Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"He won't want any," Clara noted. 

"Who won't want any?" Artemy asked, not looking up from where he was rolling a joint on his anatomy textbook. On cue, a knock at the door. "Ah. I suppose you mean him?"

Clara nodded. "He might tell."

Artemy knew that 'he might tell' was Clara for 'he will take the slightest provocation to call the cops on your ass,' so he tucked the joint into his cigar case and slid it into his back pocket. He even opened his anatomy textbook on the bed as if he'd been studying. 

Artemy didn't recognize the man at the door. He was short and skinny with a sharp face. He looked at once like he would gladly stab Artemy without a second thought and that he would fall down like a house of cards if Artemy so much as breathed too hard in his general direction. 

"Artemy Burakh?" the man asked in a sharp, reedy voice befitting his sharp, reedy body.

"That's me." Artemy shifted his weight in the doorframe to block the man's view of his apartment. "Do you need something?"

"Daniil Dankovsky. Bachelor of medicine." Artemy did not reply to this, and the man - Daniil Dankovsky - seemed flustered by his lack of response. "Ah, I know who you are, obviously."

"And how is that?" Artemy tried not to show his amusement. He was well known on campus. Most people knew of him, if nothing else. He had something of a reputation. But he saw no reason not to make this sharp city-boy who, according to Clara, was a tattletale, squirm for a moment. 

"Right." Dankovsky cleared his throat. "I, er. Here. This belongs to you."

The bag did, in fact, belong to Artemy. The tag inside it said as much. Artemy immediately felt stupid for leaving it behind, snatching it from Dankovsky. "Thanks." Hopefully he hadn't looked too closely at the contents. 

Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of medicine, nodded stiffly and walked back down the hall. 

"Fuck is up with him?" Artemy mused. 

"He's intimidated by you." Clara had her lighter flicked on, and she was watching the flickering little spout of flame with fascination. 

"You'll burn your finger," Artemy scolded, taking out his cigar case. He lit the joint with Clara's lighter and the room filled with the heady scents of burning twyre and Artemy's hemp rolling papers. Clara reluctantly took her thumb from the fluid-button of her Bic. 

"He looked in your bag." Clara closed her eyes and held her breath for a long time after her first inhale. More than Artemy thought must be good for her. She exhaled right as he'd made up his mind to express his concern, blowing out three neat little grey rings of twyre smoke. Artemy was jealous. He'd never been able to pull that off. "But he doesn't know what he saw. Just some boring old herbs." With a smirk, she added "I doubt he even knows what twyre is."

"City boy," Artemy agreed. He didn't think Clara was from the city. But he also didn't think she was from the town. Clara, to Artemy's mind, just came from a vague sort of Away. A visitor from fairyland, for all that Artemy knew. 

Clara let Artemy ramble about his anatomy lessons, watching him with her wide, dark eyes. Within a few minutes, Artemy had forgotten all about Dankovsky. 

He only wished he had the luxury of doing so for the rest of the semester. 

Chapter Text

Artemy Burakh was starting to shape up into a problem. 

Daniil was here to keep his head down and finish his thesis. He didn't need to talk to the weird townies or go to parties or any of that sort of thing. 

But ever since he'd returned Burakh's bag, he seemed to think that he and Daniil were - were - that they were friends or something. Daniil's nose wrinkled at the idea. 

"Doctor Dankovsky!" Burakh's smile was broad and though his grip on Daniil's shoulder was loose, friendly, Daniil felt pinned down by it. 

"I'm not a doctor yet," Daniil corrected, not looking up at Artemy. "Simply a doctoral student."

"Bachelor Dankovsky, then."

Daniil grimaced. "Just Dankovsky is fine, Burakh."

"Alright, Just Dankovsky," Burakh said, and Daniil finally realized he was being made fun of. 

Daniil frowned, lips pressed in a thin line. "What do you want, Burakh? I'm busy."

"You're from the Capital, aren't you?"

Daniil exhaled a sigh through his nose. "Yes. I am."

"Wonderful," Burakh said, which was… not what Daniil had expected. "Do you know your way around?"

Daniil paused. He really didn't, and the layout of the town was surprisingly confusing. "I'm afraid not. I'd be greatly obliged if you were willing to show me," he managed, the false humility towards someone as foolish as Burakh tasting acid in the back of his mouth. Remember that his father is the reason you're here, Dankovsky. If only the younger Burakh wasn't such a half-wit! But that would make Daniil's life too easy. 

Burakh's broad hand dropped from his shoulder. "Do you have any other classes today?"

Daniil thought about lying. But the alternative to going with Burakh now, and also perhaps the only worse thing, was having to dread a scheduled meeting with him. He shook his head. "I don't."

Burakh steered Daniil along with a hand between his shoulder blades. Daniil had to walk quickly to keep up with Burakh's thoughtlessly long stride or risk falling. "You know your way around campus, I'm sure. The maps of campus are more reliable than the maps of town anyways. Most of the causeways through town aren't the real roads."

Daniil had no idea what that meant. He once again longed for the simplistic grid-system streets of the Capital. “Right. Of course.”

It was a fairly short walk to get off campus. The local college was so… small. He just didn’t understand how everyone else seemed perfectly satisfied here. The town streets were full of children. “Shouldn’t they be in school?” It was midday on a Wednesday.

“Those are the Soul-and-a-Halves. They’re never in school,” Burakh said as though this was perfectly normal and acceptable. 

One of the kids approached Burakh and jabbed at his stomach with a short stick. “Burakh! You owe me!”

“It’s rude to stab people, Notkin.”

Notkin - and what sort of name was that? - rolled his eyes. “You still owe me.”

“You and the Halves will get the twyre when I have the twyre, Notkin,” Burakh replied sternly. “Now go play with your friends.”

Notkin ignored him. “Who’s your friend?”

The way Burakh thoughtlessly clapped Daniil on the back almost sent him tumbling, but he thankfully avoided it. “This is Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of Medicine. Bachelor Dankovsky, this is Notkin.”

“Just Dankovsky,” Daniil reminded him. “Hello, Notkin.”

Notkin looked him over, then seemed to quickly lose interest. “Whatever. When are you gonna have it?”

“I’ll leave it with my father. Now go!” Burakh shooed Notkin like a mother sending off a child while she cooked, with a fond smile and shake of his head. 

“Why,” Daniil asked, trying to keep his tone curious and not judgemental for fear of angering Burakh, “do you owe this - this child gang - what on Earth is twyre?”

Burakh lit up with the distinctive look of a man who hadn’t had anyone with whom to share new information about a topic in some time. “Oh! Twyre is a local herb. Dangerous raw - in fact, only the Kin are allowed to pick it because of the dangers associated with harvesting it improperly.”

“The Kin?” Daniil repeated. 

“Well, we’ve been doing it for generations, we have our own method,” Burakh reassured, completely misinterpreting Daniil’s question. “But it’s a secret. Family traditions. You know how it is.”

Daniil did not. “I do.”

Burakh continued with no prompting. That was refreshing. “If properly harvested, twyre has a multitude of uses. The most pressing being pain relief.”

That caught Daniil’s attention. “Really? How do you mean?”

Burakh grinned. “Sort of like aspirin. Anti-inflammatory, fever reducer. It can also have some psychotropic effects if prepared correctly. But that’s not the kind I give the Soul-and-a-Halves, obviously.”

Oh, good. Daniil very politely refrained from rolling his eyes. Burakh was a drug dealer. “Why do you owe the Soul-and-a-Halves? And what do they want the twyre for?”

Burakh shrugged. “It’s not me who owes them, it’s my father. Notkin runs errands for him. They use the twyre to barter - aren't children so creative? Really, it doesn’t do anything but take away a bad headache, but I suppose that’s an invaluable use anyways, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is, yes.” Daniil was more or less ready to write this twyre stuff off. It was, as Burakh said, basically aspirin, unless ‘prepared correctly’ - whatever that meant - in which case it was little more than a drug. And dangerous to harvest, to boot! Or at the very least the Kin had some silly superstitions about it. Daniil supposed it hardly mattered which.

There was scarce little in the town. A slaughterhouse, a church, a scattering of houses, a couple small shops. Burakh took longer than he needed for Daniil's little tour. Daniil was bored out of his mind by the time they returned to the dormitories. 

"Come say hi any time, Bachelor." Burakh's smile was warm and genuine. He squeezed Daniil's shoulder. "You know where I live."

Daniil hoped Burakh didn't notice his blush. It was quite undignified. "Yes. I'll keep that in mind, Burakh."

Chapter Text

Dankovsky was fascinating. Artemy had read his thesis proposal. It had made Georgiy Kain laugh out loud, according to his father, but Artemy was of the personal opinion that the longevity of the Kain twins only lent credence to Dankovsky's research. 

