"...What's your reason for visiting the Exhibition," asks the official who looks at Bourbon's passport, flipping through the pages to his photograph. He scrutinizes it like he's already not sure about this guy, moving between pages and squinting at his picture. Boguslav Sergeyevich Popov looks up at him from the photo. Bourbon puts on a smile when the official lifts his head to look at him.

"Just visiting a friend. Not trading."

The official gives it another long look. Get on with it, Bourbon wants to say, but he doesn't dare give lip when he's this close. Eventually the official nods slowly, shrugs, and stamps his passport, waving him into the Exhibition.

Bourbon pockets the passport and takes back his backpack, finished as it is with being examined. His kalash is wrapped safely in his bedroll, stuffed down in the pack, and he'd only had to pay ten cartridges to smuggle it in.

It's a cheery little place, isn't it... Well, comparatively. Bourbon looks around as he walks, heading for the station's market. If he's going to get information, he'll start there. Maybe he'll buy some of the mushroom tea they manufacture while he's here. The taste reminds him of something good.

Four cartridges for a couple pouches of tea. When he asks the woman selling if she knows Artyom Alekseyevich, she gives him a strange, suspicious look. The conversations around them fade to a soft chatter, equally as distrusting. It's blatant. It's uncomfortable. Men and women look him up and down from the corners of their eyes, as if wary of looking directly at him.

"Thanks," Bourbon says, and takes his tea and leaves.

He should probably get something to eat. He's been walking since morning, and now it's afternoon, according to the station clocks. He's just not hungry. Or, he's hungry for something other than food. He wants to see him again. Even if Artyom turns him away, says he doesn't want to talk, says he doesn't want to see Bourbon...

Well, even then, he wants to check.

But there's not much to do if he can't get information from the market, honestly. If no one is willing to talk to him about Artyom, tell him where to look, then he's going to end up leaving empty handed. Not that he's expecting Artyom to leave with him, or anything. He'd just like to talk to him again.

He passes a little girl drawing in chalk on the cement floor, thinks nothing of it, until she cries out in indignation. "You stepped on it!" Bourbon turns, half ready to snap at her, but the girl's already got tears in her eyes, about to spill. Shit. He's really not good with kids.

"Hey... hey, milaya, don't cry about it--" Wrong choice of words. At the mention of crying, the girl takes her cue and begins to bawl. "Hey! Hey, ok! I'll give you a shiny cartridge if you stop, okay?"

"You stepped on it!" she insists, wiping at her dirty face.

"TWO cartridges!" The little girl holds out her filthy hand, and Bourbon drops the cash into her waiting palm. Fucking vulture. "Alright, see, you're fine."

"Mmhmm." She goes straight back to drawing, some crude portraiture of a family.

"Who are you drawing there?"

The girl takes great pleasure in showing off her doodles. "This is mama, and papa, and Zhenya. And this one is Lenka." She taps her chalk stick against the little girl figure in her drawing.

Bourbon jolts at the name. Zhenya, Artyom's friend from back home. This must be his sister. This could be his in.

"And, ah, little miss... Where is Artyom?"

Lenka's face sours, and she glares up at him. Bourbon takes a step away. "I hate Artyom," she snaps at him. "He is so mean, he'll never play with me! All he does is go to the garden."

"Right, of course," Bourbon says breathlessly. "How stupid of me." The garden. What a pleasant name for a horrible place.

He had hoped it wouldn't be like that.

Lenka pays him no mind as he heads towards the end of the line. At the hundred meter point in the tunnel to Botanicheskiy Sad, the guards stop him.

"Who're you? What do you think you're doing out here?"

"Hey, I'm just passing through," Bourbon tries.

"It's dangerous through here. And there's nothing at the end of this tunnel. If you're looking for Alexeyevska--"

"I'm looking for Botanicheskiy." Unable to come up with a petty excuse, he settles on the truth. "I've been told my friend might be there."

One of the guards stiffens, distrusting, while the other softens his eyes. "You're here for Artyom," he surmises.

"Hey, Andrey--" The other, younger guard tries to cut in, but Andrey shakes his head.

"We can't promise you'll find him there. But if you want to look, I guess that's your prerogative. I can accompany you to the hermetic doors."

"Andrey, you sure?" the younger guard asks, and Andrey shrugs him off. He seems eager to go deeper into the darkness, to get away from the safety of home and face something in the pitch of the tunnel. Either way, Bourbon is grateful for the company, if only to keep the other guards from here to the gardens from questioning him.

Andrey walks beside him in silence, for which Bourbon is equally as grateful. It's only after they pass the five hundred meter outpost that the man says anything.

"Were you with Artyom? When he..."

The sentence dangles unfinished, legs beneath a hanging corpse. Bourbon knows what he's asking, though.

"No. I wasn't there for the end of it."

"Ah. I see."

The guy can't possibly have surmised anything from that, but whatever. They pass the six hundred meter mark in silence, and it's another few minutes before Andrey says anything. They're nearing the hermetic doors, now.

"He came back different. You might... Well, I hardly recognized the kid. Most of us... He's changed a lot. You understand?"

Bourbon is silent for a long while, aside from his boots crunching in the dirt of the tunnel. "Yeah," he says after a minute. "I get it."

Ending a war changes a man.

When Bourbon arrives in Rizhskaya, it's late in the morning. Time means little in the metro, but some of the stations on the VDNKh line adhere to it pretty strictly; the lights brighten and dim throughout the day, doused for nighttime and on for daytime. It's a piece of normalcy for humans who live their lives underground, like moles. And it distracts a bit from the stink of shit that envelopes the station.

For Bourbon, the clocks mean nothing. Three, six, or twelve o'clock, it's all underground, and the air is muggy and stale no matter the hour. Only on the surface does time really move; the sun rises and sets, hangs heavy in the sky behind the cloud coverage. He's even seen the stars a few times, in the past twenty years. Twinkling and faraway, specks of light that seem to prove something. What? That the universe is still out there, beyond the nuclear fallout? Maybe.

There are kids in the metro now, kids who've grown up without ever seeing the sky, who have no concept of what a star is. Those kids would go blind in the sunlight. It feels like an insult tacked onto injury, Bourbon thinks. Humans aren't allowed to live on the surface anymore, the surface world they once dominated, and now even their fucking kids don't know what stars are.

He doesn't intend to stay in Riga long. Just enough time to make some trades, stock up on some things, and then be on his way. He's at the armory, talking to one of the guys there about a revolver he has no intention of buying, when the alarm sounds.

"That'll be lockdown," the guy running the bullets exchange sighs. "Some morons probably got killed in the bypass tunnel.

"Lockdown?" Bourbon asks, face twisting into a scowl.

"Don't give me that look, I have nothing to do with it."

Bourbon bids the guys in the armory goodbye and heads out to see what the commotion is about. Sure enough... The station is locked up tight, and no one can get in to see the station head, or leave. "That's the meaning of lockdown," a guard snaps at him, "no one in, no one out."

He doesn't need to be bitched out by some guy in a balaclava, so Bourbon steps back and heads up to the bar to think. He doesn't want to be here overnight, that much is certain... For one thing, he has nowhere to sleep here, and for another, he wants to get to Dry as quickly as possible. He could take the back passage, but...

But people keep dying in that fucking tunnel, and he doesn't look forward to being one of them. People call it tunnel madness, hallucinations, tunnel gas... whatever. It's the kind of shit that digs into your brain like worms, drives men to laugh and cry and sing until their death finds them in the darkness.

Not that Bourbon has that kind of problem; he's no more particularly affected by tunnel madness than any other guy. And who would want to live forever, right?

Well, that's a stupid way to think about it. And there was that one time, he reminds himself, traveling with One-eye in that tunnel, when he'd lost his mind for a few minutes and came back to One-eye hitting him in the face, trying to wake him...

But no one needs to know about that.

It would be easier if he could still travel with One-eye and Hypocrite, but that's no longer an option, unfortunately. Not with the kind of debts he owes to them both. Neither of them are the forgiving type, either.

He's thinking about it, sipping slowly at a cup of moonshine brewed from mushrooms, letting the stinging, burning liquid into him slowly. There's a conversation starting up at a table behind him, an old commander and two of his guards, fresh off the handcart. Probably the guys who got Riga put into lockdown, huh?

The older man at the table comes to the bar to order a bottle of vodka, and Bourbon listens to him telling the bartender what they've just lived through. Nosalises, a whole tunnel of them, and tunnel gas, hallucinations...

"How'd you make it out?" the bartender asks, and the commander chuckles.

"One of my boys--the tunnel gas has no effect on him. He woke us all up, and just in time!"

Bourbon lifts his head slightly as the commander heads back to the table, and turns to look. The other two at the table are younger. One of them is in good spirits, the other looks shaken to the point that he might collapse.

Bourbon decides to listen in on their conversation. "Artyom!" the spirited young man says, passing his friend a cup of vodka as the commander pours. "That shit really doesn't affect you? We were out like lights!"

Artyom shrugs, as several more bar patrons turn to look and listen in and ask about the situation in the bypass tunnel. Bourbon watches him for a second, then turns back to his own drink, as the commander regales the other patrons with the story. We were taking that bypass tunnel, past Alexeyevskaya, and suddenly we were all out. Artyom was unaffected! I woke up and he had Zhenya pushing the handcart while he shot down the nosalises, a shotgun shell between each mutant's eyes!

Bourbon steals another look back, and Artyom glances at him, then away as the commander calls a toast to him, for getting their caravan out of the tunnel. Artyom drinks at his friend's insistence, and Bourbon stands, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he passes the table.

He wants to talk to that guy. It only takes a minute to find some kid begging for cartridges, and Bourbon pays him three to bring Artyom to him at the Black Street, somewhere he knows they won't be bothered.

Surely enough, he's been waiting only about ten minutes when the little kid reappears, pointing him out and then dashing off to beg some more.

"Are you Artyom?" Bourbon calls, and Artyom hesitates, nods, and approaches. "Sit down," Bourbon says, taking a drag off his joint. Artyom hesitates some more. "Sit," Bourbon insists. "I want to talk to you."

Artyom sits, and Bourbon stubs out his joint, saves the other half for later. "I've got a job for you," he says, and then quickly clarifies. "Not for your caravan. Just you."

Artyom's nose wrinkles in confusion. "What do you want from me?" he asks, slurring his words a little. He's drunk, Bourbon realizes. Drunk, and then he'd followed the kid to meet some strange man here. He doesn't have good survival skills.

But if he really does have some immunity to tunnel madness... Bourbon can handle the other thing. He'll keep Artyom alive, as long as Artyom keeps him sane.

"I'm in need of a traveling companion."

"Why do you want me, sir?"

"Look, I'm not that much older than you, so there's no need to be formal. Everyone calls me Bourbon. I need to get to Dry Station--but this shit hole's on lockdown, and there's no going in or out... I know the back way, but it's not as safe as the main route. Well, everyone's afraid to go that way, because of the effects of the tunnel. You get it, right?"

Artyom bobs his head in a nod. "But you're immune to the hallucinations, aren't you? You don't go crazy in the dark?"

Nod nod nod nod.

"Good, good... So, Artyom, what do you say? I can pay you thirty cartridges, and I'll give you my AK when we're done." Artyom pauses for a long moment, considering the terms. Bourbon digs in his heels, despite the immediate instinct to raise his offer. He can't afford to do too much more.

Artyom nods again.

"Good, it's settled. Where are you staying tonight? Your caravan."

Artyom pauses, silent. "I can come and get you around midnight," Bourbon clarifies, but Artyom doesn't say anything else. "Come on," Bourbon sighs after a long, awkwardly silent minute, standing. "I'll walk you back." They can figure it out from there.

"Can you write?" Bourbon asks him, as they're nearing the bar. "Good. Leave a note tonight, so they don't send a search party."

"Artyom!" his companion calls, when they're passing the station boss's office. "There you are, you lightweight." Artyom drifts from Bourbon's side back to his friend, and Bourbon lets him go, lingering in the shadows. "Are you tired? We can't leave the station until the lockdown ends, but the commander arranged for us to stay in the guest tents."

Artyom glances over his shoulder, but Bourbon is already gone, to wait out the day.

The boy doesn't seem terribly bright, Bourbon thinks, but if what he'd heard at the bar is true, at least he's useful. That's what matters: that he can get him through the back route to Dry. Nothing else. He wonders if he should be concerned by the ease with which the guy had agreed to come with him, but decides that that also doesn't matter.

The station clocks read 11:45 when Bourbon goes to find Artyom. The first of the guest tents is empty, but the other yields two young men. Artyom is fast asleep, but his companion is awake, sits up and eyes Bourbon with open suspicion.

"Who are you?"

"Bourbon. I'm here for that one."

"Tyoma? What do you want with him?" The other young man is defensive--not raising his voice out of common decency, to let the people in neighboring tents sleep, but he moves to block Artyom from Bourbon's line of sight.

"I just need to talk with him for a minute."

"Artyom. Tyoma, wake up, there's a strange guy here for you. A drifter."

