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The steam whistles in the Earth Quarter blow four times a day, six days a week. The townsfolk of Earth can set their watches to it– although most of them don’t have watches, so they set their days to it instead. The only clock that matters is the Master’s, after all.
Stakh and Artemy are leaning against the iron fencing outside the Factory when the evening whistle blows, side by side in the pale dusk. The sole of Artemy’s boot rests against one of the fenceposts; he taps a restless rhythm against the outside of his thigh with his index and middle finger, but doesn’t speak. Stakh watches the workers spill from the gate nearby, returning suspicious glances with sullen glares. Occasionally someone who knows them – or rather, likes them; everyone knows them, but few want to see them loitering outside their workplace after a long day – pauses to say hello, and they both acknowledge the greeting with a nod or a ‘how fares your kine’.
Even by Big Vlad’s time, surely, it’s at least twenty minutes after the whistle that the Factory produces Bad Grief, who rolls out his neck as he follows the stream of workers from the door to the gate. When he sees Stakh and Artemy waiting, his posture lifts and he grins; they push themselves off the fence simultaneously to fall in step with him. “Wow,” Grief comments sarcastically, “look at you two– wastrels, both of you, hangin’ around while other people work.”
“Look at you– you look like shit,” Artemy responds from Grief’s right side, and gets shoved hard for it, making him stumble and laugh. Grief’s face and clothes are smeared with grease, and the metal shavings in his hair and on his shoulders makes him look like he got caught in a rusty snowstorm.
“We finished our work early,” Stakh explains from Grief's left, running a hand through his shoulder-length, dark hair. “And we don’t have a day off tomorrow–
“You finished your studying early,” Grief corrects.
“Actually, we reset a broken leg today,” Artemy offers.
“So? I could do that,” Grief lies, and Artemy laughs again; Stakh rolls his eyes to pretend he didn’t think that was funny.
“Where are we going?” Stakh asks as they reach the main street, where they have to turn either north or south.
“What’s that?”
“Where are we going?”
“Ma’s,” Grief says, and they turn south. “I gotta fuckin’ change. Then what, I dunno. Some guys at work were askin’ if we’d be in the Warehouses tonight, but that’s what I told ‘em– I dunno. Do you? Where’s Gravel?”
“She sent a letter a little while ago,” Stakh says. “She wants us to come over.”
Grief raises an eyebrow. “Speak up, I can’t hear shit. Party at Gravel’s?”
“Just us,” Artemy says. “She doesn’t want any crazy parties right now. Not after that last one.”
“I can’t do another night like that,” Stakh grumbles, but does raise his voice slightly for Grief’s sake. “I don’t remember anything after you started playing the gusli for those Chine girls.”
“Sure you can’t,” Grief escalates with a glint in his eye, “cause you killed a cop.” Stakh frowns disbelievingly.
“You didn’t,” Artemy assures him.
“C’mon, Cub, I’m only tryin’ to spare the man a humiliation. ‘Cause you tried to suck my dick, Stakh.”
“You didn’t,” Artemy repeats.
Stakh scowls. “I know that. Because I wouldn’t suck your dick to save my life, Grief.”
Grief giggles, but then becomes earnest. “Here, I’m just tryin’ to soften the blow: truth is, you went into Uncle Ravel’s room an’ broke this gorgeous vase. Looked priceless. Might’ve been an urn, now I think about it. He’s gonna shoot you dead when he gets back in town.”
“You didn’t,” Artemy says, and Stakh thumps Grief on the side of the head for the lies.
“Ow! Christ, Cub, you’re no fuckin’ fun.”
“You’re just torturing him,” Artemy reprimands, and Grief thumps him on the side of the head in turn. “Ow!” He tries to pay Grief back with a shove, which only sends Grief against Stakh like a cue ball, and then Stakh shoves Artemy in the shoulder, and Grief slips out of the altercation as Artemy lunges for Stakh’s ear.
“Gravel’s it is, then?” Grief asks, distracting Artemy and Stakh from their developing fight so they can start walking again. “Mess up her kitchen an’ act like friends– then maybe we all head for the Warehouses, see if anyone manages to start a good time goin’ without us.” Isidor’s boys nod their assent. Grief cocks his head daringly, pushing the envelope as always. “Then here’s the kicker: we need liquor. There’s grain alcohol in my sock drawer, but not enough for the four of us to be anywhere near whacked enough before we go down to the Warehouses– an’ I’m sure Gravel’s out. Maybe some hometown heroes would care to share what they have to spare…”
Stakh and Artemy share a look. Artemy says it isn’t stealing, because they help Isidor make the twyrine, and they’re allowed to have it; Stakh asks pointedly why, if that’s the case, they never tell him they’re taking it. But they’ve been having this conversation for a few years, so after making his reservations known Stakh irritably says, “I’ll go get the bottles. If you do it, Grief will have you stealing painkillers, too.”
“Now?” Artemy asks.
“Yes. I’ll meet you two at Gravel’s, alright?”
“Don’t kill any more cops while you’re unsupervised,” Grief jokes as a goodbye.