Bit of a prickly prick, though. That was alright, Artemy knew how to deal with prickly. Prickly was old hat for the Burakh family. 

“Bachelor Dankovsky,” Artemy called, a name he only used because it made Dankovsky’s ears turn pink. “Hey, over here!”

“I see you, Burakh, it’s quite difficult not to,” Dankovsky snapped at him, having to crane his neck to look Artemy in the eye. Which he might not have had to do if Artemy bothered to step back, but this was more fun. “What do you want?”

So defensive. Artemy wondered if he was like that with everyone. “I was just wondering if you were busy on Friday.”

Artemy watched Dankovsky cycle through his mental excuse Rolodex and come up empty handed. “It depends on what exactly it is you’re inviting me to do.”

“No need to sound so worried. My roommate and I are just having a few friends over. I thought I should try and get to you before Eva did.”

Some of the tension dropped from Dankovsky’s shoulders when Artemy mentioned Eva Yan. “Right. Will she be there?”

Artemy nodded. “She will. Can we expect you?”

Dankovsky’s expression settled into cautious curiosity. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Wonderful!” Dankovsky’s knees nearly buckled when Artemy clapped his shoulder. He was really shockingly scrawny. 

“I didn’t say I’d come,” Dankovsky was quick to remind him. “I said I’d think about it.”

Artemy grinned. “Of course. I’ll see you on Friday, Bachelor.” 

Chapter Text

Burakh and his roommate had a small apartment, but it somehow didn’t seem crowded with all the students there. It felt more like a place that was intended to be filled with people. Daniil supposed Burakh was responsible for that, with his broad, simple country-boy hospitality. Daniil told himself the thought was meant to be insulting. 

Eva had sat between two people Daniil didn’t recognize - a man who was clearly flirting with her, despite the girl on her opposite who had her hand around Eva’s waist - leaving Daniil to hover awkwardly at the edge of the small circle of students. 

“You’re the Bachelor,” a girl asked him flatly. 

Daniil grimaced. “Is that how Burakh has been introducing me? I’m Daniil Dankovsky. And you are…?”

“Clara.” No surname. Just Clara. Odd. “I know who you are, Daniil Dankovsky. Everyone knows who you are.”

Good Lord, did he really stick out that badly? Daniil hoped not. “Right. Well. It’s nice to meet you properly, Clara.”

The girl nodded once and then returned to watching the other guests silently. 

“Bachelor! There you are.” Burakh’s cheeks were ruddy and his eyes were glassy. Daniil realized with a surprisingly sharp distaste that Burakh had been drinking. “Come on, hey, come sit.” Leaving little room for argument, he grabbed Dankovsky’s wrist, leading him to one of the couches. He ended up perched awkward and birdlike on the edge of the cushion, in between Burakh and another woman he didn’t know. 

Burakh was, thankfully, more than willing to give introductions. “The Stamatin brothers, Andrey and Peter. Anna Angel. Yulia Lyuricheva. My roommate Clara. And you already know Eva.”

Anna’s eyes lit up. “Oh, so this is the doctor from the Capital!”

Daniil blushed. “Er - no, I’m not a doctor. Not yet. I’m working on my doctoral thesis.”

Her nose wrinkled and she addressed Burakh. “I thought you called him, um, that onion thing?” Her eyes were similarly glassy to Burakh’s - everyone but Clara’s were, actually. Daniil chalked her nonsense speech up to her drunkenness. 

Andrey took a break from hitting on Eva to laugh at Anna. “That’s not how you say it, stupid.” He frowned. “Wait, is it?”

Burakh’s laugh was low and, pinned between him and Anna as Daniil was, he could feel the faint shake of Burakh’s shoulders. “Oynon,” he corrected. “Not onion.”

“Oynon,” Daniil repeated, his pronunciation earning a winning smile from Burakh. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means doctor,” Burakh said, and, like he already knew what Daniil was going to say, he hastily added. “Well - a closer translation would be healer. It’s an ancient word, predating concepts like medical school.” He laughed again and took a drink from a cup of something that smelled strongly alcoholic and faintly familiar. “Do you want any, Bachelor?”

“What is it?” Daniil frowned. 

“Twyrine. I made it myself.”

Twyrine. The name was strangely familiar as well, and Daniil made a quick connection to the conversation he’d had with Burakh about the street children. He scoffed. “Is this the stuff you give those Soul-and-a-Halves?”

Burakh laughed and poured a cup of dark liquid from a bottle on the table even though Daniil hadn’t said yes. “No, no, nothing this strong. Honestly, you have no faith in me, Bachelor!”

Daniil didn’t, but he didn’t say so. He stared down at the cup. It wasn’t that he’d never been drunk before. But the professional in him resented this booze being halfway passed off as medicine. Still, he accepted the cup and took a drink. 

It sent him into a coughing fit, and he felt his face flush hot with shame as the others laughed. “Is it, um-” He covered his mouth with his sleeve and coughed again. “Is it supposed to taste like that?”

Burakh’s grin wasn’t mean, but Daniil felt mocked anyways. “No. It’s supposed to taste worse.”

“Come on, capital boy,” Peter teased. “Can’t handle it?”

Daniil glared. Never one to back down from a challenge, he lifted the cup to his lips and he downed the rest of the contents.

Chapter Text

“Ah-kah,” Dankovsky slurred, and for as drunk as he was, his pronunciation wasn’t bad. 

“Close enough. Your consonants are too soft, oynon.” Artemy laughed, refilling Dankovsky’s cup. “It’s akhar.”

“What’s it mean?” Dankovsky still pulled a face when he drank the twyrine, but seemed to be coming quite quickly around. 

Artemy grinned. “It means short.”

Dankovsky sputtered and glared, making Artemy laugh. “The words you’re looking for are amaa tat, khonzohon.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Shut your mouth, asshole.”

Dankovsky pursed his lips. “Amaa tat, con- can- cons… oh, you know what I mean!”

Artemy laughed and put an arm around Dankovsky’s slender shoulders. “Relax, noukherne.” At Dankovsky’s distrustful look, he added “It means ‘my friend.’”

“Right, well.” Dankovsky huffed and pushed his hair out of his eyes. It had gotten unkempt. Artemy wondered how the offer of cutting it himself would go over. Perhaps when he was sober enough to hold scissors. 

It was only them, now. Eva had left early, complaining of a headache, and Dankovsky had reassured her he’d find his own way home. But the Stamatin brothers had left two hours ago, and it had been half an hour since Clara had gone to bed. 

And here Dankovsky still was. 

“It’s late,” Dankovsky mumbled, and tried to stand. He wobbled, bracing himself on Artemy’s shoulder. “Oh, goodness.”

Artemy caught Dankovsky’s waist, frowning a bit at  how frail he felt. Did the man ever eat? He was a medical student, he ought to know better. “You ought to lay down.”

“Yes, I suppose I should.” Dankovsky sat carefully and began to unlace his boots with the single-minded focus of a man who is too drunk to multitask. 

Artemy didn’t interrupt him, going to get a spare pillow and blanket for Dankovsky. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed two blankets. The living room was always colder than the rest of the apartment, and Dankovsky had been shivering all night. 

“Here, you can sleep in this,” Artemy offered, passing Dankovsky a shirt. “Sorry, I don’t think  I have any pajama pants that’ll fit you.”

Dankovsky looked Artemy over. “No. No, I suppose that you would not.”

Artemy made up the couch while Dankovsky changed in the bathroom. He was caught off guard when he saw Dankovsky in his shirt. He looked so… well, it was strange to see someone as dandified about his appearance as Dankovsky in such a state of undress, that much was certain. 

“It’s going to be cold,” Artemy began. “Ah, it may even snow. It’s going to snow soon, I can feel it.”

Dankovsky was apparently not too drunk for that look of deadpan disbelief he always seemed to have while sober to creep back on his face. “You can feel it.”

“The bull told me,” Artemy answered, intentionally obtuse. “It’s warmer in my bedroom, I can take the couch.”

“I’m not putting you out of your bed, Burakh.” Dankovsky rolled his eyes. “I’ll be perfectly fine. Goodnight.”

Artemy rolled his eyes, amused. “Alright. Goodnight, Bachelor.”

It was the dead of night when Artemy’s door opened and he rolled over. “Clara?” he yawned. 

“No,” Dankovsky replied gruffly, and in the dark Artemy watched him lay down in the soft beanbag chair Clara often slept in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, it’s just-”

“Cold,” Artemy finished. “Don’t worry about it. Sleep well, Bachelor.”

“Goodnight, erdem.”

Normally Artemy would have corrected him, but he was tired enough and Dankovsky’s well-meaning butchering of his language was amusing enough that he didn’t, simply rolling back over and closing his eyes. “Goodnight, emshen.”

