Archive of Our Own

The woman picks up the receiver and nods briefly, then turns to Shcherbina.

"The general secretary will see you now."

She gets up to open the door, but Shcherbina stops her with a wave of his hand, bored by that inane formality: he was summoned at ten o'clock in the morning to discuss the upcoming Vienna Conference, but it’s almost noon and he hasn’t yet been received.

Gorbachev must be ready, because in Vienna many people will ask him questions, and if it is his turn to instruct him, he needs all the time available.

He knocks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before coming in.

The general secretary is signing some documents, but looks up to invite him to sit down.

There is a heavy snowfall going on in Moscow, which softens all the noises, so the sound of the pen on the paper seems almost amplified.

"Did you ask to talk to me, comrade general secretary?"

The pen doesn’t stop, signing one sheet after another.

"Yes: I need to see the speech that Professor Legasov will present in Vienna, for a review."

"In that case it would have been useful to invite him too today, so that he could explain you the more technical elements of the accident."

Shcherbina's tone of voice remains calm, but becomes cold.

"I'm not interested in the technical elements, Boris," Gorbachev says, raising his eyes from the documents, and tilts his head as if to say, "Isn't it obvious?"

"Forgive my question, but if you don't know the details, how will you answer the questions they will be ask you?"

"I will not be in Vienna," he says simply, and the pen returns to write his initials on the sheets, "the delegation will be led by you and by Professor Legasov, plus the men you think it’s better to bring along."

Shcherbina is so shocked that he doesn't know how to respond.

"But…"

"It's a meeting of scientists, my presence is not necessary."

It’s not true and they both know it: after the accident, the eyes of the whole world are focused on this Conference, there are rumors of sanctions against the USSR due to the effects of the radioactive cloud on continental Europe, the politicians of other countries expect that Gorbachev is there.

However, politically speaking, it’s a gamble, because the outcome of the meeting is uncertain.

"So the sacrificial lambs go to the altar."

If Valery's speech is a success, the State will make it a success for its own, if it fails, the State will have someone to blame.

Boris silently swallows the gall that burns his throat.

He has always been a loyal and upright member of the party, but now he is just disillusioned, perhaps more than Valery, who understood how things were going since the start.

Now he no longer expects anything from those who have used propaganda numbers with the Germans, in order not to admit the gravity of the accident.

The memory of the hope while they were waiting for the German robot, and the harsh disappointment when it immediately stopped working, still makes him quiver with anger, but his face doesn’t betray any emotions. He spent many years in that building and knows how to move.

"Very well. If that’s all, I'm going to inform comrade Legasov of your decision."

Boris stands up, buttoning his jacket.

"No need, I've already called him, and comrade Charkov is informing him," Gorbachev replies, without looking at him.

Boris's hands freeze: it’s anomalous that the first deputy chairman of the KGB acts as a messenger of the general secretary, unless it’s to dictate precise suggestions on what to say to the Western world.

He swallows again, this time in fear: Valery doesn’t know to hold his tongue, he has never done it, not with him, not with anyone else, and he doesn’t see (or perhaps he sees and he’s just that reckless) that the world is not as lenient as him, and it doesn’t care for him at all.

"Weren't you going, Boris?"

Gorbachev's voice shakes him out of his thoughts.

"Yes sure. Have a good day, comrade general secretary. "

"And you, have a good trip. I expect a detailed report at the end of the Conference."

"Sure, I will write it before returning to Chernobyl."

"No, no, there is no need for you and Legasov to go back there."

"But you asked me to supervise the cleaning."

"And you both did a great job for which you have the party's gratitude, but now that the debris has been removed from the roof, the construction of the concrete sarcophagus can proceed under the supervision of someone else. The doctors explained to me that you received a high dose of radiation, there is no reason to risk your health and go back there: after Vienna both of you will stay in Moscow, and concentrate on your testimonies at the trial."

"As you like. Now excuse me."

Gorbachev dismisses him and Boris reaches the entrance of the building, where he sits on a bench waiting for Valery, nervously drumming his fingers on one knee.

Every minute that passes is a bad sign, and he already wonders if he should send one of his men to discover if Professor Legasov was arrested by the KGB for insult or insubordination, but then the elevator doors open and Valery comes out, looking around for the exit.

He hasn't seen him yet, so Boris takes the opportunity to watch Valery, with an indulgent smile on his lips.

