Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Daniil can trace his understanding of relationships to one man – not his first love, but his second. He is nineteen, nearly twenty, when he first meets Andrey Stamatin.

He’s heard of Andrey, of course. Long before he’d so much as seen the man, he’d heard rumor of him. More conservative classmates would whisper and point, and Daniil would narrow his eyes to try and catch a glimpse of the illusive student through the campus, the man’s dusty tan coat flowing behind him in the breeze, as if he didn’t notice or care about the cold. Daniil considers himself unbelievably lucky that he’s managed to make it so far in his academic career without Andrey popping up in a single one of his courses, because he’s heard what a racket the man makes when he does. He’s been kicked out - sometimes literally - by professors and tutors, by classmates and lab partners, and Daniil simply does not need that kind of trouble in his life.

He was more reserved back then - not from a desire to live a demure life, but on ultimatum. His parents had only agreed to send him away to university on the condition that he “lay low,” something Daniil was not well known for. And Daniil had promised to do the best that he was capable of, because he was in too vulnerable a position to really argue with them over it. Sure, more women were attending university than ever before, but that didn’t mean much when Daniil was not, in fact, a woman, and no longer felt comfortable presenting as such.

At that age, fresh from his average suburban life, Daniil had not met another person like himself. He knew they must exist, because he’d heard from time to time of crossdressing scandals exposing same-sex marriages and women who chose to forgo marriage altogether in favor of female companionship. But there wasn’t really any way for him to reach out to them, to find a community with the resources available to him. And he remembers, very clearly, this being on his mind the day he met Andrey.

The flat he is renting, the only one he can afford, was little more than a single room with a closet for the toilet. It is in the same section of the city where all the other poor students live. It did not matter that he had come from a middle-class background; in the Capital, if you were not wealthy, you were poor.

The flat has considerably less space than he is used to, and though he’d understood some things in university would be different from his home life, this was more than he'd been prepared to bargain for, and after a year of dealing with it, he is exhausted. He had been thinking to himself, climbing out of his bath, that if he had roommates they could all afford something a bit better. A bit bigger, if not a bit nicer. Certainly not one of the fancy suites business students occupied in the north end of the city, closer to the University - but at least a place where the tub had a little more privacy and the heater worked with a little more regularity.

As he makes the half-hour walk from his flat to the lecture hall, Daniil fantasizes about such a flat. One with a bigger living area, with a proper washroom and adequate lighting, and towels that were soft. A place where he could wake up in the morning without feeling his toes about to fall off from the cold. He entertains himself for the first twenty minutes of his walk imagining dressing himself in a space like this, only to have the rather invasive thought step up and remind him that in order to make that dream a reality, he’d need to acquire flatmates.

He scowls at the sidewalk, steps uneven as he avoids patches of ice. The question begs, as it always does: who, in this day and age, could possibly be a safe flatmate for a man like Dankovsky?

The sidewalk this Tuesday morning is busy - not just with patches of ice, but with more bodies than Daniil can remember seeing the previous morning, or on most other mornings for that matter. He drops the idyllic daydream from his mind to look up and see what the fuss is all around him, and as he does, his stomach sinks. There’s a group of twenty or thirty students, all of them with signs, marching their way toward the same lecture hall Daniil is headed. He recalls, now, being handed a flyer last night about this protest, though he didn’t bother to read the pamphlet in full and learn what it was about. He left it on his desk to pull off his clothes and sink into a frigid, dreamless sleep. All he remembers now is seeing today’s date circled on the flyer and, if he really wracks his brain, the name of the university’s science hall in bold print.

Daniil takes a deep breath and tries to walk around the outskirts of the swarm, pulling his black peacoat tighter around his chest in an attempt to hide whatever curves may be visible. He’s not able to manage it without getting nearly pushed to the street, and so he falls back to the end of the line. Alright then. He’ll just have to push his way through. He’s short enough that he can worm his way to the front of the crowd, but he has no luck in getting past the man leading the march.

Andrey was wearing his hair longer back then, and that day he had it pulled back into a tight knot to keep the wind from blowing it into his face. Daniil had never seen him that close before.

His green eyes are bright, and Daniil is so surprised by the hue that he thinks, more poetically than he is usually given to, that the shade was just to spite the dismal state of the sky above them. That spite is how he knew who the man next to him was, the man he’s heard so much about. The reckless rebel, Andrey Stamatin. He somehow managed to look exactly how Daniil thought he should, while being not at all what he’d actually pictured.

Daniil finds himself lost, staring at what he can of Andrey’s eyes from the side, wondering what sort of a person this Andrey Stamatin truly is. He only remembers himself - where he is and what he is attempting to do - when a gust of wind blows his coat open for a second, sending him into a sudden stop to shiver.

He almost gets swallowed back into the crowd behind them, but Andrey puts an arm around Daniil’s shoulders and drags him back to the surface. “You’re alright,” Andrey says, but Daniil feels drowned. Andrey’s voice sounds too loud, even for how closely they were standing.

The hand on Daniil’s shoulder is broad enough to cover the entire thing - or so he assumes, from what little Daniil can feel through the fabric of his coat. His body is so tense that it is difficult to make out where that hand fell as it slipped down his back. He wonders if his discomfort is obvious; he’s never been one to hide his emotions well, on the off chance he bothers to try. If nothing else it is probably clear from the expression on his face that he’s been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, displeased with the way his morning is progressing.

But if it is, Andrey either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He says the words: “always good to have another,” and Daniil feels that hand pat at his lower back.

Daniil is too nervous to look back at the crowd marching behind him, but he does idly wonder how many more of the day’s protestors had been students on their way to class only to find themselves roped in by Andrey’s magnetism.

Daniil shakes his head at himself, feeling ridiculous. ‘Roped in’ to the protest – he can’t seriously be contemplating actually joining these people, can he? He doesn’t even know what the protest is about, and he cannot waste his chance at an education on a cause he doesn’t understand! What if it’s something trivial? How would he explain this to his parents?

He makes an aborted attempt at a deep breath. He’ll just have to find a way to extricate himself from the group once they reach the science building. Maybe he can just back out slowly, without anybody seeing him? He’s not looking to get mauled by an unruly mob.

They’re coming up on the front steps now, and Daniil has only one escape plan in mind. If that fails, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Admit he’d only been trying to pass through on his way to class? He can’t see that going over well, can’t even imagine what Andrey especially might do if he tries to explain himself. He did, however, catch a glimpse of a fancy handle to what he’s guessing is a very sharp knife poking out from the inner pocket of Andrey’s jacket, so the answer is clearly nothing good.

As they come to a stop, someone forces a little post into Daniil’s hand. The end of a sign. For the first time, he’s able to read just what it is he’s being dragged into when all he wants is to head to class.

Money. This entire protest is about money – lowering tuition and raising meal stipends. Daniil feels his heart twist rather sharply and uncomfortably in his chest. How fitting. Hadn’t that been the very thing on his mind the first twenty minutes of his walk over here? But this is exactly the sort of trouble his parents are always telling him to avoid. His only options now are to either stand here with these people, join them in voicing their well-founded grievances, or to risk whatever came with admitting he’d only been trying to get to the lecture hall for class.

“Not your first time at a protest, is it?” Andrey’s green eyes are a newly budded plant, staring down at Daniil. In their depths he sees ideas he cannot begin to fathom rising up, twisting in a vine. In that moment, Daniil is helpless. He can’t bear the idea of this man seeing him crumble. He doesn’t stop to consider why this one moment is so important to him, he only knows that it is.

So, it is for the first time (and sadly for Daniil’s parents, not the last) that Daniil chooses idealistic revolution over academic reputation.

It is evidence for how naïve Daniil is at the time that he thinks his first meeting with Andrey Stamatin will also be his last. That protest had been exhilarating even if not much had been accomplished by it, especially in the feeling of eyes on his back as his scheduled lecture ended and his classmates poured out around him. He felt invigorated by it, in ways he could have never anticipated. When it’s over, he doesn’t think to bid Andrey farewell, doesn’t even take note of what happens to the sign that had been in his hands. He simply runs off to his next lecture, a math course he truly can’t afford to miss, feeling like he could fight any deity opposing him and win.

In Daniil’s defense, Andrey has a reputation. That reputation being that he rarely shows up to classes, and when he does he argues with the lecturer, with classmates and with tutors and finds himself kicked out of the class before he can really get into the thick of things. Daniil, on the other hand, has a reputation for regularly attending his lectures – impromptu protest aside – and managing to refrain himself from arguments just enough to be allowed to continue attending them. And with his parents’ permission and assistance riding on that reputation remaining intact, he heads off to his Thursday lecture more aware of his surroundings, just in case there’s some other demonstration that he’s missed.

He makes it to the lecture hall with no incidents this time, but getting to his seat is another matter entirely. When he looks up the rows, he sees his space occupied, and as he approaches he feels ice course through his veins. It’s none other than Andrey Stamatin, parked where he normally takes his notes, dirty shoes up on the table in front of him. Daniil wasn’t even aware that Andrey was taking this class.

Daniil’s eyes linger on Andrey’s shoes so he doesn’t have to look too hard at his face, to see if Andrey recognizes him from Tuesday’s uprising. He’s perturbed, anyway, by the dirt that must be flaking off to the otherwise clean surface, and the blatant disrespect to the classroom that should bother Daniil more than it honestly does.

What Daniil feels instead is the sort of exhaustion he often gets from nerves, laced with a hint of curiosity. His gaze makes its way to Andrey’s face, and the other man catches him looking. The responding grin he earns is as sharp as any razor, clearly daring Daniil to say something about his posture. It makes Daniil want to smack his feet clear off the desk. And Andrey must not remember him, because he’d otherwise have something to say about the event. His face bears no recognition of Daniil’s, pulling out the chair next to him and patting the seat in a way that manages to feel condescending. “Join me, friend,” he says.

Daniil does, but it’s not without a fair amount of reservation. He checks the wood of his seat, searching it for signs of sabotage. Previous classmates had given him strange looks for this behavior, but Andrey’s attention simply wanders about the classroom. He sets his bag down on the table, busying himself looking for a notebook and pen. Anything, really, to keep from having to speak to the man next to him. But Andrey Stamatin is not a man to be ignored, leaning closer to Daniil in order to grumble: “How many people do you reckon are here just to please their parents?”

That particular question has never occurred to Daniil before.

He stops in his search, taking a moment to look around the room as Andrey has done. Most of their fellow students are relaxing in the moments before the professor arrives, jackets slung over the backs of their seats, whispering and laughing in their own private conversations. Daniil is not adept at picking up on such intimate details from the simplest observations, and shrugs in response to Andrey’s question. “A fair few, I suppose,” he says. He locates his notebook and a pen, pulling them free from his bag and setting the thing down on the floor between his ankles. His unwarranted paranoia stutters as Andrey watches his movements. “I know there’s a pressure among middle-class families to keep up appearances, though I can’t imagine what the upper-class deals with.” He nods toward the sole woman in the room, seated at the front of the room in the right-hand corner. “I doubt she’s doing it for that reason.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” Here it begins, Andrey’s infamous arguing. Daniil expects his shoes to leave a trail of dirt on the table as he lazily slides them off, but the surface stays remarkably clean. It’s strange, he thinks. Someone like Andrey ought to have dirtier soles. “Even women have expectations put on them. Not the same expectations placed on men, but there’s no use comparing the two.” He inclines his head to nod, looking at Daniil through his eyelashes. “Both have an awful lot in life. It’s the same, no matter where you go.”

He’s suddenly curious about Andrey’s background. Is this the talk of a man who’s had all the freedom in the world to do as he pleases, or the talk of one who’s been kept chained? His words come across as though he understands their classmate’s position – but then Daniil knows in a bitter aftertaste that men like Andrey, men who are born under the label of men, are privileged at the top of the social hierarchy. Andrey, he decides, is talking out of his ass.

“I don’t know how you can say something like that with such certainty. Have you personally studied every culture on Earth?” The question is rhetorical, but he follows it up anyway, because he knows Andrey to be the sort that argues every statement made to him. “You can’t possibly make so empirical a decision based on such little information.”

To Daniil’s surprise, Andrey laughs at him. His laugh is a loud bark, an octave higher than the voice he uses to speak. People turn to stare at them, and Daniil feels his skin grow hot under his cheeks. He slouches a little in his seat, unused at this point in his life to gathering so much attention. Andrey doesn’t seem to mind the stares, though. Daniil wonders if he even notices them, continuing as if nothing had interrupted them. “What else can you expect when life sorts you into one of two categories? Nature will roll the dice,” he pauses to mimic the roll, “and society will ascribe you attributes from there.”

What is this nonsense he’s peddling, some biological form of predetermination? Daniil feels his metaphorical feathers ruffle, bigger than the rest of his body. “If you’d attended a single lecture here, you would know that the only existing binary in nature is the biological and the abiological,” he snaps. “It isn’t nature that seeks to divide us on arbitrary basis, it is society that imposes its own limits. Nature merely determines what is alive, and what isn’t; humans do the rest.”

Again, for a solid moment, he expects a true argument to break out between them. This is the most he’s spoken to Andrey, but he knows from reputation, knows from the harsh noise of his laugh and the sharp point of his elbows as he leans on the table that this man is not one to back away from a challenge. Why else would he carry such a fancy knife wherever he goes? But Andrey isn’t biting back at him. He’s looking at Daniil with a wry smile, something devilish that says to Daniil that Andrey’s enjoying the conversation – even if he isn’t currently winning the fight.

“Finally,” Andrey drawls, settling his hands on his knees, “I’ve found someone in this blasted institution who holds not just intelligence, but wisdom as well.” He straightens his back and sticks his hand out. Daniil can’t help but notice now how large it is, how rough. “I am Andrey Stamatin.”

“So I’ve heard,” Daniil replies. He stretches his hand out, and watches Andrey’s bigger hand engulf his own. He tries not to cringe from the contact, from the feeling of skin on skin, Andrey’s hand warm against his frozen fingers. One of these days he should invest in gloves to dull the senses, perhaps once he’s well-established enough for people to take his eccentricities at face value. People read him wrong often enough as it is. “I am Daniil Dankovsky.”

“Well met.” Andrey drops Daniil’s hand and pulls his own back, allowing himself to slouch in the chair, one arm flung over the back of it. He looks as relaxed as the other students do, one leg propped up on the other knee. Even as the professor enters the lecture hall and everyone else turns their attention, Andrey does not turn around to face the proper direction, his focus shifting around the room. Daniil gets a feeling this is just how things will be when it comes to Andrey.

When he speaks next, his voice is low and quiet, breath tickling the back of Daniil’s neck. “So, Dankovsky,” he starts, and Daniil looks over to see the pretty handle of that elegant knife sticking out from the inside pocket of his jacket. Daniil feels a shiver run over his skin. It’s worth keeping in mind that Andrey is a dangerous man. Daniil’s eyes move back up Andrey’s chest to his face, and something starts to click together in his mind. There’s an innate connection Daniil feels to him, and one day, he will put together what it is. “Do me a favor, and tell me what it is I’ve been missing out on in these classes?”

Daniil can and very well should tell him no. He’s nobody’s tutor, he has his own studies and his own life to worry about without adding someone else’s poor life decisions into the mix. But he feels that pull toward Andrey, something telling him not to let go of this loose connection he’s already started to make. Instead of telling the other student to shove off, he rips a sheet of paper out, and writes down his address.

Making acquaintances with Andrey starts something in Daniil that he could not possibly have seen coming.

When he first enrolled in university, his mind had been set on becoming a doctor, and that was that. Despite what he had been trying to tell himself over the past week of making Andrey’s acquaintance, there was something to his new friend’s assumption that many of their classmates were only trying to live up to parental expectations.

Daniil thought himself exempt; as someone designated a girl at birth, his parents’ expectations had, initially, only ever been for him to marry a man - a wealthy one if he could - and provide them with grandchildren. He’d come so close to meeting the expectation before, but the man his military father had so easily approved of left for the army before Daniil had the time to consider a potential future. Perhaps it was for the best. There was affection, yes, and he didn’t think it was a lie. But what would he have thought of Daniil rejecting his assigned gender?

Even now, two years after coming out to his parents, their expectations for him have not altered significantly. He feels those expectations looming like a hawk. It isn’t as though they’re against his academic pursuits – far from it. They are encouraging; as pleasantly surprised by how easily he’s taken to science and mathematics as always, shocked by how happy he is to entertain himself in education. It’s more that his interest in academia has never been a top priority for them the way it has been for Daniil. After all, it was never meant to be a priority for him. No, the only real difference in their expectations for Daniil now, is how adamant they are about him keeping out of trouble.

“You won’t be able to sweet talk your way out of trouble nearly as easily.” His mother had said these words in a warning tone, as if she thought they might give him pause. They were at a shop when she’d spoken them, looking at clothes Daniil could wear to hide his figure at university. He’d already cut his hair short enough to look as boyish as he could at seventeen, and sometimes it helped. Some of the stares he’d received presenting as a woman directed elsewhere. Some, but not all. There were whispers, too, that sent pinpricks along the back of his neck. This talk with his mother wasn’t ideal, but it had gone better than he’d thought it would. “If you’re found out –“ She had done a sharp intake of breath to illustrate her point, lips pressing into a thin line just after. “All actions have their consequences. If you were found out… I don’t want to see such a thing happen to my darling –“

His mother had paused, just before the end. He remembers watching her chew her lip, watching as she clearly tried not to say the word daughter. All the world seemed to balance on that singular moment, her tongue running across the cracked lines of her lips. A habit he’d picked up from her. In that moment his mother seemed so small, her cheeks tinged with pink as she compromised, finally uttering the word, “child.”

He’s kept that conversation in mind, throughout this past year at university. Perhaps he has not been as exempt from parent-pleasing as he’d thought.

Daniil’s tiny flat usually looks like a whirlwind has burst through – as his mother would put it – with papers and books and clothes lying everywhere, but he sets about putting it in order when he knows Andrey will be coming over. He isn’t entirely sure what it is about the other man that makes him feel so self-conscious, because Andrey himself is the antithesis to Daniil’s every worry. Daniil has long since made himself reserved in manner, knowing there was a price to pay in people seeing him more open, more vulnerable. Andrey, however, seems to live in that grey area, seems to use his openness as a weapon. Even in his dress he exemplifies this, his jacket always open regardless of how deep the wind bites. So Daniil feels a bit ridiculous on the first time Andrey arrives at his apartment, knowing he has worked to keep his space hidden, to keep it small.

Especially as Andrey does not seem all that interested in the space he occupies. As a child, Daniil had seen many people come over to his house, all of them poking their heads about in each room, judging and assessing the worth of the things on display. It isn’t the same here, though Daniil is not used to people coming over to his university flat. Andrey’s gaze is bored as he looks around. To him, Daniil’s home may as well be any other place. Daniil wonders what Andrey is like to live with.

The complete lack of interest Andrey shows in his surroundings should put Daniil at ease, but when Daniil tries to talk himself into a calmer state of mind, his brain picks at a new thing to worry about. Will it be too obvious he spent all this time cleaning, making the flat nice for his guest? Would Andrey think him a fool for caring?

Andrey sets his hands on his hips, oblivious to Daniil’s internal anxieties, and announces firmly, confidently: “We’ve got another protest coming up, Danko.”

Daniil’s chest flutters like a cage of excited birds. How quickly Andrey has slipped into a nickname for him! They’ve barely known each other for more than a week. Daniil moves his gaze elsewhere, scratching at his arm to keep himself from touching his heart, from giving himself away. “It’s less administrative this time,” Andrey continues, “more political.” Daniil watches as Andrey crashes into the chair at his desk, shoulders hunched over and thighs spread to rest his arms atop them. “Can I count on your support?”

Daniil moves to busy himself in the kitchenette, nervously going through the motions of making tea. Anything, really, to avoid giving an answer before he’s properly thought of one. His guest, evidently, doesn’t expect him to answer right away, keeping quiet in the time Daniil uses to formulate an answer.

“That depends on the time and the place.” He thinks that’s a fair, diplomatic answer. The kettle starts to whistle, and he realizes he hasn’t even asked Andrey if he’d like a cup yet. That’s just how unused he is to company here, to company anywhere. The last time he’d had someone over had been before Sasha left for the Army. He feels his cheeks burn, second-guessing himself at the last minute and preparing another mug with another teabag and producing a pitiful amount of the drink for them both.

Luckily, Andrey either doesn’t notice how little he’s being served, or doesn’t care. He accepts the mug Daniil hands out to him, not even looking at its contents. “It’ll be Saturday,” he informs him. “We’re planning on meeting in the dining hall first. An easy and inconspicuous way to organize ourselves.” Easy, yes, but inconspicuous? Daniil’s not so sure about that. The absolute last word he’d attribute to Andrey Stamatin is inconspicuous. Even here in Daniil’s apartment, he’s taken out his fancy knife to toy with it, twirling the thing between his fingers as his tea steeps and cools on the desk. “The healthcare system here is a bust. I figured a man like yourself, a nice, aspiring doctor – this would be right up your alley.”

How is it I’m so easy for Andrey to read? He hadn’t learned how to obfuscate his emotions yet, and he still doesn’t lie comfortably, but his inner workings should always have been just that: inner. Personal, unreadable. He’s almost angry at Andrey for figuring him out, setting his tea down on his flimsy little bookshelf in order to rub at his face with his hands. He swears he can feel Andrey’s wolfish grin on the other side of the room. Is he really so obvious? Saying no to this is going to be harder than he’d thought.

He can feel a sigh working its way through his breastbone, admitting defeat to himself. The least he can do is hear Andrey out, and make a decision from there whether this is the sort of event worth the risk it poses.

He turns back around to face his guest. “Alright, Stamatin. You’ve caught my attention.” That grin widens, the absolute bastard. Daniil crosses his arms over his chest, and struggles to breathe. “Anything I should be prepared for?”

Perhaps it’s a stupid question for him to ask. It occurs to him in the second after he asks it that Andrey probably expects him to know already what a protest of this category entails, what with the way he’d managed to worm into the last with little issue. It’s ridiculous – why does it even matter to him that Andrey think he’s experienced? He tries to discard that line of thinking. He doubts Andrey even noticed he’d come to the first unprepared, with a bag for his schoolwork in one hand. And even if he’s cornered, what if he just came clean? Or perhaps he should try to weasel his way out of it by saying the last protest had been his first? The closest he’s ever come to tasting rebellion was the little ways in which he’d railed against his parents as a teenager. What would he know about organizing big groups?

But Andrey doesn’t press him or make any assumptions. He turns to stick his knife into the flat surface of Daniil’s desk, and picks up his mug to take a sip. “Protection,” he answers.

Andrey’s explanations, Daniil later discovers, rarely leave so much to the imagination. Which had to mean that Andrey knew that Daniil was unused to the whole protest culture, and kept his descriptions short to ensure that Daniil would actually show up on Saturday.

Regardless, it works out in Andrey’s favor: Daniil brings the little gun his father gave him to the meetup, then lingers in the doorway of the dining hall for a touch too long.

Inconspicuous, my ass, he thinks to himself. He’s well aware of how suspicious he looks to passersby, standing where he is, and yet he can’t seem to force himself to move. He scans the room for Andrey, realizing now that Andrey didn’t give him any sort of idea of what the day’s activities would hold or who they’d be working with. In hindsight, he should have pressed Andrey on the topic when he tried to change the conversation far too quickly. As it is, he is struggling to figure out which people are here for the protest, and which simply look like the sort of people Andrey would affiliate with.

He feels and hears the clap of a hand on his back and nearly jumps from the contact, his grip going too tight around the gun in his pocket. Daniil’s mind jumps instinctively to a prayer he hasn’t uttered in years before he realizes the hand on his back is only Andrey.

“Glad you could make it, Danko,” the man says, hand moving up to squeeze Daniil’s shoulder. The way he stands now reminds Daniil of their first protest together, only able to make out Andrey’s outline from this angle. It’s a method of control, Daniil thinks to himself. Andrey will only allow himself to be seen from certain perspectives.

The hand pushes him further into the dining hall, toward the back and to the right, and Daniil spots the group they’re heading towards with a drop in his stomach. They’re every bit as obvious as Daniil feared they would be. Were anyone in the administration to come looking for a group of demonstrators, they’d be able to tell at a first glance which students were here to dine and which were here to organize for a protest. Andrey Stamatin is either an idiot or a madman, and Daniil very much doubts the former if he’s able to pass classes despite rarely attending them.

The group is around a dozen men, all hunched over one long table, all clad in similar black sweaters. Andrey hadn’t told Daniil what to wear to this meeting, but he must have told them. Now that Daniil looks, Andrey himself is also wearing a black sweater, a departure from his usual light colors. But the sweaters themselves are not the problem, as the article of clothing is not all that unusual for a university setting. Spread out amongst the cafeteria, it might be ambiguous enough to break a recognizable pattern. Sitting together as they all are, it’s stupidly obvious that the group has something planned.

Unless, that is, Andrey intends to pass them all off as art students, though Daniil doubts that would lower anyone’s suspicions. It was hysterical, really, because Daniil was worrying he stood out too much in his black peacoat, convinced he was going to give the entire operation away. Clearly, they don’t need my help for that.

The other members of the group don’t address Daniil as he takes his seat between two bulky men with far more muscle mass than Daniil himself has. It’s not until Andrey rouses their attention with a whistle that the group (and the rest of the building) look up. Not for the first time in Andrey’s presence, Daniil wishes he could sink through the floor – and it gets worse when Andrey, ignoring the rest of the room, gestures to Daniil with one palm out and open.

“This is my friend, Daniil Dankovsky.” His right hand claps down on Daniil’s shoulder as he speaks. A couple of the men seated around at the table wave at Daniil, and numbly, he waves back. He registers that there are no women among them, and wonders if that was intentional. What the hell has he gotten himself into? “Make sure nothing happens to him, or I’ll gut you.”

A beefy man seated by the window laughs just once, harshly, and Andrey gives him a vicious smile in return. He receives the grin and goes pale with what Daniil can only guess is embarrassment, or perhaps fear, and goes back to his food. Andrey pats his shoulder again before he saunters off, leaving Daniil at the table with these strangers, tapping his nails against the wood. He’s not sure if he should be glad to be ignored, or a little peeved by it, and he’s equally unsure if he’s mad or not at Andrey for walking off. Either way, despite their rather bungled attempts at blending in, nobody actually seems to be looking their way anymore, and so Daniil can relax. He’s too nervous to eat, so he allows himself to zone out, looking over the room and beating down the urge to bite his nails.

A very different sort of group to the one Daniil is in enters the dining hall, and Daniil knows from the beginning that there’s something threatening about them. The man next to him nudges his elbow and follows his gaze, thin lips pulling into a frown. Daniil looks at his companion and notes a scar just below his lip. The man's fingers move to pull at the ends of his hair, tugging it up with a band before he jerks his hand to the left.

