#very bad self confidence

[moodymisty]

I want to open requests again but also, I have like zero confidence to write anything at the moment.

I dunno i keep hearing people talk about how they hate when writers do this or hate that and this headcanon is the worst, everybody dunking on something, and I keep seeing it in my stuff. I just don't have much confidence in making anything that people aren't gonna find cringe and poorly made and miserable to read. Like why would I take all of your ideas when someone else can/will just do them a million times better then I ever could without all the stuff that makes my writing annoying to read.

I'm not looking for like sympathy or anything, I just wanted to give a warning if you don't really see much writing from me for a bit.

[recycledraccoon]

I have evolved into Scuttlespring anon, just say anything about them. I love them so much

THE ANON PANTHEON GROWS

Ok so. Gorgug likes Mary Ann because she absolutely infuriates him but also, and perhaps more importantly, because she has a type of confidence I think a younger Gorgug would have deeply envied. She's so weird, but entirely sure of herself. She likes what she likes and anyone who would have a problem with that is absolutely beneath her notice. She has friends not despite her oddities, but because she refuses to bend about them and that confidence is incredibly attractive in a person. Mary Ann Skuttle see's something she wants and she just...goes and gets it, easy peasy. Tiny little kobald strides, but when she puts her foot down with force, Gorgug thinks she could crush a mountain under with nothing so much as a blink or falter of her stride. She's certainly physically strong enough for it, and while Gorgug is undisputedly the better fighter, Mary Ann has a physical strength hidden under soft pastel pink hoodies and can, has, and will knock Gorgug on his ass. Gorgug got THRASHED at those Bloodrush field tryouts, and I'm certain he probably got his ass handed to him more than once during the year while at practice but before he quit the team. She made him so damn mad, everything that year was, and endlessly kind Gorgug got real mean to her over it. She was better than him, more casually confident, and didn't blink ONCE at his outburst. And later? When she was resurrected and freed from possession? He talks to her, acknowledges that it was just a game but he had been actually mad to be so easily knocked aside. He never really had to work at Bloodrush to be good at it, he just was, until suddenly she proved herself better.

And yet, without flinching, Mary Ann, famous for not giving a shit but listening to Gorgug say how much he had, just....asks if he has a girlfriend. Unparalleled confidence, shooting a shot he was unprepared for. Planets aligned even as his own orbit was knocked off course. And then, when he admits he doesn't even know where to get a quokki pet, something its been explicitly known to be something she really cares about? She writes down her number, letting him see that folded paper. She initiated this, and he got swept up in it, but instead of just handing over the number and allowing him to be swept up- Mary Ann Skuttle puts the number away and tells him shes gonna put it where you get quokki pets, and if he wants her number he's going to have to go get it. He's not allowed to just be swept up in the force of her, she wants him to put in effort, prove to her and himself that this isn't just a moment but a starting point. He cant be swept up by the tide, he's gotta swim. Gorgug liked Zelda, but their relationship started because they thought she was in danger and Gorgug had the best in. He stumbled into that relationship unsure and off balance, he never would have had the confidence to pursue Zelda without his friends hands on his back and their advice in his ears. Later on he gets more serious, he did love her and he put in the work to maintain that relationship, but it didn't work out and that's ok. Ever confident Mary Ann tho? She doesn't want unsure stumbling steps into this relationship. If Gorgug doesn't make the active decision to chase her, to WANT to be with her and putting deliberate effort to get there, then she doesn't want him at all. Gorgug, confused, asking where you even GET a quokki pet? And she smirks, calls him a loser, and walks away leaving him reeling and dumbfounded. Mary Ann Skuttle wants Gorgug to work for this. And who is Gorgug Thistlespring, but someone who puts in the work for things he wants? He did the seemingly impossible by creating his own subclass of Barbaficer, even if he had to take four years of schooling all at once. He puts in the work and makes the impossible possible, the greatest wizard of this age. So yeah. Yeah. Gorgug Thistlespring likes Mary Ann Skuttle because she makes him work for it.

[ywpd-translations]

Ride 757: A small tremor

Pag 1

2: Raging waves!!

3: Swirling ocean currents!!

Pag 2

1: Danchiku!!

2: We're now in the land of the decisive battle, Kyushu!! In Shimonoseki!!

