Stanislav Rubin - Tumblr Posts
This basically sums them up
saw the funger version and made this
Clara as... herself? Stakh as the only semi–responsible adult among the Humbles
P.s — If your eyes suddenly bleed in my drawing because of the bright colors, I’m sorry!!
It's ironic that I'm writing this at 5am.
Just a pointless sketch, tho
Unfinished: "Antibiotics, Alcohol & other Aphrodisiacs" - [PeterStakh]
[Note: the canon in this is a bit strange due to it happening in the context of my Patho RPG, which altered how the outbreaks happened. all you need to know is that this is during the first outbreak, but it was more severe, spreading to the entirety of the Earth Quarter. also Taya's father dies offscreen. also there's a random butcher mentioned, he's one of my friends' characters for the rpg. don't sweat the details or else i might cry. bless]
TW: description of self-harm scars, the expected mentions of alcoholism and plague
Stanislav Rubin had been tasked with patrolling regularly and making note of which houses were looted, dead, infected, or otherwise living during the outbreak. The only saving grace for his sanity was that the Crude Sprawl was already condemned, so he could avoid the southernmost part of the Earth Quarter, dealing instead with the neighboring districts and their infected. He had a niggling feeling that it wasn't supposed to be this way, that this outbreak was of a bigger magnitude than it should've been, as if the inverse was trying to make rights with something in the future.
One thing he never expected was the development of his acquaintance to one Peter Stamatin, renowned architect and chronic drunk. Something he didn't think he'd bring himself to do was accept bribes, but Andrey Stamatin was a clever sort of devil, and the supplies he sent in exchange for Peter's continued health were persuasive enough to convince Rubin to actually invest in the drunkard, still wondering how the man’s brother got himself out of the quarter before the lockdown.
Peter Stamatin had an affinity for twyrine; before being tasked with his supervision that was the extent of Rubin's knowledge of the man: a sulking shell of a prestigious artist who came to the town at the end of the line to drown himself in his own sorrows, clogging up the streets with more bottles than buildings. Really, Rubin didn't develop a high opinion of the man in the number of years of his presence. The Gorkhon didn't need fools like the Stamatins to sully the already tarnished settlement.
Overturned bottles littered the street as the doctor's apprentice approached the building housing Peter. It was an uncanny waste of space to have a whole wing of the place belonging to one man, three floors to house a single living being, two of them abandoned and locked up with dust smattered over abandoned furniture. Rubin ascended the stairs with a passive scowl, thinking of the burning candle on the third floor window sill, signaling the continued survival of one single man whose fingerprints lay in half the messes and disasters plaguing the town. Idly he thought he wouldn't be surprised if the Stamatins had caused the plague with their experimentation.
Three knocks, standard. He waited for the architect to open the door for a solid two minutes before kicking it aggressively at the lack of response. A dull thud sounded in the apartment, followed by some grumbles and the sound of clinking glass. The door opened, and before him stood Peter Stamatin, barefoot and with his shirt unbuttoned, slouch making him seem smaller than what he was, carrying a bottle and scratching his neck with his free hand before he tugged a paintbrush out of his hair, bun falling undone messily without support. He looked like he'd just been raised from the dead, eyes glassy as he scanned Rubin thoroughly.
“Stakh.” His voice was rough, tone tinged with surprise. “I didn't expect your visit. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rubin was surprised to witness how coherent he was even when drunk, words steady and stance balanced, only his eyes betraying his altered state.
Rubin scoffed. “You might not recall, but there's an outbreak going on. I'm to inspect your health.” He deliberated for a second. “And don't call me that.”
Peter only tilted his head and looked up at him, looking infuriatingly like a confused child. “You weren't inspecting me before.” He took a sip from his bottle and added, almost as an afterthought. “I'm not sick.”
“Not in the body, at least.” Rubin grumbled. “Your brother sends his regards, and most importantly he's the one who put me up to this.” He raised a satchel in his grip, its contents rattling with the movement. The sound of clinking glass aroused Peter's curiosity, drooping eyes widening. “Let me in.”
The architect stepped aside, looking at Rubin's boots as he strode in with purpose, looking around for a second before approaching a table and clearing its surface of littered papers with messy scrawling. A pitiful whine was followed by Peter kneeling down to fetch the sketches as Rubin sorted myriad vials and bottles on the tabletop, metal tins rattling with pills.
“That's a lot of things to be carrying around.” Did Peter have some sort of compulsion for saying non-sequiturs or was this a pitiful attempt at making conversation? Rubin grunted noncommittally before putting on a set of surgical gloves, watching the architect out of the corner of his eye. He was inspecting the bottles, tapping the glass and humming with interest at bubbles rising in the colorful liquids. Childish.
