Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ancom really took for granted how nice the situation was with the other anarchists.  Living in a little compound together, qui had it easy. There was none of the constant misgendering, waking up to screaming matches in the living room, living with an actual fucking Nazi. It had been a good place, quis small safehouse, where after working and fighting all day, qui could go home and feel secure. There were always people to talk to who understood quem, who didn’t judge quem, who didn’t disagree with every word out of quis mouth. Plus the sex was great, and, looking back guiltily, Ancom thought maybe that was the best part; the part qui missed the most.

Qui hasn’t gotten laid since moving into Ancap’s ridiculous three-story mansion.  Everyone’s so uptight all the time. The last time Ancom lit a joint Ancap freaked out on quem, going off about this was his property.  It wasn’t like qui could go crawling back to the other anarchists, either—qui was certain Anqueer and the majority of the others were still pissed off at quem. Ancom’s decision to team up with the extremists to eliminate the Centrist Threat hadn’t gone over well.  But, for now, it was worth it, in Ancom’s opinion. Even if quis roommates are barely tolerable on the best of days.

For the most part, Ancom avoids Nazi as much as possible. He’s usually busy playing video games anyway, but whenever qui ends up in the same room as him, he manages to get in a biting comment that makes Ancom never want to see him again.  He’s just as mean to Ancap too, though, which can be satisfying to watch, depending on the day.  More often than not, however, Nazi is simply cold and distant, blue eyes seemingly far away. Ancom wonders if he’s on any drugs but would never ask. It doesn’t seem unlikely Ancap would sell Nazi some stimulants.

Ancap is much more bearable to be around. Definitely the least threatening of the bunch, he often tries to be friendly with Ancom, mostly as an excuse to complain about the authoritarians in the house. If qui thinks about it too much, it’s easy to become disgusted by Ancap—the greed, the exploitation of his poor workers, his hedonistic lifestyle. Just to survive the presence of him, Ancom tries quis best to not think about that.  He is a reliable source of good weed and LSD, and he does always offer to take Ancom shopping with him whenever he goes out. It’s a nice gesture, Ancom supposes, and it can be fun to do something more lighthearted than plan the next attack on the centrists or sit around debating with Commie.

Commie. He’s always up for debating with Ancom at any hour of the day.  Ancom has grown a bit weary of it.  It makes quem feel . . . small, and somewhat muddle-headed, especially since the authoritarian has taken to calling quem Anarkiddie . Hearing the nickname from Commie never fails to make Ancom flustered and lose quis train of thought. Nor does it help Ancom suppress the off-topic fantasies qui finds quemself having about the authoritarian. Commie and his imposing frame, thick Russian accent, strong hands. Ancom can’t help but stare and wonder what he’s like in bed.  He’s probably wonderful, Ancom thinks. He’s probably even more dominant than in day-to-day life.

But qui tries quis best not to think about that. Commie isn’t really an option for quem.  He’s an authoritarian, a statist—under any other conditions, Ancom wouldn’t hesitate to try to beat him with quis bat or just avoid him altogether.  Now, though, qui has to see him everyday, work with him, plan with him.  They’ve formed an alliance, of sorts—more than just the temporary truce the four have with each other to defeat the centrists—where Commie will usually back Ancom up in an argument with one of the rightists, and Ancom will let Commie talk to quem about communist theory when no one else is willing.  He always thinks he has something to teach Ancom, after all. His patronizing tone when Ancom voices a protest over an action Stalin took, let alone something Lenin said, however, is enough to infuriate Ancom, make quem mad enough to forget qui was thinking about what it would be like to kiss Commie a moment earlier.

Most days go like this: Ancom tries to tell quemself qui shouldn’t and won’t take any condescension from Commie, just like qui wouldn’t take it from anyone else. Yet it’s never long before qui’s staring at Commie’s lips, or his broad shoulders, or his hands, and hardly listening to Commie lecturing on the necessity of the dictatorship of the proletariat, or whatever. God, the things qui’d let Commie do to quem . . .

Qui tries to shake the thought.  Qui’s just being particularly thirsty after this dry spell of quis, qui thinks, and Commie just so happens to be the most attractive of quis roommates. It’s nothing worth dwelling on or pursuing, and qui will forget about how Commie’s gaze makes quem feel when this is all over with.  Sleeping with him would be a mistake. Qui doesn’t want to do anything to feed Commie’s power trip or make him think he’s won Ancom over in any way ideologically.

It is no surprise, anymore, when Ancom gets up in the morning to find Commie already awake, sitting with a cup of coffee and a book. “Ah, Anarkiddie,” Commie greets. “I have made coffee and porridge, if you would like.”

“Thanks, Tankie,” Ancom says, and helps quemself to a cup of quis own coffee.  The gray sludge steaming in a pot on the stove doesn’t look too appealing, though, and Ancom passes it by.  Qui’s not hungry, anyway.  Commie is always going on about how he has to provide food for the household, because if Ancap had it his way, they would all be paying him twenty bucks a meal and there would be locks on the cupboards. Ancap let go of that idea after the other three had collectively threatened him, but Commie strictly stuck to the concept of food being freely provided and distributed evenly.

“Ancom, have you started reading State and Revolution yet? I think it would do you well for our discussions. I think—”

“Oh, I burned it,” Ancom interrupts.

“You burn my book? My only English copy?” Commie asks.

Ancom laughs and sits at the table across from the communist. “Yeah, I don’t need any of your authoritative garbage taking up space in my room.”

Commie sighs and shoots quem a glare. 

Qui sinks back in quis chair a bit, suddenly feeling guilty for no reason. It isn’t like Commie wanted the book back, anyway. He usually reads in Russian. Qui finds a couple of pills in the pocket of quis hoodie, burying quis hands.  How nice, Ancom thinks, quis previous self has left a gift for qui to find now. Qui doesn’t remember doing it, and the pills look unfamiliar to quem, but it brings a smile to quis face all the same.

“What am I to do with you? You must read theory, comrade—” Commie says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Ancom says, and pops two of the pills with the hot coffee in front of quem.

“If you would listen to me—what have you just taken?”

Ancom shrugs. “It’s a surprise.”

“You mean, you do not know?”

Ancom shrugs again. Qui hopes it’s an upper. The coffee alone won’t be enough to get quem through the day.

“Anarkiddie, this is exactly your problem. You would be much more effective if you were not so reckless.”

“What is it with you authoritarians hating fun?”

“You can be happy without taking . . . mystery drugs. I would like that.”

“Sounds fake to me,” Ancom says.

Commie clenches his jaw.

Ancom stares at the muscle.  

“I will be speaking with Ancap about what he has been selling you,” Commie says.

“Why?”

“I do not want you getting harmed. You should not take any drugs, but if you are going to, someone should at least know what it is.”

Ancom rolls quis eyes. Commie should mind his business, qui thinks. Qui doesn’t need anyone watching over quem like some sort of pet. But it’s just like Commie to think it’s his place to interfere, to take control, to try to intimidate both the anarchists to bend to his will. Ancom would have a better argument against the behavior if Commie wasn’t so effective. “I still don’t get why you’re so against drugs.”

“Drug use has no place in communist society. It does not help anyone.”

Ancom laughs. “It helps me deal with living in this fucking house, that’s for sure,” qui says. 

Nazi has entered the kitchen, but Commie hasn’t acknowledged him yet. 

Ancom makes brief eye contact with him for a moment, and quis grip on quis trusty baseball bat tightens. Nazi turns away quickly to open the refrigerator, and Ancom relaxes slightly.

“You must be strong when revolution comes, Ancom. Drugs make us weak,” Commie says.

As Ancom opens quis mouth to explain just why Commie was wrong, Nazi interjects, “Commie, you’re not talking about policy , are you? I thought you realized the anarchists are too dim-witted—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ancom says.

“The state should prohibit drugs, Nazi. You agree, да?”

“Well—I, I guess, or everyone would be as low-IQ as Ancom. I mean, it’s more about getting rid of the lazy degenerates, right?”

Before Ancom has a chance to defend quemself, Commie swivels to face Nazi. “Do not speak of my comrade in this way, Nazi.” 

The anger isn’t even directed at Ancom, but it makes quem want to shrink back into quis chair and keep quis mouth shut all the same. Commie’s voice is just so commanding, and he looks so tall standing by the table like this. Ancom doesn’t think it will happen, but if Commie were to attack Nazi now, Nazi wouldn’t stand a chance. Qui imagines Commie bashing Nazi’s teeth in, getting blood all over the knuckles of his strong hands, and Ancom sighs dreamily. The thought shouldn’t be so arousing.

“Yeah, your comrade, whatever. Anyway, Commie, what do you think you’re gonna get done, arguing about drugs with a junkie?” Nazi says.

“I would like Ancom to use less,” Commie says.

They speak like Ancom isn’t even there.

“Oh, good luck. He’s clearly addicted, and he’s probably too stupid to even realize he has a problem. Or just too high,” Nazi says with a cold laugh.

“As if you’re much better,” Ancom spits.

“At least I don’t need to get high everyday like you just to function, you fucking druggie,” Nazi says. Following that, he has the audacity to sit with them at the table, carrying a bowl of Commie’s porridge.

Ancom promptly gets up, wielding quis bat, but quickly sits back down. Shit, quis legs feel like mush. It must be the pills, qui thinks.  Qui settles for saying, “Fuck off,” but Nazi is just laughing at quem at this point.

“You’re high right now, aren’t you? Yeah, no wonder Commie’s worried. You’re useless like this,” Nazi says.

Ancom stares down into quis cup of coffee. Quis eyes sting with tears, feeling thoroughly belittled and defeated. “I’ll fucking kill you,” Ancom says, but it comes out too quiet. Quis tongue feels too heavy in quis mouth.

“Sure, Ancom. I’d love to see you try.”

With shaking hands, Ancom picks up quis coffee and throws it in Nazi’s direction. Qui misses, and the mug shatters against the floor. Normally qui doesn’t feel this weak, and normally quis aim is impeccable from years of Molotov throwing. Fear comes over quem as Nazi abruptly stands, turning to Ancom with balled fists, knocking his chair over in the process. Before Nazi has the chance to even throw a punch, Commie grabs him by the back of his shirt and shoves him to the ground.

“Hey, what the fuck,” Nazi says, looking up at Commie.

“Get out. You will not hurt Ancom. Qui is no threat to you,” Commie says.

“ He attacked me —”

“Go, Nazi,” Commie commands. 

This time Nazi stands, glares at Ancom, and leaves the room.

Ancom lays quis head on the table. Qui feels so tired, vision blurry. Commie really shouldn’t fight for quem, qui thinks, but it isn’t enough to overcome how gratifying it was to watch Nazi get knocked down. Qui wishes qui could have done it quemself. Qui wishes qui had half the intimidating energy Commie gives off.  Ancom’s overwhelming feeling of drowsiness dulls the sting of Nazi’s words and the discontent stirring in quem.

Some part of quem also wishes qui was the one on the ground, awaiting orders from Commie, ready to do whatever pleases him.

Commie has begun sweeping up the broken pieces of ceramic on the floor, cursing under his breath at something. 

Ancom can hardly keep quis eyes open, but qui feels bad. Commie shouldn’t have to be the one doing everything to keep the house in order. Qui tries to stand again, and the room spins. Quis head is pounding, and qui feels a bit nauseous.

“Are you alright, Anarkiddie?”

There’s a large hand on each of quis shoulders now. Commie.

“ ‘M fine.”

“Do not lie to me.”

Commie’s face swims into quis vision. He looks concerned, maybe even angry, staring down at Ancom intently.

“Sorry,” Ancom says, and feels quis bottom lip tremble. Tears well up in quis eyes again, doing nothing to help with quis inability to focus.

Commie sighs. “You are not well, Ancom. You must not keep doing this to yourself.”

“But Nazi—”

“Do not fret about him. I refer to your pills.”

Ancom chokes on a sob. Qui can’t get any words out.

“I worry about you. Nazi could have hurt you, had I not been here,” Commie continues. “You should not make yourself so vulnerable.”

Qui feels a spark of rage in quis chest. Qui isn’t so vulnerable . Qui just needs to sleep.

“Are you listening to me? We can not have you getting hurt. I have lost many comrades. I will not lose you as well.”

Ancom reluctantly nods.

“You should rest now. You seem very tired. We will discuss this later.”

“Okay, Tankie,” Ancom says. Qui feels relieved that Commie has picked up on quis exhaustion. Qui’s not sure how much longer qui can stay standing, waiting for Commie to release quem. But he doesn’t.

“Good,” Commie says. He wraps an arm around Ancom’s shoulders, leading quem off in the direction of the bedrooms. Ancom can’t form enough of a coherent thought to protest. Instead, qui finds quemself focusing on Commie’s touch. His warmth. His guidance. His fingers digging into Ancom’s bicep a bit too tightly. Qui feels surprised and unsteady by the time Commie lets go, registering that qui’s in quis room now.

“You sleep this off. I will make sure the others do not wake you,” Commie says.

Ancom crawls in bed, vaguely aware of Commie watching quem. “Thanks,” qui mumbles, and doesn’t stay conscious long enough to listen to Commie leave.

Chapter Text

When Ancom wakes up again, it is dark in quis room. Quis limbs feel stiff, mouth dry, throat scratchy. Qui’s dehydrated and hungry, but generally feels well rested. Qui has none of the typical urge to fall back to sleep, especially with the need to get water at the top of quis mind.

The foggy memory of how qui ended up sleeping the day away comes back to quem at the realization qui is still in jeans and a hoodie. Those pills.  They must have been the sleeping pills qui bought from Ancap when qui first moved in. It had seemed impossible to get any rest at first, on edge about the possibility of the other extremists attacking quem, and the prospect of all the work that was to be done. The pills were the only thing that helped when qui couldn’t get quis hands on any weed.  But they are strong, and Ancom remembers a time qui took too many and passed out for about forty hours.  Qui feels foolish for not remembering what they looked like before popping them so carelessly.

Quis thoughts sound just like Commie, and it’s no wonder. Qui feels flush with embarrassment at the memory of Commie helping quem to bed. It’s sickening, really, to think about needing help from him at all.  Qui has successfully fought Nazis while high before. But there is some feeling of pleasantness, of warmth, that comes over quem when thinking of Commie’s touch.  Those strong hands, gentle on quem, just moments after easily overpowering the Nazi. Ancom can’t stop the conflict of shame and arousal qui feels just thinking about it. Qui would let Commie hurt quem and enjoy it. He could pin quem down and bruise quem and Ancom would get off on it. And he would be so good at taking care of quem afterwards, Ancom thinks, with his attentiveness to quis feelings and constant concern for everyone’s wellbeing. He might be the best dom Ancom’s ever slept with if qui were to get the chance.

Ancom snaps out of the fantasy with a painful gulp over quis dry throat. Qui needs a glass of water, and it’s much too early to be thinking about Commie. Qui shouldn’t think of him like that. Qui shouldn’t think of him at all. He’s no better than any other annoying tankie, anyway, and Ancom’s lethally dealt with too many of them to count.

The house is eerily quiet as Ancom slips out of quis room. Qui has grown used to hearing at least one of the extremists awake and talking about something, may it be bickering between them or each with their own affairs to deal with.  Now, though, it is silent, and instead of feeling at ease, Ancom feels unsettled. Spending the night lonely and awake fills Ancom with dread.

Empty handed, Ancom steps into a sliver of light coming from the kitchen. It is to quis surprise that qui finds the refrigerator door slightly ajar and Commie’s tall frame watching over a kettle on the stove. His head is bowed, long fingers tapping rhythmically on the countertop, still not aware of Ancom’s presence. Qui takes a moment to drink in the sight of him like this, like Ancom has never seen him—shirtless, with just enough light to show the lines of muscles and scars along his back, wearing but a loose pair of shorts and his signature ushanka. His posture isn’t as tight and rigid as usual, and he isn’t armed, from what Ancom can tell. He must be tired, Ancom thinks. It is the middle of the night, after all.

