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“Who actually enjoys winter?” She blatantly rolled her eyes. His eyes shifted from the book he was reading, The History of The High Degree—gaze flying across the room and landing on her figure. He holds back a scoff, he does. “Once this is over, I’m buying a new pair of bikinis.” She hinted as she tiptoed on top of the chair to work better with the half-done towering Christmas tree.
The contrast between Dmitry and her is undeniable. He prefers to settle down with the colds of Siberia and she favors even the sliver of daylight when they’re on his homeland. Christmas is just around the corner, counting down days until the year is over—and her mind’s already working on listing possible summer activities, thoughts occupied by the familiar summer warmth.
Dmitry walked over, slow, stealthy and prying, he gently encircled his big buff arms around her waist, earning a small squeak out of her lips as she nearly fell off the chair. He only tightened his possessive hold, securing her in place.
“Careful…” he nuzzled against her neck, inhaling her natural scent. “You’ll injure yourself pulling that stunt.”
Instead of biting back, the woman put her freezing hands on top of his, still resting on her stomach. A lingering silence, earthly and endearing. The sound of their synchronized breathing brought both solace and homeliness. She traces the back of his hands, familiarizing every scar caused by military activities, engraving the moment in their memory.
Ideal.
Dmitry pulled back, gently not to startle her, slowly that the warmth remained, ghostly.
The action urged her to turn around. At the exact moment, he pulled something out behind his back. In blue pastel shade resembling his orbs, made of fluffy fur—two pairs of matching mittens blocking the view of his face.
A soft gasp escaped her lips, eyes glistening as they followed his movements. She’s barely had time to process. Underneath the masked indifference, lips pressed into thin lines, he tries to hide the truth that his heart is pounding loudly up on his throat, daring to burst out at any given minute.
Dmitry is a sick-ass drunk in love to great lengths of buying a matching pair of mittens and he’s got a lot in mind more than that.
“So cold. Am I in a relationship with an corpse?” He teased, attention solely focused on putting the mittens on.
Dmitry is one passionate man. His roughened hands placid with their gesture while he slips the mittens on her hand. He’s in no rush—head down, attention on the operation. A coyly smile on his lips when he looks up, still holding her hands captive.
Their eyes met. An unspoken silence between the mere distance, just enough to be deciphered with the reflection of their eyes.
“I’m anemic, dickhead—” Dmitry acted on full military instinct by hauling her, cutting her words mid-air, dexterously lifting her up.
A squeak leaves her throat as she tries to break free from his grip, feet swinging and hitting his knees. “Ceasefire! Ceasefire!” She says in between laughter, surrendering.
Codewords and affection.
They spun around the living room, laughter echoing, blending with the low volumed radio playing some old Christmas classics in the background. Everything felt fair, right. Christmas lights seem to glow brighter in her peripheral vision and his embrace warmed her, completely forgetting winter cold winds and grays of Siberia. Just Christmas and Dmitry’s warmth. Time frosted in snowflakes, still. A picture-perfect sight of two pairs, intense, consumed by the present.
“He loves me?” Yellow petals fall dramatically on her lap. “He loves me—not.” She plucked the last one, raising it to eye level, studying it with squinted eyes.
“What could they have done? They deserved a less miserable death.” Dmitry squatted beside her, pressing the cold bottle of water against her cheek.
Snatching the water bottle, she purposely ignored the man.
Dmitry quietly sighs, observing her through his peripheral vision. The sun burned his skin yet he remained quiet, admiring her glow while the sun cast a spotlight on her. She has her eyes closed, the sides of her lips lifted subtly into a smile as she basked under the sun in her yellow bikinis.
Summer at last.
Finally, bright, warm days, sliver of morning sun peeking through the curtains of their bedroom, vesper cocktail and raspberry martini afternoons, and sea shore sunset sight-seeing after what felt like the century-old winter cold of Siberia. In fact, she’s exaggerating. She just hates cold, negative degrees celsius, and lung-freezing season. Again, who likes any season but summer? Must be an undiagnosed psychopath.
“You’ll get sunburn if you stay another minute long,” Dmitry breaks through her chain of thoughts. She opens her eyes. “I’d rather toast on this chair than go back to Siberia.” She bites back, far from the truth. No matter how much she dislikes the snowy alley, thick trenchcoat-weekday errands, frosted slippery pathways, and shut off windows, she likes his company more. If something came up and she had to, she’d bargain her summer escapades to be by his side.
The sky’s vivid hue is beginning to fade, the sun succumbing to the horizon next to their naked eyes. Dmitry got up, fingers brushing through his damp jet-black hair while the other was extended, encouraged to take it with a soft expression written all over his face—the last golden ray of sunset highlighting his steel blue eyes making it even more stunning, breathtaking, as she looked up at him.
“I had a dream,” she whispered softly, fingers playing with his hair as they floated on the water. “The cold is biting but I can’t remember anything else.” she added, a smile wide and teaseful, eyes hidden away by a few strands of wet hair on her face.
Dmitry scoffed, suppressing a grin. “Have you made peace that there are more seasons other than summer? As you should.” He nodded, agreeing with his nonsense.
She hit his shoulder. “Dmitry!” She called out, voice a little high-pitched in irritation.
He let out a low chuckle. His arms gripped her tightly, swiftly switching their positions that his back was now facing the waves coming after them while he hid her in his embrace, unfazed and protective.
“You’re warm like the sun…” she confessed in her small voice once the sea calmed down. The waves wavered through the small gap between the two of them, tides pulling them closer.