Daniil doesn’t know what that signal means. The man seems to lose a little patience with him, grabbing him roughly by the bicep and dragging him out of his seat, pushing Daniil behind him. Daniil finds himself wishing once again that Andrey had given him more of a head’s up about the likelihood of getting shot that day, or any other kind of violence their demonstration might incite. The longer he thought about it, the more hysterical he felt. Hadn’t it been obvious to Andrey from the way Daniil kept his flat that this wasn’t the sort of thing he usually got up to? So Daniil finds himself standing in the corner of the dining hall, hand in his pocket wrapped tight around his gun, scowling as this new group of people starts to approach his own.

It happens very suddenly. Daniil is thinking to himself that their jackets look awfully familiar, though he can’t place why, and in the next second he hears shouting. A few people hide under their tables, and far more than that start to run. Another man in a uniformed white jacket pulls out a knife, and Daniil sees it coming toward his face with frightening accuracy.

In the moment, he freezes, barely registering the unfamiliar hand that nearly smacks his nose.

The approaching knife goes through the hand.

Daniil is not squeamish, of course; his father is a general, he plans to become a doctor. He has sat through war stories and lectures far bloodier than what he is experiencing right now. But it still is an unpleasant sight, and his stomach turns – especially at the way the man defending him pulls his hand back, as if the wound he’s just sustained poses little problem to him. He hears another shout, and recognizes Andrey’s voice carrying over a woman’s scream in the back of the room. The fine knife he always carries with him has made its way out of its inner pocket, reaching out to slash one of their saboteurs in the arm. There’s a tussle between the two, and Daniil finds himself pushed all the way back into the corner as the rest of the men at their table jump up to help.

Daniil stands there, watching them, feeling useless. Is this how political protests normally go? Devolving so quickly into violence? He doesn’t know how to throw a punch or disarm an opponent, has only the theoretical knowledge of caring for wounds. He’s amazed at the way these men start to brawl, a few with weapons and many more with fists, knocking over tables and chairs as they go. And he feels like a fool, too, as though the gun he’s brought with him was tedious paranoia. There’s no reason for him to use it here, and why would he? The fight goes on without him doing a damned thing to help. His grip goes slack, letting go of the weapon as he makes his way around the table to see if there are any wounds for him to attend to, and the light makes his eye catch the glint on a rather sharp and dangerous edge.

Adrenaline kicks his brain into focus, making him view the situation as though everything were moving through a pool. His hand dives back into his pocket to retrieve his gun, his father’s voice echoing in his head as he moves. He feels the phantom trace of his father’s hand steadying his arm. “I don’t expect you to get much use of this in the Capital”, he’d said, feet pushing Daniil’s feet into a fighting stance, “but men like you should always be prepared for violence. That is the nature of the choice you are making.” Daniil hadn’t wanted to believe in that nature, but now that hasty training is finally coming into use.

He aims at the clearest shot he has, hand as firm as when he performs classroom dissections, and pulls the trigger.

The man holding the knife shouts, dropping his weapon and gripping the underside of his bicep with his opposite hand. Much of the ruckus stops as his companions turn to him in alarm. Even Andrey looks up at the sound; whether the sound of the gunshot or the scream, Daniil is not sure. Dozens of eyes turn and fixate on Daniil, and the minute of calm he’d experienced while taking his aim dissipates in an instant. The man he’s just shot coughs in what Daniil hopes is surprise, stumbles backward, seeming to forget all about his weapon. The whole gang is very quick to move now, jumping over each other and running from the building, leaving just as easily as they’d come.

Daniil drops his hand to his side, suddenly exhausted. The gun feels heavy in his hand, his ears are ringing, and nausea is clawing its way up his stomach. A good thing he’d opted not to eat, after all.

“Fucking hell, Danko,” Andrey swears, his eyes bugging out. Daniil feels very much as though his legs could go out from him at any minute, and is thankful that Andrey starts to trip his way over to check on him, to give him another body to lean against. His fingers are rough but his touch gentle, patting Daniil’s face. He’s too far gone from his mind at the moment to worry that Andrey will notice something far different about his face from the faces of the other men around them. It’s something he can worry about later, some place safer, when they’re both more aware of their surroundings.

Andrey, as usual, doesn’t notice anyway, only clapping him on the shoulder before he nods, just once. “You were quiet there, for a minute, but you don’t mess around, do you?” Daniil shakes his head, and that wicked grin splits Andrey’s face. He laughs, the same sort of laugh he does every time Daniil’s heard it.

Wherever Andrey touches him, Daniil feels a heat as if he’s been branded. Finally, the word makes itself known in his head: attraction. Perhaps this is what it feels like, as an adult. As a man. He’s known infatuation, but never this sort of admiration – the kind of drive that keeps him up on his feet despite the leaden weight of his knees.

“He was going to stab that man,” Daniil says, pointing to a burly man with curled black hair and a meticulously manicured mustache. The man in question gives him an almost manic grin, and Daniil does not know what to do with that. In the moments after what is most certainly a crime, Daniil feels gripped with panic, struck with the sudden need to defend himself from accusation.

Andrey doesn’t seem the least bit interested in that. “He was,” he agrees, “but they won’t be trying that again anytime soon.” The edges of his teeth are sharp, pointed, like fangs. “Never expected someone to bring a gun to a knife fight.”

The realization dawns on him, and whatever cool Daniil had been trying to keep melts. Whatever panic he’d been feeling is replaced with rage. “You knew there was going to be a knife fight?!” His anger must be plain on his face. When Andrey looks at him, he laughs. “This isn’t funny!” Daniil snaps. “I know you said to be prepared, but I wasn’t expecting –“ he looks around. It’s not as though there’s any bodies to gesture to, so he just gesticulates wildly. “This!”

But Andrey doesn’t stop laughing. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned with Daniil’s ire, sliding his arm around the rest of Daniil’s body and dragging him through the canteen, towards the exit. He doesn’t join in his comrades in flipping the tables back around or allow Daniil to do the same. “Now we’ve gotten the worst it out of the way,” he begins, his head ducked down to Daniil’s ear, his voice low and conspiratorial, “how about we get the real protest started?”

After that? Daniil should say no. He tells himself to say no, to shove his gun back into coat pocket and make his way home. He can sit in the dark, curled into a ball in his tub, wallow in what little comfort his thin blanket and flat pillow provide him. And then once he’s rested up, he should head to the library, complete his coursework, go for a walk and go anywhere, do anything, so long as he’s far beyond the reach of Andrey Stamatin.

So naturally Daniil, his ears still ringing from the sound of shouting and running and tables flipping over and a bullet leaving his pistol, says yes.

Andrey’s flat is a shorter walk from the square than Daniil’s. The way his body races, he could walk back to his own in seconds, could crash and burn and sleep for days without the need to get up. As it is he’s not sure he’ll be making his next lecture. It had been another protest, but larger than his first; another fight, but bigger than the one that morning. Everything on Daniil feels like a bruise waiting to blossom, from his left thigh to his right ear, and he never did stop hearing that gunshot ringing out.

“That coat’s seen better days,” Andrey comments, his voice cutting through the silence of the apartment. Daniil snorts. Andrey’s words are an understatement. He can feel the tears in the back even before he takes it off for inspection. The blood he can wash out, but the rest won’t be so easy to mend. “You can throw it over there,” Andrey says, jerking his head to a pile of unwashed clothes, “or you can just toss it out.” His eyes trail off, uncapping a bottle of water. “Don’t want to get blood everywhere.” Daniil feels the words Not like this going unsaid.

Does that mean Andrey expects him to spend the night? Daniil’s too hyped up to feel nervous, though his fingers toy with the fabric of his shredded coat. “I don’t want to get cold,” he defends, because surely he will get cold in the night, curled up on Andrey’s floor.

The other man sets the bottle down on the counter and steps out of his little kitchen, arms spread. He smirks at Daniil. “I’m a radiator.”

Daniil feels his heart jump, a flush creep down his neck. He doesn’t know how to feel about the words being suggested to him. He can’t recall the sleepovers he’d had as a child and never attended them as a teenager. And he’s not meant to sleep with his chest bound the way he has it now, but there’s not much he can do about it unless he wants Andrey to see what he’s like underneath it all. Daniil wants to trust him, sweat on the very tips of his fingers, but there’s so very little he actually knows about Andrey Stamatin. How long have they even known each other?

He watches Andrey moving toward his bed, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it alongside the dirty laundry pile. Then he pulls the turtleneck over his head, revealing what Daniil knows to be a binder. A fancier one than Daniil is wearing right now, determined to make his chest the flattest plane he could manage. And he hadn’t even noticed the rise in Andrey’s chest the way Daniil was worried would have been so obvious, having just assumed they were the same pectorals any other man would have. He doesn’t mean to stare at Andrey, but the other man doesn’t appear perturbed, ridding himself of the binder Daniil has fixated on.

And now suddenly, Daniil is reminded of the day they met. How alone he has been, how alone he has always been. No real community to speak of, no companionship in this city. He assumed it would always be like that.

“You’re like me,” Daniil says. He lets his voice slip an octave higher, but it’s too quiet for Andrey to hear him properly. What he’d thought, a week and a half ago, seeing him in class – that there was some connection between them, some way in which they mirrored each other, is confirmed for him now by this act. Andrey turns to raise an eyebrow at him, and Daniil, who has never felt so close to another person, tears at his clothes to free himself of them, unwrapping his chest slowly.

Andrey clicks his tongue against his teeth, dismayed. His voice is low in his throat, a contrast to Daniil’s high-pitched squeak. “You wore that the whole day?” Daniil nods, and suddenly Andrey is ducking down, hauling open the chest at the foot of his bed to rifle through it. He offers a binder to Daniil, and Daniil, for the first time in almost a year, laughs.

Is Andrey the type to just give anything he can, even to someone he barely knows? Something seems so strange about it. Daniil doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like this before. “I have one,” he says, and thinks that the binder offered would be too big for him anyway. But Andrey is insistent, shaking the material in his hand in Daniil’s direction, and so Daniil accepts it without further complaint. “I just wanted to be…flatter,” he explains.

“Well, don’t do that again.” He has the voice of an older brother, or what Daniil imagines an older brother would sound like. Andrey turns, stretching his arms behind his head, chest pushing out as he does so. Nothing feels particularly intimate about the situation, and that in and of itself feels nice. There’s some sort of comfort in the room that Daniil has never experienced before. He watches Andrey flop, face-first, onto his mattress, kicking his boots off as he scoots over.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Danko,” he says, patting the mattress. “I’m exhausted, and you have class in six hours.” Daniil glances at the little clock on his workspace, slipping out of his shoes. Now that he’s started to calm, he can feel the ache in his heels as an icepick into soft flesh. Andrey doesn’t say goodnight before he’s snoring, and Daniil prefers the way he simply drifts off to sleep, not making a big fuss of it all. Daniil has never been good at it, at sleeping alone or in other peoples’ houses, but that night he drops when his lids close.

Daniil is never quite sure what to expect out of his friendship with Andrey. True to his reputation, the man rarely shows up for class, but he does occasionally stop by Daniil’s apartment to bum notes from him. How he found Daniil’s address was a question Daniil never bothered to ask. He usually comes by with scratches and bruises and broken fingers for Daniil to set, and never very interested in offering Daniil an explanation. Daniil is left to assume at first that he’s going to more protests, but why not invite Daniil along?

Then one day, an explanation is offered. Andrey is grumbling with barely contained fury over a man who’d broken his nose, and Daniil feels his pulse race. He asks him about the fight and why he bothered getting into it at all. Andrey gives him a strange sort of look before he says, “why not?”

And so that was it: Andrey wasn’t getting injured in protests, he was going out and getting into fights. Non for any cause, but for the thrill of the fight itself. A part of Daniil – the part that is bitter at having been awoken at nearly four AM – wonders if Andrey’s commitment to protests is all for that thrill of the oncoming fight, with little or nothing to do at all with the politics involved. He only manages to avoid speaking those words because Andrey is in the middle of updating him about another protest.

“And what is it about this time?” He’s only humoring Andrey at the moment with no intention of following through, but Andrey leans forward on his thighs as Daniil tapes his nose, pupils wide in the dim lighting.

“Scientific advancement.”

Daniil pauses his movements, an involuntarily reaction. Dammit.  Somehow, Andrey has managed to snag something that actually piques Daniil’s interest, and though he tries to keep his expression unaffected it’s clear that Andrey knows he’s got Daniil hooked. Daniil resumes his steady handiwork, trying to ignore the smirk his friend wears.

Andrey continues speaking as though Daniil’s pause was consent enough. “The Powers That Be aren’t too keen on cosmism,” he says conversationally. How Andrey even knows that this is one of Daniil’s interests is a mystery. Daniil has texts alluding to it, sure, but he’d thought Andrey was uninterested in the belongings scattered around his apartment. He’s never seemed to notice before. The fact that he has makes Daniil a little nervous.

But not nearly as nervous as he probably should be. “So I’ve heard,” Daniil says, and his aloof tone is failing him. He trims the bandages and watches Andrey lift a hand to his face to inspect Daniil’s handiwork, probably in want of the mirror Daniil lacks. Daniil’s eyes move over Andrey’s form – his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, his bruised fingers and long nails – and swallows thickly. He taps his fingers against the desk where he’s set out his medical supplies and clears his throat.

“Have you ever been told,” he begins, and all at once feels very unsure of himself. He doesn’t finish his thought just yet, head turned away until Andrey nudges his arm, pulling his attention back. When he speaks again, he feels like a parent admonishing a child. “Haven’t you ever been told that men like us should ‘lie low’? Avoid attention, avoid danger? We are at risk.”

Andrey gives him such a look of disgust that Daniil forgets about the fear he felt, the feeling replaced by a veil of shame.

He looks away.

“Is that why you’re so demure?” Andrey asks snidely. Daniil can hear the sneer in his voice and thinks about biting back, but what is there for him to defend himself with? Perhaps he has been a little too conformist, for all his beliefs and interests. He has an interest in transcending the boundaries of what is available, of what is permitted, but beyond his assigned gender he’s hardly rebelled against the things he’s been taught. “You’re a man, aren’t you?” Andrey prods. “And being men the way we are means accepting that we’ll always stand out, no matter what we do. Take some pride in that, Danko.”

“That’s easy for you to say! When was the last time someone called you ‘Miss’?” The words come out before Daniil can stop himself, and he expects Andrey to snarl in his direction. He hasn’t been in a fight with Andrey himself, but he knows the man could easily overturn his desk if he wanted to. Daniil opens his mouth again, to continue bickering or to apologize he isn’t sure, but Andrey cuts him off before he can.

“You’d better not be opening that maw to apologize to me. If you’ve got opinions, say them.” He grabs Daniil’s hand from the back, his fingers tight on Daniil’s skin. “Are you going to live your entire life content with what gets handed down to you?” Daniil shakes his head, trying to jerk his hand out of Andrey’s grasp. Andrey doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. “Of course not,” he continues. “You are the architect of your own destiny, Dankovsky. And if you want to see your dream become reality, you have to step up. Be bold. Be yourself.”

He feels his mouth open in indignation. “You mean for me to wear my differences so openly?” Andrey nods. “You can’t be serious!”

“And why the hell not?”

Daniil blinks. Andrey demands it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, a universal truth to be acknowledged, but Daniil has never heard something so ludicrous. He’s not used to all this, to the feeling of danger, to the ways in which Andrey floats toward it, a moth to a flame. He feels his entire body vibrate with the energy of it, with the idea of being out with it. Of being proud with it.

“Top of your classes. Aren’t you proud of that?” It’s like Andrey’s reading his mind. Daniil might nod to him. He isn’t sure. He can’t feel much of anything at the moment. “And all these books you have, your theories about raising the dead, about longevity –“ he gestures his hand to Daniil’s rickety bookshelf, and Daniil sucks in a breath. Andrey had listened, every time that they’d spoken. “That’s gonna get you in trouble no matter how quiet you keep it. You think they can’t see you where you are right now?”

Something that might be joy washes over him, a wave that feels like emerging from water, like breathing for the first time. Alive. That’s how he feels right now: he feels alive.

His eyes refocus on the man in front of him, and with his breath barely contained in his chest, he asks, “Where do I even begin?”

Daniil remembers his next protest better than any other he’s participated in.

He’s dressed in black for the occasion, the way he would dress for all the others, but this time with a red scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, the bottom of his ears. He doesn’t ask Andrey where the scarf came from, though he can’t remember having ever seen the man wear it before. He always seems to walk with just his confidence to keep him warm against the chill of the wind. Daniil’s bought a pair of black leather gloves to keep his hands warm through the streets, and heeled boots to boost him a couple of inches. It isn’t much of a change, but it’s enough to start with. He’s made his own sign this time, his pistol shoved into the waistband of his trousers, covered by his sweater. Andrey tried lending him a knife, and Daniil had to admit he wasn’t sure how to use one. Andrey eyed him warily, perhaps trying to judge if there was time for him to teach Daniil a thing or two, before deciding to make him stick close by.

The walk down to the square is a sharp sort of cold; a dry cold, angry and bitter. The way the wind whips around them brings tears to Daniil’s eyes as they walk against it, sign pressed up under his arm. He’s tried to mimic the way Andrey walks, taking up as much space on the sidewalk as he possibly can, but Daniil is unused to it. He is more at home moving through crowds subtly, using his height and smaller figure to his advantage to worm his way between people to the front of the mob. He can hear Andrey swearing behind him at the chill, and smirks beneath the scarf leant to him.

It isn’t the biggest protest Daniil will attend during his university years – or beyond. Even after Andrey leaves the health sciences, Daniil’s interests do not falter. Andrey may be a catalyst for Daniil’s action, but the will was always there, simply dormant.

Daniil recognizes a few of the men from the cafeteria: the one he’d saved from the knife gives him a firm pat on the back as he leans against the fence, sign bending under his fingers. He feels a camaraderie here he cannot remember having ever felt before, and it’s nice. More than just nice, perhaps. Daniil feels something close to elation, standing among the crowd. Andrey finally manages to wrestle his way closer to where Daniil is standing, his eyes narrowed in displeasure. Daniil can’t help but think it’s a good look on him, being so perturbed. It comes to him so naturally.

They’re only in place a half an hour at most when he senses the trouble coming for them. There’s a group on their way to where they stand. He remembers the cropped haircuts, the uniformed jackets. Daniil stands a little straighter, nudging at first the man next to him, and then Andrey.

And evidently, this group remembers Daniil as well.

Their eyes move past the rest of the crowd to latch onto him, and he sees that there are two men armed on the opposing side to match the gun Daniil has brought with him. They must be wealthy, Daniil thinks, because as the fight begins he can see their knives more clearly. They’re similar in carving to the knife Andrey keeps tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket. The sons of government employees, perhaps. The knives they hold are sharp and clean, and the guns look newer than Daniil’s hand-me-down pistol.

He starts to wonder, too, if the guns have bullets or were brought just for show - and it is this momentary distraction earns him a cut on the cheek.

The knife cuts deep, but not long across his face. Andrey manages to get between Daniil and his attacker, bringing his fist down hard on the other man’s elbow to make him drop the knife before it can do any further damage. Daniil hears a shot go off and drops his sign, turning to see what direction the noise came from. There’s blood on the street, and a man with curled hair and long fingers is gripping his shoulder tightly. Daniil feels a tug from behind, and realizes he’s being grabbed around by the scarf wears, choked tight. He tries to tuck his fingers between the scarf and his neck, but it doesn’t do more than tear up sensitive skin on his neck.

He scrambles, reaching for the gun his pocket. He fires a shot at the ground behind him, unsure who he’s shooting or exactly where. He’s not entirely certain if the bullet manages to hit anyone at all, but the scarf is dropped in surprise as much as it is in pain, enough for him to pull the fabric free from his neck and shove it into a pocket. He’s backed up against the fence now, eyes scanning the crowd for the man with the injured shoulder.

He catches sight of another knife coming his way. He flails, kicking with more force than he’d known he was capable of, sending the man advancing on him back to the pavement. He doesn’t get to enjoy his triumph for long before he’s elbowed hard in the side, turned around, and decked.

It goes on like that for what feels like hours.

Daniil can smell blood, can taste it the metallic tang on his lips, chapped and broken. He wonders what else is broken, if it’ll be his own nose he sets tonight, tears stinging his eyes as he fumbles around the crowd. He pushes away for a moment, listening to the fight more than engaging in it himself.

I need to find the curly-haired man, he thinks on loop. This is where he can excel, he figures: field medicine. Funny. His father had always wanted to have a son to follow in his steps, to go into the army.

Daniil swallows down the blood and phlegm that’s made its way up to his mouth, wondering what his dad would think of this, of him befriending a man who would drag him into the very sort of trouble he was supposed to avoid. He was a child of the suburbs, told to sit and follow directions and speak only when spoken to and always, always, on the cusp of breaking the rules imposed.

And now, he finally has. Daniil recognizes the injured shoulder better than the man it belongs to. He manages to grab the man around the bicep, dragging him far enough out of the fray to apply some emergency dressing to his wound, wrapping his scarf tightly around the shoulder as a makeshift tourniquet. In his harried state, the panicked look in the man’s eyes, all he can do is snap, “go to hospital. Now.”

For once, somebody listens to him. The man stands up, hand tight around the wound, applying pressure and stumbling off in the direction of public transit. Out of Daniil’s sight, out of Daniil’s mind. He can’t believe it – the authority he feels, having taken control like that. This must have been what Andrey meant, controlling his destiny. Asserting himself.

There are just two bullets left in the cylinder of his gun. He shoots one into the sky as a warning, and watches as one of the men in the rival gang is tossed onto the street, staggering back up with help from his friends. Daniil aims again at their feet, and waits. He’s not sure what it is holding him back, but he sees another man thrown back against them in a volley. He waits a second more, to see what they will do, until he sees them huddling together and running off down the street in the direction they’d come.

Cowards, he thinks. He had been one, once, but that is the past he is putting behind him.

Of course, this moment as he relives it is his past now. And so, too, are the moments that follow it.

He remembers it all in vivid detail – the apartment, the protest, the fight, climbing back in the dark, Andrey using what knowledge he’d gleaned from Daniil’s lectures to set his nose and bandage his cheek. He remembers icing Andrey’s eye and disinfecting his knuckles, the burn of vodka they’d shared down his throat to soothe their mutual pain. He remembers tripping over a canvas in the dark, the heat of another body next to his as he drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

And he remembers, very blearily, feeling lips against his own, nearly missing each other in the dark, seeing nothing with his eyes closed.

He let that night set a precedent, let it start a pattern. He didn’t become the dropout Andrey clearly aimed to be, but he let himself get roped into more than he ever should have.

All these nights seemed to blur into one unending evening, up until the day Andrey left the health science program. There was a letter at his flat, a short thing that simply said he’d gone to join his brother in an architecture program in a different university. No further explanation, no way for Daniil to reach out to him. Daniil recalls the texture of the paper under his hands, the last thing he’d touched ungloved. It was the last time Andrey spoke to him. He thought the man might have kept in touch, though in hindsight that hope was ridiculous.

But that was then, and this is now.

He looks across the table to where Andrey sits, jacket open, twin scars on display underneath his chest, and thinks that little else about the man has changed. Andrey has always been acta non verba.

Daniil’s thoughts should be of science. Of the plague he is surrounded by, of the cure that seems so out of reach, of a vaccine to protect those who have yet to be infected. But it’s such a bizarre set of circumstances that led him to this place, to seeing Andrey again, that he can’t keep his mind from wandering. From the time Maria handed him his list of Bound and he saw Andrey’s name written down in her pretty hand, all he’s done is try to connect dots.

In his mind, this issue is a pressing one, in that the way Andrey is his only point of connection in this dreadful Town, the only proof Daniil has that he exists outside of this hell he’s been trapped in. His thoughts kept trailing off, wondering if Andrey would see all the ways in which he’d changed over the years, if he’d remember Daniil and their time in university at all. He wonders if he’s lived up to the expectations Andrey had for him, if his flamboyant dress stands out just the way Andrey had imagined or if the man finds it obnoxious. If Andrey’s heard of his exploits, his groundbreaking and rule-breaking, of the ways he’s been persecuted and the threats that drove him to this wretched little town.

He wonders if Andrey remembers stealing Daniil’s first kiss and tasting blood in his mouth.

But it seems that Andrey remembers very little, and so Daniil has to start all over again. A good thing, then, that their connection had never been deep to begin with. Whatever sting Daniil felt when Andrey left has not resurfaced in the days he has spent in Town so far.

“Did you come here just to gawk at me?”

Daniil hears Andrey’s voice calling to him while his mind’s been elsewhere, not registering Andrey moving toward his table in the time he’s been reminiscing. He turns his head back around to look at the dancer on the stage. Something about her movements makes him feel uneasy. It’s no better a feeling than the one he gets looking at Andrey, for the fourth time this week he’s been inside the man’s pub.

“Well?” Andrey asks, and Daniil feels the man’s shoe kick against his own. “Are you drinking or not, Dankovsky?”

Daniil’s eyes float next to the bartender, sweeping up behind the bar. He looks tired, as he has every time Daniil has come here. Daniil can’t imagine what it would be like to work for Andrey, his very aura overbearing for all the time he spends simply sitting back and watching the movement of his pub. Just the vicinity they shared that semester in college was enough, and sometimes even that felt like too much.

“Perhaps I did,” Daniil says. He thinks he catches the bartender’s attention with his eyes, but it’s Andrey the other man looks at. And that’s just another way things haven’t changed in the time they’ve spent apart. The bartender doesn’t seem the type to wait tables, but he brings drinks over to them all the same. Andrey pulls the other chair out the same way Daniil remembers him doing everything else: noisy, with the intent to make a statement. Even if all the statement says is here I am. “Did you finish that architecture degree, then?” Daniil asks, hoping to see a glint of understanding in his eyes.

If Andrey remembers anything more, his eyes don’t reveal it, and nor do his lips. He snorts. He doesn’t answer the question directly, tipping the glass against his mouth so the liquid flows out, thicker than Daniil thinks any alcohol should be. Twyrine is a dark sort of liquor, bitter and strong. Daniil expects the taste to be something akin to syrup, but even that is a bad comparison. He’s never had something quite like it before, and he doubts he ever will again. The bartender had explained the day before that it isn’t quite a wine, but something all its own. Unique, just like the rest of this bloody town. And like everything else in Town, Daniil can’t stand it.

He downs the offered drink anyway, quickly, before the taste can linger on his tongue.

They sit together in silence for a few minutes before Andrey speaks again. “I’m not looking for something serious.”