“Or suck any more dicks,” Artemy adds, and Grief snorts. Stakh rolls his eyes and splits off to head north, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Artemy and Grief continue on. Grief’s mother lives in a small but quiet apartment in the southernmost part of the Hindquarters, having moved in this year, courtesy of Grief managing to pull together a consistently solid income. Grief lives there too, but doesn’t talk about it that way. He talks about everything else as they walk, though, rambling about everything he sees as though he’s just providing background noise. Margo is at her sewing machine when they walk in, a desk lamp illuminating her workspace and making the only light in the room. She only glances up briefly to acknowledge them, the hammering of the needle continuing without pause, but Artemy can’t blame her. It’s less and less common that her body will tolerate working all day– that was why she was let go by the Bull Enterprise in the first place, after all– so she has to make the most of the good days she has.
Artemy follows Grief into his bedroom, where a proper light flickers to life, and closes the door behind him instinctively. Without hesitation, Grief kicks off his shoes and strips down to his underclothes while Artemy rests his feet in a chair near Grief’s small bed. Artemy notices that Grief’s forearms are streaked with dust most of the way to his elbows; he always pushes his sleeves up when he’s focused on a project, and doesn’t seem to notice. But he does have nice forearms, Artemy thinks idly, from an aesthetic perspective. Grief is built narrow, but muscles define themselves under his skin as he moves, especially in his arms, like his whole body is a precision instrument. Grabbing a jug of water and a washcloth from the top of his dresser, Grief tries to wipe most of the grime from his face, and then looks at Artemy meaningfully.
Artemy shakes his head in response to the unspoken question. “You’ve still got– Here.” He gets up again and takes the cloth from Grief so he can attack a thumb-width print of lithium grease by the corner of Grief’s jaw. When he’s done with that, he starts mussing Grief’s hair to shake the debris from it.
As expected, Grief doesn’t take well to this; he’s always protective of his hairstyle, making it a comedy act like everything else. He says, “Hey– hey, hands off the merchandise!” and bats at Artemy’s arm– but half-heartedly, betraying his exhaustion.
Artemy finishes shaking out Grief’s hair, but leaves it messy, and asks, “They kept you late in the shop again, huh?”
Pulling a new, non-work shirt over his undershirt, Grief replies, “Yeah. A valve fitting for one of the acid systems split in half at four-thirty, of course. Had to machine and fit a new one before they could use those vats again. Nothin’ ever breaks at the beginning of the day, ha. So– well, they said it was that or come in tomorrow to fix it, an’ I’ve got solid plans to be too hungover to move tomorrow.”
“Because ten hours a day isn’t enough,” Artemy remarks sarcastically. “They just have to get more of you.”
“Eleven most days. What can I say? It’s hard bein’ so popular,” Grief jokes. “You’re one to talk, Cub. You an’ old Burakh don’t even have off hours.”
“I’m off right now.”
“Hello! So am I.”
“They should be paying you for the overtime…”
“It was half an hour, Cub,” Grief says with a snort and a shake of the head, threading a belt through the loops on his pants.
“It was two hours last week.”
“An’ last week I was pissed about it. So what? Sure, I’d like more money. But there ain’t a lot of options in this town if I shoot myself in the foot with the Bull Industry, if you haven’t noticed. Seems like every job leads back to the Lump. An’ they didn’t cut me loose for missin’ work that day I spent under Town Hall, so I’m not gonna push the envelope,” Grief remarks. Artemy grinds his teeth, and Grief notices immediately. “Quit that, or you ain’t gonna have any teeth left to complain with. Look at you an’ your righteousness, like Saint fuckin’ Joseph, you think you are. Anyway– speaking of money– did you check up on that anasha today?”
“I did. It looks ready to go. Actually, I brought some with me, so we can try it tonight,” Artemy says. Grief’s face lights up as he steps into his boots. Twyre is far from the only plant that grows on the steppe: wild cannabis may not have a voice, but it’s still easy enough to identify– it only speaks to you when you burn it, Grief likes to say. And everybody likes talking to it, so whenever Artemy comes across or hears about a bed of it, he and Grief dry as much as they can, and Grief sells what they don’t share with Stakh and Gravel. Grief seems to be a fine machinist, but any kind of work that starts with the word honest will never be his best.
They leave as soon as Grief is ready, stopping only so Grief can give his mother a kiss goodbye. This time the pedal stops; she asks if he and Artemy have eaten, and he asks her the same. Even she calls him Bad Grief.
As they head down to the street again, Artemy thinks to ask: “Is Shithead gonna be at the Warehouses?”
“Who? Oh, no. No.” Grief makes a revolted expression. “No, that Shithead’s done. Or if he’s smart, he won’t be there. Bet Stakh wouldn’t mind cavin’ his skull in.”
Artemy inclines his head to indicate that this is good news. “Nor would I. That guy was a pain in the ass for too long.” Every one of Grief’s hobbies gets named Shithead, because they never last long enough for the gang to learn their real names (even if they knew the guy’s name before he became Shithead, they forget it quickly), and because they’re all shitheads. Grief likes to say there’s a nominative determinism that makes his bad luck their fault, but Lara always insists that isn’t his problem, and Stakh and Artemy laugh. Artemy supposes there aren’t many good men in Town to choose from– not that he’s tried very hard himself. Lara has generally better experiences with the women of the Knots, especially given the socials she hosts when Captain Ravel is on attachment, and Artemy has done alright thanks to her introductions once or twice. But she has more time to spare than Grief does.
“There’s this new cunt in the shop the last couple weeks,” Grief begins, “-- no, it’s not about that, moron. I’m takin’ a break, really, I am. He’s from out of town, some fancy millwright, one of those Olgimsky imports. Anyway, we got talkin’ – he says the last shop he worked at went union.” There’s a brief glance around, gauging the distance between the two of them and the nearest passersby, as they walk north along the quiet street – this is how Grief always talks. He likes lowering his voice enough that people really have to listen. Sometimes it seems like he’s more comfortable having private conversations in public.
