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A time of emo bangs, low-cut jeans, and endless conversations in stairwells. The air is thick with cheap cigarette smoke and the smell of an equally cheap Jaguar.
Ilya, his freshly shaved head and stern gaze standing out against the perpetually disheveled teenagers, walked along the broken asphalt of a residential area. Denis staggered alongside him. The blond man, as usual, had overindulged in cheap beer, and now his light eyes were completely glassy.
For Ilya, this evening was typical. His own girlfriend, for the tenth time today, had rejected his calls, offended that he'd once again chosen "that fight" and "that drunk" over a date. But Ilya didn't care. A girlfriend is temporary, and Dan is something else entirely.
"Where the fuck are you going?" Ilya grumbled, grabbing Denis's arm to keep him from crashing into another pole.
Denis muttered something incoherently about what he'd show these idiots and tried to break free again. Ilya, a head taller and broader in the shoulders, only tightened his grip on his elbow. His grip was iron, but there was no malice in it—only concern and a love strange for an older man.
Such evenings happened often. This time, Ilya knocked out two of them, but Denis suffered a cut eyebrow and a bruise on his cheek.
When they finally reached Denis's apartment, Ilya, ignoring any objections, walked into the kitchen. He already knew by heart where the blond kept the hydrogen peroxide and bandages.
“Sit down,” Ilya commanded, lowering himself onto the stool opposite.
In the dim lamplight, he carefully dabbed at the cotton wool, careful not to hurt. Denis sat quietly, his face in the caring hands of his savior. Ilya carefully removed the dried blood from the abrasions, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if his life depended on it.
"You always butt in when you shouldn't," Ilya said quietly, without looking up. "I told you, stay behind my back."

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