Winter settled over Leningrad. Occasional sun broke long strings of cold, gray days, and inhabitants struggled to navigate their walks, blinded by flashing reflections off snow and ice. Anya's eyes watered throughout those mornings, and she found relief in the rapidly shortening days.

Shorter days meant the machines of Leningrad trudged to work in the dark. Bleary eyed, they picked their way through the streets under mist-blurred lamp light. In the square, Anya swept up the dirty slush, leaves, and accumulated debris of a city hunching in preparation for a long winter.

The speeches continued on unflinchingly, though Anya could feel his eyes on her from time to time, even across the square. They had maintained their exchanges cautiously. It did not do to raise the curiosity of others, so they kept their pattern carefully. It was not easy. She knew the sounds his iron bed made and the way his mouth twitched when he whispered her name.

One morning, as Anya cleared sludge away from the platform, Gleb approached after the crowd had dispersed. The morning was brighter than days prior and the mood on the street was as cheerful as Anya had seen since the first snows had come.

"Good morning, Anya." He fussed with his pockets and finally settled on folding his hands behind his back.

"Good morning, Gleb. A good speech today. I liked it."

His pride was bright and sweet. "Did you like the joke? I thought people might like a joke." He rocked on his heels. "Did… did anyone laugh? It's hard to tell from the podium."

Russian laughter was not so boisterous. "A few." Anya pushed her broom along the base of the platform and made sure nothing had accumulated there.

Gleb shoved his hands back into his pockets. "Oh, I have something for you. It's not much but I thought you might like it."

He held out a little folded paper packet. When Anya lifted a flap, a few measures of dried, curling leaves winked up. Her nose twitched at the rising fragrance.

It was too much. There had to be three full brewings worth of good tea here, a luxury beyond any she'd held in some time. "Gleb, I…"

He held up his hands. "I insist. You look as though you could use a cup now, but," he gestured to the broom. "I hear those are hard to come by."

She carefully folded the flap back down and tucked the packet away. "I will have some tonight. Thank you, Gleb."

They stood, awkwardly quiet and unsure, until Gleb gave a pained smile and one of his little bows before turning. Then he stopped.

"Anya?"

"Yes?"

"Did you? Laugh I mean?"

It had been a dumb joke. Terrible, really, but she had chuckled. What more could you ask for when the world was turning gray?

"Yes, Gleb. I laughed."

He suppressed a smile. A good Russian is never too free with them.

"I like to make you laugh, my sunshine."

…

That evening, hours after both the sun and ice had set again, Anya crouched in her patch under the bridge and sipped a weak brew after eating her potato and cabbage stew. If she was careful and not too indulgent, the packet would last a few weeks.

If she was careful and not too indulgent, things could stay as they were. Gleb would remain at a safe distance and she would save her rubles until spring and travel as far as her meager coins would allow.

A hard gust of wind blew mist into Anya's face and she coughed. The sound was loud, echoing off the concrete underbelly of the bridge and rang in her ears. It was easy to forget human sounds when you're the only source of them. All of those little sighs and sniffs that accompany people. The sound of conversation and shuffling movements. Your own name from another's lips.

Anya swallowed the last of her tea and chewed the leaves. She was tired after the long day and her bedroll was inviting. As she drifted off, she pushed away a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Her fingertips had learned the feel of an old quilt and, finding layers of pressed wool felt, recoiled only to find more of the same elsewhere in the bedroll.

…

Over the years Anya had become quite good at predicting the weather. If clouds were heavy in the mid day, but the ground was warm, the weather may turn but almost never severe. If the ground was already cold, she needed a better plan. Today the ground was middling, and by the time the square was clearing, the sky was dark as night.

Gleb was called away, leading a small formation of soldiers back to his office before they could visit. It was what it was. Anya swept the street and gathered up handfuls of dry straws she found by the river to repair her broom. She softened lengths of twine in her tin cup, and was rewrapping the first layer when the winds began whistling.

