SEX & LOVE | 18 +

01 | близко к тебе

Rostimir

            

"People are only useful when they don’t talk too much, Nikolai."

I say this calmly, the wind carried a salty bite from the sea, and I tugged the collar of my jacket tighter as I stepped off the bus, as Nikolai’s voice drones through the phone.

Sochi was quieter this time of year—tourist season long gone, leaving behind only the locals and the occasional stray visitor. The kind of place you could disappear in for a while. I had my bag slung over one shoulder, not heavy, just enough to get by.

Sochi always smells like the sea—like something that used to be free but now feels tethered, confined.

Kind of like me. The faint sound of waves crashing somewhere behind the rows of old buildings reminds me why I’m here.

"Rostimir," Nikolai says, using my full name like a plea. "You need to stop pretending this is normal."

I close my eyes for a moment, letting his words hang, feeling the weight of them as the wind plays with my hair. I brush them back absently. Nikolai is the only one who still cares. Always making things more serious than they need to be.

I shift the phone to my other ear, tuning Nikolai out as his voice rambles on in the background. Something about setting me up with a better place, something more fitting. As if he understands why I’m here at all. This place, with its beaches and tourists, its salt-worn air, and the rustle of palm trees—not exactly where a man like me should be, he thinks.

But that's the point, isn't it?

“Ross—are you even listening?” His voice is tinny through the phone, strained.

"I’ll be fine," I murmur, casually cutting him off, letting my gaze roam over the weathered facade in front of me. Faded paint and crumbling steps, the whole place seems to sag under the weight of years. I like it. There’s something honest about decay—how it strips things down, reveals what’s underneath.

It’s nothing impressive—faded turquoise paint, half of it peeling off, exposing the raw wood beneath. There’s a crack running along the side of the wall, spidering out like the veins of some ancient tree. A quarter that’s seen better days, maybe, but that’s why I like it. There's beauty in things that are worn. In things that have a past.

"You always say that," he replies, softer now, tired of this old back-and-forth. "Call me if you need anything, Ross."

I end the call before he can say more. Nikolai’s concern is a weight I don’t need right now.

Slipping the phone into my pocket, I let the silence settle around me. The breeze picks up again, and I watch a single shutter swing loosely on rusted hinges, a hollow creak breaking through the quiet.

The quarters look. . . Abandoned. Perfect.

I breathe, scanning the row of rundown buildings in front of me. The quarters I was supposed to be renting weren’t exactly advertised as luxury accommodations.