Work Text:
"We are staying here."
"Yes we are, and we will be dead in five years!"
Legasov regrets his words the moment he pronounces them.
Shcherbina's reaction is distressing: his sure expression crumbles, he freezes and look intently at him, to understand if he is serious or if he is only using a hyperbole.
And when he realizes that this is not the case, he is hurt.
It’s the truth: they have absorbed a such high dose of radiations that their d.n.a. is already irretrievably compromised; it will not happen immediately, it will not be heartbreaking as for those who were at the power plant the previous night, but it will happen, it’s their inevitable fate now.
And someone had to tell the truth, since so far Legasov has witnessed a slew of omissions, lies and underestimation of the catastrophe, as if no one really cares about the truth.
However he didn't have to spit it out in that poisonous way, not in the face of a man who didn’t know and was basically listening to a doctor.
Legasov realizes he was cruel.
"This is why you have no friends."
At the Kurchatov Institute he is respected by his colleagues for his position, but to say that the people he works with are also his friends would be a lie.
When his colleagues go to drink in the evening after work, no one knocks on the door of his office to invite him to join them, no one invites him to lunch or dinner for a special occasion.
His demeanor, brusque, abrasive and blunt, earned him several complaints with his superiors and an almost total social isolation.
His work is impeccable, and if he sees that someone has made mistakes, he has no problem in pointing it out, he never worried if his comments offended someone's ego: after all he’s only telling the truth.
But now, perhaps for the first time, he realizes that his words can hurt.
He doesn’t know the man in front of him, but certainly he has a life, plans, desires, maybe friends and affections. And he just told him, in the most brutal way, that in a few years he won't have any of this anymore.
He is dead tired, dejected, terrified by the immensity of what they are facing, but this doesn’t justify him.
Valery feels an intense burning between the heart and the stomach.
He doesn’t remember ever having felt such strong guilt.
It’s horrible.
Shcherbina is still watching him, motionless, hurt, and Legasov releases a heavy sigh.
"I... I'm... sorry."
The instinct makes him take a step towards him for...
for what?
Comfort him? Offer him solidarity? Put a hand on his shoulder?
To tell the truth the image that appears in his mind is different: it’s he who covers the distance that divides them in two steps, and throw his arms around his shoulders.
What the hell is he thinking?
Troubled by his own thoughts, he takes a step back and clumsily repeats: "I'm sorry."
Only then Shcherbina move to reach an armchair in the corner of the room. His steps are slow, almost mechanical, and Legasov is not sure he heard his words.
The guilt returns, stronger, and covers for the moment the other feeling, so strange and alien.
The phone rings, rings, and rings again, before Shcherbina comes to his senses and picks it up.
The world knows.
Legasov thinks it was inevitable: a disaster of such proportions can’t be hidden like dust under a rug, but this time he keeps his thoughts to himself: he has already done too much damage for today, and Shcherbina doesn’t deserve his frustration, he’s not the one who caused the explosion.
"They don't let the kids to play outside. In Frankfurt," Shcherbina tells him in a voice that is still incredulous, then he looks at the children below, in the yard, who are going to school.
"Comrade Shcherbina, I..."
"Excuse me," he interrupts him, "I have a city to evacuate."
To hear him say those words is a relief, because perhaps some of the inhabitants of Pripyat, despite the dose of radiation absorbed, will be saved; but when Shcherbina leaves the room, his first instinct is to follow him.
He reaches him a few hours later, on the roof of a building.
The evacuation is calm and extraordinarily rapid; there had only been some protest from those who didn't want to leave their pets behind, but nobody really protests against the military police.
Carried by the wind, the announcement of the temporary evacuation reaches them.
"None of them will ever come back here, right?" Shcherbina asks suddenly. He's not looking at him, but at the nearby power plant and that column of black smoke and death.
"The half-life of plutonium is 24,000 years. What do you think?" Legasov says dryly, before realizing that he has been again unnecessarily abrasive.
He curses himself and shakes his head, closing his eyes: why, why is he always like this?
When he opens them again, he realizes that Shcherbina has already returned inside and hurries to join him.
"Comrade Shcherbina!" He shouts, but the other man doesn’t stop.
"Comrade Shcherbina, please..."
It works: Shcherbina stops on a landing and turns to look at him.
The bright eyes nail him in place and make him stumble.
"What?"
"Here... about what I told you before, in the room... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"You already said that."
"Yes, well... I shouldn't have said it that way, it was horrible..." he concludes lamely, with a barely audible voice, lowering his eyes. Damn, he really sucks to console people, but he never did it before.
"Is it the truth?"
"Of course it's the truth!" He raises his head, "I'm really sorry."
"No," Shcherbina waves a hand, "what you said before, is the truth?"
"Oh... hm..." he nods, without having the courage to repeat it, but yes, they have little time left on this earth.
Shcherbina looks down the stairwell, as if to be sure that they are alone, then sighs.
"The truth is a rare occurrence in my work. I’m afraid I’m not used to it."
"What do you mean?"
"We have narratives, which can walk hand in hand with the truth. Or not. That's also why I'm here."
It sounds like a warning, or an advice; however Legasov looks at him, still not understanding the meaning of his speech, as if they were speaking two different languages.
And probably they are: politics and science don’t seem to have much in common, he has already had a taste of it with the resistance to the evacuation.
Now Shcherbina is looking at him as if he were a lost cause, but it looks like he's about to smile.
"Anyway, apologies accepted."
"Really?"
"Of course."
"Look, I didn't want to be so..."
"I know, Comrade Legasov," he interrupts him, "No harm done."
The rare times Valery apologized for something, nobody accepted his apologies, not for real. They pretended, but then they hid behind a rancorous silence and never forgot the offence.
This time he feels that it’s different, that Shcherbina is sincere and really forgave him.
The guilt leaves his chest; it's a good feeling.
He smiles and follows Shcherbina down the stairs.