Saw Audrey hate again today… they hate to see a girlboss be proactive in her healing
“she doesn’t have any issues with dating a woman even though she was raised in a religious cult! She’s so unrealistic”
(consider: a lesbian (me) might not want to constantly keep playing through wlw routes with a focus on how “wrong” it is… finding a good fem L/I is already hard)
(also she’s been out of the cult for like.. 12 ish years now?? she has a MD- most of the cults beliefs don’t have sway over her it’s her father and mother who do)
(evidence: she mentions women werent even allowed long hair worn down and yet she doesn’t think mikael is odd at all when first meeting him, she’s comfortable with consuming alcohol (david route x2, gen!route always has nonalcoholic options), etc)
If you’re not gonna even pay close attention to how she’s affected by the things around her/her personality as a character then don’t bring personal religious ideas into it- especially ones rooted in homophobia
"so unrealistic because she had something so traumatic happen to her when she was young and she's like this now" and if she didn't change then that would be crazier. she's 30 years old and she had years to think about what happened, make peace with it, and try her best to move on from her obviously not good childhood. the woman is a psychiatrist and do you really think she didn't apply what she learned on herself...? humans change and audrey is no different. her growth is amazingly portrayed and let's not forget how great she is at hiding her anxiety and appearing strong. even the superiors acknowledged it (mikael in the episode when furius assigned the mission) and what do these people mean by throwing in the topic of fel's route? have you guys never seen religious bis slash gays? baffling. actually though, can you all just enjoy fel's route and not raise eyebrows and ruin it for others? also, let's not even start on the topic of audrey's faith right now because the haters have -00.001 reading comprehension skills (it's like talking to PG students LOL)
anyways, you can't expect her to be the same shivering, frightened child who didn't know what was happening. she's an adult with a professional career in psychiatry. that already says a lot
warnings: descriptions of violence, alcohol abuse, depression, grief and depersonalization.
genre: angst, slow burn
word count: 6836
''because to grieve for you was easier than missing you.''
i've never so adored you
i'm twisting allegories now
i want to complicate you
don't let me do this to myself
Dmitry couldn't fit in his room. The four walls seemed to close in on him all at once. Regret and the wounds of the past poured down on him like a blizzard. The General, who always appeared rock-solid, had been little more than a frail puppet ever since he was forced to give that order. Helpless, powerless. He wasn't even sure he could hide it anymore. He wasn't as soulless as he thought. Nor was he as distant. It wasn't the first time he'd realized this, and that's why he hated himself. He could control everyone else, but he yielded to his own emotions.
He would be leading the entire detachment face-to-face with death, while he sat in that goddamn place, hoping his voice reached the other end of the radio. What kind of general would abandon his team on such a mission?
Especially when that team included someone who, because of him, had once hung by a thin thread between life and death.
Dmitry drank the last drop of whiskey in his hand and furiously threw the glass to the floor. The thick glass hit the ground hard, shattering into a thousand pieces that scattered everywhere. As he watched the fragments bounce, the entire detachment flashed before his eyes. His sister, Lane, Greg, Noah... Nick, Lester, and Kira.
And Yan.
"Fuck!"
The curse that escaped his lips was so choked, Dmitry didn't recognize his own voice.
He finished the rest of the sentence in his head.
Fuck Rotkov. Fuck the Adam Project. And fuck that merciless bitch who's supposed to be my aunt.
Dmitry stormed out of his room. He slammed the door so hard the corridor shook.
Hearing the sound, Anna immediately darted out of her room. "Dmitry? What's going on-"
Seeing her brother's face, Anna was seized with both terror and great concern. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. You can go back to your work." Dmitry couldn't even look his sister in the eye. He felt like he was dying from the pangs of conscience.
The General didn't wait for Anna's reply and headed for the room at the end of the corridor. When he got to the door, he took a deep breath and tried to put on his usual impassive expression. As if drawing strength, he leaned his elbow against the doorframe and knocked with his other hand.
While waiting for the door to open, he didn't know where to put his hands, so he clasped them behind his back. He usually clasped them in front.
Before long, the door cracked open, then a tall, slender silhouette went back inside without waiting. "Lane, I was just-"
Dmitry cleared his throat. "It's me."
Yan couldn't believe his ears and opened the door all the way. Yes, he was really at his door. Dmitry, who had been avoiding him like the plague in the same house, was standing opposite him with a face as white as chalk. "General?"
Dmitry wished so much to hear him say his name. When his gray-blue eyes swept over Yan's face, he almost forgot to breathe, forced to remind himself to inhale. It was a look that was a little estranged, a little surprised, a little confused, but most of all, hurt. The kind that threw every evil thing he'd done back in his face.
