Ukraine felt almost unreal — like a photograph that had been mended after a tear. The air was warm but carried a faint breeze off the river, and the trams rang with their old, metallic patience. I hadn’t been to Kyiv since the USSR days. Now the city seemed to be living in two times at once: old and new, memory and music.
I came not as a journalist but as a guest, though old habits die slowly, and I was planning to take some notes and some photos of the old and new city. My former student Andriy “Dyusha” Petrenko had invited me to the Kraina Mrii Festival — a celebration of folk, pop, and everything between — where he was performing one of his most famous songs. He’d called it Two Voices, and it described the love of separation of two people
We met for breakfast on Andriivskyi Descent, in a café painted the color of honey, with lace curtains and chairs that didn’t match. He arrived late, the curly mane of his flaxen hair still a bit damp from a rushed shower, the guitar case strapped over his shoulder.
“Pane professore,” he said in melodic Ukrainian, before correcting himself and offering me an akward hug. “Augie! Welcome to Kyiv!”
“So happy to see you!” I said. “You are even taller now! Or maybe I am shorter?”
“Perhaps a bit of both,” he said, looking through the menu. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Order for me,” I said.
Soon the waiter brought syrnyky dusted with sugar and a small pitcher of strawberry jam, along with a teapot full of mint leaves curling against the glass.
We spoke of everything except nerves — his upcoming performance, the city’s pulse, the soft revolution of people daring to sing again. “Kyiv feels awake now,” he said, tearing a piece of bread. “Even when it’s tired.”
…After breakfast, we wandered through Podil, the old district where the buildings wore their pastel colors like faded medals. The cobblestones gleamed from last night’s rain. Painters leaned against stone walls selling watercolors of the Lavra domes, and somewhere a saxophone wailed a slow jazz tune that didn’t belong here but somehow fit.
We paused by a street poet reciting verses to a small crowd — half listening, half pretending not to. His words carried that old, melancholic rhythm Slavic languages are so good at, full of sorrow but never self-pity. Dyusha translated a few lines under his breath. “He’s saying the soul remembers what the mouth forgets.” And then later, “While some love is only as long as the sound of the voice—unless it’s a message on your answering machine…”
Down by the Dnipro, a group of schoolchildren were feeding pigeons, and the river smelled faintly of algae and diesel. Across the water, the green domes of the monastery caught the sun.
We found a small café perched just above the embankment, the kind with white umbrellas and tablecloths too clean for the view. The waiter brought borshch in deep bowls, black bread still warm from the oven, a plate of buzhenina slices with mustard sauce and fresh bread, and varenyky stuffed with cherries that bled red when you cut them.
Dyusha told me about his years abroad — London, Kraków, Toronto — each city both an escape and a lesson in loneliness. “You always learn your country best when you leave it,” he said. “And how small you are without its language.”
The boats moved slow and heavy past us, dragging sunlight across the ripples. For a while, neither of us spoke.
By mid-afternoon, the city’s edges softened in the heat. The festival grounds near the Lavra buzzed like a small, disorganized carnival. Volunteers strung ribbons, sound technicians shouted into headsets, and somewhere a folk choir was warming up, their harmonies spilling over the loudspeakers.
Dyusha’s rehearsal was brief but sharp. He stood center stage, sleeveless shirt sticking slightly to his back, guitar catching the light. When he sang, the park seemed to lean in — even the chatter quieted. There was something raw in the way his voice trembled around certain phrases, like he was walking a tightrope between confession and performance.
He looked at me once during the soundcheck, just a glance, but I knew it meant, “You hear me, don’t you?”
…By sunset, Kyiv gathered itself around the music. Families arrived with blankets, couples danced barefoot in the grass, vendors sold roasted corn and cold beer. Lanterns blinked on like small stars.
When in his turn Dyusha walked onstage, the crowd fell silent — that shared hush before something real begins. His voice carried clean and certain through the speakers. The song was spare, almost fragile: a story of two voices calling across a distance, never named, never labeled. “Can you still hear me, when you aren’t near me? Can you still walk with me, well then walk after me, love’s never weary, stay with me, dearie, hear me, hear me, hear me?”
