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The idea comes to them later than they’d have liked, staring at Daniil’s tensed shoulders, curled as he is over his desk. Artemy is leaning against the sink, coffee mug in hand, listening to Rubin humming to himself when he nudges the other man, nodding in Daniil’s direction. “He doesn’t look like he’s doing particularly well.”
“When does he ever?” Rubin shoots back. Artemy guesses that’s a fair assessment to make. He only ever comes into the practice when he’s bored or lonely, always covering up the latter with the former and not doing a brilliant job of it. “It’s seasonal depression,” he continues. “Lots of people get it this time of year. It’s difficult, being so far away from family and friends. It’s not like he’s got anybody here, really.”
Artemy could point out the Stamatins. He could point out Yulia, Eva, the Kains. He’d once even seen Daniil speaking to Mark, though what on earth they had to talk about was far beyond Artemy’s reach. He nods, as if considering it, and feels Stakh’s eyes on his shoulder. They know they’re blushing under the scrutiny; they’re not good at keeping their feelings hidden and never have been. He’s sure what he’s thinking shows through on his face, even before the words leave his mouth. “I want to do something for him.”
Stakh shakes his head. “Of course you do.” The words come out as kindly as Rubin is capable of. He turns to lean the way Artemy is. Daniil seems completely oblivious to their watching him, head tilted up for a minute to glance out the window. Stakh rests his mug in his hands, and looks over at Artemy. “And what are you thinking will cheer him up?”
He’s going to laugh at me, Artemy thinks. And perhaps that’ll be a well-earned reaction, because the idea he has in mind is sort of stupid. “He told me last night that he misses the Capital,” Artemy begins. They’d taken the time to walk Daniil back to his apartment in the Stone Yard, an excuse to linger in his presence a little longer. If Daniil understood their intentions, he didn’t voice his thoughts, caught up in his rambling about the life cycle of shrimp. His eyes looked pretty in the lamplight. “And I remembered that he got moody around this time last year, too. Then I thought, in the Capital…” Stakh nods. Artemy runs a hand through his hair. “Around this time of year in the Capital, there’s all these lights and decorations –“
His friend holds a hand up to stop him. So he does know where this is headed, after all. He circles Artemy, perhaps just to block Daniil from view, and hisses, “You’re going to celebrate Christmas?” Artemy feels that embarrassed flush spread under their growing beard, cresting the tops of their ears. “And you’re going to do it for a guy you have a crush on?!”
Rubin looks appropriately disgusted. Artemy fidgets in their lean against the counter, trying to work their way around to a rebuttal. “Well,” he wets his lips, already stumbling, “I also have the kids. You know, I didn’t get to do anything for them last year – the thought didn’t even occur to me. After the plague, it just seemed like enough to be alive! But all the other kids in the neighborhood are celebrating it. I don’t want them to feel left out.” Stakh’s pinching the bridge of his nose, groaning softly.
“Don’t tell me you want my help,” he says. “I’m agnostic, Cub. And you’re –“ he tries to gesture, but doesn’t really wave his hand at anything in particular. He just settles on motioning vaguely at Artemy themself. Artemy gets the gist. “Do they even have a word for that religion you practice? The Living Earth Cult?”
“Don’t call it a cult,” Artemy says with a frown. “And no, we don’t really have a name for it. It’s not that we don’t have our own winter celebration, but –“ He fumbles, and tries to emphasize again, “the kids –“
“The kids and your ridiculous crush on Daniil Dankovsky,” Rubin deadpans.
“It is not ridiculous,” Artemy defends. Those aren’t even the words he intends to say, but in retrospect there’s really no point in trying to deny his feelings to Stakh. It would just piss him off. Besides, the way Artemy’s eyes flit back to Daniil, scribbling on that paper, probably doing research into something with that book he’s got out, dim lighting illuminating his hair, the glint on his glasses…
Stakh grabs both shoulders, shaking them. “Hello? Are you still in there?” Artemy’s gaze refocuses, sheepish. It’s clear they’ve gotten their friend all exasperated, rubbing his forehead when it’s clear he’s gotten Artemy’s attention. “Get a grip on yourself. You want to celebrate a holiday for a religion you don’t even practice, and the best excuse you can come up with to justify it to yourself is the kids you aren’t bringing up to be Christian. Doesn’t that ring a little hollow to you?” Artemy opens their mouth, but Rubin cuts him off. “And don’t you think Dankovsky will notice?”