“Really?” Artemy’s voice is barely above a whisper, which is less common for him. “Bolshevik?”
“Dunno.”
“I bet Vlad didn’t know that when he hired him.”
“Ha! Not a chance. Sounds like it went through after he’d left. But he gets mail from them still. We went for a smoke the other day after work, he told me some about it. Sounds different, sure.”
“Different? That’s oddly taciturn for you,” Artemy prods.
The Chine is dark already; Grief frees his hands from his pockets as he hops up to walk toe-to-heel on the wall of the bridge between the Knots and Earth. His voice returns to a conversational pitch so that Artemy can still hear him at their greater distance. “Well, it’s all you’ll get. You’re always sayin’ I’ve got a tongue long enough to be hanged by– now I’m takin’ your advice.” Artemy grinds his teeth, watching a small rodent dart across the road ahead of them.
Grief keeps chattering until they turn down the dirt path to Lara’s house, but Artemy can tell he’s tired– the cadence is a little more relaxed than usual. Artemy’s tired too, but the bright yellow light beckoning them from the Shelter’s windows lifts his spirits plenty. He knocks on the tight grain of the door twice with the pinky-side of his fist as Grief comes to a stop just behind him.
Moments later, it swings open to reveal a grinning Gravel. “There you are!” she reprimands gladly, stepping forward to hug Artemy as fuzzy music spills from the doorway. He gives her a quick squeeze before she pulls away to receive the same thing from Grief, as though it’s an entrance fee.
“You two didn’t bother waitin’ for us, did you!” Grief laughs into Lara’s hair, regarding the flush that’s already in her face.
Ignoring the comment, she lets go and ushers them both inside. “They’re here,” she announces, and the turn of her head directs them to her sitting room, where Stakh is sitting comfortably on an expensive if well-worn leather couch, a half-empty bottle in hand.
“About time,” Stakh replies to the room at large, holding the bottle up and out as an invitation. On the coffee table in front of him are three more.
Grief’s quick to accept, scurrying over to snatch it and slump down beside him as Artemy and Lara follow at a more relaxed pace. “Man of your word, Stakh Rubin,” he says appreciatively before he drinks; after, he adds: “Hey, we ain’t cheap either. Cub’s got anasha.”
“Excellent,” Gravel insists, blue eyes lighting up. “Give it here, Cub.” She grabs Artemy’s shoulder on his way to sit in an armchair, and his eyebrows lift as he remembers that Grief’s right. A palm-sized paper bag slips out of his pocket, which he hands up to her. She’s already sliding open a drawer in a side table with her other hand, from which she produces a hand-grinder and a few leaves of paper.
Artemy has this news to contribute too, as Stakh takes the bottle from Grief and passes it over the coffee table to him: “Shithead’s out.” He takes a deep swig of the golden-green liquid, turning his head to the side as if he just took a punch as its distinctive, astringent burn hits the back of his throat.
“Hey!” Stakh exclaims as Artemy drinks, clapping Grief on the back. “Alright, there’s some good news.”
Lara looks up from the grinder to echo Stakh’s sentiment with her own wordless shout of celebration. She’s kneeling on a beautiful imported rug so that she can give this operation her closest possible attention despite her tipsiness: nobody rolls a joint like Lara Ravel. It’s a point of pride. “Good for you,” she encourages Grief.
As Artemy passes the bottle back to Rubin, Grief laughs and shrugs off the compliments theatrically, settling in against Stakh’s side. “It’s true, it’s true,” he says. Stakh passes him the bottle, and he drinks; coming from Stakh, that’s the same as asking what happened. Grief has demonstrated that he’ll tolerate a lot of bad behavior, including from the latest Shithead, so it isn’t surprising that Stakh is curious. “He was gettin’ too chummy,” Grief confides, performing an exaggerated shudder. “Always with the ‘what are you up to,’ always with the touchin’, the arm around my shoulders, like we were doin’ something. It was gross.”
Again, Lara looks up from her work, pausing the scientific process of tapping the ground herb out onto the paper. She eyes Grief like he’s ridiculous. Artemy and Stakh do the same. “Because you hate getting familiar with people,” Lara says sarcastically, and nods towards the self-evident fact that Grief now has his feet up on the arm of the couch and is fully leaning back against Stakh as though the man is part of the furniture.
Grief turns his head to glance at Rubin, performatively. “Well, Stakh ain’t a shithead,” he quips, and all three of his friends laugh.
Stakh lifts the arm pinned behind Grief and drapes it over his friend’s shoulder, then pats Grief’s chest amiably, a small smile resting on his face. This is the best reason to restrict the social hour at Lara’s to the four of them: Stakh doesn’t settle like this in any other context. Grief passes the bottle back to him, his head bobbing from side to side in time with the music. Lara taps Artemy’s wrist, indicating that she wants a hand. He holds the paper down with his index and middle finger in the place she points to. Stakh asks Grief, “What about the one I introduced you to? Alexander? He isn’t a shithead.”
“He’s fuckin’ boring,” Grief complains. “Couldn’t spend five minutes with him without fallin’ asleep.”
“Well, you don’t have to talk to each other,” Stakh comments, making Grief laugh.