His jacket is unbuttoned, his tie still a mess and he looks uncomfortable among the rich marble and stucco of the building.

Valery is a simple man, he doesn’t belong to that world of opulence and lies.

His life would have been infinitely better had he never come in contact with that world, Boris thinks, and longer.

Valery sees him and raises a hand, walking towards him, clearly relieved to see a friendly face.

"Boris! I didn't know you were here too."

"They called me this morning."

"Charkov sent his men to take me, and he told me that..."

"I already know everything," Boris interrupts, darting his eyes towards the exit, then he looks at him again, serious and admonishing: "Whatever you want to tell me, don't do it in here."

"Yes, yes…"

Valery nods quickly and follows Boris outside, squinting when he is hit by a gust of wind and snow.

"Where is your umbrella?" Boris asks, opening his.

"I don't have it: when I left home it didn't snow."

"You're a mess," Boris sighs, but in a fondly way, then takes him under his umbrella.

This way it seems completely normal if their shoulders touch sometimes when they walk.

"Do you take a taxi?"

"No, the subway."

"I escort you to the station."

"Thank you."

As they walk, Valery is taciturn and obviously upset, but by now Boris knows him well enough to know that Valery will not talk, unless he is spurred on in some way, and he can do it.

"What?" He barks in his usual sharp tone, and Valery's reaction is immediate, almost Pavlovian.

"I'm thinking about what to write in my speech. No, actually I'm thinking if it's worth writing something, since it will be reviewed," Valery spits out the last word with contempt.

"I infer that the meeting with Charkov didn’t go well."

"Oh no, from his point of view it went very well," Valery lowers his head and sighs, "I agreed not to talk about some details at the Vienna Conference, in exchange of reactor improvements. Khomyuk will not be happy," he adds after a brief pause.

"As far as I'm concerned, comrade Khomyuk can go and complain with the central committee of the party whenever she wants," Boris bares his teeth in a fierce snarl, but Valery doesn't get scared, indeed he smiles slightly, getting closer to him.

"I understand why you proposed the idea of that agreement, Borja," he whispers, then looks around warily, fearing he will be heard, but the Red Square is almost empty.

He never calls him with that affectionate diminutive in public, only when they are alone. No matter how many months have passed, Valery always holds this shyness, even when he only hints of talking about intimacy.

Together with his naivety, it’s something that makes him pure, in a sense, and that caused Boris to fall for him without any chance of salvation.

"Someone has to protect you, Valera: you can't do it alone."

"Charkov also informed me that the comrade general secretary will not be part of the delegation that will go to Vienna."

"No, it's just the two of us."

Plus a handful of useless diplomats, but basically they are alone: someone has put that battle in their hands, and now it’s up to them to fight it to the end.

Boris doesn’t explain to him the political reasons why they are thrown into the lions' den alone, Valery will already have to face nuclear physics coming from all over the world, he doesn’t need further pressure. As said, someone must protect Valery, and that someone is him.

"As always, then," Valery says.

"So far it hasn't been bad, has it?"

Valery nods, hiding his face behind the scarf.

They walk in silence, the snow crunching under their shoes; then Valery turns to look at him.

"Borja?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think that... uh... one of these days you could come to my apartment to... to help me making my speech more diplomatic?"

Ah, their most used excuse. If they were still in Pripyat, Boris wouldn’t hesitate to say yes; now he can't do anything but sigh, without bothering to hide the regret in the voice.

"Not here in Moscow, it's not safe."

He looks to their left, where a man in a dark brown coat follows them from afar with his eyes.

"I see. Well, anyway I'll have a lot of work to do."

Valery shrugs to hide his disappointment.

"Try to eat and sleep regularly."

"I don't need to be looked after like a child," he snorts.

As if on purpose, Valery slips on the snow and clings to Boris's arm to keep from falling, risking to make them both fall on the ground; only Boris's strength keeps them upright.

Boris passes an arm around his waist, helping him regain his balance, and Valery leans on him with all his weight, releasing a sigh.

His breath is on Boris' face.

But only the two of them perceive the tension of that moment, similar to other moments spent in the secrecy of the Polissya hotel: the iron, almost desperate grip of Valery's hand around Boris's arm, his stiff back, his accelerated breathing.

The scene, from the outside, seems perfectly normal; a couple of boys walk past them, snickering at his clumsiness.

Valery smiles awkwardly, straightening up, and Boris can't resist teasing him a little.

