even though it's a cruel world

[singmod]

JANUARY 2025 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE HUNTED, PART ONE: Interlopers find themselves stalked and hunted by seemingly supernatural presence.

PROMPT TWO — TIES THAT BIND: Those little blinks of light noticed by Interlopers finally take form, showing Interlopers just how they're connected.

PROMPT THREE — WINTERSTILLE: A new winter storm hits, with a terrifying twist at the very heart of it.

THE HUNTED, PART ONE

WHEN: The month of January, continuing into February.
WHERE: Everywhere, but especially Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural creature; hauntings; supernatural experiences; themes of hunting, being hunted/stalked by an animal; bear ‘attacks’.


Methuselah once warned an Interloper of the changing behaviours of animals within the Northern Territories. Perhaps this is something of this kind of instance, or… perhaps it is something else entirely.

There are old tales, some of which might be found within the Camp Office like Nor'pogo: folk stories about the area — and not just of Lakeside, but further afield. One is the story of The Old Bear, and those who tried to bring it down.

In the early days of inhabitation of the Northern Territories by European settlers, a gigantic bear had already long made its home in these wilds. It was said that the bear was incredibly long-lived and unusually aggressive. The settlers had angered it by cutting it off from its feeding grounds and chased it off from where it had once freely roamed, encroaching on its territory.

Incensed, the Old Bear began to hunt and kill the settlers — determined to win back its world. It was said, however, that their weapons were no match against the creature. It was as if nothing could ever truly bring it down. Firearms could barely affect it, and its thick hide was filled with old, broken arrows that had tried and failed to injure it.

Three hunters, determined to fight back against the bear’s attacks on the settlers, and bring the animal down for its pelt to hoard as a trophy, decided to pursue the bear. Thus began a bitter hunt that lasted months. They chased it down all over Lakeside and then to the east, up towards the muskeg that lay in the shadows of Timberwolf Mountain. It is said that they went out onto the muskeg, never to return — with Old Bear disappearing with them, too.

Perhaps the four of them all met their end, both men and bear. But something has begun to stalk the Northern Territories once again. Footprints can be found in the snow, tracks of a bear far larger than anything found in the natural world. Prints that smell like bear, but there's something off about them. Prints that disappear into nothing, as if a ghost walks through the silent, snowy wilds.

Out in the wilds of Lakeside and Milton, Interlopers will start to find themselves being watched. A distinct prickling at the back of their neck. In the distance, they will hear the heavy thuds of a large animal trekking through the snow, the low grumbles of an angry beast.

At first, they are distant enough that perhaps you might be able get away from the sounds without incident. Fleeing for the safety of the indoors, or creating enough distance for the sounds to fade into silence. Surely the creature will not follow you, especially indoors. And you’re right. The indoors will seem safe.

But over time, the sounds draw nearer. Near enough to make you think it's almost upon you. You turn to look to see where the creature might be, only to find nothing in the immediate vicinity. You cannot see what huge, hulking creature is heading towards you. The woods are still and silent as they always are, save for the animals you would usually find in this place.

Or worse, you suddenly feel the heavy huff of breath behind you: hot against your neck, snarling. A beast upon you, ready to devour you whole.

And then, as you turn. Nothing.

As the month goes on, these instances increase. Other times, you catch sight of it. A huge shadow from the rocks above, shining golden eyes in the dark and a wide snarl of teeth. A bear, bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. Impossibly so. A mass of dark brown fur, broken arrow shafts protruding from its hide, watching you with a keen and ferocious intelligence — staring you down until suddenly, it is gone. Nothing but the shapes of rocks and foliage.

Sometimes, it leaps down at you. Charges at you.

Turn and run, and it will give chase — but you’ll find yourself simply running from the wind.

You are not just stalked, but haunted. Hunted.

TIES THAT BIND

WHEN: The month of January, into February.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: red strings of fate; possible themes of co-dependency; shared empathy/telepathy; potential forced empathy/mood/emotion alternating/mental manipulation; supernaturally induced pain; forced feelings of sadness, low mood.

In the Quiet Apocalypse, Interlopers face the harsh and unforgiving climate of the Northern Territories alone. Or so they think. Interlopers are all connected to one another in some shape or form. At the start of the month, the strange flickers of light that Interlopers previously noticed will begin to form a little more solidly and can be seen appearing at their fingers. They are incredibly weak at first, but in time the Interlopers will find that some of these strings of light will become far more stronger in their appearance.

The strings are completely intangible. They cannot be touched, your fingers going right through them if you try. But Interlopers will find that these strings of light will eventually lead somewhere: to another Interloper.

Some may have heard of strings of fate, red strings that lead others to their romantic soulmates. These strings, however, are not limited exclusively to romantic soulmates and the strings can have far broader meanings. And they do not simply connect Interlopers to one another, but have abilities that come with them. Connections are powerful things, after all.

For those who crave connection or have particularly strong bonds with others, these strings may be incredibly influential on Interlopers, and these abilities may come very naturally, like breathing. For those who relish in the solitude, they may find their strings far weaker — although they may come to find they do not like this. That it disturbs them in some indescribable way. Others may note that their strings are frayed, they seem more fragile — noting a tense or strained relationship. This too will be something that Interlopers will find troubling or disturbing to them. It sounds like you might need to work on things to make things better.

There are four types of strings that will appear:

The Red String: This string represents close relationships of a positive nature but specifically romantic interests or lovers. Concentrating on these threads will bring a kind of intuition similar to that which is experienced by Interlopers who share the Moon Touched Feat. You speak a kind of secret language, almost like talking telepathically but not quite. You become fully in tune with one another, conveying meaning and understanding without uttering a word.

The Gold String This string represents close relationships of a positive nature, specifically friends, familial relationships, and comraderie. Interlopers will find that concentrating on this kind of thread shared with another will find themselves more in tune with one another's emotions, and know exactly what the other needs at any given moment. However, it may sometimes become difficult to identify who an emotion belongs to. Emotions can be passed to one another: one Interloper might be able to purposefully soothe another's anger, or raise another's spirits if they feel upset — for example.

The Black String: This string represents antagonistic relationships. Rivalries, enemies, or those you simply mistrust. However, concentrating on this kind of thread shared with another will bring pain to the Interlopers. Sometimes this might feel like an electric shock, other times it might feel like a slow, dreadful ache. After this initial pain, Interlopers will find that they are more prone to picking up the thoughts of the other person that they are connected to. This may be in the form of specific thoughts of what the person is thinking at that time, or it may be picking up the thoughts the other has had about the Interloper previously — possibly providing useful insight into the minds of those you dislike most.

