A/N: Never thought I'd put a story as hurt/comfurt...how far I've come. This is Pavel/Artyom. Couldn't figure up a name for the pairing, and I don't think it'd be pretty. CONTAINS SPOILERS, SPOLIERS! SPOILERS! Somehow bold is not as dramatic as it once was. The caps aren't helping. Anyway, it spoils things. So, yeah. It takes some place after the supposed "good ending." Probably only a few months. Maybe even weeks. It's not set in stone, you know? At the end of the chapter, I'll further spoil some things, because I don't want to spoil anything in the opening notes...read on.

"I have dreams about them sometimes," muttered Artyom. He wet his lips, swallowed at his dry throat. He still felt half-asleep, the echoes of imagined screams in his ears. The fabric of his light coat shushed when he brought up a hand, raking carefully through the strands at his forehead, plastered with sweat. In a fit of discomfiture, he twisted onto his side, and Pavel did likewise. Despite the slow and precise movement, his fingers trembled. In a distant whisper, he clarified, with shame: "the Dark Ones," even though there could be no confusion.

Pavel shifted a few inches away in a separate cot, reaching around with fumbling fingers for his lighter. He followed the brief modicum of light between them to set the little lantern ablaze; Artyom brought up a hand to shield his eyes, the irises glinting a clouded jade before he obscured them. He watched the other for a moment, thoughts lucid: he had been unable to sleep, had lain awake as Artyom tossed and turned.

"You regret what you did." It was not a question, of course, but a statement. Pavel blew a little on the lantern, calming the flames to meek embers and pale illumination. Artyom brought his hand down weakly, and Pavel took the opportunity to look at him, at his eyes. Artyom looked down and away before he finally met them; the insipid blue seemed to Artyom the calming color of a sky, which flickered dimly in his barest memories, his dreams—though he could hardly recall the color. But Pavel understood regret, mourning his own decisions even as he fought to justify them to himself, and the blue was in turmoil. He felt burdened with guilt—even as Artyom forgave him.

They shared something in terms of independent emotion—while Pavel had betrayed someone he now felt penitent to call friend, Artyom had acted in fear and decimated a population. They both had done what they thought moral, in aims to fulfill what they believed in, even as it hurt them, as it hurt others. Similarly, both had been forgiven—and neither felt entirely cured of guilt. Especially not in the blackness of the tunnels, the stations, when the lights were routinely turned off.

Could they see the upturn of a Dark Ones' cheek, there in the shadows? Or a hint of resentment on another's face? So much could be unclear and distorted. And the dreams! In the scarce years of his life before the metro, much as his memory lacked, Pavel would say he had not been as prone to dreaming, or as…creative.

Artyom sighed, but the noise melded into a yawn. His eyelids felt heavy, and the black of his eyelashes fluttered in fatigue as he struggled to stay awake. He didn't want to sleep. Nearly inaudible, he murmured, "You know how it went…they aided me, secured my life, in light of the fact I had aimed for genocide—nearly scorched them from the earth." He wanted to look away from Pavel, could feel the weight of exhaustion on his own slim frame, but Pavel's eyes refused rebuff. "I knew before it was done, as I carried out my orders—what I had felt was right—but it occurred to me gradually that I was wrong. I thought for a moment on that tower I could correct my mistake, but I would not act on it. I could've stopped it then if I just—"

"You know what happened can't change," Pavel soothed and, for a mere moment, he almost added, in a spur of nostalgia, d'Artagnan, but he caught himself, concealed the nickname on his tongue. "Artyom," he finished, voice low and emptied of thoughts, which concentrated elsewhere. He shook his head to clear it, and began again. "But you aren't a bad man. You're—" He wasn't sure what to say, how to explain exactly what he wanted to say, what he wanted to do to make Artyom feel better. "You're good," he stressed, he tried to convince.

An unwitting smile came thinly to the other's face. "The Dark One said that as well." He blinked rapidly and rubbed wearily at his face. His eyes were wet. The smile fell into a terrible, remorseful grimace as his eyes burned. Artyom had cried before, though increasingly less often as he grew—the same could be said of anyone—and though he tried to still the tears, dry them before they escaped the rim of his eyelids, he couldn't, and blinked, unspeaking, as they trailed across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones, drawn unconventionally by gravity. He turned away, onto his back, his throat closed up and brimmed with the same painful quiet, and he let in a shuddering breath, the sort of gasping cry that a child would make, which he muffled quickly. The breath escaped harshly.

Pavel felt something heave sharply at his chest, and the air left him. He reached over, shaking his head impulsively, laying a hand on his—his friend's arm. He realized he was speaking, however automatically. His lips spilled comfort, understanding, reassurances, talking himself in circles. The things he said, he hardly heard them; they could be called stupidity, lies, or optimism. But they felt right, and Pavel wanted to say them, though he would never consider himself a sympathetic man; he'd always seen the man in the broken and dusted mirrors as callous and insensitive, cruel at times and terrible otherwise.

He'd never considered himself a sympathetic crier, either, but he could feel that soreness behind his eyes before its product manifested itself. Pavel pulled tighter at Artyom's sleeve in silence, as though he were a desperate creature tugging at the coat of its savior while he trudged away. "I'm—" Pavel almost stopped himself, heard the odd note of stifled emotion in his voice, a warning sign, but it all rushed forward in his next ragged word, like a dam overcome with water: "—sorry."

The words surmounted Artyom with grief—Pavel did not have to apologize to him, not for anything he had done—and he clasped Pavel's arm in return to communicate his acceptance, unable to trust in his ability to speak properly. He knew his voice would wobble and shake, that the syllables would collapse into stutters, especially in a bare whisper, as they had in the past.

Instead, he calmed himself with deep breaths, shutting his eyes. A newfound exhaustion twined itself warmly through his head, the skin of Pavel's bare arm beneath his palm, the sound of Pavel's own emotions in the air, as the fire dwindled to a pitiful ember between them.

When darkness finally enfolded them in its sable embrace, it found the two asleep.

A/N: So, seeing as you've gotten this far, I'll spill the real kidney beans. Anna didn't really seem like much of a love interest, did she? I saw their relationship as empty, a little more based on primal urges. In this story, seeing as it wasn't shown at the end, Anna didn't get pregnant...didn't have a kid...wow, I'm so glad I jumped over that roadblock. Anyway, maybe my love of Pavel blinded me. If you (my nonexistant audience) have any questions, I'll answer them at the next junction...please review if you feel the inspiration. (I think underlining is more visually engaging.)

And jeez, this is really emotional and fluffy, I am terrible at emotions...even when they are genuine...I actually cried a bit when Pavel was leading Artyom to Lesnitsky and stuff, after he'd drugged him. Seriously, it's just a video game, and it wasn't an especially heartwrenching scene...but I was a little sad.

Um...yeah, review. At your leisure.