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It’s not often that Daniil will admit to being wrong.
It’s a trait his classmates and professors had commented on with semi-regularity; indeed, one particular lab report, early on in his academic career, had been returned with the altogether too embarrassing comment, ‘have you considered the problem might be the hypothesis?’ which, no, he hadn’t – although it certainly explained why he’d been unable to reach a satisfying conclusion to that experiment. Daniil had broken his prized test tube that evening.
His romantic partners (the ones that lasted longer than a night, though few and far between they were) all had something to say about it, too. “You’re the perfect victim,” one boyfriend had accused during a nasty fight. “Just own up to one thing, Daniil!”
And, alright. Maybe that had been true. But he’s grown since then! He knows, intellectually, that Daniil Dankovsky cannot always be correct, even if that thought makes his skin itch. He’s still loath to admit it, though - especially when he’s committed time and effort into one of his assumptions. Like he has this time.
Unfortunately, he’s come to the startling conclusion that Artemy Burakh holds no romantic intentions towards him.
It’s mortifying. He’d been certain the Steppe man felt something, could have sworn there’d been something burning in those green eyes the night he’d asked Daniil to stay. But it was nearing six months since the Polyhedron fell and the plague ended and the man hadn’t made any move to further their friendship.
Daniil understood at first; it was too soon, and neither of them had been ready. There was the issue of settling into the town, letting the shock wear off, and meeting each other as men instead of the crazed zombies they’d been, fighting an invisible enemy. It made sense not to jump into anything new too quickly. Then, once he’d secured his own residence and the nightmares became weekly instead of nightly occurrences, he’d become patient.
Maybe Burakh was shy? He didn’t seem to have any problems expressing his wants and needs at any other time, but the Bachelor knew that matters of the heart were very different. There is no point in rushing it, Daniil told himself. Burakh will come when he is ready.
Except the surgeon hadn’t. It wasn’t for a lack of opportunities, either. There were countless occasions when the two men were alone together, plenty of times that the Haruspex could have grabbed his hand, or asked him to dinner, or kissed his jawline or any other number of things that Daniil has imagined. They’d opened a clinic together, for Christ’s sake, and held a business meeting once a week. Just the two of them!
So his patience wore thin. Was it possible he was expecting too much? After all, it had been Burakh who’d placed a hand on his shoulder, blinked those big cow eyes at him and murmured: ”you could stay here. With me. Will you?” What if that sort of overture demanded a response? Had Daniil been remiss in this courtship?
Ah, poor Burakh. Daniil had unintentionally snubbed him! That explained why the man sometimes wouldn’t meet his eyes, why he would spring away if they stood too close in the clinic’s back office. He needed some sort of reassurance that Daniil was amenable, probably afraid to take a step too far and offend the sensitive Bachelor.
Almost apologetically, definitely enthusiastically, Daniil began to respond in kind. He did so in the ways that had always worked in the Capital: subtlety and sly seduction. Lingering gazes worked well, earning a light dusting of a blush before Burakh would rip himself away, though that seemed to be the only positive reaction Daniil could garner. Glancing touches seemed to have an effect too, but he wouldn’t call it a good one: usually it ended in the menkhu abruptly leaving.
Innuendos were ignored – whether because Artemy didn’t understand or because he didn’t want to respond, the Bachelor couldn’t tell. When Daniil asked for the name of Burakh’s tailor, a classic Capital signal, the man had just blinked in confusion. Once he just happened to find himself in the area during lunch and had leaned against the desk where Artemy sat, thighs nearly pressed against the man’s forearms.
“Tell me about your day, Haruspex,” he’d all but breathed. If he’d had long hair, he might have twirled it around a gloved finger. Only Artemy’s eyes hadn’t darkened in desire, they’d lit up in excitement and Daniil had to endure a twenty minute lecture on the latest menagerie his young daughter had brought home. Cute, for sure, but not the plan.
He shows that he’s attentive. Except Burakh doesn’t like it when Daniil compliments his surprisingly bloodstain-free tunic, and he gets offended when Daniil remarks on what an accomplishment opening the clinic is, considering his failed degree. When he switches to more overt declarations - like inviting the man to assess his new house and new bedroom - Burakh rebukes him, intentionally obtuse: “I was at your housewarming, remember, oynon?”
He does remember. Burakh had worn a knitted green sweater that matched his eyes, and they’d shared a bottle of twyrine on the couch, shoulders touching. The warmth in his chest and his throat could have been from the drink, sure, but even then he’d known it was more than that.
