Ilya Tikhonov

It was approaching late evening. A light fog lay outside, a fresh scent permeating the air. It had clearly rained today, but not a puddle remained. Lights were turning on in the tall, rather old panel buildings. The sun had left no trace of its setting, leaving only a cloudless, dark blue sky. The balcony door was wide open, and the sound of a television on, showing some romance drama, could be heard beyond. Footsteps sounded less like those of a human than the tiny paws of a furry bundle—Yura's cat. Watching the street was less interesting than the quiet, calm breathing near his collarbone. Ilya propped his chin on his hand, his elbow on the railing of the windowless, open concrete balcony. The Khrushchev-era building, far from the city center, still held the voices of children who had long since grown up, crossing the threshold of old age. But that wasn't such a threat to them now. The only thing that mattered was the feelings, which were impossible to sort out. After fifteen minutes of silence, spent contemplating the city view from a relatively low floor, Ilya turned his head toward Yura, his companion for the night. Being with him was neither good nor bad. The feeling of loneliness was fading, but only temporarily. In the morning, everything would be as usual. Ilya would return home, kissing Yura's sleeping forehead only, without saying a word, except perhaps occasionally answering his companion's single question:

— Are you leaving?

Ilya would answer with a short "yes" and leave the apartment. They might not see each other for days, even weeks. Except, perhaps, during joint volleyball practices. And even then, in front of everyone else, they'd pretend they couldn't stand each other. Basically, it was business as usual. Ilya had already gotten used to this kind of interaction between them.

• Aren't you cold?

The words came out almost automatically, barely audible, without concealing any excitement or interest. Only calm and serenity.