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Waiting.
Pushkin hated it. The waiting was always the worst part of a mission.
He and Goncharov were sitting in one of Dostoevsky's many underground compounds. It was eerily quiet; everyone had been evacuated save the two of them. Their leader might not have much regard for the value of human life, but he didn't sacrifice pawns for no reason, either.
The only people that needed to be here, were. When the enemy attacked--and they would, Dostoevsky had leaked enough information to be certain of that--they'd find only two people.
Although frankly, in Pushkin's opinion, he was dead weight. The only person who needed to be here was Goncharov.
No, that was a bad choice of words. He was hopefully-still-alive-tomorrow weight. He could handle himself in a fight, but there was always an element of risk.
For Goncharov, though, they were mere amusement. An opportunity to show off. Just once, Pushkin wished he could see a stray bullet pierce through rock. The look on Goncharov's face would be priceless.
Just so long as it only nicked him, though. As much as he resented the strength of the man's ability, Pushkin had to admit that he was far too fond of him to wish him any lasting harm.
A quiet scraping sound distracted him from his thoughts; Goncharov had slid a mug towards him from across the table. "Drink some tea, it will relax you."
Pushkin frowned. He must have been fidgeting without realizing it. It was a bad habit that he wish he could get rid of. Knowing that his nerves were so obvious made him feel even weaker and more vulnerable than usual.
After all, Goncharov wasn't nervous. He wasn't doing anything as inelegant as fidgeting. He was simply drinking his tea, biding his time until he was needed.
"Sharik," he smiled, "You are far too tense."
Pushkin grumbled under his breath. "You know I hate that nickname."
"I know." Goncharov's smile grew more smug.
"Asshole."
Over the time they'd known each other, Goncharov's nicknames for him had grown exponentially more irritating. They'd started innocently enough: Sasha. Good, fine. Sashik, which came next, felt a little bit condescending, but he could deal with it. But then Goncharov had hit upon Sharik, and it raised Pushkin's blood pressure each time he heard it. Just because Goncharov was tall and thin didn't mean he could mock Pushkin for being the exact opposite.
And because it annoyed him so much, of course that was the name Goncharov used most often.
"Ah, I call you that out of love!" Goncharov insisted, still smiling smugly.
"Like hell you do, Gon."
"I am wounded. We've worked together so long, how could you say such a thing?"
"Easy. I open my mouth and say it."
Goncharov feigned shock, dramatically putting the back of one hand against his forehead. "Goodness me! Such talent!"
Pushkin couldn't stifle his laugh. Goncharov might have been an asshole, but he wasn't all bad. Sometimes he was downright entertaining. And that was part of the problem. Entertaining and handsome; that was enough to win Pushkin over. He was so smitten that most of the time he didn't even mind Goncharov's teasing.
They'd been working together for years now. They even had a code name, of sorts. The other Rats called them "the Mismatched Couple." It suited them perfectly: they could hardly be more opposite. Ivan was tall and thin, elegant, self-sacrificing. Pushkin... well, he wasn't any of that.
Fate had given him the short stick in so many ways: his ability was strong but difficult to use well, he hadn't been born into money, and he'd started losing his hair at nineteen. Even before joining the Rats, he'd resigned himself the lifestyle of a rat, darting among the shadows of giants and picking up their table scraps.
It wasn't fair, but that's the way the world was. Pushkin wasn't naive. He took what he could get, and all in all, he made do.
Life was easier with Goncharov around, that was certain. Missions went smoother, time passed faster. Pushkin wasn't sure what Goncharov got out of their partnership.
But whenever Pushkin asked him, he'd just smile. "Because you are a terrifying man."
"Huh?"
"Your ability, I mean. The master doesn't recruit just anyone. Even if you don't believe me, believe that."
Praise wasn't something Pushkin was used to, and it went right to his head every time. He'd blush, laugh and scratch the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Aw, you're just saying that."
Goncharov laughed as if that answer was the most delightful thing he'd ever heard. "And there are other reasons as well. But I will tell you those later."
He still hadn't, but Pushkin didn't mind. Having his ability praised by someone other than himself, especially when it was someone strong like Goncharov, was enough for him.
