31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw8FG3YHIbX31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS7SbouDB3v
The locker room smelled of sweat and ice and something else something sharp and male that made Artyom's head swim.
Vlad had him pressed against the lockers. Cold metal dug into his shoulder blades through his thin shirt, but Artyom didn't care. All he felt was the heat of another body, hips grinding against his own, hot breath against his lips.
"Sokolov," Vlad breathed, and the sound of his own surname did something to the base of Artyom's stomach.
He grabbed Vlad's shirt and pulled him closer. The fabric gave, tearing slightly, baring tanned skin, muscle, the tattoo along his ribs. Artyom ran his palm across his chest, felt another heart beating under his fingers, fast and ragged, matching his own.
Vlad groaned against his mouth. The kiss was desperate, messy, hungry. Teeth, tongues, stolen breath. Artyom dug his fingers into his hair and pulled, tilting his head back, and Vlad let him, baring his throat.
Artyom pressed his lips to his neck. Felt the pulse beating under his tongue, heard a rough sound above his ear. Vlad's hands slid down his back, grabbed his hips and pulled him in. Their bodies collided, and Artyom felt him -- hard and hot even through layers of fabric.
"I want you," Vlad's voice was low, wrecked. "God, I've wanted you for so long."
Artyom groaned in answer. He reached for Vlad's jeans, got his fingers around the button.
"Tyoma."
The voice changed. Sharper, closer.
"Tyoma, wake up."
Artyom's eyes flew open.
Vlad was leaning over him. The real Vlad, not the one from the dream. Hair still damp from the shower, wearing a gray t-shirt, smelling of that same cologne.
Their faces were thirty centimeters apart.
Artyom registered two things at the same moment.
First: he was on his back, the blanket shoved down, and his thin pajama pants were hiding absolutely nothing.
Second: he was hard enough that it hurt.
The blood rushed to his face. Heat, panic, horror, all of it hit him in a single wave and dragged him under.
"WHAT THE HELL!"
He scrambled upright, grabbed the blanket and hauled it against his chest. Pressed himself against the headboard as if Vlad were something feral.
Vlad straightened, raising his hands.
"Hey, easy--"
"Get out!" His voice cracked on the last word. God, he was going to die of shame right here. "Right now!"
"Sokolov, calm down--"
"I said get out!"
Vlad was looking at him strangely. His gaze dropped to the crumpled blanket, to the white-knuckled grip Artyom had on the fabric. Something moved behind his brown eyes.
And he smiled. Just slightly, just one corner of his mouth.
"Alright, alright." He stepped back toward the door. "Irina asked me to wake you up. We leave in an hour."
Artyom didn't answer. Couldn't. His heart was hammering so loud he couldn't hear his own thoughts.
Vlad opened the door, but turned on the threshold.
"And hey, Sokolov..." A pause. The smile widened. "Don't stress about it. Happens to me in the mornings too."
The door closed.
Artyom sat clutching the blanket and stared at nothing.
Vlad had seen. Seen him hard under thin pajama pants, face probably red and completely wrecked. And what if Artyom had been making noise in his sleep? What if he had said his name?
He pressed his face into his knees and made a sound that had no good name.
Even if he hadn't Vlad wasn't stupid. He had seen the arousal and the panic. Two and two was not a difficult sum. He would figure it out. If he hadn't already.
"How do I ever look him in the eye again?"
* * *
The drive to the cottage took four hours.
Artyom sat in the back with his forehead against the cold glass. He watched the pine trees flicker past, the grey sky, the snow banked along the road. Anything that wasn't the seat to his left.
Vlad sat beside him. In his headphones the whole way, eyes on his phone. He didn't try to talk. Didn't glance over.
Somehow that was worse.
Irina chattered from the front seat about how beautiful the cottage was, the view of the mountains, the size of the fireplace. Viktor drove, adding comments here and there.
Artyom nodded in the right places. Hoped he looked normal from the outside. Hoped no one noticed the way his face went hot every time Vlad's cologne drifted his way.
"Three days. Just three days. I can manage three days."
* * *
The cottage was exactly what his mother had described. Two stories, timber-built, enormous windows, a roof buried under snow. Forest all around, and a silence so complete you could hear it.
Inside it smelled of pine and woodsmoke. A living room with a fireplace, a kitchen, two bedrooms upstairs.
"Boys, your room is on the left," Irina said, already unpacking groceries. "Two beds you'll sort it out, won't you?"
Artyom stopped halfway to the stairs.
