Fire Burns Cold

     “You know,” Miroslav said, not bothering to look away from the kitchen counter, “You can take off your jacket.”

     He was right, of course. The brothers had long returned home after a grocery run, all at Polina’s request. The shopping list had been simple enough, but the trek had been tricky– it was the late stage of Winter, and a fresh coat of snow had covered the neighborhood overnight. Be it a couple of meters out the door or a ten-minute walk to and from the grocery store, if you weren’t properly bundled up in a winter jacket, the cold would make sure you would regret it.

     Yuri had grown up in the area and knew the whims of the season inside and out. He had prepared a budget for a couple of months in the fall and bought himself an expensive new jacket.   A justifiable purchase given the weather, he had explained to his brother. Of a stark red vinyl, wool-lined for comfort, goose feather-stuffed to procure warmth– it was a bulky monster of a thing. It swallowed Yuri whole, but sure enough, it served its purpose: kept him warm.

     For a while, at least.

     Though none of it mattered after they had returned home. Their unit’s fireplace was as old as the unit itself, but all that did was make it noise. It purred away through each nook and cranny, fanning out hot air all day, all night. Miroslav would adjust the flame intermittently, mumbling something about saving on gas, but it hadn’t been turned off in a matter of weeks. If it wasn’t toasty indoors, it was certainly comfortable– nothing to do with the Winter Wonderland that greeted them through the window.

     And yet, Yuri’s jacket stayed on hours after they had settled inside the unit. To Miroslav’s credit, he had been patient in pointing it out, given how unusual it was deemed to be. There Yuri was, pretending he had enough of a handle on his arms to prep dinner, ignoring how much more space he took with the stupid thing on.

     “It’s comfortable,” Yuri said, in lieu of admitting he was straight-up cold.

     “That’s stupid,” Miroslav deadpanned in an accusatory tone. Would have been a bit more threatening if he wasn’t pointing at him with one of the carrots he was working on peeling, “That cannot be comfortable.”

     With a chuckle and a flick of the wrist, Yuri shrugged it off, hoping that would be that. But Miroslav wasn’t having it,

     “Jackets get wet when out in the snow,” he pointed out, “If you’re cold, you’re better off with a blanket. Or a sweater, we have some wool ones around.”

     “I’m not…” he started but trailed off as he took one look at Miroslav’s expression. With a small clear of his throat, Yuri decided to compromise, “I’m just getting over a cold, is all.”

     “I’d suggest you go warm up by the fire,” it was clearly no suggestion, “And take that damn thing off, alright?”

     Yuri fidgeted with the jacket’s zipper, wary of whether he should go along with his brother’s request. There was only so much he could do to keep appearances. There was a fine line between a quirky habit and walking red flag– quite literally, as irony might have it–, and Miroslav would catch up eventually. Despite the sensation of cold that kept nipping at Yuri’s lungs, he finally conceded.

     “Let me know if you need any help with the food.”

     “Don’t bother me again,” was Miroslav’s answer, friendly considering who was talking. Seemed like as good an end of the conversation as any other.

     With the jacket abandoned somewhere on the sofa, Yuri settled as close to the fireplace as his skin could take. The machine greeted him with a low rumble, like the purr of a car– but Yuri did not find it comforting in the slightest. He had tried this before: the most acceptable method to warm up in the midsts of Winter– but it hadn’t worked in a long time, not for Yuri. Not when bundling up in a blanket, wanting the fabric to swallow him whole. Not when hovering his hands so close to the seating metal that they almost got scorched.  Not when he stared directly into the flame, praying for its comfort, and getting nothing in return.

     As much as he wanted to, as much as he tried, it was hard to blame that cold fireplace of his. It wasn’t the flame that failed to warm him– but his body itself. Poor, mortal flesh, burnt and torn and split in wounds that he could not see. Of course, Yuri wasn’t stupid, he had realized years ago that there was something wrong.

     The first warning had come and gone, twenty years in the past. A metallic taste in the mornings, pounding headaches come noon, that same damn cold chasing him to bed at night. Miroslav’s creation had set them symptoms back, the impossibility of his existence, a miracle drug too good to be true. Yuri had assumed then that, as much as Miroslav took, he gave back, and his health was settled. Then came Polina, Aleksander, Alina, and Yuri allowed his joy to make him blind. He had been stupid, young and old. Hopeful, but utterly stupid.