Calm down, Issa, this is Moji. Shimonoseki is on the opposite shore, it's in Yamaguchi Prefecture

3: 1000 years ago, the final battle between Genji and Heike happened here

Pag 3

2: You know that because we did it recently in Japanese History? So you were awake....

3: The master fencer Miyamoto Musashi and Sasaki Kotaro had their duel in the close Ganryu Island!!

Ah... almost, but not really. It's Sasaki Kojiro; Kotaro is a friend of yours

5: Here!!

6: Here it's the starting point of the Inter High!!

8: Us!!

Pag 4

1: Let's become the best in Japan

Danchiku!!

Pag 5

2: Uh......!!

I came here just to chaperone you.... and I was wondering what you were you even talking about until now....

3: But this guy's simple words and feelings-

(Let's go see the sea, Danchiku! It's the sea!

Let's go renew our determination!!)

4: -can always shake my heart!!

Yeah, Issa!!

Pag 6

1: The towel is cast!!*

2: It's “the die is cast”!!*

Die is dice and it means “it's already started so you have to move forward”!! To “throw the towel” means to “give up”!!

(*NdT.: here Issa uses two very similar words: he says “saji” while it's actually “sai”)

3: Ahhh, dammit, I'm really so fired up!!

4: Let's go show this excitement to him!!

Him!?

To Doubashi!! Hahaha

Hm... wait, you want to go to Hakogaku's tent!? You want to march inside? Stop, Issa!!

Pag 7

3: We're here

4: Why are you here- during Doubashi-san's massage

See, look, Issa

Sohoku second years!? Don't come into the enemy's tent without even a greeting!

Doesn't matter

5: Let them through

Pag 8

1: It's been a while. I'm so worked up now, Doubashi!!

“san”, na!!

2: He's huge.....!! Hakogaku's third year, Doubashi Masakiyo!!

He sitting down, and yet he looks like Issa that's standing up!!

3: Is it your ring name!? Sanna Doubashi!?

I told you to use the honorific “san, idiot!! Buah!!

4: Was he this huge last year!? ….. no

He got even bigger during this past year!!

5: There are so many injuries in his knees

6: And even on his elbows there are traces of fights...!!

Pag 9

1: I came to tell you how much stronger I got in this past year

Oi, stop, if you say something like this now, you'll definitely regret it later

Nah, I'll say it

3: There's another person

4: Ah....

5: Is he also..... a regular?

6: Ah, Yes, I'm Sohoku's... second year...

Hahaha I'll introduce you!!

7: Is he your partner, Orange?

Hahaha, that's right!!

8: Our team's name is SS!! His name is Danchiku!!

I'm telling you this for your own good

9: Stop

Pag 10

1: This guy's a “chicken*”

(*NdT.: here the literal translation of the kanji used is "weak-hearted", while the reading says "chicken")

Pag 11

2: He'll run away right away

3: Buah!!

4: Road racing half a mental sport!! The distance is long and there'll be a lot of difficult moments. I don't know what kind of runner this guy is, but he's mentally weak and he'll be crushed by the pressure, especially at the Inter High!!

5: He got my weak point with one shot....!!

6: Nah, Orange!! Let's have a serious race, the two of us

Ah!?

And bring a better guy than this!! Ah!?

7: This one's no good, he can't run!!

That's what the sensor in my polished body are telling me

8: Doesn't Sohoku have a reserve!? You should.....

Pag 12

1: Replace him right now

4: Yuuto lost to a guy like this?

Ah!?

Well, I guess you had quite an advantage since it was a rcae in your hometown

Danchiku won!!

5: Would it be better if I was replaced...? No

He's not a bad guy, but.... sometimes he says bad stuff. Last year, too-

6: No, that's not true!!

What am I saying!! I'll run!! I'll be the one running!!

Pag 13

1: In the Inter High!! Together with Issa!!

2: Ehi, welcome back. Did you have fun on your walk?

… yeah

I've done the oiling and the gear check

Did you see the sea?

It was fired up!!

3: Fired up?

The sea was fired up!!

4: “My heart is small”

“Yours is much bigger”

5: Sugimoto-san.....

Once you get dressed could you try ride it?

Pag 14

1: Uhm, Sugimoto-san

3: Hm?

4: Hy.... hypothetically

5: If right now

6: I said I couldn't run, what would you do?