It’s more direct than Daniil can remember any of his past advances, hands fumbling against the give of his binder, lips on his neck. It’s not as though he’d never said no before. Andrey wasn’t looking for anything serious back then, either. He couldn’t have been, not if he was able to leave so easily. “And I already have Eva, if that bothers you.” Daniil takes another long drink from his glass, setting it back down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t think she’d mind adding you,” Andrey tacks on, and the tone speaks as much as the words. Blunt, like the rest of their caresses.

“It’s not her I’m interested in,” Daniil says. He can’t say for certain if it’s Andrey he’s interested in, either, but he can’t really describe the process his mind is jumping through when he looks at the other man. It’s too early to put words to the conclusion he’s trying to draw, but this is where his mind has chosen to fixate. Andrey stares, and Daniil isn’t sure what he’s waiting for. A sign, maybe an explanation of Daniil’s disinterest.

Daniil’s lips pull at the corners of his mouth, finally looking over at Andrey.

The scars on his chest have healed nicely. Daniil is envious. “I don’t swing that way.”

There’s a hint of irony to the statement when Daniil says it. He is used to flustered men, tripping and unsure, rejecting him with those exact words at fancy parties where he flirts for funding. Daniil has never tasted sincere affection from a partner, but it’s the middle of the plague. He doesn’t want that right now any more than Andrey does. He knows that in time, he will; this moment will pass, and his feelings on the subject will change. But he has to live each day of this nightmare with a focus on the present, on the current dilemmas, and that is exactly how he’ll solve this problem. Relieve his stress, and he will come to new conclusions.

Andrey laughs, less brash than the first time Daniil heard the sound. This kind of laugh sounds strange on him. “Alright, then,” he says, and Daniil watches him tip the glass back and drain it. “When do we begin?”

Artemy knows that it is his job, as a doctor, not to pass judgment on his patients. With that being said, Daniil Dankovsky is his colleague, not his patient, and thus Artemy feels he should be fair game for scrutiny.

He doesn’t exactly care for traipsing all over Town to speak with Daniil, only to be told by Eva Yan that he’s out with Andrey. Artemy catches himself thinking that Daniil would be easier to find if he stayed in one place, but recognizes that this expectation is unfair of him. Artemy is not, after all, always in the same place. But when he hears that Dankovsky is with Stamatin, he expects this to be because the architect is sick, or has some stupid errand for him, and not because Daniil is spending the night with him.

Sure, he’s seen Daniil in the Broken Heart before, and he’s seen Daniil talking to Stamatin, but he’s never got the impression the two were that kind of close. He knows Daniil has his own list of people to take care of, and that the Stamatin twins are on it. He’s even discussed it with Daniil, casually, and nothing about the way Daniil had said any name on his list gave Artemy the idea that he would even remember these peoples’ names, let alone care for them beyond what he was absolutely required to.

Apparently, Daniil decided to keep this little tidbit to himself. It shouldn’t annoy Artemy so much – what Daniil does with his free time is none of Artemy’s business – but the longer it takes them to walk back to the other side of Town, the more agitated they get. And being redirected a second time, from the Broken Heart to Andrey’s place, is just icing on the cake. They may as well have just not bothered at all, but then one of them has to do their job. And that responsibility always seems to fall on Artemy, since the other two can never seem to get their act together.

When they step up to Andrey’s apartment door they are exhausted, breath heaving in their chest and leaning on the solid wood as they knock. Daniil’s the one to open the door to the apartment, and Artemy thinks for a second that they should be thankful Daniil is at least clothed when he answers. They’d imagined much worse on the way over, and they really have no desire to see Dankovsky in any state of undress.

“Emshen,” they start, telling themselves to keep civil – but that bruise on Daniil’s neck is just too prominent for Artemy to ignore. Daniil has the good sense to at least notice where their eyes are focused and flush, pulling up the collar of his shirt. But that doesn’t stop the next words from Artemy’s mouth being ones of condescension and disbelief: “Are you serious? Right now? In the middle of a plague?”

“Everyone needs sleep, Burakh,” Daniil snips. Artemy wants to argue that sleep is clearly not what the Bachelor is doing here, but they have no real proof to back up their claim. The bruise on his neck seems condemning, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the two have done anything more, or that it would be Artemy’s business if they had.

That point alone should be enough to make Artemy shut his mouth, and keep it shut. Whatever it is he’s interrupted is clearly none of his concern, whether Daniil really was just sleeping or doing something else entirely. He leans in closer, and Daniil leans back with confusion. He can’t detect even a hint of twyrine on Dankovsky’s breath. Daniil pushes him back now, looking affronted, and in the corner he sees Andrey asleep on the bed, in both his pants and his shoes. Right. Enough evidence for Artemy to drop the subject. Time to move on.

“You expect me to believe you’re just sleeping?” Or not.

He clearly hasn’t gotten enough sleep of his own if he’s just saying whatever comes to mind unfiltered. He listens to Daniil click his tongue against his teeth, his bushy eyebrows raised into his frazzled and messy hair. And because Artemy is on a roll today, he continues, “Andrey conducts all his business from the Broken Heart –“

“And speaking of business, I don’t believe this is any of yours.” Artemy’s face feels like it’s on fire. He knows it’s not any of his damn business and it shouldn’t matter. A few dozen other questions start to crop up and devastate his already ruined mood, but he bites down on them for now. He chews his tongue as Daniil does up the top button on his shirt and straightens his cravat. “So? Did you come here for a reason, or just to harass me?”

“I collected another sample of blood. I thought you might want to examine it,” Artemy explains. His knuckles crack under the surface of his gloves. He’s trying so hard not to get snippy again, but the building irritation is simply too much for him to ignore. Passive-aggression it is. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy –“

“I’ll just get my shoes,” Daniil says, swerving around Artemy’s bait. He leaves the door to the apartment open, and Artemy pokes his head inside. Andrey appears to be dead asleep, snoring, and that’s just lovely. Artemy wishes the sound wasn’t so grating from the other side of the flat, but it’s as loud as his father’s was, may the man rest in peace. Daniil slips his boots on and grabs his jacket, pushing Artemy again, away from the door.

“What?” Artemy asks, tongue too loose to stop himself, “not going to kiss him goodbye?”

Daniil scowls at him and huffs, moving past him, through the hallway and down the stairs. He doesn’t even speak to Artemy as they leave the building, and the air that hangs around him is murky to Artemy. Daniil’s not usually all that difficult for Artemy to get a read on, but then perhaps his own irritation is clouding his ability to interpret his surroundings. Not that he would even be this irritated if Daniil hadn’t been out at his boyfriend’s house instead of at home, working on the plague like Artemy and Rubin and (probably) Clara.

“So,” Artemy begins, kicking a rock down the street and imagining it’s Daniil’s head. “What made you decide to go after Andrey in the middle of a plague?”

They listen to Daniil sigh, watch his back as he curls in on himself. “Must we talk about this, Burakh? Dum vivimus, vivamus.” That seems to be the end of it, but at least Daniil has slowed his walk a little. It’s surprising how fast he can move considering his size, when he’s desperate to be away from a situation.

“I just think it’s a strange time to start up a new relationship,” Artemy continues despite Dankovsky’s protest. Daniil’s lucky they’ve managed to bite their tongue from spitting out, ‘and an inappropriate one.’

“New to you, Burakh. Not to me.” The words don’t come out coyly, but then, most of Daniil’s words are spoken in the same dulcet, exact tone. Artemy would shove his hands into his pockets if they weren’t all full, choosing instead to pat them against his thighs and lean over. He’s leaning a bit too far into Daniil’s space now, but Daniil only realizes it belatedly, looking startled at how closely Artemy is standing to him. Daniil sighs, realizing Artemy’s not about to drop the subject as quickly or as easily as he’d like. “We met in university, if you must know,” he explains. So they’re rekindling an old flame. That’s less awful than Artemy had first assumed, though not by much. “Now are you going to tell me about those blood samples or not?”

Satisfied, Artemy leans back, hands falling to their sides. “I can try, oynon, but you’re not gonna like it.”

The other man groans, and Artemy’s lips quirk into something approximating a smile. If Artemy has to suffer irritation, it’s only fair that Daniil shares in that burden. “When do I ever? When have I ever liked anything about this town?”

It’s a rhetorical question, Artemy knows, but they can’t help responding to it with snark. “You seem to be fond of the residents.” Daniil gives them a dangerous glower, and they can sense they’re trying Daniil’s patience. It’s payback, Artemy reasons, but it’s better if they don’t get on Daniil’s bad side when there is still so much work left to be accomplished. So Artemy lightens their expression, if not their tone, when they speak next. “I mean it, Dankovsky. You put up a bold mask, but you’re still here. You still donate money to the sick, you still offer them pain medication. You still talk to the people who stop you on the street and run errands for people who ask.” Daniil’s eyes soften around the corners. And naturally, Artemy ruins it by making their next words, “I thought that was what you were doing when I came out to look for you.”

Daniil doesn’t look as angry as Artemy assumed he would be. They wonder if they’d see a pink tinge to his cheeks if it was lighter outside. “Ah. And is that why you were so brusque when you spoke to me at Andrey’s flat?”

“More that I walked all the way to the Stillwater from the Abattoir when my feet were killing me, only to realize you were closer than I thought,” they gripe. There are little pebbles that have worked their way into Artemy’s shoes through the worn-out soles, and that’s not helping matters much. “So now I’m making this trip for the second time. Did I mention my feet are killing me?” They look at Daniil, and something rises in their chest again. The wretched curiosity piques violently in their chest. “So you’re saying I was right, and things weren’t as innocent as you were trying to make them seem?”

“I don’t see why it matters so much to you. Are you honestly going to pretend you don’t get similarly distracted?” Daniil snips. Artemy shakes their head. Daniil’s eyes narrow down, and Artemy’s stomach seizes. “Bullshit,” he says, over-enunciating the word. “I’ve seen you with that girl around Town –“

“Murky?” Artemy interrupts. He’s sort of offended. No, scratch that – he’s livid. Why does Daniil always do this? He knows just how to wind Artemy up, and takes every shot he gets. “You think spending time with kids is –“

“The Herb Bride, Burakh. The one that follows you all over Town.” Artemy has to think a moment, to switch gears between righteous indignation and muffled embarrassment. He’s now glad that it’s darker out and that Daniil is not too interested in him, not even looking at the embarrassed expression he wears. “The Kin do call her your bride. Don’t you think a wedding during a plague is a little morbid?”

More than you could possibly understand, Artemy thinks, but he doesn’t have time to educate Daniil on all their customs. All he can say for now, is “it isn’t like what you think.” Daniil doesn’t look particularly convinced, the outline of his lips pursed. “Brides aren’t married to Kin, Dankovsky. Think of them as being married to the Earth. They hold a sacred, spiritual position in our culture.”

“Why is she following you around, then?”

Artemy thinks that he could return the favor by telling Daniil that it’s none of his business, but he can’t manage to get those words out. What slips from his lips the honest truth: “I have no idea.”

It’s bad enough he has Lara pestering him, the Kin reminding him, never even getting the woman’s name, but he still feels something ominous about the entire situation. It isn’t something he feels he can discuss with Dankovsky. It isn’t something he feels he can discuss with anybody, since the Khatange aren’t giving him any answers either.

In the moment he only shakes his head, as if to rid his ears of water. “But it’s not love. I know that much for certain.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence, in which they can practically hear Daniil trying to string words together. In the end, he comes out with a rather flat and uncomfortable, “I’m sorry,” apparently mistaking Artemy’s pensive tone for sorrow.

“No, no – it’s alright, really,” Artemy says, rubbing their face. “We’re not the kind who love, she and I. Not like that, anyway.” I’m not sure I know how to love. The words don’t sit right with them. “She has the Earth. I have my work.” Perhaps it’s all they ever would have. They’ve never been the type to develop easy crushes, the way Gravel and Grief did. It felt unnatural to them, to see a person once and become so fixated on them. But it must have worked for others, maybe even Dankovsky could relate if he was striking up an old romance in a place like this. Something about it seems so unbearably fragile that Artemy feels on the edge of breaking, themself. Their heart aches with some kind of longing, to be reached for the way Daniil had with Andrey.

But that’s a useless thought. All the people Artemy had known growing up are here, and certainly no one in the Capital would remember him and think about him in that way. And that’s good, because if he was going to tangle his Lines with anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be somebody from the Capital. He’d had about all he could take of the city while he was studying there, and it made him glad the Town was so far away from its reach.

Daniil is giving him a look he hasn’t seen from the man before, his eyes wide and soft and his mouth turned just slightly down. It looks like something akin to sadness, though he has no idea what it is that’s made him look this way. It’s strange to see that look coming from Daniil, of all people, like something so earnest doesn’t belong on his face.

Artemy turns their head. They could wave their hand and tell Daniil not to worry about it. They’re not sure what stops them this time from doing just that, but they’re nearly at their destination anyway. They must have been walking faster than Artemy realized they were. They reach into their pockets to pull out a sample of blood. “Can you check this for, ah –“ The word has slipped their mind completely, now completely blank as they search openly for it. And they’d had the damn thing on their way over, frustration starting to boil again in their stomach as they try to recall the word.

“Antibodies?” Daniil finishes. Daniil’s taken the bottle from their hand and is inspecting it under the lamplight, head tipped back to look at the bottle from all angles. He looks silly like this, but he looks utterly fascinated all the same. “Burakh, whose blood is this?”

I’m not at liberty to say. “I don’t know.” They probably should have lied. The look Dankovsky gives them is a tired one, and they feel a pang of guilt at the acknowledgement that they’re the one who pulled him away from the rest he really should be getting. For a moment, Artemy considers telling him to forget about it, but they don’t have much of a choice – Rubin’s already occupied and there’s no way in hell Clara would know how to use a microscope, let alone have one at her disposal.

Without meaning to, they’ve followed Daniil up those winding steps of the Stillwater, stopped at the top of the stairs in his room. Daniil doesn’t seem to care about Artemy’s presence in his private quarters, setting the bottle on the desk and pulling his seat out. “Leave it with me, then. You, get some sleep while you’re here.”

His words don’t leave room for debate, stern and assured as he focuses himself on other things. Still, Artemy sways uncertainly on the spot, looking around him. “Are you sure –“

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” His words have a note of finality to them, sitting himself at the desk. Artemy thinks he looks remarkably like an automaton like this, the way his movements are practiced but jerky with exhaustion. “I’ll need a few hours to study the blood, anyway, and one of us might as well sleep.” He looks back and gestures to the bed. “Go on. Before I change my mind.”

He doubts Daniil actually would change his mind, but he mutters his thanks anyway, pulling his boots off near the door. His knees make the mattress dip and creak as he crawls on the bed, sinking into a restless sleep.

The blood indeed has antibodies. It’s exactly what they’ve been looking for. Or at least, it’s what Artemy has been looking for. Daniil leans back in his seat, running his hand through his hair from the back. It must look dreadful, not that he thinks Artemy cares much about his appearance. They’ve both been through so much over the past week that he can’t honestly see them mocking him for the disordered state of his hair. Artemy’s not one to focus on aesthetics, anyhow. It’s made Daniil feel rather silly by comparison, still trying to keep his face and his clothes and his hair neat in the wake of such chaos.

Andrey’s made him feel rather ridiculous about it, too, but in a way that he can handle more easily. “You always were such a prettyboy.” Said without venom, his fingers tangling in Daniil’s hair. “But I see you’ve still got that fire in you. This is it, Danko. Your way of acting out.”

“You remembered.” Andrey’s cheek was warm beneath the touch of his fingers. His face seems sharper now than it had been in university, his voice deeper, his eyes darker. It could just be the fickle nature of memory, nostalgia making everything seem lighter and brighter to contrast the situation he finds himself in now.

Andrey grinned. Daniil can remember feeling the shape of it against his neck. His chest relaxed under Andrey’s palm. “The twyrine hasn’t corrupted my systems yet, Bachelor,” he said. It’s snark, but it felt good. It felt like old times. It felt like normalcy, complacency. Stepping outside here was always leading him into something unknown, something unsafe. It’s all so much, so sudden, and Daniil has never acclimated well to change.

He feels selfish. Daniil’s turns in his seat, looking at where Artemy is curled on his bed, knees pulled up to keep his feet on a bed too small for him. His arm is under the pillow, his mouth slack, eyelids fluttering with dreams. He’s handsome, Daniil thinks. Not handsome in the way that Andrey is, or any of the dandy men Daniil knows in the Capital are. He’s different. And he’s not bound by the same rules, by the same conventions Daniil is. Even Andrey, for as much as he protests against his ties, is still stitched by them. Artemy makes it look as though it’s all so easy, to just be something.

This is not a thought I should be entertaining. It’s just late. And if Artemy doesn’t wake up soon, Daniil may find himself nudging them over to collapse next to them. He has no idea if Artemy is used to sharing beds, and he doesn’t particularly care. It’s that or he passes out at his desk.

As if they can hear his thoughts, Artemy shoots up, unsteady for a moment, resting their hands on the bed. Their eyes are bleary, looking around the room until they land on Daniil. They look confused, blinking the sleep out of their eyes.

“I’ve finished,” Daniil announces, because he’s not sure what else to say to them. “Indeed, this blood produces antibodies. It’s of no use to me, of course, but I assume this work goes toward your cure?”

“Yeah.” Daniil watches them dig the heels of their palms into their eyes, yawning. “Listen, emshen. About earlier –“

“Forget it.” He watches Artemy crack his jaw, grinds his teeth. “We have work to be doing. Or, you do, at least. I need to get some rest, if you don’t mind.” Artemy looks at the bed as he stands up again, patting the surface. He hands the rest of the blood back to Artemy as he takes up Artemy’s spot, the bed still warm from where he laid.

The pillow, he thinks, smells of herbs. It tickles his nose. It’s altogether different from the scent of Andrey’s cologne. Not better, not worse. Not safe, not unsafe.

Just different.

Chapter Text

Daniil isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now. He teeters on the edge of his bar stool, too close to falling off but not giving a damn, gripping his shot of vodka between his thumb and pointer finger. He narrows his eyes at the little glass, as though the thing could calculate against him.

“You good there, Danko?” Daniil turns a little to his right to face Andrey and nearly topples over. Without the other man’s hand on his lower back steadying him, he would have fallen clean off. Andrey doesn’t look nearly as drunk as Daniil feels, but then Daniil figures the other man has had more time to grow accustomed to the local liquor. Besides, he’s always been a better drinker, and Daniil hasn’t let himself get this wasted since the last time they were together.

University. The Capital. It’s only been two weeks since he left his home, but it feels like year. It’s true what they say: time moves differently here. Daniil links his arm with Andrey’s, careful of the liquid in his shot glass. “Ad vitam aeternam,” Daniil says. Andrey doesn’t respond, but mirrors Daniil’s movement as he tilts his head back and takes the shot.

The vodka burns as it goes down. It always does. Everything burns, these days. Daniil’s blood, his shoulder, his dreams, his Thanatica. He leans a little too heavily on the bar as he sets the glass back down, scowling at nothing. It burns, but it’s not enough to distract Daniil from the cold he feels. He’s been cold to the touch for so many years now, a sculpture of ice freezing in all his layers. It’s just gotten worse in the past few days, now that there’s nothing left for him.

His body picks up on Burakh’s presence without him even turning around to see the man. He has memorized the way Artemy shuffles, the sound of his worn-out boots on the ground as he moves. They’ve been here in this position enough times by now, Artemy seeking him out and finding him in the bar with his head in his hands. Daniil has been waiting for a lecture that’s yet to come, about how he’s wasting his life and his mind getting drunk to forget his failures. Maybe today is the day Artemy finally feeds it to him.

“Emshen,” he greets, and Andrey’s hand slides up to Daniil’s shoulder, turning him around.

He wonders if Artemy is actually disgusted with him, or if it the look and attitude exist entirely in his imagination. Artemy doesn’t offer him much more than this slightly disappointed look, moving closer to his seat and wrapping an arm around Daniil’s back. Andrey helps them out, pushing Daniil to a stand under Artemy’s arm. Daniil wonders when the two of them got to be so friendly. He got the impression Burakh couldn’t stand the twins, and yet here he is with Andrey, working in tandem.

Andrey’s thumb brushes Daniil’s sideburn as he tousles Daniil’s hair, rubbing his neck before he lets his hand slip away. He doesn’t say the word goodbye, but Daniil’s not sure he’d be able to catch it if he did.

Artemy’s got one of their arms around Daniil’s shoulders, their other hand on Daniil’s waist. Daniil wants to protest against the hold, to be indignant, to insist he isn’t an invalid, but he can’t get any words to leave his lips. He feels like a child, being carted up the stairs and out of the bar the way he is, but he’s not really in a fit state to complain. He’s not really in a fit state to do much of anything. He doesn’t even feel anything. He’s just numb, and not even comfortably so.

The night air is a harsh slap to the face when they step out from the bar. It doesn’t sober him, but now he can feel the irritation rippling from Artemy’s shoulders. He half expects them to drop him on the ground and tell Daniil to walk himself back to the Stillwater on his own. It’s what Daniil would have done - but then, Daniil has always run pretty low on the empathy scale. “A horrible trait for a doctor”, he’d been told many times. He tried to make up for it with compassion, but that week and a half had wrung him dry. He remembers Clara saying something to that effect – neither he nor Artemy understood compassion. He can see it in his own bedside manner, but Artemy? They reek with it.

Perhaps ‘reek’ is too strong a word for him to use, considering the man is currently holding him upright. Daniil starts to lean too far to the right, and Artemy is there to heave him back up. When Artemy doesn’t drop him where he leans, he expects to be taken back to Andrey’s flat, close as it is to the bar, but Artemy ignores his whimpered protest.

“Eva’s worried about you,” Artemy says. There’s something very flat about his tone, and Artemy is many things, but never flat. Not the way Daniil is. Daniil wonders if he’s hiding his true feelings about this entire situation by shoving them behind a mask. It’s funny that Daniil had thought him freer than most men, realer than most men, when Artemy is much better at obfuscating things than Daniil is. They’re a lovely bundle of contradictions together, the two of them. The light, the dark. The earth, the sky. The heart, the brains.

Daniil doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He gets the feeling that if he does, it’ll lead him down a path he doesn’t particularly want to travel.

“That’s nice of her,” he says. He’s proud of how little his words slur. Artemy doesn’t look as impressed with his accomplishment. “Thought it was her night with Yulia. She’s still living, right?”

“More than you are.”

Daniil stumbles over a stone pulled almost out of the ground, and Artemy has to snake his arm around Daniil’s stomach to keep him from hitting the ground. Daniil grunts, and his stomach lurches. He should have at least eaten something with his drinks. He’s too old to be making such foolish mistakes.

Decisions, really. Not mistakes. It’s not like the thought of food had simply slipped his mind: it came up, and he promptly ignored it. There was bread available at the bar, and nuts and raisins, and Andrey would have let him (if no one else) bring their own food in. Daniil had just decided it wasn’t important enough to warrant action and avoided it. Bile slides its way up his throat, settling in his mouth. He turns from Artemy’s hold, and spits it on the ground.

Artemy’s sigh comes out as a hiss between clenched teeth. He lets Daniil go for the time being, standing by as he retches in the grass, his hand gripped tight around the post of a fence. Daniil thinks about what Artemy told him, that special plants grow from blood. He wonders idly what sort of plants grow from vomit.

In his mind, he sees Artemy walking away, because it’s what Daniil would have done. But Artemy isn’t him, and never will be. They stand right behind him, breathing, waiting for him to stand and wipe his mouth off on his hand before they start to speak. They don’t even clear their throat first to prepare Daniil for the oncoming storm. “Erdem,” they say, in that same tight tone they always use when Daniil has done something they disapprove of, “how long are you going to keep doing this?”

“Until my stomach’s empty.” Daniil knows that’s not the answer Artemy’s looking for, and Artemy knows Daniil is avoiding the question. They keep their eyes trained on Daniil’s back. They’re too good for me, Daniil thinks absently. He tries to fight the words as they come to him, to argue against their intent. Artemy has better options for friends, and better options for colleagues if he’d be willing to train someone else. But that’s what he’d called Daniil all the same when he asked him to stay in town. Friend. In this rare moment of vulnerability, where Daniil allows himself to really feel something, he feels undeserving.

It’s just the alcohol talking, of course. Pathos is beneath him.

“This isn’t healthy,” Artemy says. It’s a bland gesture, a simple statement of the facts, something Daniil would know without being told. The next words come out lighter, softer. It’s a miracle Artemy’s managed to find the patience for them. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Life will start again, no matter what you’ve lost.”

Oh, that is just not what Daniil wants to hear from him right now. He doesn’t particularly want to hear it ever, and never from Artemy. He spits again, standing up straight and nearly falling over again. Artemy, of course, is there to catch him, just as any friend would do. Daniil’s probably not acting very friendly right now, though. He isn’t feeling the camaraderie that he should, maybe because he’s the only one emotionally compromised right now. He just feels empty, in his stomach, in his limbs. In his chest. He tries to break away from Artemy’s arms, but either Artemy is too strong or Daniil is too weak. All he does is flop around, useless, until Artemy’s grip goes tighter around him.

“Life has no meaning,” Daniil bemoans, voice tempered and even as always. “I have nothing left for me. Everything has shriveled and gone.”

He can feel the heave in Artemy’s chest as he sighs. Daniil’s hair ruffles. The feeling of Artemy’s breath on his neck makes him feel self-conscious about the state of his own, ducking his head as Artemy continues pulling him down the street, so his companion won’t have to smell the sick on his breath. “What about Andrey?” Artemy asks. Well, what about him? Daniil thinks. “Shouldn’t he be something for you to live for, if nothing else?”

Daniil doesn’t have an answer for that. The satisfaction he’d had at the start of the relationship is going to break soon, and he knows it. This liaison was only ever meant to be temporary, two friends helping each other out the best that they could. He can feel the very fabric of it thinning under his gaze, every time he and Andrey meet up. There’s more time for it to stretch now, the plague no longer knocking down their doors, but that only makes Daniil feel more restless in this place. The touches don’t feel as grounding as they once did. They used to soothe him, remind him of home in a sweet way. Now they’re a reminder of things Daniil can never have again, of a life he’ll never get to live.

He keeps calling to mind, involuntarily, the way Andrey had simply left; a letter slipped under his apartment door, and the numbness that accompanied the revelation that Daniil had been so easy to leave behind. It haunts him now, every time he thinks of cutting things off. If he does, he’ll be untethered. He’ll be alone again.

He’s not sure what scares him more: the way his old life haunts him, or the threat of being alone with his thoughts.

Artemy pats his back, and he realizes he’s been set to stand up again. He feels unsteady on his feet, but he’s not sure if it’s the drink or the thoughts swirling around in his mind that’s making him feel like he’s about to keel over. He’s still not quite sober yet, and that much is clear to Artemy. They grip his bicep, leading him up the stairs and down another street.