Chapter Text

Daniil woke up alone in Burakh’s room. He didn’t have a headache, somehow, but he did feel heavy and tired. He wandered into the kitchen still in Burakh’s shirt, telling himself it was only because his own clothes were still in the bathroom. 

 Burakh and his roommate, that strange Clara girl, were in the kitchen. Burakh was singing something badly to himself, Clara sitting on the freezer watching him cook breakfast. Daniil was suddenly self-conscious about his state of undress, despite the others also being in their sleep clothes. 

“Good morning, Bachelor.” Burakh smiled at him. “You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

“No food allergies,” Daniil half-answered. 

“Wonderful. You need to eat.” He set a plate of eggs and toast in front of Daniil, who hesitated. 

“I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

Burakh and Clara exchanged a look. “Yes,” Burakh replied with a gentle smile. “I can tell. But it’s rude to refuse hospitality, Bachelor. Don’t they teach you manners in the city?”

“I told you he’d say no,” Clara chriped, and Daniil shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth just to prove her wrong. 

He finished his food even though it made his stomach hurt, politely refusing any more when Burakh offered. “Can I ask you something?”

“Is it about why you don’t have a hangover?” Burakh laughed. 

“It is,” Clara answered for him. 

Daniil gave her a look. “Do you always do that?”

Clara shrugged. “It’s faster.”

Daniil sighed. “Yes, it is. I drank a lot last night, I could hardly stand.”

Burakh gathered the dirty dishes, starting to wash them. Daniil moved to help, but he wasn’t even out of his seat when Clara said “He’s not going to let you help him.”

Burakh laughed. “No. Sit, Bachelor, you’re a guest. You really did have quite a lot of twyrine last night, though. Are you alright? Headache or no headache, it’s not healthy to drink that much on an empty stomach.”

Daniil scoffed. “How do you know I was eating on an empty stomach?”

Burakh fixed him with a serious look. “You may have your bachelors in medicine, but I have mine in anatomy, Dankovsky.”

Any snappy response about how the stupid Bachelor nickname didn’t even make sense if he wasn’t the only one with a bachelor’s died in Daniil’s throat, swallowed by a childlike guilt at Burakh’s sternly disappointed tone. “Right, I feel fine. But that doesn’t answer my question. Alcohol is alcohol, no matter what’s in it. I should have a hangover.”

“Twyre has a lot of medicinal uses, I told you. One of them is that it’s used to calm headaches and stomachaches. Put enough of it in, and it sort of…” He waved a hand vaguely. “Cancels out, I suppose.”

“You suppose.” Daniil scoffed, leaning back. 

“I do indeed, since if we had been drinking any other liquor last night you’d have lost your stomach much earlier in the night. Perhaps even before Eva left.” Burakh laughed. 

Daniil resented the implication he couldn’t hold his alcohol, but there wasn’t really anything he could say, was there? Especially because he had the strangest thought that Clara would catch him in a lie before it was even out of his mouth. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“Go ahead.” Burakh smiled. “Make yourself at home.”

Artemy - and when had Burakh become Artemy? - had one bottle of soap in his shower, which according to the label was ‘18-in-1.’ Daniil found this highly suspect, but he made do. It smelled strongly but not unpleasantly of cinnamon. He put on his clothes from yesterday, feeling strangely better after his shower. Maybe he’d been too quick to brush off this twyre stuff. 

Artemy, bizarrely, looked almost disappointed when  Daniil came out of the bathroom. “Oh, are you going already? I was going to ask if you wanted to play cards with me and Clara.”

Daniil paused. He didn’t have a class until noon, and it was still early. 

“Yes, alright. I suppose I can stay for a bit.”

Chapter Text

Artemy wasn't imagining it. Daniil had grown warmer to him since the night he'd slept on Artemy's floor. He greeted Artemy with a polite smile now, and called him emshen, which he mispronounced but it was the thought that counted. He could practically hear Dankovsky's derisive scoff in his head if Artemy tried to explain the spiritual properties of the twyre that bound them, but he knew even a stark rationalist like the Bachelor couldn't deny the power of a meal and a warm place to sleep. Nobody could. 

"Come for dinner," Artemy suggested, leaning forward to read over Dankovsky's shoulder. 

"Hello to you too," Dankovsky deadpanned, not looking up from his book. 

"That's not a textbook." That was a surprise. Dankovsky was constantly studying. "What are you reading?"

Dankovsky snapped the paperback shut and shoved it into his coat pocket. Artemy caught a glimpse of what looked like a romance novel cover, but said nothing. "None of your business."

"Rude," Artemy chided gently. "Are you coming over for dinner or what?"

Dankovsky bit his lip. He did that when he was nervous. Clara claimed he didn't think anyone noticed. Artemy believed her. On top of Clara always being right, Dankovsky seemed lost in his own head most of the time. "Tonight?"

"Any night is fine. But I suggest coming when it's my turn to cook. Clara… likes to experiment."

Dankovsky's chuckle seemed less like he actually found that funny and more like he knew he was supposed to find that funny. "I suppose I don't have any other plans."

"I'll see you tonight, Bachelor." Artemy smiled. "And hey! Let me know if that book is any good. Always had a soft spot for romance novels."

Artemy watched Dankovsky closely at dinner. He pushed his food around his plate like a picky child trying to seem like they'd eaten more than they had. He claimed not to be very hungry and he wasn't lying, Artemy didn't think - long periods of taking in very little food sent the body into starvation mode, and eating too much too fast could shock the system. What baffled him the most was that Dankovsky knew that, he had to know that.

"It's starting to come down," Dankovsky said, looking past Artemy to the window. 

Artemy smirked. "Told you it was going to snow."

Dankovsky rolled his eyes. "Right, you said something about the bull telling you?"

"You can call it superstition if you want, Bachelor, but the Bull is never wrong," Clara informed him smugly. 

Artemy smiled at her. "Yes. And Clara of all people should know. She's never wrong either."

"Everyone is wrong sometimes," Dankovsky argued.

"Even you?" Artemy raised an eyebrow. 

"Even me," Dankovsky huffed, loathe as he seemed to admit it. 

"Speak for yourself." Clara shrugged, scraping her spoon against the bottom of her bowl and rising to get more stew. Clara was hardly big, neither fat, muscular, nor tall, and her appetite did astonish Artemy. He thought she must have a fast metabolism, but either way her eating habits confused him. Chalk up another point for Bos Turok.

Dankovsky, on the other hand, had barely touched his food. Sometimes he actually lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth, blew on it, and put the spoon back down like that was going to fool them. Artemy might find his intelligence insulted by this move if it didn't make his heart ache. It didn't take a doctor to realize something was wrong, but there was one thing Artemy didn't understand. 

Why was Dankovsky punishing himself?

Because that had to be it. That was always it. Artemy had ruled out weight loss as a goal, because he'd heard Dankovsky complain about wishing he wasn't so frail. Frail not being the word he used, of course, but always some more flattering synonym. Maybe he viewed food not as a right but a reward. Maybe he simply resented being held down by petty things like having to eat. Artemy had theories but he wouldn't know unless Dankovsky told him, and trying to get Dankovsky to talk about his feelings was like trying to give a cat a bath. 

"Finish your stew," Artemy urged gently. 

Dankovsky shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

“Your hands are shaking and your face is pale. You need to eat.”

“You could always let him smoke,” Clara suggested. 

Artemy paused. Dankovsky seemed the type eager to reject any sort of panacea, especially anything psychoactive, as quackery. However… well, he did need to eat. “Only if he wants to.”

Dankovsky frowned. “I don’t think a cigarette will do me any good.”

“Not tobacco. Twyre,” Artemy quickly corrected. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but I do think it’ll help.”

Dankovsky scoffed, poking at his stew. “Is that your professional opinion, emshen?”

The clumsy Khatagner made Artemy smile, as usual. It was endearing how hard Dankovsky could try sometimes. “Yes, erdem. Yes it is.”

Chapter Text

“All you have to do is inhale and hold it for a few seconds. It’s easy,” Artemy reassured him, sparking the twyre cigarette in his hand. 

Daniil watched suspiciously as Artemy and Clara each took a drag, hesitating when Clara held it to him. 

“You don’t have to,” Artemy reminded him, a puff of greyish, sickly-sweet scented smoke puffing out of his mouth when he spoke. 

Well. He supposed it would be unscientific of him not to try it just once. After all, the twyrine hadn’t been so bad, as little as Daniil actually enjoyed drinking. The smoke stung his eyes and nose and caught in his throat, but he swallowed his need to cough and exhaled, eyes watering a little. 

