Last halt

A haze enveloped the mountains. The black blanket of night hid the impending calamity from sight. It is not for nothing that they say that ill and darkness are inseparable. Tension hung in the icy air sticky, dense enough to cut with a knife. Like a nasty sweat that drip my spine despite the hard frost. The stars were drowning in the blue-green rivers of the northern aurora, shimmering in soft flashes in the clear sky. Snowdrifts covered in a hard silver crust played with colored glints of radiance. The blizzard howled and wove a mournful song like a lonely mourner. It was a good thing they weren't buried today. The humming wind whistled through the shaggy peaks of the fir trees, spreading a disturbing longing across the snow-covered fields in the distance. Violent gusts whipped the side of a fallen iron bird lying lifeless on a cliff. Its ripped belly gaped, letting out an orange light. The mangled steel carcass silently welcomed the soldiers into a dismal shelter. One last stop before the pass. The fresh air stank more and more of cinders and carrion. Shimmering snowflake crystals flickered and swirled, scratching mercilessly at the dry, wounded skin. The lean figure standing by the precipice stood out in an angular silhouette against the sky. The lieutenant looked warily down at the tree crowns below. The red flashes of the signal torch blooming bloody flowers in the darkness had ceased. The despairing, desperate screams from the wheezing lungs had ceased. The roars of machine guns and the rattle of rifles ceased. The guttural bubbling cackle dissolved into the resinous darkness. Only the infrequent shouts and growls of the creatures feasting at the foot were heard in the forest. The balalaika, sounding alien in the terrible chaos of the battle, also fell silent. Its farewell song no longer flew over the mutilated bodies of the soldiers. A concert at the graveyard, but the dead are still warm. The lieutenant sighed heavily. Not so long ago they danced with their wives by the hands, twirling cheerfully to the fast rhythm. The war is merciless. What do they have now but songs, sweet, heartfelt, cheerful songs. Duty and fear only. In the last moment of his life, would he want to hear a tune dear to his heart? Would it have become easier for him? Zakharov thought for a second. When they get out of here, he will definitely let the lad play properly. Let him please the guys. The bitterness of hopelessness suddenly overwhelmed his mind. The lieutenant moved away.       The maddened snowflakes were beating frantically against the frozen hull of the airplane, trying to break into the cabin in a futile search for warmth. But they suddenly melted away in a deadly dance of scarlet flames. Like himself, dying of an embarrassing craving for other people's warmth. The guys were warming themselves by the fire, greedily devouring the sour rations. And his friend sat with them. For a long time Zakharov resisted. But he could not last longer. He was conquered at first sight by the honeyed eyes that faded with each passing year. The clarity of the lines of the chiseled face, now gaunt from malnutrition. Flying dark eyebrows, sharp as an arrow nose, thick darck hair and lips. Bright, seductive lips, with tantalizing curves of shape, now dry from dehydration and cold. The sergeant's sinewy figure concealed a good-looking slenderness beneath the heavy overcoat. The graceful palms, always warmed by the vigor of youth, were cold from hunger and neurosis. An statuesque officer of noble features was sitting down by the fire. He was still handsome. Even with overgrown face covered bruis and wounds. He was dozing, dropping his forehead covered with greasy strands on a dirty earflap. Nikolai left Kravchenko sleep there, tired and exhausted like himself. The sergeant had won him over. Intelligence, measured calmness, poise and reliability. With each passing month he was poisoned by his own poison of disgusting desire. With each damn day, his heart burned with the napalm of doubt. With each fleeting hour Zakharov felt a pressing feeling, an incomprehensible need to touch him. Tormenting attachment to a faithful friend devastated the pestilence his soul. The soul was exhausted, dried up from understatement with every minute that Kravchenko was near. Could he say that? What to say? For what? The mind was burning with kerosene flames, he was torn to pieces inside, as if thrown into a threshing machine. He chased away the rotten thoughts, letting himself freeze to the bone. He chased away feelings, encouraging his heart to grow stale. Bit by bit, all went away. Nicholas grew distant. Sergei only anxiously looked at him with tired honey eyes, feeling the tension of ephemeral strings. The aloofness helped. Until one day the shell cracked, tearing an aching wound.       How good that one time was. How long ago it was. They were lucky to camp in the fall in a quiet village. The local captain allocated a dugout with a stove. Soldiers finally slept a bunch on the floor worn out from the heat. Nikolai lay on the edge of the mattress, covered by his overcoat. And he next to him was deeply dozing, blissfully relaxed. Hot fingers carefully touched the calloused palm of the lieutenant burned and stained with gunpowder, but still soft. Nikolai felt himself paralyzed. He froze, afraid to move, in the trembling hope to lie like that until morning. He wanted to hold on to the wonderful moment of dreamy slumber. A truly pleasant and exciting moment not subject to him or anyone else. Moment allowing one to fall from reality, to sink into fantasy and desire. A moment that fills the vast emptiness of loneliness with ghostly tenderness. A tiny sweet drop of honey into the abyss. Sergei, of all people, always understood him. He was needed like no other. Suddenly the man, as if unintentionally, ran his palm lightly across his friend's inflamed knuckles and rolled over onto his side. The sergeant was calling silently to him. They had always had an unspoken bond, a mutual understanding. The mesmerized lieutenant followed the movement, carelessly moving too close. He stared fearfully at his friend's back. In the glow of the kerosene lamp flame the pale skin on the tender neck fluttered and trembled under the