So while Daniil had thought they’d shared that warmth, he is an astute man. Eventually even he had to concede defeat. He’d been wrong, and despite all his attempts to catch the interest of one Artemy Burakh, he has been firmly rebuffed.
That’s why he’s in the Broken Heart, gesticulating wildly over his third glass and making sure that Andrey’s ears hurt as much as Daniil’s chest does.
“What’s the problem?” Andrey asked, drying a glass with a less-than-dry cloth. “Back in school you pulled plenty of men who didn’t like you – hell, most of them hated you.” Is it legal to serve alcohol without a shirt on? Daniil distantly wonders, perhaps bitterly. To be fair, it probably was legal in Gorkhon.
“None of my strategies have worked,” Daniil laments, leaning back on his stool. Though he doesn’t mention that he wants a little more from Burakh than just the one-night encounters he’d excelled at in his youth. He doesn’t want to give Andrey more ammunition than he already has.
Andrey couldn’t look more apathetic if he tried. “Well, you’re doing it wrong,” he chides, like it’s obvious. It probably is - to him. “You’re using Capital strategies, and our beloved menkhu is a Steppe man. Of course it isn’t working.”
“Gorkhon somehow makes you immune to seduction, does it?”
“Seduction?” Andrey guffaws. “You call wearing a vest buttoned to your neck and never taking off your gloves seduction?”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Daniil is offended. He prides himself on being very on-trend and takes particular care to maintain an attractive appearance. Daniil Dankovsky is attractive, alright? It isn’t ego, it is fact.
“Out here?” Andrey shrugs. “Makes you look snooty.”
“Snooty!?” Daniil gapes. The word brings to mind powdered wigs and ebony cigarette holders, the sort of accessories his academic contemporaries had delighted in – and the sort of things he wouldn’t be caught dead with. Not that Daniil intends to ever be caught dead, but he digresses. Well-tailored clothing like the sort that encompassed his wardrobe is simply… fashionable. The sign of a groomed man.
“You need to show your availability, Daniil.” The architect sighs, setting the still damp cloth and still damp glass down. “If you want to get Ripper’s attention, at least. The buttons? The layers? It’s not a bad idea, you’re just doing it wrong. Dressing sexy is all about intention, old boy.” Andrey nods sagely.
And that’s how Daniil ends up at Peter’s loft, a fourth drink in hand as the twins tear through Peter’s wardrobe. The task takes the both of them due to the sheer amount of clothing the younger Stamatin owns, and a small mountain of ‘potentials’ is steadily building beside him. Andrey’s voice echoes from the depths and Daniil stares into his cup of twyrine, wishing it would end.
“Skimpy for the sake of skimpy is cheap, Danko! There needs to be thought behind it, some sort of story you want to tell. It’s not all just suspenders and nipples, you know.” He reappears, a bundle of white cotton in his hands. He flicks his own suspenders, the slap against his pec far louder than it had any right being. “This is a look. I’m not just flaunting it because I’ve got it. Although,” he smirks and waves one hand languidly down his side. “I do got it.”
Daniil’s eyes almost roll to the back of his skull. “I still don’t see how a vest and gloves makes me unsexy,” he complains.
“They don’t. Honestly, the fancy, pretty Capital boy look works for you - you just need to… let loose a little. Lose the cravat, lose the gloves, I’d say lose the shirt but I know that isn’t your thing-“
“None of this is my thing.”
Peter, who had been unreasonably delighted by this distraction, chimes in. “But how you’ll really grab Burakh’s attention is with something like this!” On cue, the dark-haired man displays a pair of black leather pants, buckles and chains criss-crossing from the shin to the thigh. It’s gaudy. Grotesque, really. “That man loves buckles.” The twins nod in unison.
Unbidden, a memory from sometime during the plague springs to his mind. It’s of Artemy, leaning over Daniil’s shoulder to peer at a slide on his microscope. Close enough that Daniil could smell him, his green and brown tunic had been stained with blood and the Capital man could see the exhaustion that seeped into every line around his eyes. When Daniil had looked up at him, his eyes had caught on the two buckles at Burakh’s neck that had been tugged free in preparation for an hour of two of uneasy rest. There was just a peek of tan neck.
He remembers feeling breathless.
Daniil clears his throat, chasing the thought away.
“I am not wearing that.”
And that’s how he finds himself stuffed into the tightest pair of pants he’s ever tried on.
