A Very Communist Love Story

Chapter Three

Josef steps out of the shower, the humid air sticking in clumps to his newly clean hair, water droplets snaking their way down his tanned torso. He grabs a freshly washed towel and winds it round the lower half of his body, revelling in the soft comfort when it makes contact with his bare skin.

As he admires his carefully crafted physique, he becomes aware of the faint sound of buzzing. He crosses into his bedroom and picks up his phone, going wild with notifications. The group chat was going crazy! His crystal clear orbs skim a few of the messages all of which are, naturally, exclaiming over yesterday's incident.

"I can't believe how badass Stalin is!" "What I would've paid to Snapchat the whole thing..." "Did you see how close Josef got to Nikita? That sexual tension thooo"

The conversation switches as the boys spot Josef's bitmoji.

"Yoo! J you up for that party tonight?"

A frown forms creases on Josef's brow. A party? How was he not already aware of this phenomenon? Another incoming message causes Stalin's eyes to narrow and his heart to beat a little faster... "Khrushchev will be there"

Later that day

The previously mellow mood instantly changes once Josef arrives at the party. The music is turned up, the alcohol is flowing and almost every boy there is throwing themselves at the former mass murderer.

Almost every boy that is.. expect Khrushchev. Josef cannot focus on any of the sweaty bodies clinging to him - his thoughts are elsewhere. Why is Nikita behaving like this? He'd never experienced this before.. it was almost.. almost like Khrushchev was immune to his charm. Unheard of!

Stalin peels off his jacket and joins the grinding bodies on the dance floor - trying to cast away all intruding thoughts of a certain someone. After a few hours of such trivialities Josef's throat feels like dense velvet - close and cloying. He is in need of desperate need of refreshment and it appears as if someone else's spit just won't do it.

He staggers into the kitchen, although parched he had been hitting the vodka at regular intervals during the night. A dark figure stands hunched over at the sink - staring out the window almost as if transfixed by the moon. He doesn't turn round at the racket of Josef knocking over empty cans of beer, so the infamous character taps the mysterious man on the back.

Finally the unidentified specimen makes eye contact with Josef. His eyes are red and bloodshot DRUGSS only joking this is Venezuela not the backstreets behind Varndean College.

It appears almost as if the one who was forcefully  retired has been crying.

Stalin feels a rare sense of sympathy. "Ya alright babe?" he questions.

"Not here" is the response and Josef feels a hand come into contact with his own. The connection is electric - a spark which travels up his arm and round his body whipping up a storm. Khrushchev leads Stalin away, away from the roaring noise of the party and up a set of rickety steps to a bench overlooking the city. The stars gleam and dance overhead, the normally raucous lights of the city are fairies - dipping and sparkling in the distance. The oak of the wooden bench is cool to the touch and Stalin sits down upon it, beckoning for Khrushchev to do the same.

The younger (but not fitter) man sighs deeply, collapsing into Josef's outstretched arm and with a little encouragement lets out what has been weighing so heavily on his mind.

"This sounds crazy but it was just so hard being your successor you know? You were such a forceful, imposing character and everyone was obedient under your control - even the lowliest peasants. I always felt so insecure - as if I was being constantly compared to your efforts and accomplishment. I was always pondering, always wondering what would Stalin say? I felt inadequate compared to you not to mention I was considered a national joke."

Tears spring from Stalin's eyes at this heartfelt confession. He speaks softly, "true".

A single tear flows down his Nikita's cheek and in that moment, with the moon reflecting a thousand truths onto other communist boy's face and his eyes shining with unspoken emotion, Stalin felt moved.

He takes Nikita's chin in one hand, caressing his cheek with his thumb and looks deep into his rich chocolate pools. A sort of unspoken understanding passes between the two and Josef leans in, his peachy lips tantalisingly brushing those of Khrushchev. A pause then the next moment those lips are interlocked, a fiery passion enveloping the two that speaks of a an intertwined history, of future prospects, of an attraction so deep that the stars blink, unsure of how to react but quickly they recover, twinkling on brightly far, far above.