Dmitry closed the small distance, hands cupping her face, his fingers working to tuck the strands of hair away from her face to see her eyes better. They stayed like that while the salt air dries their faces until he rested his forehead on top of hers. Once again, time stood still. The surrounding paused, sounds faded away, they’re by themselves in this vast blue sea.
“Promise me… Wherever you are, whatever the uncertainty is, as long as the sun reaches you, you’ll keep hoping. We will hope.” she says in a gentle manner, her lips left slightly parted. There was some undertone beneath those words, its depth left an undeciphered code. She’s not just asking, evoking the courage within him, she planted hope in his soul.
Everything was in place, perfect. Until the cataclysms started, chaos rose, dilemma of people losing their hopes, living beings being unalived, abominations, and rifts appearing all around the world. Suddenly, the days felt distant, unpredictable. Everyone is walking on a bridge of uncertainty and he’s not an exception to survival.
The sun is no longer reachable. Even the moon is cursed to bleed in a haunting crimson red shade, treacherous and scheming in its own ways.
What has this world become?
The sky was shrouded in darkness. One night fell and the day was never seen, never again. No one knows how long this phenomenon will last but one thing is constant—survival. The crack of the moon keeps expanding and the redder it gets, the haunting.
Dmitry is not one to be intimidated. Ever since the endless night started, he’s spent most of his time inside his office at Adams Military and Research Base accompanied by his favorite neat whiskey in hand—eyes sharp and senses heightened—like a damn predator.
The liquor danced inside the bottle, shimmering with the crimson red glow hitting it. Dmitry tightened his grasp around it, lost in thought. The bleak color seems to lighten up—fighting against the dark cold night of December, resembling mosaic memories of long forgotten summers from Dmitry’s past.
Dmitry’s eyes shifted from the view of the base back to his whiskey. His lips twitched—the inner sides curling into a subtle and restrained smile as a faded montage of memories three summers ago resurfaced, lasting and far of reach like the sun now.
Doomed. He thought.
The life he once had seemed out of reach—distant—nowhere near anything but a distorted illusion to keep him sane, his way of coping. Was everything back then even real? Questions. He likes to think that the world ended then, with them in each other’s tight, reassuring embrace.
The man put down the bottle, balanced on the windowsill as he once again overlooked the entire base coated in the crimson red shade of the moon, its eerie touch inflicting fear to everyone though it seems that the word no longer exists in their vocabulary after witnessing countless anomalies. His hands found the railings of the window, eyes roaming every corner of the place until his peripheral view caught a moving silhouette in the still darkness, his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened, shoulders tensing.
A crow cawed, interrupting the deafening silence, reckoning and tempting.
Dmitry let out a sigh, body giving in to exhaustion. The bird’s eyes flashed red—meeting Dmitry’s, causing the hair of his nape to stand up. Crows have been crowding the base lately. This is the third time he encountered them.
Then, it flew. The wind gusts, slightly warmer now. He shook his head, shutting his eyes closed in dismay before retreating and settling on his office chair where the view of his desk resembled his train of thoughts, scattered and messy. Pages everywhere, documents, and a leather notebook where he lists down things resting beside a familiar worn out book—The History of the High Degree, sitting on the edge of the table, the center slightly agape.
Acting on its own, his hand reaches for the book, fingers shaking in contempt. When was the last time he held it? The edges stained yellow, while some of the pages still have its folded marks.
Something slipped between the pages. Dmitry blinked. The paper landed on the carpeted floor, content hidden from his sight as the dark hindered him, only a silhouette of whatever’s in it could be made out.
Hesitation stopped Dmitry. The paper burned under his gaze, cold and calculative. Giving up to the quiet urge, he pushed himself out of the chair, kneeling in his knee, he found the strength to reach for it.
A photograph from an age-old three summers ago.
Dmitry raised the photo to eye-level. It’s worn out, visible crumpled lines creating abstract traces, texture softened and fragile in his scarred hand. Through the scarlet hue of the red moon, he tries to recall how the picture actually looked like, how it felt. The content of the photo revealed a scene. A woman wearing a yellow milkmaid dress leaned against the man’s bare shoulder while his hand rested comfortably on the sides of her waist as if he knew it’s where they belonged. Although the smiles on their faces seemed restrained, their eyes spoke what was never meant to be said out loud, the simple pose reveals the act of love.
It was taken from their last summer together. Dmitry kept his copy, hidden and secured as a bookmark of the only book he likes to read.
“Where have you been?” he breathed out, voice barely making it out of his throat. I hope the warmth of the sun still finds its way to you. His thoughts crawled, clinging to the photograph in desperation.
Dmitry stayed on his knees for who knows how long. They’d gone numb when he finally gathered the will to stand up, collapsing into his office chair emitting a creak at the sudden weight. His eyes never left the photograph as if it would vanish when he ever did, holding it firmly, causing the edges to crumple in his grip.
Another cawing shattered the plaintive silence of the night.
The third crow. It had taken his last strength, completely succumbing to exhaustion. The alcohol must be really getting through him tonight, in the worst way.
Perhaps the sun will come back soon. Until then, I will hope with you in mind.
So, Dmitry pulled himself together. He glances at the photo one last time before placing it in between the book’s pages where it belongs. The facade slipped in fast, General Dmitry took over, masking away any trace of sorrow and longing.
Dmitry didn’t lost his hope when the world was engulfed by darkness. He knows. Finally, he understood now what she meant. Her absence pushed him to go after the light.
She meandered with the permafrost. He chased after the sun.