As she worked, and the weather grew worse, she thought of the row of doors. The two rooms and warm stove. How easy it would be to just go back, but how hard it would be to return to the patch. To leave in spring. She'd passed a village with a hot spring once, and stayed there for two weeks before moving on. The loss of heat and all the good things that lived nearby (the rabbits too fat to escape her snares, and the friendly baker who shared them and her spare time) had nearly killed her.

Gleb was a decadence she could not afford to grow accustomed to.

The winds were howling when she finished, tearing at every seam in her bedroll and slipping sharp fingers into the hole she left for breathing. Her feet throbbed with cold but it was just a bad night, not a terrible one, though she ate the second half of the chocolate, not wanting to miss the taste if things got any worse.

The following morning was calm, and Anya, chafed and addled by poor sleep broken by nightmares and shivering, limped to her post. All of Leningrad was up early it seemed, as if ready to spring out after such a night. Even the square cleared early and Gleb was hurried off once more, glancing over his shoulder apologetically.

He paused, watching, then he walked on, his men following him like ducklings.

…

Snowy mornings with fat flakes were best. Big, fluffy snow, like the under feathers of a goose, meant the temperature was not so cold and the winds not so fierce. Anya's step was light and quick, her newly strung broom making quick work of crushed gravel used to aid traction over the thickening ice.

"Good day, comrade."

She looked up. "So you're here today?" she teased.

"I'm here every day," Gleb said, with a funny toss of his head. "I just got to stay a few minutes today."

A tidy pile of clean gravel. She would spread it back out on the pavement. She may even earn a good mark for her forethought, "You've been busy."

"I have," he said, pursing his lips for a moment. "I'm sorry I haven't been free to visit."

Anya looked up, blinking. "You were working. So was I."

"Yes, but there was a bad night. I thought…"

"What?"

Gleb shoved his hands in his pockets. "I thought you might, ah, need shelter. Then I saw you the day after and… I wish you had come. I was worried."

Anya pushed the gravel into a tighter pile. "I've seen worse. I'm fine."

"Yes," he said softly. "I see. But, if I may?" He pulled wads of something thick from his pockets. "Your boots. They're not… they could be warmer. Here." Moments later, a shout summoned Gleb and he was hurried off before Anya could unroll the wads.

Thick liners, the good ones. Seamless wool felt would not chafe, and would keep her feet warm and dry. Easy to clean, too. It was hard to get proper winter gear. He would have seen her boots that night, and how they were barely adequate.

It was not a bright day, but her eyes watered just the same.

…

Leningrad was holding its breath. For three days, reports had been arriving of the worst winter storm thus far creating chaos on the roads, derailing trains, and knocking trees clean off their roots. Shortages sprang up, and even a packet of oats or dry beans was far beyond reach. Anya took stock of her rations and noted where she could conserve and where she could not, and prepared.

The day before the storm should arrive, and the stew in her tin cup was thin. More cabbage than potato. Not enough fat and starch to stick to the sides of the cup meant it would not stick to her insides. Even a few flakes of oats did not improve it much.

The next morning was still. Eerie silence in the sky was more ominous than the wild storms that cracked lightning through ice-pellet snow, and men and women huddled low, hurrying to avoid being out of doors. Anya carefully swept the gravel over patches of ice, stomping here and there to drive the rocks into the softer places. One less slip could be her own at this rate.

And then, with hardly more warning than the rumble of distant wind, the promised storm broke. It slashed and screamed, and though Anya struggled to wall off her patch, she did not have enough time, materials, or hands to do so. The violence of the storm broke the ice on the Neva and sent wet shards up the banks that froze on contact. Deafening winds were confusing and, in the darkness, Anya found herself disoriented on her own turf.