Artyom groans and rolls over, blinking blearily at them in the darkness. "Who...?"

"He says his name is Bourbon."

Artyom murmurs a bit, sleepily, then jolts and hurries to his feet and grabs his backpack. "I need to go talk with him," he tells the other young man, who tries to hold him back.

"Why? Where are you going with your stuff?"

"We're just going to talk."

"Then leave your bag and rifle here!"

"Look," Bourbon cuts in, "we'll be right back. Believe me, we aren't going far."

"Are you in some kind of trouble Tyoma? Already?" the other boy asks, and Artyom shakes his head. "Then what?"

"...I have to go. I can tell you when I come back," Artyom says, and his friend hesitates, then sighs and lets him go. "I won't be long," Artyom promises, stuffing his feet into his boots and standing up again.

"Knowing you... Well, I'm sure to get my head chewed off by Sukhoi," the other youth sighs. "Go on then. I'll cover for you. Just make sure you come back."

"Thanks Zhenya." Zhenya watches them go from the mouth of the tent until they round the corner. Bourbon eyes Artyom. He seems to have his wits about him now, moreso than when they'd met in the afternoon. Bourbon leads the way now, through the Black Street and into a maintenance hall, which seems to be a dead end. Artyom hangs back as Bourbon pushes a crate away from the gap in the wall and beckons him forward. They drop down onto the tracks in the second tunnel and start their walk in silence.

"Can I ask something," Artyom asks, when they've been walking the side tunnel for a while.

"Sure."

"Maybe you told me already, but... well, if you don't mind telling me... What's at Dry Station?"

"It's probably better if you don't know that," Bourbon says. "I won't ask you why you agreed to come with me, and you don't ask me that. Alright?"

Artyom purses his lips and nods. "Anyway, it's just a quick trip," Bourbon says. "I'll bring you back to Riga afterwards."

"Actually..." Artyom starts, and trails off. Bourbon glances over at him, his kalash at the ready. "I'm heading to Polis," Artyom says, after a moment's deliberation.

"Polis."

"Yeah. So after Dry Station, we can part ways, and I'll take the Sokolnicheskaya line..."

Bourbon stares at him.

"But, I don't really know where Dry Station is," Artyom admits.

"It's Sukharevskaya."

"Oh."

"You can't take Sokolnicheskaya," Bourbon informs him.

"Why not?" Bourbon stares at him again, and Artyom shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"You don't know about the Red line," Bourbon says carefully, and the look Artyom gives him is just bewildered enough to confirm it. "Where did you say you're from?"

"The Exhibition."

"And what's the furthest you've been from home?"

"Well... Riga, I guess." He's blushing, embarrassed to be caught admitting it. "I've never left the Exhibition, so..."

He's cute, Bourbon thinks. It's almost annoying how cute he is. "Show me how you intended to get to Polis," he says, digging out his map of the metro. "Walk me through this."

And he watches as Artyom traces his finger straight down the Red line, through all sorts of communist stations, across a warzone, through Lubyanka... It's irritating how endearing it is. Straight through a gulag, huh? Just walk the line directly to Polis. "And you think that'll work?" he asks, and Artyom blushes harder, getting defensive.

"Well--well I mean, why wouldn't it?"

There isn't enough time in the day to explain to this fresh faced boy the political climate of the metro, the world beyond his station's doors, so Bourbon snorts and shakes his head and grabs the map back. "Yeah. No, you'll die that way."

"Why?"

"There's a lot going on in that area," Bourbon says, tucking the map back into its pocket.

"So... I can figure it out."

"That's cute. You'll be killed." He straightens up, listening down the tunnel.

"If you know the way, then--"

"Shh." They stand in silence for a minute, until the rustling down the tunnel recedes.

"Can you show me then?" Artyom asks, and Bourbon shakes his head. "Why--"

"Let's keep moving."

"But--"

"I can show you at Market."

"Where?"

"Prospekt Mira. Stay close now." Bourbon hurries him down the tunnel, and Artyom stays close, like a baby duckling imprinted on him. Bourbon has to stop and wonder if Artyom is old enough to remember ducklings.

They come across the corpses of some traders, and Artyom recoils, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Caravaners... Bandits did this," Bourbon sighs. Hopefully no one he knows. "And Hansa said they'd wiped them out. Check their pockets."

Artyom is visibly hesitant to touch the dead or take things from them, and Bourbon has to remind himself that he's never left home before, probably never been around corpses. Not like this, at least, so don't get too irritated. "Look, they're not going to be needing filters, ammunition... They'll be happier knowing someone else is using their gear. Wouldn't you?"

Artyom considers it and finally slips his hand into the coat of a cadaver to search for supplies.

Once they've sufficiently looted the corpses, Bourbon jerks his head towards the entrance to the side tunnel. "You see those?" he asks, referring to the tin cans hanging from the ceiling. "It's an alarm system. You have that at the Exhibition?" Artyom nods. "We want to arrive unannounced. Don't bump into them."

Maybe this is stuff that Artyom knows already, but Bourbon finds he's kind of enjoying himself, talking Artyom through sneaking past the bandits' defenses. "We're going to take out the patrol," he whispers, crouching behind some crates. "Can you do it?"

Artyom looks at him, mildly panicked, and Bourbon sighs. "Alright, watch me." And Artyom does, he trains his eyes on Bourbon obediently, watches him creep up behind the bandit on patrol and punch him in the back of the head, hard enough to take him down. Artyom hurries over to him as Bourbon douses the lantern nearby.

They make it through the bandit den undetected, thankfully. Artyom has questions once they're out and approaching the bridge. "Aren't they going to come after us?"

"Nah," Bourbon says, climbing over some rubble. "By the time those guys wake up, we'll be long gone."

"If they're bandits... wouldn't it have been better to... Well, shouldn't we have--"

"Killed them? Can you bring yourself to do that? You seem like the type who couldn't kill a rat." Artyom shuts his mouth and looks away, ashamed. "Running in guns blazing isn't always the best option. You have to learn to... you know, assess the situation first. Mutants, mutants you should always shoot to kill, but people... Well, if you can get away without anyone getting killed, you should."

Artyom nods, still not making eye contact. "There's nothing wrong with avoiding conflict," Bourbon tells him. Artyom nods again. "If you can, you should. Come on."

He gets it, he embarrassed the boy. He'll have to get over it. Artyom trails after him to the gap between bridge and tunnel, and Bourbon leaps across onto the metal stairs. Artyom stops and hesitates; Bourbon turns back when he doesn't join him on the stairs. "Come on. Jump over."

More hesitation. "I'll catch you," Bourbon promises, holding his arms out. He wouldn't offer, but Artyom seems like a good kid. A sweet kid. The type who can't hurt others. Artyom takes a step back and jumps across the gap after him, slamming into Bourbon's chest. Bourbon pulls away quickly and heads back down the stairs, his duckling trailing after him.

Nosalises come crawling out of the mist as they cross the bridge. Mutants, Artyom has no problem killing. That's good, Bourbon assesses. They might have to face a lot of them, and if he was the type who couldn't hurt those either, it would be a problem. The mutants stop coming after a few minutes, and Bourbon hustles him up the next flight of stairs, onto the next upper section of the bridge. Light roams over the tracks, and Bourbon ducks behind a heap of rubble, grabbing onto Artyom to hold him still.

"Sentries from Hansa. They're looking for bandits. Don't move, or they'll shoot."

They sit like that for a few minutes listening to the sentries call back and forth to one another. Bourbon loosens his grip on Artyom as the light and the voices fade away to let him pull back. The kid's heart is pounding. He felt it in his wrist. "Let's move," he says quietly, continuing down the bridge.

"Bourbon," Artyom calls a few minutes later as they're climbing into an abandoned railcar. Bourbon glances back at him and scowls. Artyom instantly recoils.

"Your mask is cracked?"

"Yeah."

"Shit... Hold on." Bourbon looks around, hoping to see some poor soul no longer in need of a mask--but the only bodies in the train car have been there since the war. "Here," he decides, pulling his mask off. "Swap me."

Artyom hesitates, but Bourbon thrusts the mask at him and he finally accepts, loosening the straps of his own gasmask to trade. "Better?" Bourbon asks, and he nods. "Don't break that one."

It'll be fine; there's only a short distance to cross through where the air is bad. Bourbon continues on, Artyom following him into the railcar. They're almost across the bridge, then it's just through the tunnel on the other side to the Prospekt.

The railcar creaks and groans around them, and Bourbon freezes, putting an arm out to stop Artyom. Sometimes if you stand still, the problem solves itself, but this time--

"Run!" Bourbon calls, and books it for the other end of the sinking train. It dumps him some ten feet onto the next lower section of bridge, and he turns to awkwardly catch Artyom as he falls. The train grumbles loudly as it crashes into the irradiated water below.

The air here is bad. "Let's move," Bourbon wheezes, and Artyom nods eagerly, hurrying after him to the stairs. Just a little more, up the stairs, a little further, and...

The tunnel is completely caved in. Bourbon stops in front of the mound of concrete and dirt filling the tunnel, in disbelief. How convenient, that there's only one path left to get to the Market. Artyom stands nearby, looking over the rubble as if he's trying to read something in the mess.

"Fuck it. Let's go," Bourbon says, turning to lead him down another metal staircase. He doesn't like the idea that they're being herded this way, but it doesn't matter. As long as they get to the Prospekt, it's fine. He'll deal with any other problems when they reach it.

What awaits them at the bottom of the stairs and off the bridge is not good, though. Bourbon stands surveying the graveyard they've wandered into, aware of the leak in his mask. They need to be quick. "We don't want to get stuck here," he warns Artyom, and the younger man nods. "Check the bodies for supplies." The two of them climb over the railing into the tomb, and Artyom hurriedly checks the corpses for filters, unbroken masks, ammunition... Bourbon heads for the rusted grate at the other end.

"Come on, come on," he coaxes it, aware that Artyom can hear him talking to himself. "I promise I will come back later, clean you up, get you a fresh coat of paint. Anything you want!"

He's not sure exactly why he's talking, just that he's suddenly nervous, and then the singing hits him. A dissonant chorus of voices, howling over one another, each striving to be the loudest in his ears. Where is it coming from? Behind him, or ahead? It's so loud, too loud; he's sure he's going to go deaf, and he shouts over it, words he can't hear for himself. Behind him, something looms, dark and deadly, trying to pull him in. The great door is calling him, and he's vaguely aware of shouting as much--and then he and Artyom tumble through, and the grate slams back down behind them.

Bourbon hops to his feet, shaking and shouting. "Did you hear that? Artyom! Did you hear that singing? What the fuck was that!"

Artyom doesn't seem to have an answer for him. It's tunnel gas, Bourbon reminds himself. Tunnel madness. Hallucinations. At the very least... at least Artyom is immune, and could drag him out.

But damn, what had he been saying back there?

When they reach the Prospekt, there's a change of plans. Bourbon's exhausted, and the Hansa guards have recognized him. He slips Artyom some MGR to go buy filters so that he can talk with Mike--but Artyom isn't leaving, won't give him time to talk to the man without him there. He wants to look over the map again. Bourbon nearly has to chase him off, and then Mike has questions.

"Who's the kid?"

"We're traveling together."

"Huh... You and him, huh... Does he know who he's traveling with, I wonder?"

"Why don't you mind your business? We're just looking to pass through."

"Mikhalych won't be happy if you "pass through" without talking to him."

"Is that your business?"

"Did you pay off the boss as well, I wonder?"

"You--Look, Mike... I just need to get back to Dry." Bourbon lowers his voice, and Mike eyes him, unamused.

"You're going back there? Well, I hope you realize what fate awaits you there. "

"Just let me and the boy through. I'll pay up."

Mike sighs, but he doesn't seem interested in keeping up the conversation. He turns and pats the bar counter to his left, for Bourbon to stack magazines on.

"Forty."

"Forty?!"

"For two men with no papers? Forty. Consider yourself lucky it's not sixty."

"Bastard," Bourbon grumbles, as Mike pockets two of his magazines.

"Pleasure doing business with you. Tell Vlad you ponied up, he'll let you go up."

He's not going to have enough to pay Artyom at this rate, Bourbon realizes. Thirty cartridges and an AK... shit, he'll be lucky to just have the gun left by the time they reach Dry. Well, what's Artyom going to do about it anyway, he wonders. He should have secured the payment beforehand; that's what a smart man would have done.

Artyom isn't coming back, though, and Bourbon can't stand around waiting. Mikhalych and Semyon will find him at this rate. He heads off into the market to collect his companion, who he finds staring around, wide-eyed at all the merchant stalls.

"Did you get filters?" Bourbon asks as he stops beside him and Artyom jolts, shakes his head sheepishly. "Fuck. The armory is over--"

"Bourbon!" There's Semyon, which means that Mikhalych is somewhere nearby. Artyom turns, and Bourbon grabs his arm, steering him towards the hermetic doors. "Stay right there!"

"Nevermind. There's no time. We're heading out, okay?"