"Pay attention, Valera: we need you in  perfect shape in Vienna."

"Yes."

"See you at the airport."

Valery doesn't look good, sitting on the Tupolev that is taking them to Vienna.

He is pale, has deep circles under his eyes, and he nervously bites his nails, while he checks his notes obsessively and mutters to himself, surrounded by the blue smoke of his cigarettes.

Boris ignores the signal to remain seated with belt fastened, and gets up from his seat, to sit next to him.

"Are you nervous?"

Valery exhales a strangled sigh: "You can tell. It's an IAEA Conference, it's important to us scientists and I..."

"I can't say all I want."

"I know," Boris turns to him, shielding him from the eyes of the other passengers with his back, "but I'm glad that they chose you: there is no man better suited than you to speak in front of the world about Chernobyl."

Valery adjusts his glasses on his nose, thanking him with a nod, then extinguishes his cigarette and doesn’t light another one for the rest of the journey.

Boris had been right about the hostility surrounding their delegation: the other participants expected Mikhail Gorbachev to explain why half of Europe was irradiated with Cesium-137 and other harmful substances, not a scientist who isn’t in the inner circle of the party.

People who don’t look at them with contempt, look at them with suspicion, or with curiosity at best.

Before speaking, Valery looks at him.

"There is no man better suited than you, Valera," Boris confirms with a nod.

Valery stands up, and a buzz runs through the Conference hall; but then he begins to speak, at first hesitantly, then more and more confident.

He rattles off facts and data, some of which are too difficult for Boris to understand, but he notes the sudden change among the people who are listening to Valery: all the voices are silent, the other scientists follow what he says carefully, and even the most distracted have put away their notes to listen to him.

How it should be: Valery deserves this recognition, for his sacrifice and for the efforts he has made to stop the catastrophe.

He speaks for an hour, two, three... he speaks for almost five hours, saying perhaps more than necessary, but abiding by the agreement with Charkov.

When he ends, bowing briefly to the audience, there is silence that Boris has never even heard, neither on the battlefields at the end of a fight, then someone behind him starts clapping his hands rhythmically, followed by a woman who gets up and does the same, and soon all the scientists are applauding him openly, recognizing the importance of his speech.

"Enjoy this moment, Valera, you deserved it."

Valery looks around, responding with a nod to the applause.

He's smiling, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and that's enough to alert Boris.

Maybe he's just tired, he talked non-stop for hours, and was already very tense before arriving in Vienna.

But before he can get up and join him, a diplomat from their delegation leans towards him.

"Comrade general secretary is on the phone and asks for you."

"I haven't had time to write a report yet."

"He knows, he just want a quick update."

The quick update turns into an hour of conversation, in which Boris reassures everyone (he is certain that, if Charkov is not with Gorbachev, he is intercepting the call) on the positive reception of the international community to Professor Legasov's speech, and his loyalty toward the party.

When he comes back to the Conference hall, another scientist is speaking, but the Soviet delegation is leaving the building, because the other topics on the agenda are not of their interest. However, Valery is not there.

"Where is Comrade Legasov?" He asks.

"He came back to sit for a while, then asked to be taken back to the hotel early. He looked tired."

Boris curses the late-afternoon Vienna traffic, slowed by the snow; as soon as they arrive in front of the hotel, he doesn’t even wait for the bellboy to open the door and marches towards Valery's room.

He knocks; he gets no answer, but he doesn't give up.

"Open the door!" He commands.

He hears a chair being dragged on the floor, uncertain steps approaching, and a hand fiddling with the handle.

Boris frowns when finally Valery manages to open the door: he is without glasses, his hair falls back into untidy strands on his forehead, his eyes are bright, and he must lean heavily on the door jamb to stand up.

"Are you drunk?" He asks incredulously.

Valery rarely drinks, and Boris never saw him drunk, even in the most desperate hours, when the meltdown began.

Valery snorts, but moves away from the door to let him pass, then, with staggering steps, goes back to the desk, where there are the remains of a sandwich and a half-empty bottle of liquor. It's not vodka, but from the smell it seems just as strong. Schnapps, probably.

"What are you doing?" Boris hisses, closing the door behind him.

"I celebrate," he spits with sarcasm, "I learned to lie, aren't you happy?"

Then he brings the bottle to his mouth, without even using a glass, in a crude gesture that is nothing like him. The liquor burns his stomach, and he slams the bottle back on the desk with a grimace.