Pag 15

4: Since the day I was chosen as a reserve

5: I haven't taken even one day off practice

7: The members may seem to be in perfect condition, but they could accidentally fall and get injured, or get ill

Be ready to run the moment you know someone can't run, that's what a reserve is

I

8: I spent my time wishing that all my efforts would be in vain

Pag 16

1: I would run for all three days!!

Now I'll put this toolbox down, put on the my cleats and prepare my own bike!!

Can be done in fifteen minutes!!

Pag 17

2: Be prepared!!

4: I-I'm sorry!!

I'm sorry for saying stupid things

5: In road racing a reserve can only be subbed in until the start of the first day

The rules say that you can't change during the race

6: Is that so!?

You didn't know that!?

7: Once the race starts, if someone can't run, he can't be substituted

He retires and the number of people in the tea decreases... that's road racing

8: If your condition isn't good, tell us now

It's more advantageous is all six people run

9: It's alright, if you made that decision

Pag 18

1: No one will blame you

Pag 19

1: This trial run on the course is terrific, Danchiku

The sea is in full view!!

2: That tanker is huugee!!

“No one will blame you”

3: Don't hang your head, don't look down

What a I thinking!!

Raise your head!!

4: Issa is here

5: The Inter High I've longed for

6: “Stop”

“Chicken”

7: The die is cast!!

[thecodeveronica]

It's not a long chapter by any means, but I actually HAVE just about finished up a chapter for that zombie AA fic idea I mentioned, and boy does it feel GOOD feeling like I'm making some legitimate progress for once on something that could be a long project

SO SO GOOD, like a reminder that "oh yeah, I very much do enjoy writing actually"

Now, unfortunately, this is a stray middle chapter without any context before or after it beyond what is in my haphazard notes tab lmfao, but I have something and I think this is working out okay trying to write out of order this time!

[ziracona]

More Metro fic be upon ye. [Metro Last Light - Finale and further from Pavel’s pov: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.]

Pavel’s body felt so heavy he might as well have been carved in stone. And yet somehow, simultaneously, his head felt light and foggy, unable to think. This beaten, feverish sensation lasted for what he would find out later was hours, him dropping in and out, but mostly out, of some semblance of consciousness.

Finally, everything darkened, and his injured body sunk into a real sleep.

There were faint suggestions of memories—in the dreams, in the fevered time before it, but his weak processing power couldn’t make sense of any of them. There had been an old man, a face he hadn’t recognized. Stopping over him, saying things he didn’t remember. The creature had been there again, in his head. He thought that part must really have happened. And, he knew he’d been moved. No idea by who, or where, but, he had felt it. And…and things got hazier then. Out of order, too, if they’d happened at all. The voice from the radio had spoken The International like a prayer. But that couldn’t have happened, could it? There had been more of those creatures, maybe. They were fading, passing, blurred memories, but it could have been real. And he had seen Artyom, dead, soaked in blood and wounds, but he had been moving, somehow, rushing towards him. That must not have happened.

There were people, voices, arguing. Then, nothing.

The nothing was a relief to Pavel. He was at rest, a deep, heavy, sunken rest. A rest he needed.

There were no dreams. No pain. No thoughts—God that was the real mercy. Just…a break.

A gift.

And it was many, many hours later, when he awoke.

He did not feel better. Actually, he felt considerably worse; his body, upon realizing it would live, had turned back on all those fun nerve endings a body tended to shut off and ignore once it had decided the end was coming no matter what, like a last gift to its inhabitor.

Breathing hurt, in a wet, heavy way. The bullet there had done the most damage, and the pain of it was the first thing he became aware of as he woke. Everything else was heavy and sore, and his head swam with pain and disorientation. When he opened his eyes, even his sight was blurry. 

Still, he was alive. 

As he struggled to understand that, he blinked, and coughed a heavy, stabbing cough. 

“Ow,” he groaned, trying to make himself feel better.

“Pavel!” That had been Artyom’s voice.

Confused, Pavel turned his head, and there he was. Artyom sat in an old chair, at the bedside, looking more than a little like hell himself. What Pavel could see of his chest past the collar of his shirt was covered in bandages, and so were his arms and neck—even one of his ears was padded over with gauze, and his forehead and chin were bruised badly.