Vlad isn't keen to open the doors without further payment, though, and Bourbon has to fight with him in a hushed voice. "I paid Mike," he insists, and Vlad shrugs.

"You didn't pay me. Who's the boy, anyway?"

"How much to go up?"

"To open the doors? Thirty cartridges." Fucking Hansa guards. Greedy bastards. Bourbon grimaces, but quickly shoves his hand into his bag to fish out the payment.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he snaps, and Vlad chuckles and pockets the cash, ushering them towards the hermetic doors.

He's going to have to play it safe this time, he knows. He doesn't have a lot of ammo, so whatever he can salvage with Artyom will have to do. The first thing they do upon reaching the surface is search the area for supplies. Bourbon scores himself a new gas mask without a leak, and Artyom finds some filters and ammo.

The boy's another problem, though, Bourbon quickly finds. He wants to see his city, wants to explore and wander. He nearly walks out into the light as a demon is flying overhead, and Bourbon grabs him and yanks him back. He'll have to keep Artyom on a short leash for this.

Bourbon leads the way once the demon has passed, jumping across the nasty, irradiated river and up onto the hood of a car on the other side. "Come on," he calls, when Artyom hesitates. "I'll catch you."

Artyom nods, gets a running start, and jumps. He hits the tail end of the car hard, slips, and plunges into the dark river.

"Fuck!" Bourbon shouts despite himself, waiting for Artyom to resurface. He comes up gasping and hauls himself out of the river onto the snow. The car, jostled, sinks petulantly into the water and vanishes. "You've got some rotten fucking luck, Artyom."

Artyom looks up at him from the other side, shaking with cold. Like a pathetic, half drowned cat.

"You're going to have to go around, alright? Meet me at that gated building--there's a ranger stash on the top floor, I'll wait for you there. Okay?" Artyom nods, shivering. "Okay. I'll see you there. Don't get eaten by anything."

Bourbon makes it to the building in about ten minutes, and is soon on the top floor, eyes on the courtyard below. It shouldn't take long for Artyom to join him, and as long as he hears gunfire, he knows the young man is alive out there.

But ten minutes turns into twenty, and Artyom still hasn't joined him; then thirty, then almost an hour. The kid is either lost or dead, he realizes, and he knows that should lift some weight of obligation off of him. Good, he tries to tell himself, now he can keep his AK, and he won't have a tagalong to take back to Riga. No worse thing in the metro than an ally, anyway.

...Fuck, he can't bring himself to think like that. He doesn't want Artyom to be dead or dying in the snow somewhere, food for a demon or a Watchman. He briefly imagines that and feels sick, chases the idea away.

At the hour mark, he's back outside, listening for gunshots. Nothing. No howling either. Not a great sign. He can't stay here forever; it'll be dark out sooner than you know, and the beasts are worse at night. He pauses by a dumpster, relieving a corpse of its gear, and turns to find Artyom standing there, shivering and shaken.

"Fuck!" Bourbon yelps, and Artyom doesn't say anything, just trembles. "You scared the shit out of me! You okay?"

Artyom swallows and nods. Fear. Bourbon recognizes that. He doesn't really remember his first foray to the surface after the war, but he must have been the same way. "Come on. We're almost there," he says, and Artyom trails after him across the courtyard. He's got his duckling back. Bourbon leads him up the stairs and ducks behind a truck, peeking around it at a circling demon. They're not far from the back entrance to Dry. Just a stone's throw, really.

Of course, life can never be so easy. The stone's throw turns out to be a thrown rock that flies back and strikes them in the face. A pack of Watchmen spots them, and the howling starts around them as more of the beasts come running. To hell with saving ammo, damnit. He'll have to find another way to pay Artyom. Bourbon fires into the pack, pushing Artyom along towards the fence as a demon crashes through it.

"Keep going! Get up there!" Bourbon shouts, shooting down a Watchman as Artyom clambers up the wall and turns to help him up. The mutants don't bother to follow, or are too stupid to make it into the opening as Bourbon hustles Arthom further into the ventilation shaft.

The two of them are silent for a long time, as Bourbon catches his breath and Artyom shivers. "You cold?" he asks after a bit, and Artyom nods. "We'll get to Dry, I'll see if I can find you a campfire to sit by. Hey. You did good out there. Okay?"

"Okay."

They get moving again, deeper into the system. "I've got some friends here," Bourbon says, and doesn't miss the way Artyom gives pause. Yeah, he's not the best at choosing or keeping friends--but he's close with the boss of this station, which means it should be safe here. "I'm going to drop in, see if I can find the boss, explain things... You stay here, okay? Until I know it's safe."

"What if it's not safe," Artyom asks, as Bourbon shoulders his backpack off and leaves it.

"Just stay here. Just for a bit." He pushes open the entrance to the vent and turns to slip out of it. "First in..."

As he drops to the ground, a flashlight shines in his direction, nearly blinding him. "Who's that?! Well, what do we have here... Bourbon the huckster!"

Bourbon scowls, squinting to see past the light. Who is that, at the other end of the beam? Whatever. "Look who's talking! Take me to the boss, I have business with him."

"Oh, you want to see the boss, huh? We'll take you to him!" The first blow comes as a surprise, and Bourbon staggers with a yell. The attacks that follow aren't so shocking.

"Enough," one of the bandits calls, "or you're going to have to drag him."

"Yeah, get up, Bourbon. Let's go."

"See if he forgot anything, I don't see his stuff around." One of them turns to the vent to look, and Bourbon feels briefly panicked. If they see Artyom--

"Nothing here. Just the rats. Move it!"

Artyom's okay, Bourbon reminds himself. He can get himself home...

But how is he supposed to do that? Go back on the surface alone, backtrack to Riga? A nervous weight settles in Bourbon's stomach. Artyom is either going to have to do that, or stay waiting for him in that vent... or come after him.

No, that last option is too stupid. Artyom's not stupid. Not entirely. He won't put himself in danger for some man he doesn't know. And it would be dangerous; the bandits here mean business, and if they figure out that he's with Bourbon, which they will, it'll be bad.

Stay put, Artyom. I'll figure something out.

They haul him to the boss's room, and Bourbon's ready to grovel and beg and apologize until he's blue in the face. He's not prepared at all though, once he sees who's in charge.

"Pyotr?"

"Well, well, well... So it's you."

"Where's the boss?" Bourbon asks, and Pyotr snarls out a mean laugh, waves his men away.

"I am the boss, you idiot! After Mikhail kicked it, I was next up!"

Bourbon stares at him, unsure if he's hearing right. The door shuts behind him, and the boss--the new boss--cracks his knuckles.

"I know the old boss liked you," Pyotr says. "Like a jester, or an annoying dog. But you should know, since he keeled over, things are different around here. And you should also know, that stunt you and Hypocrite pulled last time... That caused a lot of trouble for the rest of us, and that won't stand."

Bourbon stares up at him from the floor, unsure of what he's supposed to say. He doesn't remember what he and Hypocrite had done the last time they were together--they'd been pretty drunk.

"You're a young guy," Pyotr says. "You should be smarter than that."

"Well clearly I'm not," Bourbon says, hoping to at least make the new boss laugh. Pyotr just snarls and barks at him to stand up. He does so, and gets punched in the face. His nose doesn't break, but Pyotr hits him hard enough to make it bleed, and Bourbon clutches it, eyes watering.

He hopes Artyom is staying put.

"I've never liked you," Pyotr informs him. "You've always been a problem. Whatever you did to make Mikhail like having you around--he was an idiot. I don't have that kind of issue."

"Are you sure?" Bourbon quips before he can stop himself. Pyotr swiftly punches him again, and this time his nose cracks. Bourbon doubles over, hand clamped over his face.

"Boss," one of the bandits calls, cracking open the door, and Pyotr snaps at him.

"What?"

"I don't think Bourbon came here alone, boss. Three of our guys were knocked out in the tunnel."

Pyotr turns to look at him again, and Bourbon busies himself with studying the floor and clutching his broken nose. "Who did you bring with you," Pyotr asks, and he shrugs.

"No one!"

"Search the place," Pyotr barks at his guy. "Whoever it is, bring him here." The door shuts again. Pyotr turns focus back to Bourbon, and kicks him in the ribs. He grunts. That'll bruise.

"Tell me who you brought with you, you fuck," Pyotr spits at him, kicking him again. He grabs Bourbon by the shoulder and slams him face-first into the wall, then clicks the safety off on his pistol. "Answer me, bitch, or I'll shoot you! Is it Hypocrite? One-eye?"

The door swings open and shut while the boss is talking, and they both glance towards it as Artyom latches it shut. "Who the fuck are you?" Pyotr asks, redirecting his attention, and Bourbon swings around to grapple with him and grab the pistol. Artyom's alive. They just have to make it out of here together.

Several gunshots ring out at once--the kalash, in Pyotr's hands, gives a short, sharp burst, and pain blossoms in Bourbon's side, spreading fast. The pistol, in Bourbon's grasp, goes off and shoots Pyotr in the head. Bourbon's kalash, in Artyom's hands, gives a hesitant bark as he fires to wound the bandit--the man is already dead by the time this is all over, Artyom had been slow to draw. He nearly drops the AK and staggers towards Bourbon, who grits his teeth and tries not to yell.

"Fuck, this hurts a lot more than I remember," Bourbon says, forcing a very fake grin. There's pounding on the boss's door, his men trying to get in. They won't last five seconds if that door gives.

"Bourbon--are you--"

"There... there's a back route," Bourbon grits out, hands clutching at his side, trying to hold his blood in. "You're going to have to go."

"Bour--no!"

"Go on," Bourbon says, leaning against the wall. "I'll distract them, but you've got to run." Some distraction he'll be. His vision is fading, going black around the edges. He's got maybe three minutes before he's unconscious.

Above them, the vent clangs and clatters, and the cover pops off. A man drops out and lands on his feet, and Bourbon can't quite make out his face through the haze of pain, but when he speaks...

"Perhaps I can be of some assistance. Lower your weapon, young man."

"Oh fuck, anyone but this guy," Bourbon hisses, and then his three minutes of consciousness proves to be much less.

He goes down hard, and doesn't dream.

He wakes up to a bell ringing somewhere. Like a church bell, Bourbon thinks, clanging nonstop to announce a birth, or a death, or a wedding... Must be a death. Must be his. He's never been a believer, but if he's being proven wrong right now, it might be a good time to start buying into it.

Something explodes nearby, shaking the world, and Bourbon gasps and tries to sit up. The motion leaves him winded, unable to inhale or exhale anymore.

"There he goes," an unfortunately familiar voice says above him. "That would be the left tunnel."

"Hey, asshole," Bourbon says, but his voice comes out without nearly enough bite to it. "Why are you in my afterlife."

"This is no afterlife, Bourbon. You're at Turgenevskaya." A hand plants itself in the middle of Bourbon's chest and shoves him back down, unceremoniously, to the ground. "Sit and wait like a good patient, now. Artyom will be back."

Bourbon finally opens his eyes. Turgenevskaya looks like shit. Of course, it usually does. The people that live here call it Cursed for a reason. The situation tonight seems especially grim, though.

"What time is it," Bourbon asks, trying again to sit up, and Khan chuffs.

"Whatever time you want it to be, and whatever time I want it to be."

"Don't fucking start that shit with me. What did you send Artyom to do?"

Khan looks off towards the end of the platform, feigning innocence, or perhaps pretending to be deaf. "He's planting some explosives," he says finally, just as the second explosion hits.

"And you're just sitting here," Bourbon sneers, slowly pushing himself upright. Khan pays him no mind, doesn't rise to his bait. He also doesn't move, though, doesn't walk off to find Bourbon's charge. The men around them cheer and let out heaving sighs of relief that the tunnels have been collapsed--yeah, great news for them. But where's Artyom?

"Have you spoken with Artyom about his mission at all?" Khan asks, and Bourbon narrows his eyes.

"He's going to Polis."

"And, knowing you, you didn't bother to ask him why."

"You--don't you dare judge me, I just got shot, you know."

Khan chuckles softly. Artyom still isn't back, but the ringing bell has stopped, at least. "He's on a mission to save his station. Perhaps the whole metro. Haven't you asked him about it?"

Bourbon bites his tongue.

"No? Well, how typical."

"Don't act like you know me," Bourbon snaps at him.

"But I do know you. You, Bourbon, are a fox. You think you're the wisest creature out there, and you'll do anything to survive--even gnawing your own foot off in a trap. Even gnawing someone else's foot off to escape them. Most people are coyotes, or jackals... and you're a fox. You consider yourself the top of the food chain. But you're barely middle rung. And I, as a wolf, am above you." Bourbon stares at him. "That boy is a wolf cub, Bourbon. Understand? If he's going to learn to walk the metro, he'd be better learning it from one of his own kind. One that understands his place in the world."

"Fuck you," Bourbon hisses.

"I didn't say anything to attack you," Khan says, sounding surprised. "No need to get defensive."

"Then what the fuck are you saying? Huh?"

"I can set him on the right path," Khan says. "You, however... You'll lead him over the cliffs and call it cleverness as you fall."

