December 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

DECEMBER 2023 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.

PROMPT TWO — MISTY FALLS CAVE: The Interlopers go out in search of a hidden cave in the mountains found by Methuselah, which may still contain the hidden stash of a doomsday prepper. However, they get a little more than they bargained for when they venture inside.

PROMPT THREE — SERPENT'S BREATH: Interlopers investigate the mysterious cause of whatever is killing and poisoning the wildlife and vegetation of the area — and discover a supernatural creature is behind it.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-Decmber.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in a long time. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are pretty mouldy. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

It’s possible you may come across someone here. Another fellow Interloper, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilisation…?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People. In The town!

As you head into the outskirts and further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Ah, even more, still. Just as I thought.” he muses. “I wonder if this is perhaps the new status quo. I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. They bring more of you every so often. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful…. and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus grilled fish. There's also things like instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast, although newcomers will note from others who have been here some time that this particular feast is less bountiful this time.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is troubled, thoughtful.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the time and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

However, he will speak of something important, and will gladly share with others: “I have been looking for something for you all. There was once a townsfolk I knew of: Matthew. A suspicious, paranoid old miner who was interested in Prepping. He often spoke of the world coming to an end and strived to survive it. He often spoke of a cache hidden in the mountains, where he collected things of value. I have found the place, a hidden cave, but I am unable to get through, myself.”

… Well, he is an old man, after all.

“There are signs outside, so it is promising it is still intact. Perhaps the cache is still there. It might provide something useful for your growing numbers.”

MISTY FALLS CAVE

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: booby traps; claustrophobic situations; potential injury/maiming; potential hyperthermic situations; exploration horror;


Methuselah gives directions to those willing to check out the lead for the old prepper cache. Following the river up from Milton Basin will lead to rugged, difficult pathways up towards Misty Falls — a waterfall, the river source itself. Most of the river is completely frozen with the freezing temperatures, but it is not completely so the closer to the source you go. Misty Falls is certainly idyllic, or it would be perhaps on a fine summer’s day — good for a nice hike. But the place looks desolate in the eternal winter cursing the Northern Territories.

The half-frozen waterfall is a din of sound, but the water itself is incredibly fresh and cooling for those hot and tired from the hike up. Those paying attention might notice a small space between the water and rock, big enough to squeeze through to get behind the waterfall itself. In the small space, the entrance to a small cave can be found. There are faded handmade signs, all in the same hand, reading ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ and it isn’t too far of a stretch to wonder if perhaps this might be the secret stash of the old miner that Methuselah spoke of.

Venturing into the cave will not be an easy task. It seems the old miner was keen to keep any trespassers out, and most of this comes down to the cave itself. The walls of the cave quickly narrow, with only enough space to walk in single file. Jutting stone will easily make those stumble and trip. Occasionally the cave’s passage becomes narrower, meaning one might have to stoop or even crawl to carry on through. Here and there, the uneven floor dips, and your feet will find themselves in shin-deep frigid water. It’s slow-going, even if the actual passage itself isn’t incredibly long.

But perhaps the worst of all is the pressing darkness. A darkness so black even with lanterns switched off, one’s eyes cannot adjust to it. It is smothering, pressing. The air is stale and damp, you feel small — and the cave itself still presses in on you. The miner also kept a few tricks up his sleeve in order to keep out intruders. There are dead-ends, making it easy to get lost. Trip wires are hidden in the darkness, causing small man-made cave-ins to fall upon unsuspecting heads.

It might be safer, saner to give up and turn back. But persevering will see the cave opening up once more, this time widening into a room. The place is fashioned into some crude shelter. There is furniture, lanterns to be lit.

With more light, the miner’s stash is revealed: the painstaking, time-costing work of a paranoid old recluse. Crates of non-perishable foods, MREs, and bottled water. Medicines and basic medical supplies, flares and tools.

A perfect supply of survival goods, ripe for the taking.

SERPENT'S BREATH

WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of dead animals; malevolent creature; snakes/serpents; poison/airborne toxins; potential poisonings; potential burn injuries; potential (temporary) blinding.


It’s noticed in different ways: perhaps a trail of dead animals stands before you, each one with no particular injury other than what appears to be burned hides and flesh — it is as if the wildlife simply dropped dead, for the most part. Perhaps you notice huge, tunnel-like grooves in the deepest parts of the snow, a few feet in width — as if something long and thick had made its way through to clear a path. More worryingly for some, they might notice trails of rot: destroyed trees, decaying plant life, as if the very earth itself has been scorched in the wake of something passing through, leaving nothing but destruction and devastation.

Something is destroying the flora and fauna of the world. There seems to be no pattern, simply the random trails all over the place. There appears to be no other tracks, other than the long, smooth tunnel-like pathways. Whatever it is, it must be stopped. Resources are so precious in this world, if the beast is allowed to continue then all who live here will soon starve due to lack of animals to hunt and plants to gather.

Following the tunnels is a sure-way to hunt the beast down, although these paths will lead far from town. It is best to go prepared. But soon enough, you may come across the slumbering beast, curled up on the snow or coiled underneath some jutting space of stone along the mountains. You’ll hear and smell it before you see it: the long grumbling snores as it sleeps, and the putrid stench of rot. Everything in you tells you to flee, much like when an animal senses something toxic, or poisoning.

You press on, finally stumbling across the beast: a long, serpent-like dragon, with tremendous horns and fangs, coloured with muted grey scales and huge, glowing, flamed eyes.

The element of surprise will work in your favour to try and kill the beast, but it will give up a good fight. It will take several rounds of fights with it before it will finally be taken down permanently. It moves quickly, with scales like steel. Its eyes and mouth are its weakest spots, as is the soft underbelly of its body — fire will work well on harming this beast, especially with a well aimed shot into its mouth.