The silver buckles glint under the light of the lampposts on the street, metal clinking together in a way that sets his teeth on edge. He’s grateful that he’s been allowed to retain his coat, and the leather is a comforting weight settled over his chest. His chest – void of his cravat and vest, now covered only by some silly white shirt. It’s far too billowy for Daniil’s tastes, the sleeves too puffy and the neckline scandalously open. After he’d tucked it into his pant line, though, Peter had called him a striking figure and Andrey had grinned. He remembers that grin from university.
The Bachelor decided that it was the best encouragement he was going to get and, slightly unsteady on his feet from the alcohol, he had set off for his weekly business meeting with the Haruspex.
Only, the closer he gets to the clinic the more he begins to doubt himself. What’s the plan, exactly? Open the door, peel his coat off and… then what - languidly pose against the doorframe? Run an (ungloved) hand through his hair? What would he even say – “oh, Haruspex”? Or maybe “here I am…”
It’s ridiculous. Totally absurd. He should just turn around and head home, claim a migraine in the morning and beg forgiveness for leaving Burakh hanging.
Except he’s already come this far.
Not just tonight (the clinic’s front door is just a few steps away) but over the past few months. All his affairs in the Capital have been tied up, he’s a co-owner and operator of a local business and he has an apprentice - hell, he shares that apprentice with Burakh! If Daniil doesn’t try everything available to him, he would be a quitter.
And if Daniil is a quitter, then why did he bother staying in Gorkhon at all?
He steels his nerves, takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open. As he expected, the main foyer is dark, the only light spilling from the open doorway at the end of the hall. He already knows what he’ll find when he draws closer.
Hunched over a desk pushed against the wall, the strong lines of Artemy Burakh’s back greet him. His blonde hair has grown longer, just enough that the slight curl has become more pronounced. It would be possible for Daniil to tuck a piece behind the man’s ears, and it’s an action he’s seen the man himself repeat countless times each day. Not that he’s thought about it or anything.
Tonight he’s in a grey sweater, stretched across those broad shoulders in a way that can’t escape Daniil’s attention. It’s always a sweater - at least, when it’s not the tunic. The Bachelor likes it; it makes the man softer, more approachable. Achingly handsome.
It’s time for the show.
“Burakh,” he purrs, leaning against the frame. His coat is pulled across his chest, hiding the white shirt.
“Oh!” Burakh’s shoulders jerk and he twists around in his chair, dropping his pen. “Oynon, you startled me. You’re late.” The ire of their earlier friendship had faded and these days the benefit of the doubt was afforded more often than not, so he doesn’t look angry – just a little concerned.
Daniil pushes himself off of the frame, approaching the desk with measured steps. He thinks. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” He replies, then starts to take the coat off.
“Well, you di-“ Burakh stops, eyes widening as Daniil hangs his coat over the back of the chair. His gaze traces downwards slowly, pausing on the shining buckles and the chains. “That’s a new outfit.” There is something off about the man’s tone.
Daniil grins wickedly, pivots, and sits himself on top of the desk. Like a moth to the light, Artemy swivels to face him. “Just trying it out,” he says airily, like he’s unbothered. “You make buckles look so good that I thought it couldn’t hurt.”
“Uh –” the surgeon looks baffled. “Thank you? Are you… trying to look good?”
The Bachelor leans back on his palms, allowing the front of his shirt to fall open even more. Artemy’s eyes track the movement. “Yes. Is it working?”
Burakh swallows. “It looks nice. Different.” Almost idly, he reaches out towards one of the buckles at Daniil’s shin, but he stills before he grabs it. His green eyes dart to meet Daniil’s. “Is there a particular reason you want to look good?”
“I’m hoping to catch the attention of a certain someone,” The Bachelor smirks, giving Burakh a heavy, pointed look. Reel him in, he reminds himself.
“I see.” The man’s jaw clenches and he looks away. “I hope it goes well for you.”
“Oh, I think it already has.” He drawls. It’s definitely the best reaction he’s gotten so far. Normally Artemy flees when things get this flirtatious, but now the menkhu is sitting rigid in his seat, a faint flush on his cheeks. Still, he isn’t exactly replying. The Bachelor will need to push harder.
The larger man leans forward to grab some of the papers on the desk – what Daniil can tell are reports of some kind, probably to do with what they are meant to be talking about. However, before Artemy has the chance to change the conversation, Daniil leans forward to fiddle with one of the chains on his thigh.
“What do you think of the buckles? Should I wear them more often?” Be sly, Daniil. Intentional. Tell a story.
