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When dawn crept upon the Town-on-Gorkhon, it found Daniil awake, as was normal for that hour. As it moved to greet him, its light slipping through the bedroom windows, it realized something was different. Daniil's early bird habit usually caused him stress or anxiety. That morning, he was at peace, at least mostly so.
It wasn't hard to figure out why he was so calm when one considered his current situation--Artemy, still asleep, was partially sprawled across him.
They'd all been doing better as of late, Daniil mused as he rubbed circles into Artemy's shoulder blade with his thumb. That was what it meant to heal, but it still felt odd for the pain to numb over. In its absence, there was usually a gaping hole, since none of them remembered how to act without that pressure and panic. They'd burned themselves out from being on high alert for days on end, and now they were finally starting to recuperate some of what they'd lost.
That's what allowed them to end up like this, since it was usually the other way around. It restored a bit of Daniil's broken pride to see Artemy at this angle for a change--the haruspex's head resting on his chest, arm draped across him. Daniil was effectively trapped, but that was a small price to pay. It was beneficial, if anything, as the pain may have numbed but the paranoia still haunted his senses. He couldn't act on that now, and having his husband's weight against him only told him that everything was okay.
Everything was okay. What an odd sentence that was, and what an odder thing that Daniil could finally almost allow himself to believe it. After all, Artemy wouldn't be here with him like this if everything still wasn't okay.
Daniil paused, studying Artemy's still form huddled up against his own. Even from this perspective, he could vaguely pinpoint where the hardships of those dreadful days had carved permanent stress lines into the other's features, but that's where the outbreak's hold on him faltered. Artemy was completely relaxed. No tension strained his muscles, and no worries twisted his expression or furrowed his brow. For a moment, Daniil committed the sight to memory as he listened to Artemy's steady, deep breaths. He soon caught himself counting them.
This almost hadn't happened. There were so many points where their paths could have--nearly did, almost--diverged from this ending. They'd quarreled multiple times over the events of the plague, and many times more afterward. Those fights often found themselves being...uncivil, at best (Clara mentioned that she'd sometimes thought they were on the verge of killing each other). Daniil was loath to admit it, but he was oftentimes the aggressor. The panic or alcohol clouded his head, made it harder to hold his tongue, to tell where Artemy's opinions and practices ended and where Artemy himself began, but that was no excuse. He wouldn't have blamed Artemy if he'd never wanted anything to do with him again, but the exact opposite happened.
Artemy was a busy man, but he was never too busy to help Daniil back to his feet. He never lorded a grudge over his head, however justified it would have been, instead being far more patient and understanding than he had any right to be. He never took Daniil's words without fighting back, of course, but the responses he gave were never openly malicious. He'd said previously that it was because he knew what Daniil was wrestling with, but to Daniil, that just meant that he shouldn't bother helping someone who only ripped his wounds open time and time again. Still, he bothered, and now they'd ended up in a life that could so easily be considered domestic.
Daniil was certain he wouldn't have come out the other side of those dark times had Artemy not been there, smoothing over the damage with his gentle, calloused hands and stitching the broken pieces back together.
Going their separate ways wasn't the only way their story could have ended, but Daniil preferred not to think about the alternative. The thought made his mind recoil and spine shudder before he had the chance to grasp it. He kept counting.
It was okay now, Artemy was here and safe and alive. He'd been infected at least once during the epidemic, but the Sand Pest couldn't touch him now, couldn't touch any of them, and he'd been the one to make sure of that (and just what had Daniil tried to do?).
Daniil's tentative hand still found its way to Artemy's forehead, brushing against his skin and gingerly smoothing back his hair (Daniil's wedding ring caught the morning's brightening light--he never removed it, not for any reason, come hell or high water). He wasn't one for such open displays of affection, but there was no one around to see, and he needed to be sure he wasn't missing something. His instincts told him that idling too long only brought about disaster. He had to be certain that he was allowed to have this one moment, this one good thing.
Without words, he asked of the world, "Is he truly mine to keep, and not yours to take?"
Artemy sighed in his sleep at the touch, corners of his mouth twitching upward. No fever. No hint of any malady at all, not even the fears he claimed were his own as much as they were Daniil's (the only thing to make note of is that he would likely wake up sometime soon).
The world answered, "He is yours."
Daniil's throat tightened, and yet he smiled. His tired heart felt safe enough to soften, to let itself be grateful for all he'd gained, for who had given him a new purpose.
Outside, birds sang and conversed atop tree branches and house roofs. Outside, wind rustled the grass and leaves, carrying pollen and the promise of life where it had once carried omens of death and illness. Outside, the people of the Town-on-Gorkhon embraced the morning, beginning their day as any other.
Inside, though, Daniil was content to remain as he was. Paranoia still pricked at his nerves, telling him that minutes were passing, that he needed to hurry for reasons that were done away with long ago, but he ignored it. Just for a bit longer, he'd stay in bed, running his fingers through Artemy's hair. He let himself believe that time was irrelevant, that he could draw out this moment for as long as he wanted before he had to face another day.
He heard small, light footsteps against floorboards, a tell that at least one of the children had woken up. That was another interesting development. He never thought he'd have children--never even thought himself the fatherly type--but now he had three. He never thought himself one for marriage either, though, but now he couldn't imagine a life without Artemy in it. Plenty of impossible things had already happened, so maybe time could leave them like this for a while.
The minutes still passed, but for once it didn't matter.