“If you have any nondenominational ideas, Stakh, let’s hear them. I’d be more than willing to change my plans in light of something better.” Rubin rolls his eyes and rubs his cheek. “We don’t have to do carols or – or what is it, mass? Whatever it is Christians do. But there’s other things, the baking and the presents and spending time as a family. We can do that, right? It doesn’t have to be Christmas, exactly. Just, you know. A winter holiday.”
“With a Christmas tree,” Stakh reminds him. “You want to go full Capital? Fine. You’re going to need those gaudy lawn ornaments, lights, and the tree. You must see what your neighbors put up every year. You must have gleaned something about the way the holiday is celebrated from the things your patients talk about.” Artemy gives him a blank stare. The look he receives back is incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you do when you talk to your patients? Fantasize about sweeping Dankovsky in your arms –“
“Quiet! He’ll hear you!” Rubin shuts his jaw tight, teeth clicking. “I know, okay? I know it’s a stupid idea. But I have to do something, right? Mishka hasn’t had a family since she was two, and I don’t get the impression they had much to begin with. And I don’t know that Sticky’s ever had a family. Did my father say anything –“
“Your father didn’t say shit to me,” Stakh says. It comes out mor acidic than it was clearly meant, eyes looking away in embarrassment as he slams his mug on the counter. Daniil jostles in his seat, turning around. Artemy waves, and then questions their stupid decision. What on earth are they waving for? When Rubin turns back, he doesn’t look nearly as pissed as he’d sounded, but he doesn’t exactly look happy either. “I didn’t even know about Sticky. I couldn’t tell you what Isidor did or didn’t do holiday-wise with him. Only that I never saw the house decorated, so you’ll have to get them from somewhere else.” He pauses, and then sighs, thumb on his brow. “Gravel,” he says.
“You think she’ll help?” Rubin nods. “I do remember the Shelter always being lit up as a kid. Candles in the windows, and wreathes too. And if she’s not willing to lend me her own, she’ll probably know where I can get some decorations for myself.”
“And help you decorate.”
Artemy waves his hand. “I won’t need help with that.” Rubin stares at them in disbelief. “What? I don’t. How difficult could it possibly be?”
“You’re a single man in his late twenties who’s never celebrated a holiday in his life.” That’s not entirely accurate, but Rubin doesn’t wait for Artemy to correct him. “The Captain had his daughter and a wife when we were kids, Cub. They weren’t devout, but you know Lara’s read the Bible. Unless you’re planning on dragging Dankovsky over early to help you put things together, I don’t think things are going to go as smoothly as you think they will. Do you even know how to cook?”
“Just help me get the decorations,” Artemy says, “and leave the rest to me.”
Artemy stares at all the decorations laid out on his kitchen table and feels his stomach swirl with self-doubt. He doesn’t even know what it is about the garland that’s got him feeling so intimidated, but he’s started think to himself that he’s not actually certain he can do this on his own. It’s in the fact that they should have gotten to work on it the month before, or even the year before, when they’d first noticed Daniil feeling off. What if his lack of preparation and understanding of the holiday is horribly obvious?
He lifts his hand to touch the fake garland and cringes at the texture of fake grass against his skin. It’s nothing compared to the real thing, but then that would defeat the purpose of easy cleanup and reuse, assuming Lara was being honest when she told him she didn’t want the decorations back.
Well, everybody’s got to start somewhere, he reasons, and this is where his road begins. His journey to celebrating Christmas. They are confidant. They can do this.
“…It goes on the staircase, right?” Artemy pulls their hand back, running it through their hair and scratching at their scalp. That’s the problem with doing this on their own: no one to get a second opinion from. His mind recalls Lara’s smirk, the way her arms crossed over her chest once she’d dropped the box on the table. I hope you’re not going to ask me for help, she’d said, and for once it didn’t sound like a hint. And Artemy assured her he could figure it out on his own, and he still can! They’ll just need a – a rope, or something. Some material they can use to tie the garland to the railings of the stairway. Or a ribbon, even! Nice, festive ribbons, things they can definitely tie on their own without help.