“Daniil…” Burakh sighs, tone a little wounded. His eyes are laser-focused on the paper. “This isn’t fair to me. Can we please just discuss the next shipment of antibiotics?” He taps one hand against the centre of the report.
The Bachelor can’t stop himself. He snakes a hand out to grip his colleague’s tan wrist, tugging it back towards the cacophony of chains and metal. Artemy’s skin is warm and he belatedly realises this is the first time their hands have touched ungloved. Daniil would know - he remembers all of the times their hands have brushed together.
“What isn’t fair?” He asks playfully, manipulating Artemy’s fingers until they are toying with one of the metal clasps, just like they had reached out to do earlier.
Artemy makes a noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away.
“This isn’t fair.”
Dankovsky cannot believe the twins were right. He lets go of Burakh’s hand, focusing his efforts instead on shoving paper out of the way so that he can slide along the desk, coming to rest directly in front of the seated man. He settles a thigh on either side of the chair, effectively boxing him in.
Artemy is looking up at him, something a little dazed in his expression. His hand hasn’t left Daniil’s thigh. He can feel the warmth burning through the leather, spreading across his body and setting his nerves aflame. There’s a sort of excited tension building between them.
“A taste of your own medicine, then,” he murmurs softly, dipping his head so that Artemy can hear him. “Now you know what it’s like to be around you when you have that damn tunic on.”
Burakh’s long eyelashes flutter, and his breath hitches. The flush has extended down his neck and when the Bachelor presses a hand there, the flesh is warm. “This isn’t anything like when I’m in my work uniform,” he protests, eyes fixated on the lower part of Daniil’s face. On his mouth, probably. A thrill jolts through Daniil’s stomach.
“You’re right - if you were wearing that I would never be able to do this, let alone think rationally.” The words are out before he can stop them. Christ, it’s far more vulnerable than he’d had any intention of being. It edged too close to his real feelings, stretching just a bit beyond casual flirtation. He hunches backwards and looks away, mind spinning for ways he could brush it off, ways he could pretend it was all a joke. But Artemy hasn’t looked away and those eyes have always pierced through him, always seen through the bullshit brick walls he built.
“Am I to understand that I’m the person whose attention you want to catch?”
The man’s voice is low, careful. Daniil peeks back up at him and notices the serious expression etched into his face. What a stupid question. As if you don’t know, he thinks bitterly. There was no point in denying it, really. It wasn’t like he’d kept it a secret over the past few months anyway. He gives him his most unimpressed look. “Obviously, Artemy. I don’t know how much more cle-”
He’s cut off by Artemy surging forward to press their lips together.
At first he doesn’t respond. The shock ricochets from his head to his toes and he’s totally overwhelmed by the feeling of warm and soft and he can taste coffee that he’d certainly not drunk. But before Artemy gets the stupid idea to stop, he raises his hands to either side of his face and kisses him back.
It’s breathless. A heady, delighted feeling bursts across his body and if he weren’t a thirty-something year old man he’d think there were stars in his eyes. When they finally pull apart, panting just a little, Daniil finds his thighs - although they have not wrapped around the larger man - have tightened at his sides, locking him in place.
“You could have said something,” Artemy complains.
“I did!” Daniil is affronted. “I asked you about your tailor, and I invited you to my home, and I touched your back when I passed you in the hallway!”
“What?” Artemy’s face does a funny little twist, lip curling like it does when he’s been presented with a particularly challenging puzzle. “That isn’t saying something! I thought you were just being friendly!”
The Bachelor scoffs, incredulous. “Do I look like someone who is friendly?” For good measure he reaches up to finally tuck one of those curly pieces of hair behind Artemy’s ear. It felt just as nice as he’d imagined.
“I wasn’t going to assume anything,” the surgeon frowns. He seems a bit bashful.
The emotions are all a bit much for him. The fruition of his plans, although sweet, had truthfully seemed impossible and Daniil isn’t sure what to do now that he has Artemy in his hands. He leans forward to press his face into that green sweater, surreptitiously inhaling the scent of twyre and coffee.
“I can’t believe the buckles are what finally got your attention,” Daniil huffs, more for something to say than anything else.
“Excuse me?” The sweater shakes as Artemy laughs. “You look terrible in those pants.” Daniil’s head shoots up to glare at him, prepared to spit something rude back at him. These pants were tight and he had suffered for his craft.
But there’s a fond, indulgent smile stretching across that handsome face, and the words stick in his throat.
“Stick to your regular clothes, okay? You had my attention already.”
And with a thick thumb brushing across his cheek, how could Daniil say no?