Ancom finally stops staring after qui starts to feel a bit awkward about it, and qui takes another couple steps into the kitchen. Qui clears quis throat to say something to Commie, alert him of quis presence, but before qui can get any words out, the wind is suddenly knocked out of quem. Quis back has been forcefully slammed against the fridge, snapping the door shut, and qui can’t speak or breathe at all, and qui instinctively claws at the hands around quis neck.  Of course that doesn’t make a difference, and qui tries to kick and flail feebly at quis sudden attacker, feet a few inches off the ground. It’s only a couple seconds until qui’s released, the pressure around quis throat gone—

“Oh. Anarkiddie, блядь—!”

Qui collapses to the ground, heart pounding. “What the fuck was that for?” Qui gasps, looking up at Commie towering over quem. Quis eyes are watering, but from what qui can tell, Commie looks horrified.

“Anarkiddie, I—I was not expecting you—”

“You’re lucky I don’t have my bat on me,” Ancom says, wide awake and ready to fight back. Qui falters as Commie kneels in front of quem, reaching a hand out to quem.

“I know, I know, I am sorry, Ancom, please. I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Oh, you didn’t? What the fuck was that, then, Commie?” Ancom says, swatting his hand away.

“I—I did not think it would be you, I have been . . . suspicious of Nazi since earlier. You startled me. I—I’m so sorry, Ancom. Forgive me. I never want to hurt you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ancom says, but some of quis anger is already fading. Commie looks genuinely upset, and Ancom doesn’t remember any other time Commie has apologized for anything. It’s distinctly unlike him to be asking for forgiveness. Ancom rubs quis neck, which feels bruised along with quis spine. Qui still needs water, and qui clears quis throat to find it hurt even worse than before.

“Your little neck. Does it hurt? You—”

“Obviously it hurts. I’ve seen you break people’s necks with your bare hands, of course it hurt me!”

Commie winces. Winces . Like Ancom hurt his feelings or something. Ancom’s never seen him like this. Never.

“I am sorry. I—What can I get for you? What will make you feel better? I want to make you feel better, I want to help you, Anarkiddie, I must make this up to you.”

Ancom sighs.  “Nothing. I don’t need your help. Just—just don’t pull any shit like this again, okay? If I had a gun I would’ve shot you. Nazi would have shot you.”

“You are right, comrade. I am sorry. Let me at least get you water and ice pack, да?” Commie says, offering a hand to quem again. This time Ancom takes it and allows Commie to pull quem to quis feet.

“What a way to wake up. That was ridiculous, Tankie. What were you thinking?” Ancom says, and hops to sit up on the counter. Qui watches Commie search for a glass and fill it with water.

“I do not trust the kulaks we live with, Ancom. And we are nearing war. Enemies can attack here at any time,” Commie says, while Ancom gulps down the whole glass of water.

Ancom clears quis throat again. Much better. If qui wanted to yell at Commie now, qui could. The hoarseness in quis voice wouldn’t stop quem. But qui doesn’t feel the urge to anymore.

“You’re being paranoid, Commie. Ancap’s got security here, and he wouldn’t violate the NAP, you know. And Nazi’s afraid of you.”

Commie shakes his head. “It is necessary to be ready. Many have tried to kill me, and I have killed each of them first. I am not allowing anyone to succeed now.”

Ancom feels a rare pang of pity for the authoritarian in front of quem. He has, of course, had to deal with the same traumas and defeats of all the other left wing ideologies—failed revolutions, capitalist repression, and fascist overtakings. Ancom suddenly remembers his words from earlier about the loss of his comrades, and a lot of Commie’s behaviors begin to make sense to quem. He is always talking about defense and protection, may it be about the arming of the masses, or locks on all the doors, or preventing the rightists from starting a fight with Ancom.  While Ancom does everything qui can to try to not think about quis past failures and defeats, qui supposes Commie has done the opposite and grown overly cautious. For that, Ancom feels sorry for him. He must never feel safe.

“I don’t think anyone here would try to kill you. For now, at least,” Ancom says.

“Perhaps. We all need to work together,” Commie says.

“And that means you can’t try to kill anyone that comes into the kitchen at the same time as you, right?”

“I did not intend to kill you, Ancom.” Commie pauses. “I did not intend to harm you at all.  You—you are very important to me. I do not wish any harm on you.”

Ancom can’t help the small smile that forms on quis face. It’s nice to hear from Commie. Qui often feels disposable to the other extremists, and qui worries Commie sees quem as a liability more than anything else, with all his concerns about quis drugs. For a brief moment, qui entertains the thought of keeping this . . . relationship with Commie after the centrists have been dealt with. His company and protection have made the whole ordeal much more comfortable for quem, Ancom thinks, and maybe it would be better to have him around in the future.

“Anarkiddie?”

“Yeah?”

“You . . . you would not attack me, would you? I know you want to do away with . . . authority, but surely you do not see me as you see the Nazi, да?”

For once, Commie sounds unsure of himself, and it stirs some discomfort in Ancom. Qui knows him to only speak with the firmness and conviction to motivate—or intimidate—anyone who happens to be listening. Qui also feels conflicted over immediately knowing the answer to Commie’s question: “You can trust me, Tankie. I like working with you. And Nazi is way worse. You’re so much less of a bitch than he is.”

“Thank you, comrade. I like working with you, too,” he says. Commie smiles, and it is a beautiful sight. His eyes are directed downwards, eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheeks, but Ancom can only stare at his lips. It would be so nice to be kissed, and by Commie, now, when qui feels seen and cared for. Ancom can’t help but think his lips would completely cure the bruising around quis neck from his hands moments ago. And, fuck, if that isn’t what qui’s been wanting for weeks . . . to have Commie hurt quem in just the right way and then have him take care of quem. The connection of Commie’s strength, the pain he just inflicted, and Ancom’s recent sexual fantasies is made in quis mind, and qui shifts uncomfortably. It’s bad enough qui’s so quickly forgiving Commie for literally choking quem out unprompted; it’s even worse that the thought of it now seems erotic to quem.

Commie’s eyes suddenly flick up to meet Ancom’s, and Ancom looks away. Qui’s cheeks feel hot, and there’s a pit of shame in quis stomach, as if Commie could know exactly what qui is thinking about just by looking at quem. It’s ridiculous. Qui has to stop letting quis mind wander when it comes to Commie, qui decides (for about the hundredth time that week). He would probably be disgusted if he had any idea what Ancom was thinking of. Or maybe he would just take Ancom to bed and this problem of quis would be dealt with. Ancom shudders and bites quis lip at the thought. That’s absurd, too, and a mental path qui certainly doesn’t want to venture down at the moment.

“I should get you ice pack now,” Commie says.

Ancom simply nods.

Commie’s gaze lingers on them for a moment before he slips away to dig through the freezer. He returns to Ancom sitting on the counter, an ice pack looking small in his hand, and asks, “Where does it hurt the most?”

“Oh, just, um . . .” Ancom gestures vaguely at quis neck and reaches for the ice pack. Commie ignores this, instead gently pressing the ice pack to the front of Ancom’s throat himself. Ancom flinches at the sudden coldness, looking up at Commie in surprise.

“There?” Commie asks. He uses his free hand to lightly push his fingers under Ancom’s jaw, tilting quis head back. Wide-eyed, Ancom strains to see Commie attentively looking along the side of quis neck. “You will be bruised,” Commie decides. “I am sorry.” He moves the ice pack over to a certain spot and deliberately brings his other hand to hold the back of quis head. His fingers are warm against quis scalp, and qui relaxes into his touch, keeping quis neck exposed for him to look at. “Any better?” He asks.

“Better,” Ancom whispers. Commie’s smiling down at quem again. Yes, this is much better, Ancom thinks, even if qui has a minor urge to squirm under Commie’s gaze, like a bug stuck on its back. But qui knows there’s nothing to panic about, not really, nothing but quis own ideas of what qui would like Commie to do to quem.

Commie’s lips are parted, like he’s about to say something, break the temporary silence in the room again, when the kettle on the stove begins to whistle. Ancom jumps. Commie’s hands don’t falter until he grabs one of Ancom’s forearms, guiding quem to hold the ice pack quemself. He leaves Ancom to turn the heat off on the stove, silencing the kettle.  “Would you like a cup of tea, Anarkiddie?”

“Um, n-no. Thank you,” Ancom says.

Commie proceeds to fish tea bags out of the cupboard. “Are you sure you’re alright? You sound . . . different. You do not have to speak if it hurts.”

Ancom clears quis throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Once Commie has finished preparing his own cup of tea, he turns back to Ancom with a sigh. “Is there anything else you want? More water, perhaps?”

“No, it’s okay,” Ancom says.

Commie nods. “Did you sleep well?” He asks.

“Oh, yeah, it was great. I’m pretty sure it was sleeping pills I took, anyway. They always do the trick.”

“Ancap thought so as well.”

“You talked to him?”

“Да. He will be informing me now when you purchase from him.”

Ancom rolls quis eyes and thinks of how upset Ancap must be to have Commie meddling in their business affairs. Qui isn’t particularly surprised, though. For a self-proclaimed anarchist, Ancap is fairly weak-willed, especially to someone like Commie. Ancom can’t really blame him.

“ . . . Does Nazi know?” Ancom asks.

“Know what?”

“That you talked to Ancap.”

“No. Why?”

“I just . . . I don’t want him knowing everything I buy from Ancap. Not that I really want you knowing, either, but it’s different, I guess,” Ancom says.

“I would not tell him, Ancom. He does not need to know. But I must know. I must make sure you’re safe.”

“Well, I guess if it makes you feel better,” Ancom mumbles. Qui doesn’t want to be the cause of Commie’s concern, even if the attention feels good from him sometimes.

“It will.” Commie looks from Ancom to the cup of tea on the counter, and says, “I think I should rest a few hours. Unless you would like me to stay up with you.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” Ancom quickly says. “Sorry if I’ve been keeping you up, I think everyone’s already asleep.”

Commie shakes his head. “Do not apologize. You have been perfect.”

Ancom sets the ice pack down and wipes some of the cold condensation off of quis skin. “Thanks for the ice pack and the water and stuff,” qui says, before Commie can slip away.

Commie chuckles lightly. “It is nothing.”

“It helped.”

“I am very sorry for hurting you to begin with.”

Ancom shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Just go to bed and don’t do it again.”

“Of course,” Commie says. “Goodnight, comrade.”

“Goodnight, Tankie.”

Commie turns to leave the room, and Ancom immediately feels a tinge of regret at not asking him to stay. The rest of the night would be long and lonely.

“Commie?” Qui calls before he can get too far.

“Да?”

“Why . . . why are you still up this late? You’re always talking about us getting enough sleep and everything—”

“That is none of your concern, Anarkiddie,” Commie says, voice firm.

Ancom frowns but decides not to press further. Qui doesn’t intend to make Commie upset with quem after all that. “Oh, okay. Sorry,” Ancom says, looking down at the floor.

Commie sighs. “I am not angry at you. It is just . . . how do you call them . . . ah, night terrors, if you must know. I would prefer if you would not tell the others.”

“I won’t,” Ancom promises. “Are you . . . okay?” Qui asks. The idea of Commie, strongest of all the extremists, losing sleep over bad dreams is particularly concerning to Ancom. He has never spoken or even hinted at any such issue before.

Commie straightens up, crosses his arms, and clears his throat. “Да, да. It is no matter. You forget about it now. I will see you in morning, comrade.”

And with that, Commie leaves quem alone.

Chapter Text

“Jesus, Ancom, what happened to you?” Ancap exclaims, slamming his phone down on the table. It’s early in the morning, and Ancom has only come out of quis room for the company of anyone other than quemself. Ancap’s usually the first to rise, anyway, so Ancom didn’t worry about who it was when qui heard stirring in the house. Now, standing in front of him, Ancom regrets leaving quis room at all.

“What, I just slept for awhile—” Ancom begins to explain.

“Look at you! Look at your neck! Who did this to you?” Ancap moves a bit closer to quem, and Ancom steps back without thinking. Quis neck is bruised. Right. Qui didn’t think it was that bad, or even particularly noticeable, but Ancap is looking at quem like quis head is severed clean off.

Ancom is torn as to whether or not to tell Ancap who actually hurt quem. Sure, Ancap would be happy to listen to Ancom lament over Commie’s apparent cruelty, but Ancom doesn’t want to paint the events of the night before in that way. It also wouldn’t be a good look to admit that Commie was able to hurt quem and that qui’s not even upset about it. So, Ancom decides to leave Commie out of it entirely. Ancap didn’t need to know the details, really, and the injury wasn’t that serious.

Before Ancom can begin to explain with a made-up story, Ancap asks, “Does it hurt?”

“No, not at all—”

“What are you degenerates yelling about so early?”

Nazi’s cold, biting voice interjects over Ancom’s. Ancom feels quis stomach drop with dread. Qui definitely doesn’t want to be dealing with both Nazi and Ancap at the same time.

“Ancom’s hurt! Nazi, look at quis neck,” Ancap says.

Nazi approaches, and Ancom feels quis body involuntarily tense up. Qui really should’ve stayed in bed longer. Nazi scowls down at Ancom, but his eyes quickly widen in shock. “Fucking hell, what happened?” Nazi asks.

“I . . .” Ancom gulps. “Got in a fight with a cop. Nothing important.”

“Must be some fucking cop,” Ancap muses, “I should hire someone who can do that for my private police.”

“A cop,” Nazi repeats. “I thought you were knocked out on pills this whole time, no?”

Ancom shrugs. “Not this whole time. And it’s more fun to steal shit early in the morning. Start the day off right, you know?”

“ Stealing private property? That totally counts as violating the NAP, so I don’t feel too bad for you, Ancom. You should’ve seen it coming,” Ancap says.

“I know,” Ancom says, and takes the liberty of laying back on the couch. “It was still fun, though. And I’m fine, really.”

“You look terrible.” Nazi leans forward to look more closely at quem, hands clasped behind his back. “I think you’re lying, Ancom,” he says.

“W-what?”

“I don’t think a cop did this to you.”

Ancom gulps. How could Nazi possibly know? And what did he care, anyway? Ancom knows he’s not particularly concerned for quis safety.

“It does look a little too . . . intense for a civilian, huh?” Ancap says.

Nazi nods. “Must be an ideology. People can never leave marks on us like this.”

“Oh, Ancom, you weren’t fighting with the Progressive again, were you? You know he won’t join us—” Ancap says.

“No, none of the moderates would attack Ancom. It was obviously a fucking centrist . So, Ancom, what really happened? How’d they find you?”

Ancom bites quis lip, at a loss as to what to say. Qui wants to hang on to the story about the cop—that was good, believable, and shouldn’t have warranted a second thought from anyone. But qui thinks of how quis neck feels and supposes it must be worse than what any civilian could do to quem. Caught in the lie, Ancom considers fleeing the scene. It hardly matters to Nazi and Ancap whether or not qui lives or dies, why should qui care enough to disclose any information to them? But both of them are looking at Ancom with such worry that Ancom feels sorry for them. There is no reason for alarm, not over the centrists, and Ancom feels obligated to quis allies when it comes to that topic. “That’s not what happened,” Ancom says quietly. Qui hopes qui can somehow skim by without going into any details.

Nazi narrows his eyes in suspicion.  “Oh, but that is what happened, Ancom, isn’t it? You got overpowered by a centrist. Pathetic. Now tell us who it was so we can go deal with it.”