Rubin extended a hand. “Your wrist.” Peter tilted his head and plucked a pencil from somewhere on his person, biting the tip of it in thought as he examined the objects on the table. The doctor cleared his throat pointedly, earning an “oh” from his patient, who extended an arm without looking at him, still mouthing at the writing implement idly with his eyes glazed. His lips were pink and wet, teeth peeking out to nibble on the wood sometimes. Rubin sighed and shook his head, focusing on counting the heart rate of the man.
His wrist was pale and thin, clearly he was somewhat underfed and hadn't gone out in proper sunlight for a while. At least his bad habits were a good thing during present circumstances. Rubin raised his sleeve higher and counted the pulse under his fingertips, eyebrows furrowing as he caught sight of what seemed to be scars, thin and white. He kept count under his breath, looking up at Peter to check whether he was being paid attention to or not before pulling his sleeve up higher with his pinky finger, feeling the bumps of myriad scars on his flesh.
Lines, straight as a razor, not parallel at all, formed into the shape of… something. It looked as if Peter had drawn something on his own forearm with a blade multiple times overlaid, a macabre artistic endeavor in the medium of self-flagellation. Rubin felt as if he were intruding on a person's lowest moment just by seeing it. He pulled down the soft sleeve of Peter's shirt and coughed, catching the other man's attention. “Your heart rate is fine, if a little on the low end. Twyrine does that to you, so I suppose this isn't remarkable.”
Peter smiled at him, which felt strange. “Anything else, doctor?” His tone of voice was docile and distant, as if he thought he was dreaming.
“I'm not nearly done, Mr Stamatin…” The name felt slimy on his tongue. “I need to verify a few more things and administer immunity boosters, seeing as alcohol isn't an efficient disease deterrent.” Although the amount Peter drank could certainly be viewed as 'cleansing'. “Open your mouth, I need to see the back of your throat.”
Peter startled, flushing an embarrassed pink and muttering. “I didn't realize it was that kind of dream…” Rubin graciously ignored him in favor of picking up a wooden stick to place on Peter's tongue, raising a light to see into his mouth. The back of his throat was clear of any sort of phlegm or mucus he could associate with disease, but it was red and scratched, as if he'd been coughing. Not ideal. Rubin ignored how he could see the telltale tears of chewed cheeks from the inside of Peter's mouth, wounds that refused to heal as they were bitten anew.
He withdrew the stick and clicked Peter's mouth closed with a finger to his chin when he didn't move himself, causing the man to open his eyes and swallow. “Nothing conclusive, but you seem fine. Stop biting your cheeks, that's asking for infection.” If Peter said the alcohol would disinfect it, Rubin would punch him. “You’ve been coughing. Explain.”
Peter tilted his head to a countertop littered with bottles and a few cigarettes, ash coating the marble. “Yulia’s menthols. I borrowed some, but I don't think smoke is my thing.” He seemed to deliberate on his wording as if Rubin was really invested in the infinite ways the man was attempting to shorten his lifespan. “Don't suppose you're going to lecture me on bad habits, will you, doctor?”
“I don't have time to waste on your self destructive coping mechanisms, you fool.” Rubin turned to the table, picking up a box of immunity boosters and tossing it to Peter carelessly. “Take these, swallow them with actual water, keep the candle lit, don't open the door for strangers, stay indoors at all times, wait for supplies and ration your food, put a white sheet out of your window if you grow sick, wait for news before presuming the outbreak is over…”
Peter nodded at his instructions with a distant look on his face, sitting down and scribbling on a piece of paper instead of looking at Rubin. At least he seemed to be listening. Rubin should be a little more thorough, but he couldn't bear the overbearingly dim atmosphere of the apartment, so he excused himself quickly, shoving his supplies into his bag. As he turned to close the door behind himself, he swore Peter's silhouette bore the weight of the long shadows cast in the room. Stakh left with a whispered promise of return.
..
It was a cold morning, crisp and refreshing for someone who was often stuck in rooms plagued with fumes and rot. Rubin walked at an unhurried pace, greeting the few people he passed by, messengers on their way to and from the bridge, volunteers fetching supplies from storehouses, butchers guiding wheelbarrows to the cemetery. Northward was his destination, the sky a dull blue with thin clouds, a sight he'd almost call pretty if he were a man of beauty.