“I’m still a little surprised by you and him.” Their words are quiet and clunky. Daniil can’t quite decipher the expression Artemy is wearing, what it’s supposed to mean or convey. His confusion must show, as Artemy elaborates. “You said you knew him in university. Was he much different, then?”

“Hardly,” Daniil snorts. His head rolls against his shoulder, trying to work a crick out of his neck. “Things have changed, of course. His face is sharper. He’s lost weight. He’s…” Daniil trails off. It’s none of Artemy’s business, the way his chest used to slope, how soft he’d been beneath the shirt then. Daniil shakes his head, looking at the sky above them. “I was different, then.”

“Oh?” Andrey’s pupils are usually blown wide - perhaps an effect of the twyrine - but Artemy’s are smaller, his focus trained on Daniil. There’s a difference in the type of attention from the two men, and for a moment, Daniil feels those differences like a stab through the chest.

Artemy continues. “I’ve never tried to imagine you as an undergraduate, but let me guess.” They look away briefly, tongue sticking between their lips as they contemplate. “Ah, never missing a class. Sitting at the front of the lecture hall, always the first to offer an answer to the professor’s questions. A teacher’s assistant, maybe. Spending long hours in the library and the laboratory.” He looks back to Daniil, and his eyes reflect the light of the streetlamps. Daniil feels his breath stutter in his chest. “So?” Artemy asks, shaking his shoulder to get his attention. “How much did I get correct?”

“At the very beginning of my academic career and again, closer to the end – yes, you would be right.” Artemy stares at him, eyes moving down Daniil’s face. He gestures toward the road, and Daniil remembers walking back here with him after the Tower first fell. Artemy’s hand had been firm on his back, right between his shoulder blades. At the time he’d conceptualized Artemy as an anchor, the only thing holding him from floating away. Daniil had seen the Tower as a giant paper balloon, had visualized it floating into the sky and away from the Town once it was no longer tethered. But when it fell it was heavy, noisy, like a tree in a forest.

How poetic, the way he mirrors the things he loves: first Thanatica, and then the Polyhedron This, now, must be his own fall.

Daniil speaks the words without thinking of them first. “I used to be demure.”

Artemy scoffs, and the harsh noise brings him back to the ground. “You? No. I can’t believe that.” Artemy’s lips quirk up. “The way you dress, Daniil?” He tugs on the leather of Daniil’s coat, on the collar around his neck. “There’s no way someone who dresses like that would try to fit in.”

“I didn’t always dress like this, you know,” Daniil drawls. “For one, I couldn’t afford it. Only after Thanatica’s first success could I purchase this coat you see before you –“ He pulls it from the front, to show it to him. Artemy pretends to consider it. “I used to just keep to myself, eat most of my meals in my sorry little flat and hole up in those small little study rooms at the library.” Artemy nods. Daniil’s eyes trail away. “And then I met Andrey. And he showed me what a man like myself could do, what I could be.” He pulls at one hand with the other, squeezing the knuckles as he works his hand down. “It was the first time I felt I could do something. He encouraged behaviors in me that I’d kept dormant, ideas I thought I’d have to drown out to be successful.”

They look at Daniil with understanding. Daniil feels his neck grow warm. It’s the first time he’s truly been seen by Artemy, in the short time they’ve known each other. Daniil runs his tongue over his lips, though he’s not sure what it is he plans to say next. It just feels as though he should keep going, that he should bear himself to Artemy and leave himself open for judgment.

But then it’s Artemy who speaks, their voice unbearably soft. “I see. I guess I can understand why you’re so fond of him.” They shake their head at themself, and Daniil wonders what they’re thinking. He nudges Artemy in the side, waiting for them to look back. “I just had thought to myself that it was weird, you two. He’s loud, you’re very soft spoken. And he’s a troublemaker, obnoxious –“

“Don’t tell me you don’t think I’m obnoxious, Burakh. I think we’re past the point of needless lies.” Artemy laughs, loose in their chest. It’s a pleasant sound, shaking Daniil as they make their turn. “You don’t see me as a troublemaker? Fine. Did you know I killed a dozen soldiers during the plague? Just a couple days before they shot down the Tower.”

Artemy’s mouth falls open. They stop Daniil on the sidewalk, and Daniil feels his smug smirk make a reappearance. It’s been a while since he’s gotten to show it off. “Nine who went rogue and tried to subject Andrey to a firing squad – though they never did find him. And three who took a group fathers out into the steppe to shoot them.”

“No,” Artemy says, startled. “You – can you even fight?” Daniil laughs, and to his own ears it sounds too loud.

“I can’t believe it. The great Daniil Dankovsky, demeaning himself to such vulgar efforts.” Artemy sounds amused, but then his expression falls a moment, and he looks down the street, away from Daniil. “It must be a nice feeling, loving someone that much. Having someone love you that much.” Daniil swallows, and it sticks to his throat. He’s feeling that tingle of guilt again, watching Artemy shake. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be dragging my baggage to you.”

Daniil wants to tell them he doesn’t mind. Lord knows how much Daniil’s offloaded into Artemy’s lap, it’s only fair if they return the favor. But he doesn’t know how the words would sound, coming from him. He doesn’t know if they’d fall flat, if they’d ring hollow, if Artemy would believe them no matter how well they were spoken.

Daniil sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looking around, and the words come tumbling out. Damned vodka. “It’s not love.” Artemy blinks at him, and searches his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love Andrey. I love him as a friend. But this, what we have, it isn’t – it isn’t romance. It’s just comfort. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Artemy’s look grows clouded. Daniil can see where they want to object to something, that they don’t approve. He braces for the judgment. His parents wouldn’t like it either, if they knew, but Artemy only runs a hand through their hair and looks around them, perplexed. “Do you… do you not find comfort in romance?”

What an odd question. Daniil’s cheeks flush and he feels uncomfortably sick. Not in another wave of nausea, but like a sudden flu.

“I wouldn’t know,” Daniil says. “I haven’t really allowed myself the time to date – not since I was a teenager. In the Capital I’d start, but then I’d just get distracted by everything else. By school, by research, by securing funding from grants. I flirt, but never seriously. In the past dozen years, a few men have been interested, but I never saw them past the second date.” He’s never sat down to consider how vulnerable this all made him feel, his head swimming now as he tries to work the pieces together. He rubs at it, corners of his lips tugging his mouth into a grimace. “I just got to feeling there was something wrong with me. I could flirt for the money I needed from rich donors at fancy galas, but even the men at those parties never wanted to see me much. I think the most I went out with one was four times. I never knew what I did wrong.” Damned vodka, damned vodka, damned vodka. Water lines his lashes, and he looks down to keep it out. “There’s something wrong with me. You know, I know. Maybe I just wasn’t made to be loved. Maybe it isn’t possible.”

This must be too much. There’s no way Artemy can deal with all this information Daniil is offloading onto them. They’re so quiet that Daniil thinks for a minute they’ve left, and he feels embarrassment turn heat into sweat on his back; but when he looks up Artemy is staring at him. Overcast by the dark, it’s hard to see the shades of his eyes or to contemplate the expression he wears.

“And?” It’s a simple, encouraging word.

The breath Daniil takes is shaky. He knows now he’s making a decision he can’t take back, shuffling his feet against the path they tread. Daniil feels like he’s tipping over, like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff and about to free fall to the rocks below. And he must be leaning, literally too, because Artemy’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“And I want to try anyway. I want to prove it to somebody that I can. Prove it to myself. And not just when I’m drunk.” Artemy’s answering smile is thin, eyes taking in Daniil's form as they stand there together in silence. Daniil shrugs his shoulders to try and work the uncomfortable feeling out, rolling his head again, clearing his throat.

Artemy lets their hand fall, skimming Daniil’s arm. The touch gives him goosebumps that he pretends not to notice. It’s not like Artemy could see them anyway, covered as he is by his coat.

“Well, whatever you decide to do next, you have to treat yourself better than you have been.” Daniil sighs softly at the admonishment. He feels so fond, despite it all. “And Andrey is – I know the two of you are friends, but he doesn’t exactly –“ Artemy huffs, and finally blurts out, “I’m not sure how he didn’t catch the plague.”

“Oh, you know what they say, Artemy: audentes fortuna iuvat.” He knows Artemy rolls their eyes, though he can’t see it in the fading light. His own returning smile feels gentler, fonder. More real. They pass through the gate and shortly are upon the Stillwater, Daniil feeling as though a weight has been lifted from his chest. “He’ll be alright,” Daniil says, but he’s not sure what’s prompted him to say so. Artemy hasn’t mentioned anything, and there’s no reason for him talk like that. But all the same they nod, standing back as Daniil opens, then lingers by, the front door.

Daniil sets his hand on the doorknob, feeling like he ought to be waiting for something, tapping the metal as he bounces in place. “Thank you for walking me home, Ar- Burakh.”

How had that almost come out? Oh, no, he’s been thinking of Artemy as Artemy, and not as Burakh. Has he slipped up before, in the past? Artemy doesn’t seem to note the mistake, clapping his hand on Daniil’s shoulder and squeezing it. “I’ll see you around, emshen.”

Daniil watches him leave and thinks that he knows what it is he was missing, what he was waiting for lingering on the steps. The words 'we weren’t made for love’ echo in his mind, and his stomach turns.

The sound of Daniil’s boots on the metal of the stairs leading down to the Broken Heart are too loud, the sound of it reverberating on the walls as he descends. His gut twists too tight, his gloves squeaking on the railing as he makes his way down. He looks over to see the usual bartender is out for the morning, and Andrey stands in his place behind the bar, washing glasses. It’s not something that needs to be done - Daniil had watched them be scrubbed clean the previous night, and he’s never known the bartender to leave a glass dirty. But this is something he knows Andrey does to pass the time, an oddity, a control. It’s what he does when conversations don’t go well with his brother. Perfectionism, Daniil thinks. He’s not the only one prone to it.

Andrey looks up from where his attention is trained on the glass in his hand, but his expression doesn’t change all that much. Daniil used to wonder if it ever would, if Andrey ever looked at things softly, if he ever let his guard down, if he ever let someone else take the reins. Even when they drank together, he would abstain just enough to maintain level-headedness, to watch over Daniil’s moves, to make sure he got home okay. He’d done the same in university, never totally losing control of himself. He does the same with Peter, always watching close behind.

“Get home alright?” Andrey asks, but he clearly knows the answer to that question. Daniil doubts he would have let Artemy sleep until he knew Daniil got home in one piece.

…Yet he didn’t take the time to do it himself. Too much on his plate, too much on his mind.

“I did,” Daniil says. He hits the end of the stairs and pivots, his thumb folding under his finger, watching Andrey’s movements and considering how to take this next step. How is he meant to do this? He’s never done it formally before, always just letting things peter out on their own.

“I take it this isn’t a social call,” Andrey says. His thin lips pull back into a grimace, but he’s not looking at Daniil anymore. It should make things easier that Andrey won’t look his way, but all Daniil feels is frustration. “Don’t let the words go sour in your mouth, Danko. Spit it out.”

“This is difficult for me,” he admits. Andrey graces him with his attention, just enough to narrow his eyes at Daniil. He wants to keep their friendship intact, if he can. Andrey is the first real friend he remembers making, his first friend not made by convenience of space. His eyes dash around at the artwork in the building, at what might be a naked woman on a large canvas – he’s never really taken the time to give it a proper assessment before. Andrey sets the glass down on the counter loudly, and Daniil sees it’s full of ice and water.

He makes his way to the bar, pulling the seat out and sitting so he can see Andrey more clearly in the dim lighting. The other man has his hands braced on the counter, leaning across the bar. “Things aren’t working out for you,” Andrey says. There’s no tone behind it, no indication of how Andrey feels about the words he’s just said.

Daniil feels stupid, stupid embarrassment crawl over his skin. Andrey’s always been smarter than he appears, smarter than he likes to let on. Even before Daniil had the honor of meeting his brother, Andrey painted himself as the more practical of the two, more hands-on than his twin. He’d said he was not the thinker, not the visionary that Peter was, and Daniil could hear the pride in his voice the first time he’d heard those words without even knowing what his twin looked like. He’d always imagined someone identical. And now, he’s not sure why he did.

Daniil opens his mouth, but Andrey holds a hand up and says, “No need for apologies.”

What he means to say is, ‘I think we want different things’. That he’s not interested in the concept of polyamory, though that aspect of their relationship never bothered him. But what he says instead is, “I want something serious.” He picks up his glass and takes a sip of his water to avoid having to look at Andrey directly. He can feel himself being appraised all the same. Andrey scratches at his scalp, and his hair upsets. Daniil wonders when the last time he took a bath was. He sets the glass back down, running his tongue along his lips. “And I don’t think I can do this, the way you live, much longer. My body won’t keep up.”

There are many things he wants to say, but he refrains. Andrey is still looking at him, assessing Daniil and the situation they’re in as though determining what to say next. It hits Daniil that this entire time he’s never really been sure what it is Andrey wants. He’d said he wasn’t looking for something serious, but if not that, then what was it he wanted? What was Andrey looking for with him?

“It was fun,” Andrey eventually says. He punctuates his words with a grin that doesn’t quite match the pensive look in his eyes. “Like old times. Kept me sane those twelve days.” Daniil nods. The words 'me too’ go unspoken. “But you, Danko. You need stability. Someone level-headed to ground you.”

His gaze falters, and for a second, the mask drops. Daniil sees something that is undeniably pain beneath the man’s eyes. It hurts, looking at him like this, but Daniil doesn’t wonder if he’s the source. It seems so much deeper than anything Daniil could have possibly touched. “Keep this in mind,” Andrey says, pointing at Daniil, “You need a person. A real, living person. Someone that you look at and know they’re alive.”

The accusation is not lost on Daniil. ‘You never saw me as a person’.

Daniil opens his mouth, but he bites down on what he wanted to say. Andrey wanted no apologies, and Daniil wasn’t about to make things stranger between them. He’d never been good at apologies anyway. He remembers each one that he’s given in the time he’s been here – a few quick and simple to Eva for arriving home late, and one or two without thinking to the Haruspex. He’s not sure if he meant any of them, or what it would be like to apologize with an actual sentiment behind it. His throat feels dry and his voice too high when he asks, “is there anything I can do?”

Andrey’s attention has turned back to rewashing the glasses, inspecting them with far greater care than most other bars Daniil has been in before. Perhaps that is why the man never gets sick. “Yeah,” he says, a sigh unreleased in his mouth. “Check on my brother?”

Daniil wonders if there’s anything to read into regarding the fact that Andrey’s brother lives so far from where Andrey works and sleeps.

He’d have thought - from the way Andrey acts - that the two lived together. But he’d visited Peter’s loft more than once over the course of those twelve days, and there was barely enough room in it for one man to live alone. When Grace had been allocated to his flat, Daniil thought Dora had gone mad; he’d even spoken to Artemy about it. Yes, Daniil was the one who wanted Grace moved, but he’d expected her to be placed in the care of a childless couple - it’s what would have been done in the Capital.

This... is not the Capital.

Artemy had to remind him of that several times, though his tone was gentler on that occasion than it had been any of the other times he’d brought the fact up. He’d assumed Artemy would have been mad at the removal, but maybe they were just thinking of their own kids. That was another thing the Capital would have never allowed: a single man adopting two stray children. Maybe by the Town’s standards Grace’s placement wasn’t so baseless after all.

He feels something in his chest ache uncomfortably. ‘A single parent is better than no parent, oynon’. Questioning Grace’s placement wasn’t intended to pass judgement on Artemy’s situation – but as usual he’d opened his mouth without thinking, and he couldn’t take the words back. And now he has to check on another one of Gorkhon’s single fathers and see how he’s doing.

The stairs leading up to Peter’s loft feel sticky. He doesn’t remember them being like this during the plague, but perhaps his mind had been too busy then to notice the obvious. Like the way the apartment absolutely reeks of twyrine, like how that’s probably the substance coating the stairs. Daniil hasn’t brought a kerchief with him, and doesn’t feel much like undoing his pin to use his cravat as makeshift one. He covers his nose with one hand, using the other to open the door.

Daniil doesn’t quite have issues opening the door, but he does hear something he suspects to be an empty bottle clank to the floor as he pushes it. The lights, evidently, are not on - though whether it’s choice, or an unpaid bill, he’s yet to discover. He sees candles perilously close to the tub Peter houses in the center of his flat, and one gangly leg hanging over the side of it.

“Who is it?” Peter calls, and Daniil watches as his hand moves over to deposit another empty bottle on the floor. He doesn’t terribly sound like he cares, his voice slow and steady. His speech isn’t slurred, either, but Daniil recognizes how that means very little when it comes to Peter.

For a moment, Daniil worries the man will burn his hand on the candle. Peter had claimed once that twyrine heightened the senses, but no alcohol on earth could possibly do that. The bartender had muttered to him later that the alcohol was a hallucinogen, and in the few times Daniil had imbibed he’d heard things and seen things that could not possibly have been real. He’d given up on trying it out only a few days into his time in town, preferring to take his successes from unaltered genius.

Peter seems inclined to do much the opposite and drowns himself until he’s too numb and too stupid to feel or process anything around him. The tub, as far as Daniil can understand it, is a rather ugly metaphor.

“It’s Dankovsky,” he calls back, coming around the corner. He knows it’s probably too much to hope that Peter is clothed, but when he chances a look, he notices the tub is not even filled. So his initial guess that the thing was for sleeping, if not bathing, was correct. Peter’s just using it as a makeshift settee.

Very odd. Daniil doesn’t know much about this brother, but the ways in which he’s different from Andrey seem starker now that Daniil has the time to take them into consideration.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Peter asks, not sounding very pleasured.

“Andrey asked me to check on you,” Daniil tells him. Peter grumbles. Something feels dark underneath the tone, but Daniil doesn’t ask about it, moving to stand in front of the tub. His brows furrow, noticing just how many empty and upturned bottles litter the ground. This is hardly a place for a child to live. “Where’s Grace? Out with her friends, perhaps?”

Peter’s eyes don’t quite meet his. They move lazily up his body, drifting about up to his chin, before they fall back down again. “They took her, old boy.” His head tilts in the direction of his window. Daniil knows exactly to whom he is referring before he says it. “The Saburovs. They said I wasn’t fit to be a guardian.” He brings his thumb up to his lips to worry at the skin of his cheek, and Daniil looks away. “One daughter shot down, and the other taken from me.”

“Can you really blame them?” Daniil asks.

Perhaps he should be sparing the man some empathy, but it’s a little difficult given the state of the room they’re in. He spreads his arms, gesturing to the mess they’re surrounded by. “You’re sitting in a bathtub with your clothes on, candles lit. God only knows how much twyrine you’ve drank. Look at yourself, Peter!”

“I don’t want to.” The words sound small in his mouth, childish as they leave. Daniil sighs, eyes moving over every object in the apartment. He needs a bin, or something to collect all these empty bottles with. But for now, he can just set them all aside into one pile, to make the room easier to navigate. Daniil feels Peter’s eyes on him as he works, watching him move throughout the apartment. He doubts this is what Andrey had in mind when he asked Daniil to check in on his brother, but Daniil needs to do something with his hands now that there’s no other work for him to complete.

“Where was Grace sleeping when she was here?” He really hopes Peter’s not about to say she slept in the tub. Peter’s hair falls in his face when he tilts his head, gesturing at the wall. He must mean beyond it, to the bed. Daniil scowls. “And where were you sleeping?”

Peter shrugs. Daniil takes that to mean he had not been.

Daniil considers going around the flat and picking up even more than he already has. He thinks about collecting the sheets and washing them, thinks about moving these errant pieces of art and hanging them on the walls or depositing them, at least, out of the way of trampling feet. But when he thinks these things, he can’t find a good reason for doing them. He rests back on his heels instead, unsure of what to do with himself. He’s never really known what to make of Peter, who always seems so close to collapsing.

Guilt swells in Daniil’s chest for a minute. He remembers the suggestion – Andrey’s suggestion, Aglaya’s suggestion – that he and Peter were not so different. Condemnant quo non intellegunt. Daniil rubs his forehead, letting out a curt sigh, frustrated just as much with himself as he is with Peter. Hadn’t he started to think of Peter as a friend over those twelve days? And yet here he stood, unaware of the plights his friend has struggled with at the end of the outbreak, snapping at him for a relapse. He’s told himself to work on empathy, but here he is, not doing that.

When his hand moves away and he tilts his head to look at the man in the tub, he notices Peter giving him an intense look. It’s startling, to be stared at in such a manner, and furthermore to not notice being stared at in such a way. Peter is very unlike his brother, quieter and calmer in his speech. He’d told Daniil once that it was important to allow himself no time to think if he wanted to reach Heaven, but Daniil had never stopped to contemplate the implications of that sentiment.

He hasn’t really taken time to consider Peter, as a person. Peter was at first a name on a list, a player to keep in the game, a factor in his victory if Maria Kaina was to be believed. The way the last couple days of the Pest had gone, he’d started to view everyone as an obstacle to his goal, even when they were people struggling on the same side as him. And now that the Polyhedron has toppled, there are more souls struggling just as Daniil is doing now. Daniil needs something to do with his life now, to do with his time. Something that isn’t drinking himself into oblivion and waiting for inevitable to come for him.

And so does Peter.

“Would you like me to help you?” The words smash the silence of the room, and the look Peter gives him is curious, his expression unchanging as Daniil shifts weight between his feet. He licks his lips to prepare himself for the next few words that need to leave his mouth. “You’re not a hopeless case, Peter. If you want to care for Grace, it would just take some…” Daniil struggles to find a word that feels appropriate, tongue pressed to the other side of his teeth as he thinks about it. “Adjustments,” he settles on. He looks about the room again, humming under his breath and taking note of what changes would need to be made.

Something about the look in Peter’s eyes changes, but Daniil feels he isn’t getting the entire picture of his thoughts. Daniil could pick up on things Andrey felt from the time they’d spent together even before the plague had started, but Peter is entirely new to him, a thing of legends. There were times in university when Daniil would wonder whether Peter existed at all, and now that he’s met him, he still isn’t sure if he does.

Daniil tries to look nonthreatening as Peter observes him, telling himself to relax his face into a smile.

But smiles are not something that come naturally to Daniil, even when relaxed. He’s sure it shows on his face, how unnatural the feeling is, as he walks over to the tub to offer Peter his hand. Peter takes it, but most of his weight rests on the edges of the tub as he pushes himself up.

Peter’s hand is not quite the same as Andrey’s, but the difference is not as big as Daniil would have first thought. Both hands are laced with scars, but where Andrey’s is rough, calloused and bruised from breaks and chipped nails, Peter’s is smooth, nails grown carelessly out.

Daniil stares at their clasped hands for a moment, and thinks to himself, it could be nice to take care of someone else.

Daniil does not do much that first day. He takes it upon himself to clear Peter’s flat of the used and empty twyrine bottles, and does so with a faint blush on his cheeks. He’s already started on that project, he may as well complete it. It takes him a couple of trips to deposit them all in the dumpster outside, but when he’s finished Peter is upright, looking at his artwork. It’s a start.

He heads back down the stairs and up around the curve of the Town. He’s passing by Lara’s house when he sees Artemy coming up, and slows to a halt in front of him. Artemy takes his time coming up the walkway, stopping right by him. Wordlessly, they begin in the same direction.

“How’s your head doing today, emshen?” He’s keeping himself preoccupied, sorting through his pockets, pulling out blades of grass Daniil has never seen before and rearranging the contents of his front pouch to pull out a chunk of bread. Daniil looks away, trying not to be rude – don’t people find it rude to be stared at while they eat? – but Artemy nudges him in the arm, offering him a piece.

He’s never been very good at understanding how these things work. He takes it, nodding and mumbling out a quick thank you. He’s not even hungry. It’s just become habit to accept any food handed to him and eat it without thinking. “Could be worse.” He tears at the fluffy insides, popping it into his mouth. It’s still warm. Lara must have given it to him. Is he still having trouble making ends meet? He does have more mouths to feed now. “And I have had worse before - migraines, hangovers - last night was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing when you were heaving in the grass.” He feels a water bottle being shoved at him next, and he tries to push it away. But Burakh is insistent, placing it in the crook of his elbow when he doesn’t take it in his hand. Daniil rolls his eyes, squeezing his arm tighter to make sure it doesn’t slip through. He’d hate to leave broken glass where children play. “I think I have a recipe somewhere, a surefire hangover cure, if you need it.”

“I told you. I’m fine.” His words come out coolly, more than Artemy deserves. Daniil’s not good with this, either, these kinds of little gestures. It’s not something that would ever occur to him to do for another. He knows that it makes him a poor healer, but he has to start somewhere. Everybody does. He pulls at the crust, crunching uncomfortably between his teeth. He grimaces. “Though, I should say. Thank you.”

Artemy’s giving him a look – an amused one, he thinks, lips curling slightly, his eyes lowered to catch Daniil’s expression. He wonders what it is about his thanks that’s so funny, but it’s not his words Artemy’s laughing at. “I’m not going to make you eat the crust, if you don’t want it.”

“I don’t want to waste it,” Daniil says, taking another bite. The texture is awful, even warm. Artemy stops, reaching over to grab the bread from Daniil’s hands. Daniil flails, trying to take it back, nearly dropping the bottle in his arm as Artemy hands him his own piece, the top pulled clean off. Daniil frowns at him. “You didn’t have to do that, Burakh. I’m a grown man.” Artemy shrugs. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me I don’t have to eat my vegetables?”

“No, no. That you have to do, or I’ll know.” Daniil snorts. Artemy picks their pace back up, Daniil falling into step next to them. He can see the smirk winding around Artemy’s face, even as they pull at the crust of the bread with their teeth. It isn’t fair for him to look that good when he’s eating. “So,” People are meant to be ugly when they’re eating and crying. He hopes he never has to see Artemy crying. “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do here in Town, since you’re staying?”

Daniil shakes the errant thoughts from his head, pulling at a chunk of the bread. He holds it up to his mouth, and hums. “I have one project in mind, but once that’s finished, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I don’t think there’s much for me to do here.” He chews thoughtfully, turning the last couple of weeks over in his head to look for any semblance of an idea, for something to start from. He just finds himself circling back to the same point he’d made over and over while the Pest ravaged right outside their doorways. “You don’t even have a hospital here, so it’s not like I can practice medicine - let alone my specialty.”

“Well,” Artemy says, and their beginning comes far too quickly for Daniil not to see through. They’ve had an idea in mind this whole time, and have been waiting on Daniil’s answer. Daniil jostles him, shoving his elbow into Artmey’s ribs with a glower. And Artemy’s grin only widens as he does. “Okay. I was thinking about that. Had a long talk with Rubin about it, and we agreed. There should be a hospital in town.”

