"Don't be a buzzkill," Geno laughed drunkenly, making a sloppy, blurred gesture toward Reaper. The red plastic cup in his skeletal fingers tilted dangerously, nearly spilling cheap port wine onto his neon-pink tracksuit jacket.Reaper caught his wrist—gentle, but firm. From under the brim of his cap and the deep hood of his dark hoodie, his gaze looked endlessly tired, yet too soft for a guy raised on these harsh streets."Alright, that's it, party animal. Have you even looked at yourself? You’ve had way too much," Reaper cut him off in a low voice, careful not to draw the attention of the locals loitering on the nearby benches. He quietly took the cup and tossed it into the nearest bushes. "Stop putting on a show. Let’s get out of here before the guys from the next block spot us."Geno huffed in annoyance, but he didn't have the strength to fight back. He slumped his entire weight against Reaper’s shoulder, burying his face right against his neck. Reaper smelled of stale cigarette smoke and chilly night air.They slowly stumbled along the gray five-story panel buildings. The wind howled inside the broken streetlamps, and something even heavier was howling inside both of their chests.It was the nineties. A brutal, unforgiving time, run by the strict laws of the streets. Everything was black and white back then: you had your crew, you had your enemies, and you lived by the "street code." And according to that very code, what was happening between them didn't just cross the line—it was the kind of thing that could get you beat down or worse on any street corner. Two guys looking at each other like the rest of the world was just a backdrop to their personal drama.They both knew it. And like two absolute fools, they kept their mouths shut."Why'd you... even show up?" Geno muttered, barely dragging his sneakers across the asphalt. "I could’ve made it back myself.""Yeah, sure you would. Right into the nearest ditch," Reaper snorted, wrapping his arm tighter around Geno's waist under the tracksuit jacket. "What, you think I'm gonna leave my bro hanging?"Bro. Homie. Koresh. That word stung from the inside out. Reaper could feel his heart hammering against his ribs every time Geno leaned into him so trustingly in the dark courtyards, chasing his warmth. He wanted to pull him close, shield him from this whole gray, depressing city, and just say it out loud. But the words glued to the roof of his mouth. To cross that line meant risking everything. For guys in the 90s post-Soviet streets, admitting something like that was basically a death sentence.Geno suddenly froze, lifted his head, and looked up at Reaper with his drunk, glitch-blurred eye. In that gaze, stripped of his usual defensive armor by the alcohol, a flash of such desperate longing appeared that it made Reaper’s breath catch. Geno understood everything too. He was just as terrified. The brave, cocky Geno, who wouldn't hesitate to face three guys with a metal pipe alone, was completely paralyzed by three simple words."You're a fool, Death," Geno whispered softly, letting his head drop back onto Reaper's shoulder."Look who's talking, Gesh," Reaper replied in a hushed tone, pressing his face into the top of Geno's head as they turned into a dark archway, hiding from any prying eyes. "Two fools, that's what we are."They kept walking side by side, holding onto each other on the cold concrete, burying their forbidden feelings—the kind that broke every rule of their harsh world—behind rough words and the safety of the night.