“Takes it like a champ,” Artemy praised, clapping him on the back. Daniil glared at him. 

“I am not a child, Burakh.”

Artemy laughed. “I wouldn’t give you this if you were!”

“So you admit it’s dangerous!” 

Artemy rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t give a kid NyQuil either, Danya.”

Danya. No one had called him that in years. Well, no one had called him that in years without a very swift and stern correction. But from Artemy it didn’t sound so bad.

Daniil again caught himself thinking of Burakh as Artemy. As if they were…

Were they friends?

Daniil took stock of the situation. Artemy more or less put up with Daniil’s moods. He used honorifics in his native tongue not only to address Daniil, but when speaking about him to other people. He spoke to Daniil often and at length about their studies. So he respected Daniil as a scholar - an erdem, if Daniil was using the word right. 

But were they friends?

He’d invited Daniil into his home. Given him food and drink and this drug that seemed important in his strange, backwater witch-doctor religion. He frequently attempted, and on rare occasions actually succeeded, to pull Daniil away from his studies to socialize for an hour or two. He’d shown Daniil around town and taught him words in his native language - not just the honorifics he’d taken to calling Daniil, but other things too, words and phrases like fuck off and please and darling.  

The twyre had Daniil’s mouth working separately from his brain because Artemy was laughing at him now. 

“Of course we’re friends!”

Ah. Daniil hoped he’d not said too much of that aloud. “Well, that’s good.”

“It’s very good.” Artemy smiled. He looked expectantly at Clara for a silent moment then said “Clara is your friend too.”

Clara nodded but did not say anything. Daniil wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to her, but he found her odd behaviors less off-putting the more time he spent with her. 

Artemy pushed his bowl towards him. “Eat, Danya.”

Uncharacteristically, Daniil obeyed. The food didn’t make him feel sick after a few bites and the idea that he had hardly earned Artemy’s hospitality didn’t enter his mind. He wasn’t sure how much was him being high and how much was just that he’d become comfortable in Artemy and Clara’s home. He finished a bowl of stew and some bread that Artemy insisted he eat as well, and some tea that Artemy said would keep him from getting sick. Daniil was, as ever, weary of any and all “homeopathic” remedies, but if nothing else the tea tasted alright. 

He spent another night sleeping on the beanbag chair in Artemy’s room. It was nearly three when Clara wormed in beside him and Daniil didn’t have the energy to complain, just let her sleep next to him, their backs pressed together. After a fashion, he actually found the companionship quite pleasurable. Perhaps the three of them were friends after all.

Chapter Text

Artemy didn’t like to talk about religion with Dankovsky. 

It wasn’t that Artemy minded people with different belief systems than his own, as long as they didn’t try to convert him. But Dankovsky seemed to find the entire concept ridiculous. 

But they were two transgender medical students. The topic of surgery was bound to come up. Artemy was only surprised it took so long. 

It was hot, and Artemy hadn’t thought twice about taking off his shirt. Daniil had glanced up at the movement and made the face he made when he thought he looked impassive and disaffected. 

“I never liked the half-tank binders when I still wore them. Too hard to adjust beneath your clothes.”

“You wear more clothes than me,” Artemy teased him. “Besides, it’s mostly muscle.” He pressed a hand against the front panel of the binder, feeling the soft give of his breast and then hard muscle almost directly below. A scholar he might be, but Artemy had done plenty of manual labor in his life. “I honestly don’t even wear a binder if I have a sweater or something on, or if I’m just with a friend.” Dankovsky did a poor job hiding the hurt on his face and Artemy caught himself. “I mean  I’m wearing it now because I just came back from class. But I’ve been around you plenty without binding.”

Dankovsky blinked owlishly. “Huh. I’ve never noticed.”

“Spend a lot of time looking at my chest, Danya?” Artemy teased. 

Daniil huffed and rolled his eyes. “No, obviously, or I might have seen sooner.”

“I can take it off if you want-”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to fluster me-”

Artemy laughed. “Alright, you prude, turn around.” Daniil, ever the modest, polite gentleman he was when he wasn’t being a prick, turned his head. Artemy slipped off his binder and put his t-shirt back on. The lack of restriction around his ribs was very nice. “I’m decent, Bachelor.”

“Right.” Dankovsky cleared his throat. “Suppose it’s not worth the healing period of surgery if they don’t bother you, is it?”

Artemy shrugged. “I couldn’t get surgery if I wanted it, anyways.”

Daniil hummed sympathetically. “It’s cost-prohibitive. Mine was covered almost entirely with insurance and I still had to save up for some time.”

Artemy had half a mind to let Daniil think it was an economical issue. But he was tired of dancing around the subject. “Money isn’t the issue. I mean - there’s a different issue that keeps money from even getting the chance to be the issue.”

“And that’s that?”

“Religion,” Artemy said, and Daniil’s dismissive eye roll felt like a punch in the nose. 

“Does your religion seriously prevent you from getting surgery?”

Artemy took a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Only the mehnku are allowed to cut bodies. And our mehnku knows how to perform a mastectomy. He’s done it before. But since there isn’t technically anything wrong with my breast tissue he can’t remove it. That’s not the Kin, by the way. That’s the government. Mehnku aren’t allowed to perform cosmetic or reconstructive surgeries.” He spat the words with an uncharacteristic anger, feeling red-hot all over. He wasn’t really looking at Daniil, but he saw him shrinking away a bit out of the corner of his eye. Good.

“And if the - the surgeon, if they don’t know how to perform the operation?” Dankovsky asked this with a smug aloofness, like he’d cracked Artemy’s worldview wide open. Like he was the first person to ask Artemy that question.

Artemy laughed bitterly. “Then that means it’s one we could never afford in a hospital anyways.” 

“Look, Artemy, I just think-”

“I don’t care what you think.” Artemy slammed his textbook shut hard enough that, where his notebook had been lying inside the open pages, he flattened the wire of the notebook spiral. “Because what I think is that you should go.”

To his credit, Dankovsky had the good grace to look guilty. “I didn’t think it would upset you that much.”

Artemy laughed again because he didn’t want Dankovsky to see him cry. “That’s exactly the issue. You didn’t think that it would upset me to insult my - my everything, my religion, my family, the life I’m building for myself, you didn’t think twice before brushing it off because you didn’t get it. Because you think you’re smarter than me.”

“I don’t think I’m smarter than-”

“You think you’re smarter than everyone!” Artemy’s chest heaved roughly as he held back tears. “You don’t get it. So that means it doesn’t make sense. Because you don’t get that someone could have different values than you.”

Daniil was back to irritated now, defensive and angry. “I just don’t understand how a man as smart as you can possibly believe that sort of thing.”

Artemy sneered. “And I don’t understand how a man as smart as you can fail to understand how important it is to me.” He felt the tears hot and wet, stinging his eyes and throat. “Just get out. I don’t want to talk to you, Dankovsky.”

Daniil rose and got his bag, walking out of Artemy’s room. He did it slowly, like Artemy would change his mind. Fifteen minutes later, Artemy heard the front door open and shut, and he realized Dankovsky had been waiting for him the entire time.

Chapter Text

Daniil wasn’t sure how he felt. He kept cycling between guilty and angry and confused and he wasn’t sure what to do. 

He’d never seen Burakh so mad before. He was furious. At Daniil. It wasn’t a good feeling. Daniil felt like a scolded child. 

“It’s ridiculous that he can’t get surgery,” Daniil argued out loud to the ceiling. 

A moment later, he refuted himself with “It’s ridiculous that a competent doctor would be barred from completing a surgery.”

Because Artemy had said that, right? That his tribe’s… menkhu? Yes, he believed that was the word. Artemy’s menkhu was capable, evidently, of performing a mastectomy. It seemed rather unfair he was only permitted to do it in cases of diseased breast tissue. But Daniil was less than surprised to learn about the transphobic laws surrounding Artemy’s practice. Laws, according to Artemy, imposed on his people from without, not within. 

Daniil picked up his phone. 

‘Hey. I was a prick. I’m sorry.’

An agonizing two hours passed. Daniil couldn’t focus on his schoolwork, so he tried to clean. He’d been too preoccupied lately to properly clean his dorm room, and the dust buildup ended up making him have to sit down in the hall puffing on his inhaler. Thankfully no one else was out there to watch. Eventually he just sat staring at his textbook without processing the words. Finally, his phone buzzed with a message from Artemy that read only ‘Yeah. You were.’

Well. Daniil supposed he deserved that. 

‘Can we talk?’

No reply. Daniil tried and failed to nap. Then he tried and failed to study again. Then he tried and failed to take his mind off it with a walk, wandering aimlessly around campus with Artemy’s words bouncing in his skull. 

“Daniil!” 