“It wasn’t a centrist,” Ancom insists.

“What, you think it’s a good idea to protect them now? You’ll tell us or I’ll force it out of you. I know you’re weak. It shouldn’t be hard, especially without that fucking Slav breathing down my neck—”

“Where is Commie, anyway? Was he there when this happened to you?” Ancap asks.

Ancom fidgets with the sleeves of quis hoodie, and hesitantly nods in response.

Nazi gasps. “So it wasn’t a centrist. It was Commie that did this to you, wasn’t it? I knew—”

“Nazi! Don’t be ridiculous. Commie would never hurt Ancom.”

“Shut up, Ancap. I think I’m right,” Nazi says, leaning in closer. “I think you let him hurt you last night. Absolutely degenerate.”

Ancom shrinks back into the couch, wanting to get away from Nazi. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ancom says.

“Nazi . . .” Ancap tries, “Commie murdered the last person that fought Ancom. He wouldn’t do this to quem.”

Nazi ignores him. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. It’s disgusting. You queers obviously engage in homosexual activities like this, but no one wants to listen when I say there’s something fundamentally wrong with the gays corrupting sexual relations in our society. Like right now, I have to see where you got choked out and I know it was sexual. You’ve got mental problems—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ancom says.

“You and Commie . . . you . . . it’s degeneracy,” Nazi struggles.  “Homosexuality and sado-masochism? You’re exactly what’s wrong with society. Obviously you’re a queer, but now we have to know about your fucked up fetishes too? No, that’s unacceptable, I can’t believe Commie would sink this low—”

“Nazi, you dumbass, Commie and I aren’t fucking. Anyway, you stupid fucking bigots are what’s wrong with society—” Ancom says.

“Liar. You disgusting little liar. I never should have agreed to working with you, I can not be associated with people like you when you do things like this and aren’t even ashamed.”

Ancap sips his coffee and looks at Ancom over the top of his sunglasses. “Wait, so are you sleeping with Commie or not? I’m confused now.”

“No! Commie’s not even gay!” Ancom says.

Ancap quirks an eyebrow and picks his phone back up.

“Commie would never let this happen to you,” Nazi snaps. “I know he must’ve done it himself, and you’re protecting him because you enjoyed it, because there’s something wrong with you.”

“You’re so fucking stupid. Commie had nothing to do with it. And if he did I wouldn’t lie about it, I wouldn’t protect him. And why do you care, anyway? Jealous you didn’t get to try to kill me yourself? You don’t get to kill me, Nazi, because we’re on the same team now, and you’ve gotta put up with me everyday. Dumbass.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Oh, or were you jealous over the gay part? Yeah, you seem like a repressed virgin. Believe me, if I was fucking Commie, I would be proud of it, because gay people are objectively better, anyway. Next time I suck a cock I’ll make sure to tell you all about it. That’s what’s funny with you fascists, it’s so easy to piss you off—”

“You should be exterminated. I’m tired of pretending like you can be dealt with any other way,” Nazi seethes.

“Yeah, okay. Save the bullets for the centrists. I’m sure we’ll need it. Then maybe you should think about why my homosexual activities makes you so mad,” Ancom says. Pleased, qui gets up with the intent of going back to quis room. Nazi could keep fuming to Ancap if he wanted to, but Ancom would rather not let Nazi say anything else to quem. Qui’s promptly stopped from going any further with a stinging slap across the face, knocking quem back on the couch.

Ancom looks up at Nazi’s raised hand with watering eyes. “Ow, what the fuck?”

Nazi opens his mouth but fails to speak. Instead, a new, low, but much welcomed voice fills the air: “Nazi, what have I said about touching Anarkiddie?”

Nazi turns on his heel. Commie is lurking in the corner of the room, glowering at the other three extremists. His lips are contorted into a snarl. The dark bags under his eyes somehow only make him look more threatening. He’s stunning. Ancom immediately feels guilt for wishing Nazi’s accusations were true. Qui can’t get the thought out of quis head.

“Stop acting like you care about this degenerate. We would be better off if we killed him and you know it,” Nazi says.

“Oh, Commie, Ancom got attacked by a centrist last night,” Ancap muses, matter-of-fact, completely ignoring Nazi.

“Silence, kulak. Nobody touches Ancom. Especially not you, Nazi. I do not want to tell you again,” Commie says.

Ancap laughs for an uncomfortably long moment, and it is an infuriating sound.  Ancom deliberates leaving again, knowing qui could slip by Nazi now, no problem. Quis baseball bat is by the front door. Qui could get out of this damn house and not have to deal with any of this. But Commie is there, talking about quem, and Ancom can’t bring quemself to tear quis eyes away. “Someone else has obviously been touching Ancom, Commie, qui’s got the bruises to prove it,” Ancap says, still laughing. Ancom wonders what’s so amusing to him, feeling annoyed. Qui wishes Nazi would turn and slap him instead, or for Commie to wrap his hands around Ancap’s throat to shut him up. That would be a pleasant sight, too.

Commie takes a deep breath. “I will kill anyone who hurts my comrade, да? I hope it was none of you.”

Nazi shakes his head. “You’re a goddamned queer,” Nazi says, straight to Commie’s face. Commie looks surprised, but doesn’t say a word as Nazi storms out of the room. A door slams in the distance, rattling the windows in the living room. Ancap sighs in distress.

“Fuck, you all really need to calm down, I’m serious,” Ancom says. “I’m fine , none of this is that big of a deal.”

“You’re right, Ancom. I’m getting a new shipment this morning; can I give you guys some weed? You should have some Commie, no need to be so edgy all the time! I’ll take twenty percent off if you both buy today—”

“Нет. No drugs. I just want you three to not kill each other. Is that too hard to ask?”

“But Nazi wants to kill all of us,” Ancom says. “Wouldn’t it be fun to kill him first?”

“Patience, Anarkiddie. We can kill Nazi and capitalist when revolution comes. For now we must work with them.”

“Don’t act like I’m as bad as Nazi,” Ancap whines.

“You’re worse,” Commie snarls.

Ancap puts a hand over his heart, feigning shock. “Commie, I don’t even care if you’re gay! Nazi is the one talking about exterminating you!”

Commie stares at Ancap for a moment, long enough for him to begin backing away, putting his hands up in resignation. With that, Commie turns to Ancom, gestures to Ancap, and says, “Where is all this coming from?”

Ancom looks to Ancap, to the front door, to quis baseball bat, to quis lap. This is too much to deal with, too early in the morning. Qui doesn’t want any of Commie’s anger turned in quis direction.  “Nazi, um, seems to think . . .” Ancom starts, keeping quis eyes fixed on the floor.

“Nazi thinks you’re sleeping with Ancom and choking quem in bed. And I mean, you are, aren’t you? It makes sense, Commie, and I don’t care, there’s definitely a market in BDSM—” Ancap says.

Ancom’s palms sweat. Qui thinks of the way Commie’s hands felt around quis throat. Qui thinks of his fingers on quis bruised skin. Qui thinks of how much of the remainder of the night qui spent trying to keep quis hand out of quis pants, laying in bed, unable to stop pressing on the bruises to feel a little pain.

“Sex is personal matter. You should not pry or profit, kulak,” Commie says, perfectly composed. He strides into the kitchen past Ancap and pours himself a cup of coffee. Ancom knows Commie’s right, and it is effective at shutting Ancap down, ending the awkward conversation Ancom wishes qui had left before it began. Qui stares at Commie’s back. Qui thinks of how qui mumbled his name into quis pillow when qui came in the early hours of the morning, making a mess of quis bedsheets. Quis stomach is in knots.

Even as Ancap shuffles back to his office, Ancom doesn’t budge. Qui fears moving will prompt Commie to say something to quem, more than qui fears he will if qui stays put. But Commie is silent, taking his place at the table and cracking open a new book. He doesn’t even look up at Ancom when qui finally decides to get a bagel for breakfast.

Qui stands awkwardly by the table, holding a single plate. Qui thinks of going back to quis room now, without saying a word to Commie, and it doesn’t feel right. The whole vibe of the morning is completely off, for sure, and qui would like some sense of normalcy—qui’s just unsure if Commie will be able to provide that for quem now. Qui glances down at Commie’s book and has no idea what it is—all in Russian—and decides.

“ . . . Tankie?”

“What?”

“Can I . . . sit with you?”

“Of course, comrade.”

He still hasn’t looked up at quem, even as qui sits and pulls a knee towards quis chest. Qui studies his face for a moment, his sharp jawline, pale cheeks, amber eyes. There’s a small lock of hair peeking out from under his ushanka, and Ancom imagines knocking the hat off, running quis fingers through his hair, sitting in his lap . . . Qui squeezes quis eyes shut and tries to remember that this is a problem. Commie isn’t for quem, Commie doesn’t want quem, Commie’s probably upset with quem over how Nazi and Ancap treated him earlier. The idea makes Ancom feel cold and guilty, even if qui knows it’s not quis fault. Qui supposes that for all the times they argue, and all the time Ancom lets Commie spend aimlessly worrying over quem, qui wants Commie to be happy with quem. Just in general. Just to have him as a constant, as someone who would really listen to quem, pay attention to quem when qui needs it the most. Which seems to be more often, these days.

Ancom bites quis lip. “What are you reading?” Qui asks—an offering.  Commie loves to talk about theory with quem. He’s always so determined to get Ancom to listen and agree. This should get him to focus on quem.

“Nothing new,” he says, and his lips press into a thin line. His eyes stay fixed on the page.

“Is it . . . The Manifesto again?”

“I will not bore you with detail.”

Ancom frowns and starts picking at quis black nail polish that’s already chipping. The one time qui asks about his readings and he won’t even tell quem. Definitely a bad sign.

“I don’t think it’s boring,” qui says.

Commie huffs—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. He flips the page. “I know you do not care for theory. It is alright.”

“Well, it’s different when . . . when you’re talking about it.”

Finally, Commie looks at quem. He snaps the book shut and sighs. “Is there something you want to talk to me about, Anarkiddie? Perhaps your conversation with Nazi?”

Ancom shrugs. Qui pulls quis knee closer to quis chest.

“Well? I am sure you do not care to hear about labor theory of value. Something else is bothering you, да?”

“I . . .” Qui doesn’t know what to say, given qui isn’t even sure why qui’s talking to Commie.

“Did Nazi hurt you? I know he hit you, but if he did more—”

“No, no. I just . . . I just wanted to talk to you, I guess. Listen to you, really.”

“You, Ancom? Listen to me? Unlikely.” A smile toys at the corners of his lips.

Ancom blinks, rests quis head in one of quis hands.  “I listen to you. I just like it when you talk to me. About anything, really. And you, um, listen to me, even when I argue with you.”

“You like to argue.”

“Not really,” Ancom says, “you just always bring up stuff I disagree with.”

Commie laughs. “Да, I suppose you are right. I will not talk about theory. We can talk about something else.”

Ancom chews quis bottom lip. Peels more nail polish off. “Okay. Good. I . . . I guess I just wanted to make sure everything’s good. Between you and me.” Quis voice sounds small and unsure coming out of quis mouth. Qui hates it.

Commie’s brows furrow.  “You have reason to be angry at me, Ancom. I understand.”

“I’m not angry at you. You just got scared, it’s okay. But today . . . It just seems like you’re mad at me, I don’t know.”

“No, comrade. I am just concerned.”

“. . . Concerned?”

“I have already violated your trust in me. I do not mean to pressure you, but I suppose . . . I suppose I would like to know what you discussed with Nazi. He is rarely so hostile towards me.”

“Right. About him calling you a queer or whatever.”

“I do not understand. Nazi does not normally say such things to me.”

“Well, um, he does that to me all the time, and I guess he’s just assuming you and I are—well, I didn’t say anything to him to make him think you’re degenerate like me. And I was trying to tell them you didn’t do this to me last night,” Ancom says, touching quis neck, “but Nazi doesn’t believe me.”

“Hm.” Commie looks at quem, and qui can tell he’s following quis fingers on quis neck. “And he thinks I am having you sexually?”

Ancom’s cheeks suddenly burn. Qui pulls quis other knee up to quis chest, curling in on quemself further. “Yeah, I guess so,” qui mumbles.

“Does he not know of your involvement with other anarchists?”

It takes a few seconds of Ancom staring at the floor to register Commie’s question. “Oh! Well, I don’t see them anymore, you know, I haven’t been with anyone since the centricide began, so I guess he wouldn’t know. And I was never, like, exclusive with them or anything, so . . .”

“Ah. I see.” 

Commie’s fingers tap on the table softly. Ancom stares.

“Perhaps . . .” Commie begins, and then trails off. “Perhaps I have been too affectionate with you.”

“What do you mean, Tankie?”

“I care for you more than anyone. I can see how it could be . . . misconstrued.”

Ancom’s heart pounds. “But . . . but you care for all of us. Even Ancap. He told me you make sure he stays hydrated when he pulls all-nighters. And Nazi doesn’t think you’re having sex with him!”

“Anarkiddie,” Commie chuckles, “do you think I feel the same way about you and Ancap? Certainly you know better.”
“I guess you do spend more time with me.”

“Exactly!”

“And you are always protective of me. And you do defend me when Nazi starts shit.”

“Of course I do. I like to look after you. You know that, да?”

“Yeah, you like to act like I need you to take care of me,” Ancom grumbles, feeling remnants of annoyance at some of quis fights that Commie has interrupted.

Commie sighs. “I know you do not. I only want to . . . to be there for you. As comrades.”

“I know, Tankie,” Ancom says quietly.

“I do not share these . . . feelings with Nazi,” Commie says.

“Nazi will see basic fucking respect and say, ‘oh, that’s gay.’” Ancom brushes tiny flakes of nail polish off quis thighs before resuming chipping it off.

“That is true,” Commie laughs. “But I—I am sorry he does not respect you. It is not good. But it is foreign to me. He never gets angry with me like today. I am . . . concerned.”

“So you said.”

Commie rubs a hand over his cheek, looking off in the distance. He looks conflicted. It’s silent for a long moment, and Ancom pretends to care about the state of quis nails. Qui does not care to heal whatever relationship Commie has with the fascist. Working with Nazi hasn’t even been worth it, so far, in quis opinion.

“Anarkiddie, can I ask you . . .”

“What?”

“I would like to know—well, you do not have to tell me, of course—if I . . . hmm . . . if you have ever thought about—or, if you have ever, perhaps, interpreted, my . . .  my actions towards you, as . . . romantic ?” Commie asks, in a bit of a drawn-out ramble.

When he finally spits the last word out, Ancom’s eyes widen. Of course qui has thought about it, or, moreso hoped for it. Qui can remember a handful of occasions qui’s leaned into Commie’s touch and wanted more. Qui can remember the way quis stomach drops whenever Commie looks at quem with soft, worried eyes. Qui can remember the first time Commie went on about how important qui is to him and how important their leftist unity is, and how qui wondered for a moment if there was something else behind it when Commie called quem comrade . But Ancom knows there is even less substance to these thoughts than quis fantasies of sleeping with Commie. Commie is simply kind to quem. Respects quem. And Ancom knows it is fruitless to read too far into that.

“No, Tankie, I don’t think you’re being romantic when you call me a liberal and accuse me of capitalist tendencies, or whatever the fuck you think about me,” Ancom says. There’s some genuine bite behind quis words, and it seeps through in quis tone. Commie turns his gaze away.

Ancom expects Commie to defend himself, or backpedal on his previous statements, but he hardly reacts. He stares off behind Ancom. “Right . . .” he says, “right.”

His lack of argument makes Ancom uncomfortable, and for some reason, qui feels like qui said the wrong thing. “I also don’t feel like State and Revolution was a romantic gift. Or telling me I’m weak because I take drugs. Or trying to assassinate me in the kitchen in the middle of the night,” Ancom prompts.

