Useless background context: I saved Pavel but I still got the bad ending. Artyom basically had no merit in any of my playthroughs. 😂

Also, this is a fic geared towards Partyom (Pavel x Artyom). If that isn't your thing... how did you even get here?

Big thanks to TheTrueKingofEire for the inspiration to write a Metro Universe fanfic!

Bonus if you want: enjoy Egor Kreed's "Больше Чем Любовь" (More Than Love) that dragged me through the writing process.
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Artyom Chyornyj never bothered to learn sign language. No one knew it. Those that once knew sign language either died during the nuclear attack, died from disease or a creature in the tunnels, or Artyom's string of bad luck kept him from finding anyone. But that didn't matter. He was good at writing quickly and legibly, a minor trait he possessed that he was proud about. And he didn't mind his lonely little world. If by anything, it was his enclosed lifestyle that lead him to find the artistic side of him, particularly with music. Being alone brought out a whole softer side of him to contrast the brutality he commuted day to day. So for years, Artyom got away with talking to people by simply writing his thoughts on his notepad, nodding and shaking his head, or communicated with extravagant arms and hands flailing about.

With Moscow finally cleared out of monsters and life beginning to return to what it was some 30 years ago, Artyom took advantage of his free time and rode the new metro train that was slowly but surely connecting the metro system back together, like the way it had been back before 2013. And that's how Artyom learned Moscow City's layout from under the ground. Sometimes he got off and went sightseeing in the ruined cities, Helsing slung over his shoulder just in case he found any straggling Nosalises. But most of the time, he stayed on the metro. There was something about zipping quietly along steel lines at nearly 150km an hour that remained a novelty to him, no matter how many times he rode the metro.

One thing he had noticed in the past month was that Pavel Morozov would board the train. He always got on at Venice and got off in Hanza. Pavel usually stood near Artyom and tried to strike up conversation, and Artyom would simply nod to try and show his enthusiasm, even if Pavel talked his ear off. But after a week, Pavel stopped rambling and simply said hellos. Artyom wasn't sure why. Maybe they reached the point where they felt they knew enough about one another that it wasn't worth the time to talk. Or Pavel didn't want to talk to him anymore because Artyom couldn't converse back. Artyom's anxiety entertained the second thought, and the nagging frustration that he couldn't speak to anyone but his step-father slowly built inside him until his brain associated Pavel with anxiety.

Today, on his ride along the metro system, Artyom brought along his notepad with the expectation that he was going to draw the landscape whenever he got off. Instead, he found himself doodling every weapon he ever held. Somehow, he remembered every little detail about each weapon, from the Bastard he dropped and shattered, to the Valve he jammed, and to the Shambler he broke his finger with. Something told him that this would be useless information he knew not long into the future.

As always, Pavel boarded the train at the Venice station. He stood next to Artyom and waved, which Artyom gave a shy wave back before trying back to his revolver drawing. His fingers were losing coordination, and his chest started to tighten, shortening his breath. A distraction: anything would be better than feeling guilty for something he wasn't even sure he caused. So Artyom's brain began to nitpick his drawing. He immediately noticed the proportions were slightly off on the revolver, but for whatever reason, he couldn't figure out why. Was the barrel too short? The cylinder too flat? The grip too long?

A tap on his shoulder set a sharp pain of alertness through him. His hand reactivity shifted to drop the pen and grab his gun. But the pen never left his fingers before he remembered he was safe. Artyom glanced up towards Pavel, who began to flick his hands about in complex but calculated gestures.

Artyom blinked. The blin knew sign language. Another language to annoy people in. So why was he suddenly filled with jealousy? So what: Pavel knew another language. Nothing to get worked up about, right—the fuck did Pavel need sign language for?

Flipping to a new page in his notepad, Artyom scribbled a message and turned the pad around to Pavel.

I'm sorry, I can't read sign language.

Pavel froze. His hands hung midair, as though they had been cut off mid sentence. "Shit... you're not deaf, are you?"

Artyom shook his head, slightly confused. Pavel's cheeks tinged red as his eyes fell to the floor, his hands following his gaze until they dropped to his sides. "Fuck, I'm such an idiot. I thought you went deaf after the war 'cause you kept nodding when I was talking to you." As though Artyom didn't already feel guilty enough for not being able to speak. He kept his thoughts hidden behind his already presented expression as Pavel continued on. "So I tried to learn some sign language to talk to you, y'know. Make the train ride more interesting."

And that's when Artyom lost it. Against all will to remain professional, he burst out laughing. The sound shocked him, Pavel, and everyone else on the train who only knew him as the quiet drawing introvert. In an attempt to make the situation feel less awkward, Pavel forced a laugh as his face continued to redden.

Artyom quickly scribbled down his next thoughts. I never thought I'd be worth learning sign language for.

"Well, congratulations." Pavel no longer looked confident in himself like Artyom was used to, his playfulness falling behind a mask of seriousness. "Guess you are. Sorry about that, d'Artagnon." He looked ready to die of embarrassment, a feeling Artyom knew pretty well himself.

Easing his laughter down, Artyom went back to writing. I'd love to know more about the man who learned sign language for the kid that can't read it. Do you want to grab a drink at the next station? I'd also like to know some sign language myself.

Pavel's smile came back, the real genuine smile. "Tab's on me! No lacing this time, I promise!" If Artyom wasn't so attuned to studying every detail about Pavel face, he would have missed the underlying gaze of a man who was lost and unsure. Part of him wondered if Pavel needed someone to set him on a new path now that his old one was destroyed. But Pavel was smart. He could probably find his own way about.

And as they stepped off the metro and Pavel began teaching Artyom how to spell his name, Artyom wondered if maybe it was him who could help Pavel find that path.

Maybe Pavel wasn't as bad as he thought.
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This is based off a story I read. The post is down below.

If you enjoyed this story, please leave a star! Or comment your likes/dislikes, I don't care.

I'm sorry for any OOCness that happens. I tend to do that.

Thanks for reading!