Oh, Lord. Daniil was really not in the mood right now. He grit his teeth, turning. “Hello, Eva.”

“Hi!” Eva’s face fell when he turned around. “Oh my gosh, hey, wow, are you okay? You look like, super sad.”

“I… have a lot on my mind,” Daniil admitted. He struggled for a moment, caught between his need for help and his pride. “I had a fight with Artemy.”

She nodded, grabbing his hand. “Why don’t you come back to my dorm, okay? I’ll help you figure out how to talk to him about it.”

Daniil felt numb and muted. The tea Eva had given him was too hot to drink and it burned his tongue. He didn’t really care. 

“So like, what exactly happened?” she was prodding. Daniil felt shame flare up hot in his throat at the memory of the fight. How could he have been so thoughtlessly cruel to someone he considered a friend? And a very good one, at that?

He didn’t answer directly, staring at the wall behind Eva’s head. “How much do you know about Artemy’s religion?”

“Um, not a whole lot? He’s like the first Khatanger I’ve like, um, actually known?” Eva tucked her hair behind her ear. “But like, apparently his dad is like, super important? I don’t remember the actual word but he’s, like, a doctor?”

“Menkhu.” The word tasted like ash in Daniil’s mouth. Wonderful. Not only had he insulted Artemy’s religion, he’d managed to insult his father in the process. He was beginning to suspect a simple ‘I’m sorry I was rude’ wasn’t going to suffice. 

Eva nodded empathetically, oblivious to Daniil’s inner turmoil. “Yeah! That. So what happened?”

Daniil sighed. “We were - discussing surgery. Just as a concept. Artemy mentioned he was unable to get a mastectomy and I… said some things that were ill-informed and cruel.”

Eva squeezed his arm. “Well… Artemy is super nice! He’ll totally understand that you didn’t mean it!”

Daniil shook his head. “He won’t talk to me.” Against his will, his voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes tightly against a sudden well of tears. 

Eva wrapped Daniil up in a hug, and while Daniil normally loathed hugs, he didn’t stop her, burying his face in her chest in a humiliating but necessary display of weakness. He sobbed against her shirt, shaky fists curling in the fabric of her skirt. She rocked him and stroked his hair like she was comforting a child. Daniil hated himself for resenting her for it. 

Daniil had not cried in some time. It now felt like every tear he’d held back in the past months came up all at once, and he was surprised when he finally caught his breath that nearly two hours had passed. His face felt hot and swollen, and when he tried to talk his voice crawled pathetically out of his raw throat in an unintelligible rasp. His head pounded.

“Here. Drink this.” Eva grabbed the water bottle from her desk and passed it to Daniil. He drank even though swallowing hurt, and while he still felt awful, he could talk, though he was still hoarse. 

“Eva, do you have a pen and paper I could borrow? I need to write something down.”

Chapter Text

My dear erdem,

I’ve had some time to properly think about the things I said to you. I was callous to insult your religion like I did. I’ve had some bad experiences with religion myself. This combined with my preference for rationalist, scientific thought has admittedly made me distrustful of religious thought as a whole. 

I greatly value our friendship. I hope you know that I think no less of you for your belief, as I hope you think no less of me for mine. It’s still difficult for me to fully understand how one can be both a religious leader and a man of science. That said, I hope you are as forgiving as you are intelligent and kind. 

Your colleague (and, hopefully, still your friend)

Daniil Dankovsky

Artemy stared ahead at his wall. There was a seeping mess of tea dripping down the wall and into the shards of ceramic on the floor where he had hurled his mug in frustration. He was holding Daniil’s note in his hand so tightly that the page was crumpled, rendering Dankovsky’s already hard to parse cursive totally illegible in spaces.

Artemy didn’t feel anything yet. He supposed he must be angry. He’d thrown that cup after all. But he couldn’t really muster up the energy to have any particular feelings right now. 

Fuck it. 

Artemy picked up his phone and dialled Dankovsky. 

“Artemy?” Dankovsky was hoarse, but his voice carried a spark of hope that tugged guiltily at the part of Artemy that was urgent to forgive nearly every transgression, to reassure his friend that Artemy knew he’d meant no harm, that everything should go back to normal now, like they’d never fought at all. 

No. 

Dankovsky needed to learn. 

Artemy liked Dankovsky, he did. Despite his poor manners, he believed Dankovsky to be a fundamentally good person. But he seemed unable to see past his own nose - worse than unable, unwilling. Artemy wasn’t willing to let himself be walked all over for Dankovsky’s comfort. Artemy made accommodations on Daniil’s behalf, and all he expected in return was that same respect. He tried to find a way to express all of that clearly and concisely. 

What came out was “You’re a fucking idiot, Dankovsky.”

Artemy hung up the phone. He ignored Dankovsky’s multiple return calls. He drank all the twyrine in his apartment, and when he ran out of twyrine, he finished off his whiskey. Clara helped him into bed when she got home, and left painkillers and water on his nightstand. Clara wasn’t unlike Dankovsky, he reflected. She just knew what people actually needed better than Daniil seemed to. 

This was the last thought he had before blacking out.

Chapter Text

Strangely, the first thing Daniil thought was that he didn’t think he’d ever heard Artemy swear. Certainly never at anyone. But he supposed that was sort of beside the point. 

“You’re a fucking idiot, Dankovsky,” he repeated to himself, tracing imaginary patterns in the popcorn ceiling of his dorm room. 

Daniil was hungry. He did not eat. He was tired. He did not sleep. He needed a shower, but the idea of putting in the effort to do absolutely anything except staring blankly ahead while Artemy’s words ran on loop in his brain made him feel preemptively exhausted.

Eva stopped by his dorm. He was mostly unresponsive, and, a better friend than Daniil deserved, she made him have some bread and water and laid next to him in bed until he was able to sleep, stroking his hair and rambling in that mindless way of hers, bouncing from subject to subject. The way that had annoyed Daniil when they first met, had made him think her vapid and vacuous. He was wrong to think that. 

Daniil was learning that he was wrong about a great many things, evidently. 

“First of all,” Artemy slurred. “I’m not an erdem.”

Daniil frowned. “But I thought-”

“I know more than you,” Artemy cut him off with a wicked glare and Daniil shut his mouth. “Emshen is more accurate but it… isn’t particularly humble. We usually call surgeons yargachins.” Off Daniil’s look, he added “That means butchers.”

Daniil frowned. “A grim picture.”

“Yeah.” Artemy’s laugh was so far divorced from his usual full, good natured laughter it made Daniil flinch physically away. He sounded nearly deranged. “Yeah, I guess so.” Artemy leaned against the wall of the building, rubbing his eyes. 

“Artemy…” Daniil reached out, touching Artemy’s arm. 

“Don’t call me that,” Artemy snapped, and Daniil stumbled back a few steps out of an instinctive fear. Their size difference had never been a particularly sore point for Daniil, who was used to being shorter and skinnier than people, but he was suddenly acutely aware of how much bigger than him Artemy was. How easy it might be, if Artemy were to decide that he wanted to hurt him. “You’re not - we’re fighting, Dankovsky, could you at least have the good grace to act like it?”

“Burakh,” he corrected himself, with a forced even calmness that he did not feel. “I’m sorry if I-”

“I know. I read your stupid letter,” Artemy spat. 

His breath carried the distinctive scent of alcohol. Daniil’s stomach dropped. “Burakh, are you drunk?”

Artemy scoffed. “What? Are you going to call me a useless junkie as well as some deluded idiot who prays to fairy tales?”

“No, Artemy, I - Burakh, I’m the idiot.” Daniil sighed. “Please, let me walk you home? I don’t want you alone like this. Is Clara there?”

Artemy shrugged. “Clara… comes and goes. And this morning she went.”

Daniil frowned. “Isn’t she a student?”

Artemy shook his head. “No, she just kind of… showed up one day and I let her in.” 

Right. Okay. They could unpack that later when Artemy wasn’t drunk and pissed off. “Right. Can I walk you home?”

Artemy scowled. “I don’t care,” he grumbled, sounding like he cared very much. “Let’s just go.”

Chapter Text

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Artemy snarled. 

Dankovsky shifted guiltily at the threshold, too far in for Artemy to just slam the door in his face. Which, man, Artemy wanted to slam the door on his stupid smug face. “I just don’t know what I did wrong… I tried to apologize. I did.” 

Artemy laughed, more out of surprise than anything. “You call that a fucking apology? ‘Oh, sorry I called you an idiot, it’s just that I think you’re an idiot!’ Go to hell, Dankovsky!” He gritted his teeth. 

The mother fucker had the audacity to look surprised. “I had no idea that’s how it came off.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Artemy spat. “Go away.”