It’s all bait. Ancom wants Commie to argue, to say something, to tell quem off and completely change the subject. That would be normal. That would be ideal. But Commie does not respond defensively. “Да, comrade. So there is nothing romantic. So there is nothing for Nazi to be concerned about.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Ancom looks up at Commie. His gaze is distant and unreadable. He clears his throat and says, “I must go. I must go to store now. I will make proper breakfast when I return.” He stands, straightening and adjusting his coat, leaving his book closed on the table. Ancom follows him with quis eyes, surprised at his sudden departure.

He’s halfway out the door before Ancom speaks. “Wait, Tankie, you never even told me what you’re reading!”

“It is Das Kapital . You should . . . nevermind,” Commie says, and the door snaps shut.

Chapter Text

It’s been three days, and Ancom suspects Commie is avoiding quem. Whether it’s because he wants to change the optics of their relationship around the rightists, or if Ancom has done something to piss him off is a mystery. It must have something to do with Nazi, Ancom thinks. Qui tries not to let it worry quem too much, but qui finds qui misses his presence. He leaves the house, only to return and leave again, quite often, and Ancom hardly sees him. There’s usually something baking or something cooking on the stove throughout the day, which Ancom assumes he made for the household, but he is nowhere to be found. Ancom catches him scrubbing the countertop clean one morning, but all qui receives is, “Good morning, Anarkiddie,” and the blur of his red coattails as he leaves the room.

Ancom decides maybe their debates were never so bad, after all. Qui would much rather argue with Commie than feel so lonely.

Qui hesitates to venture out into the kitchen until midday, when there is a silent lull. Qui will grab something to eat and drink and then retreat, qui thinks. But qui stops in quis tracks at the sight of Nazi sitting on the couch. He’s alone with his gun in his hands, carefully inspecting it. Ancom watches him closely as qui walks by, unnerved.

“Ancom,” Nazi says, staring down at his gun, “I need to talk to you.”

Ancom turns quis back on him, going into the kitchen. “Um, no thanks, dude.”

Qui freezes as qui hears Nazi cock the gun. “I’m not asking.”

“Fuck, okay,” Ancom says. Qui gulps and finds Nazi pointing the gun at quem from across the room. He quickly lowers it. “What do you want?” Ancom asks.

“Ancom. I need you to use your tiny fucking brain and not lie to me for a second.”

“ . . . Okay?”

“What have you done to Commie?”

Ancom searches Nazi’s face for some indication that this is some kind of cruel joke, but his expression is blank. He looks dead serious. “What are you talking about?”

“What did you do to him? He’s sulking and acting all pathetic like an absolute pussy. It’s gotta be your fault.”

“Nazi, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t even talked to Commie for the past couple days.”

“Then what is he so upset over? He won’t even play COD with me,” Nazi says. He frowns. “Ancom, have you ever had to see Commie when he’s drunk?”

“Um, yeah . . .?”

“And what was he like?”

“He was . . . he was very happy. And he wanted to dance with me.”

“So why did I find him with an empty bottle of vodka and on the verge of tears the other day?” Nazi demands.

Ancom doesn’t know. Qui never thinks of Commie as a sad man—passionate, yes, but never crying or sulking, as Nazi put it. It doesn’t seem right. Ancom understands why Nazi would be concerned, but qui doesn’t have any answers for him. “Look, Nazi, I don’t know, okay? Maybe he’s going through some shit, but he hasn’t told me. Why don’t you just ask him if you care so much?”

“I did ask him, Ancom, and he said it was because of you .”

“ What ?”

“That’s right. I mean, he was kinda incoherent about it, but he said something about you not wanting him or something. It was disgusting. And then at some point he started going on about how Trotsky or whoever deserved what was coming for him and I left.”

Ancom blinks blankly at him and sinks down to sit on the arm of a chair in the living room. “He’s upset . . . over me ?”

“Yes, you idiot, that’s what I just said.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“No, but listen, Ancom, I need you to fix this,” Nazi says.

“What the fuck do you expect me to do?”

Nazi sighs, like Ancom is the one being stupid. “Do whatever you need to do to make him act like a normal fucking person. We all need to be functioning, at the very least. It’s like you’ve both forgotten we’re at war or something.”

Ancom’s mind races, and for a moment, qui forgets Nazi is even present. Commie . . . Commie cares about quem. Ancom has always known this. But he’s distraught over Ancom not wanting him? This is new territory. And it’s all absurd, Ancom thinks, because qui does want him. Qui doesn’t know where Commie got the impression. But qui slowly pieces it together.

If Commie is upset over Ancom supposedly not wanting him, then maybe that must mean Commie wants quem? Ancom tries, qui really does, to not assume too much. But qui can’t help it. What if Commie wants to be with quem? In all the ways qui has dreamed of? Maybe he has had romantic intent this whole time. Maybe qui was stupid for not realizing it. Maybe qui should have told him earlier. Maybe—

“Hello, Ancom? Are you high? What’re you going to do about Commie?” Nazi says.

Ancom snaps out of it and glares over at Nazi. “I don’t know,” Ancom says, quietly, and qui genuinely doesn’t.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Nazi spits. “Don’t you fight with him all the time? Can’t you just make up already? This is pathetic.”

“But . . . but we weren’t fighting.”

“Well, clearly you did something to upset him. Like, did you break up or something? We can’t have your stupid fucking relationship problems right now, we’ve got a war to fight.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Nazi, I’m not dating Commie! We’re not in any sort of relationship like that—”

“Then maybe you should start,” Nazi says, then grimaces. “Oh my dead god, what am I doing? Just give Commie what he wants so I never have to talk to you about this again.”

Ancom shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know what Commie wants.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you think he wants to be with me?” Ancom blurts out. As if Nazi would have the answers qui is looking for.

“You’re even dumber than I thought, Ancom. Impressive.”

“ . . . Is that a yes?”

Nazi gawks at quem. “I don’t see how this is even an issue. You’re queer, he’s queer, and you’re both stupid communists.”

“I just . . . I’m not sure it’s a good idea, with everything going on, and I’m not a bootlicker, I’m not just gonna do what you or Commie tells me to—”

“Shut up. You’re a bootlicker when it benefits you, we all know that, and it benefits you right now to get Commie back to being a productive member of our team, so you’re going to do it, Anarkiddie .”

Ancom clenches quis fists so hard quis fingernails leave divets in the skin of quis palms. “Don’t fucking call me that!”

Nazi laughs. “Oh, that’s funny. Tell me again how you don’t let Commie do what he wants.”

Ancom wants to bash his skull in.

“Anyway, I’m gonna go play COD. Get Commie to join me when you can,” Nazi says, and takes his gun with him out of the room. 

Ancom stays in place, glaring at Nazi’s back as he leaves. What a manipulative piece of shit. Qui really isn’t sure whether or not to trust him about anything he said. Commie has been distant lately, but Ancom doesn’t know if qui believes what Nazi told quem. At the same time, qui can’t imagine a motive Nazi would have to lie to quem.

Qui notices quis hands are shaking. As much as qui hates to admit it, the fascist makes quem nervous, especially when no one else is around. It’s always a relief when he leaves. At the back of Ancom’s head, the idea is there for quem to talk to Commie, too, which does nothing to calm quem down. Nazi is definitely right about one thing: qui should figure out how to make Commie feel better. There was no way qui could do nothing if Commie is upset over quem.

And qui feels concerned for Commie. The feeling is relatively unfamiliar, but so is the idea of Commie being anything other than poised, sure of himself, untouchable to things like romantic feelings. In general, he’s guarded. He’s harsh. He’s bitter at the world. Ancom loves it when he speaks of crushing the capitalist pigs and creating revolutionaries out of the working class. But qui is even more tantalized by his kindness, his compassion, his desire to take care of people. There’s softness in him, Ancom knows, and qui feels foolish for not realizing sooner that it is, in fact, possible for him to be hurt.

Guilt gnaws at quem. Qui should have been more aware of quis impact on him. Qui remembers Commie’s words, perhaps I have been too affectionate with you . Affectionate, yes. Qui has been on the receiving end of his affection for awhile, and still qui hasn’t realized how much of an impact qui has on him. Qui has taken for granted how special it is that Commie has chosen quem to open up to, even if only a little bit. And perhaps, Ancom thinks, qui hasn’t been affectionate enough in return. Qui has worried about appearing weaker than qui is, about how contradictory it would look to give in to Commie at any level. But qui wonders now if that does more harm than good, if Commie thinks Ancom doesn’t return his feelings of affection at all.

Yes, qui has to fix this. But first, qui needs some sort of confirmation that Nazi isn’t just fucking with quem. And some time to calm down. That’s essential. Just the thought of Commie saying anything about wanting quem has quis heart pounding.

Ancom returns to quis room with a snack, but finds qui can hardly eat. Quis stomach is in knots. Qui feels so . . . nervous. Commie, Commie, Commie. Did he really want quem? Did qui really have a shot with him? Ancom’s mind races. Most of all, qui wants him to want quem. Qui misses his attention, misses his eyes on quem, misses his determination just to get qui to listen to him. Qui never appreciated it fully.

When qui has finished eating, qui still doesn’t feel remotely prepared to face Commie. Rationally, qui doesn’t know why. Qui isn’t afraid of much—certainly not Commie. And, if his mannerisms are anything like Nazi described, qui thinks qui has the upper hand here. Qui just needs to confront him. Clear things up. Make sure he understands qui enjoys his affection and wants it to continue. But also make sure he knows qui won’t start agreeing with his plans for a “transitional state” or anything like that, of course.

It should be easy enough.

But qui procrastinates leaving quis room. Qui decides to take some time to repaint quis nails. Thinks about Commie more. Daydreams up a scenario where Commie kisses quem, tells quem qui’s pretty, and fucks quem senseless. And another scenario where Commie cooks them both dinner and reads Marx to quem for the rest of the night. And another where Commie breaks a cop’s neck while Ancom beats some fascists to death. And another where Commie begs for quis forgiveness and lets himself be vulnerable until qui can convince him everything’s okay.

Finally, qui decides it’s time to see Commie again. Qui isn’t sure he’s even home, but qui doesn’t remember hearing him leave yet today. If he is, in fact, not home, qui will just have to wait for him. And that’s okay. Qui would be okay having a reason to not see him yet.

Qui takes quis baseball bat with quem, like a weapon would somehow protect quem from quis own nervousness. Its weight is comforting in quis hands. A reminder of who qui is. A reminder that qui has plenty to do that isn’t reliant on Commie and whether or not he’s attracted to quem.

With that, qui slowly approaches Commie’s bedroom door. It’s closed, like always. Qui takes a deep breath and knocks twice, softly. “Tankie?”

For a moment, qui thinks qui hears his voice behind the door, faint and muffled, but he doesn’t answer. The door remains shut, and Ancom strains to hear anything else in his room, but there is nothing. Qui debates knocking again, but before qui can decide, another door creaks open behind quem.

“Hey, Ancom, Ancom!”

Qui turns around to find Ancap calling to quem in an exaggerated whisper.

“Oh, hey, Ancap. Do you know if Commie’s home?” Qui asks.

“Yes, but come here, I wanted to talk to you,” Ancap says, gesturing into his own room.

Qui glances back at Commie’s door, torn, but eventually decides to follow Ancap. He closes the door behind them and sits back in his desk chair. His two monitors are still lit up with, whirring quietly in the background, but the room is fairly dark. Still, Ancap is wearing those ridiculous sunglasses to hide his eyes, only adding to his overall sleazy appearance.

He sighs dramatically and clasps his hands. “Ancom, as you know, romance is very profitable.”

Ancom rolls quis eyes. “Is this about me and Commie? Because—”

“No,” Ancap says, and tsks. “That’s sweet, though, I mention romance and you think it’s about him. Anyway, I’m talking about Nazi.”

“ . . . Nazi?”

“Ancom, do you remember the other day, when you heavily implied Nazi’s only homophobic because he’s secretly gay?”

Ancom laughs. “Yeah, but that was a joke, I’m pretty sure he’s just an asshole, most homophobes aren’t gay, they’re just really hateful people—”

“Let’s just say I was hoping you were right,” Ancap says.

Qui blinks at him. “Wait, hold on, are you saying you want him to be gay?”

Ancap sighs again. “Yes, Ancom, and I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter . . .”

“ Why ?”

“Oh, you know. I want him to be gay for me. I think it would be a very nice affair—”

Ancom cringes in disgust. “You’re attracted to the Nazi? Him ? The fascist?”

“Yeah, Ancom, that’s what I’m saying. I come out and suddenly you’re a homophobe too!”

Ancom huffs. “It’s not the gay part, it’s the Nazi part! Are you fucking crazy? I mean, obviously you are, but this is next level shit. He’s a Nazi! He wants us dead! He doesn’t have an ounce of respect for anyone—”

“So you think he wants to kill me, too?” Ancap asks, and he’s pouting, like Nazi’s feelings are the issue here.

Ancom stares at him in shock. “I mean, I would assume so. Especially if he knew you were gay. You see how he treats me.”

“But—but you’re not like me. I could be racist if he wanted me to be! I know you wouldn’t. And I’m prettier, anyway. Do you think I’m Aryan enough for him?”

Ancom feels like qui is perhaps having a stroke. “Nah, fuck this, I’m not having this conversation with you, I’m not going to help you get together with Nazi.” Qui picks quis baseball bat up from where qui had dropped it and heads for the door.

“Wait, Ancom! Who else am I supposed to talk to about this? Commie just told me to shut up and ignored me!”

“Yeah, and I don’t blame him!” Ancom says, turning back around to shout at Ancap.

“So much for the tolerant left,” Ancap mumbles.

Ancom feels incredibly tempted to whack him with quis bat. “We don’t tolerate fucking fascists!”

Ancap lowers his sunglasses on his nose, suddenly looking smugly at Ancom. “Don’t you want to fuck a fascist, though? Because last time I checked, Commie—”

“Oh, don’t you dare compare Commie and Nazi. You sound like a fucking centrist.”

Ancap sighs. “Ancom, you have to see where I’m coming from. I could profit so much off of Nazi being gay. Liberals would eat that up. And Nazi’s hot —”

“You’re fucking disgusting, Ancap. I’m gonna go talk to Commie now. Get well soon.”

“Hmm . . . I think I’ll go talk to Nazi, then. Maybe he’ll understand . . .”

“That’s a terrible idea. He won’t understand. Don’t expect him to not be . . . violent towards you.”

“You think so lowly of him!”

“He’s a Nazi!” Ancom shouts.

Ancap tries to hush quem. “Keep it down, I don’t want him hearing about this yet.”

Ancom points quis baseball bat at him. “He shouldn’t ever hear about this at all.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Ancap says with a scoff. “I’m tired of listening to you, get off my property. This part of it, at least. We’re anarchists, we do what we want.”

Ancom shakes quis head and leaves the room. How ridiculous. Commie is an authoritarian, sure, but at least qui isn’t thinking about sleeping with a Nazi. That’s a reassuring thought.

Feeling a bit more confident, a bit more sure of quemself, Ancom knocks on Commie’s door again. “Tankie, it’s me. Can I talk to you?” Qui asks against the wood, but doesn’t wait for an answer, opting to open the door without permission.

Chapter Text

Commie, to Ancom’s surprise, is in no state to be answering the door or engaging in a conversation of any kind. Ancom finds him hunched over a book on his desk, deeply asleep. Qui sets quis baseball bat down by the door, softly, trying not to make too much noise. The room is fairly dark, with only a dim lamp on, casting a faint orange glow over the room. No light seeps through the windows, each with heavy red curtains drawn. It’s quite cozy, Ancom thinks. Qui could fall asleep here, too.