Bourbon curls his lip and looks away as Artyom comes running down the platform. He's covered in blood and soot.

"Are you finished?" Khan asks. "Good. A big war was won today, at this station. Are you ready to get moving?"

Artyom visibly deflates a bit. "No?" Khan prompts him, and Artyom looks away, too shy to voice something.

"I should really send you on your way," Khan starts, and Bourbon interrupts him.

"Let him stay and sleep. It's been a long day."

Around them, despite the carnage, people are starting to return to their homes, their fires. Babies cry and children wonder loudly, curiously about the nosalises until their parents shoo them off to occupy themselves with play. Another day, another heap of corpses, and back to work for all of them.

"I know the station head... I can get you a tent to sleep in tonight," Khan says, hesitant to agree with Bourbon. Artyom nods eagerly, and sits down beside Bourbon when Khan walks off to talk to the boss of Turgenevskaya.

"How are you feeling," Artyom asks when they're alone. Bourbon teeters his hand noncommittally.

"Better than I thought I would."

"I... tried to treat your wounds, as soon as it was safe to stop, so..."

"I owe you," Bourbon surmises grimly, and Artyom shakes his head quickly.

"No, no, I mean... Are you okay?"

Oh, he gets it. The boy wants to be praised. "You did a good job," Bourbon says, reaching a hand out to ruffle his messy hair. It's surprisingly soft, and Bourbon leaves his hand there a bit too long, petting his head. "Thanks."

Artyom's face is sufficiently red by the time Bourbon lifts his hand away. "I bet that old bastard didn't want to let you stop, huh?" Bourbon asks, and Artyom bites his lip, shrugs. "He would have had you leave me behind if he could."

"Khan seems like a nice person," Artyom says defensively.

"Sure, sure... Don't let him talk to you about philosophy and shit, okay?"

"Huh?"

"If he starts talking about wolves, tell him to fuck off."

"Okay," Artyom says quietly, confused.

"Or if he brings up Genghis Khan. Just don't listen."

Khan manages to get them a tent to share, one with a threadbare mattress inside, and a bedroll leaned against it to boot. Artyom helps Bourbon make it to the mattress where he lays down heavily, aware of an errant spring stabbing him through his coat. Khan had also said there might be a doctor in the station who could look at his wounds. Sure enough, when Khan joins them next, he's followed by the station's tired looking doctor. He inspects Bourbon's wounds, rebandages him, and tells him to stay still for a few days.

Bourbon is shrugging his coat back on after the doctor leaves, and Khan gestures for Artyom to follow him outside. He can see their shadows on the tent wall, but the station is too noisy to make any part of their conversation out. Bourbon has a good idea of what Khan's saying, though. Artyom, wolf cub, you have a much greater destiny than staying here. Go forth into the metro and save us all. And leave Bourbon here to rot!

He waits so long for Khan to return and tell him the news, that Artyom has gone on to Polis, he winds up falling asleep. The station is quiet and dark when Bourbon next wakes, and he struggles to roll over for a few minutes before deciding it's not a good idea. He's not alone in the tent, he finds, someone is breathing deeply on the bedroll to his right.

And to his left on the mattress, someone else is also sleeping. Bourbon turns his head and squints in the darkness, unable to make out any facial features. He reaches a hand out and delicately feels for the other man's jaw, traces it to see who it is.

Not Khan. It's Artyom.

He's relieved beyond measure. Of course, maybe Artyom is just waiting until after he's slept to leave... But for now, he's still here.

Khan rolls over with a snort on the bedroll, and Artyom shifts in his sleep too, murmuring as he scoots closer. Bourbon swipes his thumb over Artyom's cheek and lets go of him, closing his eyes to try to sleep again.

After a day of resting, Bourbon feels well enough to start moving about again. He's mostly just been grazed, so it's not that bad--and he doesn't want to lie around whining about it forever.

To his surprise, Artyom doesn't seem to be in a big hurry to leave. Khan urges him every once in a while to hurry and get a move on, but Artyom sticks to Bourbon instead. He seems content to stay put for a few days, or maybe he's purposely shirking his mission.

Bourbon figures it's none of his business and doesn't ask about it. He's been trying since the start not to get too attached to Artyom, because he's not going to get to keep him. They'll part ways, sooner or later, and it'll be back to just Bourbon. Bourbon the huckster, drifting from station to station. Artyom the sheltered kid from Exhibition, safe at home.

He'd like to though, Bourbon thinks. Keep him, that is. Maybe they could travel together. Make a living, going up to the surface and looting. Partners in the stalker business. It's just wishful thinking, but as long as he's being wishful, he might as well go all out.

He wishes he could stay with Artyom. Wishes he wasn't a fucking coward. But he's always been that way, since he was fourteen and the bombs dropped, since before that, too. He's weak for being afraid, but that fear keeps him alive in the metro. Bravery gets good men killed. Better not to do anything too bold. It's smarter to live in fear, in the shadows.

He's fucked, though. Artyom's cute. He's a little bit manipulative, too; he knows that if Bourbon won't tell him something, he needs only suggest asking Khan instead to get the info from Bourbon after all. You might think Bourbon would stop falling for it after the second or third time, but he doesn't. He's a coward and a moron. So what?

"What are you going to Polis for anyway?" he asks Artyom, when they're eating dinner that second night. Mushrooms, pork. The same food that every other station scrapes by on, the same multivitamins. Tea brewed from mushrooms. Artyom says it's from his station, that he knows the taste of it.

Artyom swallows, looks around as if making sure no one is paying them attention. "A stalker, Hunter... He gave me a mission, to take a message to Polis." Bourbon nods, chewing his mushrooms.

The nod is all the encouragement Artyom needs, and he goes straight into the story from the beginning; the Dark Ones that appeared near Exhibition, and the insanity they brought upon men, and how Hunter had gone into the tunnel to the Botanical Gardens alone, leaving Artyom with his token and a job to do. Bourbon sits there, eating his meal, taking it in.

"Why is his death your problem, though," Bourbon asks when Artyom's been silent for a minute.

"Huh?"

"You could leave the Exhibition. Have these things been seen anywhere else? Leave Exhibition and settle somewhere else. Why do YOU have to go to Polis, anyway? Why not some other guy?"

Artyom flushes and stammers, nervous now that Bourbon's paying him proper attention. He gets that way around other men, Bourbon notices. Unsure of himself. "It's the right thing to do," Artyom says quietly. "They'll keep killing people. And they'll spread through the metro. If Exhibition falls..."

"And you didn't tell your father you weren't returning?"

"No... I couldn't have. He wouldn't have let me leave." He stares down at his food, half untouched. "And, besides... even if the Dark Ones weren't there, I... I wanted to go out and find my own destiny. Aside from the Exhibition. I'm twenty four... It's normal to want to find yourself. Right?"

"Most men wouldn't wait even that long to run away from home," Bourbon agrees.

"Well, my stepfather... I used to get in trouble as a kid, and I'm the closest thing he has to a son, so... He keeps me close. He doesn't want to lose me." Artyom keeps his eyes downcast, fumbles with his hands. Cute. He's cute.

"Who would," Bourbon says, and coughs when Artyom lifts his head to look at him. He looks away sharply. "Well, I mean. You're a good boy--so your stepdad probably misses you."

"He's going to be mad when I go home."

"Nah, he'll welcome you back."

Talking a bit seems to have lifted a weight from Artyom's shoulders, and he finishes his dinner. That night, he gets talkative again, tells Bourbon in a quiet voice about what he remembers of the surface; of his mother, and a trip to the botanical gardens, and of how he can't remember her face. Bourbon listens to him in silence. His own family's faces are just vague blurs in his memories, but he'd had a ten year head start on Artyom before the bombs fell. At least he remembers having a home before the metro.

Is that better or worse?

He thinks Artyom might be asleep, having laid there in silence for so long, but then the younger man rolls over and looks at him. "I want to go up there again," he says. "Not just to run from one station to another. I want to live there."

You're insane, Bourbon doesn't say. The air will kill you. You''ll die horribly of radiation sickness.

"Do you think we'll ever get to live up on the surface again," Artyom asks, and Bourbon lies.

"Someday."

On the third morning, Khan wakes them both, face freshly washed, and informs them that there's a bathhouse of sorts at the station. He says he's pulled some strings with the station boss, since Artyom brought a temporary end to their nosalis war, to get them some time to wash up. Bourbon is elated; he hasn't had a chance to clean up in a while, and it's a good chance to see how his wounds are doing.

The room Khan leads them to is dark, lit only by the red emergency lighting. Bourbon gives himself a minute for his eyes to adjust, as Artyom approaches a tub of water on the floor and tests it with his hand.

"How is it?"

"Cold..." He sounds disappointed.

Bourbon laughs. "Do they have hot showers at the Exhibition, then?"

"Well, we heat it, at least..." Bourbon laughs again. The logistics of heating water for baths doesn't make a lot of sense to him, when that power could be used elsewhere--but what does he know? Not shit.

Khan chucks a bar of soap at Bourbon and leaves them to it. Artyom's shy, slow to undress, even as Bourbon makes quick work of his own clothes and washes up with a hunk of the lard soap. It's rough on his skin, but it does the job just fine. Now, if he can get clean clothes after this, he'll be sitting pretty.

"Come here," Bourbon calls, after rinsing himself off. "I'll wash your hair." He settles in on a makeshift stool, and Artyom approaches hesitantly and sits down on the floor between his feet. Bourbon splashes just enough water on Artyom's head to get his hair wet and starts scrubbing his scalp for him, clicking his tongue between complaints. He doesn't really mind doing this for Artyom, not at all. It's nice. It's just the principle of the thing; he needs words in his mouth to say, or he's going to slip and spit out something stupid.

He pushes Artyom's head forward to where he wants it, and the younger man holds it there obediently for Bourbon to dump cold water over him. Artyom gasps, sputtering, and Bourbon laughs meanly, patting his wet hair. "You didn't see that coming?" he chuckles, as Artyom rubs at his eyes. He soaps up his hands to wash Artyom's shoulders and back for him, pausing to hand over the bar of soap. "Here."

Artyom takes it wordlessly and starts cleaning himself up. He seems more prepared the next time Bourbon douses him with cold water, holding his breath. He's shaking from the cold, but otherwise fine.

Bourbon looks away from him purposefully. He needs to get his hands off Artyom, or he's going to get himself into some trouble here. He's already halfway there. Artyom pushes his wet hair off his forehead and tilts his head back, looking up at him.

"Bourbon."

"What? What do you want?"

"Thank you," Artyom says, leaning back so that his head rests in Bourbon's open lap. Bourbon flushes, looking away quickly. Think about something else. Think about anything else.

"Don't mention it," he grits out, throat dry. Artyom looks up at him and blinks, confused, and slowly starts to lift his head. Bourbon can't very well tell him not to, but as Artyom turns to face him, he tries to hide it. He scoots on the floor to turn around and look, and Bourbon swears softly and gives a nervous chuckle, figuring out how to play it off.

"Fuck. Artyom, ah, this is..."

Artyom crawls closer and Bourbon panics. What is he supposed to do? Shove Artyom away and run for it? He's a coward and an idiot, and he didn't prepare for this. What does he do? What can he possibly say? Artyom places a hand on his inner thigh and Bourbon jolts; he curls his fingers of his other hand around Bourbon's dick and he feels his heart stop momentarily. He's leaning closer.

"Artyom. Don't." Artyom's eyes flicker up to meet his, and Bourbon struggles internally to make himself look away. He can't. "You don't have to."

He's about to say something more, but it tapers off into a groan when Artyom licks up the underside of his dick, tongue curious. But that's all he can really attribute to a young man's curiosity; he's not sure what to think of it when Artyom tilts his head and kisses at the vein in his shaft. He's not sure what to do. There's nothing he can say.

Artyom licks and kisses his way up to the tip, and Bourbon struggles to breathe normally the whole time. Artyom takes the head carefully into his mouth, sucking at it thoughtfully for a minute, until Bourbon can take it no longer.

"Sorry," he groans quietly, grabbing onto either side of Artyom's head to guide him forward and push into his throat. Artyom chokes, and he repeats the apology, breathing hard and wiping at Artyom's tears. "Sorry. Fuuuuck, Artyom." I'm so sorry for this. Artyom looks up at him, making eye contact, and Bourbon's eyes narrow, unable to maintain it. The younger man's hands grip his thighs as Bourbon face fucks him, only letting him up when he gags and starts to struggle to pull away. Too far. They've long since passed the line that shouldn't have been crossed. Bourbon's dick pops out of his mouth, slick with spit, and Artyom stares at it, dazed and gasping hard for air. He's still not fully recovered when Bourbon cups his face and guides him back down, planting his other hand at the back of his head. He can feel Artyom swallowing hard around him, his hot, frantric breaths through his nose panting against Bourbon's crotch.

