as the snow melts away

Snowbound city, sorrow deep, Eyes like mirrors — endless weep. Behind the silence, masks of ache, Scars on skin—the soul’s own stripe.

This will make it easier for Uri. Kenny knows. Kenny knows—Kenny smells the iron tang of blood, the sticky sheen of skin, the tremor in another’s hands. Kenny knows when he can’t kiss Uri, when he can’t slide calloused palms under his sweater to warm those fragile bird-bones. Kenny knows. Knew, really, all along. He tried to shut his eyes, tried to pretend it wasn’t his burden. Smoked packs in one sitting, blew his last cash on winter oranges just to coax a ghost of a smile from Uri. Uri. Uri. Uri. Beginning. End. Cold palms, knees digging into hips. Heat inside and out—high-pitched gasps, muffled moans against his shoulder, the clumsy rhythm of inexperience. Tears, bitten lips, a whispered "love you." Uri always said he loved him. Kenny believed it: stared into those uncanny eyes, stubbed out his cigarette, tucked pale strands behind Uri’s ears. Watched the Soviet-era apartment blocks outside while Uri sketched another building—drank cheap beer because he’d forgotten his ID; draped a possessive hand over a narrow knee, grinning when Uri wrinkled his nose at the cold. Ackerman liked his name. Uri. Never "Reiss," never "him," never "that guy." Just Uri—in his head, on his tongue. The name tasted like saccharine, like premium cigarettes and whiskey after swiping his father’s shitty vodka. Uri taught him how to live. Kenny remembers spitting blood and saliva while Kuchel screamed somewhere: their father, fresh out of prison, wasn’t thrilled about his failed offspring or his dead wife. His sister sobbed in a corner, and Kenny split his knuckles on a stranger’s face that night—almost grabbed a knife. Would’ve strangled, stabbed, killed. For himself, for his mother, for Kuchel—so she wouldn’t cry in his threadbare hand-me-downs, hiding scratches and hickeys from another deadbeat lover. Kenny didn’t kill. His father got lucky—or did all the Ackermans? Kuchel didn’t freeze up; she white-knuckled her phone, dialing Uri’s number again and again. Once would’ve been enough. Kenny doesn’t remember what happened next. Knows Uri cut ties with his family, but that night, someone pressed a gun to his father’s head. And it wasn’t Uri, wasn’t those bitch-delicate fingers on the trigger. His brother—eldest? Youngest? Who fucking cared?—waved a police badge, shaking with disgust until their father hit the pavement. Cops needed closed cases. The Reiss clan spat venom, cursing every Ackerman—while Uri avoided their eyes and helped Kuchel clean herself up. Kenny remembers wiping blood from his mouth and laughing, offering Reiss a smoke for the first time ever. And the bastard took it. Stood outside, lighting up with borrowed fire. Both of them watched as the eldest Ackerman slipped a few extra charges into the report: drug trafficking, illegal firearms, attempted assault on his daughter. Kenny always called Reiss a fat pig, a disgrace—but that night, as the first snow fell, he saw him differently. "Quit staring. Wouldn’t be here if not for Uri," Reiss muttered, exhaling smoke. The tobacco burned like betrayal—just like his brother’s too-straight spine when he’d walked into his room earlier. Uri was never afraid. But Reiss saw him tense, pale, desperate for an anchor. His brother was his foundation—and a police lieutenant. Whatever Kenny was, whatever chaos he wrought, Reiss knew: Uri loved him. And was loved. Unconditionally, endlessly, like a dog’s devotion. Kenny takes a drag, holds the smoke in his mouth, watches snowflakes melt. "Without Uri, you’d be fucking some broad right now." Coarse words were normal. Kenny never asked questions aloud, always swallowed his thoughts. But tonight, as his cigarette dies in the snow and Reiss offers his own, he doesn’t bite his tongue. Asks, short and sharp: "Why?" Reiss hesitates. Kenny crams everything into that word: Why help him? Why did Uri come? Why did Reiss call his squad at midnight? Why bother with society’s trash—or his sister, who (rumor said) spread her legs for anyone? Ackerman would break Reiss’ teeth if he laughed. But Reiss just shrugs, eyeing the dark apartment windows. "Because he loves you. And you love