“What happened to you?” asked Pavel automatically, lagged brain still in the process of waking up. 

Artyom seemed to find this funny, but he answered anyway. “General Korbut ran a train into me, was most of it.”

A train?? That had been the plan?

“I got shot a few times,” added Artyom thoughtfully, and he smiled and indicated a bandaged spot on his right upper arm. “This was you.”

Right, thought Pavel with disappointment as things began to fall back into place, I was trying to kill you.

With that thought, everything came back at once—the fight at the square, the hall of damned souls, Artyom letting him go, the radio, D-6, the Dark One.

His heart sunk lower. We lost.

“…We lost,” said Pavel, not exactly a question.

Artyom nodded. 

They were both silent, then. He knew Artyom was waiting for him to speak, but it had suddenly become difficult to look at him.

“…What happens now,” asked Pavel finally, eyes on the far wall, “…a court martial?”

It stayed quiet. 

After he had waited out as much time as he could take, Pavel made himself look at Artyom again. The man was watching him, expression sober, but hard to read. 

It hurt to look at him. He felt overwhelming guilt doing it, and then rage at himself for feeling that way, and guilt for feeling guilty about doing his duty, and confusion, and anger at the confusion. He was already nauseous from blood loss, and the sudden whirlpool of emotions increased his urge to vomit. Even more than that, though, he just felt sad. He’d lost—they’d lost. His friends were dead, for nothing. His comrades were dead, and the Red Line was weaker, not stronger. The Nazis would be pushing back hard at the scent of an opening, and he wasn’t there to help them. They were dead, and he had failed them. 

And Artyom was alive, and he had failed him too. He had done the worst thing. He had hovered on the line between choices, and failed everyone.

The world and the ideals he believed in, the general he was loyal to, the men under his command who trusted him. They had all lost today, because the Rangers had won.

So how could he be so glad Artyom was alive. What horrific betrayal was he capable of, that that feeling was the stronger one now? He did not know what to do with it, except to hate himself.

“Yes,” answered Artyom after a bit. He shifted in his seat.

A court martial. Pavel exhaled slowly, and rested his head back against the medical bed. Honestly? That was almost a relief. This way, at least he could dodge ever having to truly figure out any of conflicted feelings swirling around in his head, and he would probably get what he had coming. Unfortunately, he was far from the only person their loss to the Order would affect. And…that mattered a whole lot more.

“…and…the Red Line…?” asked Pavel finally, dreading this answer most of all, and his eyes firmly on the ceiling.

“They are in talks right now, in Polis,” answered Artyom.

Talks?

Brow furrowed, Pavel made himself look at Artyom again. The younger man was still studying him with the same difficult to read expression.

“…Well,” continued Artyom after a few long, uncomfortable seconds, “The situation is not good. We lost hundreds, and the Red Line even more, at D-6. They failed their assault on the Reich as well. The Nazis are calling for blood, Hanza wants territory, all balance is thrown off.”

He’d asked, but Pavel felt the urge to vomit intensify with every syllable. Everything was falling apart. Okay. Okay, what can you do? the thought was frantic, but the answer was ‘nothing.’ Fucking nothing.

“Right now, all factions have met for talks in Polis. Continuing the peace conference from before.” There was an edge to Artyom’s voice when he mentioned the ‘peace’ conference the Red Line had used as the opening for their attack. Pavel did not regret what they’d tried, but he still felt a twinge of guilt at the words.

“So far, what has been decided is that General Korbut will face a court martial very soon,” continued Artyom, “As for the Red Line itself, it helps that Moskrov admitted to being blackmailed by him, and warned Polis of D-6 just before the attack.”

He what—he did what?

The shock must have registered on his face, because Artyom’s expression lifted into a cautious smile. “The Spartans have decided to offer the Red Line an alliance now. I hope they will take it.”

That’s impossible.

Pavel was sure he’d heard him incorrectly. Then sure he was still unconscious and dying on the floor of D-6, and this was his mind trying to dream up a scenario that could save them.

Seeing his face, Artyom cautiously reached over to touch him, then hesitated and drew his hand back. “It’s true,” he said instead, deep brown eyes focused and sincere, “We don’t want things to change. Hanza wants too much power, and god knows we can’t give the Nazis more. We need the Red Line.”