Then Ancom hears a noise from Commie that causes quem to startle. It’s somewhere between a groan and a whine, deep from his chest. But he doesn’t wake. Ancom carefully takes a few more steps towards him. His ushanka has fallen to the ground, the side of his face pressed into the pages of his book, and Ancom thinks it all looks severely uncomfortable. His breath is coming in quick, shallow huffs, eyebrows knit. He mumbles something entirely incoherent. Ancom looks to one of his arms, splayed out on the desk. His hand suddenly clenches into a fist, then relaxes slowly, only to contract again.

He cries out; a horrible, panicked sound. His entire body jerks. Something desperate ignites in Ancom’s chest, a totally new feeling, but akin to sadness and fear and helplessness.

“Commie?” Ancom tries, quietly. Qui doesn’t intend to startle him, but does intend to wake him from whatever nightmare he’s experiencing. It makes no difference.

“Нет, нет, пожалуйста, нет . . .” He cries, perfectly clear.

Ancom bites quis lip and tentatively places a hand on his upper back. “Commie . . . Commie, wake up,” qui says.

He’s back to mumbling words Ancom can’t make out, but he doesn’t seem any more calm. Ancom repeats his name and tries shaking the heavy weight of his shoulder. When this fails as well, Ancom reaches up to gently push his hair back off his forehead. It’s soft and wavy and pleasantly suits him, Ancom thinks. Naturally, the locks Ancom pushed aside fall right back down, and Ancom strokes his hair back again, fingers lightly brushing his warm skin.

And, despite Ancom’s best efforts, this is enough to startle him awake. He jumps away from quem and immediately smacks quis hand off of him. Ancom shuffles backwards a bit as Commie abruptly stands, knocking his knees against the desk and causing the lamp to rattle. His head whips over to look at Ancom with wide eyes, but they are cloudy, and he looks bewildered.

“It’s okay, Tankie, it’s just me,” Ancom says. “Are you okay?”

He lets out a shaky exhale. “Ancom. What’re you doing here?” He asks, voice hoarse, breathing heavy.

Ancom’s cheeks start to burn. “I just came to talk to you, and it seemed like you were having a bad dream, so . . .”

Commie rubs his eyes, then sinks back down in his chair, head in his hands.  “Да, bad dream.” He clears his throat and sighs shakily. “Thank you for waking me. I did not intend to sleep this early.”

“Are you okay?” Ancom asks again. “You seemed really upset.”

“It is nothing. I am fine.”

“Do you . . .  do you want to talk about it?”

“No. There is nothing to be said.” He rubs his eyes again. “You said you were here to talk to me?”

Ancom frowns, looking at the ground. Commie is clearly not fine. Qui wishes he would tell quem. Qui wishes qui could make it better. And even if Commie is upset on some level over quem, that is not the first thing qui feels qui should try to fix. There’s definitely a more pressing issue, here and now, and Ancom wants to know all about it.

“Tankie . . . it’s okay. You can tell me.”

“It is no matter. I have bad dreams sometimes. I am sure you do as well.”

“Well, yeah, obviously, but not like this . You were crying, Commie. It sounded terrible. How long has this been going on?”

Commie is silent for a long moment. Ancom stares at him as he gazes vacantly at the wall ahead of him. “I . . . I would rather you do not talk about this,” he finally says. “I do not wish to speak of it.”

“But, Tankie—”

“Please, Anarkiddie.”

Ancom huffs, feeling frustrated. “I’m worried about you now! First you won’t talk to me at all for days, and now this . You expect me to, what, ignore you? Out of nowhere?”

“There is no reason for you to be worried about me.”

“Oh, very compelling argument. You’re not helping your case out here, you know.”

“Anarkiddie,” he says, much quieter than usual, “my apologies, but now is not a good time. Please go.”

“ Go ? You want me to leave right now?”

“. . . Да. I am very tired. I have not slept much these last few weeks. Please leave.”

Ancom balks but doesn’t consider obeying for a second. “No,” qui simply says.

Commie sighs. “Anarkiddie—” he says, and qui feels a pang of annoyance throughout quis whole body. There Commie goes with that patronizing tone, like he knows more than Ancom could ever dream of knowing, like Ancom is the one doing something wrong, something to be corrected.

“No, I’m not going to leave you right now,” Ancom says. “What would you do if it was me, huh? If I suddenly decided to stop talking to you and then you found me crying in my sleep? Would you just ignore me? I don’t think so.”

Commie looks up at quem, and he does look exhausted to the core. “Of course not, comrade,” he says, through gritted teeth, “but I would respect your wishes.”

Qui . . . disagrees. Qui feels fairly confident that if something was wrong with quem, Commie would be relentless about looking after quem. I like looking after you , he had said.

“Do you think this is a one way street, Commie? Because it’s not. You worry about me, I worry about you. You care about me, I care about you. You look after me—”

Commie slams a hand down on his desk, loud and aggressive. “I do not need to be looked after,” he spits. Ancom jumps despite quemself. Regardless, Ancom steps closer to him.

“Yes, you do. We all do.” When Commie doesn’t react, Ancom moves ever closer.  “It’s okay, Tankie. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes. You don’t have to pretend with me.”  Qui tentatively reaches out and touches his shoulder again, but it is short lived. Commie pushes quis arm away with little effort and stands. He instantly towers over quem, menacingly. Qui stumbles backwards a few steps.

“You will not make me feel better. You can not. You struggle to take care of yourself. I will not concern you with my . . . problems. I am much, much stronger than you and I know exactly how to handle myself.” He’s backed Ancom up into a wall, leaving Ancom to stare up at him in surprise. He sounds so bitter, so cold, it makes Ancom’s chest ache.

“This isn’t healthy, either! You think you can handle yourself but you’re not doing a very good job, Commie,” Ancom says.

“It would not be so difficult if you would leave like I asked you to.”

“I just want you to talk to me! I don’t know why you think it’s better to—to push me away when I want to know—”

“Have you forgotten, Ancom, that we do not get along? That we are ideologically opposed? And that it brings you joy when my people die and I suffer?”

Ancom blinks. Qui feels like qui’s been hit. “That’s not true at all! I don’t want you to suffer, god, I disagree with you on a lot, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you!”

“Ancom. It is foolish to lie to me. I know that if you managed to kill Nazi I would be next in line. And you would gladly strike up war with my state if you were in position to do so. And that does not even take into account your counter-revolutionary behaviors—”

Rage and pangs of hurt boil over in Ancom, and qui pushes hard at Commie’s chest. It hardly moves him but it does shut him up. “Are you fucking stupid? Fuck, I thought you were smarter than this. I don’t just blindly want to hurt you, especially not anymore. Haven’t you noticed that we make a good team? And that I just generally like to be around you? And how much shit I let you pull that would not fly with anyone else? I can’t believe you.” Ancom shakes quis head and tries to make it less obvious that qui’s trembling.

“It would be mistake for me to trust you. I do not believe you want to be any more . . . intimate with me—”

“I’m your friend ! You should trust me! I think I trust you more than anyone else I know because I think you’re a good enough person to not hurt me. And I . . . I want you to trust me like I trust you. I would protect you like you protect me with no questions asked and if someone hurt you I would kill them. I would fucking kill them.”

Commie looks down into quis eyes and qui can practically see the internal conflict going on in his head. For a moment, qui thinks maybe he will give up, accept defeat, tell Ancom qui is right like qui knows qui is. Instead, he says, “You are anarchist. You care only for yourself. If I were not so fond of you and did not take your side so often, you would not hesitate to betray me. As you will do when I am not needed.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ancom wants to shake him. Qui wonders where all of his rationality has gone. “First of all, that is a gross misrepresentation of anarchy, and I know you know better. I’ve seen you read up on anarchy and give me whole presentations on why you disagree but I know you understand . Secondly, you think I’m that selfish? You think I’m a fucking snake like Ancap? Do you think I’ve been lying to you this whole time? Do you think I’m here to just harass you or something?”

“I think you are probably only here because you need something from me,” Commie says. He’s quiet. He’s still standing over Ancom, and Ancom still feels small in comparison, but his shoulders are hunched, head bowed.

“I want nothing but you.” The words spill easily and quickly from Ancom’s lips, but quis stomach drops immediately when qui realizes what qui said. But Commie doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even acknowledge it. It’s like Ancom is speaking to someone that can’t hear quem.

“Do not misunderstand,” Commie continues, “I am happy to provide for you. But I think it is my mistake to care for you so. You will never feel the same.”

“That’s what I’m here to tell you!” Ancom explodes. “I do feel the same! I do! There is no reason for you to be upset about me. I am here because I missed you and because you think I don’t want you for some reason—”

“You have no idea how I feel about you. If you did, you would not have come.”

Ancom wants to pull out quis hair in frustration. Why did he have to be so stubborn? So cynical?

“I don’t know why you don’t trust me, and I don’t know why you don’t believe me, but I want to make you happy. And if you’re having nightmares I want to know what they’re about. And I—” Ancom cuts quemself off, laughing incredulously. Qui can’t believe qui’s telling him like this. “—I want you. I have wanted you for a long time.”

Ancom thinks qui has his attention. His brows furrow. “I do not understand, Ancom. Why are you saying this?”

“You think I don’t want you. You told Nazi that I don’t want you. And that’s not true, I do want you! I want you in any way that you want me.” Ancom looks up at Commie, feeling desperate for his response. Quis nervousness is back. Maybe Nazi had been lying. Maybe Commie did want quem, but it wasn’t romantic. Maybe Commie was just upset Ancom wasn’t under his control. Ancom’s mind races with a thousand possibilities of why Commie is saying nothing, and Ancom wonders if qui can backpedal or if it’s too late. Or if that would do more harm.

“Nazi has spoken to you,” Commie finally says. “I have specifically asked him not to. What did he say?”

“He said you had been getting drunk and crying . . . over me . And he thinks I did something to upset you. And, fuck, Commie, did I? Is that what’s wrong? Can you tell me? Please?”

Commie shakes his head. “It is not your fault. I did not want you to know my feelings towards you because I did not want to upset you. I am sorry, Ancom.”

“Your feelings towards me,” Ancom repeats. “What are they? I am already upset. Do you really care about me? Do you still want to see me when this is all over? Do you want to be with me? Do you—”

“I care immensely about you. I care about you much more than I should. Your safety, your happiness—it is the most important thing to me.”

Ancom looks at the ground. Qui takes a few deep breaths, tries to get quis heart to slow down. “Why would that upset me?”

“You are known to get angry when I try to help you. And,” Commie sighs, “there’s more.”

“You can tell me.”

“When I think of you, Ancom . . .” He gulps. “I think of you romantically. Even with all our disagreements. I still think I want you.” His eyes meet Ancom’s for a brief second, and he immediately shakes his head and turns away. “It is foolish of me. I can not have you. I do not need you.”
“I thought I was stupid for wanting you. It’s been driving me crazy,” Ancom says. “But you . . . you want me? You do? Do you really mean it, Tankie?”

Commie has his back turned to Ancom, but he nods.

Ancom can hear quis own heartbeat, pounding in quis head. He wants quem after all. And Ancom believes him, qui does. Qui feels qui could cry with joy. Qui had felt so scared Commie would keep pushing quem away and all of quis longing would be useless.

But now qui knows qui won’t let that happen.

“Commie . . . will you let me be with you? You don’t trust me, I know, but we can . . . we can work on that. At least, I want to. I want to be with you. You can have me.” Ancom reaches out, touches Commie’s arm. Commie doesn’t pull away.

“You do not have to do this for me. It is alright. We can forget about this, if you would like,” Commie says. He still won’t look at quem, and his voice is strained. He sounds different than Ancom has ever heard.

“No. I don’t want to forget about this. Tankie, please, believe me.” Ancom tugs on his arm to get him to face quem. He gives in, not fighting in the slightest, and when he looks down at quem, there are tears in his bloodshot eyes.

“You are much braver than I am,” he says, and one of his hands comes up to touch Ancom’s neck, light and gentle, with shaking fingers. Ancom shudders. “I am afraid of this, Ancom.”

Qui grabs his wrist, leans into his touch. “No reason to be afraid, Tankie. It’s okay. You can relax a little bit.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Oh, Anarkiddie . . .” he whispers. His eyes are still welled up with tears, but he manages a slightest hint of a smile.

If Ancom’s heart wasn’t beating fast before, it certainly is now.

“It’s okay,” Ancom says again, and qui sees something in Commie break. He quickly takes Ancom into his arms, holding quem tight. Ancom presses against him, hugs him back, pulls him just as close. Quis cheek rests against his chest. Qui can hear his heart beating strongly and rapidly, and qui smiles. Breathes him in. He’s so warm.

Commie’s leaned down and buried his face in the crook of Ancom’s neck. A few sharp inhales and shaky exhales later and he’s letting out little sobs, wracking through his body beneath Ancom’s hands.

“I never want to lose you,” Commie says.

Ancom brings a hand up to curl quis fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you won’t,” Ancom hushes.

Commie pulls away for a moment, wipes tears off his face with the sleeves of his sweater. “I am sorry. Everything feels so difficult sometimes,” he says.

“I know. You don’t have to apologize,” Ancom says, and opens quis arms for him again. Commie accepts quis embrace, this time resting his chin on the top of quis head. He’s so tall that he’s still hunched over. Ancom can’t help but smile.

“I am not normally like this. I do not . . . cry often. I suppose I am much less rested than normal. Lately the nightmares have been much more frequent.” Commie takes a deep breath. “You should not have to see me like this again.”

“I . . . I’m glad you’re talking to me. It’s not good to just keep this all to yourself, you know.”

“I would much rather work on this on my own. But you are very kind,” Commie says.

Ancom frowns. “That’s not like you. You’re the one always talking about teamwork. And now you’re an individualist?”

“This is personal matter,” Commie says, “without goal. I do not know if you can do anything to help.”

“I guess I don’t know if I can help you either, but . . . do you still want me to leave?”

“No, you can stay. This is good.” His fingers splay across Ancom’s back and curl over quis shoulders. Qui is ever aware of it as Commie speaks to quem. “ You are good. Much too good for me.”

His words surprise quem. “Don’t say that,” qui says, but the protest is weak. “Nothing is too good for you. Especially not me. I’m—I’m nothing, you know?”

“You are very important to me. But I am not deserving of your kindness, Anarkiddie. You—you have much better causes to put your energy towards, of course.” His breath hitches at the end, and he turns his head away, but that isn’t enough to stop Ancom from noticing his tears spilling over again.

“No, hey, look at me. This isn’t just me being nice to you for no reason. I care about you and I want you to tell me everything that’s wrong. I’ll really listen, I promise. And I want to make you feel better. If you’ll let me. There isn’t anything else I would rather be doing right now.”

Commie lets go of quem, and his arms fall limply to his sides. “I can try to do as you ask. I do not want you worrying about me; that is my duty to you. I only wish you did not have to see me like this,” he says, quietly.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying sometimes, Commie. Especially not with me. And you need to let me worry about you for a little bit, okay? Until you’re feeling better. I want to.”

He avoids looking at Ancom, even as Ancom reaches out for him again. He instead sinks to sit at the foot of his bed, head in his hands. His breathing is still irregular and shaky. “I do not know where to begin,” he says.

The tone makes Ancom’s chest hurt. He sounds lost and miserable, and any remnants of his normally threatening demeanor have vanished. Ancom no longer sees the harsh, intimidating authoritarian in front of quem, instead a deeply wounded man in desperate need of some help and comfort. Qui would never tell him that, though. Qui knows how he takes pride in the power he can normally exert.

Hesitantly, Ancom sits next to him, their shoulders touching. “Commie. When was the last time you, um, got a full night of sleep?”