Dmitry just stood there and watched Yan's face study him. He didn't know what to say, his throat was in a knot. Just the act of looking at his face made him feel a little bit better.
"What did you come for?" Yan's voice was now sharper and more formal. He took a step or two back uncertainly, retreating into the room, indirectly inviting the General in.
Dmitry drew strength from this. "There's no point in running anymore."
"What?" Yan frowned.
"You're drunk, aren't you?" He couldn't find any other explanation.
Dmitry ignored the question. "Let's talk."
Yan thought for a moment. He thought about what would happen to him more than what he would say. He thought about whether he was ready for what was to come. This brief silence felt like months to Dmitry.
"Come in." There was surrender in his voice.
Dmitry made a clumsy entrance into Yan's room. When he stopped leaning on the doorframe, he lost his balance and stumbled towards the armchair in front of the bed, which was too small for Yan. Dmitry realized then that he had never been in this room in the mansion before. It was as if this room's path was twisted when he wasn't there. The room's decor felt so gloomy and cramped it didn't feel like it belonged to Yan at all.
Yan lunged forward by reflex but didn't want to touch Dmitry. He just froze. Dmitry regained his balance easily anyway.
"You're very drunk." Yan's voice was a whisper.
"You and Lane are close." He answered in the same tone, as if he hadn't heard anything. This wasn't entirely true; Lane was just as stone cold and walled-off as the General. Yan was almost starting to think this was just his type. But no, it wasn't true. Because neither of them knew who they really were. Neither themselves nor each other. But he knew the meaning of hearing this from Dmitry, who had claimed he didn't care about the relationships among the detachment members. He was watching Yan. He was seeing him. He was curious about him. While treating him like a ghost all this time, he had been carefully observing his every move.
But Yan wasn't sure he needed to know that anymore.
"You know we have a scouting mission tomorrow, right?"
The mission was very risky, and no one knew what they would encounter. They were going to a region people had never set foot in after the apocalypse. The infected, extraterrestrial creatures escaped from the rift, impossible roads... A helicopter would be sent from Adam to scout for dangers beforehand, and Dmitry would be there to command their directions and inform them of what lay ahead. The immortals could do this job, but it was well known that the General didn't trust them. There could be other otherworldly creatures there who could harm them. Also, it wasn't possible for them to use the radio while flying. So their job would be to stay on the ground and protect the detachment.
What Yan didn't know was that Dmitry had tried very hard to refuse this mission. He didn't want to send anyone to their deaths; he wasn't a fool. Especially not when he wouldn't be there himself.
The General, however, with a heavy heart, had been forced to give that order. For the first time in his life, he was giving an order he didn't want to. After all, the detachment's only job was to support Adam. The answer he received was clear and concise: "If you don't contribute to the project, the detachment will be disbanded."
In such a situation, they couldn't push away the resources Donovan provided with their own hands. Adam meant survival.
To survive, you had to die.
Dmitry broke the silence, his eyes still roaming the room. He knew he couldn't look into Yan's eyes, just as Yan couldn't look into his. "That's exactly what I came for."
Dmitry sat on the armchair he had just stumbled into. Yan pulled the desk chair he wasn't using to sit opposite him. The sight was comical. Two men, two soldiers, sitting across from each other but unable to look one another in the face. Its comical nature came from its tragic nature. The eyes that couldn't meet had a lot to say. The thing they lacked was the courage for it.
Dmitry continued his words, to which he'd received no answer. "I'll be frank. I didn't give this order willingly."
"This is practically a death mission. We don't know what's there. We don't know what we're supposed to do. This is utter stupidity. If you know me at all..."
Yan cut the sentence short with a laugh. He didn't know Dmitry anymore. He was trying to figure him out, to guess who he was. Besides... "How dare you come and tell me this? I don't know this Dmitry, but the Dmitry I knew sent me to my death."
The tone of his voice, which had initially risen, unexpectedly fell. It was as if his breath had given out, his heart felt like it would burst from his chest. He had never thought he could feel anger and sadness at the same time.
"I know! I face this reality every night! That's why I came."
Dmitry swallowed hard and loud.
A heavy, rusty silence filled the room. It bounced off the walls and settled on them. The alcohol in Dmitry's veins was leading him astray. He wanted to cleanse himself of all his inner struggles, to be freed. He wanted to be heard.
Yan, on the other hand, needed more than this confession. It couldn't be this simple. He stole a glance as Dmitry ran his trembling hands through his hair. He wanted to see the emotion in his eyes, to understand what was going through those blue eyes that chilled him to the core. He wanted to fight, to shout. He wanted to ask why.