Still, on quiet days when he was left to think too much, Pushkin wondered if maybe Goncharov actually liked being his partner. They heckled each other endlessly, but it was fun. There wasn't any real spite to it. Or at least, not very much.
And if he was left to think even more, his mind would start to wander further into impossibility. Maybe Goncharov liked him. Not as a partner, or a friend, but with a romantic interest. Wouldn't that be amazing? Someone like Goncharov having a crush on him. Naturally, Pushkin wouldn't dream of turning him away. He was handsome and strong. A little crazy, sure, but so what?
But that was ridiculous. Completely unthinkable. He was the one with the stupid crush. What the hell did he have to offer someone like Goncharov?
It was a nice daydream, though.
Pushkin sighed and fidgeted again with his mug, running his fingers along the edge of the sticker he'd placed on it as a sign of ownership. All of his few possessions were marked like that.
This one pictured a cartoon cockroach with the slogan "Don't Bug Me!" Goncharov had given it to him, "because it reminded me of you, Sharik." Pushkin wasn't sure why it had, and he knew better than to ask.
Across the table, Goncharov shook his head. "Sharik, you must learn to be more patient, or the master will become annoyed with you. And I enjoy working beside you far too much to be able to tolerate that."
"If you say so."
"I do. You are a delightful partner."
Ridiculous. There was nothing delightful about him. Pushkin snorted. "You just like pushing my buttons, Gon."
"Ah, but I do. It's one of my favorite things in the world." Goncharov grinned, completely remorseless.
Was this flirting? It sure felt like flirting. That was wishful thinking, but Pushkin didn't care. "Oh yeah? That's basically saying that I'm one of your favorite things."
Goncharov's smile didn't falter for a second. "How odd. You're right."
"Gonna get my hopes up, talking like that."
"Am I? Interesting."
An awkward silence descended on the room. Goncharov was watching him, waiting for an answer, but Pushkin wasn't sure how to respond. Usually when they went back and forth like that, Goncharov would respond with something outlandish. He wouldn't just say yes.
Pushkin stared into his mug, as if it could magically tell him what to do, what to say. Unfortunately, it was at just as much of a loss as he was, and gave him no answers.
After a long while, Goncharov tutted under his breath. "This will not do."
"Huh? What won't?"
"Any of this. It's no good for us to sit here so miserably." Goncharov stood up, "Come, Sharik. Join me."
Pushkin was suspicious; Goncharov still hadn't said what he planned to do yet. It could be anything. It could be sending him out to pick up trash, or do the dishes, or anything. "No. I don't wanna."
"Don't be stubborn. You are bored, aren't you?"
"Well... yeah."
"Then stand up."
"Why? What're we going to do?"
"We will distract ourselves with beauty, like gentlemen."
That sounded like a load of bullshit. "I'm no gentleman. And neither are you. We're criminals, Gon."
Goncharov smiled, unruffled as always. "Such things are not necessarily distinct from each other."
"Whatever. Just tell me what you've got in mind. I'm not gonna say yes until I know what it is."
"Very well. I think that we should dance."
Pushkin blinked. He had to have misheard that. "Dance?"
"Indeed. It is a very good diversion."
They were going to be attacked at any moment, and Goncharov wanted to dance? Of all the crazy things he'd heard Goncharov say, that had to be one of the craziest.
But dancing required being pretty close together, didn't it? Maybe even holding hands. This wasn't an opportunity he could pass up.
"Fine," he answered, trying to sound like he didn't care.
"Excellent! Now, come here."
This time, Pushkin did as he was told. He stood before Goncharov awkwardly, letting him arrange his arms. One out and up, one curled around Goncharov's waist. It brought them close enough together that their chests touched, and Pushkin was suddenly extremely aware of his relative lack of grace compared to Goncharov. What was he doing? Making a fool of himself, most likely.
His face grew warm and he glanced downwards. "Actually, I don't really want to..."
"Oh? Am I not a good enough partner for you, Sharik?" Goncharov's amusement was clear in his voice, and that flustered Pushkin even more.
"Too good for me," he mumbled. "I don't even know how to dance."
Goncharov let out a quiet sigh. Pushkin wasn't sure what it was about, and refused to look up at his face to find out. Was he mad? Amused? Tired? He'd never know.