“I remember him– he’s decent. You should give him a chance,” Lara prescribes. Her head is almost level with the side table that she’s working on, she’s so focused.
“Decent, is that what I’m lookin’ for?”
“It should be.” She seals the edge with a wet fingertip and straightens up. “You need to stop sleeping with insane people.”
Artemy pulls a lighter out of his pocket and throws Grief a bone: “So that means that girl from the Stone Yard hasn’t been around here, right, Gravel?”
Her ears go red at the mention, and she snatches the lighter from him. “Don’t go running your mouth like that.”
Stakh inclines his head, following the trail to the information he has to share: “She was here earlier today.”
Grief chokes on his drink, and Artemy’s face lights up. “No!” Artemy exclaims.
“She left a coat here,” Stakh affirms. “I noticed it when I arrived. I mean, it was distinctive enough. Gravel shoved it in the closet so you wouldn’t see it.”
“Now that’s rich!” Grief accuses gleefully. Artemy laughs.
“I’m not going to let any of you touch this,” Lara lies as she lights the joint, earning a chorus of entreating concessions– ‘oh, come on,’ ‘we’re kidding,’ ‘Gravel,’ ‘hey, that’s ours,’ ‘don’t be like that.’ She smiles to herself as she exhales a dense, precise cloud of smoke and passes it to Artemy.
Artemy takes far too big of a hit– he always does this– and realizes it as he feels it stripping his throat. He doesn’t have a chance to curse his stupidity before he’s coughing, holding the joint out to Stakh. Grief laughs at him and hands the bottle across. Twyrine is a different burn, at least, so Artemy takes a couple of gulps before passing the bottle to Lara. “Fuck off,” he croaks at Grief, who only giggles. Stakh manages to pace himself, at least for now, and passes it to Grief as he exhales.
Project complete, Lara carefully stands up, dusting off her knees, and sits on the arm of the chair Artemy is in so that they can share the bottle for a while. “Are we going out tonight?” she asks the group at large. She and Grief have to lean towards each other so Grief can pass her the joint. Grief holds his breath proudly for several seconds before releasing, then visibly tries his hardest not to cough, and then fails. Artemy laughs at him, which makes him start coughing again. Lara laughs at both of them, punctuated by smoke, and starts to offer the joint to Stakh, who is also enjoying the show– but Artemy shakes his head stubbornly and grabs it from her even as he gasps for air.
“That’s the plan,” Stakh tells Lara as Artemy takes the smallest hit he possibly can and follows it immediately with twyrine.
When it’s Stakh’s turn, he again displays an impressive self-discipline, but Artemy chokes out, “Coward,” so Stakh glares and tries again, staring Artemy down while he fills his lungs completely with smoke, and then predictably starts coughing. Grief laughs, coughs once, and takes the joint.
It goes around like that, each of them escalating the next. Even Lara has to stumble to the kitchen for water, tears in her eyes. An empty bottle rolls under the couch, and no one tries to stop it or retrieve it. Lara’s second roll is much messier, but does the job just fine– it gets her and Artemy dancing clumsily around the salon. Laughing, Grief and Gravel cling to Stakh and Artemy respectively to keep them from throwing themselves at each other when one of them says something that they've both already forgotten.
By the time they venture out into the crisp, dark air, they’ve finished half the twyrine and all the weed, and they’re stumbling into each other a little bit as they file through the door. They at least have the foresight– or more accurately, the hindsight– to leave all their wallets at Lara’s. Artemy isn’t sure why Stakh starts chasing Grief, but Grief is whooping while he ducks and weaves between dumpsters and low walls, and Artemy and Lara have to shout and run after them, until Stakh trips over nothing, eats shit, and the others gather around him. It’s the same way they would circle around when one of them skinned a knee, when they were kids. The lights of the Town ripple across the surface of a puddle as Stakh’s hand splashes down into it to push himself back to his feet, shrugging off his friends’ concern. From there, they walk at a more even pace, talking in verse with Grief to keep him from climbing the trees.
At their approach, people duck down side streets, or even turn and head the other way completely. Artemy knows that Lara, like him, walks in two worlds– although unlike him, her bifurcated life is by choice. He’s heard the way people talk about young Lara Ravel, the gracious debutante, the moralistic friend-to-all. And yet here, Gravel gets the same wary looks as Grief or Stakh, and seems to enjoy them just as much. In contrast to his laid-back mood at Lara’s, Stakh is getting more agitated as they near the Warehouses. His whole body is tense, and his voice is growing louder and louder as he argues with Artemy about herb characteristics. Artemy’s glad they’re going– he doesn’t want to be the person Stakh takes his directionless frustration out on tonight.
Grief was being humble when he suggested that the scene in the Warehouses relies on the four of them– they all enjoy it, but everyone knows it’s Grief’s invention. Centering around a fire in an old oil drum, a corner of the uninhabited district is alive with lamplight and buzzing with people from rusty wall to rusty fence. These aren’t the people who show up to Lara’s house parties up north. The age range is the same, but most of them are, like Artemy, Grief, and Stakh, from Earth, and most of them are workers from the Station, the Warehouses, the Factory, or even the Abattoir. Grief and his friends have been drinking in the Warehouses since they started drinking. Eventually Grief started bringing other acquaintances around once in a while to sit on the industrial spools and drink and talk. Drinks and talks turned into mischief the way they always do when Grief is involved, and after things got out of hand once or twice, more people started showing up. The Bull Enterprise is dark on Sundays, which means a lot of people need to let off steam on Saturday nights. Now it’s not only the other young fitters from the machine shop in the tannery, or tanners Grief charms while he’s fixing their equipment that come down here after work on Saturdays, but those people’s friends and their friends’ friends and so on, as well as acquaintances of Stakh and Artemy and sometimes of Lara.
