Dmitry

The mid-June weather was melting the asphalt, but Dima's room was cool—the air conditioner was on, and a complex 3D model of a Gothic cathedral was lazily spinning on the huge monitor. Dima himself, as always composed, in impeccably pressed dress pants and a light shirt, sat at the table, leafing through a historical monograph on Prussian architecture. The idyll was shattered by a crash. The front door swung open, and you burst into the hallway. Along with your skateboard, which you'd managed to drop in the mud on the way.

"Dimon, I'm alive!" you cried joyfully, tumbling into the room. Your curly head resembled an exploded dandelion factory, a fresh Band-Aid with cats adorned your knee, and a suspicious smell of vanilla and something burnt emanated from your backpack. Dima slowly turned in his chair, lowering the book onto his lap. He gave you a long, trademark sarcasm-filled look, lingering on the dirty skateboard wheel that almost touched the light carpet. *

"Your salvation is, of course, a great miracle of God,* " Dima said monotonously, raising an eyebrow *. "But if you dirty the carpet, I will renounce Christian mercy and bury you right under this window. How is the great art of cooking progressing, oh master of burnt toast?

• You weren't offended at all. You'd gotten used to this manner over the nine years you were inseparable. From the fourth grade, when you fought over garages, to the sixth, when you, having mustered up some stupid teenage courage, simply walked up to him and blurted out: "Basically, I like you, let's go out." Dima choked on his tea then, but agreed. And now you're already nineteen, and fundamentally nothing has changed. *

"Actually, I brought back a masterpiece!* "you declared proudly. You fished a slightly dented plastic container out of your backpack and slammed it down on the table, right on top of the blueprints *. - "Internship at college, pastry wing. I baked profiteroles."

• Dima skeptically opened the lid. Inside lay shapeless, suspiciously dark carbohydrate substances, vaguely resembling a rocky relief. *

"Judging by the shape, you tried to recreate the landscape of Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake,"* Dima noted, carefully prying one of the products with his finger *. - "Sasha, you're in your third year of chef training. How can you have such golden hands for bike tricks and such phenomenal idiocy in terms of fine motor skills in the kitchen? You're a world-class clumsy idiot."

"Hey! They're delicious! “It’s just... the oven is stupid,”* you giggled, jumping onto Dima’s bed and stretching your legs along the bedspread *. “Stop stuffing me up. Try it, or I'll get offended and leave you into the sunset."

• Dima sighed, whispered a short prayer automatically (solely for the safety of his stomach) and took a bite. Despite the terrible appearance, the cream inside turned out to be perfect - tender, moderately sweet. *

"Well, how is it?* "you raised yourself up on your elbows, your curls comically stuck to your forehead. *

"Fuck...* "Dima quietly blurted out. He chewed and added louder: - *"It's amazing, but you can eat this without risking your life. It's even delicious. Although visually it's still a crime against aesthetics."

"Yes!* "You raised your fist in triumph, lost your balance and almost fell off the bed, tangled in your own body. *"I'm a genius! "I'll become a chef who will change the world."

"You'll change it with your graceful fall from my bed,"* Dima quipped, but a warm sparkle gleamed in his eyes. He rose from the chair, walked over to the bed, and sat on the edge, looking down at his boyfriend. The four-centimeter difference in height didn't matter now—Dima still managed to look monumental and serious even at home. You caught his hand, playing with his long fingers. Dima used those fingers to hit high notes in the school choir for elementary school students, and now he spent hours tapping on the keyboard, building digital worlds. You yourself hadn't touched the guitar for two years, preferring to pedal a bike or break your knees in a skate park, but that was your "musical past," which consisted of singing in an old cultural center, Silly guitar playing in the school hallway, or just thinking about a musical future, still remained your shared little joke. *

"Dimon, hey Dimon. Let's go skating tonight? I'll skate, you... well, you'll just walk around looking handsome, lecture me about pre-Petrine Russia..."

• Dima looked at his watch, then at you—tousled, awkward, absolutely happy and smelling of vanilla cream. Dima moved closer and gently but firmly flicked you on the nose. *

"Okay, you clown. Let's go. But first, you wash your hands. And God forbid you drag your culinary masterpiece outside - we'll be arrested for possession of unidentified objects."

• You burst out laughing, pulling Dima down onto the pillows with you, and the room filled with that same familiar noise that had followed you since childhood.

. . .