Homesickness

The scorching sun has set over the Syrian desert. It was a frosty night, as if he had fallen asleep with his head in the refrigerator, the blood in his veins was freezing not from fear of death, but from natural cold, the deathly pale saucer of the moon seemed frighteningly huge and close. From the far tent, the crackling of a campfire and someone's late-night arguments could still be heard. After a long day, you get very tired of the eternal noise, even the rare silence here is ringing and ticking, I just wanted to relax, so Slava preferred to retire to the tent. Some time later, Shura returned from the guard, from afar, in the doorway he seemed even smaller than he really is and even funnier. Slava was sitting against the right wall, heat and smoke wafted up to her. Shura sat down next to him. "How long do you think we're going to be here?" — he asked, turning his head to the side, he was slightly shaking from the cold, he should have gone to the campfire, not to the tent. — I hope as much as everyone else, — Slava replied with a grin. It literally meant, "It would be nice not to leave injured or stay here forever." — I want to go home — Shurik put his head on Slava's shoulder — My mother is waiting for me… She's cooking delicious borscht, when we get back, will I treat you? — Come on — Slava shut up — Damn, well, that's why you said about borscht… — When I get home, I want to finish my studies, — continued Shura, — I'll dye my hair ... and what are your plans? Slava choked on a laugh from a joke that he had not yet uttered. — Well... I won't dye my hair. I wanted to get married... — he was immediately pushed in the side — Okay, then upon arrival I will eat your mother's borscht. He patted Shura's hair. — You know, I like your natural hair, but I also liked you with pink, well, I liked how they looked on you. — You know, I liked it too. — Shurik recoiled from Slavin's shoulder, and turned to him tucking a long strand of stray hair behind his ear. One moment and… The tent is empty. Sasha's lips are still cold, and her breath is warm. When their lips touched, Slava felt hot, and her head felt empty, as if someone had given a stop signal and someone had slammed on the brakes. There was a roar of silence in my ears, but not like in those rare moments when the incessant fire freezes for a while. Nice. Slava smelled of smoke from the campfire and at night. Shurik smelled of frost, sand and sweat. Sand was falling from his tunic onto Slava's lap. His hands are still cold, he leans on the ground with one hand, puts the other on Slava's neck. Slava shudders from the cold

***

Explosion. Explosion. One more. Heads are falling. Is this life flashing before your eyes? But Shurik is too young, he's only twenty, he hasn't had time to walk around Venice yet, it's too early for him to die.... — Come on, when we get out of here, let's see the city? – He says to Slava. The black horse is out of the game…