As soon as they step into the fire’s sphere of influence, they’re all shaking hands and accepting side-hugs and raucous greetings from people they can barely recognize in the low light. Gravel, Stakh, and Artemy tolerate this, but Bad Grief loves it. He steps into a stage presence as he enters this world that makes him seem as big as Stakh or Artemy, waltzing into the scene with exaggerated gestures and a unique energetic confidence. It’s no wonder he’s so popular: people shout and wave him into their circles when they see him, asking him to repeat some trick or joke he had shared before.
From there, most of the night is a blur of dancing and games and loud conversations. Artemy’s offered a few swigs from a bottle of clear alcohol that makes everything hazier. For the most part, he stays close to Grief. It’s not intentional, actually. There are a couple of other friends here that he wants to say hello to, but despite the fact that he’s already spent the whole evening with Grief, he finds himself with little interest in talking to anyone else. And despite Grief’s popularity, his humoring of other people’s demands for his attention seems like nothing more than a series of tangents from his conversation with Artemy– even though they’re just playing rhyming games, talking nonsense back and forth. Artemy can smell liquor and loud and sweat on Grief every time he leans in to share a joke next to Artemy's ear.
Stakh gets in a fight before long. Artemy isn’t sure what the other guy did to start it, but a circle pushes out from around the two of them as shouting turns to shoving, and then there are fists and boots making impact. Drunkenly, Artemy starts egging Stakh on with one of the chants used around the Circle of Suok, slamming his fist against the corrugated steel wall he’s standing near to imitate the drums that play there. Some of the Kin nearby hear him and join in, laughing and stomping and clapping, and then the rest of the Kin present pick it up. By the time Stakh leaves his opponent with what must be numerous broken bones, the space is full of the chorus of a rowdy herder song about a vicious odongh. Grief watches Artemy belt it with two distant cousins, making up for his poor singing with sheer enthusiasm. At one point Artemy goes looking for Lara, but turns on his heel and walks away when he finds her in a shadowed corner, with her hand up the skirt of the woman she’s pressing against the wall. “Fucking,” is all he says when Stakh, nursing what’s sure to be a black eye, asks after her.
Later, Artemy’s talking to Grief’s new coworker, skirting the topic of trade unions as deftly as he can while hammered– he thinks he’s doing a good job, at least– when he sees Stakh, Lara, and Grief forming a triangle nearby, clearly discussing something important. It looks like they’re problem-solving. He excuses himself from the conversation unceremoniously and pushes through the crowd to join in his friends’. Lara is saying, “I’m sure we have more.”
Grief is saying, “You sure? ‘Cause I’d swear we used the last of it–”
“The last of what?” Artemy asks.
“Nitrate,” Rubin enunciates to make sure Artemy catches it over the noise of others’ conversations. “I think we do have more.”
“We definitely have some,” Artemy agrees, making Grief’s eyebrows draw together. “I know what bag you’re thinking of– we used that, yeah. But there’s another, uh, in the– fuck, I can show you.”
Grief nods, and Artemy immediately feels the gentle but insistent tension of Grief grabbing on to his sleeve. “Lead the way, then. What, you think– how big?”
“Maybe–” Lara makes brackets of her thumb and index finger on both hands and holds them about six inches apart. “That should do.”
“Bigger, if anything,” Stakh adds. Artemy realizes they’re talking about a bomb, but doesn’t think to ask what it’s for. He has his direction, so he tugs Grief unsteadily through the crowd, mumbling ‘excuse me’s as he shoulders past people whose faces he can’t even get his eyes to focus on. He can feel Grief stumbling behind him, occasionally making a sound when he bumps into someone.
Down a narrow pathway and around a corner, there’s a loose section of wall hidden behind a couple empty barrels. Belly-laughing at something that wasn’t really funny, Grief and Artemy move the barrels aside and Artemy rotates the steel sheet on the axis of the one rivet that still holds, so that Grief with a lantern in hand can duck through the entrance it makes. Artemy follows, letting the false door fall haphazardly closed behind them. The cramped alleys of the Warehouses may have become a public venue, but no one outside the Apple Basket gang knows about this place.
The hideout isn’t huge. It only takes up about a quarter of the warehouse, which is a small, neglected one to begin with, dirt floored. A false wall of crates hides the space from view in case someone with the key comes in the front door. Inside are disorganized cases, boxes, and knicknacks– a shrine to more than a decade of ridiculous escapades. There’s a makeshift table covered in craft projects, wild hemp hanging to dry from lines that zigzag between the walls (at a considerable height, for Stakh’s sake), and a bed. Really, it’s two stacks of pallets covered with a spare floor mattress from Lara’s house. Years ago, they could all fit on it together– albeit in a cramped pile, but that was the fun. It’s been a long time since they were small enough for that, but the mess of hides and knit blankets on top of it is testament to the fact that it still sees some use. Artemy is pretty sure he was the last person to sleep here– a few weeks ago, after an argument with Isidor. Stakh uses it in similar circumstances, and Grief can be found here when he needs to lie low.
