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“Commie, Commie, please . . .”
The sound of the anarchist’s cries rings through the air. Commie stays frozen in place, but he looks up from the floor and across the room at Ancom.
“Commie, please, please help me!”
Qui is sobbing, arms twisted tightly and painfully behind quis back, a gun to quis temple. And Commie can’t move, doesn’t take a step towards quem, even if quis cries are heart wrenching. Nazi is the one weilding the weapon, and there’s a thrilled glint in his eyes, watching Ancom squirm and panic before him. Commie doesn’t protest as Nazi twists Ancom’s arms further with his free hand, prompting more cries of pain from quem.
He has the thought of ordering Nazi to stop, to let Ancom go, but he doesn’t act. Instead, he only watches.
“You think he’s going to save you?” Nazi says. He pushes the gun hard against Ancom’s head, knocking quis skull back against a wall. Qui whimpers.
“Please, Commie,” qui begs again, “he’s going to kill me, I can’t—”
Nazi laughs coldly. “He isn’t going to help you. This was all his idea,” Nazi says. Ancom’s eyes widen with a new horror, looking right at Commie. Quis breath is shallow and ragged.
“No,” qui says, “no, no, that can’t be true.” Sobs overtake quis words again for a moment. Nazi smirks. “Please, Commie, tell me he’s lying,” qui says.
Commie is looking at quem, watching quem continue to cry and struggle helplessly against Nazi’s grip, but he doesn’t do or say anything. The urge is strong in the back of his mind to get Nazi to back off and comfort Ancom, yet it makes no difference in his actions. Nazi nudges quis head into the wall again with the gun, and looks over at Commie.
“Well, Commie, shall I?” Nazi asks.
“Please, please, no—”
To Commie’s own horror, he nods his approval. And Nazi pulls the trigger.
Commie blinks once and Ancom’s body has fallen to the floor. Blood is splattered on the wall and is soon pooling on the floor around what remains of quis skull. Quis face is destroyed past recognition, the gore of quis brain scattered everywhere. Strangely, one of Commie’s main concerns is how much damage has been done to quis clothes, parts of quis hoodie soaked through with blood.
A string of tendons and nerves connects one of quis eyeballs to a particularly intact piece of quis brain, some distance away from quis body. Nazi walks over to it, and, grimacing, crushes the eye under his boot. “Green’s such an ugly color for eyes, don’t you think?” he says to Commie, casually. Commie thinks he will be sick.
And then he wakes, gasping, still feeling just as queasy as he did in his dream. He sits upright in bed, and his eyes sting from the brightness of the room. The lights are on, he’s overwhelmingly nauseous, and Ancom is sitting beside him, saying something he can’t process yet. Ancom. Ancom’s beside him, who he has just seen killed moments before. He can’t bear to look over at quem yet, fully convinced he will be facing the same gruesome scene of quis death. Sweat is running down the back of his neck, and with shaking hands, he throws the sheets off himself. The act begins to bring him back to reality. He’s in bed, he realizes, with full control over what he does, and this is familiar, and—
And his lover is there next to him, very much alive, gently gripping at his arm. “It’s okay,” qui is saying, “it’s okay. You’re okay. You were having a bad dream. It’s okay, Commie, you’re okay.”
“Ancom?” He says, and his voice comes out weak and shaky.
“It’s just me, Commie, it’s okay, everything’s okay,” qui assures.
Commie turns to face quem, heart hammering with strong remnants of fear, and his breath hitches once more. Ancom is looking at him with concern and pity, quis tired eyes studying him, and he quickly surveys over the freckles across quis cheeks, quis soft, pouting lips, and finally quis bright green eyes and long eyelashes. Relief washes over him, so strong he feels unable to breathe for a moment, and all he can do is take quem into his arms. He cradles quis head against his shoulder, holding quem close and tight.
“Ancom,” he sighs. No other words will come to him. “Ancom, Ancom . . .”