     Then the fireplace lost any traces of heat, and he realized that his demons hadn’t been deterred by time. The last traces of hope had vanished with a cautious trip to the hospital, and by the time he had left, Yuri knew his days were numbered. They had been, for a very long time.

     Not that his family had to know.

     It would burden them, Yuri had realized not a day after his diagnosis, and not telling them just seemed like the only logical way to go. He stood by his decision, of course, and he did up to that day. His family cared for him as much as he cared for them– Miroslav’s concern was a prime example. It was well masked as annoyance, as most things the man did, but he meant well. A wet jacket would just make one colder indoors, after all.

     Ah, but the fire still burned cold to Yuri’s skin, and he soon realized that playing it off might be more trouble than it was worth. A sudden urge to grab the jacket came to him, but he was so goddamn cold, so goddamn tired, that walking just didn’t seem like it was going to happen.

     He was seriously considering crawling towards the sofa to retrieve his garment when some movement caught his eye. Miroslav popped into the living room, an eyebrow arched in that same mask of annoyance.

     “What’s wrong with you?” He deadpaned, blunt as ever, “You look like hell.”

     “Just a cold,” Yuri mumbled, gritting his teeth. He stretched his hands towards the fire as if pleasantly warming them, just because it seemed like the most natural thing to do, with him so close to the fireplace.

     Yes, acting natural had worked so far for him, so why not keep the act? Miroslav hadn’t said anything so far. It was usually he who complained that his brother didn’t do emotions– he avoided them like the plague itself. Maybe this would be just that, and even with excuses falling flat, Miroslav wouldn’t press him.

     Alas, Yuri must have looked– unnatural, despite his best efforts. So much so that Miroslav’s expression twisted. He wasn’t sure if pity, concern, or some sort of disgust. Regardless, Yuri knew that the whole ‘ignoring emotions’ ordeal wouldn’t work this time around.

     “You can leave me to it if you have better things to do,” Yuri said with a fake smile. It was an attempt at a playful jab, but that fell as flat as his mask of normality. His head was starting to hurt more than usual, And where the jacket just previously seemed like a good idea,  it was now starting to feel like a necessity, “Would you be so kind as to pass me my jack–”

     “Cold, huh?” Miroslav interrupted suddenly standing right in front of his brother. Ah, when had that happened? “You say that, but it has been going on for a while.”

     “It's snowing outside,”  Yuri mumbled.

     “No shit.”

     With an unceremonious grunt, Miroslav sat beside him, aiming to be a quiet presence. He was good at that. Or he would be, if not for the fire– before more than a couple minutes have passed, he was back on his feet, doing that with a grunt, too.

     “Holy hell, that’s hot enough to crisp my skin.”

     “It’s not that hot,” Yuri insisted. He was starting to lose track of their conversation. He needed to get that jacket. Yuri felt himself drowning in a bucket of ice water,  the cold had gone way past his skin, and it was slowly sinking into his bones. Even his blood ran cold,  beating through every corner of his nerves,  pooling heavily down his throat.  Was this normal,  for the sensation of ice to choke the air out of you?

     “It is that hot,” Miroslav insisted, and his voice had shifted into something Yuri didn’t hear from him much: concern, “How– how are you still cold?”

     “Pass me the jacket,” he was no longer asking.

     “Yura, how… how long have you been sitting there for?”

     He didn't respond at least not right away.  It was too much,  like liquid nitrogen lapping at his throat. Yuri was shivering– he had been this entire time,  but he was way past the point where he was trying to hide it. The cold expanding,  like a growing web of ice. Delirious, Yuri was convinced that if you were not to put on the jacket, That cold would make him burst.  it was eager to escape him, and Yuri wasn’t strong enough to fight.

     “Please!” he croaked out in a gurgled mess, reaching his hand out to the couch, “Please, the jacket!”

     But Miroslav did turn to grab it. He did not move an inch, eyes staring him down as if he had just seen a ghost. Yurin felt the urge to scream at him, scold him for not following a single request, but he could not speak. When he opened up his mouth, only the cold came out, in splashes of freezing crimson that threatened to plug the back of his throat.