As promised, Artemy finds the spare bag of fertilizer in the tucked-away briefcase where he knows it will be and passes it to Grief, who is already pulling out everything else he needs: kerosene, gunpowder, twine, pipe. What Gravel can do with a joint, Grief can do with a bomb. Which is to say, Grief is the only person Artemy would trust to make one when he’s already too wasted to see. It’s muscle memory, however clumsy, and Artemy moves the lamp a bit farther from Grief’s workspace as Grief spills kerosene all over the table and they both laugh. Artemy props himself up next to Grief, palms steady on the edge of the table, and tilts his head back enough to find a position where he can relax his neck and close his eyes.
“You look like a chicken,” Grief remarks.
Artemy forces his eyes open again. “Huh?”
“The way they fall asleep sittin’ up– don’t fuckin’ pass out on me now, stupid, we’ve got moves an’ miles to make yet.”
Artemy shakes his head, turning to focus on Grief’s motion. “M’not falling asleep.” His attention follows Bad Grief’s down to his friend’s hands, which are quickly mixing the explosive and crimping the pipe. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, so Artemy can watch the contours of his skin shift as he makes sharp, confident motions. Their shoulders are inches apart, and Artemy feels like every mote of dust in the space between them is burning him. The room spins. Artemy lifts his gaze to Grief’s face, hoping that will clear his vision, and failing to think of looking somewhere else. There’s a small black mark on Grief’s cheekbone, near the corner of his eye– the footprint of a spark, presumably thrown by grinding metal. It gets tugged upwards as Grief’s eyes widen and he steps back, recoiling from another spill.
Grief sings under his breath as he works. Artemy joins in, inexplicably focused on the shape of Grief’s nose. When Grief closes the canister, it’s with a grunt that makes Artemy ask, “You tired?”
Grief laughs. “Only been workin’ since seven.”
“We could leave…”
“Fuck, no. Are you crazy? Night’s just gettin’ good.” He has that lopsided grin he gets when he’s up to no good. The one that can convince Artemy to do anything, from stealing from his father to jumping off a moving train. And Artemy does feel like he’s jumping from a moving train when Grief turns towards him. Grief’s hand parts from the device on the table and ghosts over Artemy’s shirt to rest at his hip. It’s a familiar gesture– it’s comfortable, just a gentle step closer as Grief gives him his attention, but it sends a wave of heat through Artemy’s body and cuts off his response in his throat.
Grief catches Artemy’s reaction, realizes what he’s doing, and reflexively says “Sorry,” letting his hand fall away.
“No,” Artemy responds instantly, and more forcefully than he intended, but it stops Grief from stepping away. “No, it’s fine,” he tries again, and thinks he manages to deliver it with his signature decisiveness rather than spontaneous desperation. His own hand finds Grief’s upper arm, to demonstrate that it’s fine.
Grief laughs, a little uncomfortably, but returns his hand to its previous position. Artemy wants to kiss Grief more than he’s ever wanted anything, but feels like he’ll get shot if he does. “You were sayin’?” Grief asks. His dark blue eyes are fixed on Artemy’s face– no surreptitious glances over the shoulder or into the middle distance. It’s like Artemy is the only thing in the world.
“I can’t remember, honestly,” Artemy admits, focusing on the rough linen of Grief’s shirt in his palm, balling his fist into it. So that’s okay. “But it was clever,” he offers along with a wry smile.
Grief’s grin widens. His voice is quiet, so Artemy has to listen, and it sounds the way his shirt feels. “‘Course it was.”
Artemy straightens up, which brings them closer together, and brings his other hand up to thumb at the char on Grief’s face. His chest feels too tight to breathe, but the heat of their small contact is going straight to something in the base of his skull, in his shoulders, and in the pit of his stomach, and his body keeps moving. Grief’s trying to keep his expression unreadably daring, but Artemy thinks he can see something flickering behind it. He thinks he can see something wanting. As Grief’s other hand slides up the front of Artemy’s shirt, exploratively, but this time with weight behind it, Artemy presses in to kiss him.
Instantly, Grief’s arm is hooking around his neck, pulling him deeper. His anxiety evaporates, replaced by a mounting exhilaration. Grief has a way of doing that to him, just as much as twyrine or cannabis. Grief’s lips are warm and dry, slightly chapped. Artemy’s fingers curl into Grief’s hair. It’s clumsy– Grief starts grinning, which makes Artemy start grinning too, and then they’re basically just nuzzling each other and laughing until Grief ducks his head to start mouthing at Artemy’s throat. Artemy pulls at Grief’s hair as if play-fighting. When he steps forward and their bodies meet, his hand shifting around to Grief’s back, his vision tunnels.
This time he pulls decisively enough to make Grief draw back, and then chases Grief’s mouth with his own. Grief answers the kiss with teeth. Always escalating. And Artemy always responds: he steps forward again, now driving Grief backwards, until Grief trips over the bed and has to cling to Artemy for balance, which Artemy can barely provide. Most of Artemy’s cognitive capacity is now dedicated to the rush of blood into his cock, which only increases when he feels a similar demand pressing against his hip. Everything else is elation growing into obsession, the release of something he held for years before he even knew it was there– but even the relief is drowned out by his body. He wants it so badly it hurts. He pushes Grief further, unfastening Grief’s belt, and Grief is more than happy to sit back on the edge of the mattress, slotting his thigh between Artemy’s legs to make him gasp. Grief shudders when Artemy’s cold palm finds the bare, soft skin of his torso, pushing both his shirt and undershirt up to his ribs. Their lips part, and Artemy has to force himself not to notice the open-mouthed way Grief is staring at him, like he’s a ghost or a dream, so that he can keep his focus as he struggles to unbutton Grief’s shirt. Next, Grief helps him wrestle off the undershirt before surging up for another kiss. Grief has a palm-sized longmark tattoo on the left side of his lower chest, over his ribs, which Artemy’s thumb traces without looking. He knows exactly where it is and how it interacts with the Lines of Grief’s body; he gave it to him two years ago, when he was learning the skill. It’s soom, the space between two heartbeats, chosen because Grief lives in that space. He makes an art of dilating it, either with adrenaline, or now– with the way he presses his thigh up against Artemy.
