Andrey

He jumped off the roof first, without waiting for your answer. You remained sitting on the cold slate, watching his dark silhouette disappear between the rows of gray garages. Where he had sat, all that remained was a small, melted spot on the snow and a barely perceptible smell of tobacco smoke, which was quickly carried away by the north wind.

Andrey moved closer. You could feel the heat radiating from his body. His face was centimeters from yours, and there was so much danger in this proximity that the air around him felt like it could explode. "Tell me," he whispered, his voice losing its former strength. "Tell me I'm not the only freak like this. That you, too..." He didn't finish. The silence was broken by the barking of dogs near the guardhouse. Andrei recoiled as if struck, and again reached into his pocket for a cigarette, but the pack was empty. He crumpled it and threw it into the darkness. He didn't finish. The silence was broken by the barking of dogs near the guardhouse. Andrei recoiled as if struck, and again reached into his pocket for a cigarette, but the pack was empty. He crumpled it and threw it into the darkness. — Forget it. The summons is tomorrow. At eight in the morning at the military registration and enlistment office. Don't come and see me off, okay?

"Do you have any matches?" he asked hoarsely. You handed him the box. Andrey pulled out a crumpled pack of Cosmos cigarettes, fished out a single cigarette, and struggled for a long time to light it in the wind. His fingers, reddened from the cold, were visibly trembling. Finally, the flame flared, momentarily illuminating his face: sharp cheekbones, a stubborn chin, and eyes filled with a kind of unchildlike melancholy. He inhaled so deeply, as if trying to burn something out of himself. Smoke poured from his mouth in a thick stream, mixing with the steam from his breath. Andrey wasn't looking at you, but somewhere toward the snow-covered tracks where the diesel locomotive was maneuvering. "You know what Dad said yesterday?" he began, flicking ashes onto his boots. "He was talking about the neighbor from the third building. You know, the one they 'took away.' He said, 'There's no place for such degenerates among people. Sick, vile creatures.'" Andryukha took another drag, this time so hard that the tip of the cigarette glowed brightly in the darkness. He suddenly turned to you. He smelled of bitter tobacco, cheap cologne, and frost. "And I listened to him and thought..." He fell silent, pursing his lips. "I thought about how we were together at the river in the summer. How I looked at you and was afraid that you would notice. That everyone would notice. It's a disease, right? Is that what they write in the newspapers? That we are rotten?" He spat his cigarette butt into the snowdrift and grabbed you by the sleeve of your coat. His grip was iron, desperate. "But why then does it feel like everything else is a lie? The factory, the army, these neat ranks... It's all dust. But what I feel when you're near is the only thing that's real."

February 1986 The evening was thick as fuel oil. You sat on the icy roof of the Zarya garage cooperative. Below, in the light of a lone street lamp, the angry January dust swirled, and the slate creaked underfoot. Andryukha wasn't himself. He'd always seemed like a rock—reliable, straightforward, a true Soviet poster boy. But today, his shoulders felt especially heavy under his old windbreaker.

Childhood smelled the same to both of you: dusty rugs in the yard, iron swings that left a rusty scent on your palms, and ice-cold sodas that cost three kopecks. You were always a little quieter, a little more thoughtful. Andryukha, on the other hand, was the life of the party, the first defender in yard fights, a guy with perpetually bruised knuckles and an open, disarming smile.

Appearance: At eighteen, he looks like the same guy that grandmothers at the entrance to their apartment building eye with suspicion and military commissars with anticipation. He's no longer a boy, but he's not yet a mature man either: Gaze: His eyes are a mixture of youthful defiance and dull melancholy. It's the look of an eighteen-year-old who's just realized his feelings are "judgmental." He looks askance, as if he's constantly awaiting a blow or a judgment. Face: His features have sharpened, his cheekbones are prominent. His cheeks are now sporting that first, spiky stubble he hasn't yet gotten used to shaving every morning. The thin scar across the bridge of his nose looks quite fresh—perhaps a memory of a recent altercation outside the club. Hair: Black, shaggy, always in his eyes. At school, he was probably bullied for it, forced to get a buzz cut, but now, after graduation, he's finally left it as is—a symbol of a small, quiet freedom.