“I . . . I do not remember. It has been . . . long time.”

“You must be so tired.”

Commie sighs. “Да. But it just seems to be getting worse.”

Ancom thinks of quis sleeping pills, thinks of how easily they knock quem out, and considers offering them to Commie. But qui feels certain he will refuse, and decides against it.

“What do you mean, it’s getting worse?”

He gulps. “These . . . dreams of mine. I would rather stay awake than continue having them.”

Ancom is careful and deliberate as qui reaches to take his hand. His trembling fingers don’t fight against Ancom as qui laces quis with his. Qui looks up at him, wanting some sort of confirmation that this is alright, but he’s looking away.  “What are they about?” Ancom asks.

“War, mostly.” He pauses, looks down at their hands. “I have led many failed revolutions. Capitalists, fascists, they have crushed my people time and time again. There are countless men I have failed to protect. Good communists. I put them in early grave with my mistakes.” His breath hitches.

“Commie, you can’t blame yourself for what the capitalists did.”

“People are my responsibility. Men who have died for communism . . . they haunt me every night. A reminder of everything I have gotten wrong. And . . . and that my defeat is inevitable.”

There are tears running down his cheeks again. He pulls Ancom’s hand closer and clasps it in both of his.

“It isn’t, though. You know capitalism isn’t sustainable,” Ancom argues.

Commie hesitates, but nods. “I know. Working class will always keep fighting.”

“We will always keep fighting,” Ancom says.

“Sometimes I feel I am fighting losing battle. I try very hard to make world better place. But lately . . . all I can see are bodies of fallen comrades. Every communist I have fought with has been slain, and it will happen again, and then revolutionary potential takes decades to recover.” 

His words hit home. The feeling is heavy and familiar in Ancom’s chest. Qui has been to war many times, and fought in many revolutions quemself. But qui has done everything qui can to forget, and it’s enough that the details are faded and fuzzy. It seems like a time far away. And yet qui knows that qui will keep fighting to get there again; it is the only option. Overthrowing capitalism and the state would of course be a bloody battle, as it had been before.

Some days, the feeling of hopelessness is too much for Ancom to bear, too. There are periods of time qui can hardly get out of bed, and if qui can, it is only to get high enough to lose quis grip on reality. The organization efforts feel pointless, the suffering seems endless. But there’s always something that makes quem bounce back and keep going.

“I understand,” is all qui manages to say.

“I know you do.”

“You’ll always keep going, you know. No matter what happens. And it’ll be the right thing to do.”

Commie shakes his head. “I am not good enough to always do the right thing. People will keep getting hurt. I will keep getting hurt. And I—” His voice cracks. “—I feel so weak.”

“You’re stronger than anyone I know. And you are good enough. You’re so smart and you always know what you’re doing and anyone would be lucky to have you on their side.”

“No—”

“Can you not argue with me for once? I’m right.

Commie sighs. “Okay.”

“We should’ve talked about this earlier. I have a hard time with all of this, too. You can always talk to me. It doesn’t make you weak.”

“I suppose I am not accustomed to—to having someone.”

Ancom squeezes his hand gently. “Maybe you can get used to it.”

“Maybe,” he agrees.

“Why don’t you tell me what your dream was about?”

Commie nods. “I . . . I cannot fully remember now. I think it was concerning you getting harmed.”

“Me?”

“Да. I often dream of fighting with you and not being able to protect you.”

Ancom wonders how many times qui will have to tell him qui doesn’t need such protection, and what qui could possibly do to convince him of it. Before qui can say anything, though, he continues, “I know, I know, you are strong, good fighter. In battle, you would not need protection. But if you did, I always want to be there. I do not know why . . . I dream so frequently of being needed and failing.”

“That isn’t something you have to worry about, you know. Even if something did happen to me, it’s not your responsibility to take care of me.”

“I would like for it to be,” Commie says. He clears his throat. “If we are to be together . . .”

“You still don’t have to. There’s no, um, obligation to me or anything.”

“Well, I . . .” He trails off, worrying his bottom lip. “I like the idea. Of having obligations. To you.”

“I don’t. That sounds awful,” qui says, with a hint of a chuckle behind quis words.

“I just want to stay close to you. And I—I feel that if I am with you, I can keep you safe.”

“If you’re with me, you can make me happy . No guarantees on the safety part.”

Commie squeezes Ancom’s hand back, and rests his head on quis shoulder. Ancom smiles and leans into his side quemself. “I think I can live with that,” Commie says.

Ancom tries to not let them stray too far off topic. Qui stays in place, holding Commie’s hand, occasionally feeling a bit overwhelmed at the realization of his touch, his closeness, his warmth. Qui doesn’t know how long it takes, but qui coaxes him to relax a little more, to not hesitate as much every time he speaks. He tells Ancom about his recurring nightmares. Some of his greatest fears. And he tells story after story of war, of narrowly escaping death, of being the only survivor in many battles. Ancom lets him weep on quis shoulder, and tries quis best to comfort him, but qui thinks it is probably most helpful to simply listen to him spill his thoughts.

He eventually falls silent. “Thank you,” Ancom says, “for telling me. I know it can be hard to talk about.”

“It is nice to talk to you. You have been very kind.”

“You shouldn’t have to carry everything you’ve been through by yourself. Do you think you can, um, tell me, in the future, when you’re having a hard time? I want to know.”

“I will try.” He sighs and looks over at Ancom. There is some light back in his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze, so close to Ancom, makes quis cheeks feel warm suddenly. Qui thinks of kissing him, square on the mouth. It would be so easy, with him right here beside quem, but qui hesitates for too long. Commie sighs, lets go of Ancom’s hand, and stands. He strides across the room and opens the curtains, but the amount of light that comes in is limited. It’s dark out, now, and Commie peers out the window for a few moments before pulling the curtains closed again.

“It is late,” he says. “I should not have kept you so long. You should get something to eat and get some rest, Anarkiddie. I believe there is stew you can heat.”

“You’re not hungry?” Ancom asks.

He shakes his head. “No, but I think I will try to sleep now. I am very tired.”

“You think you’ll be able to sleep now?”
“I certainly hope so.” He stands by his desk, his fingers running over the pages of the open book. Ancom watches him. It doesn’t feel right to be parting with him now.

“Tankie?”

“Да?”

“Do you . . . do you want me to stay? I’ll let you sleep, of course, but—”

Commie freezes and looks over and quem curiously, but he doesn’t say anything. Ancom knows quis blushing, retroactively feeling nervous over the implications of quis question, and it only serves to make quem more embarrassed. Qui stands and moves towards the door, picking up quis bat.

“Sorry,” qui mumbles, “you should sleep how you’re most comfortable. I didn’t mean to overstep or anything, so I’ll just go—”

“You ask if you should stay while I sleep,” Commie says.

Ancom nods, looking at the floor. “Yeah, but I don’t want to make it harder for you or anything, I’ll leave you alone now, you probably don’t—”

“Would you like to stay?” Commie asks, with a slight smile. He looks amused and composed in contrast to Ancom’s stammerings, and it only allures quem more.

“Yes. Well, if you want me to, I mean, I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable, but I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay. Yeah. Um, maybe it will help if you’re less lonely? I’ve never really liked sleeping alone, especially if I’m having nightmares, so maybe I can be here to help you, um, if you want—” Ancom rambles.

“Okay,” Commie says, “stay, then.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

Commie chuckles. “Да. You are always welcome. Any time you want.”

Ancom bites quis lip and hesitantly sets quis bat back down. “Okay. Only if you’re sure you don’t want me to go, it’s okay, really . . .”

“I am certain.” He’s smiling, and he beckons to Ancom with a tilt of his head. “Come, Anarkiddie. You do not have to sleep alone. I would like to make sure you are rested, too.”

And yes, this feels right, Ancom manages to think, but quis mind is pretty fogged over with pure contentment, happiness, and the overwhelming presence of Commie, Commie, Commie . . .

Chapter Text

Ancom wakes up alone, late in the morning, in a bed entirely too large for quem. Quis confusion and slight panic over where qui is wears off quickly, adjusting to the relative unfamiliarity of Commie’s bedroom. There’s a sliver of light coming through a crack in his heavy red curtains, and Ancom has an excessive amount of sheets and blankets over and tucked around quem. Qui appreciates it—the rest of the bed and room is cold in comparison—and knows Commie must have assured qui would be warm before he got up.

Qui isn’t necessarily surprised Commie has already left—qui knows him to rise early—but wishes he would sleep in for one peaceful morning, just one. He hasn’t rested nearly enough, in Ancom’s opinion. The first half of the night he woke every hour, at least, gasping for air, and Ancom would turn on the lights, staying up to calm him down. Each time it was a little easier, he was a little less surprised to have Ancom in his bed, and he didn’t try so pitifully to insist he was alright. Ancom isn’t sure when, but at some point he fell asleep, holding quem tightly, and didn’t wake up for a few hours. Or, at least, he didn’t wake up with such violent thrashing that it forced Ancom out of bed.

The last time he woke Ancom, he mumbled his apologies and thanked quem for staying. Qui assured him it was okay, and he fell asleep again fairly quickly, with qui nestled into his side.

Qui smiles at the memory. Even with all of his nightmares waking them both throughout the night, Ancom thinks qui would love to get used to sharing a bed with him. His arms were strong and warm around quem most of the night, and the sound of his little grumblings during his more peaceful time asleep filled Ancom with an unparalleled joy. Qui just wishes he stayed through the morning. It would be nice to wake up to his voice again.

Reluctantly, qui gets out of his bed and goes back to quis own room. In the hallway, qui can faintly hear Commie’s voice, that deep Russian accent, and he sounds angry and threatening. Ancom smirks. Qui wonders which of the rightists has earned his wrath this morning, but qui has no doubt it’s deserved.

It turns out to be Nazi. They seem to have cooled down a bit by the time Ancom joins them, sitting at the kitchen table in silence. Commie looks up at quem and smiles. “Good morning, Anarkiddie. How did you sleep? Warm enough?”

Ancom nods, but before qui can say anything, Nazi snaps, “I just don’t understand. ”

Commie scowls. “Don’t understand what, Nazi?”

“Didn’t the Soviet Union outlaw homosexuality? Only good thing they ever did. And now you, Commie—“

Commie tuts at him and shakes his head. “Rare mistake of Stalin. Future socialist states and communists of today should learn from. And improve.”

Nazi blinks at him. His eye twitches. “You disagree with Stalin?”

“Да. It is quite simple to understand. I am starting to agree with Ancom, Nazi, that perhaps you are only fascist due to inherent stupidity.”

“Don’t forget a healthy dose of unhinged hatred,” Ancom pipes in.

Commie nods. “Of course, comrade.”

“You’re both degenerate scum and I should kill you,” Nazi spits.

“When this is all over, we shall see who is killing who, Nazi,” Commie says.

Ancom’s heart swells with pride almost instantly. Maybe there wasn’t a real reason for quem to be so hesitant about being with Commie.

Just then, Ancap steps through the front door, the numerous shopping bags he’s carrying rustling with him. He’s wearing a new suit, of which the jacket shimmers. He flashes all of them a smile and makes a show of dropping his things.

“Commie,” he says, clasping his hands together, “you look better. Back to normal? Even I was starting to worry about you, my dear friend. You’ve worked out your troubles with Ancom, I see?”

Ancap gestures to the two of them sitting side by side at the table. Unfazed, Commie says, “Да, kulak, nothing to worry about.”

“Wonderful. And, Nazi, have you considered my proposal from last night?” Ancap asks.

Nazi’s glare deepens. “I told you not to bring it up again.”

Ancom leans forward, suddenly invested in what Ancap will say next. The look on Nazi’s face indicates it won’t be a good outcome for him, in any case.

“I thought maybe you’d want some time to sleep on it. Maybe the nights alone will change your mind! The solution’s quite easy, you know, and your ideology would reach more people if you—”

“I said shut up ,” Nazi says, and rises out of his chair, as if to strike at Ancap.

Ancom’s amused, feeling satisfied over having warned Ancap of this very situation. Qui knew Nazi wouldn’t take well to getting hit on by Ancap, no matter how profit-driven Ancap’s motives are.  Commie, however, looks concerned over the squabble between the rightists.

“Well, Nazi—” Ancap begins, paying no mind to how angry Nazi looks.

“I think you should go, kulak,” Commie says.

“Yes, you should,” Nazi growls.

Ancap puts his hands up and tsks. “Okay, okay. I’ll check in again later,” he says, and sweeps out of the room.

“I wish he wouldn’t,” Nazi says. Ancom can’t help but laugh. Nothing more amusing than watching Nazi squirm, outnumbered by gays in the household, or undesirables , as he would say. “Don’t say a fucking word to me about this,” Nazi sneers at quem and Commie, earning a hearty laugh out of Commie as well.

And then, everything is just . . . normal.

For days.

So normal, in fact, that Ancom wonders if qui had completely imagined the night qui spent with Commie. He doesn’t say a word about it to quem, instead telling quem all about a pamphlet he’s putting together on the necessity of an international, anti-revisionist communist party. Dinner conversations. Normal for him. They sleep in their respective bedrooms, and Ancom doesn’t run into him in the middle of the night again.

But maybe qui is less careful about staring at him while he talks. And quis curiosity about what it would feel like to kiss him has only increased. Qui doesn’t resist fantasizing about pressing kisses over his sharp jawline while he’s glaring at the rightists anymore. Or kissing him and getting him to shut up when he tells Ancom quis ideas are naive. Part of quem feels like it’s okay to think about that, now. But a larger part of quem is uncertain if Commie would allow quem to act on those fantasies.

Ancom is also much more aware of the attention Commie pays to quem. His eyes seem to thoroughly and deliberately examine quem whenever qui walks into a room he’s in. Ancom wonders what he thinks, wonders if there’s any lust behind that gaze, but quis question goes unanswered. It’s usually only a matter of minutes before Commie finds something about qui to fret over—a cut on quis face, or a hole in quis hoodie, or, you look so thin, comrade, I worry you are not nourished . Trivial questions that Ancom insists qui’s annoyed by, even if qui can’t help but feel a bit endeared that Commie even notices.

And qui can’t help but think of that stare of his when qui’s alone at night. It always feels so intense to quem; absolutely piercing but still warm. The sound of quis name on his lips. Enveloped in his strong arms, long fingers resting on Ancom’s skin, making quem feel so small and secure against his body.

Qui shudders.

It’s been days, and Commie seems to be the only thing qui can think about. Quis longing for him is even worse, and qui goes to bed each night, happy that he appears to be doing better, but worried that maybe he wanted to act like certain things had never been said between them. And—qui doesn’t know why qui’s surprised—qui only feels even more . . . sexually frustrated. Qui wants him more than qui has ever wanted anyone.

This desire is what sends Ancom to where qui is now: in the middle of the night, in bed, a hand around quis cock, mind filled with fleeting images of Commie touching quem. Quis pants are forgotten on the floor, and qui is trying quis best to stay quiet, breathing heavy. At the thought of Commie’s hands around quis throat, hard enough to bruise, Ancom’s hips jerk and qui clamps a hand over quis mouth, suppressing a whine. And then qui is thinking of it being Commie’s hand over quis mouth, Commie keeping quem quiet, Commie getting quem off like this. Quis eyes flutter. Qui feels close, hand working faster, rustling the sheets—

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Ancom immediately freezes, staring up at the dark ceiling, heart pounding.

“Anarkiddie?”

Qui sits up and frantically grabs at the sheets, covering quemself as much as possible. “Y-yeah?” Qui says, and quis voice is hoarse. What the fuck is Commie doing outside quis room in the middle of the night? Ancom tries to catch quis breath and calm down a bit, but there’s no time for that.