There was a factual simplicity to the statement that was undeniable, but it could not be true, and just Pavel stared at Artyom and shook his head.

“We almost wiped you out, today. The blood has not even dried,” insisted Pavel, “We tried to destroy you.”

“I know,” said Artyom. He smiled sadly. Pavel couldn’t understand it.

“Why…?” asked Pavel hopelessly, “Even after all of this?”

Artyom was quiet, as he was often quiet. Pavel saw him try to speak a few times, and he waited, familiar with this, as his former ally considered the question in silence.

“…You are my friend,” managed Artyom finally. He looked up and held Pavel’s gaze.

What?

Of everything he could have expected Arturo’s to say, this wasn’t even close to a guess.

“…You betrayed me,” continued Artyom slowly, picking words as he went, his voice calm and soft and tinged with regret.

Pavel felt a stab in his chest with the words. Again, he found himself wishing desperately that Artyom was angry. Sad was so much worse. But he was right. It wasn’t that simple—it was so, so fucking complicated, but still…he had done it.

“I wanted to believe you hadn’t. I wanted to believe you in Venice. I wanted…you to change your mind,” continued Artyom, voice almost a whisper. He wasn’t looking at Pavel anymore, he was looking down, at the past. “…I realized in Red Square, you were not ever going to. …But, I also realized that you were playing the villain.”

Pavel looked at the wall.

“I have seen you talk your way out of execution, Pavel. I know you are too smart to encourage me to kill you,” continued Artyom carefully, as if setting pins in a lock, “So, you did not do it for you. You did it for me. …You did not want to kill me.”

Artyom must already know the answer, but Pavel owed him this much, after everything, and he made himself meet his gaze.

Artyom smiled sadly with recognition. “Yeah. I did not want to kill you either. So I did not. And I still don’t want to. I think I don’t want to kill anybody. I am so tired of killing. So many people are dead, and for what? There were already too few of us left. So what you tried to kill me? So what the blood has not dried? Blood for blood and the only thing left will be a pile of corpses to say we avenged. Don’t you want to try to live?”

Pavel had never heard someone talk like that.

Maybe once in a book, but, not someone real.

Usually, Pavel knew what to say, and in almost any situation. Now, for the first time ever, he could find no words inside to speak at all.

“Can’t it be that simple?” said Artyom, like he was asking for a lot more. Maybe in his own way, he was.

“…I don’t think it can,” answered Pavel finally, surprised to hear his voice choked when he spoke.

“Then you don’t know that it can’t be,” pleaded Artyom. 

Again, Pavel didn’t know what to say. 

Artyom cut such a sorry picture like this, bruised and shot and bloodied, and with all the power and none of it, asking him for something he didn’t have to give. It made his chest ache. It made him want to give it. But it couldn’t be done.

After a minute of heavy quiet between them, Artyom seemed to realize he was not going to answer. He shifted in his seat and surveyed what he could see of Pavel’s wounds, then tried again. “How are you feeling?”

Somehow, that was worse than anything Pavel had thought he might say next. He felt like his head could explode. Pavel was experienced. He was intelligent, and capable, and just the amount of hardened he needed to be to fulfill his post. And yet, this conversation was making him sick. 

“Alive, thanks to you,” he replied. He had started to be friendly and familiar on impulse, because he was a survivor, and he knew the best way to stay alive now was to make sure Artyom wanted him to stay alive. But as he heard his voice, he’d choked on the last word. He already wants you alive, fucking idiot, or you would not be here. But you are being court martialed. With all he’s done, can’t you at least give a decent goodbye? He is…

The silence descended again and was agonizing. Heavy with things unasked and unsaid, things Artyom struggled to say, and Pavel could not figure out how to.

“…I am glad you’re alive, Artyom,” managed Pavel finally, doing his best, “…and I’m sorry. I never—…I really did consider you my friend.”

“Don’t you still?” asked Artyom with worry.

“Of course,” replied Pavel. He finally managed a smile. “I owe you my life. Again.”

Artyom smiled back. This time, he reached over and closed his hand around Pavel’s. His skin was warm and rough; Pavel could feel cuts on his fingers. He wondered if any part of him had made it through all this unscathed. And then, with a delay, he realized there was no shackle by the hand Artyom was holding.