The audience joined in one massive exhale “Hear me, hear me, hear me?” for exactly seven repetitions, each one a bit quieter…
When he finished, there was a heartbeat of quiet before the applause came. The kind of silence that tells you the audience understood, even if they couldn’t say why.
He won second prize — a polished plaque, a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper, losing to a group of happy dancers who sang about the sunny future. He laughed, shaking his head as the confetti rained down. “Second is better,” he said later, walking with me along the darkening embankment. “First prize means interviews, cameras, the works. This way I can still disappear when I need to.”
We sat by the river awhile. Fireflies flickered among the reeds. Somewhere across the water, church bells tolled, slow and deliberate, like someone reminding time to keep going.
We ended the night at a narrow bar tucked off Khreshchatyk. The music was low, old folk-rock from a scratched speaker. He ordered horilka with honey and lemon; I matched him glass for glass. At the next table, two men argued politics quietly, their voices softened by fatigue.
Outside, Kyiv glowed like a half-forgotten song. From the balcony we could see the avenue — wide, patient, humming with headlights. Dyusha leaned against the rail, looking down at the city he’d once left. “I’ll stay this time,” he said. “At least until the next reason to run.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
I didn’t take notes. Some moments are better left whole, uncut.
***
When Dyusha took me back to my hotel, I held his hand in mine for a little longer.
“I know what this song you sang is about,” I said quietly. “Would you sing it one more time for me. For real. As it should sound?”
Dyusha’s eyes widened. “Like right now?” he said.
“Yes, come on upstairs with me, and please sing it for me,” I said. “Perhaps twice. Please.”
Five minutes later, a bottle of horylka unscrewed, and two shot glasses filled with the amber liquid, the private concert began.
… “I know it’s a gay song,” I said after Dyusha finished singing the song in its official version. “I know there’s more to it, Dyusha. I can feel it in my heart.”
“It’s gonna make me cry,” Dyusha said.
“No matter,” I said. “I have a box of tissues, a bottle of valerian root tablets and a hug.”
***
Brother, I miss you so--
Why did you have to go?
Why did you not survive,
Why would you take that dive?
Sore as my heart now is,
I’m sure you are at peace--
In dreams you come to me
Saying “Don’t fear me --
Hear me, hear me, hear me.
Where I am there’s light
Shining on birds in flight,
Laughter and joy around
I love this friendly crowd.
Two my old buddies come
Wake me in morning calm,
Can you sense songs rise free?
Hear me, hear me, hear me.”
***
…Dyusha was sobbing in my arms. Each sob shook through that broad chest as it heaved against mine, dampening my shirt with salt and… strangely, some relief. I pressed my lips to the corner of his eye, tasting the sting, then to the high cheekbone, the freckled bridge of his nose, the trembling bow of his upper lip—little feathery stamps that said I hear you, I’m still here. His breath hitched, came slower; I followed the rhythm, kissing away the next tear track until the cowboy in my arms melted into something smaller, softer, finally quiet enough to listen.
I told him Montreal has whole streets where two men can walk hand-in-hand, that he deserves a guy who’d brag about his songs instead of hiding them. The words were still leaving my mouth when he tilted up, eyes glassy but steady, and found my lips. First contact was soft, tentative—then his tongue slipped in like it had been waiting years for an invitation, curling slow circles that lit every nerve ending. He tasted of salty tears and horylka; each gentle draw pulled a small, wet sound from him, half-moan, half-slurp, vibrating straight into my chest. His hands with long musical fingers hooked behind my neck, thumbs brushing my pulse, and between kisses I could feel his heart battering his ribs—wild, hopeful, finally free to race.
I tugged the worn tee over his head, curls springing free to brush my face; Dyusha’s fingers fumbled down my shirt buttons, trembling like he was stripping armor for the first time. His chest rose—broad, dusted with the tiniest white hairs here and there—and those tiny dark nipples peeked through, almost shy. I bent, lipped one, felt it pebble against my tongue; he gasped, then latched onto my neck, open-mouthed kisses scattering down to my collarbone. Restless in my lap, he rolled hips until our flies met, denim rasping denim, the hard bar of him grinding against mine.