Its open mouth is where it holds its most powerful weapon. Not the fangs, no. The very reason why the air smells of rot, why the wildlife lay dead, why the earth decays at your feet: its breath. The beast’s breath is highly toxic, it will burn the skin of those it comes into contact with. Breathing in the fumes will poison those who breathe it in, and will cause a weakening, sickly illness. The breath may even temporarily blind.

These injuries are not fatal, and will heal with time and the basic medical attention available in the world. Victims will require rest for at least a week, depending on how severe the blast of the serpent’s breath. But killing the best will ensure its havoc is brought to an end.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

MISTY FALLS CAVE

1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.

SERPENT'S BREATH

1. The Stoor Worm, or Mester Stoor Worm, was a gigantic evil sea serpent of Orcadian folklore, capable of contaminating plants and destroying animals and humans with its putrid breath. Assipattle, the youngest son of a local farmer, defeated the creature by flinging still-burning peat into its mouth. As it died its teeth fell out to become the islands of Orkney, Shetland and the Faroes, and its body became Iceland.

2. It is possible the harvest the beast once it is killed, particularly for its fangs and skin. The skin/scales will provide ample protection to try to use it for armouring themselves. The fangs would provide useful for crafting knives or weapons.

3. It is... technically possible to eat the meat of the beast. Care should be taken in butchering, however. And it is not advised to eat the head.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin stifles a cry of pain as he's placed back, the sound becoming a muted groan instead. But there's relief to be found in the position, once he's there — lying back, out of the direct cold. Still, he continues to shudder even once the blankets are draped over him, though it's less uncontrollably as the moments tick by, little spasms here and there instead of a constant thing.

His relief wavers once the other man begins his examination, though Konstantin allows each little process, a willing patient through the check-ups even if he's tense, anxious. He swallows it back well enough, lying there like that, vision hazy but carefully watching every action with an attentiveness that counters his glossy-eyed daze; Konstantin's hanging on, stubbornly, fiercely, not wanting to lose himself, to lose consciousness. He fights, even now, when he's reduced to this.

But then the EMT says he needs to look at the site of injury, and perhaps Konstantin should have seen that coming, but to hear it voiced aloud elicits a reaction in him that he attempts to hide a few moments too late. A flare of nostrils, a hitch of breath, a tightening of jaw. Beneath the blankets, his fingers curl into his palms, nails biting his own skin. ]

You said it had healed. [ Something the other man voiced without the kind of shock that ordinarily would accompany such a revelation. Konstantin, of course, assumes the alien is to 'thank' for a seemingly miraculous recovery. He has no idea why this man would meet the news so well, doesn't know what this place is capable of. All he knows is—... a poorly-concealed horror to the thought of being examined there. He doesn't know what could happen, doesn't understand any of this. Why can't he... sense the creature, read it? Is it because it's been wounded so severely? If it's healing itself from the damages done by the military, and from being shot by him.....

....What if it becomes angry at him, for that action? Retaliates? It could tear through his body any moment. Or attack this man. And if not those things, then the EMT could simply learn about something very wrong going on with him; what if he feels it? What if it moves? ]

....I'm good enough knowing that. It's all right, you don't have to worry about this. You've done enough to help me.

[ It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. He doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know what the fuck to do. His breathing quickens again in his anxiety, muscles taut, tense. Will the EMT agree to it? If not, Konstantin knows he can't keep refusing, can't let himself grow more visibly alarmed by the thought, or he'll surely seem suspicious... ]

[m1895]

[ He’s fighting to remain conscious; Vasiliy can tell, sees the sharpness to his eyes struggling against the haze that threatens to envelop his stare. Of course someone like him wouldn’t give up so easily. He was awarded that medal for a good reason.

He says he needs to take a look at the actual site of the injury and Konstantin reacts as he more or less expected, with anxiety and defensiveness. His chest aches, feels hollow. I know it hurts. I know. Vasiliy would do anything in his power to make it stop hurting—but he can’t. It’s upsetting, beyond his general disconnected sympathy for patients. This is close, his own emotions bleeding through the cracks in a way that they shouldn’t be.

He tries to brush it off, which is downright jarring in the attempt’s juxtaposition with his physical state. The lips the words come from are paler than he gets the sense they should be. Full, probably attractive when they’re not glistening with blood. ]

Comrade. [ He keeps his voice gentle but insistent. ] I was only able to check to see if the wound was still there. I think you have internal bleeding. You may not be safe yet. I have to examine you. It's my duty—do you understand?

[ He'd do it even if it wasn't. ]

[sputnik]

[ Desperately, his mind grapples with whatever choices he has, here — and knows, almost immediately, that he has very little. He can refuse, but it will only read as belligerent and suspicious.

The best option for him right now is to do what it takes to stay in this small house, tucked away until he can figure out what to do from here. That means being compliant, giving the EMT no reason to be wary of him.

So he pretends that he wasn't thinking about it like that and that's the reason he initially refused, giving a gesture with his mouth like an "Ah", as though of understanding. That makes sense, of course it does. He sees now. ]

I understand. [ A wince, a soft pant of breath. He won't resist, although his anxiety spikes, pupils swelling. ]

Although I don't know understand how a wound like that could heal so quickly. All of this feels like a dream.

[ Not a dream, but a nightmare. He's been living in one for weeks now. In any case, he figures he should voice that confusion, make it seem that he doesn't understand how he could possibly be healed. ]

[m1895]

[ To his relief, the man relents without nearly as much difficulty as he'd been anticipating, seemingly accepting his helplessness in this situation, or the idea that Vasiliy really does have his best interests at heart.

(An uncomfortable weight deep in his chest at that, a faint sickness. He tries to ground himself in the realness of it, in the scene in front of him. This is different. It's different. He's not lying.

—was he lying before? The end result was always the same.)

There is something about this place. When people come here, they are cured, but... I don't know if it is internal too.

[ It's eerily similar to his own experience returning after a gunshot wound that should have—and very much did—kill him, the way in which people are pulled into this place. He wonders, sometimes, if the same phenomenon was responsible for his second life. If there's a way to convince the old man, to make him understand how badly he needs to know this. ]

Alright. I'm just going to look. Nothing else.