Boris sighs, rubbing his eyes. He is dead tired too, because of the Conference, of the party that is breathing down their necks, of the shadow of the KGB, perhaps of the first symptoms of radiation poisoning, but he cannot afford to think about himself, not now that Valery is having a breakdown.

"Do you ever think about it Boris?" Valery asks, with the drawling voice typical of drunks, looking in front of him, "About the consequences that lies could have on people's lives? Because I think about it, every night. We have 16 other reactors like the Chernobyl’s one and if there is another accident, it will be my fault, because I haven't spoken."

Guilt and helplessness are eating him alive, faster than the radiations.

"Valera, you did what you could."

"But it's not enough and you know it. If they cover up the truth, all we have done will be useless, including our sacrifice and..." Valery's voice becomes more and more acute and his breath is fast, almost syncopated. His already pale complexion becomes ashen, and Boris realizes what is going to happen before him, so he grabs the trash bin and puts it in front of him a moment before Valery bends over and vomits the alcohol and the remains of his scant dinner.

He coughs and tries to catch his breath, squeezing the bin spasmodically; Boris goes behind him and holds his forehead, while Valery’s body is shaken and he vomits again.

"That's what happens when you drink too much, and you're not used to it."

But it’s not a reproach, and as he speaks he puts his other hand on Valery’s back.

"... god..." Valery hisses. He is shaking and drops of sweat are sliding down his temples.

"Yes I know, it's not pleasant, but it's better if you throw up everything, believe me."

Someone knocks on the door, but Boris ignores it and Valery probably hasn't even heard.

This doesn't mean that the annoyance vanishes by itself.

"Comrade Legasov? Is comrade Shcherbina with you? He's not in his room."

Valery coughs and bends over the bin again, vomiting one more time.

"Comrade Legasov," insists the man on the other side of the door, "the plane to Moscow leaves in two hours. It’s snowing a lot and we have to leave for the airport now, if we want to arrive on time."

"I can't do it, Boris..." Valery whispers, clutching his aching stomach.

"I'll take care of it, don't worry about anything."

Boris takes the bin, opens the door and unceremoniously puts it in the hands of their delegation member, who looks at the contents with a horrified grimace.

"Comrade Legasov is not feeling well, I wish he wouldn’t be bothered again."

"But our flight..."

Meanwhile Legasov somehow managed to reach the bathroom and both men hear him vomit again.

"It’s quite clear that he cannot go anywhere right now."

"He could rest on the plane."

"No!" Boris blurts.

"Staying longer is not part of the protocol," says the man, more and more nervous but powerless in front of the insurmountable wall that responds to the name of Boris Shcherbina: he is the head of the delegation.

They are probably terrified at the idea that Legasov will give an interview to some western journalist, ready to ask him uncomfortable questions, and they want to bring him back within the borders of the Soviet Union as soon as possible.

Boris straightens his back, tall and imposing, and the other man seems to crumple against the wall.

"I was already in politics when you still didn't learn to use the potty-chair: do you really think I don't know what to do? What do you think, that I will call a press conference as soon as you leave?" he roars.

"C-comrade Shcherbina," he stammers, "I... wasn’t suggesting anything like that..."

"Very well, then say this to Moscow: Professor Legasov is tired and ill. It happens after spending months in Chernobyl absorbing lethal radiations. He and I will be back tomorrow, when he will feel better, so the plane will come back here in the evening. I'm accountable for him, and that's all," he states, staring at the man with a relentless look that doesn’t allow replies.

The other man nods hurriedly and leaves with the trash bin still clutched in his hands.

Boris goes back to the room and calls the hotel service, asking for water and lemon tea, then takes the bottle of liquor and empties it into the bathroom sink.

That's enough for tonight.

Valery is kneeling in front of the toilet and is cleaning his mouth with toilet paper.

"Boris, tell me I’m doing the right thing," he pleads, raising his eyes to meet his.

Since Valery doesn’t deserve lies, Boris doesn’t reassure him, doesn’t tell him, "yes, of course, everything will be fine," but he puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"I hope so Valera, I hope so with all my heart," he murmurs.

Unfortunately the echo of Khomyuk's words is still in his head: "A deal with the KGB? Now who is naive?"

Valery still looks suffering and miserable, and Boris decides to put those thoughts aside, and take care of him.