“Fuck,” I said, fumbling with my belt, enjoying every second of my hand brushing against the hard dick in his jeans.
In response Dyusha kicked off his boots, then in a mere second his jeans and tiny blue briefs puddled at his ankles—one quick shake and he was bare, skin flashing honey-gold in the lamplight. He then dropped to his knees, yanked my belt open, and tugged my jeans and boxers down in a single frantic pull. Before the denim even hit the rug he sprang back, thighs straddling mine, cock slapping flat against my stomach as he settled. Heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat—clothes forgotten, time collapsed into the shock of skin finally meeting skin.
I let my gaze drop—his cock jutted straight up like a flagpole snapped sideways in a gale, the mid-shaft bend pointing left with defiant pride. Foreskin stretched glassy-tight over a swollen, shiny head that strained to peel back but couldn’t quite clear the rim; only a pin-hole glans winked through, wet and desperate. Beneath, his sac drew up small and neat, wrinkled skin pulled close to the body, while short black curls sprouted wild but soft—nothing matted, just honest growth curling around the base. When I looked up Dyusha’s eyes were waiting, pupils blown wide, jaw slack; the stage-smile was gone, replaced by something raw and astonished, as if he couldn’t believe we’d finally reached this verse.
As my readers will know, I seldom top, but I couldn’t not go on. I wanted to feel him inside, wanted to continue licking his nipples, watching his crooked dick sway left and right, watching his face contorted in wild passion that replaced his cheerful, then sad, stage persona… So I rolled my own foreskin back, spit in my palm, working the head until it gleamed—what a rare thrill of being the one about to top a cute guy.
Dyusha hovered above me, knees clamping my hips, chest heaving; I guided the bent shaft aside and nudged upward. The moment my crown kissed his ring he let gravity take over—soft, steady descent, heat folding around me like velvet gloves. I slid through, no burn, just a slow bloom of pressure that tingled along my ridge and then kissed something warm and firm inside him—his prostate, pulsing back like a tiny heart. The forgotten top-side spark lit every nerve: I was inside, surrounded, and his eyes fluttered open wide, astonished at the sensation he deserved.
“Ride me your way,” I whispered. Dyusha’s eyes flashed, dark lashes trembling as he rose on tensed thighs—slow as a drawn bow—until my swollen crown alone stretched his rim. He hovered, breathing through parted lips, then sank again, one deliberate inch at a time, his head falling back so that black curls brushed his shoulders. A low, throaty Ukrainian hum vibrated out of him on every down-stroke—half sigh, half song—while the room filled with the wet, intimate sound of foreskin peeling and folding back inside him.
Next he swayed sideways, hips painting arcs in the air; his bent cock slapped left-right across my navel, smearing precum in cool stripes. My shaft rolled like a joystick inside him, nudging walls he’d never mapped before—each swivel wrung a sharp hiss from us both. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, catching the lamp-glow; his tiny nipples pebbled tight, chest hair matted to skin as he ground down, searching for the spark again.
Then the cowboy took over: palms flat on my pecs, knees clamping, he snapped into rapid-fire slams—ass cheeks clapping my groin so hard my balls squished flat beneath his weight on every impact. The sofa groaned, springs singing in time; his breathing broke into short, desperate barks, eyes squeezed shut, lower lip caught between teeth. I watched colour flood his throat, watched that bent cock leak onto my stomach with each jolt, until the whole room smelled of sex and pine-soap and the slap-slap-slap of skin said we’d crossed the final chorus together.
The next slam shot a warning flare up my shaft—balls drawing tight, spine lighting like dry tinder—so I clamped hands on his hips and slowed him to a grind. “Not yet,” I murmured, sealing my mouth over the nearest nipple; I sucked hard, tongue flicking the tiny nub while his chest rose and fell in shaky waves. For three heartbeats he obeyed, rocking just enough to keep my crown kissing his sweet spot, his ragged breath fanning my hair.