[ He carefully pushes the multiple blankets down, starts to reach for the bottom hem of his shirt, hesitates. His patient's still conscious, and not in critical condition, and he feels odd about such a perfunctory thing in a way he shouldn't, maybe because of the difference in rank between them. Any modicum of control he can give this man over his own situation will probably help, too. ]

Your shirt.

[sputnik]

[ Through the dizzy fog of himself, and the sharp, unwelcomed coils of ache and nausea, Konstantin listens to the other man's words. 'There is something about this place.' People.. cured...? How? How can it be possible? The kneejerk should be doubt, and somewhere in his logical mind there is a flicker of that, but....

His own logic has been so questioned, so challenged as of late, his thoughts and reality forced into a new shape, broken down and re-formed, and he hasn't remotely had time to truly process that. Everything has only been tunnel-vision, the concept of escape; he hasn't had a chance to slow down and really feel any of it.

Perhaps there are more "impossible" things that can exist. Perhaps he's lost his mind (but he knows he hasn't; that's one horror of it, maybe. He knows he hasn't.)

Perhaps all of that, paired with the stability this other man is so quickly providing him with, causes Konstantin to be unable to question that claim of Vasiliy's as much as someone else might. He only stares, watching him, mind processing his situation through that particular lens now.

....It would make more sense, in some way, than the alien being responsible for healing him. It's never been able to work quite so fast before — and especially not against such a severe wound. No, he... killed them both. Surely it can't resurrect from the dead. So this place could truly be the cause of him still living....? (Did this place heal the creature, too? Is it still there? The question keeps tumbling around and around in his mind; it's difficult to tell. His stomach hurts, but right now, everything hurts.)

He blinks out of his thoughts for a moment, finding himself surprised when the other man hesitates. 'your shirt' — he's waiting for Konstantin to lift it himself, he realises. It's so unexpected, even just that little dose of autonomy, perhaps borne out of respect, or kindness, or modesty, and no matter which it is, it's appreciated. Even just that much. It's the first he's truly had in.... almost a month. The cosmonaut gives a short movement of his head, almost a nod, and carefully his fingers curl against the sides of his tee-shirt, rolling it upwards. The fabric is tight as it is, but with the stickiness of blood, it's a slow process. And his body reacts poorly to the exposure to the air, cold, shuddering. He takes his time, but also because he's looking down at himself, eyes wide.

There's blood staining his abdomen in a circular shape, evidence that he'd been bleeding from the inside out. But it's not fresh blood, and most of it is dried or dying now. No open wound the size of a bullet glistens from his flesh; instead, he can see the scar even from here. Small and round. Konstantin gives a ragged breath, surprised, and lays his head back again, eyes moving up the ceiling for a moment, fighting against something that feels overwhelmed. ]

How long have you been in this strange place, Vasiliy Yegorovich? [ He needs to talk, or perhaps to be talked to, swallowing again. ] This place.... It's like Alice in Wonderland.

[m1895]

A few months. It's... strange here. It reminds me of what people said Siberia was like.

[ He wouldn't know firsthand, of course—the entirety of his life, until his death, was lived in two cities.

Vasiliy grabs his pen light from the coffee table again and turns it on, holding the source of the beam back a foot or so to give him a better look than the overcast skies outdoors had allowed. There's a scar, undeniably from a gunshot wound, but no open lacerations. None of the blood looks fresh, or even wet, for that matter. Good.

His hands move to the ear tubes of the stethoscope around his neck, but he doesn't put the buds in yet. ]

I need to listen. I'm not going to push down.

[sputnik]

[ Siberia... Konstantin, who was born right in the midst of the second World War's end, has a very different concept of places in time — looking back — though he's well-familiar with the history of their Motherland and connected events, as is normal, expected. Hearing the other man mention that brings up images in his mind from books and things his mother lived through, and— it's some quiet little relief, even if there's something a bit odd to all of this, too. Pieces he's yet to fit into place, about this man and the particular way he'd spoken in English before. At the moment, he can't spare any energy to dive in deeper, only grateful that in the country of Canada where he apparently has ended up somehow, he's managed to be rescued by a fellow Russian.

But those words stick with him. 'It's... strange here.' He wonders how else it may be strange, but there's little capability in him to question that too much further now, either. Especially not when Vasiliy starts examining the wound (or where it had been before), and Konstantin falls silent again, muscles tensing, trying to stay very still as the other's eyes roam his torso.

Despite his state, Konstantin's still attempting to form plans, potential routes he might need to take. If the EMT discovers anything.... peculiar to him, what will he do? What if he asks questions? Demands answers? Tells someone about him? (There's a thought like the sudden pinprick of a needle against his skin, sharp and unpleasant against his nerve endings, unwanted — he could overpower him if he has to — no.... no, he wouldn't, couldn't do that. He's never hurt anyone himself, like that. ....Though he was the one to direct the creature to kill Semiradov, but that was different, he didn't put his hands on the colonel.....)

....He's too weak to overpower anyone right now, regardless. That's right. The thought fizzles away, rots and dissolves, leaving a sick taste against Konstantin's tongue. Vasiliy is saying that he needs to listen, and the cosmonaut's eyes jerk to the stethoscope, staring there. It takes him a few long seconds to respond, and his heart is in his throat. ]

All right.

[ This may be what decides everything. If he.... hears something, Konstantin thinks he will know from his face. The young man seems calm, but surely he would betray signs of surprise or horror to hear evidence of something alive in the warmth of a human's body. Konstantin's eyes stay right on the other's face, watching, trying to force himself to stay calm. Nevertheless, his pulse is quicker and his breathing is tight; he's nervous, and he can't hide it.