He was going to share a room with Vlad.
"Of course they will." Viktor clapped him on the shoulder. "Right, Tyoma?"
"Right. Of course."
His voice came out almost normal. Almost.
Vlad was already heading up with his bag. Artyom followed.
The room was small but warm. Two beds against opposite walls, a nightstand with a lamp between them. A window that looked out on the forest.
Vlad dropped his bag on the left bed.
"I'm here."
"Okay."
Artyom put his own bag on the right. A meter and a half between the beds. Too much. Not enough.
They unpacked in silence. Artyom could feel Vlad's gaze on his back, but he didn't turn around.
"Three days. I can manage."
* * *
The first day passed in strained politeness.
They spoke only when they had to. 'Pass the salt.' 'I'm using the bathroom.' 'Good night.' Short phrases, nothing underneath. Artyom and Vlad moved through the cottage like two magnets with matching poles, always keeping their distance, always in opposite corners.
Irina glowed, either not noticing or choosing not to. Viktor looked content. At dinner they talked about their plans for New Year's Eve, what to put on the table, which film to watch.
Artyom answered questions and smiled when he was supposed to. Played the part of the grateful son, happy to be on this trip.
Then evening came.
He wanted a shower before bed. He went upstairs and reached for the bathroom door handle.
Locked. Water running behind it, and music.
He knocked.
"Occupied!"
"How long?"
"Twenty minutes!"
Artyom went back to the room and sat on his bed. He waited.
Twenty minutes became thirty. Thirty became forty. Forty became an hour.
The music thumped on. The water ran.
Artyom sat with his fists pressed into the mattress, his nails cutting into his palms. Anger was building in his chest. And something else he refused to name.
He's doing it on purpose. Again.
When an hour and five minutes had passed, he broke.
He went to the door and started hammering with his fist.
"Lebedev! Open up!"
The music died. The water stopped. The lock clicked.
Vlad stood in the doorway in black sweatpants, hair wet, towel across his shoulders. He saw Artyom's face and smiled.
"All yours."
"You are unbelievable--"
"Tyoma?!"
His mother's voice from downstairs, quick footsteps on the stairs.
"Every single day the same thing!" Artyom stepped toward him. "An hour in the bathroom! A whole hour! What are you even doing in there?!"
Vlad raised an eyebrow.
"Washing--"
"That's a lie!"
Irina appeared on the stairs, Viktor behind her. Both in robes, both alarmed.
"What's going on?" Viktor frowned.
"Tyoma!" His mother's voice had an edge to it. "What has gotten into you? Why are you shouting?"
"He takes the bathroom for an hour! On purpose!"
"On purpose?" Irina looked from Vlad to Artyom. "Tyomochka, that's no reason to wake the house. Vlad takes long showers -- what's the problem?"
"Mom, you don't understand"
"I understand that you're behaving like a child." Her voice softened, but the disappointment in her eyes was harder to look at. "We came here to relax. Together. And you're making a scene over the shower."
Artyom looked at his mother. At Viktor, watching him with clear disapproval. At Vlad, standing there looking innocent, blameless, the very picture of a person who simply likes long showers.
They didn't understand. They couldn't see it. To them, Vlad was just a boy who took his time washing.
His shoulders dropped. The anger drained away, leaving nothing behind but hollow shame.
"Sorry," he said, at no one in particular. "I'm just tired from the drive."
He turned and went back to the room. Closed the door. Lay down face-first on the bed.
A few minutes later he heard Vlad come in. The creak of his bed settling. Silence.
"Good night, Sokolov," Vlad said from somewhere in the dark. He sounded satisfied.
Artyom didn't answer.
* * *
The next morning Viktor threw their door open at nine.
"Rise and shine, boys! Look out the window!"
Artyom sat up, squinting against the light. Overnight, enough snow had fallen to remake the world. The trees were bowed under it, the shed roof had nearly disappeared into a drift.
"Get dressed and come down." Viktor was grinning. "Irina's making breakfast. Then we're going outside."
He left. Artyom looked at Vlad. Vlad was also looking out the window, and the usual smirk was gone. Just surprise, and something that looked almost like wonder.
"Beautiful," Vlad said, quietly.
"Yeah," Artyom agreed, before he could stop himself.
Their eyes met. A few seconds without barbs, without tension.
Then Vlad turned away and started getting dressed.
After breakfast they went outside. The cold nipped at their cheeks, the snow compressed under their boots with a satisfying crunch. Irina photographed everything in sight. Viktor was clearing a path to the car.