“I told you, I’m not leaving you alone.” Dankovsky crossed his arms and set his jaw. Artemy had the sudden thought that he had to have a hundred pounds and half a foot on Dankovsky, at bare minimum. He could make Dankovsky leave. 

But that was a horrible thought and Artemy didn’t entertain it for too long.

“I’ll be fine, Dankovsky.”

Dankovsky sighed, rubbing his temples. “Just - look, you don’t even have to talk to me, or look at me. I’ll stay right here by the door and you can go to your room and ignore me. I’d just - I would feel better knowing you have someone here if you need anything.”

“I’m a grown fucking man,” Artemy hissed. But he knew that Dankovsky wasn’t going to leave without getting what he wanted. “Fine. Fine. I’ll call Andrey.”

“He said that? Christ.”

Well. If Andrey thought it was racist, that meant it was really racist. It wasn’t all in Artemy’s head. “I know, right?” He knocked back his glass, making a face at the cold burn of the whiskey. 

Andrey frowned. “Hey, you should slow down.”

On a similar note, if Andrey thought he was drinking too much, that meant he was really drinking too much. Artemy decided to ignore that second part. “I’m fine.” He poured himself another four fingers of whiskey. “God, I should have just ignored the stupid letter.” 

“Who even writes apology letters? That’s so faggy.”

Artemy chose to ignore that. He was too busy being pissed at Dankovsky to spend any of his energy telling Andrey it was still homophobic to use slurs even if his brother was gay. “I don’t know. He’s weird.”

“You can say that again,” Andrey agreed. 

“I dunno what to do.” Artemy slumped in his seat. “I feel… I don’t wanna have to stop talking to him, you know?”

Andrey nodded in understanding. “Cause you’re in love with him, right?”

Artemy stared at Andrey for a long moment trying to process what he’d said. “Because - what?”

Andrey poured himself some whiskey like he hadn’t just said the craziest thing Artemy had heard all day. “Well, maybe not in love. But you definitely have a thing for him.”

“What-” Artemy took a deep breath. “What gave you that impression?”

Andrey laughed. “Because if anyone else said that to you, you would have kicked their ass! I still remember when you broke Little Vlad’s nose. But instead, here you are. Day drinking and whining to a dude you hate.”

“I don’t hate you, Andrey,” Artemy said, ignoring everything else Andrey had said.

“Just have sex with him,” Andrey encouraged. “Maybe that’ll help.”

Artemy rubbed his eyes. “I’m beginning to understand why Eva is the only girl who will talk to you.”

“Hey! Willow talks to me!”

“Yeah, you pay her to talk to you.” Artemy took another drink. “I don’t have a thing for Dankovsky.”

“Sure,” Andrey agreed in a tone that implied he did not really believe Artemy. 

“I don’t!”

“And Willow hangs around the Broken Heart because she likes talking to me.” Andrey rolled his eyes. “Anyways. Exercising my right as a bartender to cut you off.”

“This isn’t your bar,” Artemy hiccuped. “It’s my apartment.”

Andrey wrapped an arm around Artemy’s waist, helping him up and starting to walk him to his bedroom. “Yeah. And it’s my whiskey.”

Chapter Text

It was three long and painful days before Artemy contacted Daniil again. Daniil had resigned himself to the fact that Artemy had cut him off, and he was back to being alone, save Eva, who seemed to be friends with literally everyone. That was alright. It was for the best. Artemy had been a distraction anyways. 

This mantra did nothing to stop Daniil from rushing to the door, desperate and pathetic, when he heard Artemy calling his name after he knocked. 

He thought for a horrible moment that Artemy was still drunk, but quickly made the admittedly not much better realization that he was just hungover. “Artemy?” Daniil asked, voice uncharacteristically soft and hesitant. 

“I can’t stand you.” Artemy shoved past Daniil into his dorm room. 

“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” Daniil shut the door but didn’t turn around. He couldn’t look at Artemy right now or he’d - he’d - he didn’t know what would happen to him. Nothing good. “I never meant to hurt you.”

The creak of springs. Artemy was sitting on his bed. “I don’t particularly care what you meant to do.”

"That's fair." Artemy sounded so distant. Not even angry. Just gone. Dankovsky wishes he were mad. People were almost always mad at Dankovsky, he could handle that. But this was something new. Something scary. 

Daniil turned around but couldn't bring himself to look at Artemy, staring down at the carpet. "I'm sorry. Just tell me what you need me to say and I'll say it?"

"Don't you get it?" Artemy's voice cracked hoarsely. "I don't want to spoon-feed you your apology."

"But I don't know what to say."

Artemy sniffled. "I know you don't. That's the problem."

Daniil was frustrated, and ashamed, and angry. "Can we just pretend it never happened?" he asked, hating the whine that crept into his voice. 

Artemy got angry at that, making a disgusted noise. An ugly part of Daniil whispered good. This was a situation he was familiar with. "Why? So you can move on guilt free and I can spend the duration of our time together knowing you don't actually respect me?"

"But I do respect you," Daniil insisted. 

"You respect me," Artemy spat. "You just don't respect my religion. My family. My career path. My tribe."

"I just don't understand why it's so important!" Daniil erupted. 

A sudden, sharp pain spread through Daniil's face and he felt something hot and wet running over his lips, down his chin. He realized in a detached way he'd been punched in the nose. 

Huh. He hadn't expected that.

Chapter Text

Artemy’s hands moved faster than his head sometimes, when he wasn’t all there. He didn’t really think about the impact of what he’d done until he heard the crunch of cartilage beneath his fist. Daniil screamed and staggered back, his back hitting the wall with a solid thud and his hands flying to his face.

“Daniil!” Artemy gasped, panicked. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I- shit, okay, that’s so much blood.” There was a package of tissues on Daniil’s desk and Artemy grabbed a bunch, using them to clean up Daniil’s face.

“You punched me.” The observation was detached and scientific.

“Yeah. I think I broke your nose. Sit down.” Artemy took the travel first aid kit from his coat pocket. He thankfully had rare occasion to use it, but he was certainly glad he’d thought to bring it now.

Daniil sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as Artemy packed and splinted his nose. “I’m sorry.”

Artemy laughed, verging on hysteria. “You’re sorry? I just punched you.”

Daniil pressed his lips into a thin line. “Yes. Well. I’m surprised it took you so long.”

Artemy laughed again, then it developed into a sob, and he had to scrub the tears out of his eyes so he could finish splinting Daniil’s broken nose. “You’re covered in blood…”

Daniil looked down at his white button up, the front soaked crimson. “I certainly am.”

Artemy sat down, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I did that. God. What’s wrong with us?”

After a painful moment of silence, Artemy felt an arm around his shoulders. Daniil was trying to comfort him. He’d just broken Daniil’s nose and he was trying to comfort him. He wasn’t doing a very good job, but still.

“I was a prick. I don’t understand your practices. But… I can try to respect them.” It was a surprisingly humble and genuine apology. Artemy giggled wetly. 

“If I had known all I had to do was punch you I would’ve done it a week ago. Saved us all a lot of time.”

“Yes.” Daniil chuckled. “You certainly would have. Are we alright?”

Artemy wiped his face, turning to Daniil with a weak smile. “Nah. But we will be.”

Chapter Text

Daniil's eyes and the skin around his nose were bruised green-purple and his nose was splinted. It was hard to hide the fact that he'd been hit. He told people he'd been in a fight he didn't want to share the details of. This was mostly true, at least. 

"It's about time someone punched you anyway," Andrey Stamatin told him, and as rude as Daniil thought that was, he did have to agree. 

He wished Artemy would stop fussing over him, though. Or at least, that's what he told Artemy loudly and at length every time they saw each other. But here he was on Artemy's couch with a blanket draped over his shoulders while Artemy made them tea. 

"When I was a kid, I used to get these horrible migraines," Artemy told him, giving Daniil a mug. "Careful, that's hot. Anyways, they were really bad. Like. I had to hide under my bed with all the lights off and my hands over my ears."

Daniil frowned. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't be," Artemy brushed him off. 

"Can I ask what that story has to do with anything?"

Artemy lifted the edge of the blanket to sit next to Daniil, draping the blanket over the both of them. "So the herb brides taught me how to make that." He nodded to Daniil's cup. 

Daniil took a cautious sip. It was still too hot to really drink comfortably, but it was good. There was a sharp cut of something spicy that would have made Daniil's nose run if it wasn't packed with gauze, and then something that tasted almost like black licorice, familiar in a way Daniil couldn't quite place. "What is it?"

"Well, if you're waiting til after you drink it to ask, you must really be trying to impress me," Artemy teased. "It's honestly not that hard. Ginger, cinnamon, cloves, brown twyre. Works wonders for a headache."