     And then, he wasn’t conscious, but he wasn’t quite gone, either. Miroslav kept talking to him, his voice tinged with panic. Language filtered as nonsense through Yuri’s ears, but some things managed to slip through the cracks. His name, mainly. Lots of curses. And a single, visceral question,

     “Yura, what is wrong with you?!”

     “I don’t know,” Yuri finally managed, then said it again and again even as the world threatened to freeze him over. Even as Miroslav finally snapped out of it and reached for him, holding him upright. Even as Polina burst into the room, yelling something about an ambulance.

     There were ugly, gurgling noises being ripped away from Yuri’s lips. His muscles in his chest twisted as he shivered, his ribs felt bruised and his nose was shredded. Miroslav held him upright, pressed a cloth against his face, did what he could to keep him from bleeding out– but Yuri was not concerned in anything of the sort. He was glad to get out as much blood as he could, even if it killed him. After all, the roots of the ice had long taken hold of his mortality.

     Ah, so that was wrong with him. Couldn’t Miroslav feel how cold he was?

     Hemorrhagic nosebleed.

     Just another point on a list of symptoms the doctor had written, back when Yuri first got his diagnosis. Warnings, all of them, but as much as a cautionary tale as the bad ending in a fairytale. Yuri had never thought anything like that would ever happen to him.

     Of course, he had never thought he’d be impossibly cold with a fucked up thermostat– and yet, here he was.

     When Yuri woke up, he wasn’t cold anymore. He wasn’t home, either– there was white surrounding him as far as the eye could see. His first guess was snow, and he stirred and groaned in pure protective instinct. He couldn’t handle more of the cold, not right now–

     “Yura–! Still, damn it, you’re okay!”

     Miroslav.

     “Brother?” He croaked out, mouth and body stuffed with cotton, the fluff of painkillers. Right. This wasn’t snow, the white belonged to walls, blankets, and clothes, “... hospital, huh?”

     “Oh, Yura,” Polina. He couldn’t see Miroslav, but he could see her, sitting right at his bedside, “We are here, we…” her voice trailed off.
     
     Sitting up was a struggle, but Yuri managed just fine. He could recall times like these in the past, where his body had slipped past the limits of his illness– but never this bad. And never in front of their family.

     “Secret’s out?” he ventured with a sigh.

     Polina reached for his hand and squeezed carefully, wiping tears away tears with the black of her sleeve. She had been crying.  Yuri felt like his heart was being squeezed, too.

     “You could have told us,” she said after a second, voice watery.

     “I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

     Polina shook her head, “We’re your family, Yuri. Worrying is part of it– you– we have to do something!”

     “Polina,” Yuri whispered.

     “Have you talked about treatment? They– they couldn’t tell us everything, they said it was confidential– but Yuri, we need to know!” She was shaking, “Please, Yuri, is this–!”

     “How long?”

     Miroslav’s voice caught both their attention, and words died on Polina’s lips. Now that he was a little more aware of his surroundings, Yuri strained his neck to the side and caught a glimpse of the man leaning against the doorway. His expression was somber, in a silent sort of rage. Yuri shuddered– he hadn’t seen him like that since Miroslav’s creation.

     “A year,” Yuri admitted because he didn’t have a choice, “at least that’s as long as I’ve been diagnosed. I’ve been feeling it since I was younger, but last fall the doctor–”

     Miroslav crossed the distance between them with a couple of strides, like an animal that had been waiting to pounce. There it was again, that silent sort of rage, burning fire beneath his pupils. Yuri tried to squirm away, surprised, but he could not move. Instead, he lay there, like a deer in headlights. Miroslav grabbed a fistful of Yuri’s shirt and pulled him despite Polina’s protests.

     A punch did not come. Yuri was frozen in anticipation.

     “How long?” Miroslav said again, and something clicked in Yuri’s head.

     “... Maybe two years,” he finally said, inducing their conversation into a sickening silence. Just to break it, and knowing it had to be said, Yuri choked up a breath, “I’m sorry, Slava.”

     Miroslav pulled his shirt again, and Yuri braced himself to be hit– but he lifted into a hug instead. His brother’s arms were firm. Polina joined in soon after, sobbing. Her arms were gentle.

     It was comfortable, like a blanket. Despite the tears, despite the undying cold in his skin, despite the fatal secret having slipped away from him, Yuri let himself be loved.

     Their embrace was warm, after all.