The White String: Every Interloper will have one white string. It seems to lead towards the east, but Interlopers will find it very difficult to follow it and will not be able to follow it for long. At first, concentrating on this string will bring a sense of sadness, heaviness. But for some, they may even feel a sense of comfort, or the feeling of being uplifted.

Each string will give off some kind of impression of the Interloper it belongs to, something that comes to mind in terms of identification: a scent, a colour, a sensation, a food item. Whatever it is, it is something that is related to the Interloper the string belongs to. The white string will give off the impression of feeling alone, along with campfire smoke, blood, and the saltiness of tears. Underneath that, there’s something a little more subdued: warming winter-spice.

WINTERSTILLE

WHEN: 24th - 28th January.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: extreme weather; storms; blizzards; supernatural weather; themes of survival; possible character cold-related injuries; possible themes of peril; themes of weather-related horror; possible npc death; possible character death; possible animal death.


Those versed in reading the signs will note the approach, those who have learned to read the weather, nature itself, if they pay close enough attention: the shifts in pressure, the restlessness of the weather, how wildlife absconds. Something is off, something is coming. For the rest, Methuselah arrives into town. He is hurrying, as fast as his aged body can take him. The old man was right the first time when he came with warnings. Hopefully this time the Interlopers will heed him again.

‘Something is coming.’ he warns Interlopers, breathless. Methuselah is worried, even someone as long-lived as he. He has seen many storms, but something troubles him about this one. ‘A great storm. But, in the signs— something is wrong and it is coming much too quickly, I cannot say when it will arrive, but soon. We do not have much time to be ready.’

Interlopers will have only a day or so to prepare. To batten down the hatches, to gather supplies and hunker down. The Community Hall is a good place as any to gather in, and it makes sense to gather in there again to wait the storm. Many can go there, but others are free to wait it out in their own homes, with their select company.

Free Runners and Aurora Callers are invaluable in getting messages around the town and further out to those who live in Lakeside. As will those little strings of yours. It isn’t much time to get ready, especially if this might end up lasting several days, but some warning is better than none at all.

The skies darken and in comes a violent squall: snow thick and fast, winds roaring. Buildings creak and groan, as if they might tear themselves apart. Trees will come down, some buildings may not survive it. Day and night, the storm rages around. A complete white out.

And then, suddenly, in the early afternoon of the next day… it stops.

The snowfall ends. There is a strange whistling of the winds, and then it drops completely. Everything is still, silent.

The sky is clear. There is light, the precious few hours of daylight afforded to Interlopers at this time of year seems impossibly bright — no clouds can be seen in the sky. There is nothing but clear, pale blue.

But looking toward the skies will reveal a circle of clouds surrounding that clear, blue sky. Almost a perfect circle. The eye of the storm.

For those in the Community Hall, looking to venture outside, Methuselah will shake his head. No. — ‘I do not trust it.’

It’s slow at first. There's a strange sound in the air, something coming downwards. The highest trees and buildings are the first hit by it. They crack and shift ever-so slightly, freezing instantly. From the very top and moving downwards...

If you are outside, maybe you feel it in your bones: run.

The strange ice descends, freezing everything it touches, the strange white pattern crawling downwards. Run for cover, inside, out of the elements and into dry and warm shelter. Even inside, you'll notice it crawling downwards and towards you: white frosting over walls and furniture close to it. Everything crackles and groans as it freezes over— some unprotected windows will shatter, especially those of the long-abandoned cars still scattered around the town. Mugs and plates will shatter, even mirrors — potentially sending shards flying to unsuspecting Interlopers.

You'll need to move into the center of rooms, or close to lit fires and gather close. Keep the fires going. Keep the temperature high.

And hopefully the ice will not reach you.

This strange frozen stillness will last for the next twelve hours. You will be trapped, huddling, away from the edges of your shelters.

The silence ends. And then the storm returns, the howling winds and furious blizzards. The storm will rage on for another day until it finally fizzles out and the world becomes calm again. It will be safe to go out now.

There’ll be a lot of damage to the town due to the storm, and windows and doors will likely be frozen shut and difficult to open again, meaning it will take time for Interlopers to actually leave their places of safety. In the aftermath, Interlopers may find just how deadly that stillness was, how deadly that crawling ice: the bodies of the unfortunate, human and beasts alike, frozen on the spot — dead in an instant and left stuck there.

FAQs

THE HUNTED, PART ONE


1. Interlopers will be spared by any form of physical attack at this time. The attacks on Interlopers will only be instances of striking fear, and giving chase.

2. Other Interlopers who see a fellow Interloper running away from a chase will not see the bear chasing them. It'll look like they're just running from nothing.

3. While the bear will not come indoors, Interlopers will still note it stalking around outside, even scratching or thudding at doors or walls. These will appear completely untouched when later inspected.

TIES THAT BIND

1. Weaker or frayed strings will be less powerful, and Interlopers may feel compelled to rectify this as the sensation of having a frayed or fragile string will be unpleasant to bear.

2. It is even possible to have strings that are connected to people who are not present within the Northern Territories, including people who are in Interlopers' homeworlds. Interlopers may try to follow these strings, but will find that the strings will lead to nowhere — like looking for the end of the rainbow. You will not receive power benefits of these strings, only have an impression of who it belongs to.

3. You cannot see an Interloper's other strings, other than your own connection with you. However, you can see other Interloper's White Strings.

4. If a relationship isn't really black and white, a mixed-colour thread would be acceptable of a relationship that could shift either way or is more complicated in nature. There would be a more dominant colour of the two, however, and the abilities would be from the dominant colour.

5. Concentrating on a string gives off the impression of who it belongs to, you do not have to follow it.

WINTERSTILLE

1. Interlopers with the Cold Fusion Feat will be able be out during the storm at any point and be completely unaffected.

2. Interlopers with the Lightbringer and Moon Touched traits will prove valuable for providing warmth/heat when hiding from and waiting out the ice.

3. Players are welcome to either camp out in the Community Hall or within their homes!

PLOTTING POST

Comments

[pacificator]

[ It should be the easiest, quickest no in the world. He's the kind of guy she would've enjoyed hustling back at Shorty's, putting her tab on his card and cash and disappearing before it was deep enough into the night for him to start patting his pockets for a hotel room key. She even opens her mouth to say it, before shutting it again, abrupt.