Qui returns his embrace, and quis fingers are curling in his hair. “It’s alright, Commie, it’s okay, it was just a bad dream.” Quis words are in contrast to his fresh memories of quem crying for him. His stomach twists, throat closing up, the sound of Ancom’s panicked sobs seeming to ring in his ears endlessly. He holds quem tighter, pulling quem ever closer until qui settles in his lap.
“Моя любовь,” he breathes. He presses quis lithe form to his chest and doesn’t think he’ll ever feel okay with letting go. Qui is safe here, just like this, and Commie feels committed to keeping quem that way forever.
“It’s okay, Commie. Breathe. It wasn’t real, you’re okay.”
His eyes burn as they well up with tears. “I will never allow you to be hurt,” he promises, “never. You will be safe with me, моя любовь, I will keep you safe.”
Ancom sighs into his chest. “I know, Commie, it’s okay. I’m right here,” qui says. Quis words and hands and breath bring him some comfort, but he squeezes his eyes shut, tears running down his cheeks. He can’t get the image out of his head of Ancom’s demolished skull, preceded by quis cries for help that he failed to address. His chest aches, heart still beating fast. He couldn’t save Ancom, he let quem get killed, when qui had clearly trusted him to protect quem.
It’s familiar and warm when Ancom brings a hand up to cup his face. This certainly isn’t the first time qui has been awake with him in the middle of the night, trying quis best to calm him down from a nightmare. “Look at me, baby. It’s okay,” qui says. Quis voice is calm and assuring, and Commie does as qui asks.
He can’t help but feel a bit ashamed that qui is seeing him cry like this, even if it’s nothing new. His nightmares are frequent, and he should know by now that the events of them aren’t real and aren’t worth getting upset over. But the images still haunt him, and for now, that is the most overwhelming feeling. His tears drip off his jaw and onto the bedsheets, and he feels weak, when he’s certain the only thing that would make him feel alright would be an act of strength to protect Ancom.
Quis gaze is warm and loving. Another wave of nauseousness comes over him at the thought of how little he deserves to be here with quem. He shakes his head, trying to escape the idea, and presses a kiss to Ancom’s forehead.
“Do you wanna tell me what this one was about?” qui asks. Qui seems intent on brushing away each of his tears as they fall now, until Commie envelopes quem against himself tight enough that it makes it impossible for quem. Quis arms come around him, and qui rubs his back. He tries to get his breath to slow.
“I . . .” Commie begins, but his throat closes up before he can get any more out. He fixates instead on softly kissing the top of Ancom’s head, breathing in the comforting scent of quis hair.
“It was about me again, wasn’t it?” Ancom says.
Commie nods and chokes on a sob that’s rising in his throat before he can do anything to stop it.
“Well, it was just a nightmare. Just a bad dream. I’m right here, and I’m not gonna hurt you, or go anywhere, and we’ll lay down together soon and get a good night’s sleep. Okay?” Ancom sounds confident and sure of quemself. Commie still isn’t fully convinced he won’t blink and suddenly be back in the horrific scene with Nazi and Ancom’s disfigured corpse.
“I will never let anyone take you away from me,” Commie whispers.
“I know, Tankie, I know. Is that what happened? In your nightmare?”
He clutches quem tightly and nods. “It was . . . it was Nazi. He had you, and—and—” His breath hitches, and he buries his face in Ancom’s hair.
Ancom pulls away slightly to look up at him. “That’ll never happen. Nothing like that will ever happen again. We’re safe now, both of us,” qui says.
“I know,” Commie says, and rationally, he does. “But it felt so real.”
Ancom shifts before him, and he is hesitant to loosen his hold and let quem move. Qui tugs on his arm to get him to lay down beside quem. He reluctantly follows, still feeling unable to relax, but he mirrors Ancom by resting his head back on his pillow. Ancom immediately curls around him, tangling their legs together, sprawled across his chest. He sighs, and feels a bit more at ease.
“You know,” Ancom muses, “I never really understood how you got it in your head that Nazi could beat me in a fight.”
He runs a hand through quis hair. “Forgive me, I often forget you can be as violent as you are sweet,” he murmurs.
Ancom huffs. “I’m not sweet .”