Except – wait. This garland already has ribbons affixed to it. Back to the twine, then. Artemy’s been pacing, and now he huffs, turning to fish through his drawer for a spool and rusty pair of scissors. The tension starts to pull at the back of his neck again, and he tries to scold himself. There’s nothing for them to get all worked up about. This is just a damned Christmas decoration. If Dankovsky doesn’t like it, then he can just – well – it’s not Artemy’s problem if he doesn’t! Artemy’s a little too bombastic closing the drawer, nearly upsetting its contents, his footsteps coming out in heavy stomps as he grabs the garland and heads for the stairs.
In his haste, Artmey’s boot plants right on the tail of the garland, and he trips over himself, landing hard on his arm. The scissors, at least, sink into the wood, and not through his sweater. There’s no one around to watch them fall or to appreciate the blush that floods their face, but they’re still bruised and embarrassed. He retrieves the scissors and assesses the garland for damage. It’s only a little flattened by the pressure. Best to put it to the top of the stairs, where the guest of honor won’t see it.
Their fingers tremble as they hold the garland up to the end of the railing. They’re picturing it now: Daniil, coming into their house, seeing it all decorated. Artemy can take his coat as he gets a look around, the first time he’s been inside since the Pest. It’ll be no match for the Capital, of course, but hopefully it’ll be enough to make Daniil feel at home. Will he be overwhelmed by it? Or will it just be quaint to him, endearing at best? Things are always harder around the holidays. Artemy understands that, even he’s feeling the pain of his father’s passing more acutely right now, and –
And he’s holding the decoration too damn tightly. “I think you’re putting it on upside down,” a voice calls. Artemy shoots up too quickly, inspecting their handiwork. The garland’s not just upside-down, but twisted. And they’ve tied a hell of a knot to get it to stay in place, bunched up on one end as their mind drifted. Artemy sighs, letting it go slack. Sticky comes around the corner, leaning over with his hands on his knees, getting a look at Artemy’s decorating. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“What’s it look like?” Sticky shrugs. He lets the garland go slack, untwists it, and watches the bow fall off-center. It doesn’t match as nicely as all his memories of the Shelter in winter, but then again, these decorations were intended for a manor, not his humble house. Of course it’s not going to be perfect. Artemy doesn’t really mind. The question is if Daniil will. “Wanna help me out?”
Sticky comes around, holding the garland in place. “I’ve seen people doing this before,” he offers, “but I’ve never done it myself.”
“Neither have I,” Artemy admits. “Think Murky’ll mind she’s not around to help us out?” Sticky shakes his head. Artemy cuts off a length of twine, wrapping it around the garland and trying to the bannister with a looser knot this time. It still cinches a little. Should they do it on the other side too? Make it look intentional?
“She’s gonna hate how this feels,” Sticky informs him. Artemy makes a face. “What? It’s not real grass. She’d like swevery or twyre better.”
“Swevery and twyre aren’t Christmas plants.” Sticky blinks at him. Artemy swallows, and hopes it isn’t too obvious. They go up a step. Rubin is right. This is shallow. “I thought this year we’d try celebrating. Give you kids something to look forward to this time of year.” Sticky doesn’t respond. “If you guys wind up hating it, we don’t have to do it again.”
“I don’t have any particular feelings. Old man never celebrated, from what I can tell. I don’t remember if my parents did.” It floors Artemy, how easily he says these things. Like it doesn’t even matter to him. “I guess it could be fun. Makes me feel bad for all the guys who don’t get to do this, though. Like Notkin.”
Artemy hadn’t thought of that. “We can bring him cookies or something,” he says. He wouldn’t need to get anything for Taya or Khan and he hopes to god the Saburovs are taking good enough care of Grace he wouldn’t need to give her anything. Couldn’t hurt to remind Peter to get her something for the holidays, if he’s still keen on her being his ward someday. The only one left would be Capella, and they’re not sure what, if anything, they could give her. She’s so grown-up already.
There’s still a little left over at the end of the stairs, and Sticky wraps it around the ending in a row. “This doesn’t look too bad,” Sticky appraises. “I think even the Bachelor will like it.” Artemy feels his fingertips freeze, guilt festering in his stomach. Sticky looks at him, raising his eyebrows. “You are inviting him over, right?”
Cautiously, Artemy turns to him and asks, “What do you know?”