velocity of the red flow inside. Kravchenko is not sleeped. He was silent. Nikolai timidly pressed himself against his back, bashfully enjoying his friend’s pliable calm. Whose heart was beating faster then, trying to break out of his chest? The thought that Sergei did not mind, burned with lava sweat flowing down. He was instantly sweating. His groin was swelling, filled with splashing waves of excitement, when he leaned against his body. Nikolai involuntarily moved forward, fighting the wild urge to squeeze the guy in his arms. Did it seem to him that the sergeant moved towards, pressing close to him? It was only a jiffy that remained forever in his memory. They lay unforgivably close. He felt how lower abdomen suddenly churn. The pants did not hide the flesh sticking out like a thorn. Zakharov hurriedly rushed outside, locking himself in the latrine. Thoughts swirled in a slimy mass, clouding the mind. They circled stinging swarms, annoyingly passing images before his eyes. Did Sergei notice? He was choking on doubts. Turbulent emotions were overflowing, drowning, until they spilled out of the body with white sour cream. He was afraid to return. It was as if Calvary awaited him. A den of beasts. But everyone was asleep. Sergei buried his face in the sleeve of his uniform. A soldier must have hope for love. Zakharov loved his Zinaida. She's gone but left the most precious thing that was in his life. One weeps for the living and mourns the dead. Sometimes he wanted to cry. But he can't. There was no more strength to grieve.       He was overwhelmed with emotion. The wind was stifling in gusts, throwing clouds of smoke with snow in his face. Zakharov slowly spinning around in the clearing, trying not to freeze. There was a persistent pounding in his temples. A premonition of inevitable misfortune followed him like a hungry ghost. Something was bound to happen soon. The world whispered about it with the rustle of branches, shouted it with the rumble of mountains. The growing crunch of snow snapped Nikolai out of his reverie. The sound of quick footsteps approached him. In the green glow appeared a scarf-wrapped, tall figure in an overcoat. Under the visor of hat earflaps decorated with a red star was a familiar bearded face. His lips were clutching a smoking cigarette. — Decided to be freeze, Sergei Pavlovich? — Zakharov asked hoarsely. His lips were glued together because of the cold. - Or do you have business to attend to? - lieutenant involuntarily pulled down the standing collar. It had been a long time since they had been alone together. — Comrade Lieutenant, — said Kravchenko cautiously, — you should go to rest. I'll take the watch, — he held out a tart cigarette to his friend. — It's not your turn, — Zakharov cut him off and took a deep drag. One cigarette for two was a boon. — So I'm for Maxim, — the sergeant explained curtly. A soldier who vomits blood has no time for service. — It's early, — the lieutenant muttered, exhaling a fragrant cloud. They fell silent. Zakharov looked over his chiseled shoulder into the forest.       He watched as Sergei hesitated a little, stepped carefully back to the bushes and spread the woolen coat. It was unseemly to watch, but somehow he wanted to. Just look at him without fear of being caught. The sergeant finished and rubbed snow on his hands, plucking a big handful from the snowdrift. The sergeant hesitated. His unaccustomed thieving movements were alarming. The worried look of honey eyes worried the lieutenant. Kravchenko leisurely strolled to the side, barely noticeable looking around. Zakharov could not stand it and stepped firmly. Having taken cover near the airplane wreckage, the lieutenant stopped. — Well, spit it out. What's on your mind? — Zakharov says, staring into the handsome face. Sergei awkwardly snatched the cigarette from him and greedily inhaled the bitter smoke. — Do you feel it too, Nikolai? — The sergeant asked cautiously, letting out a jet of smoke. Zakharov is freeze. Abruptly he felt hot. Did he really talk about that time? The traitorous "yes" was on Nicolai's tongue. His jaw clenched with force, muskuls played on his jaws. Just not to give yourself away and say nothing. He perked up like an eagle, not taking his eyes off his interlocutor. Let him explain himself. — It's going to be trouble, I can feel it in my heart. My gut's churning, — said Sergei hotly. His eyebrows twitched. He blinked nervously. His hand trembled convulsively and the cigarette dropped into the snow.       The lieutenant saw him now. The pale face with red spots, mottled with a web of capillaries, looked like a painful mask. The glazed and inflamed, wide-open brown eyes. Dry lips chapped to blood. Brown bruises on his eyelids. Sergei stood as calm as ever. He wore a cheerful half-smile. But the worried expression never left his face. Why didn't the lieutenant notice how much his friend needed him? One warm word heals wounds. On the soul, certainly. He'd given up. He himself was bent into a horn, twisted by fear of the unknown. Zakharov came close, put his arm around the neck of Sergei's head and pressed his forehead against his forehead with sincere tenderness. They were silent, covering their tired eyes. His thin nose almost touched Nikolai's hawkish nose with its tip. — And I have a feeling too, — the lieutenant agreed, breaking the silence. — If anything happens, Sergei, take care of the boy, — he said bitterly, patting his cloth-covered shoulder. — I'll give my life for him, — Sergei replied gustily, clutching his friend's sleeves in a burst of despair. — Seryozha*, — the lieutenant's chest burst out. A searing pain a wave covered his head and struck his body with lightning bolts. It was pleasant and warm. His strength waned. Suddenly, he fell hotly to the beautiful lips. Sergei passionately gives him the answer, giving kiss after kiss. — It's enough. Stop, — Nikolai commanded hoarsely, pulling the guy away. Sergei pulled away in embarrassment. — Go. They're looking for you, — Zakharov threw, squeezing the sergeant's icy palm goodbye. Kravchenko nodded and obediently walked away.       His body ached, tingling with nausea. Maybe he should have tried it sooner. Hell no, he shouldn't have. He can't afford this kind of love.