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One.
Ancom hates Commie sometimes.
Like when qi cannot sleep at night because Commie is playing the stupid Soviet anthem from next door, and when Commie doesn’t even try bashing Nazi’s skull in every time he sees him, and when Commie is being a bootlicking statist. Which is technically all the time.
And now.
Commie has been off at some workers’ conference for the past two weeks without even telling Ancom when he will be back, and Ancom fucking…. misses him. Misses Tankie.
Which makes sense, given that Ancom is a leftist, and it’s objectively difficult to live with no one but Ancap and Nazi. The rightists piss qim off, and there’s nothing more to enjoy than getting high on the couch with Ancap sometimes and yelling at Nazi over dinner.
Well, it’s praxis, even if Commie wouldn’t approve of it. Commie doesn’t approve of many things. Commie would tell qim off for the drugs, sit qim down, put a hand on qis shoulder, and make qim read theory.
Mm. Ancom wouldn’t mind that, actually. Commie’s voice, deep and smooth, explaining why his big government transition to communism wasn’t just Ancom’s goal with uneccessary steps. Commie, a foot taller than qim, his presence strong and safe behind qim, beside qim. Those rare smiles that Commie gives qim, so proudly conspiratorial, whenever Ancap says anything stupid about wage theft, and --
Yeah, fuck. It’s getting ridiculous.
And Commie hasn’t even told qim anything about when he will be coming back, which is fucking typical -- it’s just Ancom here, feeling oddly lonely most of the day, and Commie might not even give a fuck at all.
Fuck that. Anarchists don’t daydream about getting taught theory by the state. Commie can fuck off.
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Two.
Ancom doesn’t have qis bat, but qi still shoves Nazi hard enough that he stumbles face-first into the wall. Qi doesn’t even bother to process the clever insult the stupid bigot thinks he’s come up with. Something queer apache soyboy, something something cuck. Commie’s ancient dead guys had much more creativity.
“.... Fucking degenerate!” Nazi snarls. “You deserve to --”
“What did I say about harrassing Ancom?”
Rapid footsteps, and then Commie himself appears round the corner, fists clenched, drawn by the sound of an argument. And ah, there is that look in his eyes again, that stupid gleam that Ancom recognises. The determination that hardens in Commie’s expression whenever he’s puffing himself up to solve everyone’s problems.
Ancom tries to keep a whine out of qis voice. “Commie, I’m fine --”
But Commie just nods at qim once before stepping in front of qim and toward Nazi. “Leave him alone, or I’ll --”
Ah, yeah. Of course.
Of fucking course.
A peal of anger flares in Ancom’s stomach and races through qis chest. Qi wheels around and shoves Commie as well as qi pushes past between the two authoritarians. Qis hands are shaking with sudden rage, but qi does not have qis bat so they are uselessly empty. Heat floods qis face and head, and before qi knows it qis eyes are pricking, what the fuck, with the burn of tears.
And then Commie’s hand on qis shoulder, warm and steady, all ready to calm qim down and --
“Comrade, I’m sorry -- I didn’t mean --”
“I’m not a him!” Qis voice is so embarrassingly high-pitched qis own skin crawls. “Leave me alone! You’re just as bad as the fascist!”
Qi wants to punch both Commie and Nazi’s lights out. But qis eyes sting and qis throat hurts, mortifyingly, and so qi storms away and slams the door.
It’s ridiculous. It’s not like it’s qis first time being misgendered. Not like misgendering qim isn’t Nazi’s favourite hobby. But even Nazi doesn’t piss qim off personally that much anymore; Ancom has a pretty straightforward way of dealing with him: bat, bastard, bash.
Fuck Commie, though. Fuck Commie. Fuck him to all hell.
Commie acting like he understands and can just apologise. Commie trying to fight qis battles as though that makes him better than Nazi. Commie and his big warm hand all ready to make qim calm down, to apologise, to try to just make everything alright even though Ancom’s chest fucking hurts --
Ancom bursts into tears.
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Three.
“Comrade, you’ve changed. Tell me what happened.”
There is a familiar dead weight in Ancom’s head, dragging qim down into shadow. Qi shivers from under the thin sheets that qi has been curling progressively deeper into all day. Maybe later qi will finally get up and look for something warmer. Maybe.
Commie’s voice slides achingly over qim, like fingertips over skin.
Commie will never understand, but he is looking at Ancom as though qi has to explain it anyway. As though anyone fucking can.
“I get… depressed, Commie. ” Qis voice trails off hoarsely, despite the glass of water Commie made qim drink earlier. “It... It happens.”
Commie just frowns.
“You have a lot of… self-loathing lately. I don’t like it, comrade. We have the revolution, da? Why don’t you believe in it? In yourself? The way you used to.”
Ancom wants Commie to know maybe he has never known qim to begin with and that he can fuck off with his clever analysis. Ancom wants Commie to leave qim alone. Ancom also wants Commie to shut up and touch qim, and unravel the twisted mess in qis chest, and hold qim until qi falls asleep. (Qi is so cold.)
Qi listens to Commie’s footsteps retreat out of the door, and squeezes qis eyes shut. Qi shivers. God, qi needs to get a warmer blanket soon, and maybe a hot drink. If only qi can fucking move. If only qi doesn’t just feel even more hollow inside now that Commie has left.
After an indefinite spot of time, though, Commie returns.
