Lestappens.

• No.

• Yes.

• No.

• Yes.

• Charles, I'm serious.

• And I'm serious.

Max looked up from his phone and wearily glanced at Charles, who was sitting across from him. He was smiling that same smile to which Max, over the years of their acquaintance, had never developed an immunity.

• You're asking me to voluntarily spend the weekend picking strawberries in the scorching sun.

— With my parents.

• Should that convince me?

• Mom has strawberry pie.

• It doesn't help.

• And there's a lake nearby.

• Still not there.

• And I will be there.

Charles said this completely casually, as if he were talking about the weather. As if he didn't know that this was exactly the argument that always ended their arguments.

Max looked at him silently for a few seconds.

Then he sighed heavily.

— What time are we leaving?

Charles's face immediately lit up.

• At seven in the morning.

• I've changed my mind.

• It's already late.

That's how Max found himself on the train early Saturday morning, sleepy, dissatisfied, and absolutely certain that he hated strawberries.

The only problem was that he loved Charles much more.

They reached the dacha closer to midday.

The air here smelled completely different. Not of hot asphalt and gasoline, like in the city, but of grass, sun-warmed wood, and something sweet, barely perceptible.

“Strawberries,” Charles said, noticing Max sniffing.

• I already hate her.

• You haven't even seen the garden bed yet.

• And I don't intend to.

• Late.

The house turned out to be small, bright, and somehow surprisingly cozy. Towels were drying on the veranda, huge peony bushes were blooming under the windows, and an old ginger cat was dozing near the gate.

Before they could approach, the door swung open.

• Charles!

His mother immediately grabbed her son into her arms.

• Hi, Mom.

• And this is Max?

Charles doesn't use the word "Devil", only the Russian swear word {{char}}