"Boys, give me a hand!" he called.
Artyom grabbed a shovel and started moving snow. Vlad worked alongside him. Silent, focused.
Then a snowball hit Artyom squarely in the back.
He turned around. Viktor stood there looking entirely innocent, hands clasped behind him.
"Wasn't me."
Irina burst out laughing. Vlad made a sound in his throat.
Artyom bent down, packed a snowball, and threw it at Viktor. Viktor dodged. It caught Vlad instead.
"Hey!"
And it started.
They ran around the yard like children. Viktor against the two of them, then every man for himself. Irina filmed on her phone, laughing, until she took one to the shoulder.
"Oh, you want to play it like that?!"
She joined in. Snowballs flew everywhere, someone went down in a drift, someone else took cover behind a tree.
At some point Artyom and Vlad ended up on the same side, holding off the parents. They worked together the way they did on the ice -- wordlessly, each knowing where the other was going to be.
"Left!" Vlad called.
Artyom dodged Viktor's throw, then caught him square in the chest.
"Got him!"
They looked at each other, and the corners of both their mouths moved. At the same time.
When did we last laugh together?
Never. We have never laughed together.
Then Vlad slipped, grabbed Artyom's jacket on the way down, and they both went into a snowdrift together. Vlad on top, their faces close, their breath mingling in the cold air.
The laughter died in Artyom's throat.
Vlad looked down at him. Cheeks red from the cold, snowflakes in his hair, eyes bright.
The moment stretched.
"Boys!" Irina's voice. "Come inside, hot chocolate's ready!"
Vlad blinked, rolled off, and stood. He reached down a hand.
Artyom took it and got up.
They didn't look at each other for the rest of the walk back to the house.
But something had shifted. Something between them had moved, as if the wall they had both been building had developed its first crack.
* * *
They all went to the shop together.
The supermarket in the nearest village was small but packed, everyone stocking up for New Year's. Irina led the way with a trolley and a list, Viktor pushed a second one, and Artyom and Vlad trailed behind.
"Right, champagne," Irina said, consulting her list. "Viktor, find something decent. Boys, get tangerines -- seedless ones, please!"
They split off.
Artyom was standing in front of a pile of tangerines trying to figure out which ones were seedless when Vlad appeared beside him.
"Abkhazian ones are seedless," he said, pointing at a crate to the left.
"How do you know?"
"My sister loves them. I used to buy them every winter."
Artyom looked at him. Vlad had never mentioned a sister before. Something moved across his face -- tenderness? a kind of ache? -- and then it was gone.
They loaded up on tangerines and went to find the others.
By the cheese counter, Irina and Viktor were having a disagreement.
"It stinks," Viktor said, holding a wedge of cheese at arm's length, nose wrinkled.
"It's Gorgonzola, it's supposed to smell like that."
"It smells like my socks after practice."
"Viktor!"
Vlad snorted. The corners of Artyom's mouth moved against his will.
"Maybe we put your socks on the holiday table instead," Vlad said. "Save some money."
Irina laughed. Even Viktor let out a huff.
"Comedian," he said, dropping the cheese into the trolley. "Fine, we're getting it. But if the whole cottage smells, I know who to blame."
They moved on. By the spirits shelf, Viktor was deliberating over champagne while Irina had been distracted by some paper napkins.
"Look at this." Vlad nudged Artyom with his elbow and nodded at a bottle labeled 'Soviet Champagne. Premium.'
"And?"
"Soviet. Premium. That's like 'budget luxury' or 'friendly fire.'"
Artyom snorted despite himself.
"It's an oxymoron."
"Oh, Sokolov knows long words. Impressed."
"Get lost."
But there was no bite in it. It came out almost easy.
The checkout line stretched halfway around the shop. They shuffled forward, shifting their weight, while Irina flipped through a magazine by the register.
"Oh, look!" She held up the cover -- some actor Artyom vaguely recognized. "Isn't that the one from that series?"
"Mom, you watch series now?" Artyom said.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"She's seen every episode of 'The Kitchen' twice," Viktor said.
"It's funny!"
"The lead actor looks a bit like me, except he actually knows how to cook. Two blows in one."
Vlad said, straight-faced: 'You two definitely need couples therapy.'
Everyone laughed. Artyom too, before he caught himself.
When they came out of the shop loaded with bags, the sun was setting behind the trees. The snow caught the last of the light and glittered.
"Look at that," Irina breathed.
