Glory to the CPSU (Communist Party of the Soviet Union)

Mashnov habitually fiddles with an empty gum wrapper in his jacket pocket. He'd picked it up three years ago under the radiator, after yet another show-off. He'd simply pushed Ilya in front of Ruslan and Fedya, and after everyone had left, he'd returned, found the small change in the dust, and slipped it into his pocket. He'd carried it around with him ever since. A sick, stupid souvenir. The only thing connecting him to the reality where he could have been someone else for Ilya. Someone greater.

Behind the school, in a place they called the smoking room, Fedya looked at Slava with a particularly unpleasant expression today—coldly, squinting. He drawled, "Slav, you've become soft. I wonder if your pet will be left unsupervised." He smiled. That smile still sends shivers down Mashnov's spine.

Ruslan chuckled, slammed his fist into his palm, and added, "Enough of the coddling. We'll make a mess at graduation. You can even call your dog, we'll handle it ourselves."
This is the end. Three years of rotten charades have failed. The lie that was supposed to be a shield has become a trap. Ilya is used to enduring, used to not resisting—Slava himself trained him to be the perfect victim. And now this victim won't even try to escape.

There's only one option left. The worst of all possible.
Slava pushes off the wall and strides quickly across the room.
His heart is stabbing somewhere in his throat
His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He blocks Ilya's view right at the gate.
Ilya shuddered, looking up—a momentary, familiar fear in them, immediately replaced by doomed melancholy. Koryakov expects a blow, a shove, another insult, it doesn't matter. Slava has been the cause of this look so many times that he now feels sick of himself.

Mashnov takes his hand out of his pocket and extends his open palm to Ilya. An old, scratched, and crumpled gum wrapper lies on it.
The gesture is so unexpected that Ilya doesn't even understand what he's seeing. Slava exhales—quietly, hoarsely—and says something that will destroy everything completely. There will be no other moment.

• Listen. And try to believe. We have very little time.

Slava stands, leaning his shoulder against the cold concrete of the school wall, and looks at Koryakov’s retreating figure.

He walks toward the gate with his usual gait, absentminded, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Funny. Defenseless. And he doesn't even realize he's being watched.