’s earlobe, behind the ear, trailing down to the crook of his neck. A heady sigh escaped Ogata’s lips, lightly scratching Vasily’s nape. He reveled in the pain, teeth grazing, sucking on a spot on his neck. His hips thrusted forwards, member rubbing against Ogata’s thigh. Ogata gasped for more, lips brushing against his cheek. 

Vasily left open kisses on his collarbone when Ogata tugged him off, fistfull of hair caught in between his fingers. “Please, I need you in me,” a desperate mewl.

Vasily stopped, fingers tracing the blooming hickeys. Once bright aquamarine eyes darkened with desire and concentration. Of course he was going to follow his lover’s command. He got up from the bed and procured a bottle of oil, barely used. The bed dipped with his weight, pouring the contents over his calloused fingers, spilling onto the bedsheets. Fingertips massaged his hole before pressing in with his pointer finger.

Ogata’s breath quickened. Vasily leaned in close to his ear, “Allow me.”

The first two fingers slid in, tantalizingly slow. Ogata whined at the intrusion, sparks of pleasure rolling in his gut. They spread out wide, exploring, then curled and hit his sweet spot. Ogata buckled underneath the touch, an intoxicating sensation he hadn’t felt before. “Fuck,” the word barely left his lips. Yet it wasn’t enough.

With some careful maneuvering, Vasily added a third finger. pressing on that sweet spot as Ogata cried out.  He humped on Vasily’s fingers, desperate for more friction. The sight, positively sinful in its own right, only made Vasily’s cock harden.

Once he was properly loose, Vasily slid his fingers out, Ogata sighing at their absence and the sudden chill. He pressed his head into Ogata’s wanting entrance, slowly sheathing himself inside. The whole time Vasily held his breath, a sudden exercise in patience. He was so tight, practically squeezing his dick, but god he reveled in the pressure. 

Ogata watched as his girth disappeared inside him, thick and pulsing. The weight was foreign, but his walls were throbbing with anticipation. Ogata needed to feel it. All of it.

He impatiently squirmed, “Fucking hell, Vasily, what are you waiting for?”

Who was he to deny his love? Vasily’s hips snapped and fell into a rhythm of thrusts, a rather sinful melody. Ogata moaned at the unexpected movement. Vasily buried his face in the crook of Ogata’s neck, so soft, so inviting, panting as he pounded into silky heat. 

Ogata’s hands gripped his shoulders, traveling downward to grope at his chiseled muscles, fingernails scratching his back. He thrusted into Ogata hard, rewarded with a moan. Vasily kept at his pace until Ogata whimpered into his ear, “Ah, Vasya.”

Fuck, he sounded so good saying that. Vasily needed to hear it again, for the rest of his life. That damned nickname sounded so perfect on Ogata’s worshipping lips. Vasily lifted Ogata’s leg up on his shoulder and fucked into him, hips grinding fast, impatient. Ogata gripped onto the sheets, muttering any and every obscenity that came to mind. The weight of Vasily on top of him, the pulsating cock inside of him was enough to make Ogata come. 

Now come-stained with bite marks and darkening hickeys, Vasily was finally able to finish inside him, filling Ogata like an overpoured glass of wine. His painting was complete. 

Vasily gasped as his forehead hit the pillow. It had been the first time in a while he had done something like this. The pent-up frustration gave way to exhaustion, muscles aching from overuse. “Ah, fuck,” he winced as he laid on his side. 

Ogata ran his hands through his hair, wiping off the sweat that collected there.  “I didn’t know you liked me that much.”

Vasily rolled his eyes, playful, “You think?” Ogata snorted, reveling in his exaggerated exasperation. He brushed back strands of Vasily’s sex-rattled hair. Silver moonbeams pooled from the fractured window, down onto the linen sheets and flattened pillow. 

Vasily’s mouth grew dry, embarrassed by the question he was about to ask, “Did it feel…”

“Don’t doubt yourself, Vasya. I’m pretty sure I’m going to feel you long after tomorrow,” Ogata continued to brush his hair, heavy eyes blinking slowly. 

“Good.” Vasily draped his arm around Ogata’s waist, who broke out into a yawn. “Thank you…for today,” Ogata’s eyes fluttered shut, lulled to sleep by the gentle rise and fall of his partner’s chest. Vasily’s cheeks flushed with pride, a job well done. He kissed Ogata’s forehead and closed his eyes. 

 ~

Sunlight warmed the frigid bedroom. Frost spread across the window, partly obscuring the view below. Shouts came from the distance, the ringing of a trolley as it sped down the track. 

Vasily turned on his side and buried his face into the pillow. Another dawn had come. The guest, while expected, was not greatly anticipated. Vasily groaned as he stretched, his muscles crying out in protest. He had made his affections well known to Ogata, and now he was paying the price. Worth it, in his book.

His hand outstretched, hoping for tired flesh to meet tired flesh. Instead, it was only greeted with empty space, warmth fading from linen streets. 

This woke Vasily. Had it all been a dream? A hallucination spurred from his loneliness? “Возлюбленная?” He whined, more desperate than he had intended.

A chuckle came from the other room. His lover, stark naked with only an amused smirk as his ornament. “I only went for a drink of water.”

Vasily gazed from half-lidded eyes, still asleep. “I panicked.” A sheepish confession. 

Ogata crawled back into the bed, Vasily cocooning him with the threadbare blanket. Immediately, he assailed Ogata with feather-light kisses to the shoulder, the cheek, the nose. Ogata couldn’t help but snort at the gruesome attack, planting a kiss on Vasily’s eager lips. “You missed me that much?”

“I never wish to be away from you, not even for a moment,” Vasily pressed his forehead into Ogata’s. 

Ogata brushed aside his flaxen hair, let his hand rest on Vasily’s cheek. A bemused smile graced his features, “You’re clingy.”

“Is that really such a bad thing?”

“No,” Ogata yawned, pinching Vasily’s cheek. “Not at all.” 

Vasily pulled him close, sleep sinking its teeth into both of them once again. Outside of the apartment, the world continued to turn. Trolleys ran through the city, children played made-up games in the streets, lovers met in front of cafes, wrapped in each other’s embrace.

The world was full of noise, and it sounded like a song. 

Notes:

sweet jesus i'm back! did you miss me?

yeah i wasn't lying in the tags, this shit took me nearly four years to write. in between that time i graduated college, wrote my thesis, started working in retail, and a whole bunch of other shit i'm not fully going to divulge here. i'm really glad i stuck with this fanfic. there was a period of time where i just wanted to dump the whole thing, but my love for vasio transcends all strife. become a professional pervert for a ship only you care about!

anyways, thanks for giving this a read. drop a kudo or a comment, its much appreciated. i'll see you soon with more incredibly niche vasio fanfic!