āKuba,ā he said, more to himself than to Kuba, wanting to take the name somehow and hold onto it. There was a part of Maks that wanted to hear himāJakub, Kubaāsay his name in return. There werenāt a lot of people who could, werenāt a lot of people left who knew him. A ragtag group of former neighbors and countrymen, all from small fishing villages along the black sea coast, the kind that had been dying even before the rest of the world had, with everyone flocking to the cities. They probably wouldnāt want to see him again, if they were even still alive, wouldnāt say his name in friendship if they ever did.Ā An old woman in a greenhouse, who probably would, in her own way. Maybeāmaybe his father, if he were still alive, but Maks didnāt know that. Couldnāt know that.
It seemed like a pretty pathetic list. But, at least, it had just grown by one more. In a world like this, it seemed like a certain kind of intimacy. It seemed like enough, then, to Maks, to make them not strangers. āUkrainian, tak. From Odessa, South.ā Where people spoke Russian just as much, if not more, than Ukrainian. Speaking it, just thinking about it, made his throat feel tight. He hadnāt been to Odessa since he was barely nine years old. Maybe heād never go back againāhe certainly hadnāt done a good job at getting himself back there so far. He cleared his throat slightly, looked at Kuba moving through his space as Maks hovered in the doorway, feeling like an intruder for the first time. āWhat are you? Your accentās funny.ā
Tearing his gaze away from Kubaāsomething real, something aliveāwas harder than it should have been but, when he did, the room looked cozy, lived in, from the fire radiating warmth to the lines carved into the doorway he leaned against to the tangle of blankets on the mattress that Kuba had thrown himself onto. It was close to what heād imagined, when heād smelled the smoke from the fire from downstairs. It was what he had wanted, but standing at the threshold of it he felt a little awkward, somehow reluctant to take it. And maybe part of that was due to Kuba, how comfortable he seemed here, though he still seemed maybe uncomfortable with Maksā presence. Not like Maks could blame him.
And so his offer took him by surprise. When he dropped his weapons downstairs, heād resigned himself to spending a night at the mercy of someone elseās, hadnāt considered that whoever he found would give up that upper hand. It made him hesitate, for a moment, pinned in place as Kuba asked him another question. āIāone second,ā he mumbled, though he did flash Kuba a quick smileāa small thing, still a little tight, but grateful nonetheless, what he could offer in lieu of a thank you that never felt that easy to sayāas he clattered back down the stairs to retrieve them, hurrying back as quickly as he could to the warmth of the bedroom.
He didnāt say anything, but he let Kuba see them, as he fumbled them from his hands into his pack, where theyād be safe but useless, nonthreatening. A knife with a makeshift sheath, scraps of fabric wrapped around the blade and twine to make a belt he could tie around his waist, the width and bulk of it enough to imply that it was the kind intended for use on animals that were still alive, instead of already dead. The pistol, beat up on the outside and perpetually clumsy in his hands, its intimidating outside obscuring the fact that it was empty.
That done, he shuffled closer to the fire, folding his long limbsāstill gangly with his age, not enough to eatāto sit cross-legged on the wood floor, staring into it as he answered Kubaās question.Ā āI want to go backāto Odessa. But people say Kyiv, itās no good. So I thought maybe Iād go around, into Russia, through Kharkiv. I wasnātāI was just passing through, wanted somewhere to stay. Somewhere safe.ā He felt somehow both tired and energized: tired by speaking more words to this person heād just met than he could remember speaking to any one person at any one time in who knew how longābut also, a little bit, like he wanted to keep going, if Kuba would keep listening, if heād hear him; his desire to seem aloof, mysterious, maybe even a little intimidating already starting to crumble under the weight of that longing. He looked away from the fire for just a second, eyes darting sidelong to try and find Kubaās.Ā āYou understand, right? You know?āĀ
The smile should have made him uncomfortable. Instead Kuba only stared.
He figured, rationally, that this person (Maks, a small voice at the back of his mind murmured) was simply grateful for the opportunity of shelter. Anything with a wall and a semblance of a roof was better than sleeping beneath a rotting tree stump, or in the husk of a burned-out car, or some desolate, graffitiād suburban house with the table still set for a long ago dinner. Living in this ghost world made apparitions of them all; as if one gust of ash-ridden wind would have them scattered into the grey dusk, clutching handmade weapons and gritting greying teeth. Something as simple as a smile was... weird. It made Maks seem real, somehow. Like they were actually two people, not two ghosts.
āCzech,ā Kuba replied automatically, speaking to the fire. He shot Maks a sidelong glance and tightened the grip around his knees before adding,Ā āBut Polish too. Half-half.ā
When Maks disappeared downstairs Kuba felt the stillness of the room. In his wake the house felt strangely poised, and he found himself listening hard for the tell-tale rustling on the floor below. A footfall, an exhale, perhaps a cough. He realised his hands were starting to hurt from holding onto his knees for so long; Kuba forced himself to let go. He kept one knee up by his chest and stretched his other leg out. The dirty bandage wrapped around his calf looked ominous. Although Kuba felt no more than a twinge in that healed muscle when the temperature dropped, heād had a wild dream the other night about bear traps and a stranger in a mask, and it felt real enough that he woke shaking, clutching a phantom tear. He swallowed and rubbed the offending leg absent-mindedly. When Maks returned, Kuba snatched his hand away.
Kuba felt rather than saw Maks fold onto the mattress beside him. There remained a gulf between them, although now it felt anticipatory rather than wary. Like two animals watching each other from afar, ears pricked.
A tongue of flame licked the blackened bricks of the grate. Kuba kept poking the meagre logs mechanically. Maksā voice was a physical thing. He listened to the low timbre, the rough burr on his rās. His words pressed against Kubaās right eardrum. He repressed a shudder.
Tilting his head to the side meant he could subtly observe Maksā profile. Their gaze snagged. Flushing, Kuba jerked his eyes away.
āYeah.ā The reply seemed inadequate in contrast to Maksā conversation, which seemed to come forth as if poured, like heād been holding his words for so long they had formed a knot in his throat. Kuba swallowed again past the lump in his and forced himself to put the poker down between them. Clearing his throat, he shifted back until they could appraise each other more easily. It still felt safer to stare at the fire, but he made himself glance at Maks as often as he dared.
āYeah,ā Kuba repeated, gearing himself up.Ā āYeah, I was lookinā for a place too. I heard that Russiaās a dead zone.ā Where had he heard that? Something about a girl by a river. Blonde hair, white as a bone, and a mouth red as a punch.Ā āItās the militia, I guess. I donāt know.ā Kuba shifted uncomfortably. It was hard to make it seem like he hadnāt been holed up in this house for the last however long. That was what survivors were supposed to do, right, wander until they found the promised land? His version of survival was abortive. Go to ground, hide. He thought uneasily of creatures that made themselves prey.
Kuba stopped chewing his bottom lip.Ā āHey,ā he blurted, looking at Maks face-on for the first time, brows drawn together.Ā āWas it the smoke that drew you here?ā
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