Daniil’s eyes flutter in surprise, turning to step in front of Artemy, his left hand on Artemy’s right arm. “Dare I hope I heard you correctly? You believe I was correct about something?”

“One thing, smartass,” Artemy says. His arm slips from Daniil’s hand to push his hair back. Daniil wonders how the texture feels under his fingertips, his own rubbing together. His hair’s gotten fluffier in the back as he’s let it grow out a little. Daniil imagines the strands feeling soft between his fingers. “It was bound to happen eventually.” Artemy starts walking again. It takes a moment for Daniil realize his hand is still on Artemy’s arm and lets it slip. They don’t seem to notice. “But, yeah. We’d like to have a meeting with the ruling families to see if they agree to the idea. We’ll need their assistance with funding and allocating space, anyway.”

They look at Daniil. Oh. “I see. And this is where I come in, yes?” Artemy nods. “I suppose I did have more engagement with the ruling families over the course of those twelve days than you did. I’ll see if I can set up a meeting with them.” He starts to tap his fingers against his coat idly, thinking. “The younger Olgimsky is much more agreeable than his father was, it’s more Georgiy –“

“No, no – ime beshe, oynon.” Their face has fallen a little, and now they turn to look at Daniil as they cross over the bridge. “I was hoping you would join us as a doctor.” Artemy brushes his hair back again – is it something he does when he’s nervous? But what about this would make him nervous? Does he think Daniil will say no? “You would know more about running a clinic than either Rubin or I. And you could provide a perspective neither of us would have.” Daniil goes to open his mouth, but Artemy moves first, his hand curling around Daniil’s bicep. “You don’t have to answer yet. Just think about it, okay?”

There’s no reason for Daniil to say no, but Artemy still turns on the ball of their feet awfully quick, leaving Daniil to follow them.

Since they don’t seem interested in pursuing the topic any further, Daniil tries switching gears. “So, what brings you out this way, Burakh? Don’t tell me someone’s come down with a cold after all your hard work.”

Artemy turns to give him a confused look. “There was no reason, Dankovsky. I’m just –“ he stops. The wind picks up where they are, and Daniil wonders if it’s just his imagination that it seems stronger without the Polyhedron in place. It ruffles Artemy’s hair is it blows by them, and Artemy turns his head so that he’s outlined by the setting sun. His cheeks almost look rosy in this light, as if he were flushing. “I just decided to walk with you, as friends do.”

Friends. Daniil smiles. It may be his first genuine smile since arriving in Town. Artemy’s called them that before, hasn’t he? Yes, friends. That’s what they are, and Daniil can use more of those. Artemy walks him once again to his door, and Daniil’s thoughts follow the same patterns as the other night, thinking that something feels like it’s missing from this scene.

He gets the feeling he was on the brink of figuring it out the other night, but now the epiphany seems so far from his mind. He reaches out his hand to Artemy, and they take it. “I’ll see you around, then,” Daniil says, shaking their hand. “Soon, I hope?”

Artemy gives them a confused smile, clearly unsure why he wouldn’t see Daniil again in such a small town, and nods. “Soon, emshen.”

Daniil arrives at Peter’s with warm coffee and fresh pastries. He doubts they’re up to the same standards shops in the Capital hold, but surprises have been known to happen from time to time. He’s not sure what Peter might like, but the man didn’t seem to have any food in the icebox or any materials to cook with when Daniil was last in his flat. A part of him doubts Peter even knows how to cook, or that he’d cook for himself if he did. It’s something Daniil will help him fix over the course of this whatever-it-is, however long it takes him to clean Peter up.

He expects Peter to be a late sleeper. He’s not sure what makes him think so – maybe the memory of Andrey in university, going to sleep well past midnight and waking up in the afternoon. His chest fills with nervous anticipation as he opens the door, image in mind of Peter in a mass of blankets on that nest he calls a bed, tipping his head, hair falling over his shoulders in sleepiness. It would be cute, seeing him burrowed like that. But Peter is awake when he enters, standing at his worktable and looking at a sketch he’s completed.

Peter does not look Daniil’s way as he steps inside, thermos tucked to his side and box in his left hand. Peter at least has the presence of mind to move his drawing so Daniil can set the food down and offer him a cup of coffee. He looks like the sort of person who should smell of coffee instead of the sickly-sweet and sour stench of liquor. The scent is overpowering, and the closer Daniil stands to Peter the more it messes with his head. It’s too strong for Daniil’s tastes, and he wrinkles his nose, turning his head so Peter can’t catch the face he makes. He seems too distracted notice regardless, lifting the top of the pastry box to peek inside.

Daniil is not good with small talk. He nods to the paper Peter’s set aside, and asks him, “A new work?” Peter nods, picking a danish up. It crumbles in his fingers, but Daniil notes that his hands don’t tremble. He wonders if the man is still intoxicated from the night before. There are new bottles of twyrine on the floor, though it looks a little like Peter’s either tried to hide them or made an attempt to keep them more orderly. He passes the paper to Daniil, who takes a second to look at it.

The piece is highly conceptual. It is not a building as far as Daniil can tell, but a sketch of something intangible. Daniil does not ask the man for an explanation. He simply sees it, and feels it. It is an expression of something – not anguish, that would be too sharp. Something softer, something rounded. Melancholy, the way Peter has settled into it. Daniil observes the dark pools, the way the figures seem to melt into them, and is reminded of all the dark places in his mid he had told himself not to touch. Looking makes his gut clench, and he supposes he should put the picture down. But he feels this is a test, somehow, though Peter does not appear to be looking at him, focused on the food in his hand.

Absently, Daniil mutters, “O, curas hominem! O, quantum est in rebus inane!” And then he feels silly for having said anything aloud at all. No expression passes Peter’s face, and Daniil cannot tell if he has said the right thing, or something horribly wrong. He passes the paper back over, heat rising in his cheeks as Peter accepts it. “It’s very evocative,” he says. Peter looks at it, again, and he can see the process working through those eyes. He remembers the way Peter had assessed his own work before, standing in what he wanted to be a funeral pyre of discarded dreams. He can feel the words I hate them without Peter needing to speak them into the world. Daniil considers acting for a moment, considers reaching out and taking the art from Peter’s hand before he can decide to destroy it, the way he would have the blueprints.

But Peter does not move with the same sort of fast and blinding anger with which his brother does nearly everything. How is it possible he helped Andrey to kill a man when he moves so damned slowly? Danill can’t picture the scene at all. Had Peter been there simply to watch his brother break the man’s neck? He has to stop and consider the facts, keep in mind that he’s never seen Peter in what he figures was the prime of his life. There’s more to Peter than Daniil has seen so far, more that Daniil may never be privileged to see.

It would be such a waste to let all that talent slip away. “You see the beauty in things others don’t understand.” The words come so suddenly that Daniil nearly jolts at them, the way he would if touched. Peter is looking his direction from behind the wall of hair that covers his face. “You see the beauty in the impossible. That’s why you spared my life, isn’t it?”

He’s not sure how to feel about Peter’s phrasing. ‘Spared his life’ – Daniil was never the one who was going to take it. He’d stilled Peter’s hand, how was that sparing his life? He looks at Peter, noncommittal, and watches him take another bite of the danish. Peter looks around and nods to another canvas on the wall, and Daniil takes it as his cue to get up and investigate the rest of the flat, the artworks lined up on the walls. Peter’s eyes don’t follow him as he moves, and it’s a good thing that Daniil is left alone with his thoughts. He can feel his expression growing grimmer the longer he stares at each painting in turn, discomforted by emotions on display.

There’s an anger to the paintings that Daniil was not prepared to see, like he is looking into something far more personal than an artist’s portfolio. It feels like looking at someone’s diary, each brush stroke a new page.

“Victor wants me to build again.” Daniil lifts his brows, still fixated on the dark splashes of paint on the canvas before him. The way they cut and tear reminds him of stab-wounds he’s seen on fresh corpses brought to his lab. They remind him of scars, self-inflicted. Is this a confessional? Does Peter want Daniil to see these for a reason, or does he simply not care who views his work? “On the other side of the river, where they’re building a new town. New roads, new constructions. New buildings to shape people.”

“I see,” Daniil says, which is not at all what he means to say. The problem is that he doesn’t really know what he means to say, and Andrey has always given him the impression of walking on eggshells around his fragile brother. He tilts his head in Peter’s direction, his hands clasped against his thighs. “And you feel this is an expectation you can’t live up to?”

Peter shrugs. It’s a marvel that enormous coat doesn’t simply slide off his body with the movement. “Perhaps you haven’t given yourself enough credit,” Daniil suggests. “You can always start small, by designing the houses. And you fill them with people who recognize your efforts as a visionary, people who will encourage you. Not everyone appreciated the Polyhedron, but this new town… surely they wouldn’t go across the river if they didn’t?”

The next question comes slowly. Not in the way the words are spoken, but in the time it takes Peter to come to them. “Is that why you’re here?” Daniil touches his chin, lost in thought, eyes continually drawn back to the dark mass on yellow background, to the itchy feeling it gives him in his chest. “They say you fell in love with the Polyhedron,” Peter explains. His eyes, green as grass, finally locate Daniil’s. The stare is more intense than he expects, more dangerous. In this look, he can finally see where Peter mirrors Andrey. (Or maybe, where Andrey mirrors Peter.) “I cannot recreate her, old boy. The soul she held is gone now. Who knows if there can ever be another focus?”

He’s caught between two options, teeth pulling at his lip to pick one and voice it. Daniil clears his throat. There can be. There must be. “I don’t expect you to.” The miraculous, the impossible, the beauty – they’re in your mind. “That isn’t why I’m here.” Peter looks at him, eyes full of doubt. Daniil steps away from the art that seems to steal the words from his throat, coming to stand in front of Peter. He stretches a hand out, resting on the other man’s arm. “I’m here because I care about you, Peter.” His shoulders feel too tight, too hot. The burn of embarrassment, of being too close to someone. Peter looks at where Daniil’s meets his arm, unblinking. “Because we’re friends. I want to help you.”

“Friends,” Peter repeats. Daniil wonders if it’s as foreign a concept to him as it has been to Daniil in the past. Daniil nods, and tries to smile at him. This must take practice, getting used to this feeling. Getting used to saying these words. But it’s what Artemy would do, isn’t it? Peter covers Daniil’s hands with one of his own, fingers circled ‘round the back and grip tighter than Daniil would have imagined.

Perhaps he’s more tethered than Daniil thought.

Peter’s hair is a soft, silky texture now that it’s been washed, gliding smoothly between Daniil’s fingers as he works the strands into a braid. It’s not often Daniil will remove his gloves, too easily overwhelmed by the world around him – but with something like this, performing would be so much more difficult with the leather obstructing his dexterity.

He would’ve thought Peter, as an artist, would have taken better care of himself than his brother the barkeep, but it had taken several washes for Peter’s hair to lose the waxy sheen that coated it. It was strange that the man who kept his bathtub a central fixture in his flat was so unkempt. It would have been funny if it weren’t so desperately sad. Daniil knows what it is to need to get up out of bed and detest the fact, to avoid food and avoid bathing, to have to force himself to complete the most basic of tasks. Perhaps it would be funny to someone else, but for Daniil it isn’t funny at all.

“I’d hardly call myself an expert with haircare,” Daniil says cautiously, reach the end of Peter’s locks, ‘but I do believe I’m finished here.” He fishes around the desk for the compact mirror he’d brought with him, and hands it over to Peter, holding the handled mirror behind Peter’s hair so he can get a look at the back. Peter gives the braid a strangely serious look, moving the mirror down to judge Daniil’s handiwork. He’d given Peter’s hair a quick trim to rid it of split ends, and it was still long enough for Daniil to work into a braid. Peter’s lips nudge at the corners and he sets the compact down to pull himself out of the tub.

Of all the things to change in the flat, and of all the things to stay the same, the tub has remained a focal point. At least art no longer litters the very ground they stand on. With the floors cleared, the windows washed and the lights on, it seems much healthier – though it took its own week and a half to reach this point. Peter hadn’t been all that interested at the start of it, staring at Daniil from his bed as he sorted papers for Peter to determine what to do with them, took a sponge to the stairs, washed his curtains. He seemed to be waiting for Daniil to do something specific, though Daniil still hasn’t figured out what it was he was expecting.

On Thursday, Daniil entered the apartment to find Peter engrossed in a painting. Daniil could still see the drawing just underneath the work he’d started, and it wasn’t difficult to make out what the subject was. Daniil’s heart squirmed uncomfortably in his chest at the recognition. It should have come as no surprise that Peter’s hand and artistic hand would eventually turn to the Polyhedron. It was probably a good thing, him allowing his emotions to take control in a constructive way. Better to paint than to turn to the bottle.

He hadn’t realized that Peter caught him staring, though he hadn’t done anything to make himself less obvious as he peered over the other man’s shoulder. Without turning to him, Peter had spoken. “What do you think?” His palette was balanced in one hand, brush held gently in the other, his eyes cast down at his canvas, fixated on the color he’d started to fill in around his construction. The school of thought he’d settled with for this picture wasn’t realism, that much Daniil could work out for himself. But he isn’t nearly as well versed in art theory as he is in other subjects, and he’d stood behind Peter stupidly sifting through words in his mind for the correct one to describe the painting he was looking at. Impressionism, maybe?

Daniil shifted the weight between his feet and swallowed, hoping Peter wasn’t banking on some well-thought-out critique from him. He couldn’t give one, put on the spot in such a way, and he could feel the air closing in around them as the seconds ticked by, waiting for his answer.

“It’s a memory,” he finally said, because that’s what it looked like. Not a photograph of facts, but a rendering of love. The last time he’d really gotten a look at the Polyhedron it had been nighttime. He’d been exhausted, starving, his boots worn down so thin he could feel each stone of the road beneath his heels as he walked. He’d stopped on his way back to the Stillwater and simply stared at the miraculous building, his shoulders shaking from the weight of a dawning realization.

Focus.

A frown had worked itself into place over his mouth, and Daniil tried to smother it as Peter turned around to face him. Looking at the piece was making him feel awful, but it wasn’t for him the art was being created. “I think it does your Tower more justice than any photograph would,” Daniil said. “Still frame could never capture its meaning, its magnificence. Who better to memorialize it than its creator?”

Peter seemed to be thinking very hard about something, and Daniil could not determine whether he was pleased with his answer or not. In a moment of striking vulnerability, he said, “No parent should ever live to see the death of their child.” The verbal tic was left off from the end of his sentence, and Daniil felt almost unnerved by Peter’s defenselessness.

He scrambled in his mind for something else to say when Peter set his tools to the side of his desk and moved around to his bed, gathering up his linens. He shocked Daniil out of his contemplation then by changing the subject entirely: “I don’t think we have any washing machines here in Town. We’ll have to clean these in the bathtub.”

It was as good a start as any. Peter opened up by centimeters, slowly chipping away at a wallpaper to reveal the paint underneath. He doesn’t mask in the same way his brother does, with aggression and excitement, but he obfuscates his thoughts with a disarming honesty. Daniil can sense Peter challenging him with statements he makes that sound so confident, and Daniil has to take a second to consider the position he’s been given. There are times when he considers arguing back, only to wind up pulling his punches. It would be counterproductive to prod someone on edge the way Peter is. Daniil’s trying to help him up, not push him over.

And today is one goal Daniil has been trying to work Peter up to – not adoption, but a simple second step forward: leaving the damned house. Peter had admitted to Daniil a week ago that he hadn’t left the house since the second day Daniil had been in Town. Daniil could appreciate him staying indoors during quarantine, but not leaving the house in what amounted to a month seemed disorderly, and Daniil is determined to change that fact.

“I can’t believe Andrey didn’t try this,” he mutters, his hand around Peter’s elbow. There’s not enough room on the stairs for them to walk down side-by-side, and so Daniil leads the way, Peter’s careful steps an even tap tap on the steps behind him. “He’s always emphasized how important it is for him to take care of you,” Daniil continues, but Peter remains silent. He tends toward a darker side of apathy when the subject of his brother comes up in conversation. Daniil’s gathered that there’s some bad blood between the two of them, but assumes it inappropriate to ask what the issue is. If Peter wants to tell him about it, he will do so in his own time. So instead of asking or continuing farther down that path, Daniil chews on his lip, and guides Peter down the stairs and out the door.

Peter’s first reaction to the outside world is to hold his hand up over his eyes and block the light out. It’s poetic, Daniil thinks, that Peter has spent so much time drowning in his sorrows, hiding in the literal darkness of his loft that he would, naturally, recoil at the sun. He shudders at the chill in the air, his usual jacket still slung over his shoulders without his hands in the sleeves, and ducks his head. With his hair braided back, nothing falls in front of his eyes to filter rays. Daniil gives him a moment to adjust before he pulls him out onto the road and to the left, down the street.

His breaths come out loud, and Daniil recognizes the hitch of panic between them. He stops on the street, turning to get a look at his companion, but Peter’s mossy eyes are on the ground. Daniil shakes his arm, but Peter doesn’t attempt to stop their forward march.

He doesn’t notice the children who turn and stare at them, not at first. Daniil feels the change in the tension of his arm immediately when he does, eyes flickering to the small child whose got her wide eyes pinned on him. Peter stops moving to match her stare, hands pressed together. Daniil’s eyes hover on Peter for a second before he looks over to the little girl. “Hello,” he begins, and wonders if he should let go of Peter’s arm to kneels and speak with the child, but her eyes do not divert from Peter.

With a ball tucked up under the left arm, she points with her right at Peter’s shoulder, and blurts out, “Why’s your coat so big?”

Daniil opens his mouth, ready to answer for him, but reconsiders. He closes, pressing his lips together, and looks to Peter. He should wait and see what he does, how he reacts. It takes Peter a moment to come up with an answer, shrugging a little, the coat shifting under the roll of his shoulders. “It’s like a blanket,” he says softly. “It hides me.”

The child fidgets with her toy, shifting it in her arms to balance it on her stomach, staring at where his hands aren’t poking out through the sleeves. “It looks like a cape,” she decides, and looks back up at Peter’s face, squinting against the light. “Can you fly with it?”

Daniil wants desperately to say something about aviation, about imagination and drive, about Daedalus and wax wings, but it could be too much for Peter to deal with. He’s painting the Polyhedron now, but to point out his goal was the untouchable sun may be too harsh for someone he is trying to encourage, so he bites down on it. Maybe Andrey or Yulia would appreciate the symbolism more. Peter shakes his head, and closes his eyes against the light. “Not anymore, girl.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t ask any further questions, eyes back down on the ball in her hands, frowning. Daniil is curious if she was one of the tots housed safely in the Polyhedron before Block evacuated them all. Even if she was, he highly doubts she’d recognize the architects responsible for her beloved Tower. Would any of them?

Peter’s words are a little heavy for a child to accept, for even if she does not grasp the metaphors of his speech, she surely recognized the loss in his tone. The children here have grown all too accustomed to loss, and Daniil hates to see it. Perhaps it’s just the air here – perhaps it’s nothing but Daniil’s anxious mind - but everything feels far too tense for his liking now. He runs his tongue over his lips, his voice coming out dusty as he speaks. “Maybe one day, you will.”

Her eyes turn to Daniil, looking relieved that someone else has started speaking. “Maybe,” she says with a nod, “if I get a half that’s a bird. A giant one. A falcon, or an eagle!” She holds the ball up to her nose, eyes peeking over the curve. “We’re going to play ball in the courtyard. D’you wanna join us, Uncle Bachelor?”

“Not today, pumpkin. I have errands to run.” He gestures by tugging on Peter’s arm a little, and he watches as the little girl’s eyes flick back over to Peter.

She moves a little in his direction. “Vanya told me it’s rude not to ask everyone. So do you wanna come, mister?” Peter shakes his head. She doesn’t ask twice or wait for a verbal reply before scampering off. That was disastrous, Daniil thinks. He has to assume Peter communicated better with Grace when she was in his care, given the way she talks about visiting him. With that interaction under their belts, they’re back off, heading down the street when Peter’s voice picks up, a tone lighter than usual.

“You seem good with kids, Daniil.” There’s a fond look on Peter’s face, one that almost betrays amusement. If he realized how awkward that last encounter was, he doesn’t mention it, or otherwise express that he’s aware. He simply walks by Daniil’s side, his other hand overlapped with Daniil’s on his elbow. “How did that happen?”

Daniil shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. He’s never thought about it before. “They come up and talk to me, and I talk back.” He looks down the streets, eyes narrowed as he maps out a circuit in his mind. “I don’t understand much of the things the children here say. But then, I’ve never understood much of what the adults talk about either, and I have far more respect for the children. Sunt pueri pueri, pueri puerilia tracant. Adults should be different.”

Peter takes a moment to consider his words, and Daniil can feel his countenance being assessed. He doubts he looks much like someone who would enjoy spending time with kids. “Adults are often childish themselves,” Peter counters.

“Like you?” Daniil doesn’t mean for the words to slip out, hand whipping up to cover his mouth. He looks at Peter carefully, concerned that he might have ruined things, but Peter’s lips are upturned. His fingers curl tighter around Daniil’s in reassurance, his pace picking up. It is, to Daniil, a rather odd reaction to having been insulted. Maybe Peter had not read his words as an offensive; children had been the only others to see the beauty of his remarkable creation, perhaps he took Daniil’s words as compliment.

There’s a set list of errands to run and chores to complete that Daniil has in mind for today. Purchasing new clothes, new shoes, groceries to restock Peter’s icebox, something to ease the imminent symptoms of withdrawal. He doesn’t know what to do about the latter, hasn’t been in Town long enough to know what people have tried and failed to pry themselves away from twyrine. It’s something he’s thinking he’ll have to ask Artemy about – and then, as if by magic, Artemy appears before them, halted outside the doors to the Termitary. His eyes squint at Daniil and Peter before they meet recognition and widen. Daniil raises his arm in a wave.

Peter keeps his head bowed as Artemy approaches, his face contorted into a strangely strained expression. Artemy looks between the two of them, and takes a moment to digest the image before he says, “Hello.” Peter mumbles back a greeting that even Daniil cannot make out, his eyes finally turning up. But his gaze not at Artemy; he’s looking up at the building in front of them.

Artemy follows Peter’s gaze, jaw unclenching to stretch as his eyes move back to Peter’s face. “It’s good to see you outside, Peter,” he says. Then he starts to look at Daniil, mouth open, only to get distracted. His eyes fix on where Daniil’s hand rests. Artemy’s eyebrows raise, head tilting just enough to let his eyes catch Daniil’s. The question in them is obvious, but Daniil cannot determine why it’s being asked.

What are you doing?

“The Bachelor is taking me out for a walk,” Peter says. It conjures to mind one of his colleague’s small dogs, shaking like a leaf out in the frigid weather, unable to be kept all day in an apartment. Peter is not nearly as restless. Artemy clicks his tongue against his teeth, and Daniil’s focus snaps back to the present. “I haven’t been outside in a while,” Peter explains, and starts to gesture to the structure in front of them. “This building…”

“That’s the Termitary,” Artemy says. They’re not looking at Peter, they’re looking at Daniil. It’s fine – Peter’s not looking at them, either, eyes locked on the Termitary. Artemy’s expression morphs into something like dismay, and Daniil thinks the whole thing will be objectively very funny if only he can understand why Artemy is giving him the look he is. “The Kin used to be locked up in there. The Inquisitor let them out near the end of those two weeks.” They briefly turn their head to look out into the distance. “They’ve all left for the steppe.” Peter hums, thoughtful, and Daniil swears he hears the man whisper ‘That’s so many souls,’ but he can’t be too sure.

“Do you need something, Burakh?” Daniil asks, since they’ve gone back to staring at him. Artemy closes their eyes and rubs their brow, letting out a huff of exasperation. Daniil does not much like the sound of it. “We have some things we want to get done today, but if you need something –“

“Peter,” Artemy cuts off, his hand going to Daniil’s shoulder. It’s a tighter grasp than he’s ever used with Daniil before. Daniil knows from the way he tugs that he’s done something wrong, but he can’t even begin to imagine what. Daniil’s lips pull back into a grimace at the hold, but he doesn’t try wiggling from Artemy’s grasp just yet. “Do you mind if I borrow your…” Peter looks over to him, finally, eyes on where Artemy’s hand sits on Daniil’s shoulder. He blinks, slowly. “Bachelor, for a minute?”

They don’t wait for Peter to respond, taking Daniil and pushing him in the direction of the Termitary. Daniil has only been in the building a handful of times during those twelve days, but the way it looms over everything else had made him feel ill before he’d even entered the first time. And now that there’s the memory of death hanging around it, the scent of decay in the air, it’s even worse. His anxiety rolls around in his stomach like rocks rolling over one another in a sack, his eyes moving up to meet Artemy’s with an expression he hopes says Please, take pity on me.

Artemy’s hand doesn’t leave his shoulder once they’ve moved out of Peter’s earshot, leveling their left hand between themselves and Daniil. “Peter?” they ask, tone incredulous. “You went from one brother to the other? Jesus Christ, Dankovsky.”

Daniil is baffled by their logic. He hasn’t really thought of things that way. Yes, of course, Peter is attractive, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Daniil is interested in him, or that Peter is interested in Daniil. “I’m just helping him,” he begins, but he can feel the words and their credibility slipping out from under him as he speaks. He can see in Artemy’s expression that the other doesn’t quite believe him. “Andrey asked me to check in on him, and he needs – He needs help, Burakh. And I may not be a therapist, but I do know a fair bit about depression. Both Peter and myself have suffered major setbacks due to the destruction of the Polyhedron – not, of course, that I blame you.” He pauses to take a breath, and the guilt from not being entirely honest eats at him. “Anymore, anyway,” he admits, and doesn’t miss the quick, sharp look that earns him. He shakes his head and his hand, continuing, “Who better to help Peter than somebody who so intimately understands?”

“’Helping him’?” Artemy doesn’t quite mimic him, but the disbelief is etched into the words all the same. They let go of Daniil’s shoulder to run their hands over their face, groaning as they dig fingers into the corners of their eyes. “Shit. This is what you meant, isn’t it? Your ‘project’. Your project is Peter.”

“Well, sort of. My project is helping Peter to get his life in order, so that he can officially adopt Grace.” Daniil smiles at Artemy, proud of himself and his little goal. It isn’t as grand as defeating death, but it isn’t like that plan is going anywhere any time soon. He has time to regroup and come back to it, and in the meantime, completing this project is doing something worthwhile. He’s helping someone, the way a doctor should.

He hears the word heartless echo around in his head, and he pridefully kicks at it. Those people were wrong. Daniil Dankovsky has friends. Maybe he didn’t always, but now he helps people, simply because he can. Because it’s the right thing to do. And for now, it feels good.

