GAZ

It's overcast. Snowflakes are falling from the sky. The playground is empty, and only the eerie creak of a swing breaks the silence. A boy of about twelve dressed in a dark blue voluminous jacket and jeans swings on the swing, looking around. The cold wind ruffles his hair. — Chuya! — Someone called from far away. The kid waves his hand in greeting, runs up to him and sits on the next swing. — I've been waiting for you, Dazai. So, how are you doing? Any news? — Yeah, it's the same as always. My classmate at school today did such a thing... His name is Kolya, and at recess, everybody went to the cafeteria, and he was alone, and he smeared ketchup all over the keyboard, the mouse, and the teacher's chair. And when Mr. Harris returned to the classroom at the beginning of the lesson, he sat down in his chair, out of habit, not looking at things at all, trusting more to his memory. He began to type, and then. he suddenly realized that all his fingers and more were red. He jumps up like the devil out of a snuffbox and starts yelling at the whole class. Who did it, who dares. that sort of thing. The classmates laughed, of course, and Kolya laughed most of all. — And then what? How did he know it was his doing?? — Simple! Harris went to wash his hands in the sink at the other end of the classroom and as he passed the right-hand row, he was so angry that even with his poor eyesight he noticed the edge of a ketchup pack sticking out of Kolya's backpack. And then he got ultra embarrassed and ran away. — That's quite a school you got there, Chuy. — Don't things like this happen to you? — I'm in high school. It's strict. — Yeah, well, your parents want you to be a well-behaved son. — I don't want that. They barely let me go out. And only at certain times. It's always the same, more important than classes, status... The wind was getting stronger. Dazai put his hands in his coat pockets. — Aren't you cold yet? — I am. The ends will be icy soon. All of them. — Uh, let's go back to my place for some tea. — Come on. *** Nakahara put the key to the intercom and opened the door. The entryway was dark and damp. He lived in an old five-story building. There was no elevator, but there were always drunk neighbors lying across the stairs. Luckily, not tonight. — Hey, Chuy, look, there's someone waving from upstairs. — Where? Where? What the... Osamu picked Nakahara up sharply and lifted him into his arms. He was of short stature, thankfully. — I'll carry you in my arms, my princess. You shouldn't have to walk up and down stairs every day. Dazai winked at him and carried him up the stairs. Here we go. Your tower's a little high. — Huh. Chuya opened the front door and they went inside. They took off their outer clothes and went into the bathroom. — Haha, your hair is so shaggy, Dazai! — Uh, and you have ice on the ends. His red hair, now resembling ice, was just below his shoulders. — Let's go. They walked to the kitchen. It wasn't a fancy design like Dazai's kitchen at home, but it had a certain coziness to it. The old yellow wallpaper, the small wooden table in the left corner covered with a tablecloth. There was a couch next to it. Some wall cabinets painted with khokhloma paintings. Creaky floor, wooden windows. Instead of a crystal chandelier, just a bulb on a wire. Chuya's parents weren't rich, but they knew how to love. For nothing. Just for what he was. They didn't mind working twelve hours a day to earn money for Chuya to buy new shoes. — Sit at the table. I'll see what's in the fridge. — Listen, Chuya. Would you like to go to the Maldives or Hawaii someday? — We've got black bread, jam and oatmeal. — Tell me, Chuya, would you like to? — I'll make us sandwiches and put tea on. Nakahara put the kettle under the faucet and walked over to the table and began slicing bread. Osamu stood up and walked around the table and stood behind Chuya. — Put the knife down, and turn to me. — Why? — I just don't like that maroon sweatshirt. You look much better in a white T-shirt. Dazai unzipped and pulled it off Chuya. — Here, that's better. - Osamu smiled softly, holding Chuya's palms in his own. Nakahara looked at him and noticed the edges of his eyelids reddening and a faint wetness covering the irises of his hazel eyes. Osamu looked at Chuya Nakahara and with each passing second, his soul shattered into shards. He just felt insanely sorry for his best friend. He saw Chuya carefully pretending that he wasn't sad about his family's financial situation at all, constantly brushing it off, laughing, translating it into ridiculous jokes. It was as if none of it existed. Three years ago, when they were still skating down the ice slide in the yard, Nakahara said that in the future, when he