They both need a break, from politics, from pressures, from the trial, from everything. It’s their right, damn it.

"I just want it to stop, all of it. You shouldn't have thrown away the schnapps," he protests.

"Your stomach told me otherwise. Do you have to vomit again?"

"Uh... no, I don't think so."

"Then rinse your mouth, and undress."

"Boris," Valery sighs, "I... um, I don't feel like..."

"A hot bath will help you."

"Oh," Valery licks his lips, "Okay."

He gets up and goes to the sink, while Boris fills the tub with water and tests the temperature until he's satisfied, then turns to look at him, but Valery, slowed by alcohol and fatigue, seems to have problems with the buttons of the shirt.

"Let me."

"No, you haven’t..." he says weakly, but doesn’t object when Boris's fingers strip him with military efficiency.

"In the tub," he orders.

Valery hisses, annoyed at the too-hot water, but sits down obediently, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his forehead on them.

Boris takes off his shoes, rolls up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, and washes Valery’s back and shoulders; he doesn’t say anything and this alone gives the idea of how exhausted he is.

After a few minutes he lifts his head from his knees and looks at Boris: he still has too much alcohol in his body, but he is better than before.

"Now I feel really stupid."

"Wait until you have a headache."

Valery groans in despair: "Isn't there a way to avoid it?"

"I will try to help you."

Someone knocks on the door and Valery's shoulders tense.

"Relax, it's only room service. Get out of the tub, I'll take it."

Boris takes the tray from the waiter's hands, then glances at the corridor, that is empty: apparently his outburst was successful and the delegation left without them. Gorbachev will not be happy about having to fly the plane back to Vienna, but the Conference went well, from the party's point of view, and this will be enough to calm people down.

When he closes the door, Valery is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, wrapped in a white sponge bathrobe that is too big for him, blinking, on his face the clueless look that every shortsighted person without glasses has.

Boris laughs heartily at the sight, then invites him to sit at his desk.

Valery spots the pack of cigarettes, then brings a hand to his stomach and thinks again.

Good boy.

"Drink your tea. Do you have aspirin? Or I'm going to get it in my room."

"Yes, I have it: it's in my necessaire."

Valery brings the cup to his lips, but then pulls it away with a grimace.

"You sweetened it too much," he complains.

"You are an expert on RMBK reactors, but I know how to deal with a hangover. So finish your tea, take two aspirin with water, and then go to sleep."

"All right. You can go now, I can handle it myself."

"No."

"But Boris..."

"Someone has to stay and check that you don’t vomit again, suffocating in your sleep."

"Thank you," he murmurs, lowering his eyes.

Valery is so tired that he risks falling asleep sitting at his desk, as he screws the water cap back on after drinking, and stumbles on the short journey between the chair and the bed, where he immediately falls asleep.

Boris takes the leftovers of Valery's sandwich, one of his cigarettes, opens the window slightly and smokes, sitting on the windowsill.

It's not late, but the snowfall has forced people inside; only a stray cat is leaving its footprints on the fresh snow, the street lamps that lengthen its sinuous shadow.

In the building in front of the hotel a light is turned on and then two indistinct figures hug.

There is a serene mood outside, and Boris hopes that a bit of that calm can also reach Valery.

He regrets having poured the liquor away, now he would need it.

He finishes his cigarette, pulls the curtains, and removes his shirt and trousers, entering the bed as quietly as possible.

He wakes up a few hours later, when Valery gets up to go to the bathroom; the war has gifted him with a very light sleep.

He turns on the bedside light to watch what time it is: almost five a.m., but now that he's awake, he knows he won’t sleep anymore.

"Ah sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," Valery murmurs as he comes out of the bathroom, still wrapped in that ridiculously big bathrobe.

Boris shakes his head as if to say it's not a problem.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, I don't even have a headache."

"What did I tell you? I'm a hangover expert."

Valery sits on the bed and suddenly holds his breath, as if he has just realised something.

"The things I said last night... what if someone...?"

"We are not bugged here."

"Are you sure?"

"I had my men check it out: the rooms are clean."

Valery is visibly relieved, but still embarrassed.

"Anyway, I behaved like an idiot, I don't know what came over me."

"You know, Valera, and I know it too."

"Really?"

"Yes: we are allowed to lose control from time to time, it's all right."

"And at least I didn't destroy a phone." A small smile finds its way on Valery’s face.