He's close, Bourbon knows. So close. That's got to be crossing some line. Fuck, they're past that though. We've established that. The line was erased ages ago. He fucks Artyom's mouth and then finishes inside, and Artyom chokes and stares up at him, mouth full of semen, as if he's unsure what to do with it. Bourbon stares at him for a long moment, waiting for Artyom to do one or the other, spit or swallow--but he doesn't, and Bourbon gets a nasty idea in his head, slips his fingers into Artyom's mouth with his spunk and sputters out some stupid nonsense.

"You ever been fucked, Artyom? Ever, ah... done anything? With a man, even..."

Artyom just stares at him, pupils blown, too dumbstruck to respond--but he sucks on Bourbon's fingers just like he wants him to, laves his tongue over the digits and slicks them up good. Bourbon joins him on the floor, pushes his thighs apart and rubs at his asshole with his fingers, warm and wet with spit and cum. Artyom shivers and jolts, unsure.

"Just try to stay relaxed, okay?" Bourbon suggests, and Artyom nods, but he still whines and squirms when Bourbon pushes a digit into him. Is he a virgin? He is, Bourbon knows without getting a response. Daddy's boy from the Exhibition, never left home before... Probably lives in his stepfather's tent, probably can't find any alone time even to masturbate. Fuck. The thought of it, Artyom with his face pressed into his pillow, trying to keep silent as he touches himself, is getting Bourbon so riled up. "Try to bear with it," Bourbon says, and Artyom nods again. He's got nothing to say at this point, as Bourbon fingers him, digit sliding slickly in and out of him. He slowly adds in another finger and Artyom shakes as Bourbon spreads him open, moving his fingers like scissors, swiping his fingertips back and forth inside him.

He has to make this good. It has to count for something, even if it means nothing. Even if afterwards, they go their separate ways and pretend it never happened. Artyom holds his breath until Bourbon touches something that makes him gasp out a sharp exhale, shaking.

"Haaa..."

"There we go. Loosen up for me."

"B-Bourbon..."

"Yeah, good boy, you're relaxing now, huh?"

Artyom nods, mouth hanging open, watching Bourbon spread him. He slips his fingers out and Artyom whines, shifting his hips a bit. Bourbon helps him lift himself off the floor a bit, grabs onto his hip, and guides himself slowly inside.

"How do you feel? You alright?" Bourbon asks, and Artyom chokes out a response.

"G-good."

"Yeah? That's good." Bourbon doesn't move, not all at once; he pushes in slowly, listening to Artyom's garbled, moaned attempts at conversation. He probably doesn't realize he's saying anything.

"Good boy," Bourbon purrs, bottoming out inside him, "fuck, you are a good boy. You really are a virgin, huh?" Artyom groans wordlessly in response, shifting his hips slightly. "Alright, I get it. I'll take care of that for you." He starts to move, angling down into him, and Artyom gasps with every thrust, his soft voice echoing off of the wet floor and the bare walls of the bathroom. The slick sound of Bourbon fucking him could well be the drip of the pipes overhead, drp drp drp.

Bourbon watches him, too occupied to say anything. He feels so hot, like he's on fire, and sweat drips from his forehead. Artyom looks dazedly up at him, then hesitantly grasps his own dick and starts to stroke himself, moaning openly. Heat coils and snaps inside Bourbon and he gasps out a "fuuuck," thrusting harder into Artyom. Artyom tilts his head back, approaching the edge, and finishes with a little cry, eyes on the ceiling. "Fuck!" Bourbon repeats, pounding him desperately as he chases his own finish line. He finishes inside and leans heavily over the younger man, hips slowing and then stopping.

Artyom takes a few minutes to come down from it, but Bourbon's post-nut clarity hits almost immediately. Fuck. What the hell did he do? What the fuck was all that? He needs to--undo whatever just happened. Apologize. Play it off. Excuse himself until he can figure out an excuse. Artyom starts to return to clarity, and Bourbon pulls out, stands, and crosses over to where they'd piled up their clothes. He can feel the other man watching him, but he doesn't look back as he dresses and pulls his boots back on.

"Get cleaned up. I'll see you back at the tent."

Scumbag. Idiot. Fucking moron. He nearly walks straight into Khan on his way back to the tent, nearly doesn't notice.

I fucked things up, he considers saying, then doesn't. "Is there somewhere around here I can get a drink?" he asks instead.

He spends two days drunk out of his mind, avoiding Artyom. On the off chance he encounters the younger man, they're both silent. He doesn't know what to say to the kid. Artyom has nothing to say to him either. He looks miserable, every time Bourbon steps into the tent to sleep, miserable enough that Bourbon doesn't feel right sleeping in the same space as him. He's sullied things. Fucked them up, irreparably.

The dawn of day three, almost a week into their stay at the Cursed station, Khan rudely shakes him awake. Bourbon groans, covering his head to try to keep the hangover out.

"Get up," Khan snaps at him. "We're leaving."

"Wha... fuck off, Khan." He tries to burrow back into his dreams and Khan grabs his shoulder and drags him off the bed roll. "Fuck off!"

But Khan does not fuck off, and Bourbon is too aware of his hangover to just go back to sleep. "Fuck... where's Artyom?" He asks despite himself, knowing he's too cowardly to talk to the young man anyway. Well, who knows. Maybe today is the day to face him again.

"He's gone," Khan says.

"Gone where?" Bourbon asks, rubbing his head.

"I sent him through to the Red Line."

Bourbon is on his feet in an instant, grabbing at Khan's coat. "You..! You bastard! You sent him where?!"

Khan shakes him off, a stoic wolf annoyed by a rambunctious fox. "He was eager to resume his journey. I have a friend in Kuznetsky Most who can send him through."

"You sent him to his death," Bourbon hisses.

"He has a mission, Bourbon." Khan shrugs his pack onto his back. "He has a path to walk that doesn't involve sitting around pining over some drunk."

"Some dr-- pining-- he'll be killed there! You know that! Sent to the gulag at best--"

"Are you coming," Khan asks him. "I'm going to meet him at Polis. You can come, if you can behave yourself."

Bourbon would prefer not to behave himself. He would prefer to bite and claw and fight. But he shoves his feet into his boots and grabs his pack anyway, following Khan out of the tent.

The tunnel out of Cursed station is known to be dangerous. Half the issue, like most places, is nosalises. The two of them have guns for that. The other half is tunnel madness. Bourbon is wishing Artyom was here with them now, as they trek through the long, dark tunnel to nowhere. He feels panicky, energetic but scared, like he might start laughing or crying at the slightest provocation.

"Bourbon," Khan snaps suddenly, harshly in the darkness. Bourbon sucks in a gasp, shaken.

"What?"

"Say something."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Just talk," Khan says, turning his head sharply to the side to look at him. His flashlight beam blinds Bourbon for a second.

Bourbon has no idea what to say, but he can feel the tunnel leaning closer around them, closing in. Listening. If he were to stop walking and reach his hands out in any direction, he would touch the wall of the tunnel. Or worse, something would reach out to him in turn.

"Bourbon!"

He's stopped moving, and Khan stops a few steps ahead, looking back at him. Bourbon shudders.

"This tunnel--"

"Don't talk about the tunnel! Tell me about something else."

Bourbon stares into his flashlight beam and nods slowly, starting to walk again. He falls into step beside Khan and, without hearing himself, starts to talk about the flat he grew up in. He doesn't need to hear what he's saying. He remembers it well. Sunny tiles in the bathroom, the windows overlooking a courtyard, the filtered green light of summer in the afternoons, days in which his mom would try to get him to go out and play instead of laying on the floor playing games indoors. Her face is a blur in his memory, an undried painting someone's taken a rag to and wiped away, but he recalls her voice. He can recall being terrified of disappointing her. Not for any particularly bad reason--it just hurt to see her sad. If she knew what a fuckup he was now, how he'd ruined things with Artyom, she'd be furious with him. It's similar to the ways in which he'd fucked up with Hypocrite and One-eye, but he really actually likes Artyom. He forgets for a while that he's in the tunnel, that he's walking alongside Khan, but he doesn't miss any steps on the tracks, not until Khan suddenly grabs his arm and pulls him to a maintenance door, shattering his dreamlike state and stopping his flow of consciousness.

"Huh?"

"That's enough. Come on."

Bourbon shakes the fog from his brain, following Khan out of the main tunnel and into an enclosed hallway. He hasn't been this way before--well, he's never really taken that tunnel before, either. His hangover isn't looming over him anymore, but he feels exhausted now that they're out of the main tunnel. How far had they walked through that darkness? Twenty meters, or two thousand? "We're coming up on Kitay-Gorod," Khan tells him. "We'll have to go up on the surface for a while later, so stock up on filters while we're there."

Bourbon doesn't have it in him to fight, to point out that he's the one who spends half his time on the surface as a stalker. He just nods and follows Khan.

The maintenance hallway ends and spits them back out in the same tunnel, but they're less than one hundred meters from the station now. Kitay-Gorod is two connected stations. Armed militia stand guard on either side of the division, hands on their rifles, but they're chatting amicably amongst each other. They enter, Khan leading, on the Kitay side, and Bourbon splits off from the older man to purchase filters, ammo for his AK, and something to eat to quell his nausea.

Khan doesn't let him rest for long before they're back in another tunnel; but this one is at least somewhat lit up, and less dangerous than the last. There aren't as many holes burrowed through the walls, as if fewer nosalises have made it through to this tunnel. Bourbon hums as they walk.

At Tretyakovskaya, they head up the elevators to the surface, gas masks on. He hasn't had much time to think about Artyom, so far. Now isn't the time to start, but gunning down Watchmen, he begins to worry about him. Is he safe? Is he alive? How far did he make it through the Red Line? And how did he die?

A demon circles overhead, picking out its prey, and Bourbon ducks after Khan into the overhang of a building. A Watchman becomes the beast's meal, carried off howling and keening like a dog.

What are Watchmen mutated from, anyway? He wonders that too.

Khan pries up the cover to a maintenance shaft, and they disappear into it, leaving the evening and the surface world behind again. "We're heading into Polyanka," Khan informs him.

"Right."

"Don't talk to anyone here. You can talk to me," he clarifies. "But the inhabitants of this place--ignore them."

Bourbon decides not to argue. He hasn't been to Polyanka. Maybe the people here are all strange. Maybe they have weird customs.

There are a couple of men sitting at a fire when they enter the station. Khan leads him past it, not looking at either of them. "We're almost to Polis," he says. "We should be able to go in straight through Borovitskaya and meet up with Artyom."

If he's made it there, hangs the unspoken end of that thought. "We can stop for a bit," Khan says. "Drink some tea. Make sure you have your papers."

Bourbon hisses through his teeth and avoids his eyes.

"You do have your passport, don't you?" Khan asks, and Bourbon looks past him at the fire. It's kind of funny, actually. Khan, a man who doesn't believe in clocks, lecturing him on the necessity of carrying a valid passport. "How have you gotten this far?" Khan snaps at him.

"I'm a likable guy, I know people..."

Khan sighs, unhappy. "Hypocrite usually got me into stations," Bourbon admits.

"Traveling with fools is a bad habit of yours," Khan snaps at him. "I hope you realize this is Polis we're trying to walk into."

Bourbon nods, sufficiently scolded, turning to accept a cup of tea from the guy seated to his right. "Thanks." And then he freezes, Khan staring at him in shock and horror. Bourbon swallows. Whatever reason the old man had had for not wanting him to speak to the station's residents, he's messed it up now. He looks at the man to his right out of the corner of his eye, and the man looks back at him, eyes an inky black. Whatever he is, whatever the people of this station are... they're not human.

"Stand up," Khan says quietly. "Don't move too quickly. We're going to leave."

Bourbon stands slowly, shrugging his backpack back on. Khan ushers him slowly towards the other end of the station, muttering some prayer on repeat. The inhabitants of the station drift after them, alongside them, moving to block the exit. Where have they all come from, anyway? A minute ago there were just a few men here and there, but now the station is crowded with blank, staring eyes and shadowy figures.

"Khan."

"Shut up," Khan hisses, and resumes chanting his prayer.

Shouldn't we run? Bourbon thinks, but the ghostly residents of Polyanka seem to be receding anyway, on either side of them as Khan chants. Bourbon stays directly behind him, close enough he could grab onto Khan's coat if he needed to, looking around at the apparitions around them. They're dead, he realizes, all of them, the men at the campfires, the women with children. Khan's brought him through a ghost station. And this, just outside of Polis? Will the entrance to Borovitskaya even open for them, if this is just down the tunnel?

Khan doesn't stop praying until they're far past the end of the platform, and the apparitions of Polyanka have returned to their cold, dead fires. Bourbon briefly toys with the idea of apologizing. Sorry for slipping up back there, won't happen again. Like it or not, Khan has saved him again, the second time this week alone, and someday he'll probably have to pay him back. Another debt to add to his ledger.

When Khan decides to cash in, he's going to be screwed.

The tunnel between Polyanka and Borovitskaya is quiet and dark, but nothing attacks them. They walk in silence. Khan seems to be fuming, or planning something. Bourbon thinks about Artyom. Is he alive or dead? If he's dead, where is his body? What station? And if he's alive?