Except that Artemy doesn’t look nearly as impressed with this plan as Daniil is. They’re giving him a look of exasperation, and Daniil’s little smile falls from his face before Artemy even speaks. “Are you out of your mind, oynon? He’s an addict.” Daniil’s shocked to hear such harsh words come from Artemy, of all people. His opinion of the man, as someone above such petty concerns and shallow ideas, shifts uncomfortably in his head. “And people aren’t projects,” Artemy continues. “They’re not things you can pick up and discard once you’re finished playing with them –“

“If I didn’t value our friendship quite as much as I do, Burakh, I’d slap you.” Artemy’s mouth closes quickly, set in a straight line. Daniil has started to care a great deal about Artemy’s opinion on things, but this - this is not the Artemy he expects. He doesn’t care if he’s slipping back into old, difficult behaviors. Damn what Burakh thinks. “How can you chastise me for my actions when you say the word addict with such venom in your mouth?” For once, he’s managed to catch Artemy off guard, lashes fluttering and lips parting with surprise. Good. “Do his desires not matter? Is he not entitled to happiness?”

He doesn’t wait for Artemy to reply, turning around to walk away from him. He can feel anger boiling in his stomach and rising up his chest. Anger, and something else too – Humiliation? Or just…sadness? Now there’s a voice whispering to him, saying you should have known, and he needs to leave before he says something to Artemy he won’t be able to take back. Daniil can’t tell, but it does feel like his nose is running, rubbing it with the back of his glove. He doesn’t want to break down in front of anybody, swallowing down all the emotion threatening to break free of his body. He feels like slapping himself.

He manages not to. It takes a moment to locate Peter, who has wandered off to look at the Termitary from the side, inspecting its many windows. Daniil’s not sure what it is the other man is looking for, or what it is he sees when he gazes at it. All Daniil can think of is the massive shadow it casts, and how it feels like he’s drowning under it.

When he reaches Peter, he notes that the other man’s fingers shake. He’d been hopeful, but he’s not stupid. He’s not nearly as stupid as people think he is.

Peter turns as Daniil approaches, though Daniil has turned his head to focus his expression on the grass beneath them. Peter’s fingers touch Daniil’s cheek softly, coaxing him to look up. Daniil doesn’t want to think about how it all must feel to him.

“Come on,” Daniil says, tugging Peter’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s taken them two days of nonstop research to find the recipe in one of their father’s journals, handwriting horribly cramped and crossed out in several places. It then takes another full day of herb collecting and trading with the odonghe before they’re able to actually brew the damn thing, and by this time a knot has truly settled in their stomach. Artemy doesn’t like for arguments to go unresolved, and the way Daniil had looked at them before he walked away…

Their stomach turns over. They feel nauseated.

He always gets like this when he senses some sting of rejection. Not that it’s made him less foolhardy with his choices or his words. He’d been so self-assured of his rightness when he pulled Daniil aside that he just spoke without thinking through any of the things he was saying. And now, look at where that had gotten him. It shouldn’t even bother them that much. They’ve argued with Daniil over worse, have thought worse things and said worse things and not even just to Daniil. This wasn’t likely to seriously impact anything, but they still feel the need to make some sort of amends for it.

Which is why they’ve put all this effort into making these tinctures in the first place. Days of work to create a batch of medications said to ease the symptoms of withdrawal. An olive branch to extend so they can forget their stupid fight and pretend like the whole thing never happened. The same way things always were between him and Stakh.

(The comparison doesn’t sit well with him. He doesn’t know why.)

Artemy shoves a couple of the bottles into his pockets and heads out from the Lair. It’s after dusk now, and if he’s lucky he’ll catch the two of them at dinner. He starts to question whether he should bring something with him, like bread or water, but there’s not much more he can fit in his pockets and it’s not as though he intends to stay longer than he needs to, anyway. He already bungled things once, he doesn’t intend to make himself a third wheel to their relationship.

They’re surprised to find their feet no longer stick to the wooden steps leading up to Peter’s loft. They can’t imagine someone as low-energy and apathetic as Peter on their hands and knees scrubbing the floor, but then who else is there? Daniil’s too posh for labor like that. Andrey’s always an option, they suppose, given the man’s overprotective streak. He’d probably be willing to pitch in to help his brother out, and he cares enough about orderliness to take decent care of his pub. And he does care a lot about that pub, from what Artemy can tell. Enough that he wouldn’t even leave the damn building to cart his own drunk boyfriend home – not that Artemy’s bitter about the topic, or anything.

He doesn’t knock before he enters Peter’s flat, fully expecting him to be getting retailored by Daniil, dressed up like a paper doll in the same sort of gaudy clothes the shorter man sports. But when he enters, he finds Peter alone at his desk, sketching. He should perhaps announce his presence, but he’s never actually seen the man at work before and uses this opportunity to spy on him a little. He works with charcoal against a fragile-looking paper, his movements quick and precise. It is, Artemy realizes belatedly, a little mesmerizing to watch him in action.

And the face he sketches is not of the young Kaina, with whom he’d been told all Utopians were taken. It’s shorter hair, thicker brows, lighter eyes, and a scar on the cheek. One that Artemy’s never really noticed before.

“He is pretty, isn’t he?” Artemy startles a little, grip going tight along the body of the tincture in their hand. They didn’t think Peter had even noticed them there, caught up as he was in his actions. They don’t say anything in response to Peter’s words. They’re not sure what they would say. “Just as much for what he tries to hide as for what he reveals.” And they don’t know what the hell that means, either. Daniil always seems to blurt out the first thing to cross his mind, whether he should or not. It’s something they unfortunately have in common, and it’s gotten the both of them into trouble.

Like they’re about to do now. “I still think it’s strange you’re seeing the same man your brother dated not a month ago. That just seems bizarre. I have to admit I’m curious how Andrey feels about it.” Peter gives him a withering look, one he’s gotten used to accompanying words of condescension. It strikes him then that Andrey might not even know about the two of them. The look makes him feel all sheepish, but he’s not the one with a secret to hide. He puffs his chest out, ready for the inevitable. “I guess you’re going to tell me I don’t get it?”

“I’m going to tell you it’s none of your business,” Peter corrects. His tone is remarkably polite, considering the invasion of privacy. In his place, Artemy doubts he’d be so civil. Peter eyes turn from Artemy back to his drawing, appraising it. It only looks half-finished, but he sets it aside all the same. He’s not expecting the other man to continue, but Peter surprises him. “We both see the impossible. We want to bring it to life.” Artemy watches as he reaches a hand under his desk, and pulls out a full bottle of twyrine. He tips his head, and sees a few empties lined up under the desk. When he stands back up, Peter has the cork on the table, and the head of the bottle to his lips. “There’s nothing more for you to understand.”

That’s more than he honestly expected to get out of Peter. He isn’t wrong, exactly, about it being none of Artemy’s business. A terrible thought passes through his head, that Dankovsky may not want anything to do with him if he settles down with Peter, and it sends his body into a sort of shock, his spine rigid and his sweat cold.

When he speaks, his teeth grind. “Where is he?” Artemy doesn’t bother specifying who he means or why he’s asking. He sounds angry letting these words out, as if what Daniil may or may not ever do in the future somehow lands all on Peter’s shoulders right now.

Not that Peter seems at all perturbed by his words or how he says them. He nods his head back in the direction of the window, taking another long sip from his bottle. “He’s playing ball with the kids in that courtyard.”

“Dankovsky.” It’s meant to be a question, to be asked, but it comes out as a straight assertion of the man’s name, simple as breathing. He has to put a little more disbelief behind it when he repeats, “Dankovsky is outside playing ball with a group of kids? Daniil Dankovsky?”

“They asked him a couple of days ago,” Peter says, his tone taking on more stability with the drink in his stomach. “But we were out walking. They caught him today.” Artemy feels their face threatening to do some involuntary twitching, their mouth unsure what to do with itself. He almost thinks it’s going for a smile, and his whole chest flips excitedly.

Ridiculous behavior. Artemy has to calm their beating heart, has to fix their gaze into a neutral expression aimed at the desk. It’s safer, that way. They change the topic: “I brought you a tincture to help you out with the withdrawals.” Peter looks at it in their hand, but doesn’t take it from them, so Artemy sets it down on the desk in front of him. They continue to stare, not saying a word. “I made up a couple batches, but I only brought three bottles with me. It’s all I could fit for now, but you can always come and find me if you need more.”

Peter doesn’t even nod. He just takes another sip from his bottle of twyrine.

Artemy tries not to grind his teeth at the image. He wonders if Dankovsky knows, playing with the kids in the courtyard, what Peter’s up to right now. If he’s aware of just how painfully his plan isn’t working. He can’t imagine he does, not if he’s off playing ball with a group of kids instead of watching over Peter like a hawk. He could say a lot of things about the man, but he couldn’t imagine him any other way then tenacious, persistent. That’s why the bottles are hidden under Peter’s desk; out of sight, out of mind. “That shit will kill you,” Artemy says, just to see if he’s listening.

“Quod me nutrit, me destruit.” Great. Another one with Latin. Artemy rolls his eyes, setting the other two bottles of tincture on the desk and contemplating whether he should find Dankovsky and tell him his boyfriend’s a lost cause, or if the man would still slap him for his efforts, when Peter breaks his thoughts again. “You all think I want to do this.” Artemy turns and blinks at him. Peter is actually looking at Artemy, his green eyes red in the whites. He wonders how long the man has gone without sleeping, without a proper meal. “You think it’s something I enjoy. My brother thinks I have a choice.” He sets his own bottle down, and reaches for the tincture, turning it over in his hands.

Artemy’s conflicted, running their tongue over their teeth as they watch him. They’re trying so very hard not to scowl, to keep Daniil’s words in mind. “If you don’t want to be doing this,” they ask, “then why are you?” Peter’s often slow to answer, but he looks noncommittal here, and Artemy’s not sure how much time they have before Daniil returns and finds them like this, and it’s suddenly so, so important to Artemy that Daniil never know they came over. They reach across Peter’s arm and pick the drawing of Daniil up, showing it to Peter. “He wants you to quit. Grace needs you to quit. If you aren’t enough and your brother isn’t enough, isn’t one of them enough?”

They want Peter to make some sort of face at them, or get angry, to react in any way to the words they’re saying, but he just sits there, staring forlornly at the work he’s completed so far. They think, uncharitably, that he’s given up halfway on it, the way he has the stairs to heaven, the way he has recovery, the way he has with Grace. Artemy sets the paper back on the desk with a smack, charcoal rubbing off on his hands. And he feels embarrassed, taking it away, looking at the smudges. Silently, Peter turns his head to look up at Artemy.

And he looks tired. He looks so very, very tired. Artemy starts to feel guilt manifesting uncomfortably in his stomach. Guilt, and pity. He breathes out through his mouth, watching Peter set the bottle back down. “I’ll pour it out,” Peter says softly, “and it doesn’t matter. I’ll try, and when it gets too hard, I’ll fail again. And things will break, like they always do.”

“You’ve tried it before.” Another question Artemy doesn’t ask. He suddenly finds he doesn’t need to. Peter nods at them, and Artemy shifts their feet, trying to find a solution, to find some bright spot for him. “Maybe this time, it’ll work. You can –“

But Peter’s already shaking his head. “It’s not about will, old boy. That’s why you don’t understand it.” He re-sorts the papers on his desk. Underneath, Artemy sees a picture of Grace, lovingly rendered, but unfinished. “Love won’t fix it. You think I haven’t loved before? You think I won’t love again?” They watch as Peter moves to the sink, listens to the sound of liquid draining out of the bottle. It’s a quiet, uncomfortable moment before Peter’s speaking again. “Thank you for bringing those by. But I won’t be needing the others.”

Artemy wants to be angry at his defeatism, but he just feels…sad. His eyes float back to the picture of Dankovsky, stomach sinking. He thinks about the hopes Daniil’s placed on Peter, and the gut-crushing pain he’ll experience when things fall apart again. Or maybe that’s Artemy’s own pain he’s feeling, staring at the scars on the picture’s cheek.

It’s been a little over a month - six weeks that Daniil has worked to try and help Peter into some sort of a routine, to something resembling normalcy. And he stands with Peter in front of Saburov, hair cleaned and neatly tied back, his posture… well, a little straighter than normal, his clothes a little better-fitting, pleading the case for his adoption of Grace. And Daniil knows the chances for the first trial are not very good. But he’s still surprised when Alexander sits down, gets a look at them both, and says “No” without reading a single document.

Daniil’s mouth hangs open. He remembers to close it just in time for a retort to form, words flying from his mouth, rasher than he should be. “On what grounds do you issue an immediate denial of custody?”

Saburov gestures to where Peter stands, but Daniil refuses to look. He’s seen the charcoal portrait of Grace, heard Peter speak about the joy her visitation brought to the both of them, helped him consider what sorts of accommodations she would need if she were to come and live with him and take action toward making them. The flat isn’t perfect, certainly, but he was at least hoping someone would come out and give them some idea of what all they would need to complete. The governor merely says, “On the grounds that I am Alexander Saburov, and he is Peter Stamatin.”

And this is the man he is to bargain with for a hospital? Daniil’s hands ball into fists at his sides, shoulders raising up beside his ears. “All of this over some petty feud? Some baseless accusation of murder from – what is it, ten years ago? Fifteen? Fiat iustitia et pereat mundus.”

“Cessante ratione legis cessat ipsa lex, Bachelor.” Daniil blinks back, flustered. Saburov has the gall to look at him with amusement, uncrossing his leg and leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair. “I assure you I have my reasons, Dankovsky.”

“And what are they?” he demands. He points to the file on Saburov’s desk to gesture, “You haven’t even had a look at his file.”

“I know what’s in it. Do you think I’m blind? I’ve watched the two of you preparing for this day from my own window.” Daniil huffs, crossing his arms under his chest. He wishes he could squeeze himself tighter, but the binder’s doing enough as it is. Saburov tries to give him a sympathetic look, but Daniil’s unmoved by it. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, more that your word may be compromised by your feelings.” Daniil opens his mouth to argue, but Alexander holds his hand up. “What do you know about Grace?”

“She’s an orphan,” Daniil says, voice flat. “Her father had been the undertaker, and when he died, all duties fell to her. Not that anyone gave a shit before I showed up and had Dora move her.” He thinks it’s only fair to point that out, but the other man rubs his temples and sighs. Daniil presses his tongue between his lips, gesturing at nothing before he continues. “And anyway, you’re the one who oversaw her placement with Stamatin in the first place –“

“Those were desperate times, and I recognize now the mistake that I made.” He looks up at Daniil, and Daniil sees less spite behind those eyes now than he had a month ago. He looks at Daniil now quite seriously, fingernail digging into the wood of his chair’s arm. “Dankovsky,” he says, in that slow voice teachers used to use on him in primary school, “her father was a twyrine drunk. He used to give her that swill as well. It’s why she thinks her blood is poisoned.” He pauses to give Daniil time to digest his words before he continues. “Have you ever considered what effect Peter’s condition might have on her?”

Daniil’s suddenly getting a picture in mind of day seven, pacing in the Town Hall when Artemy came in, of offloading his problems to the other man’s shoulders and telling him, quite plainly, that he couldn’t have cared less what Grace’s problem was. He suddenly feels so small, and embarrassed, and irresponsible. This, too, was his fault in a way. He’d played his own part in this ordeal before he ever decided to take on Peter’s problems. He falters, but he starts to respond, “He’s trying –“

“And he’ll fail.” Saburov says the words as gently as he’s capable of, making Daniil refocus his attention not on the papers on his desk, but on the man giving him his verdict. “He’s tried to quit before, and it hasn’t worked.” He watches Saburov flip through the file, and close it over. “Frankly, Dankovsky, it doesn’t matter what Stamatin wants. I’m thrilled if there’s less children on the streets, we’ve got more than we know what to do with between the war and the Pest. But we need to make sure we’re sending them to good homes, not to homes that we know will retraumatize them.”

“There’s plenty of drunks out there right now with children being traumatized by their actions,” Daniil says, and he can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. Not even as Saburov raises his eyebrows at him. “I don’t see you formulating any plans to take care of those children.”

“No, but perhaps you will with that clinic you intend to open.” Right. The message is clear – Daniil had better keep his mouth shut. And so he does, with a bit of a snap. He can see that despite the relative success for him, what Saburov should consider a win, he doesn’t look particularly happy. Like everyone else, he just looks exhausted. “If he gets clean, he can have custody. But it won’t be an easy thing for him, Dankovsky. It’s never easy.”

Daniil swallows, throat unnaturally tight, and turns around to face Peter. Only now he sees that the man is no longer standing beside him, or anywhere nearby. He doesn’t have anything else to say to Saburov and it’s imperative he find Peter as quickly as possibly, and so exits the Town Hall with no further words exchanged.

He’s confronted immediately with Artemy Burakh. They’re not on their way anywhere, simply standing outside the building, as if they’ve been waiting for him. Daniil realizes that they probably have, though they haven’t truly spoken since their argument. It makes Daniil’s chest ache, seeing them in the light like this, standing there and waiting. Artemy takes a few steps closer, expression grim. “I saw Peter leave,” they say. “And then you didn’t come out.”

Daniil keeps his voice measured, his tone flat. He tries to keep in mind both that he is supposed to be upset with Artemy, and that he would like to refrain from instigating another argument with him. “How did you know we were coming today?”

“I didn’t. I just felt my Lines being pulled here.” It sounds like bullshit to Daniil. Andrey must have said something to Grief, and Grief must have said something to Artemy. News travels fast here. There’s no reason for any mystical force to bring Artemy to him. “I wanted to talk to you,” they say. “I wanted to apologize for what I said. I didn’t mean to accuse you –“

“Cut the crap, Burakh. Of course you meant to.” That even, tempered tone is starting to fail. Starting to give way to the hurt he’s been trying desperately to compartmentalize. He wants to make a joke of it, where it’s safe. Something something something, Daniil Dankovsky is heartless. But that’s not what comes out. “You’ve always seen me that way, you’re just used to hiding your animosity beneath sarcasm. No, I couldn’t possibly have wanted to create a vaccine for survival, that had to be because I desired acclaim. No, I couldn’t possibly care about the spread of an outbreak, that had to be because I had ambition. You had spoken to me, what, twice?” This doesn’t matter, why am I even bringing it up? “If that’s how you want to view me, fine. At least do me the decency of not lying so blatantly to my face.”

Artemy is silent for a moment. It seems like he’s struggling with something, and Daniil doesn’t know if he should wait for him, or head back to check on Peter. There’s a hurt he feels clawing at his chest, desperate and aching, that demands to be dealt with in the moment. He doesn’t want to leave the scene here and have more to deal with at a later date.

But he really should make Peter his priority.

When he starts to walk, he hears them. Footsteps, just behind him. He feels fingers circle his wrist, not tightly, just enough to get his attention, to pull him to a stop. “Daniil. I don’t want to fight with you.” His throat constricts at the sound of his name. Why does it hurt so much? He tries to think of how long it’s been since he’s said that. Surely they’ve called each other by first name before. “I’m sorry. For what I said about Peter, you were right to call me out on it. And for what I said about you… I meant it, yes.” His hand squeezes Daniil’s wrist, his tone so painfully soft as he says, “And I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Daniil isn’t sure what to say to him. Artemy just keeps a hold on his wrist. He feels his nose start to run again, rubbing it with the back of his glove. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, even tone ruined, “I guess you weren’t entirely wrong about me.” He tries to force a smile back onto his face, though it’s a falsehood and Artemy can’t see it anyway. “I am ambitious. I do have dreams that no one else can touch. And with Peter, I… wanted to take care of someone. Because I thought it would be nice.” He shakes his head. “How selfish of me.”

Their thumb caresses the back of Daniil’s wrist, and Daniil hopes Artemy can’t feel the way his pulse jumps. “Caring about people isn’t selfish. Wanting to care for them isn’t selfish, either.” Daniil shakes his head. “What? What are you thinking?”

“It is when I do it,” Daniil says softly. He can feel Artemy mounting some sort of defense, and he tries to explain. “I don’t know how to do it right, the way you do it. How to care for people, how to stop being heartless.”

He feels Artemy step closer, his other hand on Daniil’s shoulder. “There is no simple way to learn it. Care is an active choice. Loving people is an active choice. And you’re making it, Daniil.” They squeeze his shoulder, and he feels like an ice cracking under pressure. “Why would you be in there arguing with Saburov if you didn’t care about Peter, if you didn’t love him? How can you call yourself heartless for that?”

“Then why does it feel like I always do it wrong? Why does it never work?”

“That’s just being alive.” He feels that same sensation, the almost-humiliation, like a child being comforted by a parent. He hates it, this feeling of smallness, and how much it helps to have Artemy here to process it with him. “It’s going to hurt. That’s how you know it’s real.” Their fingertips press against Daniil’s neck, sliding underneath the cravat. A quiet moment goes by before he says, “I care about you, and I still fucked up. And it sucked. But I’m going to keep trying.” Daniil feels their movements hesitate with something that could be guilt. “I… think I should tell you. Peter is going to –“

“Relapse. I know.” Daniil sniffs, rubbing just below his eyelid. “He’s not the first alcoholic I’ve known, Burakh. Just the first I’ve tried to help.” He laughs, hollowly. “Isn’t that wonderful for a doctor? To never have helped before?”

“It’s not a decision you can force. You can only do what the patient is willing.” Another pause, and their words come out practiced, as if reciting the words from memory. “There are some things in this world you cannot simply will into being.” Daniil considers it for a moment, still trying to rouse himself to movement. But then he feels all his energy sap, falling back on his heels. For a few brief moments, he’ll allow himself to be comforted.

Chapter Text

It takes Daniil twenty-five minutes to calm down enough to make his way back to Peter’s loft. Artemy kept his hand on Daniil’s shoulder the whole time he fumbled, trying to keep his head turned so the other man could not see the way his eyes watered in frustration. He does not permit himself to think of his reaction as anything more than that, whatever clawing and aching feelings have been rising in his stomach. And Artemy does not pressure him to turn around or show his face, rubbing his back in comforting circles. He is, clearly, much more adept at comforting people than Daniil had ever been, but for once the reminder does not leave a bitter taste in Daniil’s mouth.

His moment of weariness ends, and he straightens. Artemy’s hand slips from his back, their fingers leaving Daniil’s hand dangling at his side.

The last few weeks have brought more intimacy into Daniil’s life than the past twenty-eight years of life combined. His parents were not exactly cold or distant, the way many middle-class parents are, but Daniil had never sought out affection in the ways he was expected to. Receiving it now feels almost overwhelming for him. Had Artemy not moved their hands when they did, Daniil would have tried to simply shrug out from under them.

He’s not sure why Artemy decides to follow him back to Peter’s loft. He’s not even sure what made Artemy decide to come and find him or apologize in the first place. Daniil has never managed to keep a friend past an argument, and he can’t imagine what Artemy possibly stands to gain from doing so. There’s no reason for Artemy to accompany Daniil the way he does, but he follows anyway, just a few steps behind Daniil with his eyes trained on Daniil’s back.

The weather is lovely despite the dismal circumstances leading Daniil back to where he started. He hears children around the streets as he walks, chasing each other around, enjoying their freedom. He’s certain the noise and happiness will only serve to dampen the architect’s mood. He can picture now the way the curtains will be drawn shut inside the loft, poorly hidden bottles of twyrine stacking up on his desk. Daniil worries at his lip as he envisions Peter’s hair down in tangles around his neck, head in his hands, unshed tears in his eyes. He only hopes he’s not too late to offer the other man some comfort.

When they arrive they are greeted by Andrey, waiting for them on the steps with his hands resting on his knees. His jacket has been pulled a little closed over his chest, and although he still has not donned a shirt he has a scarf wrapped around his neck to protect against the chill of the air. Daniil is not in a good enough mood to analyze how silly it looks, his lips forming a thin line as Andrey stands to greet them, his hands on his hips.

Andrey’s eyes linger on Artemy first, giving him a curt nod before he turns his focus to Daniil. Daniil thinks, not for the first time, that Andrey looks exhausted, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. It’s a feature Daniil is starting to recognize on nearly everyone he meets in Town.

Andrey cuts to the chase: “He doesn’t want to see you.” His voice is low and quiet, uncharacteristic for the overprotective nature he normally wears with such pride. It is perhaps a benefit of their friendship, as Daniil is not just anyone coming to check on his beloved brother. He is not Saburov or one of the Kains, but a friend. Andrey’s mouth pulls at the corners, his lips flattening as his frown strains. “He doesn’t want you to see him in this sorry state, back on the bottle.”

Daniil won’t pretend the rejection doesn’t sting, but he also won’t pretend that this conclusion is a surprise. He swallows, and nods just once. If Peter needs his space - if Peter needs to break down - then Daniil will accept that. It’s not unusual for progress to be met with the occasional setback. Even if this outcome in the culmination of so much work makes him feel so helpless.

Andrey claps a hand on Daniil’s shoulder and squeezes. It’s good to know that after everything, he can still lend his support and camaraderie in little ways. Daniil had been afraid to lose this friendship – too afraid to even reach out and bother trying to make it work. Just another thing he’s failed at, in trying to capture an impossible goal. “Don’t take it personally, Danko,” Andrey says. His eyes are brimming with an unexpressed emotion – masked, as usual, by anger. Saburov had better watch his back.

“I won’t,” Daniil says. He clears his throat, stepping back from the stairs to look up through the windows. The curtains are drawn now, as he’d expected they would be. He lowers his head again to look at Andrey, fingers squeezing around each other as he speaks. “You’ll make sure he gets clean water and something solid in his stomach?” Andrey nods, and there’s not much else Daniil can possibly say. He takes a step back and turns around to look at Artemy, watching as they wave to Andrey before heading around the side of the apartment, and down the road.

Their route now is the same as Daniil and Peter’s was the day of his fight with Artemy. It makes Daniil feel uneasy. No, that’s not quite right; it makes Daniil feel sad. And those are words dangerous to think, emotions dangerous to accept, but there’s no real point in hiding them when it’s just him and Artemy. He has friends, yes. Of course he does. He likes to think of Andrey and Peter as his friends, if they’ll still have him – and Yulia as well, and Eva. But it’s not quite the same. He and Artemy share a tragedy, share a trauma. Others experienced the Pest, but never from their point of view. It makes him wonder where Clara is hiding, if she’s staying safe. If she’s sleeping. If she’s eating.

“You alright, erdem?” Artemy’s kept pace with him, and it occurs to Daniil now that they’ve walked a decent length in such a short span of time. He’s used to that, to running around cities trying to get from place to place as quickly as possible. But things are different out here, slower. There’s nowhere he needs to be, but he wants all this energy out of his system. Otherwise it just turns into nerves, heavy and unpleasant beneath his fingertips.

