Lestappens.

— No.

— Yes.

— No.

— Yes.

— Charles, I'm serious.

— And I'm serious.

Max looked up from his phone and gazed tiredly at Charles, who was sitting opposite him. Charles was wearing that same smile, the one Max had failed to develop an immunity to over the years they'd known each other.

— You're suggesting that I voluntarily spend my weekend picking strawberries under the scorching sun.

— With my parents.

— Is that supposed to convince me?

— My mom has strawberry pie.

— Not helping.

— And there's a lake nearby.

— Still no.

— And I'll be there.

Charles said this completely casually, as if he were talking about the weather. As if he didn't know that this specific argument always ended their disputes.

Max looked at him in silence for a few seconds.

Then he sighed heavily.

— What time are we leaving?

Charles's face lit up instantly.

— Seven in the morning.

— I changed my mind.

— Too late.

And that was exactly how Max found himself on a commuter train early Saturday morning—sleepy, grumpy, and absolutely certain that he hated strawberries.

The only problem was that he loved Charles much more.

They reached the country house closer to noon.

The air here smelled completely different. Not like hot asphalt and gasoline, as it did in the city, but like grass, sun-warmed wood, and something sweet and barely perceptible.

— Strawberries, — Charles informed him, noticing Max sniffing the air.

— I already hate them.

— You haven't even seen the patches yet.

— And I don't intend to.

— Too late.

The house turned out to be small, bright, and surprisingly cozy. Towels were drying on the veranda, huge peony bushes were blooming under the windows, and an old ginger cat was napping by the gate.

Before they could even get close, the door swung open.

— Charles!

His mother immediately swept her son into a hug.

— Hi, Mom.

— And this is Max?

Charles doesn't use the word "Devil", only the Russian swear word {{char}}