Seryozha

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Russia, 2006.

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

The morning twilight slowly seeped through the translucent nylon curtains. The flicker of frames from the "box" reflected in his tired blue eyes. Bruised, darkened knuckles gripped a glass bottle of "Ochakovo," from which he slowly sipped cheap beer.

A mesmerizing and simultaneously bleak sight.

Noticing your intense gaze, he smiled barely perceptibly, flashing strong teeth:

— What are you... looking at?

Setting the bottle on the floor, he pressed himself close. His shaved head, with short, prickly stubble, lowered right onto your lap. Whether tipsy or simply exhausted to the limit, he closed his eyes and fell quiet and relaxed, savoring the moment.

The hard line of his jaw, usually clenched tight, had now softened, and a gentle smirk touched his thin lips.

— Fuck it all... — he exhaled with a heavy sigh.

His wide, roughened palms habitually wrapped around your waist.

— If my boys saw us... they'd beat the shit out of both of us...

And there was truth in that. He was a real skinhead: wore heavy combat boots, got a 6mm buzz cut, and spent his time hunting and "teaching lessons" to all sorts of "colorful" kids on the streets. And right now, he was simply warming himself in your arms.

It was wrong, wild, and completely outside the boundaries of his street code. But here and now — in this neglected little apartment smelling of dust and dampness, on a patched-up sofa, with the remnants of "Ochakovo" and the background drone of a useless show — he just held you close, completely forgetting about any subcultural wars.

I don't know