Title: Empathy
Fandom: A Hero of Our Time
Characters/Parings: Werner, Grushnitski/Pechorin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash (heavily implied)
Word Count: 1,174
Summary: Werner, as Pechorin's second, goes to make arrangements for the duel.
"I'll never agree to that! He insulted me publicly! It's all a different thing now, a different thing."
Grushnitski's voice was high pitched and frantic. I could almost picture the boy tugging at the strings of his epaulets or running both hands through his hair, grey eyes frantic and unfocused.
"Shut up, you fool. What is it to you? Now listen, I have been second in five duels, don't you think I know how to set up such an affair? It is never unhealthy to give someone a good fright, now you just mark my word, and why put yourself in danger when there is no need?"
Rokotov, the Dragoons captain, was, on the contrary, calm, if slightly frustrated with the "thick-headedness" of his younger friend. I decided then that I had lingered for long enough, not because I had very many qualms about the eavesdropping but more because I wanted to get the whole unpleasant affair over with. On walking into the room, I encountered a sinisterly silent group. Rokotov watched me wearily while the other gentleman was simply looking straight in front of himself. Grushnitski stood between his seconds, silent and pale, his eyes downcast. He looked more like a lost boy than someone who would tomorrow stand under the aim of a pistol, or someone capable of intrigue and malice. In short – he seemed miserable.
"You are Monsieur Pechorin's second?" the second gentleman inquired, while Rokotov just stared me down. He and I never got along, though I always found reason to be ironic about the disagreement, while he took it to heart.
"Yes. I am here to discuss the conditions for tomorrow," I said evenly walking deeper into the room and glancing briefly at the dueling case that lay open on the table. The negotiations drew on lengthily, mostly because Rokotov obviously wanted to incite a scandal and Pechorin had instructed me to insist on the affair being as secret as possible.
For the most part, part of my attention was on the negotiations and the other on Grushnitski's face. He spoke little, mostly allowing Rokotov to do as he pleased. Overall, he seemed beat and the doctor in my wondered briefly whether the unhealthy blush of his cheeks was the symptom of an illness. The only time Grushnitski spoke was to cry out, "Six paces, I insist. Six paces!" There was something breathtakingly miserable in his eyes in that moment and I wondered if he might long for death itself. I wondered at him somewhat. From what Pechorin had said, the whole affair was Grushnitski's idea. I suppose the idea was more that of his friends. Pechorin had often credited me with insightfulness, which could almost be a compliment, and what insight I would grasp led me to believe that Grushnitski had allowed himself to be manipulated by somewhat slyer and far more reckless than himself – probably Rokotov as it was.
I had to admit that Grushnitski had always evoked feelings ranging from pity to annoyance to amusement to indifference in me, so I never bothered to spoil Pechorin's fun. Ah, men like Pechorin. They used to boil my blood when I was younger, make it rush and fizz in my ears. But I was far too old for that. Grushnitski, on the other hand, was not and I could see in the defeated shrug of his shoulders, in his surrender to Rokotov that there was something else eating at his heart that had nothing to do with Princess Mary or with the approaching duel. The boy glanced in my directions from time to time, as though waiting out for something, and I had to admit that my curiosity was peaked. I kept expecting him to say something, to make some move, some gesture to inform me of what these looks meant but he never did and I kept my thoughts tactfully to myself.
Once the negotiations finished, I made my bows and prepared to return to Prchorin to tell him what I was able to gleam from the meeting and what the circumstances for tomorrow would be. Grushnitski caught me at the gate, taking my arm and pushing a folded letter into my hands. "Take it. Take it to him, I beg you. I cannot go myself, but as a doctor, please, cure me from this illness." I wasn't sure whether this tirade of barely connected words and phrases made me feel bad or ironically amused. Foolish boys like Grushnitski always got into the worst of trouble. I nodded at him and he retreated back inside, head hung, his back stiff more than straight. I don't think he had actually meant for things to get out of hand, for there to be an actual duel.
I wasn't the sort of person who read other people's letters but the note was addressed to Pechorin and there was no envelope or seal – simply a folded up into quarters page. My curiosity got the best of me; besides I doubted that Pechorin would mind in this case. I unfolded the paper and read the following, written out in Russian in an unsteady, unsure hand:
Gregory,
I don't understand a thing anymore and I suppose I deserve this. My seconds are scoundrels, this I know, but I am not of their breed. Make sure your pistol is loaded tomorrow, that is all I will say. I don't know what you expect from life and from love, perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. Your games are hurtful and they are more dishonorable than I have ever been – this only consoles me. I put my trust into eyes that pierce and words that cut for no other reason that I could not resist it. I want nothing, care for nothing anymore. I do not dare say "love" but I will say "tenderness" and that is all you need to know and remember. This is not an apology it is a farewell. I'm tired of saying "stay" and "don't go." You need meone like Werner, perhaps, and I have no such cynicism to give. I had merely wanted to be everything to you, only to have you push me away. So be it, farewell, I only dream of your smile, so smile then once for me before the end.
—Andre G.
I sighed, half thoughtfully, half sadly, wondering at what was going on in that boy's head and heart when he wrote up that note. He is wrong, however, that Pechorin would want someone like I. Grushnitski's jealousy had gotten the better of him there. Men like I can elicit respect from men like Pechorin, but never love or friendship. I think few, if any, people could elicit love from Pechorin, not that I was adverse to the theoretical idea. Crumbling up the note, I tossed it, watching it fade out of sight and life, all those feeling unshared and unknown.
It was better that way for Pechorin would only laugh and I doubted I could keep a straight face and a light heart if he did.