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There lay a heavy silence over the two young men who sat side by side, apart by a number of feet so that they each had considerable personal space. They sat backs against the walls of the shipping container they were inside, feeling and hearing the rhythmic hum and clack of the Aurora beneath them. The two of them were set to be alone for a number of hours while the locomotive ran. Anna’s idea of sorting out their problems; no weapons, no tricks, just solitude in the storage unit while she and the others remained in the passenger cars up front.
Pavel had come out from the bushes— bedraggled, wounded, exhausted; holding his hands high above his head as Artyom’s pistol sight centered directly on his face. He claimed to have come completely alone, and unarmed. Two of Artyom’s men searched him and found him to be telling the truth, though they were all put on high alert around the camp anyway. Pavel’s hands were tied and he was placed infront of the fire to be fed and questioned. He didn’t respond readily, but ate plenty, and to everyone’s surprise claimed he followed them to ask to join them. As the night wore on Anna grew more and more impatient with him avoiding her questions, and had nearly beaten him before Artyom stepped in and pulled her back. They fought under their breaths until finally they decided to honor Pavel’s request, with the consequence that he be locked in the cargo unit behind the passenger cars for the remainder of the next trip from camp. Artyom volunteered to accompany him as a guard, to keep an eye on him.
And now the two sat in rumbling silence, barely breathing, staring at a dark wall that had light dance across it in quick patterns as the rooftop window let in the sun and the clouds went in and out. Otherwise the car was dark. Finally, Pavel was the first to break the silence.
“Thank you, you know, for.. taking me with you,” he practically whispered.
Artyom gently rolled his head to his left to look at him.
“You… were hurt. Your head was bleeding,” he shrugged.
The two of them once again fell silent and neither looked at the other. Pavel fiddled with his gloves in his lap, his hands still tied with heavy rope. He was about to speak up again just to fill the silence when Artyom cut him off.
“Why are you here, Pavel? What do you want?” Artyom hissed. But it wasn’t in anger or fury, it was a pained hiss. A whimper of the strength he was trying to show. Pavel stared at him from across the car, looking into his lap now and again, clearly thinking.
“Can I… can I ask you something, Artyomich?”
“No.”
“Well.. well I’m going to anyway.” Pavel turned slightly to better face Artyom, supporting himself with his shoulder against the wall.
“Why… w-why did you… spare me. On the surface.”
Artyom pretended to ignore the question and brought his knees up to his chest. He stood firm and silent, but truly it burned him inside. A great flame had been lit, and he was in danger of being consumed. He asked himself the same question every waking hour of every day. It was his first thought when he woke up, and haunted him as he fell asleep. All he could see in his dreams was Pavel’s desperate, bleeding face and how he could never bring himself to mar it. He snapped towards Pavel, tears beginning to form in his eyes, and said a silent prayer of thanks that it was too dark for Pavel to see them.
“I truly considered you a comrade, Pavel. I could never kill you after feeling that way.” He turned away again, wiping his eyes with the back of his glove.
Pavel stared at Artyom as he quieted his gentle sobs and bit his tongue to quell the pit in his stomach.
“A-ah, I uh, I see…” he mumbled.
Pavel looked down at his lap, then again at Artyom.
“I’m… I’m sorry for all the stress I’m… sure I’ve caused you. I’m… sorry for, well… everything—”
“You have no idea,” Artyom laughed to himself.
They were quiet again then, soaking in the volatile energy that filled the whole car like smoke.
“Can uh… can you untie my hands?” Pavel boldly asked.
Artyom took a deep breath, rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. He stood up, bent to one knee in front of Pavel and, taking his knife from its holster, cut through the rope around Pavel’s wrists. Pavel rubbed his sore wrists and shook out his hands.
“Thank you chuvak.”
“Mm.” Artyom mumbled back. He sat down again, now right next to Pavel, both of them still with their backs to the wall. Pavel sat perfectly still for a minute or two, unsure of what to do, before he began to rummage through his rucksack. Artyom glanced over with one eye open, curious what he was doing. Pavel, away from Artyom’s view, found what he was looking for and turned back to Artyom, proudly showing off his find.
“Got a light?” he beamed.