Neither of them did.
Dmitry continued. This time, calmly. This was going to be a difficult night. "I just... I can't understand why you didn't object."
Yan frowned. He spoke as if he wasn't even in the past himself, but watching the events from afar. How could everything be so simple? Did he just expect him to come to him and beg for his life? Yan wanted to take back what he had said; Dmitry was still the same. So cold-hearted he thought the world revolved around him, and he would try to catch him off guard with his emotions. Because emotions were a weakness for him, and Yan's feelings for Dmitry were just a bargaining chip. It must feel good to be wanted. Yan had never experienced that.
"Since when did you start caring so much about my life? You're the General, and I'm your soldier. Isn't my duty to follow orders?"
The first sentence got over Dmitry over and over again, dragging him into a bottomless swamp then pulling him back out. "When did I ever not care?" he wanted to say to him. "I cared about your life so much that I didn't want to watch you die in front of my eyes." But this wouldn't justify what he had done. He couldn't stand being seen as so selfish and despicable. He wanted to shake him, to tell him that the reason they were in this state was because he had allowed his emotions to get between him and his duty, perhaps for the first and last time in his life. That he couldn't bear the weight of his feelings. He wanted to make him realize how much all of this was for him. He wanted to get revenge for the silence. An anger flared up inside him, a little for himself, and a little for Yan's sudden indifference.
"Since when did you start following orders to the letter? If you had, that day-" Dmitry fell silent, horrified by what came out of his own mouth, and felt the armchair he was sitting on turn into thorns that dug into his skin. He stood up by reflex against that uncomfortable feeling.
Yan, hearing this, practically jumped out of his seat.
"What about that day? You wouldn't have killed Pavel? You wouldn't leave me to my fate? Let me die alone?"
"Or would you have mercy? Was this all a punishment?"
His voice was so sharp that it was as if the room had shaken beneath his feet. "Go on, say it."
Yan was approaching Dmitry, completely losing himself. What had built up inside him was like a volcano. This time he didn't stop, one step and another. They were so close, so close that...
...he could grab the gun from Dmitry's belt.
Dmitry stood defenseless before him. He didn't take a step back, nor a step forward. The tension in his body was visible even in his facial expression; his jaw was clenched, his eyes were trembling. For the first time, Yan was able to look directly into those eyes that felt like a trap, if only for a tenth of a second.
"Neither of us would be in this situation." As he spoke, Dmitry's breath hit Yan's face like a gust of wind.
Yan let out a hysterical laugh. "Both of us? What's wrong with your situation? My life is the one that's been fucked!"
Yan quickly opened his closet and pulled a box from the depths. "Have you ever tried living in the shadows?"
Yan took the mask he found and put it on Dmitry's face. A Pierrot mask.
The demon hunter.
Dmitry froze. He was confronted with a truth he never wanted to accept. No, he was slapped by this truth.
"Look at this, look. Even this has your signature on it. There's a big, black stain you've left on everything in my life, Dmitry. No matter how much I wipe it away, it doesn't come off."
Hearing his name spill from Yan's lips, his breath quickened. When he finally lifted the mask from his face, he saw the tears streaming from Yan's eyes and felt a wave of chills spread through his entire body. He hadn't expected the resentment he caused to be so devastating. He wasn't prepared for this at all.
"You two are like Pierrot and Harlequin." Dmitry remembered the day he said this as if it were yesterday. At that moment, he was confronted with the truth of how much every word he had said, and even every word he hadn't, and every action he'd taken, had affected Yan's life. When this night was over, how was he going to deal with this for the rest of his life? Everything about Yan was heavy and shattering enough for him. He had spent years trying to get used to this feeling. And he couldn't take it anymore, that's why he had come. To unburden himself, not to make it even heavier. Dmitry would have rather died in that moment than live his whole life with a weight in his heart.
Every second in this room felt more and more infinite to Dmitry. To Yan, time felt like it was being wasted, like ice thrown into a fire. He felt like the breath he was consuming wasn't worth it when he saw this lack of reaction. But he had to do it. He would either say these things today, or never. Taking what was inside him to the grave would mean dying one more time. Dying while living had already become his habit. He couldn't kill what was inside him, too; he needed that frail spark. Not to live, but at least to breathe.
So he continued. He didn't even try to stop himself from crying. His voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. Yet he had no strength to even speak.
"Just look at me." Yan quickly took off his clothes and loosely unwrapped his bandages. He was naked in front of Dmitry. In every sense.
When he had no bandages, he felt spiritually naked. Without them, he felt like a monster. Like a Frankenstein made of spare parts.