him." Kenny doesn’t reply—his father’s forehead thuds against a car hood, curses ringing out. Reiss crushes his cigarette and leaves without goodbye. Ackerman finishes his smoke, thinking Uri’s worse than nicotine. Kuchel hated cigarettes but liked Uri—genuinely liked him. Short, bleach-pale hair, eyes like a painting of witch-burnings. Uri belonged on a pyre, sacrificed to gods, his soul dissected on an altar. Dark curls framed his face as cold fingers carded through them. "You should bathe and sleep," Uri’s voice chirps at the edge of Kenny’s awareness. His fingers brush Kuchel’s collar; she lets her sleeve slip—no bra, but no shame either. The man beside her doesn’t want her like men do. Uri just dabs alcohol on her cuts, blows to soothe the sting. Kuchel giggles, stretches her legs, studies his gaunt face. "I envy you," she admits suddenly. Catches his confused stare but doesn’t explain. "Not because you’re some rich brat. Not because you’ve never eaten rats." She’s half-asleep when the front door slams, Kenny’s swearing echoing down the hall. "I envy you because my brother loves you. Like a dog. Don’t break his heart." She shuts her eyes. Hears heavy footsteps pause outside the bathroom. Feels Uri ruffle her hair, adjust her shirt. Kenny asks something—Kuchel doesn’t care. Steam warms her; their presence lulls her. "Never," Uri answers. Kuchel never figures out which of them he meant. But she knows it wasn’t her. She sleeps in the tub. That night, Kenny brings her a pillow and blanket—lets her steal warmth. A blizzard’s due by week’s end, but for now, snow drifts gently outside. Kenny remembers pressing Uri into the mattress: snow blotted out the night sky, short nails scraped his scalp, lips reddened from bites. Uri stayed silent as Kenny gripped his thighs, left half-moon bruises, growled into his sweat-damp neck. This wasn’t love—Kenny didn’t know how to love. He licked collarbones like a feral thing. That night, Kenny cried for the first time in years. Uri, exhausted and pliant, curled under blankets—so small Kenny could snap his throat with a twitch. Kenny wept soundlessly. Like Uri’s stifled moans, like his own trained silence. Their father’s fists taught them that. He slid to the floor, pressed his forehead to Uri’s ribs. A heartbeat thudded there. Uri stirred, squinted into the dark. "Something wrong?" His voice was sleep-thick. Kenny shook his head, pinned his shoulder down—no escape. Uri was a swan, thin spring ice. If he shattered, so would Kenny. If Kenny fell, neither would rise. Snow hissed outside as Kenny cried himself to sleep, unaware of fingers tangling in his hair. Morning came with breakfast—Uri ordered takeout. Kuchel insisted on something heartier than pizza. By noon, Kenny choked down overpriced, tasteless soup. Snow kept falling. Uri looked wrecked—bruises on his neck, an unsteady gait. Everything changed after that. Their father back in prison, Kuchel moved in with a friend, Uri left Reiss and asked Kenny to join him. Now, Ackerman felt happy. Kuchel teased him—"His Majesty’s lapdog." After work: cigarettes, then home to nuzzle Uri, drink shitty wine, talk about nothing. They rarely shared a bed. Kenny took the couch, though the mattress fit two. Radiators hummed; a pillow replaced touch-hunger. Before Uri, he never knew he needed to hold, to stroke, to feel. Later, Kenny slept beside Uri’s bed. Laid his head on the sheets, waited for even breaths. Uri had nightmares. Sometimes Kenny held his hand; sometimes he shook him awake, made him list objects in the room. Survival became background noise. Kenny could still kill for Kuchel and Uri—but he didn’t have to. Uri taught him to breathe, showed him life could be soft. Uri was—is—everything. Beloved, brother, friend, partner. They never discussed it, but they shared a bed, a home, a heartbeat. This wasn’t love. Love ends. Kenny would sooner blow his brains out than stop craving Uri. Outside, snow kept falling. Kenny breathed deep—no more choking on old stairwell dust. Outside, snow kept falling. Kenny breathed deep—no more choking on old stairwell dust. Then, one snow-heavy evening, the apartment greeted him with the drip of a faucet and the reek of copper. That night, Uri failed. That night, Kenny forgot how to breathe.