Despite the pit of horror that remains in his stomach, a smile tugs at his lips. “Hm. You are. It is not bad trait.”
“I have never been sweet to fascists.”
“Of course not.” Commie takes a few deep breaths. Ancom’s tough, much more power packed in that little body than Commie gives quem credit for. “Do not fault me for worrying when you bring baseball bat to fight men with guns,” he says.
“You can worry all you want. It’s not gonna stop me from bashing in a fucker’s skull if they’re racist enough.”
He sighs, strokes Ancom’s hair, and looks up at the ceiling. He knows Ancom wishes he was less protective of quem. But the recurring nightmares of him watching quem die, or, worse, dying at his hand, do nothing to help.
“I suppose you are more skilled at combat than I realize,” he relents.
“Obviously. That’s why you have all these dreams, you know. You haven’t . . . internalized it. I don’t know how much more I’ll have to do for you to get it through your head.”
Commie doesn’t know, either. Maybe it will simply take time, he thinks, of having night after peaceful night with quem, watching both of their scars lighten and fade. “Will you tell me again, моя любовь, about when you killed Nazi?” He asks.
He knows it’s been years. He knows Ancom would probably love to forget, would probably love to never have to speak about it again. But he thinks that, perhaps, hearing Ancom recount what qui considers to be one of quis greatest triumphs might be what he needs to calm down.
“Sure,” Ancom says.
Quis warm body is perfect to Commie, on top of him, wrapped around him, and qui adjusts as an if to nestle into him further. His eyes close momentarily, and he instantly feels overwhelmed with memories of various nightmares, the particularly gorey scenes he’s witnessed throughout his life transposed onto Ancom, in some cruel trick his mind can’t quit playing on him. He feels another wave of nausea come over him, and he clenches his jaw until it dully aches.
So he keeps his eyes wide open, looking down at his fingers tangled in Ancom’s curls, and tries to snap out of it, tries to focus on the present. He doesn’t see how he’ll possibly be able to fall asleep again.
“Your heart’s beating so fast, baby. You need to calm down a little, first,” Ancom says, sitting up slightly to look at him.
“How?” He whispers. “How am I supposed to calm down from . . . from watching you die?”
Ancom is looking at him with nothing but pity, and it somehow makes him feel worse. It is foolish and unproductive to keep Ancom awake like this, over things far beyond quis control. Things he should be able to easily move past. Things that aren’t even close to being a reality for them, anymore. Rationally, he is entirely aware Ancom is safe, and things are better now, they truly are. But that isn’t enough to overpower how real, fresh and raw, the emotions are. And, try as he might, he never seems to be able to hide it from Ancom when he is upset.
“It’s okay, Commie,” qui says. “I’m right here. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real, we’re safe now. Nobody’s gonna hurt me. And you know why?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes sting, and he keeps chiding himself for not being able to feel content in the moment.
“Because they’re dead, Commie,” qui continues. “We killed them. You remember?”
Hesitantly, he nods. Of course he remembers.
“And where’s Nazi now?”
“Rotting in hell,” he answers.
“Exactly. And I put him there. And listen, Commie, this part’s important—it wasn’t even close . He couldn’t have killed me.”
Commie’s heard it before. He knows, he knows. But he grimaces and says, “He came very close many times. Before.”
“And he failed! I didn’t. In the end I killed that fucker and you burnt his body. And that’s—that’s what matters, Commie. Whatever you still dream about is never gonna happen.”
“I still fear I will lose you,” Commie says quietly. “I do not know if that will ever stop.”
“I hope it will. One day. I’m staying right here with you. I’ll always be right here.” Qui takes his hand, presses light kisses to his knuckles.
“I will keep you safe. Always,” he promises again.
“I know you will.” Quis lips turn up slightly, and something begins to click into place, seeing Ancom’s smile. He would much rather keep Ancom happy than concern quem with conversations like this one. Qui playfully pokes his cheek and says, “At least until I get too annoying. Then I’m sure you’ll get rid of me.”
Ancom’s tone is teasing, and a weight lifts at seeing quem happy, but the words strike a nerve and he bursts into tears all over again.