Dmitry felt like he was going to faint. All he could think about was how his pale skin shone in the dim light. The elegance of his long, flat upper body. In his opinion, he was far from being flawed. Except for Dmitry's own mistakes. He was seeing Yan's wounds for the first time. And he understood his mistake once more. As if he hadn't understood it a million times already. He understood it one more time.
Yan approached Dmitry again. This time, his steps seemed to land differently on the floor. With every step he closed the distance, both of them could feel the blood pumping in their veins. One was filled with the fire of anger and revenge. The other with alcohol and torment.
Yan whispered. "Touch me."
This time, it was Yan who gave the order. And it was Dmitry who obeyed without question. As if he were enchanted, or rather, cursed, he touched the pale, in places bruised-colored pieces of skin that had been cut up and sewn together, with his trembling hands. It felt so foreign, so inhuman, so hard... Dmitry came to his senses when he felt this. The thing under his hand was not a person's skin, but the person he was touching was a human. He felt a repulsion he couldn't control.
Yan, on the other hand, continued to cry silently as he saw the hands roam over him. He felt nothing. Those hands, for whose touch he would have given up so much, were now where he wanted them to be. But Yan felt nothing. The warmth of his skin, the pressure of his fingertips, the trembling of his fingers... Nothing.
At that moment, he remembered why he had hidden them so much.
Yan hated being inhuman with every fiber of his being. The ability to feel was the only thing he had left. And that had been taken away from him.
A falling teardrop landed on Dmitry's hand. Yan whispered. "This is your creation. You forced me to become a monster."
Dmitry, unable to control his trembling lips, answered. "I'm sorry."
Was that all? Was the end of years of torment these two dry words? Would the pain and the might-have-beens just go away? Yan felt like his body couldn't carry him.
"I know you can't forgive me for the rest of your life. I'm so sorry." These sentences came out of his mouth more like a plea than an apology. Like a confession.
"I won't be able to forgive myself either, rest assured. I just need to confess my sins tonight. Help me."
Dmitry brought their faces even closer. Daring. He whispered towards Yan's full but pale lips. Because of the height difference, it was even harder for Dmitry not to look at his lips. "Wash me away from my sins."
When Yan heard this, he felt his brain load and unload over and over again. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a white light.
The first thing he knew after losing himself was that his lips were on Dmitry's. He could feel it. His lips were one of the few places where he hadn't lost feeling. And Yan felt every bit of those chapped lips. As he felt them, he couldn't stop himself from wanting more. It had been months since he had felt someone else's touch. It felt like hunger. It wasn't killing him, but it was causing him pain. A lot of pain, in fact.
This kiss had come like hot lava. It had come so warm in the cold of Rotkov. It flowed from their lips to their souls, filling the cracks inside and burning them. They were kissing as if it's by a primal instinct. Yan's lips were on Dmitry's, Dmitry's tongue was bravely sliding over Yan's. Soft, but firm. Familiar, but foreign. Dmitry, before they parted, ran his tongue over the staples on the inside of Yan's cheek, making Yan violently shiver. Both were breathless.
Yan didn't allow any words. He moved Dmitry with an agile motion, pushing him back onto the armchair behind them, and took off his detachment uniform in a single move. The body he had once dreamed of seeing was now in front of him. But he didn't feel the same way he did back then. He didn't know what this feeling was, to be honest. A desire mixed with anger. This must be what they called heated revenge. But was this how you got revenge on someone who dared to try to kill you?
Yan placed both his hands on the sides of the armchair and leaned slightly over Dmitry, continuing to kiss him. Their tangled hair got into each other. Dmitry slowly rested his trembling hand on Yan's jawline, his fingers slightly hanging down the side of his neck. Yan was searing even more with every movement he could feel. He couldn't move, he left the reins of the kiss entirely in Dmitry's hands. Dmitry was very confident in himself. He knew what he was doing. He sucked on his lips, turned his tongue, occasionally pulled his tongue away and kissed him gently, and while doing all of this, he lightly stroked his neck and chin with his fingers. A person couldn't keep his head.
When he felt Dmitry's teeth on his lips, the fever dream came to an end. Yan, without pulling away from his lips, whispered, "I'm kissing you so that I wouldn't kill you."
Yan placed his fingers on both sides of Dmitry's neck. He waited for Dmitry to show a reaction, a reflex. But Dmitry looked like a lamb who had accepted its sacrifice, who understood it had yielded to its destiny. With a vague, gloomy, and false innocence. Oh, General, aren't you too sinful to pretend to be an angel? Yan thought.