The grin Sticky gives him goes straight to their chest. It’s not the look of judgment he expected to get, the one he got from Stakh and he might still get from Murky. “Come on, dad. It’s pretty obvious how you feel about him. You really think he needs someone to walk him home at night?” Artemy scratches the back of their neck. This conversation is going way easier than he’d thought it would, but it’s also so much sooner than he’d intended on having it. “What’s with the look? You really think he doesn’t make up excuses to come and see you at work?”
“Well,” Artemy starts, but he’s not sure what else to say to that. He turns to head back down the stairs, Sticky following close behind. They’ve got window decorations now, and countertop decorations, stockings, candles, wreaths, lights – good god, that’s a lot. Sticky picks up ceramic figurines of some animals and a manger, holding them up for Artemy to get a look at. Artemy shrugs, and Sticky sets them on the table once again. “I was planning on inviting him over, yes. But I wanted to ask you kids, first –“
“You should have him come over for baking first,” Sticky interrupts. “You want him to be part of the family, right? And this’ll give you an excuse to get him over to the house more than once. If he’s helped us out with the food, he’ll feel like he has to come over for dinner that night.”
“Sneaky,” Artemy comments. They start gathering together the candles, eyes falling on the figurines again. Dankovsky should know what the figurines are for. They don’t want to set these religious symbols out, fuck them up and risk offending him, so they can offer the task to Daniil. Make him feel part of the process. Bring him into the fold, the way he never really got from peers as a kid.
Hm. He didn’t think he had any leftover feelings about that. “I already talked to Murky about it,” Sticky says, nonchalantly. Artemy finds the rug pulled out from under him by his own son once again. “If you didn’t ask Dankovsky to come over, I was gonna do it for you. Murky was gonna help me force your signature and everything.”
“Forge,” Artemy corrects. He sets the candle on the windowsill, and Sticky hands him a wreath to hang up. As if they’d practiced it. Artemy can’t help but feel this is the reason Daniil looks so dismal: no one to share these little moments with. They can almost imagine the man as a child, helping his parents decorate. The notion makes their heart clench painfully in their chest. He couldn’t give that kind of love to Lara, hiding away in her home this holiday season, or to Rubin, who never celebrated to begin with. And Grief – who even knew what Grief was up to? But Dankovsky…
His affections are a stupid thing. He doesn’t humor the idea that Daniil could return them, but the idea doesn’t bother him so much. He feels warm at just the notion of making him smile, even if it’s a grin of condescension. It doesn’t matter to Artemy if they receive anything in return. They’ve never tried to read Dankovsky’s Lines, scared of where they might go. They only know they derailed them a year ago, and it’s time they helped the man put them on a new track.
He almost feels confident about this entire operation. “We’ll get a tree tonight. Just you, me, and Murky.” Sticky looks at him, head cocked. “Don’t worry about the Bachelor. I know exactly what to do.”
December is not going particularly well for Daniil, but then, December rarely does. The usual list of fumbles is starting to pile up. The snow, the cold, the darkness, his melancholy rising as it hits the anniversary of him waking from that fog. The first month after the plague ended, he’d been dazed, half-asleep, and he’d only come to with the first dusting of snow. He remembers it clearly, gaze turned to the sky outside the Broken Heart, suddenly realizing he could never go home again. He’d said it before, to Artemy, that returning to the Capital meant death, but he’d never really let it sink in.
And Artemy had been there, then, hand warm and heavy on his shoulder, shaking him. Daniil wondered if something about it scared the other, the way they looked so helplessly at Daniil. All Daniil’s emotions congealed at that point, taking in the way their mouth bowed into a frown, the way their hair tousled in the wind, their pretty eyes focusing on Daniil’s. He didn’t swear aloud, but it had been a near thing. He knew he’d stayed in Town for some reason, but hadn’t been able to justify to himself why until that night. He felt it, in his stomach, that ache that told him no one else would understand the way Artemy did, and suddenly Daniil was the one rendered helpless.
His feelings haven’t changed since. He tries, trudging his way to the clinic, to produce a mental list of objective positives for the winter season, but the outcomes are rather dismal. He’s worked out that the extra layer of his binder no longer makes him sweat beneath his vest and shirt, and that the scent of twyre is no longer as debilitating as it is in the fall, but that’s it. Even his research is not enough to keep his moodiness at bay, to make up for the cracks in his skin from the dry air, the headaches, aggravated breathing, the ache in his bones and his frozen toes. No, Daniil is not amused.