Fortunately, something else is nervous too. The alien being, whose only experience with humankind has been unpleasant and who is no stranger to being subjected to a variety of tests given by these strange creatures, won't move, coiled and afraid, completely still. ]

cw xenophobia + emotional manipulation mention

[m1895]

[ He feels the other's deep brown eyes on him, watching. His respirations are stiff and shallow, pushing against a chest that almost doesn't want to expand—he's afraid. Maybe he has a history with medical personnel, some kind of trauma. Maybe he's just overwhelmed and a little afraid of everything right now. Either is understandable.

Vasiliy exhales on the frigid diaphragm of the stethoscope a few times in an effort to warm it at least slightly, then puts in the earbuds and gently places it to the lower right quadrant of the man's blood-smeared abdomen, listening. It's so quiet here, compared to everywhere he's ever used a stethoscope: it's just the two of them in the cold silent air of the cabin, surrounded by undisturbed snow endlessly stretching in every direction, muting even the footsteps of animals. It's easy to focus: soft, normal bowel sounds, the dull thump of a rapid heartbeat, no bruit. He tries not to get his hopes up; the blood had to come from somewhere, and what he was initially vomiting was bright red.

Right upper quadrant, same thing. Left upper. Left lower. Vasiliy exhales silently as he spreads the ear tubes and removes the buds from his ears. Shoulders relaxing slightly in their tension. It's still unwise to allow himself to feel any kind of hope; it's elementary to not invest that kind of emotion—but for the time being, the man might be safe. ]

It doesn't sound like you have any internal bleeding. That's good.

[ Beyond good. It would be a death sentence here, with no way to give a blood transfusion and no hospital to operate in.

Stressed as he was by the thought of contact with the stethoscope, Vasiliy has no doubt that percussion and palpation, his gloved hands on the most vulnerable place on his body—where he is currently hurting very much—will only make it worse. But he has to be thorough. It must be done, even if it's painful to know that in the short-term it will be stressful and at least uncomfortable for the man. ]

I need to feel now. I'm going to start very gently. Tell me when it hurts. [ Beat. In an effort to soothe some of the anxiety and tension pouring off of the man: ] Tell me to stop and I'll stop.

[ Knowing what to say, maybe it's... always come naturally to him, looking at the unfinished puzzle of another's mind and shaping the correct piece. He can remember a certain degree of unconscious mental calculation predating the NKVD; his induction into the secret police was when it had become conscious. His life, in some ways, had hinged on his ability to accurately read people, their wants, their insecurities. And he was good enough at it to hurt people. Hundreds of people.

Now it just makes him good at his job, or he's told. It helps with calming down hysterical American "boomers" (an uneasy feeling, that word, people who should be younger than himself) who aren't particularly thrilled about "illegals" transferring them onto gurneys after falls (he hadn't realized they'd use that word on Russians, but apparently he fell, to his shock, into the same category of not European enough as the Honduran coworker who had mentioned similar encounters). If he's lucky, it makes patients stop crying with fear.

It's genuine, in its own sort of way, or at least the desire to help is. But this, right now—this is different, in a way he'd struggle to articulate if he were asked. He would say it anyway. Even if he weren't an EMT. He says it not because it's the correct answer but because this man clearly needs to know that. ]

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin is absolutely not a praying man. The concept isn't something he'd even consider. (If he's being punished, it's cosmic, not divine, the universe correcting itself. He doesn't believe in God, or a god, or any god. There's no appeal, no evidence, no logic to the reasoning. He has been closer to the mysteries of the universe than most men will ever get, and it has only made him believe in God less. This is not a loss to him, but a comfort; he is very much at ease with his beliefs, or lack of.)

Not even in his most desperate moments would he turn to prayer. Not even now, no; he directs any thoughts inwards, not to himself but to the thing curled up within him. He doesn't know if it can feel or sense his thoughts anymore; something between them has been severed. But he tries now, in the hope that it might. His skin gives the slightest involuntary flinch at the initial touch, but it's only the reaction of his own body, no alien fluttering from within. 'Be still, be quiet. Please. Please.'

His eyes don't leave the EMT's face, locked on as he moves the bud of the instrument around his abdomen, listens. As he watches, he takes in each little part of Vasiliy Yegorovich's features: eyes soft, brown, and wide, lips shapely. He's handsome, youthful; it's difficult to place his age. He carries himself so calmly. He has been remarkably calm and assuring this entire time.

He doesn't seem to hear anything strange, and it's likewise a relief to hear that there's no internal bleeding. Konstantin exhales quietly, though his fingers are still curled into his own palms at his sides, and tighten when the other man voices that he now needs to touch him. He's squirming, just a little, body moving against the couch, uncomfortably. But he hesitates—

'Tell me to stop and I'll stop'

—blinks, again, finding himself taken aback. It's a gentleness and care that hasn't been given to him, these days. The facility's scientists were not rough with him, they were respectful and careful (and afraid, he knows), but there was never any doubt that he had no freedom. That he couldn't stop a test if he needed to stop it. He endured, and could do nothing but endure. He is good at enduring.

He is tired.

If he needs this to stop, Vasiliy will stop it. It means everything; he almost could claim it brings a fresh lump to his throat, one which he swallows against. He nods, carefully. This could cause the creature to stir, but maybe if he feels it give a shift, he can stop Vasiliy quickly enough.... ]

Thank you. [ His eyes stay on the other's, and the gratitude is genuine. He lets that show, doesn't conceal it, his own eyes softening. ] You are very kind.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy swallows as the cosmonaut holds his gaze and says that, eyes warm. It's so intimate, so personal, in a way that makes him feel like he's the only person in the entire town in that moment. His heart flutters in his chest, to his chagrin—this man's a patient, and there should be a measure of distance between them, but it feels impossible to sort out his own feelings from his professional duties, to keep everything from blending together. He's a cosmonaut, and a Hero of the Soviet Union, and the first Russian let alone Soviet he's seen here, and even with blood drying on his chin and pale with blood loss he's handsome. Hypovolemia can't change his eyes, the long dark lashes that frame them, his facial structure, the indescribable warmth and charisma he exudes in this moment.