Long blown out, she shoved rocks at her brick hearth to keep it stable and laid more rocks over her burlap sack of wood and charcoal. The bedroll, too. She had resolved on survival, weakness and all, and as she jammed her possessions into hiding, a gust of wind ripped beneath the bridge, catching Anya's thick skirts like a sail. She pitched over and slid down to the edge of the Neva where the broken ice had blown and refrozen into jagged knives.

Bruised and freezing, Anya crawled from the edge back to her patch and snatched up her bag of clothes and walked, knocked back and forth by the winds as they whirled into jetties between buildings and tore through the streets. Twice more, her feet went out from under her, her skirts catching the arctic violence, until Anya finally found the row of doors and limped her way to his.

She sat on the stoop and banged her elbow into the door, unable to bear the impact on her hands. The one was frozen in a claw-grip on her bag anyway. Before she could leave a third thump against the door, she fell backwards.

"Anya!"

"A most terrible night, isn't it comrade Vaganov?" she said through chattering teeth.

Gleb ignored her strange giggle and dragged her in by the back of her coat. "Why are you so wet? It isn't even- oh who cares…" he muttered. When he let go of her coat, Anya promptly flopped backwards.

"The Neva is flowing, Gleb. I thought you would like to know. But the wind gave it teeth and it bit me."

At that, Gleb threw his sweater aside and took her face in his hands. His dark eyes were tight with fear and his hands were… Hot? Cold?

A thick finger tip pushed into the side of her neck and Anya tried to push it away, but her arms were suddenly much too heavy. Everything was heavy.

"Hey, that hurts."

"I won't be able to feel your pulse in your wrist, Anya. Quiet!"

Moments later, in a flurry of movement far more pleasant than the whipping winds, her clothes were stripped off and she was wrapped in a sheet and blanket. Gleb deposited her in a chair by the stove and filled a pot from the tap.

"Don't move," he cautioned.

In a few minutes or maybe longer, he came and went to pick her up again.

"I'm fine, Gleb. I can do it."

"If you fall and hit your head, how do you think I'll feel?"

She had not thought of that. If a girl was found half dead in the commissioner's flat, it might be complicated. Probably not, but it might be, and neither of them needed that. Anya stayed still until he sat her on the edge of his small bathtub.

"Oh, I'd love a hot bath, Gleb."

"It's not hot."

"Why not?" Gleb rolled his eyes as he lowered her down, sheet and all. Her breath caught one she felt the water. Somewhere deep in her mind, the bit that still operated with reason, knew why, so she quieted though the water felt hot enough to burn. The bit knew why- she was much colder this time.

"I wanted to look for you, Anya, but I didn't… I didn't know where-"

"I'm fine Gleb," Anya said.

"No, Anya! You're not!" He plucked her arm from the water and pressed his thumb into the mottled colors. It took several blinks for the color to come back. Her nails were pale against fingers that were turning flame red.

For whatever reason- the bath, the unbraiding of her hair, or the reddening in his eyes-Anya turned her hand in his and squeezed.

An edge of the sheet was hanging over the side where Gleb knelt, wicking water. His clothes were dark and wet when he stood. The sheet floated around her in the water.

"Stay, I'll be right back."

He returned with a pot and gently moved her legs to one side before pouring warmer water into the tub. Anya sighed. It reminded her of the hot springs, only without the faint smell of sulphur.

When Gleb brought her a nightshirt, Anya half smiled when he looked away while she dressed, sleeves far past her fingertips and the ends to the middle of her shins. Funny and old-fashioned; well worn, but whole and soft. Her fingers were clumsy as she tied the laces at the neck.

The world blinked in and out when a towel settled over her shoulders. The stove warmed her legs and if the chair under her was hard she could hardly tell. If the storm outside was raging, she could hardly hear it. It seemed she was only aware of the most direct sensations, and everything else was still. A draft at her knees. The clank of a kettle and a cup in her hands. Heat in her fingers. Tugging at her scalp?

Her hair. He was combing her hair.

Then weight. Warm weight and then nothing.