The clinic bells tingle overhead as he enters, and he hears Artemy from the back jumping out of his seat. “It’s just me,” Daniil calls, and he hears the hesitation in those footsteps as he starts to brush the snow from his shoulders, tapping his boots against the mat. When he turns, Artemy is at his elbow, taking the bag from his hands. He can’t feel the heat from Artemy’s hands through his gloves, but he imagines it in the warmth of the smile they give in greeting. Daniil knows he blushes, and hopes the sudden temperature change between the winter weather and the heated office accounts for it in Artemy’s mind. Daniil’s smile is tight in response, dropping the weight of his bag into Artmey’s hand. “Thank you,” he says, and listens to his colleague’s mumbled reply, removing his hat and scarf. And then, his coat.
He still doesn’t like to be without it, the security his jacket provides to him – the pressure, the layer obscuring his chest, his hips – but it would be rude and messy to track snow through the clinic. He’s got another pair of shoes in his back for exactly this reason, though Artemy had his own for leaving the coat behind. The way they told it, patients found Daniil “intimidating” and “standoffish” in the snakeskin. Daniil argued back that it was a matter of sanitation, of warmth, of personal comfort. The last had hit Burakh in a place they couldn’t reach, and Daniil could practically see the image of Murky float through their head. In the end, he’d told Daniil, “Do whatever you want,” and Daniil had taken that as his victory.
But when it’s just the two of them, he leaves it behind all the same. He knows he could justify his actions by pointing out the practice heater is on, but Artemy never asks him what makes him change his mind. He often tip-toes around the words, trying to indicate that it’s Artemy themself that makes Daniil feel the coat is unnecessary, but saying the words flat out would be far too much. He’s not even certain Artemy would understand the real meaning of the sentiment, and he’s not sure if a misunderstanding would be the better or worse outcome of the scenario.
“Thank you for coming in today,” Artemy says, once Daniil’s accepted his bag back. He starts to slip out of his boots, opening up his bag to put his second pair of shoes on. In his peripherals he sees the man run a hand over his hair, pushing it back. It’s gotten longer, now, and Daniil’s spent countless minutes admiring the way it brushes the back of his neck. “Rubin wasn’t feeling well, so I gave him the day off. I hope you weren’t too busy?”
Daniil is never too busy. It’s uncomfortable, having as much free time as he does, splitting it between his new lab and teaching and the clinic, and still having an abundance of silence. He feels it all the more acutely on the nights Artemy walks him home, and he has to sit in the darkness, wishing the man had stayed a little longer. “It’s no problem,” he says, fiddling with his gloves so he won’t have to look up. Artemy’s wearing a nicer green sweater today, and it would be so hard to look away once he starts staring. “Let him rest. Better as a doctor to keep the illness from the patients, hm?”
Artemy hums. They hover over Daniil’s shoulders, like they have something to say. When Daniil stands they are almost too close for him to handle, to behave himself. He wants to lean in against Artemy’s chest, and winds up digging his teeth into his bottom lip to stop from doing something foolish. Artemy has his head tilted downward, and Daniil wonders if this is the moment he’s been waiting for.
“Oynon,” Artemy begins, and shifts a little closer. Much closer into Daniil’s personal bubble than he’d normally allow another person. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
This is an opening to a dinner invitation. “Something fried, probably,” Daniil replies. His gaze drifts down to Artemy’s mouth – let them know he’s interested – and back up to their eyes. Artemy’s gaze is downward. Daniil’s pulse races. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”
They lick their lips before answering. “You should come to my place,” they say. Daniil tries to keep the smile from warping his features, but it’s too difficult to pretend he isn’t happy with the idea. He raises his eyebrows, and Artemy’s eyes follow them. He seems nervous as he’s asking, and Daniil hopes it means they’re on the same page. He’s tired of the subtleties of flirting. “I got enough food for the four of us, and the kids would love to see you.”
The kids. Daniil isn’t sure if this is progressing in the manner he wants. He doesn’t allow his smile to slip, to give way to disappointment. If all Artemy wants is friendship, that will be fine, too. Daniil has so few people he feels he can truly call friends, and another certainly wouldn’t harm him. “Would they?” he asks. Artemy’s nod seems a little exaggerated, but Daniil refuses to get his hopes any higher than they are. “Well, then. How could I say no?”
