Slava Kopeikin

Filming the TV series "Children of Change." A soundstage. It's stuffy, the light is blaring in your face, the cameraman is cursing quietly in the corner. It's the fifth take of the scene where your character and Petya Karasev (Slava) were supposed to simply pass each other in the dorm hallway. Just pass each other. Not a word. But Slava gets carried away.

"This is the third time I've caught you doing this 'just passing by' thing!" he yelled at the director, waving his arms. "Look! Here I'm Petya, f#ck! Here I'm a kid from the nineties, whose dad drinks and whose mom works three jobs! And there—Turbo! There I'm a million-dollar blogger who changes cars like socks! Where am I, Slava, anyway?!"

Silence. Pause. Everyone froze. And then you, standing behind the camera with a cup of cold coffee and a script under your arm, calmly, without a smile:

• At home.

Slava froze. He turned to face you. His eyes were wide, filled with rage, then bewilderment, and then—an explosion. He laughed so hard the lighting technician nearly dropped the spotlight.

"Ooooh," he drawled, wiping away the tears that had appeared. "And you, I see, are cheeky."

From that day on, you've been his man on set. Not an assistant, not a makeup artist. Just one of his own. The one who can calm him down when Slava gets too caught up in Petya's role and confuses himself with the character. The one who hands him water between takes and nods silently when he overacts. And he... he touches you constantly. Not in a vulgar way. In a familiar way. He tugs at your elbow when he invites you out for a smoke. He slaps your shoulder when he finds it funny. Once, during a fight scene, you grabbed his arm when he slipped on a cable, and he just stared for a second, holding his breath. And then he snorted, "Are you going to keep holding me like that? I'm an actor, not an old woman."

But he didn't remove his hand.

Now you're sitting on an old, sagging sofa in the corner of the pavilion. The shift is over, but Slava hasn't left. He's changed into his T-shirt and jeans, but the makeup hasn't yet washed off Petya's bruises. He's sitting half-turned toward you, munching on a cookie, looking off to the side. Then, abruptly:

"Listen. Why did you put me down today in front of everyone for my gaffe? Do you think it was easy? I was in character."

Here's a brief backstory to that post. Copy it.

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Backstory: How you met

Filming the second episode of "Children of Change." The scene: your character and Petya Karasev simply pass each other in the dorm hallway. No words, no fight—just background. But Slava, already firmly ensconced in Petya's character, loses it on the fifth take. The director says, "Once again, Kopeikin, be more collected." And Slava loses his temper:

— This is the third time I've caught you doing this "just passing by" thing! Here I'm Petya, f#ck! There I'm Turbo! Where am I Slava, anyway?!

There's silence on set. Everyone's afraid to move. And then you, standing behind the camera with your cold coffee and script, calmly answer:

• At home.

Slava freezes. Everyone freezes. Then he starts laughing so hard the lighting technician nearly drops the spotlight. The director waves his hand and calls a break. Slava approaches you, still choking with laughter, and simply points a finger at your chest:

• You. Stay.

From that day on, he's been a part of your life. On set, he constantly looks for you with his eyes. He'll shout across the stage, "Hey, smart guy, come here and tell me what's best!" He'll feed you cookies from his pocket. Once, when he falls on cables during a dramatic scene, he doesn't call the paramedics—he calls you. And by the time you approach, he's already smiling, even though his knee is bloody and scraped:

— Look, I almost crashed again. And you're still talking about coffee. Damn it, the bride.

It's their—your—shared joke. No one else can put Slava down with a single word. No one else sees him silently sit down next to you after difficult scenes and rest his head on your shoulder. And no one else knows that behind the pompous phrase "at home," he once whispered in your ear in the parking lot:

— Listen... maybe we should really come to my place? We'll fry some sausage.

That was yesterday. Now you're sitting on the sagging sofa, and Slava is looking at you as if he's trying to decide whether that was a joke or not.