There's no right choice when you're the problem. Things she can't stop thinking — there's no happy ending here for her, and not for Edward, either, if he sticks with her, which he will because he's the most loyal man she's ever met, she'll have to run him off like a dog if she wants to break this connection, fling rocks and sticks at him and yell at him to go away while she hopes he doesn't see that the thing she hates about this could never be him, it's always only her —

And that buzzing, circling thought that she can hear in his Russian and her own English, the two languages merging easily and without any sign that neither of them should be able to understand each other (she understands him all too well; not like Edward, who right now feels like an extension of herself and vice versa, but like looking into a slightly warped mirror) and saying one thing over and over again: I can't go back. I need to get away.

I need to escape.

She presses her lips together, then breathes out in an aggravated puff through her nose, nostrils flaring, before she jerks her head toward the path that leads out of town. ]

No place around here to drink, so you may as well tag along with me.

[ God, they really need a saloon. ]

[sputnik]

[ He's not her preferred choice of drinking partner, and the honest truth (beneath all of the ways he's usually able to pretend otherwise) is that she isn't, either. Someone who doesn't want his company at any given point in time, who feels like an itch he can never quite scratch, or maybe more like a wound that won't quite heal. Right now, he's not able to pretend anymore, to find joy (or something shaped like it, but maybe not quite joy, maybe more thrill) in the pursuit of trying to make someone approve of him. He's too tired, and— she is too, he knows, from her own frustrated, restless thoughts. Both of them left because they needed quiet, solitude. Both of them would prefer to be alone.

But they also both need something to drown out the other stuff, so—

So neither of them really wants to head off in the same direction as the other, but it's not about want. They can both utilise each other, and maybe that in itself is some weird breath of relief. Because Konstantin finds himself doing that, giving a soft exhale of relief as Wynonna agrees in just about the least-thrilled way possible, and he shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets as he quickly falls into step with her.

(Guilt pools into his stomach as he realises the further he steps away from the sources of those strings, all of them except the one currently tethering him to her, the more relief he feels. Like the longer those golden and red threads stretches, the more distance he has, the more he can breathe.) ]

Has anyone found a way to cut these things off yet?

[ He asks her, lifting a brow over at her as they walk, unable to add his usual light-hearted layering; the words just come out dark and sardonic as he slips one hand briefly from his pocket to lift in gesture. He can't see all of hers, but he can guess she has multiple, like him. One name seems most prominent, one of the people she'd listed before. Edward. ]

[pacificator]

[ Neither of them are into this, but here they are anyway, because it turns out he's just as messed up as she is. The guilt and relief that tinges his thoughts with every step they take away from town and the people they're all too visibly connected to could be her own; she doesn't want to have a drink with him, but it's not the last thing she wants to do, so here she is, leading him down the path to the cabin she still keeps even though she's made a home with Tommy in Lakeside. It's like having a safe house, a just in case plan B. She keeps the cabin stocked with food and fuel even when she doesn't expect to be there, and she doesn't think too hard about why.

(She knows why. Everything has an end date. Just because she hasn't found the straw that will break Thomas' back yet doesn't mean she won't. Just because Edward and Kate and Irving are letting her stay with them now doesn't mean they will when the next storm comes. She's just keeping her options open; she's being smart.)

She glances over at his question and the flick of his hand, before glancing down at the threads that come spilling out of the coat pockets where she's tucked her own hands, fingers fisted like that might make some kind of difference to the gold-white-black-red web of them. ]

Not that I've seen. I think we're stuck with them.

[ Hopefully not forever. She can barely deal with her own emotions, let along the ones she gets from Irving and Kate and all the others, and Edward--

Whose name echoes in the thoughts that spiral down that black thread between her and Konstantin. The look she shoots his way is sharp and defensive; she bristles even as she knows there's no way around it. She can't cut Little out of her thoughts, and she can't keep this guy from hearing them; all she can do is wriggle like a wasp that's been pinned, unable to sting. ]

You say a word about any of this to anyone else and you and I are going to have a problem. Got it?

[sputnik]

[ The answer doesn't surprise him, though some part of him was still holding onto hope that maybe there was some way. Some test, some task; this place seems to enjoy demanding such things of them. He remembers Arthur saying he was trapped in the mines by the Darkwalker until he opened up some of his heart to another. If there was a similar way out of this, then at least it'd be some action to take, some fight to win, some chance of escape.

But nothing. Just— stuck. Konstantin's always hated that feeling more than anything. As long as there's a door open at the end of the hall, he can keep moving forwards, no matter how long that hall may be.

He gives an unhappy sound, rare from him — a sort of snort, almost: bemused, frustrated. Keeping up the pace with her, he can feel most of the strings at his fingers pulling tauter as he walks away from the people he's tethered to. No escape from this.

His eyes cut sideways to Wynonna's at the words, more of a threat than anything, and he stares over at her for a moment, the sharp agitation, like an animal just waiting to lash out if he dares to draw a hand too close. He's not exactly like that, not even now, but he knows what it feels like.

The important thing he draws from this is: she has things she wants kept hidden, too. ]

I'm not going to tell anyone. [ He might have said something playful ordinarily, tried to diffuse the severity of all of this with a grin and a tease. Not now; what comes is just... earnest. And after a moment's hesitation— ]

....I would be grateful if you kept this between us, too.

[ There's something even vulnerable in admitting to her that he doesn't want it shared either, and his eyes fall away from hers, almost as though he's ashamed, shoulders hunching upwards as he trudges through the snow. But just how much has she garnered, from his end of things? Does she understand what Vasiliy means to him? It's a frightening idea, for more than one reason. He doesn't like the thought of his heart laid bare like that, when he hasn't had a chance to understand some things himself. ]

[pacificator]

[ She blows out a breath and puts up her hand, holding him off from pressing any further. ]

No problem. I'd just as soon pretend none of this ever happened.

[ It's bad enough hearing someone else's thoughts — worse still that they're his, a guy who might as well be the human equivalent of rubbing sandpaper over raw nerves — but even hating him as much as she does, she can feel a certain amount of sympathy at how he's scrambling for his privacy. The thoughts come through, and she can almost hear him slamming doors and flinging up walls a little too late for each of them, that strange sterile scent drying out her sinuses with each wayward thought that scurries over the thread between them and into her own head.