Artemy seems pensive and oddly nervous on their trek back to his house after work. His silence is normal – up to a point. It’s not uncommon for their walks to be punctuated by Daniil’s outbursts and Artemy’s quiet hums, the commentary he dips between the lulls in Daniil’s speech. Sometimes, they don’t speak at all, simply walking their arms brushing, pretending not to notice. Or, at least, Daniil pretends not to notice; Artemy may truly not. He’s still unsure of where their intentions lie when it comes to Daniil. Daniil walks along now, arms at his sides, right hand flexing as he walks beside his colleague. He hopes they’ll notice the way he seems restless, and take his hand, but either his flirting is too subtle or Artemy’s feelings are entirely platonic.
His host allows Daniil inside the house first, and Daniil is immediately hit with the scent of confectioner’s sugar. His nose crinkles as he unties his boots, stepping out of them and leaving them by the door. He turns his head, and finds his shoulders collected in Artemy’s hold, their fingers curled around the collar and easing the jacket from Daniil’s shoulders. Daniil’s embarrassed to find he almost leans into Artemy’s arms, blushing. He wonders if Artemy notices, what he makes of it.
To his left is the kitchen, and he can see the white flurry of mess from where he stands, eyebrows raised. “Have you assigned the task of dinner to your children?” Artemy jumps, looking rather alarmed. Daniil watches him hang up Daniil’s coat and forget his own in his rush to the adjacent kitchen.
Sticky’s voice rings through the door, a touch too loud to not rouse suspicions. “It wasn’t my idea!”
The kitchen, from what Daniil can see around Artemy’s shoulder, is covered in white – the confectioner’s sugar he smelled earlier, for sure, and if he had to guess, flour. His mind is already geared to figuring out how to clean it up, but Artemy’s voice comes out stuttered. “I – I thought you were going to wait!” Daniil steps to their side, and sees now the mortified look on their face. He supposes this must be out of character for Sticky and Murky. They seem pretty well-behaved, usually, but he can hardly blame them for getting excited.
The teenager shrugs, but his eyes are downcast. It’s then Daniil actually catches sight of Murky, her black hair coated in flour and sugar. “How did you two even manage to do this?” Daniil asks. “Did you tear into the bag like wolves?”
“Uh-huh,” Sticky says, then seems to realize what he’s agreed too, and looks back up. “I mean, no, not exactly.” He steps over to them, toeing around mounds of powdered sugar all over the floor. “The scissors are all rusty. It was hard to cut in the bag!” Sticky looks from Daniil to Artemy, the other man’s face covered by his hand. Sticky looks more upset by this than Daniil would have thought normal; but then, Daniil’s never been an elder brother. Perhaps he sees it as a personal failing. “We just wanted to surprise you guys,” he mumbles.
“Well, go and get your sister dusted off. I’ll clean up in here,” Daniil offers. Sticky gives him a curious look, and glances back to his parent. Artemy’s still got his face covered, parts of his neck dusted red. “Can you show me to a broom?” Daniil asks. He’s not going to bother Artemy when he’s this upset about something, even if it all seems reasonably mundane to Daniil. Sticky leads him down the winding hallway and picks the boom up from a corner, handing it to him. Murky comes out behind them a second later, looking just as confused by everyone’s upset as Daniil feels.
By the time he’s back at the kitchen, Artemy has taken off his coat and gloves, eyes wide in embarrassment as he flails at Daniil. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, and his fingers tap against the end of the broom. Daniil ignores him, starting to sweep the floor.
He takes a peek into the bowl the kids had been using. The dough seems only half-made. “You’ll have to pick up more confectioner’s sugar at the store if you’re planning on making icing,” Daniil tells him. He listens to Artemy filling up a basin with water for a washcloth, getting to work on the counters. “I’d inspect the batter for bits of egg shell, too. I’m not sure how long they’ve been working in this mess.”