Well, don't get your hopes up.

A searchlight comes on, petrifying them in its gaze. They've reached the border guard already. "Let me do the talking," Khan says, and Bourbon nods. He's fine with staying silent. He can do silent. Maybe. The guards let them into the station, direct them to the first door on their right, the only path they can take.

"Ready your passports," calls the official at the desk immediately after the entrance. He doesn't look or sound nearly as bored with his job as Bourbon would like him to. Khan pulls his passport out of his bag to present it, and the man scrutinizes it, stamps it. "You too."

Bourbon glances at Khan. Khan gestures to him, half shrugging. "I don't have a passport," Bourbon says, and the official lifts his head to stare at him, squinting.

"We're here to meet someone with a message for Colonel Miller," Khan steps in. "It's very--"

"No passport, no entry into Polis," the official says firmly. "You can leave the way you came. Or I can call the guards."

"There's no need for that," Khan says, as the door opens again behind them. "Call Colonel Miller, tell him Khan is here."

"I won't be bothering the Colonel with that," the official says, trying to wave them off. "Hey, Ulman. Who's the boy?"

Bourbon turns, and Artyom blinks at him, busted face splitting into a grin. He looks like he's been through Hell and back, his face bruised and lip split. His eye is nearly swollen shut, and he's got dried blood smeared across his forehead and cheeks, like someone really threw him around.

"Artyom!" Khan says, "You've made it." Artyom's new companion, Ulman, eyes them warily, stepping up to talk with the official.

"He's carrying a message for Colonel Miller. From Hunter," Ulman says, and the official nods. "He doesn't have papers though."

"Theme of the day," the man behind the desk sighs. "Where are you from, kid?"

"He's from the Exhibition," Ulman supplies.

"Can't he speak for himself?"

"Come on, look at him, he's had a hard day." And it really looks like he has. The man at the desk sighs, shaking his head, and turns to grab a jumpsuit to hand over to Artyom.

"You can change into this. We'll clean your gear for you. I still can't let you in," he says, to Bourbon. "This is a one time only exception, for one person only."

Bourbon opens his mouth to argue, and Khan stomps on his foot to shut him up. "That's fine. He'll wait."

"Ow!"

Artyom looks back at them as Ulman leads him through into Polis, but doesn't say a word. Khan with his stamped passport follows shortly after. Bourbon sits down and fumes.

Bourbon sits waiting for a good half hour before anything happens. Another ranger comes into the office from inside Polis, exchanges words with the man at the desk, and then beckons to him.

"Colonel Miller pulled some strings. You can enter."

"Scrub up in the lobby and change into these," the man at the desk says, and hands over another set of clothes. "Leave your gear for decontamination. You can pick it up shortly." He doesn't look thrilled about it.

Polis is bright and wide and cultured. The people here seem different. Refined. Like actual humans, real surface dwellers, somehow elevated above their fellow people living underground. There's a bar. Bourbon makes himself right at home there, buys himself a drink while Khan stands by and waits for Artyom to come out of the Colonel's office.

An intercom speaker crackles overhead, and a masculine voice speaks through it. "All council members assemble in the chambers. I repeat, all council members." Bourbon looks up, while Khan keeps his eyes trained on a door across the hall from them. He nudges Bourbon, who looks in time to see Artyom following an older man out. He's got three scars clawed across the left side of his face and salt and pepper hair, more salt than pepper. Bourbon moves to stand and go join Artyom, and Khan holds him back.

"What?"

"He's going to give his testimony."

"We should be there then."

"They're not going to let us in," Khan says. Bourbon pauses, watching Artyom follow the Colonel into the open council chambers.

"Well it's not like they can keep us out--"

"It's a closed session. Sit and wait."

The doors shut behind Artyom, and Bourbon scowls. He should be there! For some reason or another, he should. Even if it's just for moral support. He turns back to the bar and buys another drink.

By the time the doors open again, four hours have passed them by. Bourbon is too agitated to be bored, so he sips his moonshine and bounces his leg, irritating Khan. Four hours. Really! What are they talking about in there?

But then the doors do start to swing open, and members of the Polis council file out, talking amongst themselves. The Colonel is one of the last to exit, and Artyom trails after him, looking lost and empty.

Bourbon has a bad feeling about the council's decision. He stands, jostling Khan, who moves to follow him as he approaches.

"--see what more I can do," Miller is saying. "I'll call for you when I have more information. In the meantime, you and your companions can use the guest housing. I'll let them know you're here."

"What happened," Bourbon asks, and Artyom won't meet his eyes. "What did they say?"

"The Council has elected to do nothing," Miller informs him. Bourbon blinks, mouth falling open.

"Wha--why? Why wouldn't they do anything? People in Exhibition are dying, right Artyom?"

Artyom doesn't look at him.

"In any case, I'll contact you later," Miller says, clearly put off by the uncomfortable mood. "We'll figure something out." And then he leaves, strides back towards his office, leaving Artyom and them behind. A lost duckling, a fox with a missing foot, and a wolf.

Khan splits off from them when they reach the guest housing, a little room made out of wood with a curtain for a door. "What did they say?" Bourbon asks, as soon as they're alone. "Why won't they do anything?"

Artyom shrugs, sitting down heavily on the mattress, eyes on the floor.

"Artyom!"

"They're not concerned."

"But the Dark Ones could spread through the Metro, past Exhibition... they'll conquer the tunnels and kill everyone." Bourbon is surprised at how impassioned he suddenly feels about Artyom's mission, where the younger man seems so defeated. Resigned to doing nothing.

"They don't care."

"What is Miller doing?" Bourbon asks, and Artyom sucks in a shaky breath. He's trying not to break down, Bourbon realizes. Well, maybe he should.

"He's... He'll... He's going to try to work out a plan," Artyom murmurs, then clears his throat. "He leads the Order that Hunter was a part of... He'll try to send some men to do something."

Bourbon nods, scratching his stubbly face. Artyom sucks in another shaking inhale.

"They think I'm lying," Artyom admits. "They--I came here for nothing. They won't help." Bourbon wishes once again that he could do something, hug him... He stomps on the idea. "They said I'm making things up."

Bourbon sighs, sitting down beside him on the mattress. Artyom leans into him, then away when Bourbon jolts. "I'm sorry," Artyom murmurs. "Dragging people into this..."

"Give Miller time to figure it out," Bourbon says. Artyom nods. "If he doesn't do anything... If no one will do anything for Exhibition, we'll..."

What? Do what, exactly? He trails off, nothing else to say. Artyom sniffles quietly.

Nighttime finds Bourbon back at the bar in Polis, sipping away at his moonshine. He's left Artyom to rest for the time being, alone--he can't stand just sitting by and watching the guy suffer, so he's elected to go get drunk instead.

Khan sits down on his right, and Bourbon grunts at him in greeting. "Artyom's path has hit a roadblock," he says unprompted. Bourbon nods. "And at this roadblock, he feels he has nowhere to turn. In any direction he looks, he finds danger. If he steps off the path, he'll become lost and never reach his destination. Going backwards isn't an option. Going forward isn't either."

Bourbon takes a drink.

"At this point, with nowhere to turn, he needs allies. But he finds none."

"He has allies," Bourbon says. "He has me--"

"He doesn't think he has you. You haven't been there for him in days."

Bourbon whips his head around to stare at him. "You shunned him at the least opportune time," Khan says. "He doesn't understand why you're mad at him."

"I'm not mad!"

"He thinks you're mad. Whatever argument you two had, he thinks it's severed some bond between you."

"I'm not mad," Bourbon repeats, but damn. He'd really kind of made it seem that way, hadn't he? Pumped it, dumped it and ran without so much as a word, didn't say a thing to him after, avoided him for two days...

"Shit," Bourbon groans.

"Now you see. He's never left his station before, Bourbon. He feels all alone."

"I know!" Bourbon says, louder than he'd intended to. He lowers his voice and tries again. "I know he does."

"You need to make up with him. Regardless of what Miller decides..."

"I will," Bourbon says, even as fear and anxiety grabs onto his heart and squeezes. "I'll... do something."

"Let him in. He wants to feel some connection."

"How do I do that," Bourbon asks, staring at his drink, and Khan shrugs.

"You could start by telling him your name."

"He knows my name."

"Your real name."

"Oh." Khan claps him on the back and stands, leaving him to his drink and his worries. Would Artyom even want to know that kind of thing about him? Would he care, if Bourbon opened himself up to being vulnerable? Why should he?

He buys two more drinks and downs them before he goes back. He's drunk, but more than that, scared. He can't explain it fully. He's just shaking, terrified at the thought of being rejected while vulnerable and weak. Artyom will reject him, he clarifies to himself, pacing outside of the guest housing. He's guaranteed to.

"Artyom," Bourbon says, finally stepping into their borrowed room, and Artyom jumps to his feet, nervous. He takes a step back at Bourbon's quick approach, his unswollen eye wide and scared, and Bourbon grabs his shoulders and kisses him. The tension dissipates almost instantly. Artyom leans into him, eyelashes fluttering, letting Bourbon do what he wants.

"Bourbon--" Artyom starts when he pulls away, and Bourbon cuts him off.

"We need to talk. Okay? Sit down." Artyom sits obediently, nearly missing the edge of the mattress. Bourbon stands over him, scratching his face and trying to decide where to start.

"Look. No one calls me this, but my name--my real name, before the war, was Boguslav. Boguslav Sergeyevich Popov." Artyom blinks, nods. "No one calls me that," Bourbon clarifies again.

"Okay."

"I just wanted you to know that. Who I am. And whatever Miller decides to do, or if he doesn't do anything--we'll figure something out. Okay?" Another nod. "And I'm sorry. For avoiding you this entire time."

"It's okay," Artyom says softly.

"It's not. You went running through a warzone to get away from me, didn't you? Look at you." Artyom ducks his head, ashamed.

"Look--I don't know what's going to happen," Bourbon says. "If Miller will help you or not... if the Dark Ones can be stopped. Everyone in the metro seems keen to make you their next errand boy. Run here, do this, go there... Everyone has a plan and wants you for it."

Artyom is silent, eyes on his hands on his knees.

"And I'm no better. I'm probably worse, in fact. But if you're going to be the world's errand boy, and if they're going to make you start, fight, and finish all their wars for them, at the very least I can be here for you. To help you blow off steam, or whatever."

Artyom nods again, slowly. "And maybe I'm assuming too much," Bourbon says, and coughs. "Maybe you don't want me around."

"I do."

"Okay. Then I'll be here."

Artyom lifts his head again and opens his mouth to say something to him, and someone raps their knuckles on the doorframe.

"Artyom Alekseyevich? Colonel Miller has called for you."

Artyom jumps to his feet and steps outside to follow the ranger back to Miller. Bourbon trails after them, their roles reversed.

He waits outside Miller's office for a good fifteen minutes, until the door opens again. Artyom grins at him, grabbing him in a hug. "What'd he say?" Bourbon asks.

"He's taking me to the surface--we're going to find a missile silo."

That sounds insane. Bourbon doesn't voice this thought. "When do we leave?"

"You won't be coming with us," Miller says, stepping up beside Artyom. "Don't take it personally. Myself and another trained Order ranger will accompany Artyom to find the map. We'll be back in a couple hours, tops."

Bourbon thinks that sounds really insane, and opens his mouth to fight with Miller, but Artyom looks so happy, so much lighter. He's finally found a path forward.

Bourbon shuts up.

They head up to the surface, Artyom, Miller, and one of his men. Miller allows him and Khan to wait near the hermetic doors, kept company by a few SPARTA rangers. The mood is light, but Bourbon feels tense. Time seems to be moving slowly, but every time he checks the clock, another bunch of minutes have passed them by. And still, Artyom's not back. He keeps his hand on his AK, nervous. As if he's going to go tunnel mad.

Finally, out of nowhere, someone pounds on the hermetic doors. "Open up!" Miller calls, and the rangers hop to their feet to open the doors and let the scouting party back in. Bourbon stands, heart thudding in his chest, as the doors slide slowly open.

Miller enters, dragging a half conscious ranger with him.

Just those two.

"Get Danila to the medical bay," Miller orders. "I'll be headed back up as--"

"Where's Artyom," Bourbon cuts in. Miller levels him with a heavy gaze. No. No.

"He's in the library. I'm going back for--"

Miller doesn't get to finish his sentence before Bourbon has his kalash drawn, pointed at his face. Guns click around him, rangers with their weapons at the ready, four or five of them trained at his head.

"Bourbon," Khan says, voice careful but warning.

"Stand down," Miller says. To Khan: "Tell him to stand down."

"You left him up there," Bourbon gasps, unable to breathe. "Why would you leave him there alone?"

"Bourbon!" Khan snaps. "Put your gun away."

Bourbon's hands shake. He starts to lower his AK, and the butt of someone else's rifle slams into the side of his head, taking him to the floor. Miller looks pissed.

"We're going back for him," he clarifies again. Bourbon groans in pain and anger. "We'll find him."