grew up, he would work hard, earn money and buy himself a red Ferrari, which he had once seen on TV in Formula One. Back then, he could still dream. But now, his faith in a bright future is fading every day. — Oh, the water's already running out of the kettle! He ran over and turned off the faucet. Put it on the burner. Turned the gas lever. And set it to full power. Strange noises came from the gas pipe, but no one paid any attention to it. — Chuya, tell me, have you ever kissed someone? — Not yet. Just my mom before I go to bed. — Would you like to? For real. You know, like grown-ups do late at night. — What's your point? Dazai? Chya leaned on the tabletop, squinted thoughtfully. His heart skipped a couple loud beats. And those butterflies in his stomach... — This is probably going to sound weird, but... I'd like to kiss you. It was a feeling completely unfamiliar to him. His attempts to please someone had never crossed the line of even mild sympathy. He hesitated. They had known each other since they were children. Osamu was his best friend. The man Nakahara used to spend boring fall days with, when the leaves were falling from the trees and the warm September breeze was blowing. They were both about six years old, playing hide and seek. Then, when they were older, they went to the movies together. Dazai, sitting in the movie hall, always fell asleep, and Chuya, engrossed in the story, only noticed at the end of the session that his friend fell asleep in the middle of it. He would wake him up and then walk him home. Sometimes it rained, and the two of them would sit at Osamu's house and play board games while drinking cocoa. Now Nakahara was thinking. Should they take it a step further? Turning their strong friendship into something more? Still, a certain excitement was scraping at the inside. — Really? Hey, you're not confused, are you? — I love your long, thin fingers, your hair, the color of the exploding sun, and most of all I love your eyes. Osamu got up from the couch, stood beside him, and then put his hand on his waist and straddled the white fabric, looking straight there, into the ocean depths. — You're funny, Osamu. — Chuya squeezed out a nervous chuckle. Dazai waited. Waiting for understanding and permission. Chuya put his elbows on Dazai's shoulders, his lips spread into a maddening smile. And he sank his lips into the lips opposite. Their kiss seemed somehow awkward and strange, but sensual. Then Dazai deepened the kiss, turning it into a passionate one. It was obvious that he was trying to give this little miracle all the love he could to show that he was devoted. Osamu broke the kiss and lowered his head down, hiding it behind his brown hair. — What's wrong with you, Osamu? — Yeah, look, it's just, uh. He sniffed his nose and quickly wiped the moisture from his eyes. — Hey... look at me. Chuya put his palms around his head. — Are you feeling bad... hey, hey? Am I doing something wrong?... In response, Dazai scooped Nakahara up under his arms and placed him on the tabletop. The gas pipe started making incomprehensible noises and crackling again. — You know, Chuya Nakahara. I'd give you THE WHOLE WORLD if olny I could. — No. Dazai Osamu, to hell with the world. I'd like to have strawberry tea with you. That would be enough for me. Dazai suddenly burst into tears. He slid to the floor, leaning his back against the crate. Salty streams flowed from his eyes. He sobbed, wiping his tears with the sleeves of his light green sweater. He was shaking and swaying from side to side. Chuya wrapped his arms around him and stroked his head. — I'm sorry, Chuya. — Why?... I don't understand... — Just know that I... My heart was pounding frantically in my chest, only now with a strange excitement. — Chuya! Look at me. TURN OFF THE GAS! Chuya was stunned. In his eyes he could clearly read the unbelievable fear. A terrible tremor wrapped his hands. — CHUYA! Fuck... And the next second, there was a terrible rumble. The gas pipe made a squeak, a deafening squeak. Like slamming a fork into a plate. Like teeth against each other. Like chalk on an old school blackboard. Their eyes met. Dazai laughed so damn deafeningly loud. Their eyes met. For the last time. The chimney shattered. Blue lights filled the entire kitchen space in a split second. A huge wave of boiling air swept through the building. Glass flew to the pavement. All the furniture was engulfed in flames. And... There was no more space. There was no more time. There was no more grief. There was no more pain. There were no more regrets. There were no more feelings. There were no more emotions. There was no more Chuya. There was no more Dazai. — ...I will always love you. And the whole world burned blue.