Not gay

Glancing briefly through the very beginning, the judge set aside the thick folder, unread due to chronic lack of time. The case, however, promised to be straightforward. How many like this had passed through her hands since the pendulum had swung, and everyone suddenly remembered that they, it turns out, have rights. Especially those who, for some reason, were not among those who had fought for these rights with weapons in hand. Including these ones...

The judge looked perplexedly at the couple sitting before her. They decidedly did not resemble their many predecessors. Stately men, tall, powerful, with muscles bulging even through their sleeves, faces like from an ad for hiking gear,

and what could these big lugs possibly be lacking? With the blond one, she herself would have gladly had a fling under different circumstances. Though, no, of course not, he'd clearly prefer his buddy's pumped-up ass.

— So, you were denied state registration of marriage and you want to challenge this decision through the court.

"Again, probably, some petty official, who didn't get caught up in the lustration due to their own insignificance, had a fit of gatekeeper syndrome," she thought, muttering into the stenographer "paragraph 5 of article 4," "every competent citizen," and other phrases memorized by heart for the occasion. — "And yet, what a pity that he's gay! There's no justice in this world, girlfriend, even if you break your back trying to establish that very justice in it. And there already aren't enough men to go around after the war (especially for you, so proper and all), and they're even with each other."

— ...the right guaranteed by law, as people whose individual sexual characteristics are confirmed by a medical certificate from... — The judge faltered and, not wanting to sift through the papers, looked the blond in the eyes. — A medical certificate from?

— You see, Your Honor, — the blond rumbled (in a bass, of course, a bass!) — the thing is, Sashka and I aren't gay. We're nor... mm... I mean, we're normal.

— Not gay? Oops! But then what are you... I mean, why do you need this?... — her gaze wandered confusedly from one would-be groom to the other.

— You see, — (in such a velvety baritone!) responded the brunet Sashka, — we've been together our whole lives, since kindergarten, and in school, and in the dorm at the trade school, we were drafted on the same day, we carried one machine gun through two wars ("Wow! And you, girlfriend, probably thought these paws were meant for manicure scissors?"), now we have a joint business, bought apartments next to each other...

— Bu-usiness? — she drawled. — And, excuse me, hasn't it occurred to you that family law isn't meant for cementing a joint business? What, don't you have enough money for a proper consultant to draw up a contract? They bought apartments next to each other!

— No, Your Honor! — the blond joined the trialogue. — I trust Sashka without any contracts, like myself. He's saved my life several times, and I've saved his. I don't have anyone closer in the whole world. We've shared everything since childhood, even wo... mm...

— ("Oh") Go on, it's not the old times anymore.

— Even women, usually together. That. Whether one or three ("Oh!"). And we've been running a joint household for several years now. De facto. Wrote wills for each other, just in case. But.

— But?

— You see, — the brunet continued, — our work is quite dangerous. We drive ourselves, we don't sit in an office. And there, a lot can happen.

— Last summer Sashka, saving a client, ended up in the hospital — the blond interrupted. — He was in a coma for three days, they did the emergency stuff, of course, but then they demand consent for the operation, and who's going to sign it? Parents are god-knows-where far away, I'm formally nobody. A partner, sort of. A business one. And Sashka's unconscious, and time's running out.

— So I would have died there, — Sashka chimed in, — if Mishka hadn't promised that quack he'd put a signature on his fo...

— Stop, citizen! Have you forgotten where you are? ("This Mishka would probably put it so that the next signature would be the medical examiner's")

— Well, so I'm saying, I would have died there. And who would get the guaranteed share? The folks? They'd be happy to do everything to break up our business. They don't approve, you see. And we, by the way, have all our clientele from the Union, and that, by the way, is hard currency, so necessary for the young Republic, we don't break the law and even the opposite...

— Does this business of yours have any relation to the case under consideration?

— No, Your Honor.

— Then let's return to the last point and not waste time. You've concocted a Latin American tragedy out of thin air, you'll probably even appeal when I deny you (and I will deny you), and all this instead of just pretending in front of the medics. Is it so hard for you to kiss? I see you guys are without complexes, since three together...

— Your Honor!

— ?

— Did we beat the Christlamists for that, to lie afterwards? To our own native Republic?

— No. You didn't fight to lie. And I didn't fight to break the law. You are free to go.

And there was a lonely evening, and there was a night, and an unfinished glass on the windowsill cast a moonlit shadow on the judge, tossing and turning in bed. In her sleep, she was twisted, turned every which way, and put into various positions by the powerful hands of strong men for whom three between two was nothing new.