He has to pull himself out of the few seconds of held eye contact. They feel much longer. ]

—...of course. Of course.

[ Medical trauma, it would seem like, judging by the faint look of surprise when he'd given him some modicum of control over the situation. He wonders what he went through, even though it's none of his business. Regarding the immediate, and the kindness the man really doesn't need to thank him for: ]

You've been though a lot.

[ He turns his eyes back towards the red-stained surface of his patient's abdomen, gently spreads a gloved hand over his skin, stays there for a moment before giving his middle finger a good two taps with the other hand. He repeats the same a few inches higher, and a few inches higher, covering all nine regions like this: no dullness, no fluid buildup. It corroborates the idea that arriving in this place took care of most of the internal bleeding in addition to the wound itself.

Gently, very gently, he begins to palpate, first only the light pressure of his fingertips. ]

Tell me if it hurts.

[ He gradually applies more pressure, fingers together, one hand over the other; he presses into the lower right first with the intent to repeat in the same clockwise order as he'd listened in, carefully watching for a reaction as he works. ]

[sputnik]

[ There's a tendency in him to be that way — intimate is a good word for it, something warm and affectionate and open, something that can tip so easily into a variety of things: familiarity, friendliness, flirtation. It's easy to feel welcomed by Konstantin, seen by him, indulged by him. It's never quite forced, but it's more that it's a role he's very comfortable falling into or amping up (and as he's learned very recently, when he needs to, utilising.)

...But here and now, there's no second or third layer to it. No goal on the other end of anything. It's genuine, something at his core; he is grateful (and very raw, and so very alone), and despite all of his nerves and fears to be touched and seen by the EMT, Konstantin is glad that he's here. Glad for a human touch, something he'd been reminded of by Tatiana.

Tatiana. Is she in danger, because of him? What happened to her....? But he can't focus on that now. He has to make it through this, first. Only when Vasiliy's gloved hand moves to his abdomen does he take his own eyes from the other man's face. This time he'll watch his hand instead, putting his concentration into awaiting any internal response from the stowaway inside of him. The scientists had never pushed their hands against him like this (of course, because they'd taken X-rays, seen what was inside of him), so this will be a new experience for them both.

Those fingertips move across him, pressing inwards, trying different areas, and to begin with, Konstantin only lies there, trying to keep his breathing as even as possible despite his anxiety. There's no pain at first, but when the EMT finds his stomach, there's an immediate reaction, eyes widening, lips parting with a sharp gasp of pain. The creature's body is soft and wet and can compress itself, but it still occupies space within him, too much space to ever be comfortable. And it hurts, almost in fresh new ways (he isn't thinking about this now, but he's been without any medication to aide his situation). There's the fact that both of them have been so freshly wounded; things are raw inside. And the thing is pushed deeper into him with that pressure, even if so gently. ]

It— it hurts. [ He almost whimpers the response, finding himself shocked by how much so it does. Instinctively, the muscles of his abdomen flinch back, stomach hollowing inwards a little, a movement that only further aggravates his pain. Sweat beads at his brow, pulse quickening again. ] It hurts there.

[m1895]

Okay. It's okay.

[ It's a very dramatic, immediate response; he's certain he feels his own heart break as he quickly withdraws his hands. For a man like this to gasp and cry out—he can't imagine how much pain he must be in, what sort of internal damage would bring a decorated cosmonaut to that point. His patient flinches and tries to get away instead of guarding: even tensing his abdominal muscles would exacerbate the pain. He wishes so desperately that he were a doctor, that he could make sense of this, that there was something he could do.

But there's not. There's nothing he can do. That level of acute pain says that something's still seriously wrong and there's nothing he can do about it. There is no modern doctor here. No surgeons who can open him up for exploratory surgery or repair guts torn apart by lead. Maybe he's the first instance of someone who wasn't completely healed upon arrival—but even so, the pain doesn't entirely line up with the site of the gunshot wound. Maybe there's an underlying issue. Vasiliy doesn't know. He's not trained for this, and he just doesn't know.

He could be dying. It occurs to him that were he to take the opiate of the masses he'd beg their God not to take this from him. Someone from his own country, someone who understands the urge to serve and contribute even if Vasiliy knows he can never disclose his own record in return. A friend. It's delusional to think that he and a commander in the Cosmonaut Corps could be friends, but—comrades. Someone who shares in the same fraternal order.

If Konstantin lives, if he just pulls through, he might not have to be alone. After all these years, the isolation, the feeling of being the last of his kind— it might end.

He can't do anything else about the abdominal injuries, but he can stabilize him in response to the secondary concerns, the blood loss. He's shivering, and he was before Vasiliy rolled up his shirt, lying on the couch beneath two blankets. He can't stay like this. It's not enough, and there's no heater. The best he can do is to add a mylar blanket to trap some of his body heat, or—theirs.

It's an emergency situation. He knows what he needs to do, and he doubts a man feeling as cold as he undoubtedly does will object. ]

We need to get you warm. Do you think you can stand up if I help you? I'm going to move you to the bedroom.

[sputnik]

[ He knows all of this is alarming, must leave the EMT startled and confused as to how to help him. He can't tell him that he knows some of why there's such pain. Maybe later he can tell him... something, weave together some kind of story, but for now, all he can concentrate on is fighting the urge to vomit again. And when Vasiliy removes his touch, he feels it move, fretful and agitated, readjusting itself inside of him. Worming itself as much as it can into a 'corner' of his stomach, pressing itself into the slope of a wall, curling itself in tighter. It shudders as though disturbed, and Konstantin's fingers tug his shirt back down, gingerly, jaw tightening as the fabric makes contact. ]

Yes— Yes, I think I can stand.

[ He finds that he wants to, as much as he dreads it; at least it's movement, some action forwards. His body is so restless, so uncomfortable, ill. He's reminded of being young and having a fever, caught in the throes of ache and burn. (Again, he thinks, he should be dead.)