"Oi!"

Boris grabs him by the arm, dragging him down, and Valery snorts his typical shy laughter, as if he’s uncertain whether he is allowed to laugh or not, but then he puts his hand on Boris’ chest and torments the hem of his undershirt with his fingers.

"Borja..."

"Undress."

Valery's eyes open wide in surprise: normally they aren’t allowed to talk, they must love each other in silence, secretly, in the dark, but here it’s different, there are no rules, there are no risks. Even if only for a fleeting moment, they can be whatever they want.

Valery lets the robe fall to the floor, while Boris gets rid of his undershirt and underpants and then lies down on him, and kisses him, letting his hand slide over one of his freckled shoulders.

They are no longer young, neither of them, and they need more time, their bodies are soft, the skin is no longer toned, and sex between them has nothing of the impetus of the youth, but it’s slow, cozy, it’s right for them, for this sunset of of their life.

But when he slides his lips along Valery's jaw, he feels him stiffen.

Boris sighs in exasperation on his neck: "Relax, I told you that nobody is listening to us."

"No, it's not that."

"So what?" He asks, lifting his head to look at Valery.

"The-light... is still on."

"Let it on."

"What for? To look at me?" Valery laughs and turns his head to one side, as if to say that he isn’t certainly such an interesting sight, but Boris puts his finger on his cheek to catch his eye.

"Yes, I want to watch you."

Valery blushes violently down to his chest, a bright pink colour covering his freckles, but Boris feels him harden against his abdomen and a satisfied smirk lifts his lips.

"It doesn’t seems you're against it."

"Borja..."

Boris pushes up; their erections trapped heavily between their bodies in a slow and continuous friction, and the pleasure builds up like the rising of the tide; sometimes Valery closes his eyes and sighs, overwhelmed, and when Boris brings a hand down to grab them, he moans louder than he ever did.

Boris kisses him again, muffling his noises along with his own, but then returns to look at him. It’s stupidly romantic, almost sappy, but he wants to imprint every moment of this in his memory for the darkest days, like those animals that stock up on food before hibernation; he wants to remember every sigh of Valery, his dilated pupils, his heavy breathing, he wants to see everything about him, but he also wants Valery to see him, naked and real as he has never been.

And Valery understands, because he raises his hand to caress his face, the lines around his eyes and his mouth, his perennial frown, to memorize him through his fingers.

"Borja, Borja, Borja..." he whispers endlessly in his ear.

Boris growls and pushes harder, faster, but then Valery stops him.

"Wait, I want..." he whispers. He can’t bring himself to say it, always so shy, but he shows him, bringing Boris’ hand to his lips and sucking two fingers.

They keep looking at each other while Boris prepares him slowly, a luxury they normally don't have, exchanging breathless kisses, until Valery nods once, and surrounds Boris’ shoulders with his arms.

Boris would like to drag this moment forever, but he loses control after a few pushes, overwhelmed by Valery's warmth, by his fingers scratching his back, by his lips, pressed hard against his neck. Valery comes first, a shiver that runs all over his body, and Boris follows him, with the blood singing in his ears.

He knows he should move, he is heavy, but he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on Valery’s, as his fingers lightly travel on his back.

They clean themselves with the bathrobe, but since it’s too early to order breakfast, they stay in bed and talk.

They often talked when they were in Pripyat, in the trailer near the reactors, or during the evening, walking along the empty streets, but only about neutral and non-dangerous topics: work, colleagues, some memories of when they were young. Normal speeches between two men become friends, because you never know which ears can be listening.

But now, with the morning light still not filtering through the closed curtains, they can speak freely, without worries.

"Borja, do you ever think about what life would be like for us if the world were different?"

"A futile exercise at this point for us, both in this or in another world."

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes," replies Boris, after a pause so long that Valery believes he has fallen asleep again, "Every once in a while I think about it, since I met you."

"And before?"

"To be honest, I thought I would die at my desk. A colleague of mine would have entered my office and found me dead. But in another world... something like this would be nice."

“Like this?”

Something simple, Boris explains, a small apartment, some carpentry project for him, maybe a book to write for Valery, afternoon walks along a quiet street, a dog, Valery who takes care of a colony of cats, no complication.

A futile exercise indeed, but it’s a fantasy where sometimes his mind takes refuge.

"Yes, it would be nice," echoes Valery, stroking his shoulder. There is no need for him to say that he also imagines the same things, Boris knows.