"Simply follow along. It is not difficult."
Pushkin still felt like he should argue. He wasn't coordinated enough for dancing, and on top of that, he was already starting to sweat from having Goncharov so close. It felt like his whole head was on fire; could the top of someone's head blush? If so, his definitely was. He wanted to pull up his hood and hide in it, but he knew Goncharov wouldn't let him get away with that.
"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," he grumbled, hoping Goncharov wouldn't point out that he'd hardly had to be talked into it at all .
"Ah, the mysteries of life! But now that we're here, we might as well dance, yes?"
"Fine." Maybe he'd pass out from nerves and spare himself the humiliation of stepping all over Goncharov's feet. Or maybe his head would combust. Or maybe--
Pushkin didn't have a chance to think of any more hypothetical escapes. Goncharv started to sing; it was probably something terribly famous. Most of his favorites were. Pushkin didn't have much of an ear for music, though, and he couldn't really tell one from another.
But he could still tell that Goncharov's voice was as perfect as the rest of him.
Whatever symphony it happened to be, he was completely enraptured by it. Goncharov was quiet, quiet enough that the song felt like it had been made for just the two of them. He swayed slightly to the rhythm, eyes closed. To Pushkin, he seemed almost ethereal.
It was so intimate and beautiful that Pushkin didn't know what to do. He only knew that someone like him didn't deserve it. This wasn't stealing crumbs, this was running up on the table and taking an entire cake. "Gon--"
"Shhh. You will ruin the moment."
That had been exactly what he was trying to do.
Before he could protest any more, Goncharov started to move. He began with small steps, back and forth; Pushkin had trouble even with that. There were far too many other things to focus on right now. How close Goncharov was. How stunning he was, how beautifully he sang, how warm his hand was, how his hair swayed behind him as he moved. Surely Pushkin could be forgiven for not wanting to ignore all of that to concentrate on their feet.
But if he messed up too badly, Goncharov might stop singing. So Pushkin shuffled along as best he could.
It was nice. Each time he stumbled or tripped over his own feet, Goncharov squeezed his hand, a silent affirmation that it was nothing they couldn't recover from. Pushkin relaxed a little. Even someone like him deserved some kindness and warmth sometimes, right? And it had been Goncharov's idea, after all. So he couldn't be blamed if things went wrong. Hell, maybe this was a sign that those crazy thoughts of his had been right. Maybe Goncharov did like him.
Pushkin let his imagination run away with him, and before he even realized what he was doing, he leaned in closer to Goncharov, eyes closed.
"Sharik, you look as if you want me to kiss you!"
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. His stupid daydreams had gotten the better of him. Pushkin immediately dropped his arms and stepped backwards, putting distance between Goncharov and himself. He folded his arms across his chest for good measure. "No way. You're crazy, Gon."
Goncharov raised an eyebrow at him. "You think I don't know what a man expecting a kiss looks like?"
"Shut up. Why the hell would I want you to kiss me, anyway?"
"Oh, I wonder. You do like me, don't you?" Goncharov was smiling, and his voice wasn't exactly teasing, but Pushkin was far too flustered to be able to process what that might mean.
"No. I hate your stupid guts. Go away."
Goncharov reached out towards him, but Pushkin turned away, headed back to the table and flopped down onto his chair. He was such an idiot. Those stupid ideas were supposed to stay in his head, where they were safe. Not force themselves out into the real world like that, not mess up one of the few good things he had in his life.
"Sharik?"
"Fuck off." He stared up at the ceiling with a disgusted expression. "I don't want to talk about it."
Goncharov sat back down across from him. "For what it's worth, I enjoyed myself."
Of course Goncharov had had fun. The most amusing part of it was probably how pathetic Pushkin had been. How completely ridiculous he was. Not only could he not dance, he'd nearly tried to kiss him.
"Shut up, Gon."
"You know, I expected you might do something drastic," Goncharov said, completely ignoring Pushkin's request. "Something incredible, even. But no. You remain a coward."
Pushkin scowled at him; he wasn't sure what Goncharov meant, but he knew it was an insult. "Being a coward is the reason I'm still alive. People like me can't afford to take stupid risks."