The cosmonaut wills his body up to sit, slowly turns it so that his feet plant against the floor. One hand moves to Vasiliy's forearm, holds on there, and he'll try to get to his feet, allowing himself to pull on the other man, but not with his full strength (or as much of it as he has left, anyway.) But the change in posture, the movement of his torso and the subsequent pressure to his organs — too full, unnaturally full — has his throat suddenly convulsing again. He gags loudly and tips forwards suddenly; nothing comes up, but his body fights against its unwanted visitor, stomach heaving. Konstantin presses one palm to it even though this pressure hurts too, breathing heavily. ]

It's all right. It's all right.

[ Is he telling himself? Vasiliy? The creature? All of them, maybe, eyes squinted shut, so hard that he sees stars bursting behind his eyelids. He just has to make it to the bedroom. Then he can lie down — he just wants to lie down. ]

[m1895]

Okay. I've got you.

[ Vasiliy gingerly rests a hand on his upper arm: to stabilize him? To comfort him? Both? Regardless, it's not enough. Not nearly enough.

The cosmonaut's showing every sign of severe abdominal pain: the attempts to vomit, doubling over, tensing, holding his belly, closing his eyes, tightening his jaw. Could it be his appendix? Poisoning? What would even cause this? He can't shake the gunshot wound from his mind, but what if that's incidental, a red herring? He's showing signs of an obstruction, but Vasiliy didn't feel anything when he palpated, and his guts sounded normal.

He waits for the man to recover, or at least for the gagging to stop and his eyes to open, before he resumes guiding him toward the bed, a precarious task. A fall would be bad—Vasiliy doesn't doubt that he could brunt some of the impact if he were to lose consciousness, but the man's decidedly taller than him, broader, heavier. Now that he's standing, mechanics aren't to his advantage.

He waits until they've finally reached the bed—a mercy, a tremendous relief—before he excuses himself to collect the extra blankets from the couch and retrieve a prepackaged mylar one from his kit bag. 'Space blankets', the Americans call them, ironically. He sets the real blankets at the foot of the bed for the moment and shakes the reflective emergency blanket out to its full size, then drapes it over him, followed by three more: a quilt and two made of some kind of wool.

He slips his jacket off of his shoulders, then his long-sleeved shirt, leaving only the white short-sleeved undershirt beneath—it's going to be warm, lying under three regular blankets, mylar foil reflecting his and another's body heat back at him. Uncomfortable for him, no doubt, but potentially life-preserving for his hypovolemic cosmonaut friend. ]

I'm going to lie down with you. We need to stay under the mylar. It traps heat.

[ Said foil blanket crinkles as he climbs into bed and lifts the heavy strata of bedding, coming to lie beside him, the dark hairs on his arms barely brushing the sleeves of his woefully inadequate track jacket. The emergency blanket isn't even made to be used on a bed by one person, to say nothing of two, but they share some of the coverage.

It would be better if there was direct contact, warmer for him. But he won't die if he doesn't bridge the invisible barrier between them, and regardless of how much power he holds in this situation, in the grander scheme of things, it would be out of line for him to initiate, at least for the time being.

It's the first time he's slept in the same bed as anyone other than a hookup since he was shot. He tries not to think about it. ]

[sputnik]

[ Somehow, he wills his feet forwards with slow and shuffling footsteps towards the bedroom in the small home. He's afraid he may throw up again, but he can't imagine doing anything other than lying down as quickly as he can. If he can just lie down.... push his eyes against a pillow, cast himself in darkness, make everything stop spinning...

Once there, Konstantin is climbing slowly onto the other man's bed, going completely limp almost immediately once upon it. (How long has it been since he was in a bed, a proper one? Not the thin sterile white thing in the observation room, and not the one in the "living" quarters, which was more a simulation of life than anything else. A real bed, warm and comfortable.)

He's still shuddering as Vasiliy returns, starts draping blankets over him, and he's letting them cover him with a soft hiss of breath; the shudders don't stop, not just yet, but his body is already beginning to warm, it's just a slow process. Dark eyes look up as Vasiliy says he's going to lie down with him, trapping heat that way; somewhere in the dim fog of Konstantin's mind, he's able to realise that the other man is doing this for his benefit, to make him warmer. If there were ordinarily any hint of awkwardness to be felt in response, the cosmonaut feels none of it now. He only feels grateful, desperate, a blended mixture of the two. He wants warmth, needs it, needs what feels so wrong to stop. His body welcomes the warmth of another, the closeness of even just this much, someone lying under the same blankets. ]

Thank you. [ He says again, but his mouth still trembles around the words. He's warming up, but along with it, the fever-state of his mind warms, too. Burns hot, a strange contradiction to how cold and chilled he feels. He's aware of a need to shed one of his own layers, only because the athletic jacket he's still wearing is slightly damp from the snow, and so there's a moment where he's struggling under the layers of bedding to remove it, letting it drop off his side of the bed, and then he's rolling onto his side to face Vasiliy, legs curling, body quaking.

He isn't aware of how much time really passes. It could be minutes, or longer — it probably isn't very long, only feels that way because of his state, reality warped by his own illness. But he's finding himself nudging closer to the other body that's close but still away: the other warm, human body. Soft and welcoming to him. He isn't thinking altogether clearly, driven by instinct and need (but also want tangled up in there, too. Isn't it?) A want to be held, to be secure, in ways he hasn't been in so long? His eyelashes feel wet, either from sweat or from tears, he doesn't know, only knows that he feels so alone, so sick and alone.

It's childlike, the way he curls up against the other man's side. The way he makes himself smaller so as to fit into him, tucked down more into the blankets than Vasiliy is, so that he can find the warmest spots of him. His head tips forwards, face pressing to the crook of the other man's neck, burying itself in there. Like a child, an animal, nothing like a man — but in this moment, he's only this. Desperate and shaking, and then less so as he latches onto that warm body, pushes himself against it. His stomach hurts, aches, and he presses it to Vasiliy's side; immediately there's relief there, too. Like a heating pad to his abdomen, soothing.