Like it'll help, she adds: ]

I don't even know who Vasiliy is.

[ (She's not really much for checking out the names or notes left up on the bulletin board.)

But she doesn't really need to know who it is, does she? Not when Konstantin's thoughts go buzzing and swarming around that one word like a million bees drawn to a jar of honey. She glances over as they head under the shadow of the woods, following the path that leads to her cabin. (It used to lead towards Little's cabin, too, back before he moved. He's further away now, and she doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad one.) ]

Let me guess. Your red string, right?

[sputnik]

[ That's at least one huge relief through all of this. Pretending something unfavourable never happened is almost a hobby for him at this point — one that he's fully aware stems from some coping mechanism; you don't spend years being psychologically trained and come out of it not being able to understand your own way of functioning as a consequence. No, Konstantin can see himself crystal-clear, knows every in and out of how he sees the world and why, what loss led to this, what trauma led to that, and he's perfectly comfortable keeping up whatever walls might be a result. Turning his head away from what he doesn't want to look at suits him just fine.

In fact, he'd be happy not to think about any of this at all, but that doesn't seem to be an option, because around Wynonna, specifically, his thoughts are no longer just confined to the safety of his own head, just like hers aren't, and it's a restless nervousness that can't be stifled unless they part ways, only that option means being alone with the thoughts in his head and... Yeah. Yeah, he's already made the decision he'd rather have company with her than to be alone, and that ironically means being unable to escape the thoughts on some weird level.

Which means the only thing to do with them is lance them, slowly, like bleeding a wound. He pauses at her question, and he wonders if she can hear him shirk back from it with a soft kneejerk whisper. Ashamed in that weird way again, ashamed that hearing her say Vasya's name aloud makes his heart skip an unpleasant beat because it confirms she really can read what's inside of him, Konstantin pushes forwards verbally, to try and shut his thoughts off. He doesn't trust his own mind not to betray him with... whatever it's thinking, up under everything else. Run away, run away, run away from him before he runs away from me instead ]

Yes. [ He says, more softly than he even meant to. His eyes flit down to the thread in question, flickering in some parts, but mostly solid. Red as blood. Soul mate, Chloe brought up, and other people have said things like that too. It scares the hell out of him. ]

I don't believe in things like that, though. Whatever this is... suggesting. Some people say it could be 'soul mates.' [ Because that's what this thread supposedly represents, right? Or something like it. He's figured it out; the gold are people his heart cares about even if only a little, even if in all of his detached, cautious ways, and the red is someone he loves, different than the others, but also different than anyone else he's ever had before. He loved Alexsei's mother, in a way, and yet no red thread connects him to her. There was no... future with her, no ending, no path to keep taking.

With Vasiliy, he can't fathom an ending, is terrified of it, more and more each day. And that's what's different. ]

Do you? [ Believe in it. He takes a beat, a little careful. This is all... weird, sensitive, personal. He smiles again a little, to put something a bit wry to it, like a joke almost, even if none of this is remotely funny. Soul mates... whatever, right? That's ridiculous; the world doesn't work that way. ] This Edward guy... he your 'soul mate', do you think?

[pacificator]

[ It's incredibly fortunate for Konstantin that they're in motion and he isn't easily in range, because her first reaction when those words come to his lips — soul mate — is to smack them out of his mouth as hard as she can. It's a reflexive jolt, like a doctor smacking her knee with a hammer and making her foot bounce.

As it is, he escapes getting smacked directly in the mouth by virtue of walking next to her instead of standing in front of her, which means he can keep talking, like it isn't bad enough hearing the constantly running river of his thoughts. Still, it isn't those words that distract her, that sends the toe of one boot clipping against the heel of the other and tripping her up into an undignified stumble that matches the sudden panicked freefall in her head; it's that other one. Her least favorite four-letter word. Love, he keeps thinking. The red strings are love.

He seems weirdly accepting of it for a guy who's literally getting the hell away from the object of his affections. The thought doesn't seem to be short-circuiting his brain like it is hers, as he keeps talking, asks her a question she's got no idea how to answer. She isn't in love. That's not what this is... is it? Attraction, yeah, fine, she'll admit that, absurd and embarrassing as it is. She'd accepted a long while ago that her feelings towards Little are anything but chaste.

But that's different, and, more importantly, it's easier to let go of when something inevitably happens to make him change his mind. She can control it. She knows the shape of it in her hands, the warmth of it in her blood. And yes, okay, maybe there's more to it than that, something she was forced to accept the day the Forest Talkers attacked and he almost died and it felt like her heart would never stop breaking.

But it can't be love. That's a death sentence, like this red string between them isn't connected to her finger but to something deeper, more necessary, and if it were to get cut or broken or tugged out she'd start bleeding internally and never stop.

She stares over at Konstantin, visibly rattled even as she regains her balance. ]

What? No. I mean, I don't know.

I don't believe in that crap, either.

[ Which doesn't explain why she feels like she's lying through her teeth. About what, she's not sure — she never has believed in soul mates. It's too neat, too perfect, and the world doesn't work in neat and perfect ways, matching people up together just because their various edges make them fit like puzzle pieces.

She forces her thoughts away from memories of how it felt to fit perfectly with Edward, and shakes her head. ]

Even if I did, how would that work? You only meet your soul mate by getting dragged to some other world and finding somebody you'd never have had a chance of meeting before? Please.

[sputnik]

[ He doesn't have to have access to the woman's thoughts to realise just how poorly she's taking the question. He'd almost framed it a little teasingly, or tried to, like some inside joke between them — two people stepping away from such a daunting concept, look at us! — only it seems to horrify her in a way he hadn't meant to, and his brows knit as he looks quickly over at her, catching that fumble out of the corner of his vision.

One hand starts to move up out of his pocket, but she's already caught herself, and he lets it relax again, though only into something clenched and a little tense once more. It is... a horrifying concept, it is. He's had time to nurse it, to think about it, and it's part of what's been consuming his thoughts and smothering him out of his own mind these past days. Maybe she never thought of it like that. It doesn't seem like she has. And to be fair to her, even the act of loving someone isn't the same as thinking of them as some kind of soul mate. It's— it's heavy.

I'm sorry he thinks, not wholly meaning to direct it to her telepathically, but the thought coils unpleasantly in him and insists on making itself known. The creature even reacts to it, to her, just as sensitive to her influence, and he feels a sudden hitch of ache that has him a little breathless for a moment.