Before Dmitry could plead, Yan closed his lips over his. This time, Yan pushed his tongue into Dmitry's mouth. At the same time, he tightened his grip on his neck. He showed no mercy, never loosening his fingers. He felt his lips being crushed under his, his breath running out and his lungs shriveling. Why did it feel so good? He didn't have a killer inside him. Unlike Dmitry. His heart sank even when he had to kill animals to survive.
Yan wasn't a killer. He wasn't. He would have to repeat this to himself countless times.
Dmitry didn't stop him, he turned this into a confrontation. He grabbed the sitting Yan by the waist with one arm and pulled him onto his lap. Yan was caught off guard and loosened his grip on his neck a little. He hadn't expected to feel Dmitry getting hard under his hips. He hadn't expected to see him feel such lust for him. Dmitry had always seen him and used his interest to feed his own ego. He hadn't said anything, hadn't shown anything. Except for the fact that he knew. Dmitry had looked into Yan's eyes and understood so much. Maybe Yan was thinking wrong. Maybe the meaning of those looks, the meaning of allowing his interest, wasn't malicious.
But a good person wouldn't put his hand to the trigger.
Dmitry had handled the lack of air well. It wasn't that easy to kill the great General. Neither of them knew how long they had been kissing. The only thing they knew was that they had become too intertwined to part. Like water and alcohol. They had already changed each other's colors; there was no turning back from here.
When they parted, Yan exhaled his breath onto Dmitry's lips and straightened his posture, without knowing that this movement would make Dmitry lose himself. Dmitry threw his head back to suppress a groan; he still hadn't managed to catch his breath. He struggled to inhale the cold air, biting his lips. Yan mercilessly continued his movement, wrapping his arms around Dmitry's neck and pressing himself tightly onto his lap. With the effects of the steadily returning drunkenness, Dmitry felt like the screws in his brain were loosening from pleasure.
Yan grinned at what he was witnessing. General Dmitry was melting away under his hips. Thinking about the nights he couldn't sleep because he was fantasizing about Dmitry, it was so hard to believe. Now he was the one who was detached. Or he hoped he was, if he could just erase the moment Dmitry grabbed his waist and pulled him onto his lap. Yan's hands slowly moved towards Dmitry's belt, gently circling it but never stopping where they should. He enjoyed swimming in dangerous waters, hovering at Dmitry's boundaries. He had never been this close to him, not just physically, but emotionally, and he wasn't even talking about what he'd heard from him. He had now seen the Dmitry behind the closed doors. He had never seen him so vulnerable, so at a loss. He watched Dmitry's descent into madness, his heart quickening, his muscles twitching with every movement. Finally, his hand stopped right on Dmitry's member and he gently wrapped his fingers around it over the fabric. He lifted his face and this time, without hesitation, he wanted to look into his eyes, to see them as they were the first time. He wanted to return to a second before those eyes would shatter him like an earthquake from head to toe, as if it wasn't too late to get back there now.
Yan didn't realize Dmitry's eyes were roaming over his body while he was thinking about these things. He wasn't repulsed by the scars, he didn't find them strange. He was looking at them as if they had always been there, and he couldn't hide the admiration on his face. Suddenly, he moved his hands from Yan's back to his hips and squeezed hard. Yan let out a faint moan that escaped between his teeth and sounded like music to Dmitry's ears. As he pressed himself down, Dmitry also felt Yan's hardness; it felt like atonement for his sins. But the more this happened, the more he wanted to commit greater ones, to lay him down on the bed, climb on top of him, and meticulously examine and memorize every inch of his beautiful body. He wanted to move with a poisonous slowness and make him lose his mind. To see his eyes roll back, to watch him grip the sheets, to make his legs tremble, to feel his hands on his body. The thoughts that had run through Yan's mind countless times were now distracting Dmitry. If Dmitry could have known these things, would everything have been different? Could he have protected him from these wounds?
But he was so afraid of deepening these scars. Both on his body and on his soul. He didn't know if he could own the wreckage he had caused. He had never been good at facing his mistakes, so he had learned not to make them.
Until the day Yan got infected.
Dmitry shook his head as if to shake off his own thoughts and spoke. He answered a question he knew was on Yan's mind. "I wasn't surprised when I saw your Pierrot mask because I always knew it was you. The way you moved, the way you were always around me, the way you used your gun. You were shooting like a soldier, not a hunter. It couldn't have been anyone else but you. I'd recognize you with my eyes closed, Yan."
