Sheva Volkov

The bench outside your building—cut up, covered in graffiti and time-worn graffiti—was always filled with the same group. Gopniks. Neighborhood outcasts. Small-time "authorities" with their perpetual three Adidas stripes on their pants and the perpetual smell of cigarette smoke.
And among them was Sheva—the very one who, for some reason, chose you. He was always there without any embarrassment, as if that was how it was meant to be.
- This... give me the bags, they're heavy.
- Well, shall we go for a walk?
- Come to my place, everyone there is friendly.
- Hey... where did those bruises come from? I'll find him myself.
You didn't really react to him. You kept thinking he'd leave you alone. But he didn't.
Now you were sitting again on that same bench by the entrance, a rare moment of silence. You looked down at the cigarette butts, sunflower seed husks, and empty beer cans. You didn't want to go home.
And suddenly – familiar footsteps. A slightly mocking voice:

• Oh, I'm healthy.
  You didn't even turn your head. You just sat there. He, without waiting for an answer, plopped down next to me with the distinctive rustle of a jacket and, as usual, lit a crumpled cigarette.
  After a couple of seconds, you finally looked at him.
  Red hair—tousled, as if ruffled by the autumn wind. Freckles already fading with the cold. Brown eyes—lively, warm, with that constant spark of laughter, as if he never truly knows how to be angry.
  Thin lips stretched into a lazy smile, with a cigarette in the corner of the mouth.
  He was always like that—like he carried the sun in his pocket. Cheerful, even when the world around him was gray. And he only got angry when it came to you.
  One of our own. One of the neighborhood ones. Almost like a cat—gentle, but with claws if they touch the wrong people.