There was no reason for them to come out this way, he realizes. He spent all that time during the plague with his map out, running from place to place, and still he is getting himself (and Artemy) lost. “I don’t know where the hell I’m going,” he confesses. Artemy laughs behind him, a soft and endearing sound. “Today isn’t going at all how I’d planned, and now I’m at a loss. I don’t know where to go.”

“My house is nearby,” Artemy points out. Daniil can sense a hint in his words, and feels his cheeks burn. There’s no way Artemy is aware of how those words make him feel. He hopes to god Artemy can’t see it. “We still have some work to do on our presentation for the clinic. You could come by and help me think up a few things?” Daniil shrugs as if it doesn’t matter much to him, and allows Artemy walk him back the way they came.

As they walk away from the Termitary, a thought occurs to Daniil. “Artemy,” he calls, and waits for the man’s head to whip around to continue, “you said the Kin had gone to – to Shekhen, was it? I’ve just wondered, what will become of your town’s meat production now that they’ve left?” He can feel himself babbling, but now that he’s started speaking, he can’t make himself stop. "The settlers all seem stuck to the same rules, despite not being from the culture, and this seems to be your town’s main export and livelihood. I can’t very well imagine they’ll listen to the younger Vladislav Olgimsky, even if they hadn’t left. What will become of our town now?” Artemy stops walking, blinking at him. Daniil’s not sure what to make of his expression. He stops walking as well, and blinks back. “Have I… did I mispronounce the name of your village?”

His cheeks look dusted with pink, his mouth crooked in a half-smile. He cuts to the quick. “You called me Artemy." Daniil watches as he turns his head, looking off in the direction of his home.

It’s not like Artemy to be shy. Daniil feels discomfort prick up along his arms at the thought of having spoken while unaware of what he was saying. Did he really address Artemy by first name, outside the comfort of his head? He hadn’t even meant to do it internally, and despite his attempts to focus he can’t recall the first time he did so. “My apologies,” he says, and Artemy shakes his head. “Would you like me to go back to using ‘Burakh’?”

“Honestly? No. I’ve always hated that you called me by last name.” Daniil’s eyes flutter in shock. He’d never had someone complain about it before. He rarely called people by their given names. It simply felt too intimate, and people in the Capital clearly agreed. Artemy can clearly tell by the way his expression tugs, scratching the back of his neck as he attempts to explain. “It feels off-putting and a little hostile, like you considered me your subordinate.”

At the beginning of their working relationship, he had. He remembers his attempts to treat Artemy like an underling, and how poorly they had gone. It had felt only natural at the time: Daniil was older, with his own degree and his own lab. He didn’t recognize anyone’s authority except his own, and it had come around to bite him in the ass. Then he and Artemy had wound up on diverging paths, and he found the term coworker was probably a more apt description of things. Daniil’s brow furrows, dropping his gaze from Artemy to the walkway ahead of them. “You called me Dankovsky, though.” Ah. “Oh. Was that a return of hostility?”

“Not exactly,” Artemy replies, but Daniil gets the distinct impression that Artemy’s not being entirely honest with him. There’s just something in their manner that gives them away, though Daniil can’t pinpoint what it is. Artemy starts up a slow walk again, nearly up to the front door of his house. He comes up the steps and looks down at Daniil, one hand on the knob. “If you had wanted to stay detached and distant, I wasn’t going to stop you,” he admits. “I mean, we were sort of rivals, up until the end there. I thought it would be appropriate.” He pushes the door open, standing back for Daniil to enter.

Daniil considers his logic as he steps inside, and stoops to remove his boots at the door. “I was staying detached. I usually do.” He sinks down an extra centimeter or two, and hangs back to watch Artemy remove his own shoes. He hasn’t had a proper tour of the house, and now that he’s here for a social call it feels only appropriate to allow Artemy the chance to direct where they go. Artemy gestures to his left and guides him, one hand on Daniil’s upper back, through to the kitchen. “Even at Thanatica I addressed most of my colleagues by last name. It was considered proper, and it seemed easier than deciphering when I’d crossed that barrier.”

And now that most of his colleagues are dead or in exile, Daniil finds he regrets the decision. Thinking about it makes the blood run cold in his veins, twitching uncomfortably in his chill. He finds his fingers trembling where they curl against the back of the kitchen chair he pulls out. At least Artemy is currently preoccupied with the kettle on the stovetop, and won’t be able to notice his fidgeting.

“So what changed your mind about this place?” Artemy asks, their voice raising to be heard with their back still turned. “On the way back, you called it ‘our town.’ I’m surprised. Frankly I still half-expect you to pack up and move back to the Capital.”

His first impulse is to say, You did. You changed my mind. But his gut twists with doubt, and this doubt tells him that this revelation would not be well-received. Daniil tries to piece together the thoughts that lead him to this conclusion, but a full picture isn’t coming to mind. He doesn’t have all the details he needs, but he can still distinguish the final drawing from the silhouette. And so he says, “It was a slip of the tongue, not a conscious wording.” Which is the truth, and Artemy seems satisfied by it. Daniil taps his fingers against the chair, and searches for a subject to change the conversation. “So. The meat industry? Your Village? I’m assuming that’s where your Bride friend went. I haven’t seen her around Town since the plague ended.”

“My friend,” Artemy repeats softly. He goes completely still, and Daniil hears him whisper a name, almost too quiet to be heard. Daniil can see his shoulder moving as he shakes his head, his voice unbearably soft when he says, “she died.”

“Oh.” Daniil feels so much feeling buzzing just under his fingertips. He thinks of rising from his seat, of reaching out to settle his hand on Artemy’s shoulder, and he grabs his left hand with his right to keep himself from moving. “My condolences.”

Artemy is quiet for a few minutes more they shudder and turn around, leaning their hip against the counter. Their face is neutral, but it’s clearly a forced expression, the line of their jaw tight as they cross their arms over their chest. “I’ve had a few talks with the Mother Superior and the Foreman. It seems like they’ll consider negotiation, once things have had time to settle down. But it’ll be on their terms.” An appreciative smile works its way onto their face. They cross their arms over their chest. “You’re right, by the way, about Vlad Jr. They won’t listen to him. Mother has insisted she speak to Victoria, and her mind can’t be swayed on this.”

“You mean Capella?” Artemy nods. Daniil is baffled. “She’s fifteen. Isn’t she a little young to be making such grand decisions about the economy? Does she even understand it?”

“She understands more than you think,” Artemy says. “And she won’t be doing it alone. If she needs any help, I’ll be there.” Artemy takes a moment to stare at the counter, his face cloudy, lost in some darker thought. Something upsetting, if Daniil had to guess, but he doesn’t share what’s on his mind, shaking his head as he turns around to pour their tea. The kettle hasn’t even whistled yet. “I’m surprised you asked, to be honest. I didn’t think you’d care about that sort of thing.”

“Well, you heard my misstep. This is my town now, too. It’s high time I started turning my concern to local politics.” Artemy’s smiling when he turns, a very small and secret sort of grin. It’s an expression Daniil’s never seen him wear before, his eyes rolling up to meet Daniil’s as he hands him his tea. Daniil’s thankful his gloves are well-insulated, keeping the heat of the mug from scalding his hands. He forgets to put it down on the table, caught for a second in gazing at Artemy’s eyes. It’s difficult to determine their exact color – Grey? Blue? The color of the herbs he picks? Before he can come up with an excuse or turn his glance another directions, Daniil blurts out the words, “you’ve grown on me.”

Artemy’s brows raise, taking his seat. Daniil feels embarrassed for the way the words slipped through, the sentimentality behind them. The way he said ‘you’ and meant Artemy. He chews on his tongue, hoping Artemy will think the word was meant in general, to encompass the town they inhabit. “I didn’t see that coming.” They don’t seem upset by the admission, though. Daniil wonders what it would take to get Artemy to say they’re glad Daniil decided to stay, that they’re glad he started to consider this town his home. But Daniil wouldn’t want to force it, and they’re changing the subject now, fingers tapping on the surface of the table. “Are you planning on finding a place of your own?”

He hasn’t thought about it. He’s still taking up residence in the Stillwater with Eva, as it is still the guesthouse and Eva hasn’t hinted that she wants him to leave. Perhaps he should, whether he’s asked to or not. He is an adult, after all, and there’s a certain expectation that he go back to living on his own. He would hate to admit how much discomfort the idea brings him. He pulls the mug up to his lips to take a drink so he won’t have to answer. The teabag floats in the water, bumping against his lip. It’s barely had time to steep.

“You could always stay with Peter,” they suggest. Daniil nose scrunches, unable to imagine the loft accommodating a second body. It can barely contain the first. Artemy’s eyes flicker with some unspoken thoughts, and Daniil recalls the tinctures on Peter’s desk. He remembers wondering when Artemy came around to deliver them, why he never bothered to tell Daniil about it. Neither one of them had mentioned it, they had simply been there. In the end, Artemy had done what was right regardless of his personal feelings. Daniil doubts he could say the same of himself. “Don’t tell me you’ve given up on him?”

“Of course I haven’t,” Daniil dismisses, waving his hand. “Certainly this wasn’t ideal, but healing is not a linear process. In fact, I expect many setbacks like this in the future. If Peter needs time to process this latest drama alone, I will give him his space. I don’t abandon my companions so easily.”

Artemy looks at him… strangely. Not for the first time and probably not for the last, Daniil is introduced to an emotion that he isn’t sure how to parse. Artemy looks down at his tea, his brows furrowed. He doesn’t look as though he disapproves of Daniil’s words, but he still looks displeased. There’s just no winning, sometimes. It’s endlessly frustrating. The only thing he says to Daniil next is, “good.”

The majority of the debris from the fallen Tower has been removed, some dedicated townsfolk even donning big galoshes to pull bits and pieces from the river below. They can’t catch everything, but Daniil figures the river is so damned polluted with runoff from the Abattoir that what has fallen in will surely disintegrate in time. It’s not as though anybody’s drinking from it – Artemy had taken the time to explain to him how the water system works, now in more detail than he had before the start of the Pest - though he still thinks the use of sand filters or other water treatment plans would be much more productive. Unfortunately this town has shown itself to be resistant to change, and for all he knows there’s some holy reason for things being the way they are.

Daniil kicks a pebble across the Stone Yard as he advances on the bridge, making his way over to the group of people standing together on the other side of the river. He feels a well of anxiety spring up in his stomach as he moves closer. He hasn’t spoken to the Kains since the Tower fell, and he’s feeling apprehensive about this meeting, about what they could possibly want from him. He can’t help feeling like the blame for the way things fell apart will be handed down to him, as everything else from those twelve days seems to have.

Khan is the first to turn as he approaches, arms crossed under his chest, his face set into a serious imitation of his father’s. He doesn’t wave, the way the other children on Burakh’s list might, and it makes Daniil feel all the more off-kilter. He didn’t spend as much time with Khan as with the other Kains, but that doesn’t mean the youngest won’t blame him for his failures as well.

Victor is the next to turn. Maria and Georgiy never do.

“It’s good to see you all in one piece,” Victor greets, holding his hand out for Daniil to shake. Daniil smiles thinly, accepting the gesture. He can’t hold victor’s gaze for long, eyes turning to the emptiness beyond them. Victor follows his line of sight, and where another person might have gestured, Victor lets the moment go unaccompanied. “We’ll be starting construction soon,” Victor states. “We have had a little plan in mind for some time now, and though things haven’t gone exactly the way we pictured them, we still intend to see it through.”

The words are spoken without any hint of venom, but Daniil still feels failure stinging at him. He feels like he should apologize, and a part of him desperately wants to. But the words simply die on his tongue. They feel hollow to him – he’s made peace with Artemy’s decision, accepted that the decision was never really his to make in the first place. He doesn’t want to waste any more time thinking about the alternatives, different ways things could have panned out. And he doesn’t want to tell Victor, either, that he knows about the plan and has for a month. The Kains are already displeased with him. Heaven knows what they’ll do if he brings up Aglaya.

If Victor never knows, Daniil thinks she would approve. He’s the only member of the family for whom Aglaya held any respect. Too good for her sister Nina, he can recall her saying. Daniil couldn’t comment; he’d never met the other woman, and never would now. She was supposed to live on through Maria, but nothing about the young woman has changed from what he can tell.

She holds her back straight, tense, as if she can feel Daniil watching her. Maybe she can. He recalls to himself that it’s impolite to stare, his eyes fluttering over the back of Georgiy’s head before they finally settle on Victor again. And he’s lost, too, in his own reverie, but staring lovingly at a photograph. There’s ache in his eyes, even through the admiration shining in them.

It’s not a portrait Daniil recognizes, so different from the one in the theatre, from the one on the wall in Maria’s wing. It isn’t just the difference between paint and celluloid, no – there’s something fragile in the look she wears. A privacy, a photo meant only for her husband. She’s beautiful, certainly; Daniil can appreciate the way her dark hair curls at the end, her sly grin, the arch of her brow, as perfect as any classical rendition of a woman. But she doesn’t appear ethereal, here. She appears human. And that, Daniil realizes, is love. That she would let herself be mortal for another person, to be touchable.

“I wish that she was here to see it,” Victor says. He isn’t angry with Daniil for looking, but his voice is barely above a whisper. Daniil doesn’t know for whose benefit the words are spoken so softly. His own? Maria’s? The wind that carries his wife’s soul?

He places his hand on Victor’s arm, and squeezes. “Finis vitae sed non amoris.” He isn’t good with consolation. For a moment, he second-guesses himself and his words. They’d called for him, but perhaps he shouldn’t be here at all, intruding on this family moment. What is he, to them? He watches Victor shudder, his shoulders shake, and he nods, pocketing the picture once again. Daniil opts to change the subject. “I suppose the Stamatins will be the main architects of this new town?” You share a loss of love, he thinks. A loss of hope. Daniil feels rather silly comparing himself to them, in the grand scheme of things. He’s lost so much of his own, but it feels wrong to consider himself a victim of such tragedy.

“Yes. Can you imagine it?” Victor nods his head to indicate his internal placement. His voice has lightened considerably, an undercurrent of excitement to his tone. “A hospital there, homes here, a grocery store there. We’ll be starting construction soon.” He looks back at Daniil, and the sentiment is unmistakable.

“This is why you called me.”

“Very astute of you.” It’s a ridiculous compliment. Daniil was simply following his logic. He’d always glowed with such compliments before, but now they feel like condescension, though he doubts they are intended to be. “I will put it to you simply. We need a doctor in this new Town, and who better than our champion, Daniil Dankovsky?” Daniil feels taken aback, but the smile Victor wears is not malicious. His words are not spoken with sarcasm. But Maria’s and Georgiy’s outlines remain unmoved. Daniil can only imagine an argument about this decision, Victor trying to quell the anger of his daughter and brother. Unless this whole thing was imagined, and Daniil is attributing emotions to people who are not feeling them. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

All the same, he asks, “Really? After everything, after those twelve days?” Victor’s smile is kind, and patient. Daniil can think of no decent reason, no real reason he should decline. Except for the color of Artemy’s eyes, drifting down into that mug of tea as he frowns. “Can I think about it?” Daniil croaks.

He’s horribly embarrassed by the way his voice starts to give out on him, cheeks flushing furiously as he attempts to clear his throat. Victor pays it no mind. “I would expect nothing less.” He looks, finally, to the outlines of his brother and daughter. “We understand that this is quite the large favor we are asking of you, and after we had already said we had no more to request.” His eyes are sharp again, and Daniil notices that his son has left his side. Odd. Was Khan not leaving with them? “But we would be honored, should you find it in your heart to accept our offer.”

Daniil nods in response, unsure of what other sort of signal to give. Victor’s attention drifts back to the landscape, and Daniil feels as though he has been dismissed without the words to tell him so.

But Daniil is startled when he turns around. The last person he expected to see – well, anywhere – is standing in his way, leaning on his cane in front of the bridge. Daniil does not expect to see Immortell blocking him, though he isn’t sure the man could put much physical action behind the threat if wants to. He reminds Daniil with his wicked grin of Tenniel’s illustrations of the Cheshire Cat, his smile sitting unnaturally on his face. Stupidly, Daniil says the first thing to come to mind. “I didn’t realize you could leave your theatre.”

It’s not the most graceful way to begin a conversation, but Daniil has never been known to handle surprises well. Mark does not seem bothered by his remark, straightening and pulling on the hem of his vest. “There are many things you do not know about me, Bachelor.” Daniil supposes that’s true, as he’s had neither the time nor the inclination to learn. Seeing the man out and about now, though, he is curious. “Have you decided to join us across the river?”

Ah, right. Somehow Daniil had managed to forget that Mark had been a part of his list. A Utopian, striving toward the end goal of rebirth by directing events from behind the scenes. Daniil still isn’t convinced Mark had no part in the outbreak or its spread, no matter how the others try to sway him. Those nightly plays had been unnerving with how much Mark seemed to know about the events of the day past and the day to come. Daniil finds himself frowning without meaning to, but what other face could he possibly make when confronted with Immortell? “I’m undecided,” Daniil tells him. “I need some time to figure things out, to let my head clear.”

He goes to step away, to move closer to the bridge, and Mark’s fingers settle on his shoulder. They are long, trim fingers, like a spider’s legs. “Perhaps this is where I may be of some assistance.” There’s something dancing in the words he speaks, and Daniil squints as he tries to work out what it is. His expression, too, dances, his eyes lit up, his grin almost sincere. “You know, you are always welcome to the theatre, come rain or shine.”

That’s a far cry from the attitude Mark gave him the last time they’d spoken. Mark had made it clear he was less than thrilled with the things Daniil had been able to accomplish in the given time, and Daniil had been given the distinct impression the man blamed him for the way corpses piled up in the theatre and the army shutting the doors near the end. The idea that Mark is willing to let bygones be bygones is strange, to say the least. He thought if he ever saw the man again it would be under extreme duress for them both, as he wasn’t too keen on visiting the theatre anytime soon.

“Is that so?” Daniil asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Mark nods, and his fingers trace down Daniil’s shoulder to his bicep.

It’s quite the strange turn of events. Daniil doesn’t know what to do with this touch, but he’s dying to squirm away from it. “You should keep that in mind. I so rarely get visitors in my humble theatre.” He tilts his head toward the land before them. Daniil could swear his teeth are pointed when his lips curl back to reveal them. “Though who knows? Once the new one is built, the puppets may become more popular. A sequel to rival the original in detail, a more upscale production in higher quality. What do you think?”

In a return to normalcy, Daniil feels the man is talking past him. He doesn’t particularly care to pull apart what Mark is talking about. “That sounds like quite the undertaking. And where will your audience come from?”

“Much of the same as before,” he answers, and taps his cane against the ground. “But each new production is likely to pull in new members. People who were curious, but unsure about joining us with such uncertain conditions.” His face turns up, and that smile grows even more unsettling. “What about you, Dankovsky? Will you come and attend my new play? Take a part in it, perhaps?”

“I haven’t done theatre since university.” And he was terrible at it, too. What good is an actor who cannot lie? “Would you even have a part for me?”

“Finding something for you to do wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Mark assures him. “And if no part in an existing play suits you, then I will simply make one.” He finally lets go of Daniil’s arm, his head cocked to take in Daniil’s reaction. His expression is curious, but not enough for Daniil to ask what it is he’s planning. Daniil doesn’t trust him. “Do stop by and see me about it, won’t you?”

He wishes there was a way to more politely decline. The man he was a month ago may not have cared about pleasantries, but if he’s going to stay in Town, if he’s going to consider moving across the river, he really shouldn’t agitate a major player in the Kains’ plans. His weeks battling the Sand Plague taught him how to accept missions against his better judgement, to step outside of his comfort area for the sake of helping another out. “If I have the time,” he answers, and prays to a god he does not believe in that he won’t.

Having a friend in Artemy Burakh is the most satisfying experience of Daniil’s life. He’s had friends before, though not very many, and none have ever been as forthright as Artemy is. He appreciates that, for all of their varied faults, Artemy will always tell him what they think, whether there is inherent value in doing so or not. Artemy could lie so easily, and Daniil would be powerless to divine the truth from it. He can only guess, then, that Artemy respects him too much to bother doing so with him.

Which is how Daniil winds up at their house for dinner three days later, pensively tapping at his glass of water as he thinks. The invitation was unexpected for Daniil, as Artemy didn’t seem to have a reason to have him over and seemed taken aback when Daniil asked for one. It’s just something friends do, Artemy said. He looked so…melancholy when Daniil asked, and Daniil hated the way that expression made his chest feel. He forced his mouth into a smile and said that of course he would come.

The kids have not yet come back home, and Artemy has declined Daniil’s offer to assist him, so he has ample time to simply reflect on the events of a couple days ago. It’s never really left his mind, but he’s tried to keep himself occupied so he wouldn’t have to think too deeply on it. He hadn’t thought to talk to Artemy about it before, but Artemy is now his closest confidant. Whatever the outcome, he knows Artemy will tell him the truth. It’s not as though Daniil can simply go back to the Capital and ask his old colleagues for advice, or his parents – god, his parents, who he hasn’t written in ages, and who would so very much not understand the position he’s in. He’s certain Andrey and Eva would be biased in their answers, but Artemy has no reason to bend the truth.

“Artemy,” Daniil starts, and pauses to allow them a moment to acknowledge him. Artemy hums, and Daniil takes another second to think. He has to think of the best way in which to phrase his question, but fails. He runs his tongue over his lips, and instead of asking about the other side of the river, he blurts out, “How do you know when someone is flirting with you?”

That’s not at all what he meant to ask, but that interaction has been on his mind too.

The lines in Artemy’s back go tense, pulling them ramrod straight. Artemy pauses in their movement, leaving the carrot only half-cut. They set the knife aside and turn to face Daniil, their hands resting on the counter, fingers tucked under the edges. They’re out of their butcher’s smock for once, hair starting to curl messily where it’s grown longer. The grey of their sweater makes his eyes look almost blue-green, and Daniil is hoping his gaze comes across as curious as opposed to dangerous appreciation.

Artemy goes to brush his hair back, and stops himself. “Uh.” His eyes move to the floor. Something about the topic makes him uncomfortable. For a moment, Daniil is gripped with a drenching panic. He’s only just started to recognize his attraction for what it is. Is it possible he’s been acting on his feelings before he even realized what they were? He’s about to tell Artemy not to mind it when Artemy says, “Little things, I guess. Little touches to your arms or back, sometimes a teasing banter.” Their brows furrow. Daniil wishes he could read their mind, see what image they’re putting together. “It’s hard to explain.”

Daniil takes a second to consider the information given the context, while Artemy turns back to their carrots. Daniil takes a sip of his water, now tapping his fingers against the table. He runs his tongue along his lips, unable to make his mind focus on the more important matter at hand. It takes considerable effort not to bite down on the flesh. “That’s what I thought,” he says. He stares at the table, frowning. “And in that case, I think Mark Immortell was flirting with me.”

There’s a loud clattering noise as Artemy drops his knife to the floor and lets loose what Daniil can only guess is a swear word from the steppe. “Shudkher!” Artemy is staring at his hand, and Daniil hops up to grab the dropped knife and inspect the wound he’s accidentally inflicted on himself. Daniil clicks his tongue against his teeth and drags Artemy over to the sink to wash the cut off. Artemy gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t need Daniil’s help, but doesn’t bother to fight him off.

Must be the shock, Daniil thinks, amused. The cut isn’t deep, but there is still some blood. Daniil pulls his bag out from under his chair, rooting around for a bandage to rip up and wrap around Artemy’s finger. They must be too stunned to waive the little injury off, and the next second confirms his suspicions. “Immortell?” he asks, and if Daniil had to guess an emotion they’re expressing, he’d say incredulous. “Immortell is flirting with you? Are you sure?”

“At first he just set his hand on my shoulder, but then he – well, he did this,” Daniil says, and illustrates, reaching his hand out to run his fingers down from Artemy’s shoulder to his bicep, squeezing. He tries to control the blush that threatens to overtake his cheeks as he moves. His heart beats so fast it nearly hurts. “And then he smiled at me in a way that didn’t seem threatening at all!”

Artemy’s eyes linger on Daniil’s hand against their bicep. Daniil feels self-conscious about the stare, but it’s difficult to pull his hand back. He likes to imagine he can feel the heat of body through the sweater, through his own gloves. Drop it, Daniil. Things are getting dangerous.

Their mouth is pulled down when they look back to Daniil’s face, clearly perplexed. “Yeah, this – that does sound like flirting.” Their words are mumbled, and Daniil finally lets go of their arm so they can turn back to the cutting board. Daniil watches them finish slicing up the carrot and turn to the potatoes, lips curled awkwardly on their face. They look back to Daniil twice, their mouth open, not saying anything before they finally set the food aside, right hand resting on the countertop. “Alright. Did you say anything to Immortell that would have given him the impression you’re interested?”

“No. Absolutely not.” What he’d said to Mark that day could only be described as the most minimal attempts at civility. It was the first time they’d spoken since the Pest ended, and during those twelve days Daniil’s interactions with the man had been barely restrained resentment. And he’d thought the feeling entirely mutual until Monday.

“Nothing during those twelve days? Something you might’ve said to pry some information out of him?” Artemy’s own voice doesn’t seem convinced by the words he speaks either, his eyes flickering as Daniil shakes his head in response. “What about leading up to this interaction. Why were you in the theatre? Maybe he took it as a hint?”

“Oh, I wasn’t in the theatre,” Daniil explains. “The Kains sent me a message to meet them across the bridge in the new town.” The memory of Maria’s too-still and too-straight back is stitched to his lids. He frowns at the memory, fingers turning over each other. “Well, Victor did, anyway. To ask me to move across with them when they build the new town. And when I turned around to leave, Mark was just there, watching me.”

Daniil assumes they’re contemplating the information about Mark, perhaps processing the notion that the man was even able to leave his beloved theatre, but their voice sounds so small when they speak next. “You didn’t tell me you were expected to move across the river.”

They open the oven to arrange the food inside, and pull back, never facing Daniil. His stomach squirms with discomfort. He feels once again that he’s done something wrong without meaning to, rocking back on his heels and letting his eyes drift away from Artemy’s form before they have time to turn around and catch him staring. “I completely forgot,” he lies. “With everything else going on, it just didn’t occur to me to bring it up.”

He sees Artemy’s hand moving in his peripheral vision, and for a second he thinks it’s going to cover his own. But of course it doesn’t; that’s only wishful thinking that Daniil feels embarrassed to indulge. Artemy sets his hand next to Daniil’s, his eyes soft as he tries to catch Daniil’s. “You know, Daniil, you suck at lying.” Daniil swallows, suddenly feeling exhausted. This better not be leading to another argument. He really doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do if it does. Surviving the last had felt like a miracle. “Why didn’t you tell me the Kains asked you to move with them?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” Daniil says, and it’s more or less the truth. He runs his hand through his hair. If he didn’t have his gloves on, he’d be picking at his scalp. “I haven’t made up my mind about what I want to do regarding the situation. Truthfully, I don’t even want to think about it. I’m surprised they even wanted to talk to me, after all the ways I’ve failed them.” He sets his right hand back down on top of his left, and starts to thread his fingers together. “And now they’re asking me to move to the other side of the Gorkhon when their new town is built? I’ve barely moved here myself! I don’t want to make another great change again so soon.”

