Not gay

After briefly skimming the very beginning, the judge set aside the thick folder, unread due to a 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 pair sitting before her. They decidedly did not resemble their many predecessors. Impressive men, tall, powerful, with muscles bulging even through their sleeves, faces like from an advertisement for hiking gear,

and what could these big lugs possibly be lacking? She herself would have gladly hooked up with the blond 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 wish to challenge this decision through the courts.

— Again, probably, some petty official, who slipped through the lustration net due to their insignificance, got a bad case of gatekeeper syndrome," she thought, muttering into the stenographer "paragraph 5 of article 4," "every competent citizen," and other phrases memorized by rote for the occasion. — "And yet, what a shame he's gay! There's no justice in this world, girlfriend, even if you break your back trying to establish it. And there's already a shortage of men after the war (especially for you, being so proper), and they're even taking 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 darted 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 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? Can't you afford 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 I trust 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 need consent for the operation, and who's going to sign it? His parents are god-knows-where far away, I'm formally nobody. A partner. 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's, by the way, 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 staged a Latin American tragedy out of thin air, you'll probably even appeal when I deny you (and I will deny you), instead of just pretending in front of the medics. Is it so hard for you to kiss? I can see you guys are without complexes, since you can handle three together...

— Your Honor!

— ?

— Did we beat the Christlamists for that, to lie afterwards? To our own 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 her bed. In her sleep, she was twisted, turned every which way, and placed in various positions by the powerful hands of strong men for whom three between two was nothing new.