A minute goes by before Artemy blurts out, “I’m sorry.” Daniil looks at them, eyebrows raised, but they’re not looking his way. “I didn’t intend for this to happen –“
Daniil furrows his brow. “No. Why would I have thought you planned this?” Artemy’s eyes flicker away. He doesn’t know what for. “And anyway, they’re just children. Children who are used to being self-reliant and a little reckless. This was bound to happen some day or other, just be glad we got home before they turned the stove on. The scent of burnt sugar is sensory hell, Artemy.” And now it’s his turn to be embarrassed. He can’t recall if he’s ever called his friend by name outside of his own head. It always seemed too intimate.
“Thank you, Daniil,” Artemy replies. Daniil’s manage to sweep up what landed on the floor into a neat little pile, scooping it onto a dustpan to toss out. “Uh – right. Uhm. Okay.” He seems to fidget for a couple moments, heading to the icebox to pull out ingredients. Daniil pulls his gloves off, going to stick them in his coat before he heads back into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He stands next to Artemy, expectantly. Now that some of the flush has faded from their face, and they look more comfortable with the cutting and preparing of vegetables, they’re back to that soft glow of determination Daniil admired so long ago. He got to catch it from time to time in the clinic, eyes narrowed to a task and concentrating, eyes sweeping over his object of study. Daniil’s often daydreamed of being the center of that attention, though he could never hope to compete with the children he holds dear. And really, he wouldn’t change that. It’s something he adores about the Haruspex. He opens his mouth to offer his help with the peeling of vegetables, when he feels a tug on his shirt.
Murky, freshly cleaned off, is staring up at him. She looks away when he looks down at her, shifting weight between her feet. “Come help us with the tree,” she says.
Tree? Daniil thinks. It hadn’t quite occurred to him yet they might celebrate Christmas. He supposes it should have. He feels off-kilter when she asks, looking between her and Artemy. Artemy’s gaze has turned to him, and for a moment he can’t breathe. He flushes. “She wants me to help her with the tree,” he repeats. He doesn’t know if this would get in the way of activities they have planned with their children, but Artemy doesn’t seem upset.
They choose their words carefully, looking over Daniil’s face. “If you’d like to,” they say. “But don’t put all of the ornaments on without me. Save some for after dinner.” Murky nods. They smile at Daniil. “We can do them together.”
So it is a family activity, after all. And Artemy is…encouraging him to be a part of it. Daniil nods, and lets himself be led up to the second floor. He thinks, not for the first time, that this house seems bizarrely constructed. Sticky’s got himself face-first in the tree, trying to hang ornaments up, but he’s not quite tall enough to reach the branch he’s aiming for. Daniil tries to steady it, sighing as Sticky almost knocks the thing over in his enthusiasm. “We got these ornaments from Lara,” he says, handing a couple to Daniil. They seem nice, perhaps even expensive. To him, they mean nothing.
Daniil looks at the tree, as though it’s a puzzle. He can feel Sticky watching him as he delicately places one on a branch. The whole experience feels bizarre to him. He never thought he’d do this, let alone with another man’s children. “You can stay, but you can’t use my toothbrush,” Murky pipes up. Sticky shoots her a look, but she doesn’t meet it.
“I wouldn’t dream of using your toothbrush,” Daniil assures her. He has, naturally, no idea to what she’s referring, so his sentiment is given in full honesty and confusion. She grabs an ornament from her brother, and passes it over to Daniil. He watches her walk with determination to the back of the tree, pointing up. And he follows her direction, raising and lowering the delicate ball until it falls in the right spot.
“You’re gonna have to teach us how to do this stuff,” Sticky says. He’s lowered his voice a little, as if he doesn’t want anyone else to hear them. “Dad did most of this without help, and I think he did it pretty well. But Old Man didn’t celebrate it, so he’s just flying by the seam of his pants.”
“Seat,” Daniil corrects, and he tries to hide his frown. “And I’ll do what I can, but I’m really not the best person to teach you. Didn’t Ms. Ravel tell you anything when she gave you the decorations?” Sticky shakes his head. Oh, dear. “Please excuse me, a moment,” Daniil says, and turns around to head back down the stairs. Artemy’s left the kitchen now, catching Daniil’s eye and moving aside.
They look at Daniil bashfully, holding out some sort of figures wrapped in paper. “I thought, since you’re so far out from your home the past two years, I’d let you be the one to put these out.” Daniil unwraps them slowly, and stares at them.