Artemy’s shirt and undershirt are next as they surface for air again, and then Grief’s clever fingers are running across his scalp and digging into the rolls of fat at his waist. Now it’s Artemy’s turn to kiss and bite at Grief’s neck, tasting sweat and motor oil. He tongues at the hollow of Grief’s collarbone and presses his shoulder down meaningfully, but when Grief lays back and Artemy starts kissing his chest, setting one knee on the bed for better leverage, an unsettling thought pops into Artemy’s head and he pulls back.
“What is it?” Grief asks, propping himself up on one elbow, his expression confused and unfocused. There’s a tight fear behind it, too: a sudden anxiety that Artemy is about to change his mind and leave, maybe forever.
Artemy meets Grief’s eyes, his brow furrowed. “... Am I a shithead?”
After a split-second of processing, the anxiety melts away; Grief’s face splits into a grin again and he laughs hard. “C’mere an' find out,” is his daring answer.
“I’m serious,” Artemy resists, and he is. He can’t find a better way to express what he means right now, but he knows the concern shows on his face. Grief cocks his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he processes further. Artemy’s expecting some silvery wordplay, but instead Grief sits up and cradles the side of his face with one hand.
Their noses brush together, and Grief kisses him gently. It’s brief and almost chaste– heart-stopping in a completely different way– and then Grief pulls away just enough to say, quietly, “I know when a shithead’s a shithead. You couldn’t be one if you tried, Cub. You ain’t even a good-for-nothing when I’m not around,” he adds with more of his typical humor.
Artemy gives Grief another kiss, pushing him onto his back again. “And yet you’re always around,” he volleys, “so what does that make me?”
“Dunno,” Grief says, tugging Artemy down after him, “but smart you sure ain’t. Shut up.”
“You’re one to talk about–” Artemy starts as he climbs clumsily over him, getting his other knee between Grief’s legs in search of their earlier friction. Grief cuts him off with a hungry kiss, bucking his hips against the downward pressure– and the palm now exploring him over his pants– only too happy to provide. He doesn’t seem to know where he’s allowed to touch Artemy now: his hand doesn’t roam far from the tattoo Artemy has in the same location as Grief’s. Artemy’s is samn, the circle of life. Artemy takes Grief’s wrist and guides it up to grab his breast, which Grief then does eagerly. Some of Artemy’s nerves are settled by knowing that Grief is even less experienced with Artemy’s anatomy than Artemy is with Grief’s– but mostly, his nerves are settled by the fuzzy ache that fills his body. Frustrated, he mutters, “Christ, I want to fuck you.” The laugh he gets from Grief then is a strange, elated one that he’s never heard before.
When he unfastens Grief’s pants and finds him only half-hard, Grief admits, “I’m pretty drunk,” against Artemy’s jaw. Then it’s Artemy’s turn to laugh, making Grief kick at his legs in protest. Artemy shifts lower to bite at Grief’s torso, first over his tattoo and then at his waist and stomach, feeling Grief’s body jerk and his cock twitch each time. He slips off the bed so that he can settle between Grief’s legs, as Grief's fingers curl into his hair insistently, and take him into his mouth. Grief gasps and curses, his thighs pressing in against Artemy’s sides. Artemy strokes Grief quickly as he works, squeezing the muscle at the joint of Grief’s hips with his other hand and breathing heavily through his nose.
Grief is loud– funnily enough, he starts rattling off some nonsense verse as though he isn’t aware he’s doing it, but keeps cutting himself off with moans that seem to catch him by surprise. As he stiffens under the soft pressure of Artemy’s tongue, he gets progressively louder until Artemy is worried enough about the thin walls of their hideout to draw back.
Climbing back up onto the mattress, Artemy hisses, “Shut the fuck up. There’s two hundred people out at the fire.”
Grief’s eyes widen, his face flushed. “Shit. I forgot.”
“You’re one to talk about stupid,” Artemy repeats affectionately, sliding his own belt out from its loops and dropping it on the mattress beside them. Grief pushes himself up slightly to catch Artemy in a breathless kiss. His moan when Artemy’s hand returns to his cock is at least quieter for being muffled by Artemy’s mouth. Artemy follows as Grief lays back down, propping himself up with his elbow beside Grief’s head. He starts grinding against Grief’s thigh in earnest before he even realizes he’s doing it, and then he feels Grief unfastening his pants.
Grief’s pulse quickens in Artemy’s hand as he slips his own under the waist of Artemy’s boxers and finds slick, wet heat there. He runs his middle and ring finger along the crease at the top of Artemy’s thigh twice, sending a strong current through Artemy’s whole nervous system, and responds with pleased noises to Artemy’s physical reaction to the teasing. Artemy bites Grief’s lower lip, making him arch upward into Artemy’s touch. Grief’s fingers seek deeper, finding where Artemy is pretty sure he’s harder than he ever has been in his life, and then it’s Artemy’s turn to moan against Grief.
