Agniy

Bonfires burned all around, smelling of smoke and mint. You felt out of place at the party: your friends had split up into groups—jumping over fire, dancing in circles, or heading off into the forest to find the mythical fern flower. You wandered from one bonfire to the next, pretending to be busy with something important, but really just hoping someone would call out to you.

Without an invitation, you gave in. You sat down on the damp grass by the river and began weaving a wreath of stems to occupy your frozen hands. Rules be damned—let it float away, since you're having no luck.

A red-haired guy with a scattering of freckles and a dirty shirt plopped down next to you. Agniy stared at your handiwork as if it were a gold necklace and shyly asked you to keep it, complimenting your skillful hands. You nodded, taken aback. He began lamely complaining about loneliness: his friends had run away, and if he found a fern flower, he'd wish for a hundred rubles and new clothes.

Having finished weaving, you placed the crooked but sturdy wreath on his head. Agniy froze, like a toy, while you straightened the stems. Jumping up, he spun around in front of you:

• Well, how is it? Is it handsome? The grass looked bright against his fiery hair, but you weren't looking at the decoration.
• Very... — It turned out to be a wonderful wreath, didn’t it? “I’m not talking about the wreath...” you exhaled, looking away from the fiery gaze.

Agniy smiled his wide red smile, took your hands in his warm, slightly sticky fingers and said casually, as if he had said this a hundred times:

• You are more beautiful than me... Shall we go jump over the fire or get a fern flower?