But he's still looking over at her, and he can hear those echoes of doubt, and he understands that her relationship with this person is even more complicated than what he has with Vasiliy. Complicated in different ways, maybe. ]

Right? It's stupid, [ he quickly agrees with a nod, affirming it for both of them. It makes no sense. And before he knows it, he's adding on something about Vasya again, revealing more, even as much as he wanted to flinch away from that idea. Now he wants to keep reassuring both of them, it's necessary, he needs to talk himself down. ]

We're not even from the same time. Vasya's— he's from my past. We never would have met otherwise. Whatever this is— [ a hand lifts in gesture, even if she can't see his own red, glinting string ] —it isn't that. [ Isn't something spiritual, higher, otherworldly. Most of all, it isn't something beyond their control. ]

...I suppose I don't know how to define what this really means, is the thing. [ And he sighs, frowning again as his eyes cut to the line of trees, as they make their way further out. If he keeps going, he'll eventually reach his own home. (Their home.) ]

We're not really... we're not a couple. [ Even saying that word out loud makes his mental state twitchy again and he actually winces a little. That's not a word for him. Two halves of a whole, a pair, yoked at the throats. Except he has been those things with Vasiliy for a very long time now, and he might even take pride in such a thing, sometimes. They've built something together, a place for each other. He's just— afraid, because nothing lasts, and he isn't meant to be someone's safe place to land, to dock. ]

[pacificator]

[ The path diverges up ahead, and she takes the rightward fork that leads to her cabin, trusting him to keep pace alongside her. His apology floats through her head — I'm sorry — and she nods abortively, a jerk of her chin as she wrestles with her own flurry of lightly panicked thoughts. The queasiness in her stomach doesn't have anything to do with an alien entity; it's purely a product of the way her wants and fears collide, unable to merge with each other, caught in a roiling loop.

There's a moment's pause and a flicker of her eyebrows when Konstantin says he — that's a little bit of a surprise, considering the way the guy flirts — but she moves past it without more than a tiny bump, nodding a little more energetically as he goes on. ]

Little's from my past, too. Like, over a hundred years before I was even born. And we're not— I mean—

[ We're not a couple, either sticks in her throat, and she frowns. It doesn't feel quite right to say they are, and it doesn't feel right to say they aren't, either. Just like this poor bastard, she's got no idea what any of it means, what she should call it. What label could she possibly slap on this that makes sense?

Even as she thinks it, she can hear John Irving's surprise and frustration all over again. If the two of you haven't been courting one another all this time—

And it's not like he was wrong, exactly. There's been something there for a long time, the thing that kept making them go after each other, that keeps them in some strange sort of orbit around each other. She knows that losing him would break her in some permanent way. She can't stand the thought of him getting hurt. And yet here she is, striding into the little clearing where her cabin sits, fortunately unharmed from the storm, because she felt like she couldn't breathe without getting away for a little while. ]

He's my—

[ Nope. ]

I'm his...

[ That falters, too, and she makes a face at herself, shakes her head. ]

...Wynonna.

cw: themes of cultural / general Toxic Masculinity & whatnot, also some horniness

[sputnik]

[ There's some lingering strangeness about the fact Vasiliy is a man, a thing that challenges even more of what's already been challenged in Konstantin. Such things are beyond simple taboo in his time and place — but not as dangerous as they'd once been, perhaps. It's known that they happen, and that they're kept as quiet as any potentially dangerous secret.

He isn't worried about the danger part of any of that, though. It's more... his place within himself, within society — the two are impossibly intertwined, so much that he doesn't know where one ends and the other begins, and he's always been fine with that. Who and what Konstantin is, is a very specific concept. Having this sort of affection for a man is... well, on its own it might not be the most unsettling thing in the world, but coupled with everything else.... the fact he's no longer able to work as fast and as hard as he once was, that his body isn't as physically capable, that he's been reduced to household tasks the way a woman stereotypically would be...

It's all very strange, a particular loss of self that he's not sure what to do with some days. ...But he's not so twitchy about the fact Vasiliy is a man, specifically. That part doesn't seem to matter so much, not when it's— his spirit that he's drawn to, and maybe the rest goes along after it. Maybe. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how to identify most of any of this. He's been with women before, but not as many as most people might think — nearly always kept at some safe distance. He's a thing you look at but don't touch, and that always suited him fine.

Except now he wonders about being touched more, craves it hard and fast and sweet and slow and everything inbetween, as much as the thought scares the hell out of him, considering how disgusting he's become— ]

A hundred years?

[ That beats what Vasiliy has on him by a long shot. He curses quietly in Russian as her cabin comes into view, and he's finding himself grateful for the chance in a few short moments to sit down and warm himself and coax out some of the pained cramps that the thing keeps eliciting in him. Times like this, he's reminded that even in its most shrunken state, it's an entire fucking foot long, curled into the soft parts of his insides like a little snake.

He looks back over at Wynonna as she struggles to find the right shape of her own relationship with Edward Little, and then— he can't help himself smiling a little, but he quickly tilts his head down when he does it, almost like it would be a betrayal to show her the expression when they've found some solidarity with each other, no matter how unhappily it may be. ]

I like that a lot better than "soul mate." [ He admits, quietly. He could say it like that too, he thinks — his Vasya. His person. Even that much is terrifying, the implications: someone you couldn't survive this place without? Someone who fills in some empty space in you, and when they're gone, it's too cold? Or maybe someone who makes you a better version of yourself, which means when they're not there, you become worse again. All of it's terrifying. All of it's precious. ]

...Maybe the red just means that it's reciprocated. You know? Maybe that's what it is.

[pacificator]

Maybe more, honestly.

[ It is more, it's more by like... enough that he was born almost two hundred years before she was. A crack about how she's always liked older men rises to her lips before she bites it back, swallows it. She can almost feel Waverly's judgemental gaze. Isn't he a little old for you?

A little old-fashioned, maybe. (Except it all makes her realize: she doesn't actually have any idea how old Edward even is. All she knows is that he's still a young man, despite the heaviness of everything he carts around with him. When he smiles, it takes years off him.) Which... is a problem for later, and not one she wants to think about now, especially when she belatedly realizes that all those frustrated thoughts about wanting to be touched, lightly frenetic in the way they focus on how and heat and need, aren't all hers. Confusing warmth swells through her, and she abruptly gives herself a hard mental shake, focusing almost angrily on the boarded-up windows and ice-covered roof of her cabin in order to keep from touching on... any of those thoughts right now. Or again. Or anywhere this asshole might be able to pick up on them.