Then with a low, stubborn groan he snapped back to full speed, ass pounding my lap so hard the sofa legs skidded an inch across the rug. His bent cock whipped left-right, flinging clear strings of precum that striped my ribs and dotted the cushion beside us; each slap sounded wetter, louder. The strangled head flared crimson, foreskin stretched glass-tight, a single crimson slit winking as veins rose in bold relief beneath the glossy skin.
His face twisted into something almost painful—eyes screwed shut, jaw slack, a thin line of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth to his chin. I watched the knot of his Adam’s apple jerk with every swallowed grunt, watched sweat roll down the hollow of his throat and gather in the curls on his chest. The room narrowed to the slap of skin, the squeak of springs, the raw, animal sound of a man chasing his finish with no thought left for anything but the fire building in his shaft and the cock impaling him deeper each time he crashed down.
I felt him clamp down—ring turning to iron just as my crown kissed that swollen gland again—and the twin pressure inside his tunnel and against my balls snapped the last thread. Heat surged up my shaft; I pulsed in long, almost painful jets, each throb scraping against the tight sleeve he’d become, the space so narrow the release felt like scratching an unreachable itch. A raw groan tore out of me, mouth latching harder on his nipple, teeth grazing skin.
Dyusha froze mid-slam, every muscle locking. “Blyad—” he hissed, then shook like a caught horse. His cock kicked between us and fired: three high, pearly arcs that slapped my chin, throat, collarbone in warm, viscous ropes. The scent hit immediately—sweet, almost floral, like good horylka left to breathe—mingling with sweat and sex while he kept shuddering, milking the last drops onto my chest, breath ragged in the sudden quiet.
Before the sweat cooled, Dyusha’s fists hammered my chest—short, sharp blows punctuated by a torrent of Ukrainian oaths or curses I couldn’t translate. For a heartbeat I tensed, sure I’d hurt him; my softened cock slipped out in the jolt, leaving a cool rush of liquid between us. Then I caught the pitch—raw exultation, not rage—his voice cracking on every curse while tears started again, softer this time.
He collapsed forward, arms snapping around my neck, breath coming in frantic, wheezing gulps that fluttered against my skin. I held him through the tremors, felt his ribs quake under my palms while he babbled thanks or prayers or both. His ass settled onto my lap again, slick crease gliding along my spent shaft, thighs squeezing as if to keep the moment—and me—locked inside the aftershock.
Soon in the shower steam fogged the small tile box while Dyusha stood under the spray, shoulders turned inward like he wanted the water to hide him. His cock hung long and relaxed—eight centimetres at least—foreskin draped in a heavy fold that swayed when he shifted weight. I itched to thumb that velvet sleeve, feel the weight rest in my palm, but the sudden wall of shyness between us held my hand at my side.
“You all right?” I asked over the drum of water. He kept eyes on the drain, voice barely above the spray. “Yeah…” The word trailed off, uncertain, as if he were asking himself the same question and hadn’t found the answer yet.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“Augie,” he struggled to find words. “I am not ready to love you, I am sorry I let this happen…”
“Oh,” I laughed in relief. “You don’t have to promise me anything, come on. Did you have a good time?”
He nodded.
“I loved every minute,” I said. “You don’t worry about me, I’ve had a great time, and I truly felt you, your songs, your soul, your passion. You go find yourself a nice boyfriend, and let you guys have a great life.”
He nodded.
“And please sing for me again some time,” I said. “I promise I’ll behave.”
“That if I behave,” he responded, and I could feel he was no longer tense.
***
Ah, guys, that hug at the airport, it will stay with me forever. The smell of spring rain of shampoo on his skin, the large body enveloping me, sweet smelling flaxen curls rough against my cheek, then—hello!—an obvious semi in his tight-fitting jeans, and a gentle kiss on my cheek.
Sometimes I sing your song when I need to feel the sharp pleasure, the clean festival version, and when I do, Dyusha, do you still hear me, hear me, hear me?
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