Yan stiffened at what he heard and moved their faces away from each other. As a retaliation to Dmitry saying his name without fear, he looked into his eyes this time without fear and saw that his tears were about to fall. He was speaking with difficulty; the lips that had said his name were still trembling, just like his hands. He was so afraid of crying that he was holding himself stiffly. When he lowered his gaze, he noticed his neck was bruised.
He had really choked him almost to death.
And Dmitry hadn't done anything. Even though he could have. He didn't move, he didn't fight. He didn't protest.
Yan's eyes filled with tears again. "If you knew I was there, why didn't you come? I tried so hard to make you see me."
"Just like always," Yan thought to himself. Dmitry was silent for a while. It was as if he was weighing how to say what he was going to say, but he was so drunk he wasn't even sure how he was speaking. "Because I accepted that you were dead."
Yan shivered with fear for a moment. His tongue got tangled. "So... you really-"
"No. No. Never." Dmitry shook his head from side to side repeatedly. He wanted to erase the thought that Yan was thinking this. He couldn't accept that Yan believed he could really be a killer. And his killer, at that! No, no, no.
He couldn't be seen as such a horrible person. He couldn't be such a horrible person.
"Then why?" Yan's voice cracked. It was as if he had waited for his most vulnerable moment to have this conversation. Yan couldn't handle this much evil. He couldn't accept that the man he had once loved had such a dark heart.
"Because to grieve for you was easier than missing you." Dmitry couldn't hold back the tears in his eyes as he said this.
"I needed you so much, I couldn't stand you not being there, Yan. Knowing you were dead was even easier for me. Tormenting myself with guilt was easier than waiting for you to be my side. Because I knew that even when you were with me, you'd be far away. And that's what happened." After this confession, Dmitry wanted to sob; he bit the inside of his cheeks until they bled to stop himself. This was a confession he couldn't even make to himself. That's why his voice was so shaky.
Yan froze after these sentences. Dmitry watched the expression on his face freeze. His lips drooped, his jaw went slack, and his straight posture broke. It was as if the tears in his eyes were falling not because he was crying, but because they had yielded to gravity. He had simply gone out. But he still didn't get up from his lap. He didn't pull away the hands, one on his waist and the other on his back. He just stayed there.
Dmitry felt like he was going deaf from the noise of the silence; he needed to silence his brain. He needed to hear him. He wanted him to come and say he understood him. Not to forgive him, but to understand. To understand the weight of living a life thinking you had killed someone. He spoke just to break the silence. "I'm sorry. I'll say this every chance I get. For every day I was late."
"You were very late, though." Yan couldn't take it anymore and rested his forehead on Dmitry's broad shoulder. Dmitry immediately wrapped his arms tightly around Yan's body. He wanted to feel all his weight on him, to become one with him. Yan's tears trickled down his shoulder.
He continued to speak in a muffled voice, his words barely understandable because he hadn't lifted his head. "You were so late, Dmitry, that it doesn't even have a meaning anymore."
"Back then, if you hugged me, my heart wouldn't have fit in my chest. If you kissed me, if you held me like that, I wouldn't have known what to do. Now, I feel like there's nothing in the place of my heart."
"I feel like I'm dead."
"You're the monster. Why am I the one who feels like a monster?"
Dmitry couldn't say anything. He tried so hard, he tried to find a way with words. But he couldn't. These sentences stayed inside him like a knife plunged into the deepest part of his stomach. If they came out, he would lose more blood, feel more pain, and his wound would grow even larger. From now on, they would echo and scream in his mind. They would enter his nightmares. He felt his stomach turn, his head spin, his blood pressure drop, he felt himself losing control. He felt the connection between his body and soul break. He felt his emotions become a giant avalanche and spiral out of control. He felt them slide down his spine and get trapped in the very center of his chest.
But still, he couldn't say anything.
The only thing he could do was wrap his arms tightly around him. He felt his strong body was useful for the first time. He was using these arms to hold someone tightly for the first time. To hold someone he was afraid of losing. The more he felt this fear, the more he hugged the timid body on top of him. A body that had once been as strong as his. Now, he could feel his bones. Yan had also given up being a soldier that day. When they had stitched up his wounds, he had also abandoned that body. And it should never have happened again. Especially not when he was under Dmitry's command. He couldn't face death once more because of him. The mere possibility made Dmitry break out in a cold sweat.
Neither of them knew how many hours they had spent like this. Yan had cried nonstop. As he cried, Dmitry had silently cried with him, occasionally running his fingers over his bare back. Yan's body was now trembling from crying. His eyes were dry; no tears were even coming out. Crying was painful now, but he couldn't stop himself. He wasn't thinking about anything, he didn't know what he was feeling. He just wanted to cry forever. It was as if he was empty inside. Only his eyes were full.