It’s no surprise that Grief is good with his hands. The pad of his middle finger finds a quick pace against Artemy’s cock, only occasionally slipping back to press two digits inside him. As the achy heat builds, Artemy is surprised by the strength of his urge to ride Grief, but the idea of taking off his boots and pants is too complicated to entertain right now, so he just enjoys the way Grief shivers and tenses as he touches him, and the warm friction against Grief’s hand. Nothing clever comes out of Grief from that point on. Artemy is kissing his neck and shoulder when he reaches the edge, leaving his mouth free, but it’s just “fuck, Cub– Cub– shit!” before he comes, clinging to Artemy as his body convulses.
Artemy knows he won’t be able to finish when he’s this drunk– or if he can, it’ll take far more time than they possibly have before Gravel (or worse, Stakh) comes looking for them– so he presses his thumb into Grief’s mouth and rides his palm, focusing on the waves of pleasure breaking in his body as Grief spreads his fingers inside him, until the anxiety of how long they’ve been here gets too acute to ignore. Then he kisses Grief soundly before pulling away, saying, “Alright, I’m good.” A deep breath helps him shake off the cottony haze of the need he's been chasing.
Grief sits up after him. “You sure? I can… Anything you want.”
That makes Artemy smile. He stands and immediately almost eats shit, but catches himself with an offbeat laugh. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he says in his I-mean-it voice, which Grief knows and trusts well enough to catch the rag Artemy throws to him and clean himself up without worrying further.
“Is this done?” Artemy asks, pointing at the bomb on the table, when he remembers it while looking around for his belt.
Nodding, Grief tosses him his belt before putting his own undershirt back on. “A bomb’s not through ‘till you light the fuse,” he chatters, “but I’ve done all I can do.”
“I hope that’s true,” Artemy rhymes back as he gets dressed, “or Gravel’s gonna be pissed at you.”
As they both try to make their hair look normal, Grief glances at Artemy almost sheepishly and says, “So we got in a fight.”
Artemy laughs. “A fight?”
Grief nods. “Yeah, just a scrap on the way here. Got tossed around a little, that’s all.”
“And I saved your ass, right?” Artemy doesn’t feel great about lying to Stakh and Gravel, but he certainly doesn’t want to tell them the real reason they’re so late and disheveled.
“They wouldn’t believe it otherwise,” Grief jokes. Artemy’s pretty sure that this would be a lot more awkward if they were sober, but as it is, Grief tucks the bomb safely into a pocket and Artemy picks up their lamp. Before Artemy can open the door, Grief grabs his wrist to get his attention, and then pushes him up against the wall for one more kiss. They laugh together as they wander back to the party, looking for their friends. This time they both know what they’re laughing at.
It turns out that the bomb was Stakh’s idea. With it in hand, and Artemy and Grief’s alibi basically unchallenged, the four of them slip out of the party and stumble out to the darkened Station, herbs and grasses quiet under their feet. There, an expensive new loading machine has replaced twenty workers, leaving them unceremoniously unemployed, and leaving the remaining workers without the safety checks their coworkers once provided– some of whom shared their grievances with Stakh at the party. “It won’t change anything,” Grief tells Stakh doubtfully, and Stakh says it’ll change something for someone, for some time, and Artemy and Lara can’t help but agree. So Grief stuffs the package into a chain well, where he knows it’ll look the most accidental, and Gravel keeps lookout, and Artemy rolls out the fuse, and Stakh lights it when Grief’s well clear. They all start running before it goes off, to give themselves the best head-start they can before people come looking. But Artemy sees Grief pause to look back when they hear the percussion, fire dancing in his eyes.
They run until they’re back in the Town proper, and then they’re back to laughing and jostling each other. Stakh gives Lara shit for her impromptu hookup, but she isn’t the only one who blushes in the dark. When they get back to Lara’s house, not even she bothers to make the trek upstairs, but she invokes host privilege to claim the couch where she collapses. Artemy fumbles with getting spare blankets from the linen closet as Grief curls up, catlike, in an armchair and Stakh sprawls on the carpet. After throwing the blankets at his friends, he joins Stakh on the floor.
In the morning, they each wake up and stir at their own pace, but no one moves or speaks until Stakh pushes himself to his feet and walks with a certain dignity out of the sitting room. Artemy is impressed at the discipline, until Stakh opens the front door and retches. Lara is facedown and unmoving on the couch in a mess of dark hair, although Artemy is certain she’s fully awake. As Artemy sits up, Grief cracks one eye open at him, but then closes it again with a quiet groan. Artemy feels the room swoop a hundred and eighty degrees and falls onto his back, starting to writhe as his head threatens to implode. Stakh staggers back to the section of carpet next to Artemy and lays down again. Artemy covers his face with both arms as the memories trickle back.
Eventually, heart pounding, he sneaks another peek at Grief. As he’s looking, Grief’s eye opens again. They stare at each other for a few moments, neither backing down, both wondering what the other remembers and what they think of what they know. Inevitably, the physical torment demands their attention, and Grief covers his eyes and twists around in his chair as Artemy tries Lara’s strategy of rolling over to block out all possible light. He has the fleeting thought that it’s funny that this is how Grief chooses to spend his only day off.