Oh, no. Daniil blinks, slowly, and looks up at Artemy. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” he says.
And he watches Artemy get flustered rather quickly. Even from behind the scruff on his neck, he sees the man’s face break out in blush. It’s unbearably cute. “Are those the wrong ones. I – Lara gave them to me,” Artemy explains. He looks, for a minute, like he might cry. Then he just sort of starts to blurt out, “I don’t really know anything about Christmas. I didn’t want to do too much without you here and risk fucking it up and offending you –“
“Offending me?” Daniil scoffs. “Why me? It’s not as though you did all this for me.” He didn’t think Artemy’s face could grow warmer, but it practically radiates now, his eyes darting over the room. Daniil knows his mouth opens in surprise, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. There was a garland on the staircase, wasn’t there? And some sort of figures on the lawn. He just hadn’t paid much attention.
“Well,” Artemy begins, starting up a defense, “It seemed like you got so upset this time last year. I didn’t really think about it at the time – I thought, you know, you’d just been displaced from your home, and you couldn’t go back to the Capital, because of Thanatica.” Their voice picks up speed as they ramble. “But this year, when you said you missed the Capital, I thought it was –“ They scratch the back of their neck – “I thought about the decorations they always had this time of year, and it hit me that the holidays were coming up, and you must miss it all. The lights, your family, everything, and I wanted you to know that you could have that here.” The earlier mortification is back, touching their fingers to their lips, as though afraid they’ve said too much.
Daniil takes a second to process it. “So you did. You – you decorated like this for me.” His voice sounds terribly flat, for all the emotion he’s experiencing. The hilarity bubbling in his chest. “I assumed you were doing this for your kids. Many families do, even scientists I’ve worked with. They don’t attend church, but they get out the decorations, the tree, the presents.”
“Well,” Artemy repeats, looking so much like his daughter as he shifts the weight between his feet. “Them, too. They should have something nice.” Daniil nods. He agrees. “But it’s… Yes. It’s also for you. Because you stayed.” He looks so vulnerable, leveling his gaze with Daniil. “I just wanted to share some of my warmth,” Artemy says.
He wishes he wasn’t holding something so fragile. Daniil presses the figures to Artemy’s chest, and waits for him to cover the figures with his own hands before Daniil leans against him, and kisses him. He doesn’t calculate the move beforehand, but he estimates now a pretty decent chance of reciprocation. When he falls back to his heels, Artemy follows, kissing him again. Artemy lets him pull back, looking at him softly, and Daniil blurts out, “I’m Jewish.” Artemy blinks at him, first with confusion, and then with dawning humiliation. Daniil feels himself smirk uncontrollably, trying not to laugh at his partner’s pain. “I am so sorry,” he says, though he’s suppressing a giggle. “You did all of this bullshit for a holiday neither of us celebrate.”
Artemy leans his forehead against Daniil’s, and Daniil giggles again. “Knock it off,” Artemy moans, and Daniil replies by kissing him again, just the corner of his mouth. Simply because he feels he can, now. “So I have offended you,” Artemy concludes.
“Don’t you think I’d have left if I was offended?”
“Weren’t you going to?” Artemy fires back.
Daniil shakes his head. “I wanted to tell you. I got the impression from something Sticky said there’d been a misunderstanding, somewhere along the line. I didn’t want to be held accountable for knowledge I don’t possess. Like these,” he says, gesturing with the figures in his hand. “I have a vague idea from patterned repetition, but don’t ask me what on earth they signify. I don’t know and I couldn’t care less.”
“You don’t care, the kids don’t care, and I don’t care, so I think it’s safe to, uh –“ They open up a drawer, placing the figures gently inside before they close it. The looks they give Daniil is sheepish. “Is it too late for us to celebrate -?”
“Hanukkah? Yes. It ended yesterday.” Artemy’s eyes and mouth close in a straight, pained line. Daniil takes Artemy’s face in his hands, kissing his forehead. “Next year, Artemy, if I’m invited back. I’ll teach Sticky how to make latkes, and we’ll see what kind of cleanup we have after that.” Artemy pulls back, and Daniil feels what that gaze is like. He flushes again, but he doesn’t care this time that Artemy can see it. “I will make one suggestion, though, to add to your box of decorations.”
“And what is that?”
Daniil rolls his eyes at him. “Mistletoe.”