That was the licorice taste, Daniil realized, recalling the sickly-sweet smoke of the cigarette he'd shared with Artemy and Clara and the strange sugary aftertaste of the alcohol Artemy had given him. It tasted much better in the tea. "It's good."

"Good." Artemy smiled, rubbing Daniil's back. Artemy's broad hand against his back made Daniil once again acutely aware of his much larger Artemy was than him. He could have done so much worse. 

Daniil recalled the horror on Artemy's face after punching him. How the pain hadn't really registered at first but fear had, fear that if Artemy was frightened that must mean something was actually wrong. 

"I'm sorry," Daniil mumbled again, fighting back the urge to explain himself. Artemy didn't want to hear his excuses. He just needed to swallow his pride this once, bitter as it may have tasted. 

"I know you are." Artemy wrapped his arm around Daniil's shoulders, hugging him to his side. 

Daniil finished his tea and had the sudden realization he was very hungry. He didn't say anything, not wanting to bother Artemy, but he must have been fidgeting, because Artemy startled guiltily. 

"Oh! Wait, you need to eat. You'll get a stomachache if you don't." He rose and Daniil felt the childish urge to whine, to make Artemy rejoin him under the blanket. He ignored it. He still had some pride, after all. 

The kitchen and living room were separated by a counter. Daniil was able to watch Artemy, noticing how perfectly at home he seemed. A question occurred to him. 

"Artemy?"

Artemy glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"What's an herb bride?"

"Oh!" Artemy laughed. "Oh, right, you don't know, you aren't local. They're sort of… hm." Artemy paused, tapping his fingers against his lips. "They're like nuns? They're married to the Bos Turok. And they know a lot about the effects of different local plants - what's dangerous to eat, what helps with certain things but can hamper others… like a kind of religious botany, I suppose."

"Hm." Daniil supposed that made sense. "They're herbalists, then."

"Hence the name."

"And what's… I don't know how to pronounce it."

"The Bos Turok?" Daniil nodded, and Artemy looked pained. "Daniil…"

"Well, I was just asking!" Daniil huffed. 

"We just got done having a fight about religion. I don't want to have another." Artemy turned back around and that was that. Guilt was not a feeling Daniil was used to, but the realization that he'd made Artemy ashamed to share a part of himself left Daniil feeling guiltier than he had in recent memory. Or any memory at all, actually. 

Daniil ate silently when Artemy came back. The quiet between them was different than the amicable silences they'd shared before, not unlike this, together on Artemy's couch as they studied. This was a loaded sort of silence. One Daniil was afraid to break. He did it anyways, swallowing his fear the best he was able. 

"I wouldn't think less of you."

Artemy's smile doesn't reach his eyes, seems just a reflexive twitch of the lips. "Yes you would."

Apology had never been Daniil's strong suit. He realized, crestfallen, that it was going to take time. That things weren't normal again just because he felt bad. 

"I think I understand," Daniil muttered. 

Artemy's laugh is bitter and Daniil does not like anger on him. The white-hot anger that he'd seen burn through Artemy when he'd thrown Daniil out, when he'd punched Daniil in the nose, that had been frightening. If that anger had felt like a knife in Daniil's guts, this simmering heat of frustration and pain felt like the slow drag of the knife being removed. "And what do you understand, in your infinite wisdom?"

Daniil hesitated before lying a hand on Artemy's thigh. "I understand that you trusted me. And that I betrayed that trust. I understand it will take time, as well as considerable effort on my behalf, to rebuild it. But I hope that someday, I will. I value your friendship, emshen. Please don't forget that. I want to do what is possible to repair it."

Artemy made a choked noise and Daniil realized with a start that Artemy was crying. "Um." Artemy swallowed and sniffled, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve. "Your, uh, your vowels are still too soft. It's em-shin, not ahm-shin."

Well. That was certainly a start. Daniil smiled. 

"Emshen," he corrected himself. 

Artemy's laughter was wet with tears, but still, it was genuine. "Amazing," he mumbled. "That one was even worse."

"Hey, I'm trying!" Daniil laughed, more out of relief than anything. 

"I know, that's the worst part!" Artemy was laughing properly now, an arm around Daniil's shoulder, his face in Daniil's hair. 

Daniil thought he could stand a few jokes at his own expense in exchange for this closeness.

Chapter Text

Artemy was wasted when Clara got back from wherever she had been. She stood in the doorway of the apartment, observing the empty bottles on the coffee table. 

“I brought you some water.” She took a bottle out of her backpack and sat it beside him. Artemy grunted noncommittally, taking another pull off his bottle of wine. 

“Where were you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Clara put a sealed envelope on top of the bookshelf and Artemy knew without checking it contained her quarter of the rent. Probably more. 

“Cool.” He took another drink, then said “Me and the Bachelor got into it.”

Clara picked up his right hand, inspected his bruised knuckles. “You punched him.”

“Yeah. Broke his nose.”

“What happened?”

Artemy opened his mouth, then closed it. Actually recounting what had started the fight made the whole endeavor seem so… Childish. He settled on “Dankovsky thinks religion is stupid.”

That was enough for Clara. She seemed to thrive on having too little information. “You need to drink some water and go to sleep,” she said in a tone that brokered no arguments. Even if it had, Artemy knew if he found her in this state he would tell her the same thing. He opened the bottle of water and drank as much of it as he could in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I’m going to be alright, you know.” 

Clara definitely wasn’t strong enough to pick Artemy up but she grabbed him by the arm anyways and Artemy allowed her to steer him to bed. “I’ll know if you get back up to drink,” Clara warned him, and Artemy believed it. 

“You know everything,” he grumbled bitterly, settling back against his pillows. “Goodnight, Clara.”

“Night, Art.” Clara flicked his light off and shut his door. 

"You look like hell."

Artemy laughed roughly. "Have you seen a mirror lately?"

Dankovsky rolled his eyes. They were almost handsome, framed in black like that. A joke about Artemy improving Daniil's looks waited somewhere in Artemy's throat but Daniil spoke before he could articulate it. 

"I have a broken nose, what's your excuse?"

Artemy laughed, taking his flask out of his coat pocket and taking a drink. He didn't usually drink on campus. But he had a lot on his mind this past week. And his damn knee was acting up again, but Artemy refused to get a cane. Getting a cane felt like giving up, somehow. 

Daniil didn’t laugh back, his frown furrowing the premature crow’s feet gathered at the corners of his blackened eyes. “Are you drinking? It’s ten in the morning.”

“And when’s the last time you ate?” Artemy snapped back. It was a cruel thing to say and he knew so. He found himself unable to access the part of his brain that cared. 

Daniil straightened, shoulders tense. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. 

If Artemy hadn’t known better, he’d have said Daniil was praying. 

After a moment, Danill opened his eyes and exhaled. “Let’s make a deal. We can go get something to eat. And I’ll get you coffee with your lunch. Try to see if we can sober you up.”

“Your bedside manner is impeccable, oynon,” Artemy snarked. Still, he followed to Daniil’s car.

Chapter Text

Neither Artemy Burakh nor Daniil Dankovsky could be described as ‘quiet.’ Sure, perhaps when they were absorbed in studies, but the two of them had become friends. Perhaps could become friends again, if Daniil tried hard enough to bridge the gap he’d forced between them. The dour silence over the diner table made Daniil on edge. 

“You’ve been drinking a lot lately.” It wasn’t a question, but Daniil just wasn’t sure what the question was to even ask it.

Artemy shrugged, drinking his coffee. “A lot’s been happening.” His hand fluttered to his coat pocket then clenched into a fist before falling to his lap. Daniil realized that he’d been reaching for his flask. “We’ve been fighting.”

“But we were making up. And I’d hope you tell me if I majorly fucked up again.”

Artemy laughed, caught off guard by the crude lapse in Daniil’s normally professional, elegant speech. “Uh, no. You’ve been… doing well. As well as I can ask.” Artemy takes a bite of his burger and then chews for longer than Daniil thinks is necessary. Stalling for time. “I don’t know where Clara goes when she leaves? I just know that sometimes she’s gone and when she comes back she has money. Her part of the rent - usually more. She doesn’t take the money back when I try to give her the part she doesn’t owe. I try not to let it bother me, but…” Artemy’s eyes and wild and desperate when he finally looks up. “I couldn’t bear to see her hurt. She’s just a kid.” 

Daniil was prepared to refute that, to say that Clara can’t be much younger than them, before he realized he had no idea how old she was. He’d just assumed she had to be at least eighteen. She’d be on Artemy’s lease, right?

Was she on Artemy’s lease?

“I understand,” he said instead of any of those things, because he didn’t need Artemy even more worried. 

“You don’t. I haven’t told you the other thing. The big thing.” 

“What’s the big thing?”