Viktor put his arm around her shoulders. They stood there together, and Artyom felt a small, clean stab of something like envy. They looked happy. Genuinely, quietly happy.
He glanced at Vlad. Vlad was watching his father and Irina, and his expression was strange. Not the usual smirk. Something softer.
Their eyes met. Vlad looked away quickly.
They were quiet all the way back.
* * *
Everyone decided to cook the New Year's dinner together.
The kitchen was small, and they kept getting in each other's way. Irina ran things: Viktor on the salad, Artyom peeling potatoes, Vlad managing the meat.
"Tyomochka, hold the lid," Irina said, nodding at a pot. "Vlad, pass me the salt."
They both reached at the same time. Artyom for the lid, Vlad for the salt shaker. Their hands knocked into each other above the counter.
Both pulled back.
"Sorry," Artyom muttered.
"It's fine," Vlad said, looking away.
Irina said nothing, but Artyom saw her press her lips together.
He turned back to the sink, feeling the heat in his face.
* * *
The New Year's dinner was a success.
The table was full: salads, a roast, all the things that had to be there. Viktor opened the champagne and poured. The television was playing a concert in the background, but nobody was watching.
At five to midnight they all stood with their glasses.
"To the new year," Viktor said, pulling Irina close. "To our family."
The clock began to strike. One, two, three...
Artyom watched his mother. She was radiant. Pressed against Viktor's side, and there was a happiness in her eyes that he hadn't seen in years.
...eleven, twelve.
"Happy New Year!"
Glasses clinked. Irina kissed Viktor, then pulled Artyom into a hug, then Vlad. Viktor shook hands with both of them.
Artyom and Vlad looked at each other.
"Happy New Year, Sokolov."
"Happy New Year, Lebedev."
They didn't embrace. Just touched their glasses together and drank.
* * *
By one in the morning, Irina and Viktor had gone to bed.
"Don't stay up too late, boys," his mother said, kissing Artyom on the cheek.
Their bedroom door closed. Artyom heard muffled laughter, then silence.
He sat on the sofa, watching the fireplace die down, and felt a strange emptiness settle over him. New Year's. A celebration. And here he was, not knowing what to do with the feeling sitting in his chest.
He got up, pulled on his jacket, and went outside.
The cold hit his lungs. The sky was clear and packed with stars. The snow shimmered in the moonlight.
Artyom sat down on the porch steps. Pulled out his phone. Messages from people in his year, from Pasha. 'Happy NY!' 'All the best!' 'Party here, shame you can't make it!'
He wrote back to Pasha: 'Happy NY, man. How's Sochi? Don't drown in champagne.' Pasha sent back a photo with sparklers and a girl in the background. 'All good! You should relax too!'
He dropped a message in the team chat: 'Happy New Year, boys. Next season we take everyone apart.' The replies came in fast, stickers, a voice message from a clearly drunk Voronov.
He sent something to his university group chat about good luck on the exams and good holidays.
The usual words. The usual New Year's. Everyone was celebrating, drinking, happy. And he was sitting on a porch step unable to shake the feeling that something inside him was wrong.
The door behind him creaked.
He didn't turn around. He already knew who it was.
Vlad sat down beside him. Not too close, but not far. Maybe twenty centimeters between them.
Silence.
"Can't sleep?" Vlad said, eventually.
"No."
"Me neither."
More silence. Just the distant creak of the forest and their breath, white clouds in the frozen air.
"Hey." Vlad's voice dropped. "About that morning"
"Don't."
"I just wanted to say"
"I said don't."
Artyom turned to look at him. Vlad met his eyes steadily, and there was something in them Artyom couldn't read.
"What do you want from me?" His voice came out rough. "Honestly. You're in my face every single day. The bathroom, the stuff in my car, all those comments. And then you look at me like"
He stopped. Didn't know how to finish.
"Like what?" Vlad shifted closer.
"Back off."
"Like what, Sokolov?"
"I said back off!"
Artyom stood, intending to leave. Vlad caught his wrist and pulled him back.
"Don't run."
"Let go of me."
"Answer first."
They were face to face. Their breath mixed between them. In the moonlight Vlad's eyes were almost black.
"I hate you," Artyom said.
Vlad smiled.
"No you don't."
And he kissed him.
His lips were cold from the frost, but his mouth was warm, insistent. Artyom went completely still. He couldn't process the fact that this was happening. That Vlad Lebedev his enemy, his stepbrother was kissing him in the middle of the night on the porch of a rented cottage.