Something zipped past his ear as he approached Peter's flat, bearing down on the path with a whisper of scrunched paper. A paper airplane, its nose crumpled but the rest of it otherwise pristine and white, the inside scrawled with messy handwriting. ‘Stakh. It's a beautiful day, I wouldn't want to waste your morning on my affairs. Perhaps I'll paint, and you can come back in the evening? I'll save a drink for your troubles. -PS’
Fool. Rubin looked up to catch Peter standing at his open window, nursing the obligatory candle to light while whistling idly, eyes scanning the horizon with interest, seemingly taking in the morning. Rubin wouldn't stop himself from doing his due diligence normally, especially not at the request of someone who clearly didn't know better. And yet. He was struck by a magnanimous feeling of kindness when he witnessed the peaceful expression on the architect's face, a soft smile breaking the tired lines of his visage as his dark eyes reflected the warmth of the flame. Stanislav Rubin wasn't a man of beauty, but Peter Stamatin was, and something about the domesticity and contentment of the scene gave Rubin pause.
Peter's calm eyes met Rubin's, and his smile brightened, causing a twinge of… something… inside the doctor's chest. The man waved, seemingly forgetting about the lit match between his fingers, flicking it out of the window accidentally. He leaned out of his window to watch it fly down, landing about forty centimeters away from Rubin, who snorted. Peter looked down with pink cheeks, tucking strands of his shiny hair behind his ear, the rest of it flowing in the meager breeze. Yes, he was a man of beauty.
“I'll see you in the evening, Stamatin. You better use the time wisely, if you're rescheduling. The painting better be good.” Rubin felt stupid, shouting up at the window, but Peter nodded gravely, eyes intense, and closed the curtains. Perhaps he ought to use the morning hours to continue his personal research, if Isidor didn't have anything for him to do. He'd have to walk all the way back in the evening, yet he found he didn't mind. More time spent outdoors meant less in the company of the hopeless sick; a cruel sentiment, but a true one nonetheless.
..
Rubin walked in what felt like a solemn procession, jaw clenched so hard, he heard his teeth creak with every step out of the Termitary, feeling the scornful eyes of the many-headed beast of the Kin on the back of his neck. His fingers tingled as they held his satchel, carrying harvested organs as if they were stones that weighed not only his body, but his conscience. Overseer Tycheek was dead, his tomb the concrete monstrosity that housed the Kin. Dead, just like that. Rubin knew Burakh would bear the brunt of the personal grief, but guilt fell on his own plate, by association.
Isidor was the one requesting organs, but Rubin fetched them, knowing he would be lynched for it if knowledge of his actions was disseminated. That butcher, the gruff man with a trimmed beard and tired eyes, certainly suspected something of him, and Rubin knew his unkindness to the man prior had made him sore. One of the few healthy able-bodied men of the Kin’s butchers from the Abattoir who deigned to go outside and speak to Rubin in a language he could understand; they'd had one prior interaction, and it was sour.
It wasn't one-sided, but Rubin knew it was insensitive to make light of the Kin's beliefs. Still, hearing prayers to mother bloody earth when he was right there, actually doing the work to fix things, was irritating. He couldn't help but grouse at the time: “Better hope your Mother Boddho does something to solve this goddamn epidemic. We need it.” or something along those lines. Then the butcher witnessed his Father Superior's death right alongside Rubin, and the way his eyes trailed Rubin's satchel as he left spoke of something.
Rubin sighed for the upteenth time, gritting his teeth and mechanically walking towards Stamatin's flat. The day had started deceptively calm and pleasant, he really shouldn't have taken it for granted. A light flickered at the window, the wind making the flame of a candle volatile amid the stars dotting the sky; he almost wished it were overcast, if only to validate his own dampened mood.
The apartment door was ajar when he approached, light leaking out into the stairwell and a hum coming from inside, deep and soothing in its musical spontaneity. The medic walked inside, letting his fingertips graze the top of the clock beside the door with a flighty flick, dust smearing his digits as he looked to the side where he expected Peter Stamatin to be.
Moonlight streamed in from the windows, helped by a few candles to illuminate the wooden boards of the floor and the main room of the apartment, empty besides the counters, table, chairs, and incomprehensible bathtub, looking to be more lived-in than the rest of the space. At least the sea of bottles around the porcelain tub had been cleared, although Rubin didn't like to imagine how exactly that volume of glass had been discarded. The humming was ever-present, coming from the slight hallway leading to what he imagined might be the bedroom.