“I don’t know If I’m ready to say it.” Artemy shrunk in on himself, and Daniil marveled at how a man so large could make himself so small. How Artemy seemed to nearly disappear into his bulky secondhand coat, like he was so upset he was merely wasting away. 

“Take your time.” Daniil reached across the table to pat the back of Artemy’s hand. Artemy grabbed Daniil’s hand and squeezed his hard enough to hurt, but Daniil just grit his teeth and didn’t say anything.

“My father,” Artemy rasps. “I got a call.”

“Your father,” Daniil repeated, trying to coax the story along. “What did he say?”

“No, not from him. Uh, about him.” Artemy’s free hand came up and he chewed nervously on his coat sleeve. 

Daniil sensed the general trajectory of this conversation. He wasn’t sure of the exact spot it would land, only knew that it would crash there. “I see.”

The wild desperation is gone. Artemy’s eyes are blank as a doll’s. His face was ashen and the only sign that this was, in fact, Artemy Burakh, and not some very convincing wax figure, was the faint movement of his coat sleeve at his mouth and the painful white-knuckle grip that Artemy had on Daniil’s hand. 

“My father is dead.” 

“Oh, Artemy,” Daniil began softly, but Artemy wasn’t done. 

“My father is dead and now I am an orphan. And now I am my tribe’s only menkhu, even though I’m not yet properly trained. And I will have to return home to take care of his body. And there will be a lot of ceremonies and rituals that my father and I were meant to do together, that I will now have to do without him, because the Kin need a doctor-” The emotion finally broke through into Artemy’s voice and he dropped Daniil’s hand, burying his face in both of his own. 

“And you will be a very good one.” Daniil is surprised by his own conviction on the matter, but the words are more than just hollow comfort. He means them wholeheartedly. He thought of Artemy’s hands sure and steady even as he panicked, packing Daniil’s nose with practiced ease. Thought of the way Artemy gave his teas, quaint little Steppe herbal medicine as it may be, out to anyone he viewed as in need. Thought of the times he’d arrived at Artemy’s and seen children, sometimes up to five at a time, sleeping or eating or playing. He could not imagine a version of Artemy who could keep himself from helping people. 

“Once I am one,” Artemy spat. “But that’s some four years from now. Two if I work nonstop.”

“Is there any way…” Daniil trailed off. He didn’t want to offend Artemy with more accidental sacrilege, not when he was already in a state. 

“You’re going to ask if they can go to a Capital doctor, right?”

Daniil saw no point in lying. “I am aware that your culture prohibits those not… ordained? I’m not sure what your word is. That only a select few religious leaders may perform surgery. But not every medical problem requires surgery. There are flus, and broken feet, and migraines, and-”

“Money.” Artemy isn’t looking at him, staring off again with newly cold eyes. At least, Daniil supposed, the tears had passed. 

“I’m… afraid I don’t follow?”

“Money,” Artemy repeated firmly. “My people have very little money. And when I say ‘my people,’ I don’t only mean the Kin. I mean every single person in the Town-On-Ghorkon. Many of us can hardly afford a round trip to the Capital, much less the cost of a doctor’s visit. Do you know why the college accepted your thesis, when no one else would? Because they desperately need new ideas in order to keep their government funding. They need to do new things and you, erdem, for better or worse, have them.”

Daniil took a moment to parse the strange rant-insult-compliment Artemy had just rattled off at him, but he thought he got the idea. “You fixed my nose. I’ve seen you treat viruses and infections. I know you know how to stitch a wound. I know it seems very long, but you could-”

“If I were to finish my studies in two years, I would have to go to the Capital. Year round,” Artemy interrupted. “And if I chose to stay here, it would take four.”

Daniil understood how hard it must have been. Four years was far too long for some people. 

And yet, for some of those same people, even the two hours it took to get to the Steppe from the Capital was too long.

Artemy was crying, he realized belatedly. His shoulders didn’t tremble, at least not enough to be seen hunched over and wearing as many layers as he was, and he was silent except the occasional pained gasp or sharp inhale through his nose. But tears streamed freely over his cheeks, and Artemy made no move to stop them.

“I don’t have the answers you need.” That was hard to admit, not because Daniil hated to admit to any weakness, though he was normally loathe to, but because he knew he could undercut none of his friend’s suffering. 

Artemy’s eyes shut, the skin around them red and puffy, lips bitten and shiny with it, cheeks wet with tears, the same tears that left faint stains on the collar of his coat.Daniil hadn’t realized quite how much Artemy had been crying.

A small, childish voice rose within Daniil. It isn’t fair, the child whined, the same child who’d lead him to start his studies, to start his transition, to stop giving in so easily to the people who shoved him around. 

But this time, there was nothing Daniil could do about the injustice. Isidor Burakh was dead, and that was the end of it. 

“I know you don’t.” Artemy’s voice was hoarse. “No one does. Thank you for letting me ask the questions, Danya.”

Daniil squeezed Artemy’s hand. “Here. Let me walk you back home.”

Chapter Text

All of Artemy’s professors had been outwardly supportive of him in the wake of his loss. He knew many of them were pleased to see the old man go, but they weren’t callous enough to deny Artemy a few days off. 

Now he laid in his childhood bed and he felt absolutely nothing. The pain was too broad for him to grasp it. Sometimes he saw a glimpse just beneath the surface of the water and he tried to reach out and grab it, but it slipped away every time. 

“Aba is dead,” Artemy told the stuffed cow on his pillow. 

The cow did not reply. 

In a sudden fit Artemy picked the toy up and hurled it at the opposite wall. It arced unimpressively and thudded softly against his floor. Artemy threw his lamp. That hit the wall with a satisfying shatter of ceramic and glass, and Artemy realized he was crying again. 

Rubin let himself into the room. His face was a stone mask. He hadn’t spoken since Artemy had arrived home. Artemy couldn’t blame him. Poor Rubin. He had been there when Artemy’s father - when their father - had died. Artemy would be solemn too. 

“I didn’t know it had gotten so bad,” Artemy choked out. 

Something like compassion flickered on Rubin’s face and he picked up the cow, inspecting it. “He didn’t want to call you. He kept telling me he would get better.”

“I could have helped,” Artemy protested. “If I was here-”

“But you weren’t,” Rubin snapped. 

Artemy thought about screaming. He hadn’t known. If he had known he would have been home in an instant. Coursework be damned. But Rubin, he reminded himself, was also grieving. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last weekend. I was just so busy, but if I’d known… I could have made time. If I knew he was sick.”

“I don’t think he thought he’d get better.” Rubin sat next to Artemy on the bed. “I think he knew, and… and I don’t think he wanted you to see.”

Artemy nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve. He rose to pick up the lamp fragments, and Rubin squeezed his thigh. “Your knee, khayaala. Don’t think I haven’t seen you limping around. Rest.”

Artemy laid on his side, hugging the cow to his chest while Rubin carefully swept up the shattered lamp. He’d received the toy on his twelfth birthday. A coming of age gift. Artemy remembers being embarrassed, thinking he was too old for stuffed animals and hiding it whenever his friends visited. 

He’d bring it back to the home he shared with Clara when all of this was done, he decided.

Rubin was meticulous. He picked up the bigger shards by hand, then swept, then he drug a damp cloth over the floorboards to catch any remaining glass. He paused periodically to look at Artemy.

“If Isidor were here…” Rubin began. Artemy didn’t make eye contact, just grunting a little when it became clear that Rubin wouldn’t continue without prompting. “He’d want you in your wheelchair.”

“I don’t need a fucking wheelchair.” Artemy was too tired to snap properly, but he hoped that Rubin would get the idea. 

Rubin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “At least your crutches, Artemy.”

“I’m a man, Stakh, not a boy. I can tough it out.”

Rubin slammed his hand on Artemy’s dresser and suddenly Artemy very much did feel like a boy, frightened by the sudden noise and the angry outburst from his old friend. He sat up, ignoring the sharp pain that the sudden movement sent to his leg. 

“‘Toughing it out’ is the reason your damn leg is as bad as it is now! If you hadn’t been too fucking proud to use your crutches when you hurt it in the first place it wouldn’t have degenerated so badly! You should know that, menkhu.”

Artemy felt tears choking his throat and he couldn’t get a word out. He turned to face the wall, white-knuckling his cow. 

Rubin sighed, and a moment later a hand was stroking through Artemy’s hair. “If you were a patient, what would you tell yourself?”

Easy question. Rest his knee. Use his crutches if he needed them. Take some painkillers if it got really bad. But Artemy was feeling obstinate. “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor, Stakh.”

“You are now.” Rubin kissed Artemy’s temple in an uncharacteristic moment of tenderness. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is a long day, Tyoma.”