Chapter Text
After seemingly endless and substantially rude pushing and shoving, Artyom at last made it to just below the Teatr stage; right in front. The crowd behind him was growing irritable and some of the viewers were even starting to boo at him, “Down in front!” they’d start to shout. Artyom wanted more than anything to sprint straight into the dressing rooms, where Pavel had said to meet him, but the congestion of the stage was suffocating. As he finally weaseled his way past a drunk-enough older man, a giant gloved paw-hand clamped down on his shoulder, tugging him backwards. That same hand pulled Artyom around to meet Pavel, wearing an even wider smile than he had when he left.
Pavel huffed out a quiet chuckle, “a little girl-hungry are we,” he joked, cocking a brow in reference to Artyom darting for the dressing rooms.
He patted Artyom’s shoulder twice and pushed him forward a bit, shuffling ahead and through the exit towards the dressing rooms. The separating curtain fell behind Pavel, leaving Artyom alone to stew in his embarrassment and frustration. The theater was loud and though the Artyom-focused boos died down when they saw him with Pavel, he wanted desperately to leave. Artyom pulled aside the curtain and walked into the long, poorly lit hall connecting the stage and audience to the actors’ dressing rooms. Pavel stood about two metres away, and was taking his sweet time walking around the corner. Artyom thought about refuting Pavel’s comment but… had it been too long? Would it be awkward to say something now would it be weird? Probably… he thought. Artyom let it go and picked up into a light jog left around the corner, only to smack face-first into the back of Pavel’s head.
“Oof!”
Pavel lurched forward a bit but caught himself and laughed harder than ever before, turning around and resting his hand on Artyom’s shoulder again, this time to balance himself.
“Artyomka, you—” he was interrupted by his own laughter a few times, “—you lost? Like a lost duckling running after its mama, eh!”
Pavel kept laughing as Artyom shook his hand from his shoulder and dusted off the front of his pants, huffing and puffing, trying to detract from how red his face was. A lost fucking— why I oughta… He tried to sound nonchalant about it, as though he had reveled in the joke just as much as Pavel had. His stomach growled. Pavel probably heard it.
“Bahaha okay, okay D’Artagnan, I’m sorry, mne ochen’ zhal’, no mean to insult.”
Artyom didn’t like being treated or spoken to like a teenager, but the apology was well-intended and, lucky for Pavel fell on sympathetic ears. Artyom smiled weakly and moved to shuffle past him and into the changing rooms, when Pavel’s hand moved to his chest, keeping him where he was. Artyom looked up and over to try and gauge the other’s intention. Pavel just put a finger to his own pursed lips, “Shh” he hissed. He beckoned Artyom to follow him then, tilting his head in the direction of the final entry curtain. Pavel disappeared through the doorway and Artyom followed. Inside was something out a pre-war magazine, full of flashy lights and polished well-fitted mirrors. There was fur everywhere, crimson red scarves and tall-heeled shoes— Artyom didn’t know what to think of the place, it was something out of his wildest fantasies of what life in the metro could be like.
“Girls! Good to see you all!” Pavel distracted himself with smalltalk, giving Artyom a chance to take it all in for himself. He walked to the far end of the room, to the next door; it was an old saloon-style wicker door with weak hinges, but a bead curtain obscured whatever was behind it. Above the door, and lining every mirror, were small circular LED lights, in Artyom’s mind a complete waste of energy. After so many shifts as the light-keeper in VDNKh it was hard to accept that other stations may have the power to spare. He took off his right glove and ran his fingers across the trim that lined the doorway; it was glittery and rough to the touch, but beautiful even if the paint was peeling.
“Artyom!”
Pavel calling out to him shattered his daydream and brought him back to reality a bit; was it time to go already? Pavel trotted over to him and reassuringly placed a hand on the small of his back; he must’ve caught his disappointed look. “Don’t worry my friend, we’ve got one last stop before the final stretch of our journey, consider it a treat from me.” Pavel brought Artyom through the little wooden doors, and the bead curtain, to reveal a tavern-looking enclosure with a few old tables, and a fully stocked bar. Artyom’s eyes shot open real wide— a real bar? Here? Teatr just got more and more unbelievable. So many thoughts raced through Artyom’s head, he’d seen so many foreign and beautiful things today, all within an hour! Alcohol for sale en masse, in an actual— well, sort of restaurant! Artyom took a seat at one of the metal tables near the entrance and placed his sack on the floor next to the chair and removed his hat. They hadn’t been able to really relax for the last few hours and it was good to get off of his feet for a while.
“Oi chuvak, I’m grabbing a drink for the both of us from the counter, sit tight.”
Artyom took a deep breath, trying to conceal just how frazzled Pavel’s last few stunts had left him.
“Alright, alright. I should tell you though, I don’t have any—”
“It’s on me, really!”
Pavel spun around, calling out to the bartender for four rounds (more than enough for the two of them…) and, lively as ever, spun back, slamming both hands on the table. Artyom felt his arms shake beneath him, and nearly felt queasy again. He was just considering talking about Pavel’s girl hungry comment when the drinks hit the table. Pavel reached out a tin cup, filled with a partially unrecognizable sludge, and clinked it against Artyom’s. He cried out some sort of toast to life, living, happiness and something or other, and took a rather large swig of the elixir. Artyom looked down into it, examining it more than he should’ve. Seeing Pavel enjoy himself so much, Artyom figured it couldn’t be all bad, and tentatively took a sip. It was stronger than Pavel lead on, and burned his lips and throat. Artyom’s face contorted into a painful pucker, earning him a laugh from his more-experienced companion. From then on, he stuck to quick and small swigs— much akin to shots he’d taken back home. Maybe half an hour passed, when Artyom’s ears began to buzz; his head spun, and his hands began to shake. He hadn't felt like this in a long time, since he and Zhenya were teenagers sneaking off with his uncle's bottle of pre-war bourbon. It dredged up a lot of memories for Artyom... Zhenya back home, sukhoi, VDNKh and their fate, his excursion last year... it was all a lot to handle. Had he been repressing it...? Had it really not bothered him as much as he thought? Was— was he a monster? When Artyom’s head sank to the table in exhaustion, Pavel produced a small glass vial from his sleeve and uncorked the top.
“Pavel…” Artyom interrupted. Pavel shoved the glass back into his sleeve, out of sight.
“Yes, Artyomka?” he batted his eyelashes a few too many times for comedic effect. Artyom pulled his head back up and looked right at Pavel; he looked so tired, his eyes red and puffy, and his nose was dripping. Had— had he been crying…?
“Is… something wrong, d’Artagn— Artyom?” Artyom sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, followed by a few deep breaths to steady himself.
“Pavel what if I never get home— what, what if—” he could barely speak in his drunken stupor. “What if this is it? If the mutants take me— take us! Pavel I’m— I…” he started to tear up again, and his face fell into his hands. Pavel sat completely frozen, unsure of how to handle the situation, unsure of how to console well, anyone.
“Pavel I don’t want to die!” Artyom finally blurted out, perhaps a bit too loudly. His face fell back to the table and he quietly wept into his folded arms so no one could hear him; only Pavel could tell he was still crying by the way his shoulders bounced and shook. He didn’t know what to do… he moved the glass vial up his sleeve back and forth between his forefinger and his thumb before decidedly hiding it in a potted plant to the left of their table. A-another time, right?
He didn’t know if he could, now.