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His pillow smells of the Steppe.
Unusual, a surprise, and yet, he breathes it in. The scent of herbs, of nature, of the dirt. It lingers in his lungs and washes over his palate. He can practically feel it caught in his teeth, under his gums; the grit of this place, and that of the earth. It tastes of life, twisted. Traces of copper skulk in the corners of his mouth.
Dankovsky lets out a lengthy sigh – followed by a snort, as if he might be able to force out the aroma with a cough or two.
But. No. With every breath it grows stronger. He can feel the Town’s roots twisting deeper into him. Tendrils of bone and congealed blood, thrumming with a pulse all its own.
At times – times like these – he swears he can almost hear it.
A preposterous notion. But one that makes him wonder nonetheless.
After a moment, Dankovsky exhales another heavy breath and rolls over onto his back. He clasps his hands across his sternum, frowning up at the ceiling as if might hold whatever explanation lies behind his sudden itch for waxing poetic. A spider spins its web in the far corner, though it seems to be catching more dust and moonlight than anything else.
Other than that, he doesn’t get an answer.
Damn this town, Dankovsky thinks. Damn this town and damn its people. Little more than beasts, truly, and mere cattle at that. They move and think and act like a flock of sheep, easy prey for a plague such as this. If it weren’t for their shepherd…
Dankovsky fumbles for the right words. As he often does when it comes to Burakh.
Surely, the Town’s people would be doomed without him. That much is for certain. Burakh is one of the few among them that could possibly even be described as competent, though his superstitious nature and unorthodox methods still give Dankovsky pause.
Still, he can’t argue with Burakh’s results, even if he does frequently smell of sweat and blood and the Steppe. The same sickly sweet odor clinging to Dankovsky’s pillow. It’s almost as if Burakh has willingly shucked off part of his anima and let it fester into these sheets, manifesting his joy and his rage and his fear as the heady scent of mud currently stuck to the inside of Dankovsky’s nose.
A romantic thought, isn’t it? Perhaps the reality is just that Burakh should consider taking a bath every once in a while.
Damn this town, Dankovsky thinks. Damn this town, and damn Artemy Burakh for stinking up his bed.
Something big and heavy drags its way up the stairs.
Stumbling.
Clambering.
Muted footsteps.
Boots thudding to a stop nearby.
A sigh, and then warm breath on his face.
Dankovsky cracks his eyes open.
Artemy Burakh crouches next to his bed, cast in a halo of pre-dawn light.
“Did I wake you?” Burakh asks, voice soft as velvet and rougher than the plague itself all at the same time.
There’s blood on his face, still drying. He smells of death. Dankovsky lets his eyes slide back shut.
“Yes,” he answers. “With the way you paraded up the stairs, I could have sworn that was your intention.”
“Maybe it was. Does it matter?”
“In the grand scheme of things? No. I knew you lacked propriety and common decency the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
Burakh grunts. “Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Not getting enough beauty sleep, erdem? Strange dreams keeping you awake? I could get you a night light, if you like. Or I could watch you while you sleep.”
Dankovsky opens one glaring eye in response to his mocking tone. Though Burakh isn’t laughing, but there’s a quirk in his lip. Annoyed, then? No, no. He’d be scowling if that were the case. If only he weren’t so hard to read.
“Surely, you have better things to do,” Dankovsky says. “And besides, the thought of you watching me while I sleep is discomforting.”
“How so?”
“How so? How is it not?”
A slow grin spreads across Bruakh’s face. Ah. Teasing after all. “I’m just kidding, noukher. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less.”
“Noukher?” Dankovsky echoes. “Now where have I heard that before…”
The strangest thing happens while Dankovsky fishes around for the memory. Artemy Burakh turns a touch more pink.
“It’s nothing,” he rushes out. “The full meaning doesn’t translate.”
Dankovsky sits all the way up in bed, pulling his blanket around his shoulders and chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought. After a moment, he snaps his fingers. “The bull.”
That seems to bring Burakh up short. “What?”
“That damned bull of yours. The one that supposedly speaks? That’s what you named it, isn’t it?”
The tension in Burakh’s shoulders seems to dissipate all at once. “Yes. Of course. You and that bull must be kindred spirits with how much you both disappoint me.”
“And yet here you are kneeling at my bedside at some forsaken hour in the morning.”
“Yes.” Burakh’s laugh is quiet, rumbling low and deep. “And yet here I am.”
Their eyes meet. A moment passes. And then two.
Dankovsky is the first to look away. Damn this town. Damn Artemy Burakh.
“By the way,” Burakh begins, standing up straight before reaching around to root around in his medical bag. “I have a favor to ask.”
Dankovsky swallows a few times until he’s sure his voice won’t waver when he speaks. “I’m not that sort of doctor, I’m afraid.”
Burakh rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t fall right out of his head. “You wish you were that lucky. No, I just need you to take a look at this.”
He produces a vial, worn and cracked from use, filled with something so thick and dark that Dankovsky isn’t entirely certain whether it’s dirt or blood.
“Bull’s blood,” Burakh explains as if reading his thoughts, handing the flask over. “The worms told me they haven’t gotten sick. It’s almost like the disease is avoiding them altogether.”
“I see.” Dankovsky can’t help the grimace that passes over his features. Burakh clearly doesn’t miss it.
“Look, I know you have your… disagreements with the Kin–”
Dankovsky stands, forcing Burakh to take a pace backwards. “No. This isn’t the time for that. Not anymore. I suspected the bulls might be immune; with this, I can test my hypothesis. I’ll examine this right away. As for you, however…”
Dankovsky trails off, considering the bloodied man in front of him. Tall and wide as ever, yet gaunt, in a sense. Haunted. Sagging under a weight that must be similar – and yet unimaginably different – from his own.
He side-steps Burakh and waves a hand towards the bed. “…You should rest, my dear colleague. You look tired, among other things.”
Burakh sighs, long and deep, as he very obviously tries not to smile. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”
It’s only when Dankovsky feels his lips twitch ever so slightly upwards that the facade breaks. Burakh takes a half-step closer, and then another, until he can rest his hand upon Dankovsky’s shoulder and there’s nearly no space left between them.
“Daniil,” Burakh says, murmurs, whispers his name. Like something precious. Like a prayer.
A beat passes, and then Burakh moves his hand to catch the side of his neck, his palm calloused and warm.
Dankovsky swallows. Wets his lips.
“I should,” he starts, stops, clears his throat, tries again, “I should… get to work. It’ll take time to… to, er…”
Burakh’s thumb finds its way down the line of his jaw, over his chin, teasing at his bottom lip. “Surely, you can spare a few moments, Bachelor.”
Dankovsky opens his mouth before promptly closing it. He repeats the process a few times before eventually managing a weak, “…Perhaps just a few.”
The lines in Burakh’s face soften. Just slightly. Just so. He leans in close; blue eyes wide, searching, closing. Pale eyelashes catching rays of early morning light. Dankovsky could count them, if he wanted. Some part of him wants to try.
But he doesn’t. He simply closes the gap – still far from bridging the divide – and allows Burakh to brush his lips against his own. Allows him to take his face into both of his hands. The hands of a killer, according to his people, of a man who’s murdered and defiled.
Strange, Dankovsky thinks as Burakh nudges him backwards towards the bed, how those same hands can make him come undone.