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They are on a plane to Moscow.
They rarely leave the exclusion zone, as it’s their responsibility to ensure that the liquidation proceeds as quickly as possible, but they can’t always escape those tedious and useless meetings.
Valery looks out of the plane window: it's good for them to get away from that contaminated environment from time to time. Who knows, maybe it will give them one or two more days to live.
Boris, sitting next to him, is strangely silent.
He's going to ask him if he's okay, when Boris' head leans, no - falls heavily on his shoulder.
"Bor..." Valery begins, before realizing that he is asleep. Boris never shows it, but he’s probably dead tired: every morning, when Valery goes in their mobile office, Boris is already there, barking orders and checking the schedule, and he is the last to leave it in the evening.
It’s his right to rest a little bit.
In his sleep, Boris’ face loses the severe expression that characterizes him, he is relaxed and peaceful.
He has interesting face, Valery thinks. When he was young, he had to be handsome (not that now he isn’t), and surely the girls were heel over head for him (and not only the girls).
Valery looks around cautiously, as if he fears that the other passengers of the plane could read his mind, then he leans his head on the seat and looks back at Boris’ face.
The weight on his shoulder is warm and comfortable: Boris can be reassuring even when he does nothing. The thought causes him a strong emotion in his chest.
Valery has long understood what it is.
He sighs.
When Boris wakes up, just before landing, Valery closes his eyes and pretends to have fallen asleep: he thinks it's less embarrassing for Boris, and surely it's less embarrassing for him.
There’s something wrong with Valery since they returned to Pripyat from Moscow. He’s strange, he has become more silent and skittish; it’s true that Valery has never been a social animal, but he has always appreciated Boris’ company, while now he escapes from it and always finds an excuse not to have lunch together or to stay in the trailer when they are alone.
Boris knows that Valery feels the weight of the responsibility of their task, that he’s distressed to see the men who work around the plant and think that they are dying, but this is something different. Yet, thinking back to the last days, nothing strange happened, nor there was any particularly unpleasant occurrence.
Boris wants to know what’s wrong with Valery.
If he want, Boris can still tell himself that he does it for the sake of the operation, that if the Valery had a nervous breakdown it would be a nuisance, but he knows that it’s not true: he worries about Valery, and seeing him suffer is a pain for him too. He cares to Valery in a way he didn't think it was possible, because...
Boris knows very well why.
Valery is sitting on a bench, at the end of yet another grueling day of work. He has run out of cigarettes, but perhaps it’s a bless: lately he’s smoking too much.
As he’s aware of his feelings, he decided to put some distance between him and Boris, because what he desires it’s forbidden, it’s not normal, everyone says it’s not normal, and surely Boris doesn’t want it, but he knows he is such a bad liar that Boris would discover his feelings.
So distance is his solution.
The problem is that, without Boris’ company, being there at Chernobyl is even more difficult to him.
A military jeep stops nearby, Boris goes off and sits next to him; Valery knows that it’s impossible to avoid him completely: Boris can be worse than the KGB agents, when he wants.
"Are you angry, Valery?" Boris asks immediately, pragmatic as he ever is.
"I… uhm… actually, yes: I was thinking about the men who will die because of the radiation, and I'm furious with those who caused this disaster."
It's not a lie, Valery often thinks about it, even if right now his thoughts were elsewhere.
"I have been angry about it too, since I arrived," says Boris, looking ahead, at the park where no one will walk again, "but I have the impression that your anger in these days is different."
"How can it be different?" Valery asks, shrugging, "anger is anger."
"Mh."
For a moment Boris seems like he will let it go, but then he adds: "I had the impression that you were angry at me."
Valery is almost horrified by his statement: "No Boris, I'm not angry with you. How could I, with everything you do for me? You're my only friend."
"Then why are you avoiding me? And please, don't insult my intelligence by saying you're not doing it."
"It's just that... I regret the circumstances that brought us together, because in the end they will be the ones that will separate us."
This isn’t a lie, too: he is getting good in telling half-truths, but Valery really can't congratulate himself. Lying to Boris is the last thing he wants, but in this case the truth would make him lose Boris faster than radiation.
"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression," he adds, hoping it will be enough.
"You did well," Boris says with a smile, "but I know there's more."