"A coward, and a fool, too. Such a pity. It would hardly be a risk."
Was he talking about the kiss, or something else? Either way, it didn't make any sense. "Whatever. You don't get it."
"No, Sharik. You are the one who isn't understanding," Goncharov insisted.
"I never understand a damn thing you say."
"Shall I explain?"
Pushkin didn't want an explanation. What he wanted was for Goncharov to forget that anything had happened. It was a stupid mistake, that was all. He didn't want to be teased about it.
Just then, the compound's alarms started to sound.
The noise gave Pushkin a shot of adrenaline that went straight to his instincts. He stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over. He had to get somewhere safer, immediately. Somewhere that had cover. He should have been working on it already, but he'd allowed himself to get distracted by Goncharov and his stupid dancing and his stupid kissable face.
How embarassing would it be to die because of something like that?
Pushkin was still panicking when Goncharov finally stood up. "Just when we were about to get to something good," he sighed.
From the hallway came shouting and the sound of gunfire. Even over the noise of the alarms, it was easy to tell that the enemy was approaching quickly.
Why had they decided to wait in this room, of all places? This stupid room that barely even had any furniture to hide behind? Pushkin wasn't a small man. He couldn't hide behind a chair. The best he could do was get in a corner, use what they had to make a barricade, maybe...
"Police forces are always so rowdy," Goncharov continued. "Where are their manners?"
Of course he wasn't worried. Goncharov's ability was perfect for combat, especially since the hideout was underground. The entire place was his weapon and his shield.
Pushkin, on the other hand, had to rely on the .45 tucked into his waistband. One handgun against a whole squadron of police... he wasn't looking forward to it.
Goncharov looked over to where Pushkin was crouched in a corner, attempting to maneuver the table to act as a shield. "Do stand up, Sharik. You are in no danger."
"Bullshit. All it takes is one guy getting past you, and I'm dead."
"You think I would allow anyone past my defenses?"
"Not taking any chances. Shove that table closer."
With a soft huff, Goncharov crossed the room. He did not push the table closer, but he did stand very, very close to Pushkin.
"The table, Gon. C'mon." What was Goncharov playing at? Shit like this was going to get them both killed.
"Do you have so little faith in me?" Goncharov asked.
There was something about his tone of voice, some slight sadness in his expression, that caught Pushkin off guard. "It's how we always do things," he answered, unsure. "We watch out for ourselves, right?"
Goncharov let out a heavy sigh. "Is that what you think?"
The noise of the enemy was getting closer by the second. Pushkin glanced around Goncharov towards the door. Nothing was important right now besides the impending attack. Certainly not this weird conversation. "Can't this wait? I don't know... I don't know what you want, Gon. But we got company."
"No. This is the perfect time."
"For what?"
Instead of answering, Goncharov leaned in closer and put a hand on his cheek. It was hard to say what was more startling: that, or the giant column of rock that suddenly descended from the ceiling and blocked the doorway.
Now Pushkin was completely confused. What the hell had gotten into Goncharov? He was acting like... well, acting like he did in Pushkin's daydreams. And that didn't make any sense. "G-gon? What the fuck?"
"So eloquent, Sharik. Do not concern yourself with the nuisance outside. You do not need to worry about your safety when I'm here. I would have thought you'd realize that by now."
Goncharov's hand was warm; his fingers were soft. How did someone who did so much manual labor have such soft hands? Wait, no, that didn't matter. Not right now.
The noise outside was getting worse. Too much was happening, all at once. There was no way Pushkin could concentrate on any single thing, not when his heart was racing for two different reasons, not when Goncharov was so close, not when there was gunfire right outside.
"Ignore them," Goncharov said softly.
Despite all his self-preservation instincts screaming at him, Pushkin tried to block out the noise. Tried to focus on Goncharov.
"Very good. I will protect you."
"Gon, every time we get in a fight, you say you want to see my face when I lose..."
Goncharov nodded, smiling. He stroked Pushkin's cheek with his fingers, and practically purred out his answer. "Yes. I want to see you lose to me, Sharik. Your defeat, your humiliation, even your demise... all these things belong to me."