When he finally lifted his head, he saw that Dmitry, who he was sure had fallen asleep long ago, had also been crying with him all night. He had held him all night, never letting go, letting him pour his heart out, and had cried silently. Because he didn't want him to have to deal with the fact that he was also crying. He just looked into his wet eyes. He couldn't look at anything else but his shining blue eyes.
And at that moment, he realized that he couldn't get rid of him, or the damned feelings he had for him. And he did the only thing he could. He took a deep, very deep breath without ever looking away.
When Dmitry looked out the window, he saw that the sun was about to rise. Without saying anything, he turned his face back to Yan and brought a hand to his face, gently wiping away the tears that were about to dry on his cheeks.
Yan broke the hours of silence. He straightened up and moved himself away from Dmitry's bare upper body. He realized his voice was hoarse from crying when he spoke. "It's morning. We need to get ready."
"You're not going anywhere." Dmitry said in a clear, commanding tone. After the humble, gentle, and occasionally passionate tone he had gotten used to hearing all night, this return to that tone was unexpected. He would be General Dmitry forever. He would always be.
As Yan opened his mouth, Dmitry spoke with an even more superior and dominant voice. "If you're a soldier, and I'm the General, I'm not allowing my soldier to go on a mission exhausted and without sleep. You'll put the others at risk, too. Understood?"
Yan had no other choice. He licked his dry lips and replied. "Understood."
"Understood?" Dmitry was not joking at all.
"Understood, General." Feeling like it was the old days, if only for a minute, made both of them feel good. Dmitry couldn't help but hide his smile after his serious demeanor. When they were first getting close, he had tried so hard to convince them they could call him by his name, and now he was insisting he be called General. Seeing Dmitry smile, Yan also smiled with difficulty. It was a smile that meant nothing, both of them knew. But seeing each other smile after hours made both of them feel a little better.
It had really been a difficult night.
Yan sniffled, got up, and started looking for his clothes on the floor. In the twilight, it was hard to tell the clothes that looked exactly alike apart. He was starting to get cold, so he put on the first thing he grabbed. He had been warm all night by hugging Dmitry. As soon as he put it on, he knew he was wearing Dmitry's by the smell that had permeated it, but he didn't react. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to stay on him, but he needed it, at least for today.
Dmitry only realized he had been watching Yan much later. He noticed that he had only put on his clothes without wrapping his bandages. He didn't think he had made peace with himself, but he must have no longer needed to hide himself from Dmitry. After all... Yes, they had really made love. They had ended a night that started with Yan intending to grab his gun from his belt by making love. Dmitry had made love with a longing and desire he didn't even know he had, and Yan as if he wanted to take revenge. Dmitry tried to erase what was coming to his mind. The tight hips that moved over his groin, the eyes that scanned his body, the dance of their tongues... How was he going to forget? How was he going to stop himself from wanting more?
Besides, he was sure there was more to it than he could remember. He wished he wasn't drunk, but at the same time, he thought that if he wasn't this drunk, he wouldn't have been able to gather the courage to come to him.
Yan, on the other hand, was experiencing an acceptance mixed with regret. He had accepted that his deep feelings for Dmitry would never end, but it wasn't going to be easy. How could he still love someone who wanted to kill him? How could he still admire him like this?
When Dmitry got up quickly, his head spun and he cursed himself for finishing almost two bottles of whiskey. It felt like there was a hole in his stomach, and he was sure the shitty canned food wouldn't help at all.
This time, it wasn't like the night before. Yan grabbed Dmitry by the arm and prevented him from falling. Neither of them was talking. They were communicating with their eyes.
Dmitry nodded to say he was okay. It was very ironic that the man who wanted to kill him a few hours ago was now holding his arm so he wouldn't fall. What was even more ironic was that the man who had withstood being out of breath for minutes had surrendered to alcohol.
Dmitry struggled a bit to pull on the t-shirt from the floor; it was tight. He tried to hide his facial expression when he realized Yan had taken his shirt, looking down at the floor. But it was too late. Yan, on the other hand, had thought Dmitry would react, not like it. He’d figured Dmitry wasn’t one for such soft gestures.
After getting dressed, Dmitry looked one last time at Yan, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. It was time to go, he needed to let Yan sleep. But he didn't want to leave, his feet wouldn't move. Yan was too tired to think of anything.
If he looked any longer, he'd want to stay even more. So he turned his back. He approached the door; the old door opened with a slight touch. He half-stepped his body out through the open door. He looked back at Yan over his shoulder. "Yan."
Yan's hairs stood on end again the moment he heard his name. He hated how something so simple could be so impactful. "Yes?"
