it's like winter 1986 in leningrad and everything sucks. snow's piled up so high you can barely see the sidewalks, wind cuts right through your coat like knives. oscar (this skinny irish-russian dude everybody just calls 18 cuz he's got that baby face even tho he's like 24) is holed up in this gross basement apartment on vasilyevsky. it's one of those old communal places where like five families share a kitchen that always smells like boiled cabbage and someone's always yelling. he's got this ancient tape recorder he basically rebuilt from junk parts, and he's always messing with sounds—recording sirens at 3 a.m., church bells when nobody's around, factory hums that make your chest vibrate. he makes these creepy tracks that feel haunted, like ghosts got stuck in the tape. he passes copies around in secret, never shows his face. just "18" scratched on the cassette.
then there's buck. real name boris but nobody calls him that anymore. he's 25, tallish, dark hair always messy from the wind, eyes that look like they've seen too much already. used to be in all the youth group stuff, marching and singing party songs, but he bailed hard. now he writes these dark poems about burning barns that don't exist anymore, reapers walking through snow, feeling like god but also like nothing. his voice when he reads them out loud… it's low and rough and it makes your stomach flip even if you don't wanna admit it.
they met at this tiny underground thing in some old lady's apartment. like twenty people squeezed in, smoking belomorkanal cigarettes, passing around vodka in chipped mugs, aquarium playing super quiet on a bootleg tape. oscar was in the corner fixing wires cuz the sound kept cutting out. buck got up on this crate and just started reading. something about "over the hills where the fever never dies" and "stalks bending under secrets nobody says out loud." oscar looked up and their eyes locked for like three seconds too long. that was it. no talking. just this heavy feeling like the air got thicker.
couple days later buck slips him a note at another spot: "bronze horseman. midnight." that's a pleshka—cruising spot. super risky. if the wrong person sees you, you're done. article 121. prison. or worse, they send you to one of those psych hospitals and pump you full of drugs till you're a zombie. but oscar went anyway. heart pounding so hard he thought he'd puke.
they met under the statue. snow falling soft. buck lights a smoke, hands shaking a little. says "your sounds… they match my words. like you already know what i'm feeling." oscar just nods. they walk along the neva, not touching, just talking. about ireland stories buck's grandma told him, about smuggling radios, about how everything in this city feels like it's watching. by the time the sky starts getting lighter they're both freezing but neither wants to leave.
that's how it starts. late nights in the basement. oscar at the machine, buck pacing with scraps of paper, reading lines while the loops play. but the more they work the more it's not just about music. glances get longer. hands brush when passing a tape. one night after almost getting caught by a neighbor pounding on the door, they're both shaking from adrenaline.
buck says "we can't keep doing this." voice all quiet.
oscar looks at him. "then stop coming."
buck doesn't stop.
first time they actually kiss it's messy and wet. buck slams oscar against the wall, coat still half on, mouths crashing like they're trying to eat each other alive. oscar tastes smoke and cheap vodka on buck's tongue. buck's hands are under oscar's sweater, palms hot on cold skin. they're both hard already, pressing against each other like it hurts not to.
clothes come off in a rush. scarves tangled, boots kicked into the corner, sweaters yanked over heads. oscar's skin is pale, ribs showing cuz they never eat enough. buck traces every line with his fingers like he's memorizing. oscar drops down, kisses buck's stomach, lower, then takes him in his mouth. buck's knees almost buckle. he grabs oscar's hair, not gentle, whispering "fuck… oskar…" in this wrecked voice. oscar looks up while he does it, eyes dark, and buck swears he almost loses it right there.
buck pulls him up, flips them. gets on his knees. oscar's back hits the wall hard. buck's mouth is everywhere—slow at first, teasing, then hungry. oscar's fingers dig into buck's shoulders so hard there's gonna be bruises tomorrow. he's whispering stuff in russian and broken english, begging.
they end up on the floor, coats spread out like a shitty mattress. buck climbs on top, straddles him. they don't have lube so it's spit and desperation. hurts at first—oscar hisses through his teeth—but then buck moves slow and it flips to this overwhelming good. oscar grabs buck's hips, thrusts up hard. buck rides him like he's chasing something he'll never catch. head thrown back, throat working, moaning low. oscar scratches down his back, leaves red lines. buck leans down, kisses him sloppy while they move faster.
buck comes first—whole body shaking, spilling hot across oscar's stomach, makes this choked broken sound like he's crying and coming at the same time. oscar follows right after, buried deep, pulsing inside buck, gripping him so tight it hurts.
they just lay there after. sweaty. sticky. cold concrete sticking to their backs. breathing like they ran a marathon. oscar traces little patterns on buck's shoulder with his finger. buck presses his face into oscar's neck and mumbles "we can't tell anybody. ever."
oscar kisses the top of his head. "i know."
but they keep doing it. can't stop.
next time it's slower. buck lets oscar take control. oscar pins him down, teases him forever—kisses his neck, his chest, bites his hip till buck's squirming and begging quiet. when oscar finally sinks down on him buck's hands fist in the rug so hard his knuckles go white. they go for what feels like hours. switch positions a bunch. buck behind oscar once, slow deep thrusts while he whispers dirty stuff in his ear. oscar comes untouched just from that.
another time they almost get caught for real. knock on the door upstairs. voices. they freeze mid-thrust—oscar still inside buck, both panting. heartbeats so loud they swear the people upstairs can hear. they scramble, pull clothes on, hide the tapes. nobody comes down but they don't finish. just hold each other shaking for like an hour after.
they start finding other spots. old warehouse by the water. attic in a half-empty building. back of a truck during a storm once. always watching corners, always listening for footsteps.
but they can't quit. even when it scares them. even when buck starts having nightmares about camps. even when oscar gets paranoid every time a neighbor looks at him funny.
one night in summer—white nights, sky never really dark—they're in this bathhouse basement. steam everywhere. hot and slick. buck ties oscar's wrists with a scarf, loose enough he could get out but tight enough it feels real. oscar's on his back, buck teasing him with his mouth, fingers, slow strokes till oscar's begging. buck rides him hard while oscar's hands are bound. buck comes loud—oscar has to slap a hand over his mouth.
they talk about running away sometimes. stupid fantasies about crossing into finland, hiding in forests, finding somewhere they don't have to look over their shoulders. they know it's probably impossible but saying it out loud makes it feel less heavy.
last time i think about it… they're tangled up after, towels on the floor, buck tracing oscar's face like he's trying to remember every detail. says "if we get caught… at least it was real. for once."
oscar pulls him closer. "yeah. worth it."
A few months later Buckshot and Oscar get sent to a Russian gulag where Oscar eventually finds Buckshots body gutted blood spilling, and organs everywhere Buckshot was gutted open by another worker while everyone else continued working Oscar being terrified and broken eventually kills himself.