Work Text:
“Do you always have straight black tea like that?”
Commie looks up and nods, carefully. Ancom -- Post Left -- raises qis eyebrows and takes another bite from qis bagel. Ancap has gone off to the stock exchange, and Nazi is at some “organisational meeting” with god knows who, leaving Commie and Post Left alone together at the table.
Commie’s heart thuds, heavy and nervous. Post Left raises qis eyebrows.
“Of course you would. I can’t stand it.”
Commie surveys qim. Post Left’s eyes are silent and muted, qis voice clipped like steel. Gone is the shine in Ancom’s face, the colour in qis voice. Ancom, who looked like revolution and tasted like light.
Commie swallows.
“Yeah,” he says lightly. “First time you tried it, you accidentally spat it all over my pants, you know. And then you called me a fussy statist when I wanted to get them changed before we went to attend a protest together.”
“We did?”
The world shakes, just a little, but Commie sits upright and forces a smile. “You don’t remember?”
“Not really.” Post Left frowns, quizically. “Go on. Tell me the story about Ancom.”
Commie’s back feels stiff, his chest hollow. He keeps his voice light, his gaze focused on an indefinite point above Post Left’s head.
“It was about deforestation and environmental justice. You convinced me to come.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “You showed me how to use a Molotov, comrade.”
“Oh.” Post Left’s eyes glaze over. Qi absently stirs qis cereal, as though qi does not really see it. “Comrade. Yeah. You liked calling Ancom that.”
Ancom. Comrade. Anarkitty.
Ancom, who is no longer Ancom.
Commie continues. “It was a good protest. You -- Ancom -- stole a bottle of alcohol afterward. Got us drunk by the time we finally came home.”
Post Left tilts qis head. “You? Drunk?”
“Yes,” he says, as evenly as he can. Then the heat crawls slowly into his cheeks, and he falters. “You -- you don’t remember, I suppose.”
“I don’t. What happened?”
Commie stands up and drains his cup, avoiding qis gaze.
“We kissed, if you must know.” The words feel like pebbles in his mouth. “We started doing that quite a lot after that.”
“Oh.”
Post Left’s gaze is cold and curious, as though appraising someone else’s story, someone else’s life -- gone like the sunset over a dull, grey, lake. Commie wonders why it is suddenly difficult to stop his hands from shaking. Setting his cup down with more force than necessary, he turns and makes to leave.
“Yes. I’m busy today. See you around, Post Left.”
“Sure,” comes the indifferent reply. “And Commie?”
Commie turns, heart heavy.
“One more thing, though. I’m not your comrade anymore.”
---------------------
He does not call Post Left comrade again. He most certainly does not tell Post Left about Anarkitty. He does not try to get qim alone again.
Post Left’s eyes get steely and strange every time he goes too near, so Commie keeps a few feet away from qim whenever they talk. Post Left likes listening to stories about Ancom, but only when qi asks for them, so Commie tries not to mention Ancom otherwise, lest Post Left’s face goes blank again and Commie heart sinks, just a little lower.
He does try to stop himself thinking of Ancom anymore, but it is impossible with Post Left just right there -- Ancom but different, Ancom but no longer Ancom.
Ancom but no longer his.
Once, though, just once, he does make Post Left laugh. Ancap is rolling his eyes about how spooked leftists all are, with ridiculous constructed notions of labour and revolution, and Commie, too tired to argue for once, lazily retorts that Ancap should consider money, which really would not even exist under true communism, by the way, to be a spook as well.
He hears a chuckle, and looks over and sees Post Left smiling, a glint of humour crinkling the edges of qis dark eyes, usually so cool and blank. Commie meets qis gaze, just for a moment, the pressure in his chest lifting, just a little --
And then the smile fades, just a little, to be replaced with a quizzical frown.
Commie’s voice falters. He looks away and turns back to Ancap.
“All of you are spooks,” Post Left muses, examining a can of spray paint from qis graffiti-praxis days with vague interest. “My life, though, is a clean scroll again. I’d like to fill it up by myself, like an actual anarchist.”
Commie picks sadly at a thread in his blazer and thinks, but I want to help you. He wants to be in Post Left’s story. Wants to write it, love it, spread himself over that canvas again, where he belongs. But --
“My own story,” Post Left continues. “Finally.”
Commie pauses, swallows hard.
“I hope I’ll get to see it, at least.”
Post Left shrugs, but the shadow of a laugh still plays across qis face.
“Maybe, Commie,” qi says, just a little conspiritorially. “Maybe.”
----------------------
“Ancom loved you, Commie.”
Post Left is a little less grey today, a little less cold. Commie looks up and bites his lip. A half-smile, a little like Ancom’s, lifts the corners of Post Left’s mouth, and a flush of longing rises in Commie’s chest, sudden and unbidden and terrible.
Post Left just continues. “Not completely, of course. But enough.” Qi pauses, head tilting to one side as though trying to remember. “I know that, Commie. I know I do.”
It feels surreal to stand in front of qim, in front of Post Left, Post Left who used to be Ancom -- Ancom, Comrade, Anarkitty -- but four feet away and staring into the ground to stop himself from crying. He wants to pull Post Left into his arms where he wants qim, where qi would fit so perfectly, where -- where qi doesn’t belong, anymore. Into his lap where he can hold qim and protect qim and love qim until they are both warm again. Against his mouth so he can kiss qim. (Qi always did taste like summer sun.)
But the air is thick and strange, and everything is wrong, and Commie feels so, so small. He bites his tongue and tries to school his features into impassivity, the way he always does, but it is suddenly impossible and, fuck, Ancom did always make him feel just that bit dizzy, that bit out of control.
“But I --” His voice sounds tight and hoarse, even to himself. His chest hurts. “But I still love you, Post Left.”
And then the sobs come. He presses a hand to his eyes to try to stop them, tries to hold his breath, but the awful heat bursts out of his chest and rises like lava to his face. The world swims in a hot, melting haze, and he clenches his hand into fists to steady himself. (The spaces between his fingers feel so empty.)
When Post Left speaks again, qis voice is the gentlest it has ever been. It curls over Commie’s heart like tears.
“I know, Commie. I know.”
---------------
“Commie?”
He doesn’t know how they have gotten here, how Post Left has gotten so close they are almost touching. They had been talking -- one of their better conversations to date, about Left Communism and how Commie has actually been non-Lenin sources about it for once. He had made Post Left laugh again.
And then Post Left’s shoulder brushed against his and they fell into a rare, comfortable silence.
And now Commie does not dare to breathe.
“We can… Maybe we can try again.”
Their arms touch, spreading tingles across Commie’s skin. The air shivers into an aching, breathless stillness. Like a promise. Like a lilac bud at daybreak.
Like Commie’s heart.
“Like you and Ancom. But with me.”
Post Left’s voice is soft and low, gentle around the edges. Commie does not speak. He does not dare to look over at Post Left. Any movement, he thinks, would shatter the scene. Wake the dream.
And then Post Left’s hand slips into his. Qi is warm, warm like Ancom, but also not Ancom, and qis fingers lace through Commie’s, settling in the empty spaces between his fingers like a glove.
When Commie finally looks at qim, there is a gleam dancing in qis silent eyes. A shy smile plays at the corners of qis lips, soft as hope.
It feels like falling in love again. It feels like the start of a new story.