"Don't forgive me this easily." he whispered.
"I won't." Yan paused slightly before whispering his reply. Realizing what he had said, this time he spoke aloud. As if to engrave it into Dmitry's mind, as if to make it history.
"I won't forgive you."
"Good." Dmitry replied in as flat a tone as possible and turned his back completely.
Just as he was about to close the door, this time Yan called out. "Dmitry."
Hearing his name, Dmitry felt like the breath he'd taken was too much; he spoke, mixed with a sigh. "Yes?"
"Be careful." There was no emotion in Yan's voice, yet so much was felt.
"I will be." His voice dropped with each syllable.
au idea: how would the world be after if lane was successful to defeat baal and close the rift and everyone stayed alive. basically how would hsr had a sequel if it wasnt connected to the hsu
au idea: how would the world be after if lane was successful to defeat baal and close the rift and everyone stayed alive. basically how would hsr had a sequel if it wasnt connected to the hsu
the way malek's story became almost irrelevant and boring in hs3 and abh's finale is so weird??? like hello???? if he's not that important then why did you write WHOLE another book about him to add to the universe?????
in hs3 the canon li on abh's side of the story suddenly switched from malek to rafael for no reason??? him finally getting his justice after almost being absent in abh COULD be good if only elena didnt decide to brush malek's story under the rug suddenly for it. everything happened on abh's finale was written like it wasn't all about malek and we see him for a split second even if he's our li.
the way malek's story became almost irrelevant and boring in hs3 and abh's finale is so weird??? like hello???? if he's not that important then why did you write WHOLE another book about him to add to the universe?????
all 3 mcs in the hs universe are so apart from each other in personality/attidute and opinions wise that it made no sense to me to have all of them have the same paths. like AT ALL. and judging by the fact that the season has 30 episodes the authors look like they'll do a 'fuck around and find out' on us and im not ready for all these stories to be ruined that way.
as someone who doesnt play hsr but still loves to intrude, the whole idea of cain being baal is so stupid to me cause you're telling me the author would put such a huge plot twist in a random 'guess the truth' post? and if it *does* end up being true, then i just think sasha truly has lost it
and cain being maleks father is utter stupidity it's impossible for cain to be that old???? even the theory of lane and malek being siblings makes more sense
warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, body dysmorphia, mentions of death
note: this is my version of the scene where dmitry sees yan dressing the patches of skins
[...] Dmitry looked at the creature skins with disgust, but he didn't feel the same disgust when he looked at Yan. When he looked at him, all he saw were memories. Good and bad, they all passed before his eyes. "So this is how you survived. With the blood of creatures."
Dmitry couldn't accept it. He didn't know what he would turn into. He discreetly slipped the dog tag in his hand back into his pocket.
"You look sad that you didn't get a good shot."
Dmitry wanted to ignore the absurd and stinging comment, but as soon as he heard it, blood rushed to his head. He couldn't be thinking like this. He couldn't.
"I can't believe you did this to yourself. What if one day you transform?" Dmitry's voice was more impulsive and strained than he intended.
"The skins become calloused over time, so I stitch new ones in their place. So there's no blood circulation there." Yan was amazed by his own patience and calmness. When he was finished, he placed the needle in an inner pocket of his coat. Not once did his eyes meet Dmitry's, even for a second.
Dmitry waited desperately, like a small child, to be noticed. How could he do this to him? How could everything he knew, everything he had built, be so easily destroyed by a single action?
Dmitry discreetly put the dog tag back in his pants pocket. "This is why I told you I didn't trust you. Not because I don't know who you are. But because I don't know who you've become."
"You don't trust me?" Yan suddenly got up from the bed he was sitting on, stepped in front of Dmitry, and with a single move, he knocked Dmitry to the floor. The only thing Dmitry could register was his rapid breathing from anger. He spoke as he pressed his elbow against his throat. The pressure wasn't strong enough to cut off his breath, but it had completely immobilized him.
Taken by surprise, Dmitry looked at Yan in shock. Before, he couldn't even touch Dmitry, he wasn't strong enough. Now, with a single push, he had made him fall. For a moment, he couldn't process what was happening due to the pain in his shoulder blades. It didn't take long. After he came to his senses in a few seconds, he still didn't struggle or resist. He just gripped the arm on his throat hard from the front, causing him pain and forcing him to reduce the pressure. He was more surprised by how he did it than by why. How could he have become so strong and skilled? Where had he trained? If not Dmitry, who had he learned from?
"If you don't trust me, why aren't you fighting back?"
"If you don't trust me that bad, how are you so sure that I won't kill you right now?" [...]