Alive or dead? Two rangers grab him, disarm him and haul him to his feet. "Put him somewhere to cool off," Miller says, and the SPARTA rangers answer with twin "yes sir"s and haul Bourbon to the station jail to sit and steam and wait.

And he waits.

A ranger comes to see him sometime later. Maybe even hours later. He doesn't know how much time has passed. Could have been just a few minutes. "Colonel Miller asked us to bring you to Sparta," the ranger tells him, beckoning him forward, out of the cell. "If we hurry, we might meet them there."

Bourbon doesn't argue, just allows himself to be herded like a criminal outside and to their reinforced car, loaded into the middle of the seat. The gear shift knocks into his leg every time the driver moves it. It's an uncomfortable ride, but at the end of it, there'll be Artyom. That's why they're going to Sparta, right? To catch up with Artyom.

The armored card rolls through an open garage door and stops inside a hollowed out church. No pews, no pulpit, just stone and stained glass staring down at them. The rangers hop out to talk with their guys. Bourbon hangs back.

"Hello, Bourbon," Khan calls to him from a winding staircase. He beckons him closer and leads the way up to the second story. "Artyom and Miller have set out for D6," he fills Bourbon in.

He's alive, then. Good. "I fear he's hurtling down a path towards disaster," Khan says. "He might really destroy the Dark Ones."

"Good?" Bourbon blurts out. "That's been his goal this entire time, if you didn't notice."

Khan eyes him sharply. "I don't expect a fox to understand the value of life," he snaps, and Bourbon curls his lip.

"Those things will destroy his home station if he doesn't kill them first. They'll spread through the metro and drive everyone insane--"

"The Dark Ones have only ever defended themselves against brutal force--to want Artyom to commit an act of genocide is insane."

"They're monsters, Khan! He's terrified of them!"

"Man fears what he does not understand--and you understand so little--"

"Fuck you."

"He will choose right, in the end," Khan says, and Bourbon sneers and turns away from him, fingers curling and uncurling. They don't speak for a while after that.

Bourbon skulks around the base for an hour or two, until the radio crackles and Miller's voice comes through--then he joins the rangers to listen in. He and Artyom are alive, they've taken D6, and they're on the way to Ostankino tower. Two of the rangers gear up to go meet them.

Khan finally speaks to him again, in the hour after the other two rangers leave. "When Artyom comes back," he starts carefully, tiptoeing around their previous argument, "he's going to need support. No matter what he chooses to do, he needs someone here for him."

Bourbon doesn't look away from the stained glass. "No matter which path he took," Khan says, and he nods, barely hearing him. How can Khan be sure he will come back, anyway?

But he supposes that's a part of it. Having faith that things will turn out okay, that Artyom will come back smiling, that the metro will be saved. He'll be at Sparta when Artyom comes back through the doors, and he'll be there to smile and congratulate him on a mission accomplished.

And while they're waiting, listening for the radio to speak up and bring them home some news, an explosion rattles the church. Bourbon jolts, jerking his head up. Khan sighs deeply and turns away. That's it, then. The mission was a success. The Dark Ones have been destroyed, wiped away from the earth. It's over.

"He did it," Bourbon says, relieved.

"He did," Khan murmurs.

The armored cars return to Sparta within a few hours. Miller, Ulman, and Artyom are the last group to return, and they enter to cheers and congratulations from the other rangers. Men crowd them, shake hands with Artyom and clap Ulman on the back.

Artyom just smiles faintly, silent.

Miller gives a speech about the tenacity and strength of men. Khan doesn't stick around to listen to it, wanders back upstairs to be alone, but Bourbon stays and watches Artyom. He looks small, lost in the Polis gear and the Spartan helmet, among the rangers. He's still smiling, nodding and accepting congratulations, accepting the offer to become one of them, but he looks devastated somehow. Broken. Maybe he's imagining it.

They ride back to Polis, and Bourbon doesn't say anything. Artyom doesn't either. Ulman drives and chats at both of them, undeterred by their silence.

They return to the underground, where humanity lives now. They scrub off the radioactive dust of the surface and change into fresh clothes, and Artyom doesn't say a word about any of it. Khan joins them for dinner, and when he tries to talk to Artyom, Bourbon kicks him.

It's late when they head to bed, in Artyom's temporary room. Temporary, because as Miller tells him, just within earshot of Bourbon, the Order will be housed elsewhere soon.

They enter Artyom's room, and Bourbon looks around at the bare mattress and the empty shelves. He turns to face Artyom again.

"It's a nice place," he says, breaking the silence that's weighed on them since Artyom returned from Ostankino. Artyom nods. And then, without Bourbon saying anything else, he breaks down crying. He stumbles forward and presses his face into Bourbon's chest, muffling his own sobs, as if afraid someone else will hear.

"Tell me, Tyoma," Bourbon says, voice soft. Gentle, afraid to bark at Artyom and break him down.

Artyom whines, escalating into a wail. He cries and gnashes his teeth and yells into Bourbon's shirt, hands fisted in the fabric. Bourbon lets him cry without saying a word, until Artyom lifts his head and stammers at him to explain.

"I killed them all," he bawls, "all of them--they just wanted to talk. I opened the door, I let them in, and when they tried to reach us, when they tried to take our hand and lead us home, I killed them. I heard them, Bourbon, all of them, calling out to me, and I didn't stop it. I didn't stop it, I let it--I made it happen. They were just trying to talk to us, Bourbon. Our siblings! And I killed them, all of them!" He wails, and someone pounds on a wall nearby, shouting for him to shut up. Bourbon holds him, confused, pets his hair.

"They were never trying to hurt us," Artyom hiccups, allowing Bourbon to guide him and sit him on the edge of the bed. "They never--we were just scared. I was scared. We didn't understand, and it terrified us..." He sucks in a breath. "But in the end, they... they were so afraid of us."

"It's okay, Artyom," Bourbon says, and he shakes his head vehemently.

"Mm-mm! No, no! It's not, it was my fault, all of it, and I killed them, Bourbon..." He's looking for something, some glimmer of understanding in Bourbon's eyes, but he must not see it. Artyom closes his eyes and turns away, whining.

"I wanna go home," Artyom sobs, his shoulders slumping. Bourbon nods, patting his back. "I just wanna go home."

"I'll get you home." And fuck Miller and his rangers, fuck Polis and fuck Khan. He doesn't care who he has to cross to get Artyom back to Exhibition.

"I want to go alone," Artyom says, voice falling hushed. Bourbon's heart sinks, and he retracts his hand slowly.

"Okay. Of course."

Miller lets him go, a two month leave of absence to make arrangements back at Exhibition before joining the Order. And within a day, Artyom is gone on a motorized car through the ring line; back to his home, away from Bourbon.

He hadn't expected anything in the end, and yet there's a heavy feeling of loss. Khan leaves the day after Artyom--or is forcibly ejected from Polis after getting up in Miller's face. Bourbon has no reason to stay in Polis himself. He leaves later that day, his newly issued passport weighing in his coat pocket. Miller had pulled some more strings for him, to help him get home.

Where is home? He's not sure where he's headed, at first. The allure of the surface has been lost to him, for now. He doesn't want to go back up alone, return to looting and scavenging so quickly. For a week or so, he had felt like a human again, a real person, even underground. It's too soon to go back to his old ways.

Bourbon finds himself wandering. He makes it back to the north side of the ring line and finds himself, once again, on the VDNKh line. He tells himself that Riga is basically his home, it's the most natural place for him to be.

But really...

He's praying every time he turns around to see Artyom again, to spy some afterimage of the man in a crowd somewhere. It's possible, he tells himself. It's possible to bump into him here. And what a coincidence it would be, right?

But he doesn't see Artyom even once, and soon he drifts back to his old ways. Cash doesn't last forever. He has to hit the surface to make a living. And it's a meager living, but he's good at the work, and he'll make it.

Even on the surface, he looks for Artyom. He talks to him, like a shadow or an imprinted duckling following behind him. But when he turns to look at the other man, Artyom's never there.

He's losing it. He tells himself as much. "You're insane." He tells it to the shadow of Artyom that isn't there, too. "I'm going nuts, Tyoma."

Is it because of that line they crossed, back at the Cursed station? Could be. No one else lingers in his mind like this, no one else pulls him ever further north, towards Exhibition. It's like there's a fishhook in his heart, pulling him along by some unseen string, and at the other end of it, God willing, Artyom will be waiting.

He lets seven weeks pass him by, thinking about him but not doing anything. Time isn't real anymore, Khan would remind him. Clocks don't mean anything, when man has turned his back on the sun. Calendars are just paper. Heartache is just a word.

But he feels every minute passing him by, tearing at his skin, pulling at his hair. It's agonizing, and yet, he waits almost a full two months. The decision to go is sudden. He wakes up one morning, tired but unable to sleep any more, not with the noise of the station around him... and he decides to go see Artyom. He gets up and pulls his boots on. He packs his backpack and leaves.

"Your reason for visiting the Exhibition," the official at VDNKh asks him, eyes on his passport.

He's here to see a friend. And he doesn't expect anything more than that.

It's early afternoon when Andrey walks with him to the hermetic doors. He warns Bourbon that Artyom has changed, and Bourbon takes that piece of information silently. Whatever he's like now... No matter how ending the war has changed him, he'll have Bourbon's support.

No one accompanies him out of the hermetic doors. They all stay tucked away behind protective barriers, guns at the ready, as Bourbon steps out into the botanical gardens.

He heads up the broken, skeletal escalators to the surface, AK at the ready. The gardens are dead silent, other than the whistling of the wind over the surface. No demons. No Watchmen. Bourbon reaches the top and surveys the area. They sure did bomb the hell out of this place. No chance anything survived here, huh.

It's a broad area to search for Artyom in, so Bourbon gets started. He doesn't have to go far, it turns out. Near the edge of the smoking crater where the Dark Ones once built their hives, Artyom sits, back to Bourbon.

Bourbon doesn't call out to him, but he also makes no effort to mask his approach. Artyom doesn't look up as he settles in on the ground beside him. They look out over the charred alien landscape of the gardens in silence.

"Hey, Tyoma," Bourbon says after a minute. He pauses, unsure of what to say. "I've missed you."

Artyom finally looks over at him. Bourbon had expected him to cry, or to get mad, or something. He just looks tired. Faded. "I've been here," Artyom says.

He has been, hasn't he? Since he climbed Ostankino, he's been at the gardens with the Dark Ones, paying penance for his great sin. Bourbon gets it. Or he doesn't. No, he still doesn't. He doesn't understand how Artryom could have heard anything, and even if he had--that's just the effect of the Dark Ones. They wriggle into your brain and make their home there, they drive you insane, drive you to kill your fellow man. They seize you in their cold, clammy grip and squeeze until all you can feel is fear, and they twist you and use you and change you.

Or they did, before they were wiped out.

Artyom's breath rattles through his mask, and Bourbon sighs, digging into his coat pocket for a filter. He hands it over, and Artyom replaces the filter on his gasmask silently.

"Can I take you home?" he asks, and Artyom turns his head to face the ruins again. He doesn't answer. He doesn't want to leave.

"You're going to get sick staying out here," Bourbon points out. He shoulders him. "Let me take you ho--"

"Where were you?" Artyom asks, and Bourbon pauses, licking his lips behind his mask.

"I've been... around. At Riga. And on the surface."

Artyom doesn't respond. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Bourbon says. Nothing. "Artyom, look..."

"I've had a lot of time to think," Artyom says. Bourbon is silent, giving him space to continue. "I... ever since that day, I really want to die."

Bourbon's heart sinks rapidly in his chest. He feels cold, suddenly. "I've been thinking about how to do it," Artyom admits. "I feel like I deserve to suffer, for--"

Bourbon grabs him in a hug, surprised with himself for how hot his eyes feel. "You don't get to decide that," he snaps, voice shaking. "You don't get to do that."

"I killed them, Bourbon," Artyom says, voice soft and even. "The worst part is... In the end, I knew they forgave me." Bourbon tightens his grip on him, trembling. Is this what he's been doing, for two months? Catching radiation and plotting his suicide?

"But I can't forgive myself," Artyom says. He goes silent, and Bourbon has to pull back and check to make sure he's still breathing. Artyom smiles at him, eyes sad.

"I'm taking you home," Bourbon snaps, standing and hauling Artyom to his feet.

"I want to stay."

"How long have you been out here?"

"Since morning."

"You'll be lucky if you only piss blood for a week. Come."

Artyom struggles a bit, but Bourbon gets him moving, hauls him back to the hermetic doors. Artyom calls in through a phone on the wall.

Have you decontaminated, comes a voice through the line.

"Yes," Artyom says.

Bullshit, says the phone, and Artyom hurls it at the wall and stands there panting, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looks back with a sheepish look, as if suddenly remembering that Bourbon's there.

The doors slide slowly open, and the men who let them in bitch and moan about it, bringing radiation into the station, we'll all be dead in a year, he's lost it. It's jarring, Bourbon thinks. Not what he'd expected at all. Artyom saved the entire metro from the Dark Ones, and the guards couldn't seem to care less. How many times has Artyom been to the surface, for them to be so jaded towards him already?