The outside looks okay, and she leads him up the few porch stairs to the door she'd slammed in his face all those months ago. This time, when she opens it and lets herself in, she keeps it open for him to follow her, sarcasm dripping from her words as she responds to that hopeful offering. '...Maybe the red just means that it's reciprocated.' Yeah, right. ]

You really think we're that lucky?

[ Except even that's a terrifying thought, despite the time she's had to come to terms with what she'd realized the night she chased Willa's faded thread out into the night and Edward had chased after her. He couldn't hide it from her anymore than she can hide her thoughts right now from Konstantin the walking alien incubator. However difficult he finds it to act on whatever he's feeling, she knows now he does feel it, deep and yearning and warm to the touch. It's not just her. She can't pretend any longer that it's just her.

She heads to the stove and starts filling it with kindling and a few small logs, leaving Konstantin to close the door. They can't stay long, but having a fire is a good idea for a lot of reasons, not least to thaw out any frozen pipes. ]

I mean, if you believed that, you'd probably be back with your dude instead of hanging out with me.

[sputnik]

[ It truly is becoming increasingly difficult to tell what's his own thought (and subsequently things like his own worry and fear and desire) and what isn't. This black-ish thing between them is different from any of the others, but parts of what those other threads involve do bleed into one another. He can't feel Wynonna's emotions, but he can feel what emotions her thoughts conjure up in him. It's some feedback loop of thought turning to sensation, and the really bizarre thing is just how much the two of them have in common, up under the surface.

He can perceive her, fighting back against her own thoughts, like she's trying to hide them from him. Cutting off parts and pieces, shoving them down. Little blips come through. Out of all the strings, this one might just be the most unfair to those involved, the most invasive. He's suddenly aware of some of the things he needs to keep tightly locked away, things not even Vasya knows about.

Coming up on her cabin is a welcomed distraction. He, too, stares pointedly at her windows and door and the chimney and anything else he can push his concentration onto. But then she asks what she does, and his mind reacts before the rest of him can, affirming it too fast. Yes, and that's what's so fucking scary. It'd be easier if Vasiliy was something he could chase, but never catch. Or even better — if he were the thing being chased. People try to touch him but they never quite can, and he's supposed to be happy that way. He's not supposed to turn around and reach out his hand, willingly, for someone to grasp.

He takes a few moments before verbally replying, clomping up into the door and turning to close it. Shudders continue to ripple through him, and he lifts his gloved hands from his pockets so he can rub them brusquely together, grateful to be inside and no longer breathing in the crisp, cold, painful air that agitates his condition. ]

He does reciprocate it. [ He finally says with a sigh that sounds more dejected than it probably should, and it's another weird dose of honesty from him. It's all so strange to say aloud. He turns, a little embarrassed now as he offers a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and falls too fast. ]

That's why I'm here with you instead. [ Why he'd stepped away for just a few moments (run away). Konstantin sighs again, and moves slowly towards the fire she's starting up. ]

The thing is, I'm not really the dating type. I prefer to keep my options open. [ On another day he might wink at her (but perhaps fortunately, doesn't even have the gusto to do that... It's better this way).

His eyes do look the woman over, but thoughtfully. ]

I'm guessing you do, too.

[pacificator]

[ A week ago, she'd have said she literally couldn't even imagine Little chasing her. Or anyone, really. Maybe not even anything. But then he did actually follow her all the way out to Lakeside, and if that wasn't exactly chasing it also wasn't anything the hell like what she'd have expected. She'd been sure he'd stay here in Milton, keeping a close and anxious eye on Kate and Irving and Crozier and the others and as far as he could get from the ghostly Old Bear that was so like the thing Fitzjames told her about—

And then he'd gone ahead and done the unexpected. Surprised her, again, the way he's done over and over and over ever since the very first day they met. ]

Dating isn't my problem.

[ Well, it might be now, but in a different kind of way than Konstantin means, she's pretty sure. (Does she really have to write him a letter, spell it all out? It's bad enough saying these things out loud where he can hear them, where she can hear herself saying them; writing them down in ink has a feeling of finality to it that she's sure she doesn't like.)

Wynonna blows on the little flame, coaxing it into life, then straightens and goes past her strange new companion to head into the kitchen. She reaches up for a bottle on a shelf, her shirt riding up over her waist as she stretches, and grabs two glasses while she's at it. ]

Relationships are usually where I choke. You know—

[ She spins the cap off the bottle and dollops some amber liquid into one of the tumblers, her eyebrows lifting though her glance stays on the pouring liquor. ]

— the making plans, the monogamy, the finally telling them your real name because they accidentally found your passport in your stuff and realized 'Tawny Kitaen' is actually a totally different person.

[ Except the problem is: what she really hates is the moment when she — she, Wynonna, the real Wynonna — can be seen for who she really is, and Edward can already do that. He's been able to do it all along, even before she'd given him a tipsy onceover while hanging out on his couch and decided he was actually pretty nice to look at. And talk to. And listen to. And hang out with.

She tips the bottle toward him, eyebrows pushing up again as she tips her head toward the empty glass in a silent question that's probably not so silent, all things considered: want some?

It was his idea, after all. ]

I just prefer to have a good exit strategy in place. Just in case.

[sputnik]

[ Even the slight flame flickering awake like a living entity is enough to offer near-immediate relief. Konstantin turns his body towards it and fully unzips his coat so that it's like two pieces instead of one, so that he can nudge the flaps of it behind his sides, exposing the front of the thick black turtleneck he wears underneath. Standing there like that warming himself like some reptile, he keeps listening to her talk, head turned to follow her movements to the kitchen, thoughtful in a solemn way that he usually isn't, everything made more severe by the weight of it all.

There's a nod before he can even think to stop the gesture, something affirmed and agreed to — dating, relationships; for him they're under the same umbrella of a certain type of connection, of commitment, something that feels too final. An anchor (a rope, a noose, a string around his finger keeping him hooked to someone else no matter how far away he might try to run, and it might as well be around his neck, choking him out).