Konstantin breathes against his neck, murmurs something hushed and fever-warm, eyelids fluttering closed. For the first time in— a very, very long time, he feels safe. ]

cw light provider/patient

[m1895]

[ Without hesitation, the other clings to him, curling up pitifully, adhering to his side—as Vasiliy expected, as he was hoping he would do. He'll warm up a lot faster this way, and he's still periodically shivering, even under so many layers of wool and mylar. Blankets can only trap heat his half-frozen body generates; another warm body can provide it.

What he doesn't anticipate is the cosmonaut's decision to bury his face in the sensitive skin of his bare neck, like—like a lover. Like they've known each other for a long time. He doesn't remember the last time he felt another's breath warm and damp against the corner of his jaw like this, or the tip of someone's nose pressing into his skin—cold, very cold. It feels surreal, someone this attractive and this acccomplished lying beside him, clinging to him. He shouldn't feel as flustered as he does. His heart shouldn't beat so much faster.

It's work. It's work.

Despite his own feelings, Vasiliy wraps an arm over the cosmonaut's shoulders, pulling him closer—he's clearly seeking out a sense of security, wants to be held. He's had a rough time, a frightening time. He's in pain Vasiliy can do nothing about, and in an unfamiliar place, and very, very cold. His heart aches with sympathy for the man.

He feels the cosmonaut's eyes shut, long dark lashes brushing the side of his neck, and stay shut. Konstantin half-consciously mumbles something Vasiliy can barely make out, and that's a problem. ]

Konstantin, I need you to stay awake a little longer. You can't sleep yet. Your temperature will drop if you go to sleep.

cw: mention of parasitic alien & head gore, it's fine

[sputnik]

[ An arm is draping around him, urging him closer to the source of comfort and warmth, and Konstantin not only lets it but welcomes it, shivering closer still to the other man's body. Something takes over him, something that swallows up any notion of shame or mortification. In the morning, he might feel those things. Not now. Now, he only needs warmth, comfort, safety. It's helping, this feeling of being held and compressed — beneath the layers of padding, curled up into something smaller. The pain doesn't necessarily leave him, but the nausea ripples and wavers, and it's a relief.

And the exhaustion is there, yawning open wide like a mouth; he wants to fall into it. To become nothing, fade away into it. But there are words, he hears Vasiliy speaking to him, giving a soft grunt in response, a puff of air against the other man's neck.

'you can't sleep yet'
'stay awake'
'I need you to'

Some part of his mind registers it, the importance of those words. Fights through the thick, glossy haze of his exhausted illness. If he sleeps, it could invite the creature to take over things. To knock him out fully, leave him unconscious. Drag itself up from the depths of him. Vasiliy won't know what's coming. It'll kill him in an instant, tear through his skull, worm its way into the soft bleeding tissue of his brain to eat what it needs to eat. This man will die, horribly, for helping him.

....The cosmonaut stirs a little, eyes fluttering back opened, gives a ragged exhale. ]

....Trying. Trying to. So tired. [ The mumbled words come out hoarse. Abruptly, he coughs, tensing up into Vasiliy as he does so, dipping his head for a moment, pressing it against his shoulder and then leaving it down like that, almost as though hiding his face from him now. ]

I'm sorry.... I'm sorry. I don't feel good.

[ There's a catch at the back of his throat with that childlike statement, almost a whine. ]

you know how it is!!

[m1895]

It's okay. You don't need to apologize.

[ I don't feel good, he says so pitifully, his words almost a whine. It goes without saying, certainly, so for a cosmonaut to so openly admit such a thing... he can't imagine. He wishes he could take some of the burden of the man's suffering onto his own shoulders. ]

Do you need to vomit again?

[ Asked gently, without a trace of judgment. In addition to the lingering pain of being shot, Vasiliy imagines his digestive tract is probably quite upset with all of the blood—if nothing else, even without lasting internal damage, ingesting so much blood is bound to cause an uneasy stomach. ]

[sputnik]

[ There's a beat of pause, some fuzzy awareness of the lack of disgust or aversion in the question voiced. Konstantin winces against his own short coughing spell, still keeping his head turned down and away, mindful at least to do that much. ]

No— I don't think so. [ He hopes it won't happen, and finally, finally, some modicum of shame slips back in at the very thought. Becoming sick in this man's bed, it would be humiliating. Konstantin's eyes squeeze shut as he tries to will his body to behave for him.

But now that he's lying down, and his body's pressed against something soft and warm, things within himself are calming. Perhaps stabilising, a little. The tension in his muscles begins to ebb away again, body relaxing so much that it goes limp against Vasiliy, the coughing dying down until there's silence. With his eyes closed, it would be too hard to fall into it; he's still trying to keep himself awake. And so, despite every piece of him wanting to succumb to his exhaustion, Konstantin opens his eyes again, though they're half-lidded, blurry. Maybe if he keeps talking... he can stay awake... ]

Tell me something about yourself, Vasiliy Yegorovich... How old are you?

[m1895]

Vasiliy, [ he says, softly. ] Call me Vasiliy.

[ Even an hour ago he never would have imagined he'd be inviting someone of such status to address him so personally—because even excluding his patronymic feels almost diminutive-personal given the individual in question—but in this moment he's decidedly not a commander, or a Hero of the Soviet Union, or a cosmonaut. He's just scared and seeking out closeness. He's a patient.

And besides—he wants to be addressed as just Konstantin. ]

34. How about you?

[ Anything to keep him talking. ]

[sputnik]

[ Just Vasiliy, then. Some part of him is deeply pleased at the allowance of familiarity — in this moment, wrapped up in the coils of his own ache and sickness, any sense of closeness feels like a lifeline. ]

39. Old, I know. Greying in places. [ The man breathes another puff of soft laughter inbetween the slow mumble of his exhausted words, managing to actually sound amused; he very much knows he's not "old", or at least doesn't associate the age with the term itself. Doesn't think of himself as old, is the way to put it. Konstantin enjoys his age, enjoys where he's at. (The grey is charming. He looks mature, seasoned, handsome in a different way than that of a "young" man. People trust him.)