As though in a dream, a warm, heavy blanket settles over Ancom, and qi instinctively presses qis hands into it, pressing qimself close. The weight of Commie’s hands settles onto qis back, smoothing the blanket around qim. A finger brushes momentarily against qis cheek.
They don’t speak again for the rest of the day. Ancom doesn’t even open qis eyes. But qi can tell that Commie is still beside qim, beside qis bed, like that time qi had a fever and Commie stayed up to swap out the cool wet cloths on qis forehead whenever they got warm. Something slow and slick twists in Ancom’s chest at the memory, spreading tingles over qis skin.
Well, at least Commie’s stopped with the questions.
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Four.
Ancom scans Commie’s shelf, frowning at the sheer number of volumes that Commie has stacked up in neat rows. Of course. Tankies and their theory. In fact, the only reason Ancom is here is because Marxist-Leninist had sneered at qim and Progressive about “reading Lenin, lib”, and Progressive had somehow convinced qim to actually read the damn dictator’s shit “just to own the tankies”, leaving Ancom to find a copy of State and Revolution from Commie’s library. With Commie, obviously, being in the shower.
Not like Commie wouldn’t gladly share his books with fellow workers of the world. Just that qi wasn’t about to tell Commie about reading authoritarian propaganda.
Besides, stealing from statists was anarchist praxis.
If only Ancom can find the damn book, though. Commie’s shelf is dominated by huge tomes of all sorts of shit, ranging from Das Kapital to military history books, and --
The sound of a door. Footsteps. Commie’s voice --
Well, fuck.
“What are you doing, Ancom?”
Ancom wheels around and immediately blushes.
Commie is standing at the door, fresh from the shower, hair damp, a towel around his waist. And naked from the waist up. A drop of water catches the light as it trails down Commie collarbone and toward his arm, that slight flex in it from him holding the towel in place, and --
Heat crawls up Ancom’s neck and floods into qis cheeks. Qi snatches qis gaze away to focus on Commie’s face. Commie’s eyes, that long cool gaze looking down at qim, with just a glint of amusement.
“I left my shirt in here,” he says calmly, as though Ancom isn’t taking in every long slow line of his body, every curve in his arm, and fucking hell, not like Ancom hasn’t seen and appreciated more than enough naked people to not be blushing now like some reactionary --
“Oh, yeah -- See you later, Tankie.”
Qi scurries past Commie and back into qis own room. Qis face still feels hot and qis heart is doing a most uncomfortable tapdance against qis ribcage. Fuck Commie. Even Ancom doesn’t parade around without a shirt after qis showers. Fucking hell. Fuck Commie --
No, fuck, not like that --
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Five.
“Graffiti is praxis, Commie,” Ancom giggles, shoving Commie in the arm. “Get that stick out of your ass.”
Commie actually smiles at qim. In the glow of a street light, his eyes glints, and Ancom thinks that maybe qi doesn’t regret dragging Commie along after all.
“Okay, Ancom. I hate landlords too.”
It is a soft, warm night, the kind that hums at Ancom’s fingertips and comes alive at qis touch. Spray can in hand, Ancom darts around the apartment block, examining the walls for a suitable area. Qis feet feels airy, qis head light and bright.
Maybe qi is just a little high, maybe it’s just qis affinity with nights like this, nights of wandering in the streets and uprooting the world from the bottom up.
“What do you usually draw?” Commie asks, having to hold his ushanka in place as he jogs alongside Ancom. It’s kind of hilarious.
“Everything! Symbols, slogans, vague threats. There aren’t rules for this, statist.”
Commie’s eyes gleam. ‘Of course, anarkiddy.”
Qi would like to think that qi has no idea why qi made Commie come along, but there is probably no point. Either way, it was a good choice. Leftists who have never done graffiti need to be -- what was that word Commie liked to use in every other context? Yes. Re-educated.
Finally, qi finds a decent chunk of space between two pillars and raises the spray can. The vicious hissing it emits is delicious to qis ears, almost as satisfying as the blood-red “A” symbol that qi makes it bleed into the wall.
Qi turns to grin at Commie. “It’s that easy. You’re missing out.”
Commie laughs. There is something different in his expression tonight. Something just a little softer to his movements, his smile. Ancom passes him the spray can and stares just a little too long, a little too curiously.
Commie fucks up the handle of the hammer in his first hammer and sickle, but the second one turns out alright. Ancom seizes one edge of the can and they paint the sickle together. Commie’s hand is warm and firm. Commie’s laughter, making the world spin.
The night is dancing a little, like a dream. The streetlight and pavement melt into each other like stars. Ancom lifts qis head and spins around in circles, looking into the deep gentle sky, and smiles.
“Ancom.”
In the softness of the night, Commie’s voice sinks into qis chest, liquid like lava. Bright and warm.
And then a hand slides into qis, and Ancom makes one last circle and turns around right into Commie’s arms. Commie’s face is a few inches away and his eyes are shining in the dim light. The world stills around qim, the streets settling into a slow, soft haze. Commie’s body is warm beside qim, and Ancom instinctively leans nearer, closing the gap between them.
Commie kisses qim and qis heart thuds in qis chest, spreading tingles all the way to qis fingertips. Qi presses into the gentle heat of firm lips, the steadiness of the hand holding qim tight. Wraps qis own arms around Commie to pull him closer. Feels the warmth bloom in qis chest like revolution.
Thinks that, maybe just this time, qi doesn’t hate Tankie that much after all.