Shirt

      Razumovsky barely restrained his nervous trembling, simultaneously anticipating the upcoming presentation and dreading it. He never felt confident in front of an audience. Oleg was the one who could keep a straight face in any situation, confidently pushing him aside from the paparazzi, just as he had shielded him from bullies in their childhood, where the weak, timid Seryozha was always an easy target.       Sergei himself, however, remained decisive only in the lines of code he crafted for his beloved projects. There, he always knew exactly what needed to happen, but whether his creations were useful to anyone other than himself, he still didn’t quite understand. Now, he needed to calm down, focus, and step out in front of the audience to present the fruits of his long, sleepless nights, where blood mixed with energy drinks in his veins. He needed to show them and explain how this new upgrade would improve the lives of ordinary people, to convince meticulous journalists that this was not a pursuit of hype or some shady conspiracy disguised under good intentions.              Sergei paused for a moment in front of the mirror, nervously smoothing his hair and critically inspecting his impeccably tailored business suit. He looked flawless, but it did not bring him the slightest bit of confidence. He desperately missed Oleg’s support, his friend’s ever-confident gaze, and the reassuring hands that would rest on his shoulders as Volkov told him that everything would work out.       With a sudden jerk, Sergei turned away from his reflection and strode toward the wardrobe. He flung open the door, where designer clothes hung neatly in rows for every occasion. Sergei pushed aside a row of monotonous, classic jackets, reached past the neatly arranged shirts of various colors and cuts, and pulled out a hanger holding a simple white shirt from the very back of the closet.       It was Oleg’s shirt, one that had found its way into his wardrobe, of course, not by mere chance. Volkov had dirtied it and, after changing into a spare, simply threw it in with Sergei’s laundry. And when his friend left for a special operation, Razumovsky had taken the freshly laundered shirt out of the pile and noticed that even the harsh detergent hadn’t entirely erased the faint scent of Oleg’s familiar cologne and the soothing fragrance of the man himself.       Initially, Sergei had just hung it in his closet, planning to return it to his friend when he came back, and promptly forgot about the incident. Weeks blurred into months. Oleg hadn’t returned or sent any word. Razumovsky grew anxious, and the never-ending work that blurred days and nights into a ceaseless whirl of plans and tasks was the only thing keeping him from panicking and dealing with the gnawing loneliness without his friend’s shoulder beside him. One day, he stumbled upon that simple white shirt hanging in his closet. One day, he couldn’t resist and hugged it, trying for just a moment to feel a faint echo of his dear friend’s warmth. One day, he fell asleep holding the soft cotton fabric close and couldn’t bring himself to hang it back up.       Eventually, he buried it deeper in the wardrobe to stop stirring his feelings. But now, he needed, at least in this ephemeral way, the presence of his friend by his side so much that the thought suddenly seemed completely rational.       Quickly, before he could change his mind, Razumovsky stripped off the carefully chosen jacket, then his elegant shirt, and nervously slipped on that familiar, simple one. Oleg had always been larger, and Sergei had lost a lot of weight recently, grabbing meals on the go and barely sleeping. The sleeves were too long, so he had to roll them up, and the fabric puffed awkwardly around his back, emphasizing how thin he had become, as if he had reverted to his teenage years when his knees knocked together as he walked. Sergei knew he looked odd, and it was best not to move his arms too much, lest the fabric spill out over his waistband in a rebellious display. But Razumovsky felt an indescribable warmth as the fabric slid across his skin, hugging his thin frame and gently soothing his shoulders, making him care little for whatever the journalists might say about his fashion choices.       With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine Oleg standing behind him, placing a firm hand on his sharp shoulder, and whispering in his reassuring, deep voice that Seryozha was brilliant and would definitely succeed! Smiling to himself, Razumovsky shook his head, brushing his bangs aside, and with newfound resolve, he strode toward the elevator, which would carry him toward the flash of cameras and the eager eyes of the audience. The strict blue jacket lay crumpled in a heap on the floor in front of the mirror. But its time would come soon.       Not long to wait now…