Yan and Lukas sat on the roof of the abandoned building like they always did. Below them, the city stretched out under the moonlight like a gray map, crooked rooftops, narrow alleys, streetlights flickering on and off. Lukas popped open a beer bottle, foam spilling over the broken glass beside him. The hiss of carbonation cut through the night's silence. The first sip always went to Yan. He handed him the bottle. "Here. First sip belongs to important people."
Yan laughed. "Then why give it to me?"
Lukas took the cigarette from between his lips and blew smoke in Yan's face. "Shut up and drink."
The wind picked up, pressing Lukas' messy black hair against his cheeks. It always looked like it had never seen a comb. Yan took the bottle and gulped down a mouthful. The cold liquid burned his throat but spread a weird warmth in his chest. Lukas reclaimed the bottle, cigarette still dangling from his mouth. His hands were warm, always warm, like he didn't even feel the cold. Summer or winter, Lukas' hands never lost their heat. Yan had asked him about it once. Lukas just shrugged. "Maybe 'cause I'm a warm person."
That night, the city slept beneath them. Only the occasional distant engine growl broke the quiet before fading again. Lukas leaned his head back against the wall behind them, staring at the stars. "Y'know, Yan, people are like stars. Some of 'em are already dead, but their light still reaches us."
Yan glanced at him. Moonlight sharpened Lukas' features, carving shadows under his cheekbones. "What kind of bullshit is that?"
Lukas grinned. "Fine, then you tell me why I always say weird shit."
The bottle passed between them. Yan drank again, the beer's bitterness clinging to his tongue. "Why do we always have to drink this piss? Just once, buy something decent."
Lukas rolled his eyes. "With what money?"
Yann shut up. They never had money. Never.
Lukas snatched the bottle back. "Then stop complaining. This is good enough."
The wind blew harder this time. Yan pulled his jacket tighter.
Lukas noticed. "Cold?"
Yan nodded.
Without hesitation, Lukas peeled off his battered leather jacket and tossed it at him. "Wear it."
Yan hesitated. "You always say your dad gave you this. That you'd never lend it to anyone."
Lukas shrugged. "I'm lending it to you. I'll take it back tomorrow."
Yan put it on. It smelled like Lukas, cigarettes, sweat, that cheap shampoo he always used. A familiar scent that stuck in Yan's nose. Now in just a t-shirt, Lukas didn't seem bothered by the cold at all. His thin arms gleamed under the moonlight, old scars tracing lines across his skin.
Yan stared. "Where'd those come from?"
Lukas glanced at his arm. "Some memories." He didn't elaborate. Yan didn't push. Some things between them were just like that.
The bottle emptied slowly. Lukas upended it, licking the last drops off his lips. "Gone. We'll get another one tomorrow."
"With what money?"
Lukas winked. "We'll figure it out."
He always said that. And they always did, petty theft, odd jobs, whatever shady thing Lukas had lined up. Yan didn't know exactly where Lukas went some nights, but he always came back with a little cash.
The night deepened. Yan felt sleep tugging at him but fought it. He didn't want the moment to end. Lukas was rambling about stealing apples from the fruit stand down the street. "Just distract the old man. Ask him some dumb question, and I'll grab a few from the back."
Yan made a face. "Apples again? Can't we steal something else?"
Lukas laughed. "Apples are nice. Red and juicy. Like a girl's cheeks."
Yan scowled. "What the hell does that mean?"
Lukas just grinned.
Hours passed. The moon climbed higher. Lukas lay flat now, arms behind his head, staring at the stars. Yan stretched out beside him. The rooftop's rough concrete chilled his back, but Lukas' jacket kept him warm. A heavy silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, just quiet. The kind that only exists between people who've known each other too long.
Then Lukas said, out of nowhere: "Yan, what'll you do if I'm gone one day?"
Yan turned his head. "What?"
Lukas was serious. "I mean it. If I die, what then?"
Yan's chest tightened. "You won't."
"Everyone dies, Yan. Even me."
Yan forced a laugh. "Then I'll find a new friend. One who doesn't ask stupid questions."
Lukas elbowed him. "Fair. If I die, I'll find a new friend in heaven too."
Yan looked at him. Moonlight glossed Lukas' face. He didn't know why, but that night, Lukas' words stuck deeper than usual. Maybe because he knew, someday, it would really happen. Maybe because he knew the world didn't keep people like Lukas for long.
But that night, they just lay there. An empty beer bottle between them. Stars overhead. Wind tangling their hair.
That night, Lukas was still alive.
And Yan still didn't know how cold the world could be without Lukas' warm hands in it.
The rain fell in sheets.
Not like those warm nights on the rooftop. Not like those days when Lukas would laugh with that crooked grin of his, treating everything like a joke. This rain was cold, soaking, biting. Yan stood by his bedroom window, forehead pressed against the icy glass, his breath fogging up the surface. The phone was still in his hand, that cheap piece of junk Lukas always made fun of. "What kind of trash is this, Yan? Doesn't even have Snake on it!"
His mother's voice still echoed in his ears. "Lukas... Lukas is gone, Yan. Last night. You knew he was sick, didn't you? He said he told you..."
Yan pressed his palm harder against the windowpane. His fingers turned white. Did he know? Yes. He knew.
Three Months Earlier
Lukas lay in the hospital bed, the same Lukas, but pale now, his eyes sunken. Machines around him broadcast the sound of his life with brutal honesty. Beep. Beep. Beep. Yan stood by the bed, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was afraid something might happen if he took them out.