He reaches for quem, pulling quem tightly into his arms again, just like before, but now, he isn’t holding back the sobs that flood out of his chest. He thinks of betraying Ancom, thinks of how foolish it is that he ever considered it, and all the guilt and regret pours out of him in the form of tears. “I will never, Ancom,” he manages.
“Tankie . . . I didn’t mean it. I know you’re not going to hurt me. It’s okay now. It’s all okay, everything’s going to be okay. I’m sorry, baby, I wasn’t trying to upset you again.”
Commie shakes his head and wipes furiously at his cheeks. “It is not your fault. I have betrayed you before. I don’t deserve your trust like this, but if it is any . . . consolation . . . I still have nightmares about hurting you. I never want to see you hurt again.”
“We are past that now,” Ancom says firmly. “That was a lifetime ago. And even then, you never had the balls to actually hurt me. I thought you had forgiven yourself for that by now.” Qui frowns and rests back on his chest. “You have nightmares about hurting me? I thought it was always someone else.”
Shamefully, Commie nods. “Tonight it was . . . it was with Nazi. It was like I was working with him, and he killed you, and I . . .” He can hardly bear to say it outloud, as if it will suddenly bring the scenario into fruition. “And he asked for my approval first. And I gave it.” He lays there, with Ancom curled around him, crying, and feels pathetic.
“Commie . . . it was just a dream. It’s okay. I know you would never do that, would you?”
“Never, never, моя любовь. I must protect you, I must—”
“Right. It’s just a dream. I know that I’m safe with you. You might be . . . overprotective of me sometimes, but I know you won’t let me get hurt if you’re there.
“Good.” He tries to take deep breaths before Ancom can tell him to do it, realizing his breathing is coming out ragged and shallow, even as his sobs begin to subside. “Yes. Good. I would not know what to do without you.”
It’s a statement he knows Ancom would usually argue with, but for now, qui softly says, “You won’t have to worry about that.”
Ancom stays in place, right where he wants quem, and runs quis fingers along a scar on his neck. He’s still trying to get his breathing under control, but the memory of his dream is starting to seem a bit hazier, and exhaustion is felt in his bones.
As if on cue, Ancom asks, “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep any more tonight, baby? I’ll stay up with you if you can’t.”
He hesitates to answer, feeling unsure. He thinks he would rather spend the rest of the night just like this, looking around the bright room, listening to Ancom. But qui must be tired, and perhaps, he thinks, he’ll feel better the longer he can hold Ancom close like this. “I think so,” he says. “I would like to.”
“You need the sleep,” qui says, and shifts. “Will you let me up, and I’ll turn off the lights? If that’s okay with you.”
He doesn’t move and doesn’t answer for an embarrassingly long moment, dreading the idea of letting go of Ancom and not being able to see quem. But he eventually slips his hands off quis back and head, allowing quem to get out of bed and submerge the room in darkness once more. He knows it’s absurd, but he swears his heart rate goes back up the moment Ancom parts with him.
It is only a few seconds, though, before Ancom is right back with him where qui belongs, in his arms, face burrowing into his chest. Qui pulls the sheets around them both and settles in with a sigh. “I love you, Tankie. I wish I could make it so you never had these nightmares,” qui whispers.
Commie doesn’t try to suppress the little blossom of warmth he feels at quis words. “I love you, too,” he says, and drops a kiss on the top of quis head.
“Do you still want me to tell you about when I killed Nazi?” Qui asks.
He had let go of the idea, and was under the assumption qui wanted to sleep now, but qui sounds suspiciously enthusiastic in quis question, and yes, Commie does want to hear the story again.
“I would like that,” he says.
And qui launches into a story of a violent frenzy, sounding proud, and takes pleasure in telling him of the sound the fascist’s skull made when it broke. He smiles. Qui is still full of fire, and love, and life, none of which has faded from the day he first met quem. He holds quem tight, and vows to himself, as he has done many nights before, to keep Ancom that way. Just like this.
And his eyes slowly shut before Ancom has even finished speaking.