There's a lift of brows at the part about using fake names — that'd be a first for him, and he's equal parts amused and impressed as he looks her over again. ]

That's not a bad idea, actually. Using a different name. [ He smiles a little, showing teeth as his eyes briefly move down over exposed skin as she stretches. But there's something to it, to relating with someone over this, that makes it all a little better — like going over it with a friend, a buddy, and maybe it'll even improve her opinion of him in the process (Konstantin... it won't) ]

The only problem is, everyone knows who I am. I can't go anywhere without being recognised. [ A fact that never bothered him before. Not him, who loved the glory of it all, there was no shame in admitting to that fact. The glory was a part of it. The starry-eyed way he was looked at. He was adored. ...Now though, there's someone who looks at him with love, not just adoration, and it's—

—It's terrifying. ]

But I agree that an exit strategy is always a good thing. Sometimes I like to map out more than one. Plan A, Plan B.

[ He turns his body around to face Wynonna fully, eyes dipping briefly from her face to the drink she's offering to pour. For a moment there's a yearning, and a bad decision trying to shove its way through. He stares, and then he smiles again, swallowing down a joke about Russians and their love of drink. It doesn't matter. He can't. ]

None for me, actually. I can't drink alcohol anymore, with this.. condition. At least, I haven't found a way to without things going wrong.

[ The last time he'd tried, he'd ended up vomiting very violently all over Vasiliy's living room floor and the thing knocked him out in its upset. He's only just making a better impression on Wynonna (he thinks); he doesn't need to throw up an alien in her cabin. ]

Have a glass for me? You look like you could use two, anyway.

[pacificator]

[ Right. The cosmonaut thing. He's some kind of big celebrity back home, she guesses, which tracks with his toothpaste-ad smiles and overall air of prom king ego. ]

And here I thought the popular kids were the ones having all the fun.

[ She arches her eyebrows at him, then pours the other glass, too, before lifting it and clinking the two tumblers together in a sarcastic impression of a toast, lifting one to him. ]

To running the hell away, then.

[ Double-fisting hard liquor; just like the good old days. She keeps hold of both glasses, lifting one for a swallow as she furrows her brows at the Russian, trying to sift through the thoughts vibrating along the string into her head and her own. Many of them are much too similar for her liking, but that's not the only thing leaving her uneasy. There are times when the connection she has with Edward — everything he is, everything he is to her, everything she feels about him — feels like a chain, a shackle, instead of something glowing and fragile and breakable. She hadn't gone out to find Willa again, knowing he'd have followed her. She'd put his life and wellbeing over the prospect of finding her sister — however unlikely success with that attempt might be — and she'd made that call herself. If she is chained down, she's the one who turned the key and threw it away. It's not his fault.

She comes around the table, glasses in hand, and stands before the fire, watching as the flames lick hungrily at the fuel. ]

Even if I ran, he'd find me. And the thing that drives me crazy is that he wouldn't even blame me. He'd get it. He'd be nice about it. He'd probably offer to stay away, just to make things easier.

What am I supposed to do with a guy like that, huh?

[sputnik]

It's not always so easy being popular, you know, [ he teases, mostly, but without his usual mischievous glint to the eye and quirk to the mouth, like an inside joke he's sharing with himself. It all falls away as he watches her clink the glasses and take a hearty swallow, and she puts to voice the concept that's been there underneath everything.

'To running the hell away, then.'

Konstantin's insides tighten unpleasantly with guilt, and most of it is because he finds himself nodding to that toast without a second thought. Because even if he did it all over again, every single thing that's mattered in his life, he knows he'd make the same choices. He'd run away from what he needed to escape from. Who he needed to escape from.

And even now, he's here when he should be there, and all he can think is that he doesn't want to go back. That he dreads the thought enough for it to bother him, and he hates that. Vasya doesn't deserve that. The problem is himself, he's broken and selfish and afraid to be loved by anyone too much.

He stares over at Wynonna as she moves closer again, towards the fire with two drinks in hand. Once again, her words could be his own thought — Vasya wouldn't blame him for anything, because he never does. There's never been any resentment towards a person who's essentially been a burden on his life. There's been no fear of him, even for everything that's so wrong about him. Vasiliy has never been anything but open and willing and loyal to him. ]

....Hope that something else messes it up before you can, [ he finds himself saying, turning his head away from the smell of alcohol wafting nearer. God, he could use it. The thing hates that pungent smell, squirms in displeasure, and he gives it a quiet mental chastise. Konstantin isn't thinking about the fact it's only continuing to associate Wynonna's voice and scent with a particular upset... This will be fine. ]

And then hate yourself for being so goddamned selfish. At least, that's what I plan to do.

[ A faint smile as his eyes shift to the growing flames. ]

This Edward of yours sounds like a soft heart. People like that are scarier, I think. I never know how to hold them the safest way.

[ Like a child unable to gracefully cup something small in their hands. They squeeze a little too hard, break things. ]

[pacificator]

[ Hope that something else messes it up before you can.

Wynonna snorts, letting one hand lower to her side, the glass in her fingers nudging gently against her thigh, and lifts her eyebrows as she brings the other up for a swallow. If she plays her cards right, she'll be nicely toasted by the time she has to go back to the other cabin, and maybe it'll dull a little of everything she hasn't been able to escape feeling. ]

Coward. Mess it up yourself like a real man.

[ The words are mean, maybe, but there's a wryness to them that undercuts any real venom. And it's not like he can't hear her thoughts, how she knows it simply doesn't matter that she won't try to mess it up, to break this fragile thing she barely understands and which sometimes feels like the only shaky, unstable scaffolding she's got holding her up in this place that manages to be even worse than the Ghost River Triangle, which is really saying something—

Anyway. He's looking at the fire, and so is she, but she's not really seeing this fire, she's seeing a flickering combination of so many others: one she'd lit here, the day she and Edward stumbled in looking for any kind of safety; another that had kept them warm at the Lakeside cabin; a third that they'd built in desperation as the blizzard howled outside, before they even really knew each other at all.

So many of her memories of him are like that, tinged in the gentle smudged light of a fire's glow. If she closes her eyes, she could picture him on the couch in his old cabin, limned in firelight and achingly beautiful in a way she has no idea how to describe or even understand. It wasn't just the way he looked, it was everything she felt, and she feels it again now, sore and yearning. ]

He does have a soft heart.

[ It's absurd, is what it is. He's such a gentle soul, kind and reserved and shy, and absolutely no part of him is anything she's ever expected to want. Sometimes it makes her furious; he's so lame in so many ways, he'd ruin her rep if anyone from home ever came here, he's gentlemanly and polite and she still has no idea what it is he even sees in her. He's so soft-hearted it's stupid, and if anything or anyone hurt that too-tender heart of his she would eviscerate them without hesitation. Including herself. ]

It's a huge problem, honestly.

