Lost Count

Worry

When he had first walked into that room and saw Artyom standing there behind the leader of the Spartan Rangers, his heart nearly stopped for a scant couple of seconds. His voice cut itself off, like a wire that had just been snapped. No one had noticed his sudden reaction; they were all too busy with their own attentions being held by Leonid and Miller. Only Artyom saw how his presence affected Pavel. Artyom hadn't looked particularly angry, just surprised to see him.

But he had kept staring. Pavel hadn't been able to tear his eyes away, losing himself in waves of green so bright one might've been blinded. They burned into him and made his face flush red. His gaze poured into Pavel like fresh water, filled something up inside of his chest that he hadn't realized he'd been missing.

The mere sight of Artyom alive, when in so many of Pavel's nightmares he was felled by a bullet or a mutant, was enough to nearly knock him flat. All of those times he saw him die, in a haze of machine gun fire, or carried off by a mutant, or throat slit by a bandit (red blood dripping down making his eyes all the brighter). The worst ones were when Pavel saw the light die, saw the hilt of the knife in his own hand, blade buried deep into Artyom's stomach--

Pavel clenched his hand into a fist. That would never happen. He had that chance at the Red Square, and couldn't bring himself to do it. Back when he had limped away and Artyom rounded the corner. He could've shot then, could've ended the man's life easily. He had the opening, had a perfect aim. All he had to do was lift his gun from its position...

But he really couldn't. And neither, it seemed, could Artyom. At that time Pavel knew he didn't want to fight, knew that Artyom was so unbelievably conflicted. It was etched across every line of his face, even behind the heavy glass of his mask.

But now Pavel wasn't able to get a good read on Artyom. He couldn't tell what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Artyom could be surprisingly good at hiding his emotions sometimes, keeping his face neutral and disinterested. Just staring. It made Pavel nervous, unsure. Did Artyom hate him? I would.

Then he finally tore his gaze away in an attempt to distract himself. He was able to focus on the meeting, only to find himself looking back at Artyom after what felt like just minutes. The other man smiled. It was small, a quirk of the mouth, barely anything. But Pavel noticed; his time spent training to recognize tells and minute changes of expression didn't fail him then. And of course he had to reply.

A smile of his own would suffice.

A weight had been lifted at that little silent exchange, and Pavel found himself finally able to relax. Artyom didn't hate him. He just knew it. There was something about his eyes, they were soft still when looking at Pavel. Like they had been from before; before Pavel ended up ruining everything.

He still regretted that. How could he ever betray Artyom, who walked so resolutely and eagerly behind him? Who listened to every word he said with interest, who smiled every time he was addressed as D'Artagnan, who wrote in his journal and drew little pictures. Who (and this might've just been a trick of the poor lighting) blushed so prettily when Pavel had called him dorogoy--

Pavel had to shake himself from those thoughts, not wanting to delve further into that particular lurker hole. Artyom was a good friend, just exasperated at Pavel's wording and joking tone. Because he was joking. Of course he was. There was nothing there; nothing like that.

When it was time to go he was one of the first out of the room, briskly walking down the hallway in the general direction of a bar. It didn't matter where he was; he just needed a drink, and badly. He could feel eyes on him, making the skin on the back of his neck crawl. Pavel was tempted to turn around and shout at him, or grab him by the shoulders--anything to get Artyom to stop. It was making him uncomfortable and tense, the way that he didn't seem to want to initiate conversation.