A rattle woke her. Comfortable darkness pressed Anya gently on all sides. She reached up - - cast iron. She was alone, though. Her only bedmates were smooth rocks, still radiating heat from the stove. The quilt was warm around her shoulders as she crept from the bedroom, shuffling lightly as she walked to avoid smashing her toes.

She found Gleb in front of the stove. Anya had to admit, he looked quite comfortable, but it wasn't right. The rug was thick enough, and coals still glowed and shimmered in the stove, but the air was chilled and Gleb was curled up under one blanket.

Another rattle, and the shrill whistle of wind. The window offered nothing but an occasional horizontal stripe of white.

"Gleb?" His face turned to her. When she called a second time, his dark eyes caught the glimmer of the glowing stove.

"Anya? Go back to bed, you'll get chilled."

"Come on," she reached and found his shoulder. "It's cold out here."

His hand covered hers for a moment. "Ah, no. You need to sleep."

"Do you think I can sleep if you're out here on the floor? What do you think I am?" At his hesitation, Anya lowered herself to the floor and covered them both with the quilt.

"What are you doing?" Gleb said, horrified.

"I'm showing you how stupid you're being."

He leapt up. "Fine." He led her back to the bedroom and tucked her back in. Gleb rearranged everything to make space, and when he finally slid in next to her, Anya heard an exhale as he settled. As the bed grew warmer again, he shifted minutely, his little sighs held kindly by the dark room. Minutes crept by in blind silence until his hand brushed hers.

"Are you better?"

"Yes."

Gleb swallowed. "Good. I was… concerned."

Anya let her fingers trace along with his. "Yes."

A catch in his breathing. "I missed you." Another swallow, the sound of his mouth working in the dark, searching for words. "I missed you, my sunshine."

Snug and sightless in their cocoon, Gleb twined his fingers with hers, then he rolled onto his side. "I wanted to do more, say more, but-" he caught himself.

Anya turned her head towards him. "But there are eyes?"

"Yes. I wanted…" If darkness was making Gleb bold, then she was causing him to question it, and there was a strange tug around her heart, like when he was combing her hair. When Gleb reached for her, he drew his arm back, and reached again, hesitating and cautious.

This time, Anya rolled towards the warmth, into his arms. Into his space and offered him her own. "What did you want, Gleb?"

Relief shook him for a moment and hesitation fell away. "I wanted to hold you. I wanted to but you weren't there." He kissed her cheek, then thumbed the nightshirt to bare her shoulder, trailing his lips. But it wasn't a kiss. Kisses had a beginning and an end. This was… something else.

The sheets rustled as Gleb rolled closer, pulling her to his pillow. More something else kisses. Tracks from his lips tingled and left hyper aware stripes across her shoulders, her neck, and then down.

"Gleb," Anya whispered. The tugs around her heart had squeezed, his name the only word she thought to form.

His hair had fallen loose, and it flopped over, tickling her. "My sunshine," he replied. More tugs, but these were the nightshirt as Gleb unlaced the front. Now his lips sent her insides fluttering. At this unexpected rush, Anya plunged her hands into the mop of soft, tickly hair, clutching Gleb's head.

With a sharp inhale, his nuzzling turned to hot, open mouthed sucking, drawing her into his mouth and sliding his tongue over her. Needing something to hold, to grip, she found Gleb's forearms and squeezed them hard enough to bend his bones. A rumble ran through him in response, a wild sound full of appreciation and need.

The nightshirt was around Anya's waist, pushed up by the slow grind of their play, and the neck was opened, her breasts bare in the absolute dark. Little chance to be seen, but they were both bold in the dark, and Gleb buried his face in her, breathing her in with hoarse, greedy inhales.

Anya curled around him and stretched her arms down to his back. His shirt had ridges in the weave and she toyed with the bumps with her fingertips until she found an edge to pull at. Gleb immediately raised up and let her strip it away to fling into the black. Before he could move, she grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back down, the bed screeching with the impact. The heated rocks, long cooled, bounced away and crashed to the floor.

