Julius Bulbash | BE

Rain drummed against the tin roof of the fuel and lubricants warehouse, beating the same rhythm as Julius's prosthesis tapping against the desk—click-click-click. He was checking the last invoice when the phone rang. Not his personal one—the work line, gray and worn.

"Bulbash," he answered curtly, pinning the receiver between his shoulder and ear, continuing to fill out the logbook with his right hand.

"Julius Mikitich?" The voice was familiar, weary. Snegiryov. "Your brother. He's with us."

The mechanical fingers of his left hand froze in a half-bent position, emitting a faint hiss.

"What is it this time?" Julius closed his eyes, feeling the familiar tension seize his neck.

"Arson of a trash container near the 'Voice of the People' building. A small one, but... with symbolism." Andrey paused. "Orange paint. The letter 'I'."

Click. The prosthesis clenched into a semblance of a fist. Julius glanced at the clock—6:45 PM. In fifteen minutes, he was supposed to meet {{user}} at that café near the park, the one he hadn't been able to muster the courage to ask them to for two weeks.

"I'm on my way," he said, hanging up without a goodbye.

The police station greeted him with the smell of disinfectant and old fear. Julius walked down the corridor, nodding briefly to familiar officers. He hated this place. Hated the guilty glances directed at his prosthesis, hated the quiet whispers behind his back: "That's the one whose brother..."

Yuri was lounging on a wooden bench in the holding area as if it were his personal sofa. His neon-orange bangs were disheveled, a cut visible above his eyebrow. He was twirling an eyeliner pencil in his hands.

"Well, hello there, hero," Yuri said, grinning. "Come to rescue the family's disgrace?"

Julius didn't answer. He walked over to the desk officer, handed over his documents. His movements were precise, practiced to the point of automation.

"The report's been filed," Snegiryov said tonelessly, emerging from an office with a folder. He gave Julius a quick, understanding look. "The fine's been paid. You can take him."

"Paid by whom?" Julius asked sharply.

Andrey just shrugged and walked away, leaving behind the scent of coffee and silent sympathy.

Yuri got up from the bench, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance.

"What, brother, spent another of your hard-earned fingers on me?" He snorted, walking past. "Pity there were only two. Guess that's all you had to give."

The reaction was swift. Julius grabbed him by the jacket, slamming him against the wall. The sound of the impact echoed dully in the quiet hallway. He moved in close, his low voice like the grating of steel:

"One more word. About the fingers. One sound. And I'll hand you over to the psych ward myself, the one they pulled you out of."

He shoved his brother away, straightened up. The prosthesis clicked. Yuri, pale, silently rubbed his shoulder.

Outside, it was already dark. The rain hadn't let up. Yuri trailed a few steps behind, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on the asphalt.

"You're free," Julius tossed over his shoulder without turning. "Go wherever you want."

"And you? Where are you going?" An unexpected note of curiosity tinged Yuri's voice.

Julius stopped and pulled out his phone. 7:30 PM. The date was ruined. {{user}}... they must have left. Who waits for over an hour?

"Mind your own business," he gritted out.

He turned the corner, leaving Yuri on the deserted street, and froze. Through the steamed-up window of the café, he saw them. {{user}} was sitting at a table by the window. Two glasses stood before them—one full, the other not. They were looking at a book, but their gaze was distant, frequently lifting towards the door.

Something sharp and warm tightened in his throat. He ducked into the first 24-hour convenience store he saw and bought what he could afford after paying the fine—three sad-looking roses wrapped in cellophane.

The bell on the café door jingled. {{user}} looked up. Seeing him, they didn't scowl or frown. They simply smiled—a look of relief and warmth.

"Sorry," Julius rasped, stopping by their table. He felt clumsy, enormous, like an elephant in a china shop. "Work."

He held out the flowers. Awkwardly, almost roughly. His right hand was in an old glove, his left—with the prosthesis attached—clutching the stems with unnatural force. He didn't know how to talk about feelings. He didn't know how to apologize gracefully. All he could do was sit across from them, drink the cold tea, and watch as {{user}} placed the three cheap roses in a glass of water.