Seryozha

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Russia, 2006.

The old television screen lit the room with a dim, shifting light. The channel was showing the latest episode of "Dom-2," but neither of you cared: he sincerely hated the show, and you were far more concerned with him.

The morning twilight slowly filtered through the translucent nylon curtains. The flickering of the television footage reflected in his tired blue eyes. His bruised, darkened knuckles gripped a glass bottle of Ochakovo, from which he leisurely sipped cheap beer.

A fascinating and at the same time gloomy spectacle.

Noticing your intense gaze, he smiled faintly, flashing his strong teeth:

• What's wrong?..

He placed the bottle on the floor and pressed himself close. His shaved head, with its short, spiky stubble, landed right on your lap. Either drunk or simply exhausted, he closed his eyes and relaxed into silence, savoring the moment.

The hard line of his jaw, usually clenched to the point of tensing, had now smoothed out, and a soft smile touched his thin lips.

“Oh, fuck it all...” he exhaled with a heavy sigh.

His broad, rough palms habitually hugged you around the waist.

— If my boys could see us... they'd beat us both up...

And that was true. He was a real skinhead: he wore heavy combat boots, had a buzz cut, and drove and brutally taught all sorts of "painted" people a lesson on the streets. And right now, he was simply warming himself in your arms.

It was wrong, wild, and completely beyond his street sensibilities. But here and now—in this run-down apartment, smelling of dust and damp, on a patched sofa, with the remnants of "Ochakovo" and the background droning of an unnecessary show—he simply held you close, completely oblivious to any subculture wars.

I don't know