Between his thumb and first two fingers was a hand-rolled joint; outlawed through most of the metro, and hard to find especially in the Red Line. Artyom went wide eyed for a moment and felt his proverbial stomach growl. He hadn’t relaxed that way since he was hanging out with Zhenya— years ago now. He shook his head for a moment and laughed, thinking about what he was about to do. Drugs with a traitor— a dangerous major of the Red Line.
“Yeah.” Artyom reached for his chest pocket and pulled out a military round; flipping it open to reveal it as a lighter, he held it under the cigarette which was now hanging from Pavel’s mouth. Pavel took a deep draw in, and let out a pillar of smoke into the car. He passed it to Artyom who did the same.
There lay a comfortable silence over the two of them within 10 minutes. The car was hazy now, small with no air vents but the slightest crack in the sliding doors. Both young men sat hands in their laps against the wall as they were before, now hunched over or nearly falling to the floor in exhaustion. Without either really realizing what was going on, Pavel slumped sideways onto Artyom, leaning his head on his shoulder. Artyom felt him immediately and his eyes popped open. He made a noncommittal sort of groan in Pavel’s direction to try to get his attention, which worked. Pavel blinked awake and looked up at Artyom before realizing what had happened. He jolted straight up and rubbed his temples as though he had a headache. The two of them were sitting so close now that their hips touched. Artyom felt a heat in his chest and stomach he hadn’t felt since… he thought to himself.
Shit.
Since the last time he had been this close to Pavel. His heart wrenched and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up. He couldn’t tell from looking at him what Pavel was thinking at all; the distance between them was minimal now and they both stood absolutely still. Unbeknownst to each other, both their hearts were racing, about the beat out of their chests. When the beating in his chest and the ringing in his ears became too much, finally Pavel acted. His hands sprang forth and gently held Artyom’s shocked and puzzled face. He closed the distance between them and brought their lips together. He could taste the smoke on Artyom’s lips. His eyes were glued shut, terrified that if he opened them all he would see was a disgusted grimace. But instead he felt a gloved hand cup his own face, and before he knew it their clumsy kiss had hit its proper rhythm. He pulled away and finally opened his eyes. From where he was he stared directly into Artyom’s. They were an olive green, glinting in the low light afforded by the roof window. He pulled his hands from Artyom’s face and sat back on his palms, distancing himself.
“I’m so— Artyom I— I’m— I—” He couldn’t find the words. Artyom put his own hand to his own cheek, feeling where Pavel had touched, and felt tears once again welling up.
“Pavel please… Why are you here?” he asked again, desperately now.
Pavel took a deep breath.
“Ok.”
And he laid his whole story out, from start to finish. From his disgraceful return to the Red Line, a defeated Major returning to a broken and collapsing empire. How rumors had spread through the top ranks of any half-decent government in the metro, that the Order was splintering— that a select group was going to the surface for good. How he felt in his now disowned and homeless bones that Artyom would be one of the ones leaving. How he fled the metro and followed the surface tracks for miles on foot until he came to their camp. How he was pushed and pulled and compelled by one thought that burned him inside the way Artyom had burned himself. He told Artyom the truth. He told him how he couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he had to ask him that question— why he was spared. Why was he allowed to live? And before Artyom could even answer to continued on— he shared with Artyom his childhood, how he was brought up amongst the soldiers of the Red Line. How his only memory of the surface world is of the train that took him to the metro as a child. How he felt trapped and unable to free himself of the shackles of the underground. He shared with his how he dreamed of the stars, and of more worldly desires— the kinds he’d’ve been kicked out of the military for. He shared it all with Artyom in one long, emotional roller coaster of a life story. He told him how he finally felt free when he was with him. How bringing him to the Red Line for questioning, knowing what awaited him, haunted him at night. It was his biggest regret. He nearly teared up telling Artyom that part.
“I’m sorry… I don’t expect you to pity me.” He sniveled.
Artyom stayed silent for a while, looking into Pavel’s eyes and feeling the truth of his words. He didn’t pity him, but he did feel… a longing to care for him. To help him. The feeling truly choked Artyom up inside and he had to wipe his eyes again, this time laughing out loud.
“Athos,” he chuckled, “I pulled you out of the noose once. I’d gladly do it again.”
“You— you mean you— you forgive me? I mean I—” Pavel fumbled with his words.
“I suppose I have to, if I want you to kiss me again.” Artyom laughed, and winked at him.
Pavel’s face grew bright red, and the two laughed together for the first time in many months.