Dear Yuri

TW: references to violence and alcohol

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Dear Yuri,

This isn’t my first draft of this letter. Or the second. Or the third. But eventually, I found a way to convey the deep pool of my feelings, even if it’s only a dip in shallow waters.

To be honest, I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know where I would mail it to, or if you would be able to read it, or even where you are right now. In the end, I think I’m writing this letter more for myself. It’s healthy to get all your feelings out on paper, I’ve heard.

I vividly remember our first meeting. It was on the banks of the river, on that verdant spring day. Our forces had joined up, and there was much celebrating between the men.

I’ve always been timid. You know that. So, I hung back while my comrades intermingled with our new allies underneath the cloud-speckled blue sky, the river rushing somewhere behind us.

I was simply happy to watch everyone socialize and bring out the cigarettes. A few of my friends tried to push me to join them, but I refused. To tell you the truth, I was nervous. I had never met a Russian person before. I didn’t speak the language or know anything about their cultural and societal rules. I had read a bit of Gogol and Dostoevsky, but that was the extent of my knowledge.

I had taken a photo of my tabby cat out of my uniform pocket and was studying it intently when I heard a bright, cheerful voice shout in Russian. I turned and saw you running up to me with a gaggle of friends, both Soviet and American.

As you grinned at me, the sun, which had been partially blotted out by a cloud, now fully emerged and cast its golden rays on your smiling face.

An American soldier gestured to me. “This is Ronny.”

“Ronny…” you repeated, tilting your head. Then, you chirped excitedly, “Yuri!” and pointed to yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you, Yuri,” I told you. I took a step back, the crowd of people around me increasing in size. My stomach began to tighten; I hadn’t planned on being surrounded by this many soldiers.

You pointed to the picture of my cat, which was still in my hands. “Myau!” you cried.

I blinked. “What?”

“I think he likes your cat,” another American soldier said.

I smiled and pointed to my photo. “Whiskers.”

“Whiskers,” you repeated, giggling.

You dug through your uniform pockets and pulled out a photo of a tabby cat who greatly resembled mine. You pointed to the cat and chirped, “Feliks!”

I nodded. “Feliks.”

You grinned, and the sun seemed dark in comparison.

You were always talkative, chattering at me in Russian even though I didn’t understand a word of it. You also stuck to me like glue, yammering on and on with a big smile on your face. Your fingers touched my arm, and I couldn’t help but notice how long and slender they were.

In time, we entered the Soviet Union and set up camp. On the way there, all I could see was the devastation from the war — the destroyed buildings, the trampled ground, the mass graves. But you still smiled, pointing at a bird flitting by or a butterfly that seemed to dance in the blue sky.

I wondered: How can one person have enough cheerful brightness to outshine the sun? And why would you pick me, of all people, to attach yourself to? But I didn’t know how to ask you that second question, so I settled for letting your light warm my solitary soul.

When I was crying while looking at a picture of my cat, missing my beloved pet, you were there, running your slender fingers across my arm. When I was standing alone while the other soldiers socialized, you were there, smiling at me and inviting me to have a drink.

Soon, I couldn’t ignore the way your touch scattered sparks across my skin and made my stomach flutter like a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Soon, I couldn’t ignore the blueness of your eyes, like the sparkling ocean back in America. I had always been afraid to step into the shining blue depths. Now, I wanted to throw myself into them.

Soon, I couldn’t ignore how the other soldiers talked of pretty girls back home, of sweethearts and fiancées. When I tried to imagine doing the things they spoke of, I felt odd, like wet firewood that wouldn’t kindle.

When I looked across the room and met your gaze, your smile seemed strained, and your lithe body strangely tense, and somehow, in my gut, I knew you felt the same way. You loved the way I did, the way that was declared to be sinful and unholy.

When our eyes met, your smile eased into that cheerful look I remembered so well, and the ocean of your eyes sparkled like the sun.

You made your way over to me and brushed your long fingers across my arm. “Vodka?” you asked.

I nodded, smiling back at you. “Vodka.”

We sat together, drinking vodka. I listened to you chatter on and on, a big smile on your face. I wondered how one person could be so happy despite the war raging around him.

You ended up drinking so much that you tipped over and landed with your head in my lap. I blushed as the other soldiers chortled. However, I hardly heard their whoops and whistles. All I could think about was your head resting on my thighs and how soft your black hair looked.

And when you looked up at me, your smile imbued with drunkenness, and now more like a smirk, I felt sparks cascade in my stomach.

And I knew that I had already thrown myself into the formless depths of that bright, shining ocean.