Weak as Pushkin was, the words sent electricity straight through him. His mind was a blank, and he blurted out, "Are you gonna kill me?"
It might not be awful. Not if Goncharov talked like that while he did it. Not if he told Pushkin that he belonged to him, that he'd never let anyone else have the satisfaction of ending his life. It might even be a little bit nice.
The sound of gunfire rattled against the rock blocking the doorway, and brought Pushkin back to his senses. He didn't want to die here. Not really. Not by Goncharov's hand, and certainly not by some random cop.
"Not today," Goncharov answered, still smiling.
Pushkin had almost forgotten what he'd even asked. The enemy was right outside. "The door--"
Goncharov spared a single glance towards his barrier, then laughed. "They can wait. I have more a pressing matter to attend to."
And then, Goncharov did the very last thing Pushkin expected, and kissed him.
He was good at it. Far too good at it, like he was far too good at everything. His mouth moved just so, and his hand slid around to the back of Pushkin's head and held him in place, and it was so perfect that for a few seconds, Pushkin actually forgot that he might be riddled with bullet holes at any moment.
The only thing he hated about the kiss was that it ended.
Goncharov grinned and placed a single finger against his lips. "Now, please excuse me for a moment. I must take care of some unwanted guests."
Pushkin stood in stunned silence as Goncharov removed the blockade from the doorway and strode out into the corridor. All he could hear for a few minutes was the sound of grinding stone, interspersed with pitiful screams. His ability really was amazing. Multiple people, all armed, ground to nothingness within a handful of minutes.
When Goncharov came back in, he was smiling just as widely as ever. "Such amateurs. Not a single ability user among them."
A relieved, awkward laugh bubbled out of Pushkin's throat. "They're all dead?"
"Of course."
The silence from the corridor supported his statement.
Most of the tension drained out of Pushkin's body. Most, but not all. There was still the matter of how strangely Goncharov was acting. And that kiss...
"Hey, Gon?"
"Yes?"
"What's... what's going on?"
Goncharov frowned. "That is no way to say thanks, Sharik. You were worried about your safety, were you not? And I protected you."
That was true. Sort of. Killing everyone before they even spotted him... Well, it was pretty effective. "Thanks. But--"
"I can't believe you think I don't look out for you," Goncharov sighed. "Such a fool."
Was he being scolded? "I thought you didn't care what happened to me," he muttered. Maybe it was foolish. Goncharov was always saying how much he liked it when they worked together. Maybe Pushkin's impossible daydreams weren't so impossible after all.
"You are very lucky that I am so fond of you. Surely you know that I don't expend my talents for just anyone."
"I thought you just liked to wind me up..."
"The master comes first, as always. But I do enjoy our little banter. You are my second favorite person to spend time with."
"Anybody ever tell you you're crazy, Gon?"
"Once in a while."
"I kinda like it."
"I've noticed," Goncharov nodded. "Now, Sharik. Stop being stubborn and kiss me back properly. You were gasping like a fish out of water last time."
Pushkin laughed, no longer worried about how red his face was getting. That was a pretty messed up way to ask someone for a kiss, but it suited Goncharov perfectly. He leaned in and gave him his kiss; it was clumsier than before, but Goncharov didn't seem to mind.
Pushkin grinned when they finally pulled apart. "I guess you really do like me."
"I'm certainly not in the habit of kissing people I dislike."
"I still don't get why, though."
"Because I dislike them, Sharik. I should think that was obvious."
Goddamn it. He'd left himself wide open for that one. "That's not what I meant."
"Ah, well. Love is a great mystery, is it not?"
Pushkin wasn't sure about love. But he knew that Goncharov was beautiful and terrible, and he wasn't about to throw away a chance to be closer to him. Maybe he was right that the whys and hows didn't matter. They trusted each other, relied on each other. And had way too much fun trying to make each other squirm. It might not be love, but it was close.
"You're not just fucking with me, right, Gon?"
Goncharov's grin got wickeder. "Oh, not here. There's all those corpses outside, it's unsanitary." And then he put his hands on Pushkin's hips and pulled them against himself, adding, "That's not to say we can't have a little fun while we wait for the clean-up crew, though."
Pushkin grinned back. Maybe waiting wasn't so bad after all.