Rubin wasn't ready to initiate any sort of social interaction, so he settled himself and his things on the table, fetching a bottle of water and some toast from his bag, sitting with his back to the bedroom to feign privacy. The wicked had to give themselves rest, how else could he live on to fulfill his destiny of drawing the ire of all? He grumbled to himself as he uncapped the bottle.
“I don't find you at all wicked, Stakh.” He startled as a voice came from the hallway behind him. Rubin turned to see Peter, looking tired but content, paint smeared on his fingertips and cheek, staining his beige shirt. “And if it's any comfort, I have no ire towards you.” The man's smile was soft, although his face betrayed a sense of exhaustion.
“One less knife to my back doesn't make the bed of nails more comfortable.” Rubin groused, overtaken by a spontaneous need to indulge his dark mood.
Peter chuckled in surprise, his voice rough with disuse or cigar smoke, Rubin couldn't tell. “Actually, the more nails on a mattress the more the pressure is diffused, so it's less uncomfortable.” The architect sat down across from the medic with a bit of intellectual indulgence lightening his tired visage. “But, ah, you don't actually care for that, do you? I wish I could say I understand the feeling, you know, of being hated so widespread as you say, but I'm afraid I've been sheltered from it.” His smile seemed private, almost unknowing of who watched it. “Andrey was always my second skin.”
Rubin felt a drop of bewilderment diffuse itself in his core. Peter Stamatin, drunk and mad, speaking clearly and normally, and to someone else at that. Someone like Rubin. “Huh.” He exhaled, straightening his posture and untensing his coiled fingers. “I would've thought your Polyhedron drew hatred to you like… a lightning rod.” It certainly was true of Rubin's contempt, among other reasons.
Peter tilted his head, hair falling over his face, his dark eyes clear and wide with a sort of naive wonder. “Ah, but do I care about the masses? They don't know Her beauty, only that She stands on their Earth. I can't imagine they care for my opinion, so why should I theirs?” Ah, yes, the detachment, also something Rubin detested. “Although Andrey was always better at not caring. I needed help to keep numb.” Peter’s eyes drifted half-lidded, pupils finding an empty bottle to represent all the others he'd ever held. “A lightning rod…”
Rubin couldn't help but think he'd opened a novel on the second to last chapter, hearing such earnest thoughts from a man he barely knew, so he offered a bit of his own mind as retribution, if only to not feel like an intruder. “You don't need to care, though. You live in your own tower here, and your continued existence doesn't rely on the piddling ants at its base.” He sighed, looking out of the window; the streets looked just as dirty and dingy, but the tint of the glass made it picturesque; not quite lovely, but interesting and alien. “Your patrons are rich folk who pay for your drinks, mine are poor people who barely afford their meals. If I can't even get work there, be it because of distrust or prejudice, I die before a patient even gets a cough.”
“And your friends? Would they not help? Andrey helped-”
“Your brother, your family. He has a duty to you, above all.”
“Well, yes, but is friendship not also a bond as worthy?”
“I don't think even you believe that, Stamatin.”
“...”
Rubin sighed once more, wondering how many breaths he had left in his lungs. His fingers closed around a box in his satchel, bringing it to rest on the tabletop. “Take these with clear water.”
Peter looked sad, muted. Rubin couldn't help but feel as though he'd caused that. “When will I see you again, Stakh? I'd like to show you my painting, once it's finished.”
“...I don't know. I'll be back. That's all I can say.” Rubin got up to avoid the eyes looking at him with such vulnerability. Fuck it, Peter was drunk. (He wasn't, this was as sober as he'd ever seen the man.) “And if I don't come back, at least you'll have your brother waiting for you on the other side of the Gullet.”
As he walked to the door he heard Peter speak, light as a moth on a paper lampshade. “I shouldn't like you to leave if I could not say a proper goodbye.”
Rubin looked back, seeing Peter with a sad smile, too familiar for a stranger in his care. “You don't get to choose that.” He closed the door with more force than necessary, feeling forlorn and simmering in a strange sort of muted wrath.
After a conversation with my friend it has been decided
Rubin has multiple Lobsters
Oughfmm viktor!! I feel so much for him. He just went through so much he deserves a pat on the back
Idk what happens to the second one, krita decided to fuck me up
OH AND RUBIN! this was a side profile study kinda!!
A dump from mostly December fanart(open for better quality)
These ones I was experimenting with a different artstyle
Just some plain old portraits
+ my unhinged drawing of Andrey Stamatin pole dancing
«I'm slightly deaf. I'm, God, a little blind»
стас грустный чувствую его
ACTUAL GAME DIALOGUE
Stanislav Rubin continuing the trend of BREAKING MY HEART IN EVERY GAME