And then his body decided the argument for him.
He grabbed Vlad by the jacket and pulled him closer. The kiss turned hungry, desperate. Three years of hatred, weeks of tension, every look and every accidental touch all of it poured into this single moment.
Vlad groaned against his mouth. His hands slid under Artyom's jacket and pulled him in tight. They kissed like drowning men finding air. Teeth, tongues, ragged breath.
Artyom felt himself getting hard. Felt that Vlad was too, their hips pressed together, and he made a sound at the back of his throat
And came back to himself.
He wrenched away and shoved Vlad back. Both of them breathing hard, their breath coming in thick clouds.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Vlad looked at him. His lips were swollen, red. His eyes were dark and a little wild.
"What I should have done a long time ago."
"You... we... this" Artyom couldn't make words into sentences. "We're stepbrothers!"
"And?"
"And?!" Artyom grabbed his own head. "You're insane! This whole"
He turned and bolted inside.
"Sokolov!"
Artyom didn't stop. He took the stairs two at a time, went straight to their room. Grabbed his bag, started throwing things in. His hands were shaking so badly half of it ended up on the floor.
Vlad appeared in the doorway.
"Where are you going?"
"Leaving."
"In the middle of the night?!"
"Yes."
"Don't be stupid"
"Stay away from me!"
Artyom zipped the bag, grabbed his jacket, hat, gloves. Opened the maps app on his phone and searched until he found a hotel in the village. Booked it. Then tried to call a taxi every car taken, New Year's Eve.
Fine. He'd walk. Ten kilometers. He ran fifteen.
"Artyom." Vlad stepped forward, and the sound of his given name in that voice made something in Artyom's chest seize up. "Just wait. Let's talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You wanted this. I could see it. I could feel it"
"Shut up!"
Artyom pushed past him and ran. Down the stairs, moving quietly, past his parents' bedroom door. He grabbed his boots, his jacket, got outside.
The cold slammed into his face. He pulled his hat down, put on his gloves, and started walking toward the main road. Hotel booked on his phone. A small place ten kilometers from here. He'd wait it out there until he figured out what came next.
The snow compressed under each step. The moon lit the road. Artyom walked fast, almost running, trying to stay warm, trying to outpace his own thoughts.
Thirty minutes later, headlights came up behind him. An old Niva pulled over.
"Hey, kid, what are you doing on the road this time of night?" The driver, a man around fifty, leaned out the window. "Village is still a long way."
"I'm fine."
"Get in, I'll drop you. New Year's Eve you shouldn't be out in the cold."
Artyom hesitated. Then he nodded and got in.
The driver turned out to be chatty, but Artyom answered in single syllables and the man soon gave up. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up outside the hotel.
"Thank you."
"Happy New Year, kid. Take care of yourself."
He didn't care about the money. Didn't care that his mother would worry. Didn't care about any of it.
He just needed to be somewhere that wasn't that house. Away from that person. Away from himself.
* * *
Vlad stood at the window and watched Artyom walk away. A dark figure against white snow, getting smaller and smaller.
He touched his fingers to his lips. They were still warm.
"I kissed him."
Vlad stepped back from the window and leaned against the wall. His heart was going like a piston.
"What the fuck is happening to me?"
For three years he'd told himself it was hatred. Rivalry. That Sokolov just got under his skin, irritated him, wound him up. That everything he felt was about winning, proving something, making him feel small.
A lie.
He had kissed him. Artyom Sokolov. His enemy. His stepbrother. And worse than any of that he had liked it. Liked it so much his head was still spinning, liked it so much he could still taste him, liked it so much his body still remembered the moment Artyom had grabbed his jacket and pulled him closer.
When Artyom had kissed him back.
A few seconds, no more. But in those seconds Vlad had felt his hunger, his heat, his desperate wanting.
And then Artyom had run.
Vlad smiled in the dark, but it came out crooked and lost.
"Run, Sokolov," he said, quietly, to the empty room. "But we're going to end up back here. Sooner than you think."
He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
In the morning he'd have to lie to Irina and his father. Come up with something about where Artyom had gone. One more layer of deception on top of all the others.
Vlad closed his eyes.
Artyom's face was right there, the moment before the kiss. Wide pupils, parted lips, that small, broken sound he'd made.
"What now?"
He didn't know. For the first time in his life he genuinely didn't know what to do next.
He didn't sleep before dawn.
31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMsDImcSKJf
31Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS4tADW9Mq6
and then Add to home screen.