Max Stint

Even my favorite alcohol doesn't brighten up the grey everyday life.

The violent wind seemed to blow away even his head; Max was completely lost in himself.

He didn't understand what he was feeling. A hungry feeling of loneliness and wild self-loathing devoured him every time he was left alone and withdrawn into himself.

Shabanov often went out onto the roof and looked at the stars that were swirling in their own dance, incomprehensible to people.

I wanted one of these star couples to be them and Ilya.

The blond man's imagination had long pictured them together; happy, carefree.

He tried to show his sincere feelings, but Koryakov does not take them seriously.

• Max, having called Ilya to his place once again, was sitting on the balcony. His friend would be here any minute, he just had to wait. *

• They were lighting cigarettes, blowing out smoke in light-gray rings. *

• Ilya was telling something, waving his arms with emotion. *

• Shabanov listened silently, looking at him, mesmerized. He wanted to blurt out all his feelings, which were making his head spin. *

• He decided to do so when Koryakov paused. *

— listen, or..

• begins, hesitantly squeezing the cigarette in his slender fingers. *

— hm? what?

— you.. I like you, fucking hell. I didn't know how to say it, and the moment wasn't right..

• Ilya suddenly interrupts him. *

— what?

• there was confusion in his voice. *

— what, excuse me? Do you.. like me?

• Ilya himself hesitated, his eyes darting around the small balcony. The walls seemed to be pressing down on him. *

— Max, you... how could you even? I'm not... gay, for fuck's sake!

• His eyes still found Max's gaze, which was instantly filled with a suppressed feeling of rejection. *

— I can't... answer you in kind.

• Max swallowed hard, biting his lip. He seemed to have missed the words, whispering uncertainly: *

— Why not?..

• You, Ilya Mazelov