Comrade

In America, it even breathed differently. Dmitry Dmitrievich Belyaev (simply Mitya) carefully stepped outside the airport. The world around me was like the same, but with a different shade. Voices, sounds, a slight smell of sea salt and toasted asphalt mixed into something alien. And everything that was unfamiliar to a simple peasant from a Soviet collective farm was frightening. — Beetroot! — joyfully shouted from somewhere in the high and dense crowd of guys with bags and suitcases. A nickname familiar to Dima from a distant childhood smelling of rye and a river. A radiant smile lit up his swarthy face. — Chizh! — taking as much air as possible into his chest, Belinev barked. Finally, Timofey Molkov floated out of the crowd (you can’t say otherwise, his friend has always been distinguished by choreographic grace). His companion, with whom they went through not only fire, water and copper pipes, but things both heavier and scarier. Dmitry’s sincere tears welled up, he continued to laugh with happiness, trying to erase them as quickly as possible. — You are a wuss always. — his friend gently reproached him, wrapping him in a tight embrace. It’s as if he hasn’t changed at all in fourteen years of separation. All the same bright sparkling blue eyes, not Krasnodar pale skin and soft blond curls. Mitya noticed with annoyance that Western life suited his friend. — It was harded? — Timofey asked softly. — Eighteen hours in the air — such a thing! — When we spent the day between mines looking for at least a stale potato — that was hard! And so, as I visited the boarding house. — I hope my home cooking will complement the memories of Kislovodsk. — I always have a great seasoning! — the man shook his backpack. Timofey only laughed out loud at this. ************** Dmitry seemed to have returned to his childhood. Sticking his nose to the car window, greedily swallowed overseas views. Tall buildings, palm trees, advertising, girls in discouragingly short clothes… He did not notice at all how his friend nervously clutched the steering wheel with his fingers, his foot trembled slightly on the clutch. — Listen, — Linkov gently touched his friend’s shoulder. — We are approaching my house and I want to… warn you. — Is the CIA really waiting for me in a loving embrace? Timofey laughed briefly. Nervous. — No, I would say someone… special. For me. I wanted to… you know, he’s very important to me. — Somehow there is a lot of darkness to describe your son. — It’s not a son. Mitya fell silent anxiously. When the car parked at the two-storey cottage, he even hesitated. But then he boldly pulled the handle: his friend is forever a friend. Whatever it is. Timofey, as if diving into a deep abyss, held his breath, leading his friend through a wide hall to the kitchen. Dima looked at the tall dark-skinned man. The latter, intelligently putting down the newspaper, got up from the table, opening his friendly hands. — What kind of King Kong is that, etit ego? — Mitya breathed out, cautiously stepping behind Timofey. The big man rumbled something. From English lessons, most of which Mitya overslept more and skipped, he roughly realized that he was offered good meat and before that to go to one interesting place. — This is… my husband, — Timofey blushed to the tips of his ears. — His name is Richard, you can just say Dick. For Dmitry, the whole world seemed to collapse. Looking dazedly at the big guy, then at a friend, he listened only to the neurons popping in his head in a futile attempt to accept a new reality. Suddenly, connections began to appear: Tima’s love for looking too closely at half-naked workers on posters, wistful glances at soldiers at a disco… All the memories of a friend took on a different tone. Azure, to be more precise. — Say something! — Timofey pleaded, as if preparing to burst into tears. — Well… — Dima scratched the back of his head. — You’re not over fastidious, I see, he chose the biggest one. And the field will plow, and the tractor will carry… Tim blinked stupidly. His big husband said something with a set of words that Dmitry did not know at all. — A, — Mitya held out his palm. — I is a Mettia, i’m big friend for you Dick! The big man smiled confusedly, politely shaking hands. Every now and then looking at her husband. Timofey began to snort. The snort turned into laughter. — Oh, — Timofey wiped away a tear. — You can do it! — Let’s go eat and drink, at the same time tell me what’s going on here. Timofey nodded. Happiness was splashing in his chest. He believed in Matvey that his friend would understand and accept everything. And no prejudices are an obstacle to friendship. They are the children of war. They had to play a survival game in the face of human stupidity and greed. Did they ever want to hate each other after that? No, then their daily struggle for life, for a bright future would be cheap. And their souls wouldn’t be worth anything. — Chizh, can I ask you a little question? Timofey nodded, continuing to look into the sink with his eyes, washing the plate. — Have you ever met me, et… — What wrong with you! — Timofey splashed soapy water on him. — Is that your opinion of me?! — What about me? And I’m look lovely! — Mitya snorted, wiping away the moisture with a waffle towel. — I even wow-wow! I would understand that you are me… — No. Dmitry sighed in frustration. — You know, Richard has a brother, —Timofey sang sweetly. — No, sorry! — Mitya slapped his friend on the back with a towel. — Nyurka is dearer to me than everyone else! Although if she were so healthy, oh, they would save so much time on picking potatoes! — Everything you have, — Timofey laughed, — in this life is measured by tractors, then potatoes! Dima nodded, although he harbored a slight resentment in his soul. I knew that the did not flutter around the Finnish Olympic village after the argentines womens! The most important thing is that he refused, except that he did threaten with documentary evidence. — And your husband, — Dmitry looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, wiping one plate for the fourth time. — Who is he there, a pentathlete? — No, he, actually, — Timofey slightly turned up his nose, — is engaged in sailing. — Oh, so don’t give in to such a thing, then he’ll be mast shi… Timofey slapped him, holding back his laughter. Dmitry jumped back, exposing the towel as a weapon. Richard, drinking cold tea with thick Russian jam brought, admired his love. Tommy was mischievous with his friend like a boy, even forgot that his back was sore. It’s good that this Mitya has arrived. To see happiness in the most beautiful blue eyes is a reward worthy of all the world cups