....He was enjoying it. Things have changed. Can't think about that now. Instead, he puts focus into complimenting someone else — a tendency he falls into completely naturally by now, and spurned on ever that much more by his current state, dripping with sickness, mind spinning loose and strange and sloppy. The way he murmurs it sounds like he's impressed, warm, clearly meant complimentary, and he's even smiling against Vasiliy's shoulder as his head tilts towards it again— ]

You have such a youthful face, Comrade. I would have thought early 20's.

konstantin!!!!!! ohhhh my god

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy's heart catches in his throat at the compliment, at the little smile he feels blossom out against his skin—in another context, such as out drinking, it would be a clear attempt to flirt. In this one, though, it's a patient dizzy with blood loss trying to find some degree of human connection to reassure himself.

He tries to remind himself of that, to stay grounded in reality, but it's hard with the warm weight of the other's body resting against his side, with his head on his shoulder. He really, really hopes he isn't blushing. He's never been one to blush, but his face certainly feels warm.

This is incredibly unbecoming. He just hopes the cosmonaut named Konstantin doesn't remember it in the morning. Assuming he pulls through. ]

I—thank you. I've been told I look young for my age.

[ And he does, maybe mid-to-late twenties—but early twenties is undeniably a purposeful exaggeration. ]

39 isn't old.

[ And the greys intermingling with much darker hair at his temples are incredibly handsome, though he keeps that part to himself. ]

just a mildly inappropriately-affectionate brotherly comradely compliment to this man he just met!!!

[sputnik]

[ Tomorrow, if he does remember this, he'll feel a sweep of shame about it. Probably. Maybe.

(Konstantin has never been particularly shameful about things like this. Granted, he wouldn't normally be quite this.... extreme about it. There is a filter, a social awareness of what's appropriate (especially towards men; oh, he can toe the line into being flirtatious with them too, it's just that there are certain norms even a charming flirty Hero of the Soviet Union doesn't upset too much). ....Perhaps it's just that in this moment, no such filter exists. Not while he's so sick and strange, head spinning, body aching, shivering. He's spilling compliments to a man too easily; it feels safe, comfortable, good.)

He's silly, sick, stupid, it doesn't mean anything.

(But it does, of course. This man just saved his life. Brought a bleeding stranger into his home, into his own bed, gave him blankets and warmth and a body to move closer to. Konstantin wants him to know his gratitude. Maybe in this state, it manifests as loving on his neck and complimenting his face a little too heavily!) ]

You'll age so well. Everyone will be jealous of that eternally handsome face.

[ Another soft, breathy laugh, mixed with a slice of pain when the muscles of his diaphragm tighten even just so subtly enough to allow the sound to happen. He winces in the next moment, closes his eyes. Still, he continues to be a bit playful— ]

If I make it through the night, I'll never complain about my age again. Or the grey.

oh you know how it is... guys being comrades..

[m1895]

[ If he wasn't blushing before, he certainly is now. Maybe, if he's lucky, Konstantin won't remember this, or if he does, he'll dismiss it as an effect of the admittedly suffocating warmth he has to maintain to get the other's body temperature up.

He averts eye contact, smiles a little. How can he not, in a situation so unreal it feels like it has to be a dream? Quite possibly the most attractive man he's ever seen, even with blood staining his chin and his face pale with how much he's lost, leaning against him, nuzzling his neck, telling him how eternally handsome he is—a cosmonaut, someone who went to space and was awarded Hero of the Soviet Union, saying this to him, a 5'7 EMT-Basic. It just doesn't feel real. ]

You don't have to say that. I'll still help you. And you're going to make it through the night. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. [ Lightly, with the faintest trace of levity in a voice that remains hushed and (hopefully) soothing—disguising, at least superficially, a very serious reassurance—: ] I know what I'm doing. I've stabilized people who have lost a lot more blood than you.

comrade-in-arms.... (Kostya, literally squirming into this man's arms,)

[sputnik]

[ Admittedly, he's used to making people flushed — it's part of it, of who and what he is — and it would be a lie to claim that he doesn't enjoy it. Women and men alike become flushed by him. In this moment it's something familiar, maybe even something that feels safe; he feels the corners of his mouth twitching into another smile, one aimed up at Vasiliy for a moment, even as the other man looks away. This, too, tickles him, pleases him; he's flustered the EMT a little.

And he would be content to let that playfulness remain, to say a few silly things, to slip further into the murky lull of his ill state. But then Vasiliy Yegorovich says that — and it's a reminder of the severity of everything. Konstantin pauses, smile held in place and then slowly fading away.

'I'm not going to let anything happen to you.'

'I know what I'm doing.'

Reassurances. To a stranger that is in such a horrific state, one who might seem like he could die from it. Once again, Konstantin thinks how this man is doing so much for him. More than most anyone would. He doesn't know him. He could be dangerous, yet he lets him into his home, his bed. He vows to get him through the night.

(He is dangerous. He's a monster, home to a monstrous thing.) Konstantin's mouth tightens, lips forming a soft frown. He's so tired. His eyes are so heavy, and he feels warmer now, and his breathing is no longer rushed and shallow; he wants to sleep, more than anything. But if he falls asleep, what will happen to Vasiliy? ]

....I'm sorry for all of this, Comrade. [ In a beat, Konstantin goes from dazed and playful to serious, though his voice still drags with exhaustion, slurred at the edges. He's fighting to stay awake with everything he has. ] You don't have to stay... here, tonight. With me.

[ In this room, this bed. (He shouldn't, he should stay away from him. How does he explain it without exposing it? The danger of this?) ]

It's all right.... I'm warmer now. You don't have to.