Then the day begins: Boris returns to his room for a shower and to undo the bed as if he had slept there, because they live in this world, not in another, and appearances must be preserved; they order breakfast, then Boris devotes himself to writing his report, while Valery is on the phone with Moscow.

This time he manages to be diplomatic and respectful: he apologizes if his illness caused logistical issues, assures everyone that he is better now, and says “thank you” several times, but Boris is very relieved that Gorbachev cannot see his faces now.

"Well?" He asks when Valery hangs up.

"Oh, everyone is very satisfied: Moscow, the foreign press..."

"Valera," Boris rests his pen on the desk, "I know the Conference didn't go the way you wanted, I know you wanted to say everything, but what you said is not a lie: the sacrifices we made to avoid the worst at Chernobyl are real, and now the world knows it."

"The half-full glass, I suppose."

"Well supposed," he replies, getting back to work.

Shortly thereafter, Valery joins him at the desk, arranging his papers and adding new notes.

They talk again, they joke at times, Valery smiles more in that handful of hours than he has done in months, and when he grimaces for a neck pain, Boris rubs his shoulders.

At the end, Valery turns around and steals a kiss from him.

"Thank you."

"For a massage? I should do it more often, then," he grins.

"No... you know, for this, for today: I didn't realize I was going to have a breakdown until, well, I had a breakdown. Thanks for being by my side."

"I will always be by your side, Valera. Always."

Boris kisses him again, slowly and deeply.

His report, Valery's notes, the whole world can still wait.

They leave the hotel in the early afternoon, sending their suitcases to the airport, keeping only a briefcase with the documents (someone in Moscow will check if their luggage has been bugged), but since the plane will take off only in the evening, they have time for a walk along the streets of Vienna downtown, shoulder to shoulder, confused in the crowd, as if they were ordinary tourists.

Walking by of an almost empty tearoom, Valery nods and Boris follows him; the interior is dimly lit, but the sofas are comfortable, the speakers convey classical music and arias from Italian operas, and there is a pleasant smell of coffee and chocolate.

"What do you take? I believe that after yesterday, you want to avoid alcohol."

"God, absolutely. Actually I was thinking of a hot chocolate."

"Valera, at your age?"Boris jokes, "and maybe you also want a piece of cake."

Valery shrugs and gives him a boyish smile that makes him look younger.

"I heard that Austria is the land of Sachertorte."

While they wait for their orders, they watch the passers-by outside the window.

"You know, right now I almost feel like a spy," says Valery, blowing a mouthful of smoke.

"What?"

"Well, we are here, nobody knows who we are, and we observe in secret how life is in the Western world. When I’ll return to the Kurchatov Institute, my colleagues will have thousand questions: many of them imagine the weirdest things about this side of the world."

"Nonsense. Life is life," Boris replies, pragmatic, "people are born, grow up, find a job, make a family and die, anywhere."

A small group of girls, who will be no older than sixteen, pass in front of the window of the tearoom, laughing and shouting aloud; they are dressed light for the season, one has only a denim jacket, and another one shows a noisy strand of pink hair sticking out from under an green cap.

"Of course," adds Boris, the disapproval very clear in his voice, "the decadence in this part of the world seems obvious to me."

Valery laughs, but he insists: "Come on, if you had a daughter, would you let her go around dressed like that? Or with that hair?"

"No, not this, but... they look happy, don't they?"

Happy and carefree, with all their life ahead. You can almost forgive them for the indecent clothing.

Almost.

"Happiness for all mankind," says Boris, "well, I suppose it works like that around here."

The waitress brings them their orders; Valery closes his eyes as he savors the hot chocolate (it’s delicious indeed), then smiles, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray. It's nice to see him so serene.

"What are you thinking about?"

"About us, Borja," he murmurs softly, leaning towards him, "if... if there is enough happiness for all mankind, I think it was right to take some for ourselves. I will always think so, even if we are not in another world."

Under the table, covered with a long tablecloth, their knees touch.

"Yes, I think so too," Boris nods, smiling to Valery.

Tomorrow Boris will think that, once back in Moscow, he and Valery won’t probably see each other again until the trial, he will think over the fact that walking for a few kilometers is very tiring for him now, and he will think about Valery losing too much hair.

But not now, now he just wants to savor that little, precious happiness of their own, as long as it lasts.