I had never wanted to be a soldier. I had wanted to be an author. But here I was in this blood-soaked, ruined land. However, I would do my best to be a capable fighter; I would do anything to combat authoritarianism and tyranny.

My mind would often wander, constructing elaborate fantasies for the book I wanted to write once the war was over. It would be a fantasy novel, with vast landscapes dripping with bright, golden sunlight.

However, I would quickly shake myself back to reality. This was war. Everything was dark and gory and ravaged.

But amidst the chaos and destruction, there was you.

You snuck into my fantasies, your joyful, shining smile and cheerful, chattering voice filling those brief seconds when my mind traveled to other places.

One morning, I wandered outside and saw some of the soldiers setting up a net.

A volleyball net, I realized, remembering how my friends in school had forced me to play volleyball with them. None of my serves had made it over the net, and I had been hit in the face more times than I cared to admit.

It was funny. I had moved from times of precious peacefulness to days of bloody belligerence, but the inadequacy I felt in the realm of volleyball remained the same.

Once the net had been set up, the soldiers organized themselves into teams made up of both Americans and Russians and began to play.

You were there, leaping up to spike the ball over the net. As your feet touched the ground, cheers erupted. You had scored a point. You raised your arms in the air in celebration, your face flushed with excitement. I saw your outspread fingers and wondered how they would feel intertwined with mine.

“Fun, isn’t it?”

I jumped, turning red. An American soldier with dark brown hair had appeared next to me, hands on his hips.

I blinked. I had been so used to your Russian that my native English felt like a foreign language.

“Yes,” I managed, nodding.

“Are you going to join?”

“No.” I shuddered at the thought of embarrassing myself in front of soldiers from two major world powers.

The other soldier chuckled. “Suit yourself.” He walked off to join a new game in the process of starting.

Right as I decided I would watch this next game, too, you called, “Ronny!” and waved energetically.

I hesitated. I didn’t know how to convey my lack of skill at volleyball to you, how I was just content to watch you play. But I didn’t want that smile on your face to ever fade.

So, I ran over to you. You cheered and pointed to a spot in the field in front of you, talking excitedly. You mimed leaping up with arms outstretched, and I recalled the position you wanted me to play: middle blocker.

I took my place, and the game began. The ball flew over the net towards us, and I knew that this was my chance to impress you.

I leaped, arms extended to block the spike —

And was hit in the face.

I fell to the ground, the ball bouncing in the dirt near me. I groaned, my face aching. I tried to ignore the laughs and jeers of the soldiers around me.

You ran over to me and crouched down beside me, speaking in a worried tone. The sound of your voice was like a lifeline.

You touched my face, and energy crackled underneath my skin at the feel of your delicate fingers. You leaned towards me, and our breaths mingled. I traced the planes of your face with my eyes – the sharp angles of your cheeks, the narrow line of your nose, the curving bow of your lips – memorizing them forever.

Then, you moved back, stood, and held out a hand. As I took it and you helped me up, I felt an odd emptiness. I wanted to be close to you like that again. I wanted to feel your warmth.

I decided to sit out the rest of the game. You came to sit beside me, shouting angrily to your friends, and I thought that perhaps you were saying, If he can’t play, then I’m not playing either!

When you caught me looking at you, you smiled and touched my hand.

I quickly looked around. Everyone else was engaged in the game. No one was looking at us.

You intertwined your fingers with mine. They fit together perfectly, like they were made for each other.

You moved closer to me until our foreheads were almost touching. I took a step back, my nerves flaring up. Did you not care if the other soldiers judged us? I glanced again at the volleyball field. Shouts and cheers rose from each team as they scored points; every soldier playing had fixed his attention on the ball’s movement.

You lifted a hand, blinking with wide eyes. It was the first time I had seen you look nervous.

You touched my lips with your fingers, and I let out a shocked breath. You leaned towards me, closing your eyes and looking expectant.

We shouldn’t be doing this.

So then why did I meet your lips with mine? Why did I let your hands wrap around my waist? Why did I succumb to the fiery inferno of passion that had kindled inside me for so long, blazing beneath it like hardwood?

You tasted like sunlight and warmth and molten gold that filled me like vodka, and I never wanted to stop drinking.

Our love was one of thievery, of stolen glances, stolen touches, stolen smiles. And in private moments, which were few and far between, stolen kisses.

You were always by my side, whether we were fighting together or drinking together.

In the darkness of reality, you were my sun.

I wanted to tell you that I loved you. But I was too afraid that voicing the words would jinx us somehow, like speaking the sentence that proclaimed our togetherness would rip us apart.