Confused, somehow almost alarmed by it, he glanced at his other wrist, and found nothing but an IV drop anchoring it. Rolling his ankles, he could feel no bindings there either. Looking around the room and taking in detail for the first time, it registered that this was just a room. There was a wooden door at the end, single bolt, locked from this side. A lock anyone in the world with a hand could slide back. It was not any kind of cell. There was a guitar against the wall.

He turned and stared at Artyom, then swallowed, trying to figure out how to even ask. “…Where are we?”

“D-6,” replied Artyom, looking confused by his sudden shift in tone, “The surviving members of the Red Line in D-6 surrendered when the Dark Ones attacked. Most were moved to Polis or sent home for treatment, but the most wounded we treated here.” 

Incredible how little that had answered the question he had actually tried to ask. Wait.

“You truly sent most of the fighters home?” asked Pavel, brow furrowing. 

Artyom nodded.

“You’re all crazy,” observed Pavel, mystified, “…Then, it is just the officers being held for court martial?” The amount of relief he could feel if so. Nothing would undo failing here, but it would make their losses so much smaller if-

There was a look of deep surprise in Artyom’s eyes at the words and he hurriedly shook his head. “-No, Pavel, only General Korbut. -Not any other officers—Not you.”

The words were like being struck. Something in his throat wrenched into a knot, and he could barely breathe. Pavel shook his head and turned away, trying to recover. Artyom did not let go of his hand, but now he wished he would. 

“…Artyom,” he said finally, still turned away and eyes firmly set on the far wall, “Oktysabrskaya… You know I lead-”

“-I know, Major,” came Artyom’s voice.

Pavel waited, but there was nothing else. No ‘but,’ no ‘and,’ no anything, so he made himself face Artyom again, exhausted as he was.

When he did, Artyom was silently watching him with the same hard to place expression he’d had when Pavel woke. After a moment, he continued. His words were careful and slow. “As far as everybody else is concerned, you helped me escape the Reich. Then you tried to warn me over the radio last night, and you returned a stolen bio weapon to D-6. That’s all.”

That was not all.

“Korbut did not act alone,” insisted Pavel. He had betrayed his post for Artyom, but weaseling out of the consequences and leaving his General to take responsibility alone was a level of disloyalty he was not ready to betray himself with. Artyom was asking too much. Korbut was not some monster to throw to the wolves; he was a good tactician and leader. This was wrong.

“I know,” said Artyom.

“I should be with him,” said Pavel.

“Why?” pressed Artyom.

’Why?’ Because I have some modicum of honor and duty left? I don’t know why you want me to live so badly, after everything I’ve done to you, but I can’t turn on my people. Even now, even for you.

“…Artyom, I have done all kinds of things you despise, to protect the Red Line,” said Pavel quietly, “But I have done those things to protect the Red Line. I am not such a snake I would do it to save myself.”

“Who does it help for you to die?” argued Artyom, “Is the Red Line better with you gone?”

Pavel didn’t reply. How can you not see that is not what is at issue.

“If it is, then stay with me,” urged Artyom, “Sparta can use you.”

Pavel shook his head and looked away. “You don’t understand-“

“—I do understand!” insisted Artyom, grabbing his shoulder and jerking him, forcing him to turn back and look. It hurt, and he was glad it hurt. It was anything else to think about. “I know you released the virus; I know you have killed Spartans. I know you used me! I know you would have killed me, if you had won. I know you probably still think everything you did was right, and you may always think that. I don’t care! Even if you come after me again tomorrow, I would not regret it. Understand, Pavel, I am not asking you to do this for you; I am asking you to do it for me!”

…How could he possibly respond, to that? Artyom had leaned in close, and his deep brown eyes were bloodshot and desperate. Blood trickled past a wrapped cut on his arm he must have reopened, and down his wrist, onto the hand of Pavel’s he was still clutching. His grip was like iron, but his hands trembled. 

Why?

When Pavel didn’t answer, Artyom’s expression fractured. “Please,” he said, all the strength from before gone.

“…Why do you care so much?” said Pavel finally, “Enough to let me go, and to lie for me? Even after Teatr. I…don’t understand.”

“Because, you…Ты мне очень...” Artyom faltered. His face had lost the little color he had had left, and he looked so desperate. Why? Why over this? “…We are the same. Musketeers. And…” He trailed off again, heart visibly sinking as he took in Pavel’s expression. “…Isn’t that enough?”