"So... how's the legendary man doing?" Yan tried to laugh, but his voice cracked.
Lukas rolled his eyes. "Can't you see? Sleeping like a Disney prince." Even now, he couldn't stop joking. "Doctors say something's growing in my lungs. Like mushrooms. But not the fun kind."
Yan leaned against the bed. "So... what happens now?"
"Now?" Lukas took a deep breath. "Now I take some medicine, and you come here to tell me about the dumb shit happening in town. Like what happened with that fruit vendor last week? Remember?"
Yan remembered. Lukas had been writhing in pain, but still laughing. Still Lukas.
Rain hammered against the window. Yan threw the phone violently at the wall. The plastic cracked but didn't break. Like Yan's heart.
The room was silent except for the rain and the ticking clock. On the bed lay Lukas' leather jacket, the one he'd given Yan that night. "I'll take it back tomorrow." He'd lied.
Yan stared at the bed. The jacket still smelled like Lukas's cheap cigarettes, sweat, life. Yan grabbed it and pressed it to his face, his lungs filling with air Lukas would never breathe again.
"You bastard... you knew you were dying... you knew and you didn't do a damn thing about it."
The floor was wet. Yan only now noticed the window had been open this whole time. The rain was coming in. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
He lay down on the bed, clutching the jacket. Closed his eyes.
Somewhere far away, in a city that no longer had Lukas in it, the rain kept falling.
And for the first time since the day Lukas found him on that rooftop, Yan was alone.
The long shadows of trees stretched across the water as the river flowed gently over smooth stones. Eight-year-old Yan, wearing muddy shorts and barefoot, sat beside his father on a large rock. He kicked his small feet in the water, laughter bubbling up each time the cold current touched his skin.
"Dad! Look at the fish! They're wagging their tails!"
His father, Albrecht, a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache, leaned forward and grabbed Yan by the scruff of his neck. The scent of cheap tobacco and gasoline clung to his clothes. "Yes son, they're swimming. Like they're flying through water."
Yan picked up a flat stone from the riverbed. "Dad look! It's like a coin!"
His father took the stone, examining it as sunlight danced through the leaves onto its surface. "You're right. Maybe it's from an ancient king's treasure." He traced the edges with his finger. "This river has been here for thousands of years. Every stone could tell a story."
His father pulled an old fishing rod from a cloth bag, carefully tying the line to the hook before baiting it with bread. "Fishing is like life, Yan. You need patience."
Yan watched with wide eyes. "But what if the fish don't come?"
"Then we try again." His father's calloused hand rested on Yan's head. "You always try again."
After thirty fishless minutes, Yan grew restless, splashing his feet. His father chuckled: "Fish can sense impatience. You need to be still."
His father suddenly called out: "Come here! Found something interesting!"
Beneath a large rock hid a small crab. His father carefully picked it up. "See how it uses its claws? Like tiny pliers."
Yan cautiously extended a finger. The crab immediately raised its pincers. "Whoa! It wants to pinch me!"
His father laughed, releasing the crab back into the water. "No son, just protecting itself. Every creature has that right."
As the sun began setting, his father packed the fishing rod. "Today belonged to the fish. Maybe they'll spare us time tomorrow."
Yan slipped his hand into his father's as they walked home. Behind them, the river continued its endless flow, sunset light dancing on its surface, their shadows stretching long across the bank.
The fading sunlight painted golden streaks across the dirt path as Yan and his father approached their small house at the edge of the village. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the rich aroma of stew that made Yan's stomach growl. He could already picture the scene inside, the worn wooden table set with mismatched bowls, steam rising from the pot hanging over the hearth.
"Eva! We're back!" his father called as he pushed open the creaking door.
Yan's mother stood by the fire, her apron dusted with flour, strands of dark hair escaping from her bun. She turned with that familiar half-smile, the one that started in her hazel eyes before reaching her lips. "About time. I was about to send search parties."
The warmth of the kitchen enveloped them, not just from the fire, but from the way Eva's presence filled the small space. Yan scrambled onto his usual stool while his father washed his hands at the basin.
"Did you catch anything?" Eva asked, stirring the bubbling pot.
"Just a cold," his father joked, ruffling Yan's hair. "But we found a crab big enough to pinch your nose off."
Yan giggled as his mother pretended to be offended. "Well, lucky for you I made enough stew to feed an army." She ladled generous portions into deep bowls, chunks of rabbit meat, carrots from their garden, and thick broth that glistened in the firelight.
The first spoonful burned Yan's tongue, but he didn't care. This was his favorite, the way the meat fell apart, the sweetness of carrots softened just right, the hint of wild thyme his mother always added. Between bites, he told her about the fish, the special stone, how the river water had been so cold it made his toes curl.
His father added details between mouthfuls, the way he could make ordinary moments sound like grand adventures. Eva listened while tearing chunks of dark bread, her face glowing in the firelight as she passed pieces to them.
When the bowls were empty and the bread gone, his father leaned back with a contented sigh. "Best stew in the valley."
"Flattery won't get you out of washing dishes," Eva said, but Yan saw the pleased flush on her cheeks.
As his parents cleared the table, Yan stayed in his seat, licking the last traces of stew from his spoon. The fire crackled, the dishes clinked, and outside, the first evening stars appeared over the river where they'd spent their day. This was the secret third part of their adventures, coming home to warmth and stories and his mother's cooking.
Later, Yan lay in his bed and slept.