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He had changed his name to Grief as a child, shortly after his mother’s death, on something of a whim, taken the ‘gri’ of Grigory and the ‘f’ of Filin and pressed them together into something more fitting, more his. And then Stakh had said, “Grief? Like, ‘good grief?’ That because you think you’re good, or because you know you’re exasperating?” and so he changed it to Bad Grief out of spite, and it had stuck. The only one who still called him Grigory was, of course, Isidor, who had said he would be happy to call Grief a different name if he wanted, but Grief had shrugged and said it was fine to stick with Grigory, hoping quietly that this would not betray how oddly reassuring it was to keep that little piece of a younger version of himself. Isidor had always been an anomaly in his life, because Isidor was safe in a way no other adult in Gorkhon was, not with his mother dead and the accusation of her murder hanging over him like a scythe, Saburov more than willing to imprison a child as obviously dangerous as he was. But Isidor was safe, and the Burakh house was safe, which was why he could not bring himself to leave it entirely, and equally why he could not allow himself to move in fully, like Isidor wanted him to. It wasn’t sustainable; sooner or later, he would have to leave, and he had to be prepared when that happened.
He did have his own room in Isidor’s house, though, which was where he found himself now. More specifically, he was half in his own room, half dangling out the window, struggling to drag his body over the sill. He had just wanted to show himself he could do it, he could live on his own, if he needed to, but he was tired, and hungry, and everything hurt, and he found himself, now, almost sick with longing for the warmth of the Burakh household. With a pained grunt, he heaved himself into the room, landing on the floor with a thud that made him cringe. The whole point of coming in through the window had been not to wake anyone up, but at this rate he was going to, anyway. He rubbed his shoulder in aggravation. He was bleeding through the fabric, but not too badly; his leg should probably have been more worrying. He thought he’d only sprained it when he’d fallen, earlier, and it hadn’t been too bad, but then he’d walked all the way here and it was started to go numb and turn blue and Grief thought that probably wasn’t good. He lay on the floor for a bit, trying to catch his breath, taking inventory of his injuries. It hadn’t been too bad a fight; he had fled before it could be, but then he’d fallen. Swollen cheek, cut on his upper arm, whatever was going on with his ankle, skinned knees... and maybe a bruised jaw, he thought. It was a little hard to tell just by feel, and he didn’t have the energy to think more carefully about it. He just wanted to sleep. Grief closed his eyes, and sighed.
Before he could slip from consciousness, though, there was a tentative knock on his door, and he bit back a swear, hoping it wasn’t Stakh. He picked himself carefully up off the floor, hissing at the pressure on his ankle. He opening the door a crack and squinted into the dim light of the hall to see Artemy, brow furrowed and shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. As soon as he realized who it was, Grief opened the door the rest of the way, and Artemy let out a little gasp.
“Grief,” he hissed, “What happened? Are you all right?”
Grief made a face and made a shushing motion. “I’m fine,” he whispered.
Artemy lowered his voice obligingly, although his expression grew even more concerned than before.
“No, you’re not, you’re hurt! Come on, let’s see Aba.” Artemy reached for Grief’s hand, and Grief pulled away.
“No, don’t wake him up! It’s fine, I’ll just talk to him in the morning!”
Artemy looked absolutely stricken. He extended his hand again and left it out.
“Grief, please.”
Grief squirmed for a long moment under Artemy’s gaze, then sighed heavily and took his hand.
“Fine. But it’s just gonna mess up his sleep.”
Artemy relaxed slightly, and pulled Grief into a brief hug.
“I’m glad you’re back.”
Grief couldn’t help but smile back. He wouldn’t voice it, but he was glad, too.
Artemy helped Grief limp over to Isidor’s room, just down the hall, and knocked gently before going inside and flicking on the lights.
“Aba? Grief’s back.”
Isidor’s room was a modest one, consisting of a writing desk with two chairs, a lamp, a bedside table, a bed with a great lump under the quilts, and a painting of a cow on the wall. The quilts on the bed stirred, and as the lump emerged, grumbling softly, it became evident that it was Isidor Burakh himself.
“What’s that?” Isidor said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Is everything-” He broke off as he caught sight of Grief standing sheepishly beside Artemy.
“Grigory!” Isidor stood hastily, pulling on a robe that hung on the bedpost. “Oh, Grigory, khybyyn, what have you done to yourself, hm? Sit, sit! Tyoma, you can get my things, please?”
Artemy nodded and bustled out of the room, and Isidor ushered Grief into one of the chairs by the writing desk and began to look him over. Grief cleared his throat.
“Um. Sorry to wake you up, Mr. Burakh.”
Isidor prodded gently at the bruising on his jaw and tutted. “Do not saying that. I am simply glad you are back home again, and safe. I do worry- ah, Tyoma, bayarlaa, thank you.” Isidor smiled as Artemy returned with his medical supplies.
Grigory swallowed around a lump in his throat. He always felt a bit guilty, coming back after roughing it in the warehouses, not because the Burakhs did anything wrong, but because they were so… good to him. He wondered often why they thought he was worth it. Not that he regretted it, or anything like that – he wasn’t so selfless as all that. He simply wondered. Oh, Isidor was asking something.
“What?”
Isidor smiled patiently. “Your ankle. How long it has been like this?”
Grief peered down at his ankle and grimaced. It was neither the color nor shape of an ankle anymore.
“I don’t know, since I fell, I guess. I thought I just twisted it, though.”
Isidor peered at his foot, turned it gingerly from side to side, and grimaced. “Maybe would have been ‘just twisted,’ as you say, if you had not been walking on it so far. All the way from warehouses?” He gave Grief a stern look. “Was not good idea, Grigory. You make it worse, will take much longer to heal now. You maybe break bone.”
Grief hunched down self-consciously. “I didn’t have much choice.”
“Hm.” Isidor looked at Grief’s foot like he had a personal grudge against it, and then his expression smoothed back over into tired, paternal affection as he looked back up at Grief.
“It is good that you come home, Grigory,” he said. “Very good. I am glad.” He smiled, and Grief felt himself, again, smiling back. In the end, he supposed, the Burakhs seemed determined to keep, rather like one might keep a half-feral cat. Perhaps it would be alright to keep them, as well.