Pavel felt bad for him, but he shook his head. It wasn’t. That didn’t make sense of any of this at all.

Artyom looked crestfallen, and he tried to say something, then stopped and struggled to speak, to no avail. Pavel had seen him struggle like this a few times, so he waited, and after a minute, Artyom seemed able to go on again. His manner was different, though; talking seemed to have become an immense struggle. 

“…You know…” managed Artyom with great effort, “….You know I was the one who…killed the Dark Ones?”

Pavel had not known that. Everyone knew it was the Order, but, Artyom?

“Not…I was a part of it,” continued Artyom, faltering woodenly from word to word, “It…was me.” He looked serious in a way Pavel had never seen on him before, like a man on his way to the noose, who knew he deserved it. “It…was my idea; I went to the Order…and got their help…and…it was me who…launched the missiles. The…Dark Ones begged me, to their last moment, to stop…and I heard them, and I… I did it anyway. I burned them to ash, in an instant. …Because I…was afraid, and I wanted…to protect my home. …My people…”

Pavel had seen Artyom a lot of bad ways—staring down death in a cell, injured, furious, half dead, betrayed. None of them even came close to as bad as the agonizing expression he wore now. He had not known any of that, but he remembered that way the voice of the Dark One in his head in D-6 had felt, and…about the voices in that place of damned souls, in Red Square.

“…and they still saved us, at D-6. After everything. …The little Dark One I found. …I had killed his mother. … He…called me his friend. He knew who I was, and…still.” Artyom choked up, then looked over at him and tried to smile. “You have done so much less than me, Pavel, for the same reasons. If…I believe I can keep going, I must think…you can too.”

He looked so miserable, so sorry. Why the hell had the Rangers let someone so young and inexperienced make that choice. It was something past cruel. And Pavel knew Artyom; he had known him since the moment he saw him looking at the prisoners in the death camp with such worry—he was a good person. That was all only more evident here.

“…Artyom,” tried Pavel slowly.

“-I don’t care if you agree!” cut in Artyom when he heard his tone, “I will protect you anyway!” Little blossoms of red had appeared over the bandage on Pavel’s shoulder, where Artyom’s fingers gripped him. He had never seen anyone hold onto another person so tight.

“You are not like me,” said Pavel kindly, almost gently, and he raised his left arm and carefully moved Artyom’s hand off his shoulder, “Chuvak. You are much younger. You think differently.”

Artyom tried to speak and failed, so he shook his head. He tried to move, and Pavel caught his free hand at the wrist and held it to stop him from gripping his shoulder again. 

“Artyomich,” he said softly, finally managing a smile, “Whatever you think of me, I promise, your fate is not tied to mine.”

This only seemed to upset him more. Artyom struggled to reply again, and couldn’t. Frustrated to anger, he jerked his hand free, and pulled away from Pavel, then stood, agitated, and ran a bloody hand through his hair. 

“We are not the same,” assured Pavel, trying to make him feel better.

“Долбаеб!” exploded Artyom finally, whirling on Pavel. “We are exactly the same! Muskateers, da, Athos?!”

Oh? Pavel stared at him and blinked in surprise, then finally understood. He burst out laughing.

Artyom gaped at him. 

He was laughing so hard it hurt, but he couldn’t stop, and the laughter turned to horrible wet coughs in his chest. 

“Why are you laughing!?” said Artyom.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” choked out Pavel, struggling and failing to hold back the coughs and laughs that sent spirals of pain along him. Somehow, he felt okay in spite of it now. “—You were right, Друг. I am sorry. I misunderstood; we are not so different.”

Artyom looked confused, but after a moment he relaxed a little and sat back down.

When his laughter subsided, Pavel lay back and gave Artyom a tired smile. He shook his head. “You win, d’Artagnian. Have it your way; I give up.”

Artyom hesitated, then smiled back, relieved.

He was so utterly different from everything else Pavel knew. All of this…illogical, unsafe, utterly hopeless forgiveness. Just because they had been close. …But then, hadn’t he been making terrible decisions all week for almost the same reason? He had done several very stupid things because of this man. …Maybe we are similar. That almost seemed to him like a good thing.

“Artyom, thank you,” said Pavel, “For Red Square, and for this. …I hadn’t said that.”