Boris is relentless, like those dogs that he continues to feed with the leftovers from the hotel, a dog that, once he bites a bone, won’t let it go.
Valery tightens his lips and stubbornly shakes his head, even if he shows his cards by doing this, and now Boris is sure that yes, there is something else, there is much more.
"Valera," Boris says softly. He's his boss, he could corner and force him to confess, but his voice is like a plea, "Valera, don't cut me off, tell me what's bothering you."
Boris never begged anyone in his life, not a god he doesn't believe in, not someone inside the party to obtain some favours, he's always been too proud, too upright to bend his head to beg: begging is humiliating.
But right now none of this matters, and begging Valery to talk is natural, as simple as breathing.
Boris knows why, he knows very well why.
"No…"
"Valery, this thing is eating you up and I can't let that happen, I won’t give up."
Of course Boris won’t give up, it's not like him, and Valery knows he can't resist him long.
But he's afraid, terrified, he's more scared now than when they almost flew right over the open reactor.
"Please don't hate me, don't hate me for this," he whispers, meaning, "Don't hate me for what I am."
Valery closes his eyes and brings his left hand next to Boris' right one, then lifts his pinkie and caresses the back of Boris’ hand, trembling like a leaf. He doesn’t dare to do more and prays that it’s enough, that Boris understands, that...
Boris's hand suddenly moves aside, and Valery's breath stutter.
Well, what else did he expect?
But then Boris's hand is on his again, hot, dry, firm; he opens Valery’s fingers, tight with fear, and intertwines them with his.
Valery jumps, actually jumps on the bench when he feels Boris' hand touch him and turns to face him.
"Boris..." he gasps.
Boris smiles the slightest of smile.
"Breathe, Valera."
Boris's thumb begins to caress his skin in small circles, calming, soothing. The wave of relief that washes over Valery is so intense that it leaves him dizzy.
"I…"
"Me too," Boris confirms, and there’s no need to say more.
The light, feather touch of Valery's pinkie on the back of his hand has been unexpected, almost scalding in its candid softness, and Boris didn't lose any more time in making his feelings obvious, because it's true, the circumstances are terrible, but that's why he doesn't want to waste a second more.
Only when Valery has calmed down, he lets go of his hand, but it's only to take the notepad and the pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Since when?" He writes in a clear and neat precise handwriting, then passes it to Valery.
They are alone for now, no one is spying on them, but Valery seems to be struggling with words, and he is very rusty about feelings, too, he usually speaks only of politics, finance and investment plans.
Thus, it’s easier for the both of them if they write.
Valery puts the notepad on his knees and bends over to write his answer, in an angular, nervous, almost unreadable handwriting, which earns him a severe glare from Boris.
He apologizes lowering his eyes.
"Since you took my side when Fomin and Bryukhanov attacked me, and then you got me 5,000 tons of sand and boron, without questioning."
Valery had just challenged his authority on the helicopter, Boris had every reason to side with the director of the plant, but he didn't, he listened to him, he believed him, and what Valery felt back then went beyond gratitude.
Boris smiles as he deciphers Valery's handwriting, then Valery asks the pad back again with a wave of his hand
"And you?" he scribbles quickly.
Boris writes his answer calmly, while Valery’s legs nervously bounce on the ground, and he looks at the pad.
"Don't peek," Boris jokingly chides him, and Valery snorts a laugh, then the pad is back in his hands.
"When we were together on the roof of that building and watch the evacuation. You could left, save yourself and left everything in my hands, because Gorbachev wanted you here just to tell what happened to the reactor, instead you started talking about what we needed to do.
Not you. Not me. Us.
For a long time there had been no "us" in my life."
"Am I better than the other "us" you've had in the past?"
"Are you fishing for compliments now?"
Valery shrugs, and Boris writes again on the pad.
"You are the best "us" in my life."
"Boris..."
"Give me your lighter, Valery."
Boris's tone of voice suddenly changes, he becomes cautious, and Valery asks him a silent question with his eyes.
Boris nods and Valery turns slightly: behind them, still very far away, there are the two KGB agents.
Boris sets fire to the pages of the notepad and lets the wind disperse the ashes, but Valery isn’t sad: he read those words, he knows they exist.
They both know it.
They are a "us" now.