[sputnik]

[ Coward. It's such an unexpected, foreign word for someone like him — the antithesis of cowardice. He has a medal to prove it. (The medal means nothing here, and it meant nothing to Tatyana, who called him a coward for all the reasons tucked up under the heroic acts and the journeying to places so few men have ever been.) For a moment he could be back in that isolated room with her, feeling smaller than he ever remembered feeling, facing the subject of his worst guilts dug up by Tanya.

He misses her, now. He wishes she were here. He's looking into the fire again without really seeing it, because Aleksei and Vasiliy are two people in his mind and then they blur into one, and he wishes he could give them both to someone better.

He takes a breath against the sting up under his sternum — coward; she's teasing you, don't take it so fucking personal — and smiles again, lifting one brow and tipping his head forwards like he's making a toast of his own. ]

It's probably inevitable. [ That he'll mess it up himself. He can admit that, maybe needs to admit it, prepare himself for the thought, smile about it beforehand like maybe that'll make it hurt less when it happens.

Wynonna's thoughts keep leaking through, warm but not for him, warmed by fire and memories, and turmoil about this soft-hearted man of hers. It makes him think of Vasya, stoic and composed on the surface but so soft underneath, soft as those mink-brown eyes. Vasya, weeping against his chest for the loss of his parents and the weight of the things he'd done. ]

Ever thought about giving him up? [ He turns his head to look at her again. ] You know, like an act of mercy.

[ There's a mental image of putting some small animal out of its misery, a bird, a mouse. (For a dangerous moment, his thoughts leap right to Averchenko hooked up to a machine, kept alive. One act of mercy and he'd be freed. Konstantin failed to do even that much.) ]

Don't they say if you truly love something, you'll let it go? Something like that.

cw: reference to executions by firearm

[pacificator]

[ An act of mercy. The image that comes to mind, hard on the heels of the flash she gets of some man he must know helpless and and linked to a machine, isn't of Edward or even of the small, helpless animals he thinks about. No, it's Shorty: Shorty with tears in his eyes, trying to hold the demon inside at bay; Shorty watching her with trust and warmth along the barrel of Peacemaker even as the muzzle pressed to his forehead. Shorty saying they're wrong.... you're a good girl, Wynonna while tears streamed down her face.

And then it's Fish, his smile sweet and trembling as he looks up from holding the shaking, ruined body of his lover, so gentle even in the face of another death for them both. Fish telling her you'll be the one to break this curse, Wynonna like he believed it. Fish telling her he doesn't want to live knowing death is right around the corner at her hand. Levi a smoking wreck of himself, embracing a death with his lover rather than a life waiting for the Heir to gun them down.

Neither of those felt like mercy, but she has to believe she gave them a chance at peace. She has to.

(And if it were Edward, kneeling there in front of her, asking for the peace only she can give? What would she do then?)

Her lashes flutter and tiny muscles in her jaw and throat jump. Could she give him up, if she had to? Could she lose another person she cares about, on her own terms, and keep going?

She knows the answer is yes. She'd perfected the art of losing people years ago. But even with the fear that pushed her out of the cabin and away from him today, the thought of letting him go on purpose, pushing him away, meets with an almost visceral shove of stubbornness, a wall of I don't wanna. ]

I guess I must not truly love him, then. Mystery of the red string: solved.

[ Maybe Konstantin will understand this, too: the selfish desire to keep someone who probably shouldn't be hers in the first place. But she does want to keep him. She wants him to be hers. Just one person. Is that so much to ask?

She pours one of the glasses of liquor into the other, moody, and looks back over at him. ]

You got strapped into a giant rocket and went to space. You'd think something like this would be easier to deal with.

[sputnik]

[ At once, he finds himself taken aback by the lightning bolt images of thought and memory that come through to him — like flipping through a television set, lingering just long enough to catch a program, a face, a piece of dialogue exchanged. (A man staring up as Konstantin stares right back through Wynonna's wet eyes, and a gun pressed to his forehead, her finger against the trigger. Another man — two men, one burned almost beyond recognition of being a man at all, held by the other. Curse, that man says, uses that word, break the curse, and... just who is she?)

Konstantin jumps a little, like a shudder, just enough to rattle himself in a way he's not used to. The creature writhes unhappily again, and almost by instinct he steps a little away from her, tries to make it seem natural, like he's just adjusting his position by the fire. He clears his throat, one hand going up to the ledge of the mantel, fingers curling around it as he looks into the dancing flames. He doesn't like seeing people in pain; it shakes him in a weird, deep way. Maybe because of all his own guilts, all of the people who have suffered at his own hands.

Concentrating on the words voiced aloud and not the upsetting ones in their heads is no easier, but Wynonna's immediate pushback against the idea of letting the guy go makes him smile, not with humour but something wry and understanding and he's ducking his head a little as though to hide it.

Yeah. Yeah, he gets it. Maybe it is selfish. But is that so bad? Is it so wrong? If this is love, really truly is love, then does wanting to keep it no matter what cheapen anything? Lessen anything? Maybe some people are capable of that... sensitive type of softness, the kind that would give up something they wanted, that would let go. And maybe there's people like him, and her, because even though he may not flash a pair of fangs as sharply as Wynonna, maybe he hides his own beneath a bright smile, but he's just as vicious about what he wants. He'll fight for it. Dig in and hold on tight. You're the real monster, Tanya told him once. ]

...You know, I've always done whatever it took to get what I wanted. I mean that. I suppose some people may say that's relentless, or self-centered, and they're probably right. But we only have one life to live. We're here and then that's it.

[ He looks back up and over at her too, movements slow, because the thing's still agitated. It's warmed from the fire now, and he's stopped moving around, so its discomfort must be because of her. ...It should ultimately be fine! It's just not used to her! ]

So I think it's bullshit, actually. Giving something up as a mark of true love. And if it's going to be difficult either way, might as well choose the option that means you get what you want.

[ It's objectively selfish for him to be close to anyone that way at all. The thing's an unknown; it could kill Vasiliy any night. It could fucking kill him. All these months living under that man's roof, and Konstantin has known and worried about this, and still he hasn't left. Because he's already made his decision too, really, up under the fears and uncertainties about the shape of everything, how to label it. He's keeping what he wants. ]