“…You’re welcome,” said Artyom.

It became quiet again, but the quiet was companionable now. Faintly, Pavel could hear indistinct voices in, and the clang of tools. The voices were calm, and conversational, the tools steady, unrushed. The sound of relative peace. Of rebuilding. Even as bad as things had gotten, even here.

“You know you’re good, right?” said Pavel.

Artyom glanced at him with the face of a wearied young man and the haunted eyes of a frontline soldier twice his age. And somehow, still, there was kindness in them.

“Whatever you think, you are a good person,” said Pavel.

Artyom didn’t reply, and Pavel doubted it had convinced him, but someone had needed to say it to him anyway. So it would take time; Pavel had that.

“Okay,” said Pavel with an exhale, leaning back in the hospital bed to relax and shutting his eyes, “So tell me what all I missed. –And what did you say before about Comrade Moskvin?”

[rainmonarch]

.

[thesorcerersspouse]

Me: I wonder what my f/os would like about me... ...wait what is there even to LIKE about me in the first place?

F/os: *burst into the room* Alright that's it we're doing an intervention *brings out a PowerPoint about why I'm not that big of a piece of shit*

[cathalbravecog]

i'm the antonymph of the internet

[phagodyke]

never stops being funny to me how everyone at the gym assumes im FAR more competent than I actually am without question. went to a roped sesh w one of my clubs bc they asked for novices to come along so the ppl training for the climbing qualification could get some hours in teaching ppl the basics & I wanted to learn. two climbing friends ask me if I've memorised the handbook for the assessment yet and are genuinely surprised when I tell them I'm not on the course. the instructor running the qual course (again, who I'm friends with) goes around and points out who's on the course and who's here as a novice to the assessor who had just dropped by, gets to me and goes oh yeah you're on the course too right? nope. then he goes ah but still they're a competent climber. nope again. pure novice. literally here bc I don't even know how to tie in and belay mate, u know that bc you've rope climbed with me before and had to fill out a supervision form bc im not signed off!! theres not even that many ppl DOING the course i dont know why he associates me with it. the first time I rocked up at one of the rope sessions the same guy (who, btw, has a hyperfixation on climbing safety & gear and is a fucking stickler for it & calls literally everyone else out abt it!!) asked if I could lead belay him - IM NOT QUALIFIED. TO LEAD CLIMB LET ALONE LEAD BELAY!!!!! then today they move on to gear and everyone is surprised I don't have my own belay device or harness. IM NOT SIGNED OFF. TO BELAY. I DONT EVEN KNOW HOW. THATS WHY IM HERE. I EXCLUSIVELY BOULDER. YOUVE NEVER SEEN ME DO ANYTHING ELSE. WHY WOULD I OWN ANY ROPED GEAR???? also bear in mind I'm a solid 10-15 years younger than the instructor & most ppl doing the course like where the hell are u getting this impression from guys 😭😭

[fizzytoo]

adrien's busy school day consists of exercise in the morning, acing his classes, and chatting up pretty boys at the bus loop

[sysig]

Sizing chart of cute: One Size Fits All (Patreon)

[motheatenscarf]

The nice thing about being caught up on MSQ is I can go through character tags just fine and not get spoiled!

The bad thing about being caught up on MSQ is I can go through character tags and realize oh god, oh no, people are trying to include Urianger in their cute little fancomics and no one is taking the like 30 minutes it would take to figure out the grammatical rules on his speech patterns, OH NO.

It's a very stupid pet peeve of mine but it's just one of those "I know it when I see it" kinda things about BAD fake early-modern English. I'm far from an expert, I never did get my degree, Life Happened, but I don't think you need to be an expert to make it... not... terrible...

Like, literally 30 minutes of research on early modern English, you don't need to be a scholar of Shakespear or the King James Bible, you just gotta remember basic grammar and read shit out loud and if it's Technically Correct but sounds bad, change it and be wrong anyway.

Just. Ngh.

[faunandfloraas]

Being an introvert that everyone thinks is an extrovert is sure... something

[thedevotionaltour]

I SHOULD HAVE GONE INTO RADIOOOOOOOO

[ame-to-ame]

I have so many thoughts on look back... But I'm gonna let them fester and marinate

[adore-gregor]

ugh