Artyom leads him through the station, down the platform towards the locals' housing. There are rooms being built up out of old lumber around narrow hallways, people crammed in like little fish in a can. There are also rows of military tents, and Artyom leads him to one of these and steps inside. Bourbon takes a deep breath and follows.

Artyom's got a mattress and a little shelf stuffed full of books. There's a journal lying open on the bed, which he flips closed and puts away before sitting down. Bourbon seats himself on a lone chair, just to be safe.

Neither of them say anything at first. Bourbon decides to try for small talk. "So, you share this tent with your stepfather?"

Artyom shakes his head. "I asked to have my own, when I came back."

"Good for you."

"My friend, Zhenya..." Artyom trails off. "He was killed while I was gone. While on patrol. Another man shot him in the head."

Bourbon purses his lips, listening silently. "The Dark Ones drove that man to madness. Made him shoot my best friend out of fear. He was so afraid, he thought Zhenya was one of them. I should hate them, right? For doing that. If not for them, Zhenya would be alive."

"But I still can't... I had no right to kill them. To wipe them from the earth. I opened the door to them, and when they tried to cross through, I killed them. Our brothers... humanity's siblings. People think that I'm insane," Artyom tells him, lifting his head. His eyes burn into Bourbon. "For regretting it. For going up to the surface. Do you think that?"

"No, Tyoma," Bourbon says.

"What do you think then?"

"...I don't know, Artyom. I can't believe that those things you told me about could have ever had our best interests at heart, but you say they spoke to you in the end."

"They showed me my mother," Artyom says, voice small. Bourbon stands and moves over to the bed to sit beside him.

"It's always been human nature to lash out at things we can't understand," Bourbon says. "We kill when we're scared. We hurt others. You're no worse than anyone else for that."

Artyom is silent, and he's pretty sure he hasn't said the right combination of words to make him feel better. "I've missed you," Artyom says finally. "I kept hoping you'd show up, every time I came back from the gardens. Or every time I went up."

"I'm sorry," Bourbon says.

"I'm glad you're here now." He lifts his head, leaning closer. "I just want to feel good again, Bourbon."

Not sure what else to do, Bourbon kisses him. Artyom leans into him, hands going to Bourbon's chest to grip his flannel and pull him close. Threading a hand through Artyom's hair, Bourbon deepens the kiss, and the other man lets him, pulls him down atop himself.

They shouldn't be doing this, Bourbon knows. Not with the tent flap unsecured. Not fresh from the surface. Nevermind that; not with Artyom in the mental state he's in. Pulling away would be worse, he tells himself. Rejecting him would be a bad move.

"Touch me," Artyom begs in a whisper when he pulls back for a moment. "Please, Bourbon."

Bourbon kisses him again, pulls his hand out of his glove and slips it down the front of Artyom's pants. The younger man's breath catches in his throat and he lifts his hips, pressing up into Bourbon's palm. Can he even get hard, Bourbon wonders, if he's been up on the surface like that every day--but Artyom twitches and stirs in his hand as he strokes him, kisses him back desperately.

Bourbon pulls back, kissing down Artyom's neck, listening to him whine. He slides off the bed, dropping to a crouch with his hand still in the other man's pants, still stroking him as he whimpers and groans.

"Bourbon, don't... don't stop, keep going..."

He's at least trying to keep his voice down. Good; it's midday and there are people around. Bourbon leans forward, freeing Artyom from the confines of his pants and licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. Artyom shivers and keens. He curls his fingers in his blanket and whines. Bourbon steals a glance up at him as he takes him into his mouth. Artyom's eyes are closed, face flushed. Bourbon bobs his head and he moans openly, breathily. Someone's definitely going to overhear.

But he needs this. Bourbon gets it. Artyom's hand on his head pushes him back down desperately, hips lifting off the bed, and Bourbon takes the hint. He swallows greedily around Artyom's dick and the younger man cries out, louder than he should. He bucks and whines and cries and starts crying for real, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, begging all the while for Bourbon to keep going.

"Bourbon," he sobs, rutting desperately, "Bourbon, I need you." His hands on Bourbon's head turn grabby, start pulling at his hat, then his short-cropped hair, and Bourbon lets Artyom's cock slide out of his mouth and gives it a kiss before crawling on top of him.

Bourbon presses their lips together again and Artyom kisses him with the desperation of a man dying. The older man's hand returns to stroking him. Artyom tenses and finishes stickily against his fingers, panting through his nose, eyes squeezed shut and crying. Bourbon wipes his hand clean and lets him pull away.

Artyom takes a few minutes to recover, sniffling and wiping his face. He finally sits up with Bourbon and leans into his shoulder, then jolts upright at a voice coming through the tent.

"Artyom? Are you in there?"

"Yes, Uncle Sasha, I'm here," Artyom calls back, and a gray-haired man ducks his head into the tent, pausing when he sees Bourbon. Bourbon nods to him tensely, suddenly wound tight once again. This must be Artyom's stepfather. He's eager to impress him, and terrified of being figured out and sent away too soon.

"Have you been up to the surface again?" Uncle Sasha asks, ignoring his tearstained face. Artyom shrugs kind of half heartedly, as if he's (rightfully) ashamed to admit it. "How am I going to get grandchildren if you keep doing that? Come on. Colonel Miller is here for you."

Artyom nods, starting to stand, but Bourbon is on his feet faster. "I thought you had another week," he blurts, and Artyom and his stepfather look at him strangely. What difference would it make? Maybe he'd had some delusional idea of whisking Artyom away somewhere, beyond Miller's reach. So what.

Artyom follows his stepfather, and Bourbon follows Artyom, lined up like ducks headed to the pond for one last time. There are a few SPARTA rangers hanging out near the market, and Miller is there, of course, to collect his newest. Bourbon hangs back, feeling hollow. He'd come all this way to see Artyom. He'd waited so long, expecting something to change, and nothing had. Artyom's still going to join the Order, he'll go to Polis and live there as one of Miller's bootboys, saving the metro on a weekly basis, and they'll stop seeing each other for good.

"Are you ready to go? Got all your things?" Miller asks, hands on his hips as he appraises Artyom. "Say your goodbyes, I want to make it back before it's night."

Artyom turns and fixes Bourbon with a sad, soft gaze. No. This is too much. He looks more hurt than when he'd said he wants to die. Bourbon has to say something, anything to make everything fall into place so that Artyom will stay with him.

Anything.

In the end, the moment scrapes by. He says nothing, and Artyom forces a smile, hugs his stepfather, picks up his pack and leaves with Miller.

He suspects it's the last time they'll ever see each other.

He's settling in at D6 nicely.

That's a lie. Start over.

He's having a shitty time settling in at D6.

That might be too harsh. It's not all bad. Ulman is nice. He's funny. Like an eye-roll inducing big brother. He's got stories. Miller is nice enough too, but he's also the commanding officer. He and Artyom aren't exactly drinking buddies. It wouldn't feel appropriate to call them friends.

There are a few other guys who give him the time of day. A few his age, some older. For the most part, though, everyone looks down their noses at Artyom. Who is this kid? This scrawny brat? Savior of the metro? Feh! He hasn't earned his place at the table.

And he hasn't. He's acutely aware that he hasn't earned his uniform yet. There's no reason for anyone here to really respect him.

Tokarev is nice. He reminds himself of the more pleasant guys who serve the Order. Alyosha and Damir. Both nice. Sam. Stepan and Idiot. Vladimir who runs the armory. All nice men, usually.

But most of the Order are assholes.

Miller's daughter shoulders him in the halls when they see each other, not in a friendly way. She knows it too, that he hasn't earned any of it. He's half scared that she'll remind her father of that and he'll be sent home.

The other half is desperately hoping for the same thing.

He doesn't want to be here. Another fucking subterranean pit in the ground. He belongs up there, on the surface, no matter how irradiated and poisoned. But Miller never sends him up. Probably he knows that Artyom spent his leave of absence in the city, half dead and trying to die for real. Probably he's keeping him safe like this.

It sucks. He doesn't want to be kept safe in this underground prison. He wants the sun and the breeze on his face, without a gasmask in between. Atop the tower, when he'd pulled his mask off--

He can't think about it right now, or he may seriously start crying.

"Hey, Artyom," Duke calls, and he stops, looks back at the other young man. Duke, another good one. As long as he's not with Anna. "Have you seen the new recruits?"

Artyom shakes his head. He's not really interested, but Duke slings an arm around him and guides him towards the training room.

"The Colonel ordered all training to be doubled," Duke informs him. "And its no surprise why! The new guys are as feeble as babies!"

Artyom forces a weak smile, stopping with Duke at the window to watch the recruits struggling with push-ups until the trainer gives them a five minute break. "I figure half of them will drop out in the first month," Duke is saying, but Artyom isn't listening. He's staring, jaw hanging open, and then he's jerking away from the window to burst into the training room.

"Bourbon!"

Bourbon lifts his head, seated on the floor and dripping with sweat. He grins as Artyom dives on him in a hug, wrapping his arms around him, despite the stares of the other recruits.

"What are you doing here?"

"Push-ups," Bourbon laughs, and Artyom laughs too, unable to stop himself. Duke steps into the room but hangs back, and the other recruits are not-so-subtly staring, and so Artyom slowly extracts himself, backing out of the embrace. He still can't stop smiling.

"Artyom, we should let them get back to training," Duke hints subtly, and Artyom straightens up, flushed and beaming, and promises himself he can see Bourbon later.

It's not until after dinner that he gets that chance, but the elation of it carries him through the mess hall and all the way back to his room. He still has no idea why Bourbon is here, or how he got in, but that's not what matters.

He'd really missed him.

Artyom opens the door to his quarters and finds Bourbon waiting for him; he barely manages to shut the door behind himself before he's on the other man, kissing him and grabbing at his clothes. Bourbon returns the affection, pulls him snugly up against his body and kisses him deeply until Artyom's knees shake and he feels like passing out.

"What are you doing here," Artyom gasps when they part, as Bourbon kisses at his neck, barely refraining from full-on biting him.

"I couldn't leave you alone," Bourbon says, and then kisses him, licking into his mouth again. Artyom moans, eyelashes fluttering, knees buckling as Bourbon holds him up. "You're all I was ever able to think about," Bourbon says, when he leans back to look at him. "I couldn't just let go."

Artyom closes the gap again, unable to resist more kisses, and Bourbon's all too willing to spoil him. He pushes the younger man back into the bed and climbs atop him, kissing and touching slowly, drinking in his fill.

"Are you going to stay," Artyom asks softly in a moment's silence between kisses.

"Yes. As long as they don't kick me out."

"Do you promise," Artyom presses, and his eyes well up with tears.

"I promise, Tyoma."

"Don't leave me again, Bourbon."

"I won't. Shh, come here."

Bourbon holds onto him as he cries, but it's a good cry this time. It's not the tortured wailing of a boy pushed to the brink, forced to lead a war, not like back in Polis. Just the soft, sad tears of a lonely young man. Somehow, it feels more productive.

Bourbon holds him that night, as Artyom clings to him in his sleep. And for the first time since he first left the Exhibition, Artyom sleeps well. He wakes up once in the dark of midnight, checks to see that Bourbon's still holding him, and drifts off again, content.

Something shifts in Artyom afterwards, and it could be that everyone notices. It could also be that everyone recognizes with very little effort the cause of his smile and his laughter, so absent before. Artyom still doesn't have as many friends at D6 as he does naysayers, but there's a noticeable spring in his step now.

Still, nobody says anything about it to him, or to Bourbon. It seems most of the Order are more comfortable pretending not to notice anything like that.

The next year passes along quickly. Bourbon doesn't excel under pressure, and he's definitely not going to be top of his class in anything, but he also doesn't give up. Not as long as Artyom is around to hold him and rub his back after lights out. He gets along well with Ulman and Alyosha especially, and even Anna sometimes. When they're not butting heads and screaming over each other. She's... something. She doesn't respect Artyom, that much is clear, but she's generally tolerable. Just so long as he doesn't have to spend any time alone with her.

They celebrate the new year in D6, and then spring starts to peer out from behind the snow again. Bourbon's shaved hair grows back in. Artyom grows some meager facial hair. Life goes on. Alyosha breaks hearts, Anna starts fights, and Miller gives orders. Eventually, Artyom is no longer confined to the underground. Miller seems to trust him enough not to get himself purposely killed if he goes up, and so he does. Scouting missions, carrier missions. Little things that show the Colonel has faith in him.

And slowly, steadily, Artyom starts to feel that faith in himself too. He realizes in the early spring, waking up with Bourbon in his bed, that he doesn't want to die. Not right now. He wants to keep going, to make it back to the surface someday and live there. That's his goal, for now. And he wants to get there with Bourbon.

"What," Bourbon grumbles, still half asleep, as Artyom kisses his shoulder, his neck. "Go back to sleep, Tyoma, we've got another hour."

"I love you."

And suddenly Bourbon is wide awake.