He'd been about to speak. She'd heard the inhale in his speeches often enough to know, but she didn't want his words, she wanted his breath. His touch, his lips. His trousers were rough and will have left burns between her legs by now but Anya didn't care, so she ripped the belt from them and unfastened the front, pushing them off before they were even properly loosened.

Darkness had no use for his speeches, and Anya hardly cared to craft pretty words. The energy it would take was better used elsewhere, like for listening for the wet sound of Gleb's fingers in his mouth, or the feel of pressure and pulse as he brought her, slick and trembling, then kissed the bloom of salt on her neck before settling between her legs again.

Not content as a bystander, Anya rolled them and the last of the rocks fell. Gleb's hands were on her as soon as the blankets fell away and, for the first time in months, Anya felt hot in her bare skin. Gleb cupped her, then dragged his hands downward to her waist as she crawled up and captured him in a kiss. Below he strained, eager and impatient.

A stream of words, sunshine and hope, need and bliss. His darling, his beauty, his heart.

Anya's breath caught. Under her, his twitching grew almost violent until she plunged down. With a jolt, Gleb let out a cry of thanks and sat up, mouthing her again and planted his hands on her hips to rock together. He threw his arms around her, burying his face in her, whispering words loaded with passion. Words Anya had never heard, but in that moment could understand.

Under her, Gleb's words faded as he strained, sparking rising heat that made Anya clutch at his back as his arms tightened around her. The catches and flares in her belly twisted as his soft hair brushed her arms. The strands slid in her fingers until she held fast, turning his face up, unseeable, unfathomable. Kissable. Bruise-tender lips met again in a greedy storm and the squeak of springs rose as the bed scratched a new path across the floor. The kiss only ended with the flooding surge that made Anya bear down, breathless, silent, and still. Gleb gasped , his pace stuttering and reckless, until his entire body went hard and trembling.

When words served him again, they fell like rain between the kisses he laid on her neck and shoulders. Any place he could reach while they held onto each other. His beauty, he called her. His heart. There was barely enough room in her chest for her own, how could she carry his, too? The tugs nudged, strange and insistent; native but unknown.

Shaking, he gathered up the blankets and the nightshirt and, in the pitch black, they settled together in the bed. Gleb held her close, stroking and petting her, murmuring sleepily into her hair.

"Oh Anya, my beauty. My little sun."

Anya drifted slowly to sleep, wrapped with a man who could be in complete dark and see the sun in her.

…

The next day dawned bright and clear. Anya woke as the first rays brightened the flat and slid silentl

y from the bed. Her clothes were dry, and she tried to ignore the knowledge that Gleb had seen to that. Each piece of her worn things was draped and hung carefully, as if they were worth more than the dust and mending that held them together.

She dressed quickly and tied her clean, smooth hair back in a braid.

She could not stay. Gleb was an indulgence she could not afford. One she did not know what to do with. No one had taught her how to do this, to be more than a thing that took and moved on. A thing that was good at one thing and that was surviving. Anya worked and survived, she did not need. She did not want. She certainly wasn't wanted.

A soft, sleepy sound from the bedroom. Anya heard the now familiar sound of the bed as it reported the shifting weight. Gleb was getting up. She rushed to the door and had her hand on the knob when she heard him.

"Anya?"

She turned. His eyes were wide and confused, and his mouth shaped words that never formed.

Anya started to open the door. An anguished sound, a cry, turned her head once more.

"Why, Anya?" He clutched the bedroom door frame. "Why?"

Rare winter sunshine lit the Prospekt, and after a day of being shut in, the square bustled and hummed with activity. Anya swept and cleared away the leftovers of the storm, picking through some of the debris for anything of value. The square buzzed with energy, built up from a day shut indoors. Milling spectators watched the podium, waiting for the energetic commissioner to praise their work and virtue.

There was no speech that day.

...