The door creaks open. “You are . . . still awake, Ancom?” Commie asks, peeking his head in.

Ancom gulps. “Um, yes?” Fuck, fuck, this is bad timing, getting interrupted at the worst possible moment of the night—

Commie slips in the room and shuts the door behind himself. “I am glad you are awake. I expected to have to wake you,” Commie says, voice low.

Ancom’s panicking now, feeling cold and naked in quis bed with Commie a few feet away. But quis face is hot with shame. “What—what’re you doing here?” Ancom asks.

“Well—I . . . I have not been able to sleep. Not well. Not since I had you with me.”

Ancom curls quis knees into quis chest, pulling all the blankets tighter around quemself. Quis mouth is dry, and quis body doesn’t seem to fully realize nothing sexual is happening anymore, cock still throbbing faintly between quis legs. “You can’t sleep,” Ancom repeats.

“And I recall you said you did not like to sleep alone. So perhaps we should—”

“You want me to join you? Okay, that’s fine, I will. I’ll, um, come to your room in a few minutes, okay?” Ancom says. It’s nearly completely dark, but Ancom can make out the outline of Commie’s body, and he is much too close, and Ancom feels much too exposed.  Qui squeezes the fabric underneath quis hands tightly, trying to get quis heart to stop hammering so hard. Hopefully qui can get Commie to turn around and give quem some time to calm down. But he only moves closer.

“You sound upset, Ancom. Is there something wrong?”

“N-no.”

“Hm.” He sits on the edge of quis bed, reaches out, and puts his palm to quis forehead. Fuck, fuck . “Still hiding things from me? You feel very warm. Are you ill?”

“No, no, Commie, I’m fine.” Quis voice is shaky, and qui immediately regrets speaking.

His fingers thread through quis hair.  “What is it, Anarkiddie?” He asks, gentle, concerned, like he always is, always worrying, but insistent, and so much closer now.

If possible, quis cheeks feel even hotter under his touch. “I—I need some privacy,” qui manages, and moves away from him, ignoring the part of quem that wants to give into him, spill quis thoughts and desires to him, for him, lay back and let Commie keep stroking quis hair and maybe more.

“You would like me to leave?” Commie questions, and Ancom is almost relieved that he is so oblivious.

“Yeah, um, just for a minute, I’ll—”

“Something you do not want me to see. Ah. That must be it.”

Ancom relaxes only slightly as Commie stands and moves away from the bed. Qui thinks maybe he’ll leave, just like that, but qui is wrong. Across the room, he does not hesitate to turn on the lights.

The sudden brightness hurts quis eyes, and qui squeezes quis eyes shut, grimacing. “Something is wrong, comrade. You are injured, да? Do not hide such things from me. I can help you.”

And then he’s back, kneeling on the bed, and Ancom blinks up at him with burning eyes. “I’m not injured, Tankie, I just—just . . . I, um, need to be . . .” Qui struggles, fidgeting with the sheets in quis hands, nervous but feeling somewhat resigned. Commie catching quem naked and aroused in the middle of the night is probably much less concerning than whatever he thinks is going on. Qui bites quis lips and looks away from Commie’s tired eyes.

“ Oh . I have interrupted something personal, it would seem,” Commie says, but he sounds unsure.

Ancom doesn’t reply, feeling quis stomach doing flips, embarrassed and relieved and mortified all at once.

“My apologies, Ancom,” he says with a gulp.

“It’s okay. I guess I didn’t, um, expect anyone to show up,” qui says, with a hint of a nervous laugh.

“Of course you wouldn’t. I should not have intruded.”

Ancom keeps quis eyes down. Looking at Commie definitely won’t help quis predicament. He’s still looking right at quem, qui can tell, with those attentive eyes that would only make quem more flustered.

“Look at you,” Commie says. There’s a hand on quis cheek, now, tenderly gripping quis face. “Blushing. I must admit I am surprised.”

“Your fault,” qui mumbles.

“I suppose so. But I had not expected to see you like this, either.”

Ancom dares to look up at him, heart racing, and his expression is smug and amused, not reflecting any of the bashfulness Ancom is feeling. Why, why did Commie have to catch quem like this? And why isn’t he scurrying off back to his room like Ancom would if their positions had been switched? And then the thought of Commie getting himself off is stuck in Ancom’s head, just like that. Qui feels a bit dizzy.

“I’m sorry,” Ancom mutters. “You should probably go now. I’m sure you didn’t want to wake up to something weird like this after everything.”

“Certainly not the worst thing to wake up to,” Commie says.

Ancom blinks, not fully comprehending, a little bit too caught up in just looking at him. But Commie doesn’t sound upset. “Uh-huh, I guess,” Ancom says.

He lets go of quis face, only to stroke quis cheek lightly. “Perhaps I should confess I am quite pleased to find you like this. You are very attractive. You know that,” Commie says, as if qui is perfectly aware of it, with no doubt.

“You—you think so?”

Commie chuckles. “I did not know you could be so shy like this.”

“I didn’t know you were even interested in me until a few days ago,” Ancom retorts.

“Ah. Just as ahistorical as always.”

Ancom thinks of objecting, thinks of launching quis defense, but qui doesn’t. Instead, qui acts on quis next impulse, leaning up and putting quis lips to his.

Commie sighs into quis mouth, the hand on quis face moving to hold the back of quis head. Ancom’s sure quis brain has turned to mush, letting Commie hold quem upright and deepen the kiss. He pulls away for a moment, resting his forehead against Ancom’s, noses brushing.  “There you are,” he says. “Always so brave. I am thankful one of us is.” And then his lips are back on Ancom’s, and qui has no intent of ever doing anything else again.

The sheets have slipped down a bit, revealing Ancom’s bare shoulders and chest. Both fear and doubt suddenly flash through Ancom’s mind, realizing how much Commie could see of quem. Generally, qui remains safe and concealed in quis hoodie, not wanting to be seen. Commie’s never seen quem this exposed, and qui feels a wave of self-consciousness. Qui has wanted to be perfect for Commie, wanted him to like the way qui looks, wanted him to be enticed by quem. In Ancom’s fantasies, qui would dress up for him, actually put extra effort into quis appearance, and do what qui could to look exactly how Commie wants.

Ancom shivers and pulls the sheets back around quis shoulders, gripping them tightly. Commie notices this, looking down at quem when their lips part. His eyes are bright, pupils blown, and he keeps a hand in Ancom’s hair. “You are cold? Or you do not want me to see you?” Commie asks.

Qui fidgets with the sheets but doesn’t answer.

“Ancom, what is it? You look so upset. Is this too much? I will leave, if you would like—”

“Don’t go,” Ancom blurts out.

Commie sinks down to sit at eye level with quem on the bed. “Okay. I will stay.”

Ancom feels a bit ridiculous, wondering if qui has already ruined their time together. And Commie doesn’t seem to be worried about how he looks to quem, coming to quis room in the middle of the night, his hair messy, shirtless, much of his skin exposed. Ancom loves the sight of him like this, though, while qui can’t be sure how Commie feels about quem.

“Speak to me, comrade. You seemed happy to be kissed a moment ago,” Commie says.

“Still am,” Ancom mumbles.

“I know something is wrong. You act strange. Tell me. There must be something I can do,” he insists.
Qui feels flushed. “I don’t, um . . .” qui begins. Commie is still petting quis hair, slow and steady, studying quis face intently. Qui wants to squirm. “You, uh, caught me at a bad time. I wasn’t planning on, um, you seeing me like this yet, I guess.”

“It is alright. I would like to see you just as you are. If you allow me. But it is alright, I understand, I could give you a moment, if you would like, to get dressed. Anything you want.”

“Um. Okay,” Ancom squeaks out. Qui feels small and stupid and guilty, pouting into quis knees.
“Okay?” Commie ruffles Ancom’s hair, presses a light kiss to quis forehead, and stands. “Come to me when you are ready. We will simply rest.  But you do not have to, of course.”

Somehow, the loss of Commie’s gaze and touch makes quem feel even worse.

Qui chews quis bottom lip, tries to will quemself to loosen the white-knuckled grip qui has on the sheets. Commie has one hand on the doorknob when Ancom says, “Tankie.”

He turns back to Ancom with that concerned look on his face, so familiar by now to quem that it feels normal.

Qui is still nervous, still working quemself up with worry over whether Commie would still want quem after tonight. “I just want to be good enough for you,” qui says quietly.

“This is what is bothering you?” Commie asks.

Ancom nods.

“You think you are not . . . good enough for me?”

“I mean, like . . . like, the way I look, you know?”

Commie is staring at quem again. “Anarkiddie, you know that is not something you have to worry about. Surely. I am certain. You must know. I thought you knew of your seductive abilities after getting so many ideologies.”

“My what ?”

“Seductive abilities. Anarchists could not resist you. Neither can I.”

Ancom blushes again. “It’s different, though, with you. You’re different than anyone else I’ve ever been with, and that’s the thing, I haven’t been trying to seduce you, and I’d like the opportunity to at least try before you see me naked. You know. I guess,” Ancom says.

Commie laughs softly and returns to quem. “You do not listen to me. I am telling you that you have already succeeded. You do not have to try.”

Ancom shrugs. Commie’s words feel like a dream, just what qui wants to hear, but qui still feels nervous and hesitant with Commie so close to quem.

“I suppose you have not been told enough that you are . . . красивый. Beautiful. I will fix that. I will.  You should not feel this way.” His fingers brush under quis chin, prompting quem to look up at him. “So shy. What will make you feel better? Clothes? I will bring you clothes. I will not look at you.”

Those worried eyes. Soft touches with strong hands. Ancom can’t help it. Qui still wants him. Wants him to want quem. Wants him to look at quem. Wants to please him. Desires that even quis nervousness can’t bury. And qui lets go a bit, sighs, and kisses Commie again.

Commie is receptive to it, if not seeming more hesitant than before to touch quem. Qui leans in, feeling overwhelmed, but the kiss makes Ancom certain qui wants him more than anything. He’s warm. A hint of stubble on his face pricks delicately at Ancom’s chin. His hand is strong on the back of quis neck. And qui only wants more.

“This,” Ancom says. “This will make me feel better.”

“You should be kissed more often then, да? If you are alright with this. I want to do what you like. Nothing you do not want.”

Ancom nods, heart beating fast. “I want this. I want you.”

Qui decides—well, the lustful majority of quis thoughts decide—to abandon quis previous attempts at modesty, and qui moves closer to Commie, making it easier to get at his lips. And Ancom touches him just as qui wants to, cupping his face, running quis hands through his hair. “You must tell me,” Commie says, in a short breath between kisses, “if there is something you do not want. I do not want to cross any line—”

God, he is perfect, perfect , Ancom thinks, so concerned, so caring. But qui would love to get him to let go of that a bit, too. And maybe now is quis time to fully reel him in, seduce him, as he previously mentioned. Yes. Qui wants him to just take what he wants from quem, may it be a night of slow love-making, or his cock down quis throat, or someone to put on a show for him. Qui will do it, qui thinks. Anything for him. As long as he doesn’t leave quem alone again.

Ancom hasn’t answered, too busy kissing him. Quis fingers run down his neck, then feeling his chest, firm and solid and strong, then the raised skin of old scars that line his back. This feels like a dream, too. But his hands haven’t moved from quis head, stroking quis hair as if to soothe quem. “Anarkiddie,” he finally says, voice low and gravely, nearly a growl, “you have not answered me.”

His tone is enough for Ancom to begin to get hard again.

“Nothing crosses the line, Tankie. You get to do what you want with me,” qui whispers.

Commie raises his eyebrows at that.

“I want you to. You can have me. However you want,” qui continues. Qui rests quis hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, feeling heat radiate from his skin. They look small on his body. When qui glances down for a moment, qui’s pleased to find he’s half hard in his loose cotton shorts.

“You are full of contradictions tonight, Ancom. A few moments ago you would not even let me look at you.”

“You’ve changed my mind. You made me feel better,” Ancom coos, right in his ear. Qui rubs quis hands across his broad shoulders, massaging lightly, trying to get him to relax. It seems to be working. His breath slows. Ancom kisses his jaw.

The role is easy to slip into, especially in Ancom’s current state of mind. Qui would be glad to submit, glad to let Commie take the reigns. Years of experience before now are what allows some confidence to seep back into Ancom’s bones. Qui knows what to do, knows how to please a dom, knows how to get what qui wants. And, yes, Commie is a bit of an exception, with how caring he is about quem and all these emotions Ancom feels about him. But Ancom can’t imagine that he wouldn’t like to take the leading role in bed.

“If you would like,” Commie begins, as Ancom kisses his neck, “I want to hear what you were thinking about when I . . . interrupted you.”

The ask immediately knocks qui back to feeling remnants of embarrassment. Quis mouth is dry. “Oh?” Qui manages.

“You do not have to tell me—”

“You,” Ancom interrupts. “I was thinking about you.”

Commie lets out a small hum, sounding pleased. Ancom smiles.

“I haven’t been able to come without thinking of you touching me in months,” qui says.

Commie’s breath hitches. “I have wanted you for just as long.” He touches quem, hands on quis waist, and softly kisses quis lips. “Tell me,” he says, voice low, “how you would want me to touch you.”

Ancom melts. “Mm, I still can’t stop thinking about you choking me again. That was hot.” It slips out easily, with quis mind mostly preoccupied with the feeling of Commie’s hands on quem.

Commie instantly tenses before quem. “What?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you just say to me, Ancom?”

His eyes are suddenly sharp when he looks at quem, and qui feels quis stomach drop with fear. Maybe qui should have saved that thought for another time, or at least should have told him in a bit of a softer manner than that. He looks at quem, clearly expecting an answer. Ancom bites the inside of quis cheek.

“I . . . I said I want you to choke me. Like you did the other night. When you bruised me.” Ancom looks down in shame. Qui feels foolish and embarrassed for even bringing it up, remembering the look of horror on Commie’s face that night when he realized what he had done. It’s no wonder he isn’t taking it well.

“You are not being serious,” Commie claims. “Certainly you are joking.”

“ . . . No.”

“You liked that?”

Ancom nods, avoiding eye contact.

And then he laughs, and Ancom looks up at him with concern.

“A submissive! My anti-authoritarian comrade! I was wondering what all this talk was of letting me do what I want with you. You have been looking for a dominant and insisting I do not tell you what to do this whole time! Very good, Anarkiddie, I was not expecting this from you.”

Ancom looks away, face burning.

“So, what? No following orders unless it gets you off? The only just hierarchy is in bedroom?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s real funny, an anarchist being a sub. But it is what it is, and I try not to think about it like that, but I guess that was a lot easier with the anarchists than it will be with you.”

“So you are always submissive. Interesting.”

“I mean, it’s not necessary . Sometimes it’s nice to not have the whole power dynamic going on, but. It’s just what I’m into, I guess.”  Ancom still can’t gauge whether his reaction is positive or not, staring off at the door, wondering if he’ll leave now. “Forget I said anything,” qui finally says, “it’s not that important.”

“No, it is what you want. It is extremely important,” Commie says.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t want it.”

“Well, I was prepared to be much less dominant with you than with other partners. I assumed you would be opposed to, ah . . . being my submissive. If I ever even managed to get in bed with you. I suppose I was wrong, да?”

Ancom gulps. “Yeah. I’m not opposed to it.” Commie’s submissive. Ancom shudders at the idea, but manages to quickly mock, “Oh, so you are always dominant? Interesting developments from a dictator apologist.”

“It sounds like you should not be complaining, Ancom,” Commie says.

Ancom bites quis lip. Commie’s right, of course. Qui has nothing to complain about, not with Commie in quis bed.

“No need to look so embarrassed, then. I think we will be a good match. And I think you look very pretty with bruises around your little neck, Anarkiddie.”

