Winter silence

      Late in the evening, Nikolai is sitting on a bench on the snow-covered streets of the capital. From the house opposite, in which he lived, the lights of candles could be heard imperceptibly. But he preferred to sit here because his habit was not for home. Hearing a rustle, he lazily raised his head and looked at his old acquaintance. — Fedya? What are you doing here at this hour?       He had a pipe in his mouth, and from time to time he let out smoke. His outfit was quite fashionable, despite the fact that it was two o'clock in the morning. A fur coat made of white rabbits clung tightly to his body, which still had something youthful about it.       Fyodor smiled mirthlessly, although it was a kind of bitter laugh. Snow was falling from the sky in small flakes, covering them with a thin layer of frost. He didn't mind the cold. In fact, he's used to it. He sat down on the bench next to him, keeping a respectful distance. Ultimately, he respected his personal space. Watching the clouds of smoke, he quietly replied: — I can't sleep tonight. What are you doing here so late?       Nikolai looked at him with a slightly squeamish expression on his face. With age, the habits of society, no matter how much he eradicated them, still germinated in him. And although he sincerely loved his friend, yet his appearance, mainly clothes, caused him pity at best. Blowing out a stream of smoke, he slowly replied: — I decided to take a walk, enjoy the quiet city, and of all the people I found you.       He chuckled to himself, meaning no harm. Like in the good old days, when his friend had such a close connection with him. They could at least stay up all night together. — You look terrible, Fedenka. You should be home, I do not know why you are not home so late. Aren't you cold?       He said, looking him up and down. Then he lit a match and took a drag from his pipe. Crappy smoking habit, but better than alcohol.       Even in the dim light of the lantern, it was so noticeable. Fyodor covered his face a little more with the collar of his coat, but it didn't help much. This could not hide his bags under his eyes, the incredible pallor of his skin and excessively disheveled hair. By the evening, as if inopportunely, his interest in the society of people awoke in him. In fact, it's so weird. With age, it became almost like a disease. He muttered softly: — No, I'm not cold.       Nikolai became worried, noticing the tired look of his friend. He put the phone down next to him for a second and looked directly at his friend. — What the hell made you go outside in a snowstorm and sit on a bench at such a time?       His fingers play with the brim of his hat. He leaned closer, trying to see his face. His expression didn't change, he took another drag on his pipe. It was as if he was looking into his soul, condemning him in every possible way. His friend kept an awkward silence—in fact, as usual.       He grinned at that answer. — I've seen how people in Siberia at a temperature of -50 degrees look warmer than you, idiot.       He took another drag on his pipe. He suddenly looked very intrigued. — By the way, how much sleep have you had this week? You look broken.       Fyodor whispered in an almost broken voice: — I don't remember... It's nine o'clock at the most.       Nikolai exhaled wearily. Over time, something changes for the better or for the worse. And here is his attitude to a friend... in order, we can say what has changed. Not squeamishness, not at all. But he saw that his friend had found himself as a home teacher, had made himself, one might say, a couple of good acquaintances — although, who knows, one could say friends. He saw that his friend gradually found a niche for himself in art, even if these poems are read in a circle of friends — if the poets' club can be called that. And he was happy for him, but... it was as if adult life had alienated them from each other.       He became a collegiate assessor, like his father, and made a good living. He has a wonderful wife, and in the future he will have a child. And his friend just got overgrown with a shell, which is convenient — a teacher explaining mathematics, and concurrently a poet writing for a magazine. And after all, everyone is happy, everyone is in the environment that is convenient for him.       Nikolai shuddered when he saw his friend get up from the bench. Something inside him painfully shrank from this new, such a bitter smile. And something broke off in this quiet: — I'm glad I could see you, Kolenka...       Fyodor exhaled a little sharply in response when his friend abruptly, very abruptly stood up to hug him. He hugged him back uncertainly. Maybe something is not lost yet, but something has been found.