The other soldiers knew I had never been interested in women. If I asked one of them how to say “I love you” in Russian, they might remember how much time I spent with you and connect the dots. That was another reason I was afraid.

One night, the other soldiers were sitting together, celebrating another battle they had survived with conversation and cigarettes and vodka. I leaned against the wall in the corner, watching everyone else smile and talk.

I then felt someone touch my arm. I saw you standing in front of me, holding out a glass of vodka.

“Vodka?” you asked.

I saw your bright smile. I saw your twinkling blue eyes. I saw the way you looked at me, as if I were the only person in the whole universe.

And I knew that one word, vodka, meant three words, I love you.

“Vodka,” I responded, smiling back. I love you, too.

You beamed and led me to a table with plates of food set on it. We sat down together and sipped from our glasses. Well, I sipped. You gulped as if your life depended on it.

Your life. How much longer would we be able to spend this precious time together? Before one or both of us was taken by the war? Before my sun was forever hidden from me?

I set down my glass and saw you do the same. Our eyes met, and somehow I knew that you were thinking the same thing: there was no guarantee that either of us would make it out of this war alive.

The presence and conversation of the other soldiers soon faded away, the bodies and voices around us disappearing. You wrapped your arm around me and pulled me close. Our lips met, and I melted into their softness. You tasted like vodka and dehydrated meat and some underlying sweetness that I craved like candy. Your hand was a steady presence on my back.

When we broke apart, I became aware of the other soldiers whooping.

“I knew it!” someone shouted.

I tensed, feeling my stomach tighten, afraid that the soldiers’ delight and amusement would turn into hatred and judgment.

But when you rubbed my back with your delicate hand and the soldiers continued smiling and laughing, I couldn’t help but laugh with them.

You gasped with pure joy and shook me back and forth, giggling. Then, you pulled me to my feet and grasped both my hands, swinging them up and down. An excited blush brightened your cheeks.

And in that moment, I felt high above the earth, like the moon, basking in the light of my sun.

So when I looked through my cockpit window and saw your plane explode in a storm of fire and smoke and plummet to the ground, my whole world crashed down with it.

Now, ten years later, I wander the rainy streets, feeling the droplets pummel my skin. I had forgotten my umbrella.

The cafes beckon to me with their appetizing aromas, but memories of the officer’s club rise in my mind, memories of vodka and rations shared together. I feel myself choke up as I remember your bright smile and the brush of your fingers on my arm.

No, I think, seeing the passersby walking the wet sidewalks around me. I won’t cry here. People will look at me. They might talk.

I feel that familiar tightening in my stomach.

I move slowly along the streets, the Eiffel Tower seeming to grow in size as I approach it. The skies are overcast, covered in dismal gray clouds that pour rain upon the city.

My apartment isn’t far away. I have long since memorized the route there, so even with the tears blurring my vision, I know where to find my home.

I had started drafting my letter to you, but as I had dwelt on it, I had become unsatisfied, feeling that it didn’t properly convey my feelings to you. I was going back to my apartment to write another draft after wandering the streets thinking about you.

The tears trace glistening lines down my cheeks, mingling with the raindrops leaking from the gray sky. My shoulders shake, and I try to stifle my sobs, hoping no one cares enough to look at the crying man traversing the damp sidewalk.

I miss you every day, Yuri. I want to feel your fingers on my arm again, to see your bright smile again, to lose myself in the bottomless ocean of your eyes again.

Vodka?

I miss you so much.

Love,

Ronny

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The veteran missed the sun. The gray skies leaked raindrops like tears, and he missed the sun’s warm light.

Feeling his stomach growl, he crept into a cafe, trying to avoid the stares of people fixing their attention on the teary-eyed veteran.

He found a table and sat down, burying his face in his hands and feeling the tears seep between his fingers.

He continued to recall bright smiles, gentle touches, eyes as blue as the ocean.

Then, he felt delicate fingers brush his arm. He looked up and saw a man with short black hair and ocean-blue eyes gazing at him with a bright, shining smile. Lines had begun to carve themselves into his sharply angled face, and his lithe frame had grown slightly thicker, but his cheerful voice was still the same.

“Vodka?” he asked.

The other veteran threw himself at the ocean-eyed man and buried his face in his shoulder.

The two embraced, basking in each other’s warmth and letting the tears steal down their cheeks.

Finally, the other veteran responded with a joyous smile of his own. “Vodka.”

And as the two of them sat down to drink, the clouds parted and the sun shone through, its light streaming in through the windows of the cafe and lighting up the face of the ocean-eyed veteran.

At long last, the sun had returned.