The last part makes quis eyes widen. Qui thinks for a moment that maybe qui is just daydreaming about him again, but then there’s the very real sensation of one of his hands wrapped around quis throat. His grip is loose, with barely any pressure applied, but qui is incredibly aware of the sensation. Qui looks up to find him looking at quem with dark eyes, but just the same amount of intensity as always. His thumb skims over quis pulse point repetitively, the rest of his hand stable on quis neck, his long fingers wrapping around far enough to reach quis vertebrae.

“You like this?” Commie asks. He gives a very gentle squeeze, just enough for quem to feel it.

Ancom’s alarmed at the faint sound qui lets out before nodding. Qui feels ridiculously aroused for the small amount of contact Commie is giving quem.

He grins. “Tell me,” he says.

“I like this. I . . . I want you to choke me,” qui says, feeling Commie’s palm press against quis throat with every word.

His grin grows wider. “Be polite,” he says.

Qui breathes in, breathes out. Qui can’t believe qui’s getting what qui wants so easily from him. “Please, sir.”

“Good. But none of that for now. I want to give you more time to heal.” Commie’s hand drops from around quis neck, and qui finds qui wants to chase it.

“You’re mean,” Ancom says with a pout.

Commie shakes his head. “I will not choke you so soon. We have other things to discuss.” He pauses, holds quis face, and gives quem a slow kiss. “I want to know more about what you like. First your safeword.”

Ancom blinks. Qui knew Commie would be caring and attentive, but asking for quis safeword still surprises quem. It also brings quem some sense of exhilaration, making it feel a bit more real that qui is really doing this with Commie. “I don’t think you would do anything to make me safeword, Tankie,” qui says.

“I certainly hope not. But I still need to know.”

Qui thinks for a moment. It’s been a long time since someone asked quem for quis safeword. “Um, I don’t know,” qui says.

“You do not know? Someone has not been taking good care of you,” Commie claims, a hint of his usual, authoritarian bitterness seeping back into his voice.

Ancom looks up at him. That jawline. That hair qui has just messed up that is rarely seen by anyone else. And qui feels unbearably lucky to be beside him.

“Vodka,” qui finally says.

“Vodka?” He repeats.

Ancom nods, bites quis lip. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” His hand around Ancom’s neck is soon replaced with his lips. Ancom sighs, tilts quis head for him, eyes fluttering shut. He slips a hand down to rest on quis inner thigh, and it only turns quem on more. “Promise you will use it whenever you need to,” Commie says, before latching his lips back onto quis skin.

“I p-promise,” Ancom breathes.

His kisses are warm, deliberate, and he presses his fingertips into the soft flesh of Ancom’s thigh. It’s making quem extremely hard. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Tell me what else you want me to do to you.”

Ancom can hardly think. “Anything, Tankie. Anything you want.”

He doesn’t give quem any orders to act on, instead, “Then you will allow me to take care of you. I want to make you feel good.”

And for once, qui is happy to fully obey. Commie kisses quis lips before qui can say anything, but that makes qui promptly forget it anyway. Instead, all qui can focus on is Commie gently tugging on quis lower lip, his hands providing firm guidance for quem to lay back on the pillows. Before qui knows it there’s a large hand sinking into the mattress on either side of quis head, and his face hovering over quis. Qui feels so tiny underneath him.

“Is this alright?” He asks, against Ancom’s lips.

Ancom nods. Everything seems hazy. “Yes, sir,” qui says.

“I never thought I would get to hear you say that.” He kisses quem again, then trails his lips down Ancom’s neck, and fixates on quis collarbones for a moment. “So beautiful. More than I imagined.”

“Tankie . . .” Ancom whines. Maybe if qui was more clear-headed, qui would feel ashamed of how desperate qui sounds. But his mouth is warm and enticing on Ancom’s skin, and his cock is hard against quis thigh, and qui can’t help but fall apart beneath him.

“Something to say, kitten?”

Quis hips instantly buck. Kitten . It sounds so good on Commie’s lips. Qui desperately wants to touch quemself—qui probably would if Commie wasn’t over quem. Qui has been turned on for much too long. Commie squeezes quis thigh again as qui keens.

He laughs lightly. “It is alright. You do not have to speak. I will take care of you,” Commie says. With his free hand, he thumbs over quis parted lips, staring down at quem. Qui shifts on the mattress, spreading quis legs a bit more. It doesn’t take much thought for qui to decide to lift quis chin slightly and take Commie’s thumb in quis mouth. For a moment, qui tries to meet his gaze, tonguing over the flat of his finger, but it’s all too much, and quis eyes flutter shut.

But Commie doesn’t allow it to last for very long. “So good for me,” he says, and Ancom circles quis hips, grinding against nothing but empty air. Commie momentarily moves away from quem, his warmth gone, prompting quem to open quis eyes and push up onto quis elbows. He isn’t far, though, only adjusting the sheets on the bed beside quem, soon laying down right next to quem. Qui flips over to face him, cock throbbing, reaching out for him.

“Tankie, please,” qui begs, wanting his hands back on quem, wanting his full attention once more.

Commie quickly hushes quem by snaking a hand over quis stomach, painfully close to quis erection. Qui can’t breathe. “Oh, Anarkiddie,” he says, lips close to quis ear, but he sounds different, less teasing, a bit more melancholy. “I am afraid I must disappoint you tonight.”

Ancom’s eyebrows furrow, torn between begging Commie to touch quem more and asking him what’s wrong. Qui simply looks over at him with wide eyes, ready for him to say more.

“You are probably expecting more of me now, but I must admit I am quite tired, and I do not want to hurt you, or make you wait much longer—” Commie starts.

“Fuck, Commie, you can’t disappoint me. I just want you to touch me. I don’t need anything else,” qui says. How ridiculous. Qui has nothing in mind, no expectations, just wants to please Commie and get pleased. And Ancom feels so aroused already that Commie won’t have to do much to please quem. And, of course Commie is tired. Qui knows he must have barely slept the past few days for it to be bad enough that he seeks quem out himself.

“You are too good to me,” he whispers.

Ancom isn’t interested in arguing with him at the moment. Instead, qui traces over a scar that runs down Commie’s sternum, bites quis lip, and says, “I want to be perfect for you.”

Commie runs his hand through quis hair. “You are, kitten.”

Ancom hums at the praise. From here, qui can easily see how hard Commie is, cock straining against fabric. Qui feels a renewed surge of arousal at the sight. He’s so big , qui thinks it would be a struggle to get quis mouth around him, but fuck, qui would love to try. And qui feels . . . proud. Proud that qui is the cause of this, proud that he’s aroused because of quem, proud that quis bed is the one Commie is in tonight.

Qui is about to ask him if qui can suck him off, deprioritizing how badly qui wants to be touched, but please, sir, can I—? never leaves quis lips. A sudden, high-pitched moan leaves quem instead, as Commie wraps his hand around quis cock.

“You deserve everything you want,” he murmurs. His thumb slowly circles the head of quis cock, and qui can’t keep from squirming.

“P-please,” qui says. Quis hips won’t stay still, but qui isn’t putting much effort into trying.

Rationally, qui knows how strong Commie is. Qui has seen him overpower opponents much larger than quem—usually for quem, in scenarios that wouldn’t end without quem getting hurt if he wasn’t there, not that qui would ever admit it—but that isn’t at the top of quis mind at the moment. That’s why qui somehow feels surprised at the ease with which Commie handles quem, flipping quem over, tightly spooning quem within a moment. Qui swears it makes quem even harder.

He starts really working quis cock now, with the arm wrapped around quem. Ancom feels overwhelmed, and knows it will all be over way too soon. Qui is already too far gone, too sensitive for the authoritarian doing this to quem. When quis hips involuntarily jerk now, qui can feel Commie’s cock hard against quis ass. The only clear thought qui can manage is to put some effort into grinding back against him, which Commie reciprocates, letting Ancom feel the slight movement of his hips against quem.

Any shame Ancom previously felt has been let go of, and qui definitely isn’t paying any mind to the sounds leaving quem. That is, not until Commie quietly says, “Hush, kitten, you will wake the others if you are not careful.”

Ancom cuts off quis next moan, whimpering.

“It is a shame,” Commie says, “I love to hear you. You make such pretty noises for me.” He kisses the top of quis head, but he never stops the movement of his hand on quis cock. Ancom is trying quis hardest to stay quiet, mostly out of the desire to obey, be good for Commie, earn some praise from him. “You will have to tell me now—does this feel good?” Commie whispers, and he sounds playful, teasing, composed. Ancom feels like a mess next to him.

Ancom frantically nods. Qui can feel the twitch of Commie’s sizable bicep on quis side with each stroke he gives quem. “Y-yes— oh god —sir.”

Commie laughs lightly, but he lets out a groan from deep in his chest, rubbing his cock against quis ass. The sound sends another wave of arousal through quem, and qui feels desperate now, thrusting into Commie’s hand shamelessly.  “T-tankie,” qui cries.

“What is it, beautiful?” He says, as if he doesn’t know, all while moving his hand faster, bringing quem closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m—fuck, fuck —you’re gonna make me come, you’re gonna—”

“Come for me, kitten,” he murmurs.

And qui does, hips stuttering, eyes rolling back. Qui spills over into Commie’s hand, and onto the bed sheets. He keeps pumping quis cock until Ancom is reduced to quiet whimpers, a trembling wreck, cock twitching weakly.

“Good,” Commie breathes. “So good for me.”

For a moment, Ancom can’t move. Quis limbs feel pleasantly numb, skin tingling everywhere, heart rapidly pounding. Qui feels comfortable, warm and safe, back against Commie’s chest, his arm secure around quem. “Commie,” qui sighs, a small smile forming on quis face, and for now, that is all qui can muster. God, qui never wants him to leave.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he says. He’s still slowly grinding against quem, and qui is back to being fully aware of how hard he is. It makes quem shudder all over again, and if qui had a few more minutes, qui knows it would turn quem on again too. Qui wants to get him off, wants to be responsible for his pleasure, wants to make him as happy as qui feels now.

And so, Ancom grabs his wrist, grateful for how pliant he is to quem, and begins licking quis own come off his fingers. He lets out a string of curses in Russian, low and breathy, right in quis ear. Qui laps it up, running quis tongue between his fingers, cleaning his hand. Qui’s quite proud of some of the noises qui is getting out of Commie like this. While his typical dominance and composure is something qui loves about him, it’s nice to get him to let go a little bit, lose some of that composure at Ancom’s hands.

In no sense of rush, qui takes quis time to suck on his fingers and circle quis hips back against his cock. He groans out quis name, and qui tries to memorize the way it sounds, like it is something to save for later, save for another night qui spends alone. The thought flashes before quis mind of nights like those becoming less and less frequent if qui can get Commie to keep coming back. It fills quem with a strange sense of hope and comfort. And excitement. The thought of getting to do this again with him brings Ancom an anticipation for the coming days that qui has been lacking.

Qui only flips over, removing Commie’s fingers from quis mouth, when qui thinks that maybe he is close. It would be a shame—a waste, really—to make him come in his underwear when qui is right there and ready to take it. “Tankie,” qui says, and hooks quis fingers in the waistband of his shorts, “will you let me . . .?”

“Of course,” he breathes.

Qui kneels on the mattress between his thighs, with Commie laid back, and takes a moment to palm at his cock, just staring at him. His eyes closed, lips parted, hair a mess. He’s beautiful. It’s no wonder qui has wanted him for so long.

Ancom gets him to raise quis hips, and with his help the remainder of his clothes are dropped to the floor. Ancom has all of him before quem. He’s got scars all over him that Ancom has the urge to touch, ask him about each and every one, but now isn’t the time for that. Quis eyes are quickly and unbreakably drawn to his cock, and qui swears right then and there that qui will get him to fuck quem one day.

Just not today.

Qui wastes no time in taking his cock into quis mouth. He’s already leaking precome, and Ancom swirls quis tongue around the head of his cock, swallowing it down. “Ancom,” he gasps. One of his hands finds its way into quis hair, but he doesn’t push quem down on him like qui expects, like part of quem wants. Instead, qui inches quis mouth down his length until qui feels ready to choke. Even then, it’s not enough, and Ancom wraps a hand around the base of his cock where quis lips can’t reach. Qui tries quis hardest to keep quis eyes open, looking up Commie’s body with watering eyes.

Like this, qui is confident in quis abilities. Qui knows qui’s good at this, and has been praised before many times for having such a skilled mouth. And it would seem Commie agrees.

Even knowing this, qui is a bit surprised at how fast qui gets him to come. His hips jerk, his cock pulsates in quis mouth, and qui tries not to gag. It takes a lot of effort, and qui barely manages, but qui swallows it all before pulling off of him. Commie’s breathing heavy, chest heaving, and he throws a hand over his eyes.

Ancom wipes off quis mouth and crawls up to lie next to Commie.  “Was that good for you?” qui asks, voice hoarse. Qui clears quis throat but is certain it will be awhile before quis voice is recovered to its normal state.

He sighs and looks over at quem. “You have no idea.” He smiles crookedly. He looks the most relaxed Ancom has ever seen him, and it’s nice, it makes Ancom feel special.

“I aim to please,” Ancom says, grinning back at him.

He laughs softly and opens his arms for quem. Qui nestles into him, head resting on his chest, and hums in content. “You are very effective, kitten,” he says, and runs his fingers through quis hair.

Ancom blushes yet again. “You’re not gonna let go of that one, are you?” Qui asks.

“Of course not. I think it suits you.” He pauses. “Are you feeling alright? I should have checked in earlier—”

“I’d say a little bit better than alright.”

“Good. You should rest. Is there anything you would like? Your little jacket, perhaps, where—”

“Nothing, Commie. I’m fine, just like this.” Qui doesn’t want him to go anywhere, not for a second. But of course he is immediately back to his concern for quis well-being.

“Water,” he says, “you must drink something. I will—” He says, beginning to nudge quem off his chest.

“If it’s so important to you, I’ll go get some. You’re the one that needs to be resting, Commie,” Ancom says, sitting up.

He opens his mouth to protest, but Ancom doesn’t let him.

“You stay put or I’ll never sleep with you again,” qui threatens. Qui stands, and he doesn’t follow, much to quis satisfaction.

“Okay,” he accepts, “but you must not take long. I am sure you are very tired.”

Qui picks up quis clothes, slipping back into quis hoodie. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” qui says. Qui’s aware of him watching quem until qui is ready to venture out into the kitchen for a few moments, eyes seemingly bright and alert. Halfway out the door, qui commands, “Rest,” much harsher than qui intends, and qui catches him quirking an eyebrow at quem right before qui turns off the lights.

The house is quiet and cold, and qui immediately looks forward to getting back in bed with Commie, have his arms around quem, and be warm all night. The thought still makes quis heart flutter.

Qui boils water to make him a cup of tea, impatiently waiting, struggling to keep quis eyes open. Commie was right—qui is very tired. But qui is sure it’s nothing compared to his exhaustion, after months of being tormented by nightmares all on his own.

And in a way, qui is proven right. When qui returns to quis room with two drinks, he’s sound asleep in quis bed, breathing deep and slow. Qui sets his tea down—it’ll definitely be cold by the time he wakes—and crawls in bed beside him. He doesn’t budge at all, even as qui rests quis head back on his chest.

This is the epitome of comfort, qui thinks. And maybe Commie will wake up in thirty minutes in a panic and qui will have to coax him back to sleep. And maybe tomorrow Commie will say something about the structuring of society that will make quis blood boil. And maybe one day soon will be the day Nazi decides it’s time to attack them both, for real this time. But for now, though, Ancom lets quis worries slow to a halt, lets quis eyes close, listens to Commie’s heartbeat, and wants nothing else.