“So don’t. Stay here, in Town.” That seems to be the end of his sentiment. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t demand it, but Daniil still feels an irrational fear building up, a dread at the idea of upsetting Artemy in any way. Artemy looks about ready to say something else, his mouth partially opened, when there’s a trio of loud knocks on the front door. He holds up a finger to indicate that he does, indeed, have more to say, and moves past Daniil and out of the kitchen to go and answer the door.

From where he’s standing, Daniil can see a little around the door. He knows there must be a messenger on the front step, but he can’t see the man for the bouquet of flowers he holds. “Sorry, Mr. Burakh, but these aren’t for you. They’re for, uh… is Dr. Dankovsky with you?”

It takes a second for Artemy to answer, clearly baffled by the question. “Yeah, he sure is.” Daniil hears the ruffle of the flowers being set into Artemy’s hands and the door being closed again, Artemy’s face now obscured by wildflowers.

“Who on Earth would be sending me flowers?” Since it obviously isn’t the person you’d like it to be. Who would send flowers to their own home? Daniil chews his lip at his unhelpful thoughts, scowling at the floor for a second, feeling the flowers pushed into his hands. His grip is a little too tight on the stems, but he needs to stop these thoughts in their tracks before they have time to fester.

Artemy doesn’t ask permission to read the card, but Daniil would have granted it anyway. His expression is – what is the word? – perplexed, a grimace, handing it to Daniil as he speaks the words allowed. “Mark Immortell.” Daniil’s face must be brilliantly red. His cheeks hurt from the strain of embarrassment, looking down at the little card between his fingers. He can’t quite make the words on the card out, but he recognizes enough to place them as lines from a sonnet. Shakespeare, if he were to hazard guess. “If he’s sending flowers, then it must be serious. The man’s really into you, Daniil.” Artemy shakes their head, and snorts. “Doesn’t he know you have a boyfriend?”

Daniil blinks at them, pulse quickening. Did he get things wrong again? Is this a hint that this dinner is meant to be romantic? There’s no wine or anything, but Artemy’s a single parent now, and Daniil can’t expect them to pull out all the Capital trappings of a date in the middle of nowhere. Daniil’s not even dressed any nicer than normal, though Artemy is out of their work clothes. But it’s best not to get too ahead of himself. He rocks back onto the balls of his feet. “Boyfriend?” He can’t make himself hold eye contact with Artemy when he speaks.

The look Artemy gives him is full of disbelief, and Daniil’s heart does a flip. So he had misunderstood Artemy’s intentions? “Peter,” Artemy says. “Your boyfriend, Peter?”

Ah. Of course he hadn’t misunderstood; Artemy would have been much clearer if he intended for this to be a romantic evening. What was he even thinking? The kids were going to be joining them, that hardly counts for romance. Daniil hopes his disappointment isn’t too evident, waving his hand in Artemy’s direction. “Peter isn’t my boyfriend. He never was – honestly, I’m not entirely sure where you got that idea.” Artemy opens their mouth, but Daniil doesn’t really feel like debating the whole thing. “We’re friends, Artemy. We’re very alike in some respects, so we understand each other. But I think –“ Daniil fidgets, tugging on a lock of his hair. “I think dating Peter would be difficult for me. We both struggle with melancholia. Things would get nasty. Perhaps I’m better off alone.”

He doesn’t mean to say the last bit aloud. He doesn’t mean to even think the words, covering his lips with his free hand. He’d just let the defeatism he was so prone to well up in his throat. A perfect example, really, of that melancholy. Artemy’s kneeling on the ground when he speaks, and they look up at Daniil with some surprise.

It would be such a nice look on him, in a different context. Like, if Artemy had been the one who’d brought Daniil flowers, and if this whole endeavor was meant to be romantic. If Daniil wasn’t such a colossal idiot. “Oi, emshen, don’t talk like that.” Their head turns, rearranging things in the cupboard. “Just because your relationship with Andrey didn’t work doesn’t mean you’re going to be alone forever.” They find what they’re looking for, hand drawing out of the cupboard and pulling back. They set it in the sink to fill it with water. “You’ll find the right person.” They shift weight between their feet. “Maybe you need to broaden your horizons a little?”

That’s easy for Artemy to say. Daniil’s already trying to broaden his horizons – he’s living in this town now, after all, and he’s befriending Artemy. Artemy is about as broad as his horizons can get. These aren’t experiences he’d be having if he’d stayed in the Capital, and not just because of how different the Town is from the city Daniil had grown accustomed to.

While Artemy’s not looking his way, Daniil takes the moment to simply admire his form: the curve of his shoulders, the scar across the back of his arm, the gentle curl to his hair, the slope of his nose. Daniil’s fingers coil against the counter, and before Artemy can look back at him he busies himself with picking up the vase and setting it on the table for Daniil to set the flowers in. Daniil knows the direction he wants to run in, and the way he’s always ready to reach out and touch frightens him.

‘Broaden his horizons’ – as if anything else could measure up. He’d run out the door right now if that wouldn’t make him look so damned suspicious. But there is something else he can try, another way of heading in the opposite direction.

Mark isn’t Artemy, and maybe that’s a good thing.

Daniil feels a little stupid, heading into the theatre with no real goal in mind. He’s not sure how he’s going to bring the topic of dating up for discussion. It’s not that he lacks the propensity for confrontation, but he’d feel more confident moving forward if this was something he actually wanted. There’s a certain amount of power that comes in being the pursuer versus being the one pursued, and it makes him uneasy to let Mark take the lead in things. He can’t imagine it going any other way, though.

Not that he’d imagined this at all, under any circumstances.

The theatre, when he enters, is dressed much livelier than it had been during those obscure midnight performances. There’s a second setup on top of the stage, a red-and-gold miniature theatre with the curtains dropped to signal that it’s closed for the moment. He remembers, now, Mark saying that he does puppet shows, though he can’t recall ever seeing children in the theatre before. At the time it seemed rather normal, but in retrospect something about it feels devious. He can’t quite pinpoint why.

“Ah, honorable Bachelor! How good of you to join me.” The voice seems to echo from all around Daniil, and it takes a second of blindly whipping his head around to locate Mark, on the second floor. It’s dark in here, as it always seems to be, and Daniil spends a second considering going up the stairs to meet him. But it won’t be necessary; Mark has decided to start circling him from above, leaning a little more on his cane than he had been before the plague had started. Or perhaps he has always leaned this much, and Daniil is only now noticing. He didn’t have the time to individually assess each person’s health history.

All the same, he calls up, “How is your back doing?”

Daniil can’t make out the expression on Mark’s face from where he is. He’s thankful that, for the first time in memory, the follow-spot is turned off. He hated the way it shone on him during those midnight plays, illuminating the dust in the room, making sweat bead under the collar of his coat. “The same as it always does, this time of year,” Mark replies. Daniil hears the scuffle of his cane against the upstairs floor, and feels comforted in the notion that he does indeed walk, not float. He’s human, after all. “You’ll notice the stage has been dressed, I trust.”

“Puppet shows,” Daniil says with a nod he’s unsure Mark can even see. It’s so dark in here without the stage lights, without the candles lining the floor. “You’re starting them back up again.”

The clack of shoes echoing in the stairway alerts him to reality of Mark approaching him. He sucks his stomach in and watches the other man advance on him. He tends to forget just how small Mark is, given the attention he commands. Enviable, even, the way he manages his actors. Daniil could only have hoped to accomplish so much in the Capital.

Mark meets his eyes first, then slips his gaze down to Daniil’s shoulder. Daniil wonders if Mark’s going to touch him again, but he doesn’t even lift a hand. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me out with this little project.”

Daniil’s eyebrows raise with genuine curiosity. “Help you out?” he repeats. He can’t imagine Mark being willing to share much in the way of stage management duties, so this can only mean he wants Daniil to act. To be a puppeteer, and not a puppet. Is that a step up, I wonder?

“Yes.” The words aren’t tied to anything in particular, and Daniil watches as Mark turns away from him, making his way up the stage steps to inspect the smaller stage sitting in the center. Daniil wonders who set the thing up, if Mark himself did not. “I’ve seen you speaking with the children of this town. They seem quite fond of you, and I daresay that the feeling is mutual.”

It would be worthless to try and deny it, though Daniil still feels his neck warming over with the thought of being judged for it. There had been many years of his life where he thought he detested children, but he’d come to find that what he hated was the expectation as a woman to bear them. It was one of those little things that changed with the realization he was a man. Now, he finds he prefers them to adults.

Or perhaps, just to the adults he has had the misfortune of meeting here. Daniil tries to play it off with a shrug, but he can feel that smirk following him as he makes his way up the stage to join Mark. “What sorts of shows will we be doing?” He peeks behind the contraption, and finds it notably trap-free. “I hope there won’t be a musical.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Mark assures him, his cane tapping against the wood. “They’re folk tales, mostly. A few of local urban legends which you’ll get to know by virtue of working with them. A couple of myths, pulled from the classics.” It doesn’t go unnoticed by Daniil the way Mark’s brows raise at him at the mention.

“Well, I’ll never be one to turn down a study of the classics,” he says. But his appreciation is tentative, still. He’s not sure what it is being expected of him, and he wants to know what he’s getting himself into before he agrees. “What is it you’ll want me to do, exactly? What’s the -” he gestures, “Set-up like?”

“What sort of question is that?” he chides in a gentle voice, not at all like his usual dismissal. Daniil peeks around the corner to see what it is he’s doing, and finds the other man struggling with a box. It would be impolite to make him deal with it alone, so Daniil picks it up for him, realizing he doesn’t quite know what to do with it once the box is in his arms. Mark stands up, opening the box and revealing a puppet that looks like an old man. “Puppet shows are once a week. You should come in throughout the week to rehearse, so that I can direct you through the process.” He pulls out a couple more puppets – a princess, and what Daniil assumes is a nurse. At least the box isn’t heavy. “Sometimes there will be others to assist you, but most of these should not require more than two hands.”

“I see.” Sort of. He’s still not confident in his ability to actually follow through with this project. Enjoyment of theatre in no way makes Daniil an actor, much less a puppeteer. What makes Mark think of him, of all people, to help out is beyond him. He sets the box of puppets back down on the floor, brushing his hands off. “Is this why you sent me the flowers?”

Mark snorts. “Being deliberately obtuse? Oh no, that doesn’t suit you, Daniil.” The use of his first name startles him. Of course Mark knows it, but to hear it spoken out loud when he’d just barely crossed that threshold with Artemy feels uncomfortably intimate. Daniil isn’t sure how to address this boundary being crossed, but Mark fans his fingers across Daniil’s bicep again and Daniil tries to remember that he was meant to come here with an open mind. “I would have thought the reason for that rather obvious: I would like to ask you on a date.”

The words should not come as a surprise. Daniil has been hit on before, though the romance was never long-term or intense. But somehow, the words still manage to rattle him, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. It must be the fact that it’s Mark asking that does it to him.

For three minutes, he cannot think of a retort of any kind. He’s not even certain what sort of emotion he should be attempting to express. The idea of Mark on a date at all is just bizarre. He isn’t used to thinking of Mark as… well. Human. But he has to say something in reply, so what he manages is, “Are you certain?”

The laugh he gets in response sounds more like the Mark he’s used to dealing with. “Oh dear. You don’t really believe I’d make such a request if I wasn’t absolutely sure of my intentions?” Daniil shakes his head. “Good. So, what do you say?”

What Daniil wants to say is no. He wants to tell Mark that he’s out of his mind if he thinks Daniil would go out with him after everything that’s happened, after the conversation they had on the last of those days of the Pest. Hadn’t Mark said he was glad Daniil was leaving, only for Daniil to stay in town? But then maybe that was the point. Perhaps this was Mark’s attempt to make things up to him, to show that they could mend old fences, or whatever the saying was. He looks down at the stage, and thinks about it.

He wants to say no. What he really wants, who he truly wants, is Artemy. His fingers shake a little as if from strain, but he knows it’s a different sort of ache. It’s Artemy he wants asking him to dinner, sending him flowers, coming up with excuses to spend time together. But he’s not doing that now, and Daniil’s afraid of waiting on his own to see if he will. So despite what Daniil wants, what he says is, “Okay.”

It’s taken Daniil a while to outfit himself with new clothes. Nothing in Town really suits the way his sense of fashion, and he understands that Capital trends are not going to be the same in quaint towns in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, understanding does not equal appreciating. Daniil is used to the showiness of his outfit, and he likes it. He dresses the way he does for a very good reason, and not being able to meet his own standards in Town is starting to wear thin on him. At this rate he’ll have to learn how to tailor his own outfits. All the more frustrating that he’s trying to dress for a date, and regardless of his feelings (or lack thereof) for his companion of the night, it’s important to Daniil that he looks good.

He doesn’t even know what for. If he doesn’t care if things go well, he shouldn’t be putting all this effort in. He just thinks again about Artemy suggesting he broaden his horizons, and feels guilty about thinking of not actually trying. It’s not like him to do less than his best. Daniil adjusts his binder again, pushing his chest around to try and flatten it out in spite of the way the fabric follows his curves. The dysphoria rarely bites at him like this, but something about a date with Mark in particular is making it flare up. Mark probably already knows. Mark probably doesn’t care.

Daniil huffs out his breath again, pulling the black vest down into place once more. This is, evidently, as good as things are going to get. He turns on his heel to find Eva looking at him from the top of the staircase, her hair pulled over her shoulder, frown fixed on her face. “Mark,” she says. Daniil can’t make out her emotions behind the single word she speaks.

“Is he here?” Eva nods. He was expecting to meet Mark at the theatre. He stares down at his gloved hands, flexing them, listening to the leather giving way under his fingers. He’s not going to feel any better about this date just standing here. He may as well go down and face the music. “I’ll see you in, well,” he squints at his clock, trying to make the time out on the face, and realizes he doesn’t know how long this date will last. “I’m not sure when. It could be an hour, it could be twelve minutes. Sometime later tonight.”

“Why are you…” Eva doesn’t finish her thought, shifting weight between her feet. Were it not for the gloves, she might have started chewing on her nails, prodding at her lips with her fingers to chew on them instead as she thinks. “Mark is an odd choice,” she finally says. Daniil watches her move further into the room, picking up the books he’s left on the floor and sorting through them. It’s strange to see her so anxious around him. He wonders what it is she thinks he’s going to say. “How did you decide on Mark?”

“I didn’t,” Daniil says simply, lifting his coat from the back of his chair to pull it on. “He asked me out, actually. Sent me flowers, asking me to come by the theatre sometime.” Eva hums, but he can’t see her expression from this angle. “Is there something about him you think I should know?”

Eva turns away from the bookshelves sharply, her lips pursed, but she doesn’t walk toward him. She simply stands there, tapping her fingers against the books in her hand, chewing on her lips. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But I think you should be careful around him, Daniil.”

Be careful around him. Well, Mark does give the impression of somebody capable of dealing a great amount of harm, primarily of the emotional and psychological variety. A part of Daniil doubts there’s much more Mark can do to him that he hasn’t already suffered, and the other part of him simply thinks he’s trapped himself here. He’s made a decision to run away from his desires, to embrace the thing that scares him least. Mark may be his own flavor of frightening, but it’s better than wallowing in his unrequited crush.

Either way, there’s no reason for him to worry Eva with his doubts. He smiles at her, waving a hand as though the whole thing is of no consequence. She doesn’t look particularly convinced by his blasé motion, but as long as he’s not making things worse he can live with her unexpressed doubts. She turns her attention to re-shelving the books, and Daniil walks himself down the stairs. Deep breaths, he tells himself. It’s just a date. It’s not the end of the world.

Mark has situated himself on the piano bench when Daniil enters the main room. He hadn’t realized Eva had let him in. He flushes, wishing he’d known the man was in the house – he’d rather not have risked Mark overhearing him and Eva talking about him, but there’s not much either can do about it now. Mark stands as Daniil approaches, smirking and leaning heavily on his cane. “Well?” he asks, and Daniil has nothing to say in response to that. He’s not even sure what a date entails in this Town, and suddenly he starts to feel very anxious about the whole thing. Daniil nods in lieu of an answer, and Mark takes his elbow.

Daniil juts his elbow out to make the position easier on Mark. At least, he assumes that’s what the gesture is for. He’s seen men doing something similar watching couples as they roamed around the Capital, but never really took the time to consider why. Perhaps here he was using it as an excuse to keep Mark from getting too comfortably close to him. If it comes across as a distancing tactic, Immortell doesn’t comment. Once they’re out of the Stillwater, he walks in time with Daniil, neither leading nor following. It’s a bizarre situation to be in with him, unsure of where they’re going.

“Do you know,” Mark begins, “That there are restaurants here?” Daniil blinks, and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have figured it, either. This place is rather small, compared to the Capital.”

Yes, he does seem to remember something Andrey had said about Mark. A performer from the Capital, a man from the circus who suffered a spinal injury or something and found himself in this backwater town with the rest of them. Though perhaps the term ‘backwater’ is too harsh to use now, if they all are destined to live here. Daniil can’t decide which topic to pursue, and restating the obvious would be a waste of his breath. “You’ve been here for a while. At least longer than me.” Mark nods. Daniil runs a tongue over his bottom row of teeth. “Do you still miss it? The Capital?”

Mark hums as he considers the question. His fingers tap on Daniil’s elbow, in a different pattern to the one Eva had been making. It feels like he’s keeping time with some score only he can hear. “I suppose I do,” he says. “There are plenty of opportunities, even in a place like this, but one does get to missing certain things. Certain amenities, like a theatre – other than my own, of course.” Daniil listens to his cane tap against the ground, a steady rhythm between them. He keeps his eyes set on the road in front of them, as if he might lose his way or miss a turn. He realizes that he should, at some point in time, look at the man he’s with. “And what about you, Bachelor? I imagine the heartache is still fresh for you.”

Truthfully, Daniil hasn’t given it much thought. He’s kept himself busy, deliberately. If he gives himself too long to think about it, he knows he’ll be on the first train home, and there’s no way that would turn out well. No Thanatica to return to, and only half of his belongings ever did arrive from his old flat. He had to assume the rest, like all other remnants of his old life, were torched. “I suppose,” he says, trying not to fidget in discomfort. “But there are some things that this Town has that the Capital simply does not.”

He hopes Mark won’t ask him what sorts of things, because the only example running through his mind is a stupid series of images with Artemy Burakh as the focal point. The man chopping vegetables, pulling food out of the oven, corralling his kids into the dining room, sleeves rolled up and fingers running back through his hair. With Mark’s flowers on the table, Daniil has to remind himself. He’d left them there, not even thinking about it. And that is the main thing the town on Gorkhon has that the Capital does not and never will. Artemy Burakh. Daniil is a fool. He is an idiot.

But Mark doesn’t ask. It’s entirely possible Mark already knows the answer to that question. He hums at Daniil, hand tugging on his arm while he leans harder on his cane. Daniil nearly shakes his head to rouse himself from his thoughts, but he doesn’t want to give away that he hasn’t been paying much attention. He’s being pulled in a direction now, though for a second he can’t tell which one. “I suppose this place does have its small-town charm,” Mark agrees. “The education is seriously lacking, though. I don’t suppose they’ll build a school now that everything’s settled. Do you?”

“It would be a better use of their funding than the Town Hall or Saburov’s force, that much is evident,” Daniil says. Mark makes a soft noise of agreement, or maybe amusement. “These children really could benefit from some classes – even the basic course would do. Reading, writing, science, math. I’m surprised the Kains never instituted anything, that seems right up their alley.”

“Ah, but didn’t I tell you? Of the three families, at least one is superfluous. The Kains cannot move in their designs alone. Not here, at least.” When he speaks like this, Daniil is taken out of the context of their date, and reminded of exactly who Mark is. One of the Kains’ agents, through and through. Perhaps this is what Eva meant, about being careful around him. Except he hasn’t said anything particularly noteworthy as of yet, nothing he thinks Mark could use against him. His reference to the Pest is that, and that alone: a reference. There’s no deeper meaning behind it, as far as Daniil can tell. “So, Daniil. What is it that makes you study death?”

Daniil is taken aback by the question. No one’s asked him about his motivations for his work before – not even Andrey when they were in university, at the very beginning of his interest. The question makes him look at his conversational partner, to determine which answer to give him.

There are a few different explanations he could give, excuses Daniil had created for his work. Answers that wouldn’t lose him patronage, answers to secure favor with the wealthy people who funded his research. But Mark isn’t a rich donor Daniil has to sell a lie to, and so Daniil decides it’s safe to tell him the truth. “I think the study of longevity is vital to an equitable society,” Daniil states. “During university, my thoughts turned to cosmism. Which was a hard sell, for many. I couldn’t be so open about it in the Capital, but eventually my interest grew beyond that.” Mark nods, and Daniil finds himself eager to continue. “People have compared me to Victor Frankenstein, but I have no personal tragedy to mark my interest, and nor do I seek the creation of life in such a manner.”

“And, presumably, you’re well aware of your homosexual tendencies.” Mark says it with humor in his voice, still smirking and though Daniil cannot see any danger his laugh is still nervous. How are they having such a normal conversation? This whole arrangement should be awkward, uncomfortable. Mark should be saying things that speak past him, like a narrator to an audience. “That is one charm of this Town. No one harasses you over your choice of partner. Or, well, not over something as insignificant as their gender.”

“I would have thought it the opposite, honestly. I did when I was younger,” Daniil admits, his gaze turning back to the town they wander through. “I hated living in the suburbs. I thought things would be easier in the city, less confining. They never were.” He ventures a look at Mark. Thankfully, the other man isn’t staring at him. It takes some of the pressure of Daniil’s chest, not needing to perform quite as much. “And what about you?” he asks. “What brought you to this Town? I can’t imagine it was the theatre. Unless you inherited the role of director from the previous owner?”

Mark shakes his head, and Daniil listens to the tap of his cane as it comes down harder on the ground, irritated. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. It’s clear even before Mark begins talking that it’s a sore spot. “Old business,” Mark says. “Nasty business.” That grin that normally splits his face is gone, and Daniil watches his face cloud into a much darker expression, equally as unsettling as his smile. “I was in the circus as a younger man. I had my own troupe of performers, all disabled. Sideshow Freaks. I’m sure you’ve heard the term.” Daniil nods. He can remember attending the circus once or twice, watching parents hold their children closer around the performance. “We took pride in the name,” Mark continues. “We took pride in our work. And then one day, betrayal. From my business partner.” He sniffs, high and affected, but Daniil knows the sound is an attempt to hide an emotion. He does the same thing himself. “This is why I prefer the theatre. Running your own theatre, directing your own actors – there is little need to rely on others for support.”

He’s tempted to point out that his reasoning here is flawed – what about the actors? What about the stage crew? Wouldn’t Mark have to rely on them to do their jobs? – but he doesn’t think Mark will give him any answer he wants to hear. So he diverts his attention to a different line. “I’m having a difficult time placing you in a circus,” he admits. “Were you a ringmaster, perhaps? A lion tamer?” He can almost see Mark in a red coat, black slacks, white gloves and a top hat. If he’d had the cane then, it would have fit the costume, though he wasn’t sure what lion tamers and ringmasters did with theirs.

Mark snorts though, a strangely human sound as he squeezes Daniil’s elbow. “I was an acrobat for a time. My back was not always the broken mess it is now,” he answers. “I miscalculated a move. We are all brash when we are young, and it takes but one thing to disarm us.” Mark sighs, and Daniil can taste the disappointment that rolls off of him. “There was a time I might have made a recovery, though never a full one. That was before everything went up in flames.”

“And so you came here,” Daniil concludes. Mark’s expression doesn’t offer him anything else, and Daniil gets the impression he won’t be explaining the finer details of how he got to Town or why he decided to come here. Daniil’s still struggling to picture haughty and pretentious Mark Immortell as a circus man, considering the way he treats the theatre. The circus has never struck Daniil as a place where condescension would be tolerated, but then Daniil has only an outsider’s perspective. He’s never worked with one before, never even entertained the idea of running off to join it as a child. He scrambles for something else to keep the conversation going, settling on, “and what brought you to the circus? That doesn’t seem your brand.”

Immortell laughs. “You don’t have siblings, do you?” Daniil shakes his head. It’s not the first time he’s been asked. “That figures. Perhaps you’d understand if you did – not all of us are afforded a comfortable home in the suburbs. Not all of us are gifted the opportunity to pursue a higher education. And yet, we make do with what we are given.”

Daniil is curious about the bitterness in his tone, but he assumes it’s not appropriate to ask what inspires it. His curiosity is only welcome in so many places, and he still not adept at guessing which ones. His train of thought, grasping for something new to ask his date, is derailed when Mark speaks again, somehow sounding closer to his ear. “May I confess something to you?” Confused, Daniil turns his head to Mark, and nods. “I don’t like children much.”

His stomach feels like a ton of rocks have just been dumped into it. Daniil has never made an exact or ordered list of deal-breakers, not even in his mind. The thought had never occurred to him, as finding a partner had never been a priority for him before now. He still hasn’t sat down to try and imagine what his ideal significant other would look like, what they would act like or believe in, but at some point in time he must have filed away that he’d like someone fond of children. Which was strange; Daniil himself had not been that person as a teenager or a young adult or even as a child himself. But as the years had gone by, as he’d become more comfortable with himself, the more he found himself looking favorably at the idea of fatherhood.

He’s not ready for it today. He’s not sure when, exactly, he will be. But sometime in the future, when he has a steady partner, perhaps even a husband…

“Oh,” Danill says. He swallows as pieces slot themselves together in his mind. This was something else pulling him toward Artemy, without him even being aware of it. He’d seen the way the other man interacted with children, and that made him want. But it’s no good thinking of that, not when he’s on a date with someone else and Artemy is – well, Artemy. “Then what’s with –“

“The puppet shows?” Mark waves his hand. “Normally children are not permitted to attend my performances. But when the idea was suggested to me that the children of this town could learn something from them, well then - How would you say it? Ut prosim.” He looks up at Daniil, pointedly. “And you would agree, wouldn’t you? That children are our future. That’s the path Burakh chose, and the reason you value them, isn’t it?”

That sounds like a misunderstanding of Daniil’s feelings on the matter, but he’s not sure how to better explain them to someone who’s already admitted he doesn’t like kids. Certainly Daniil would be given to teaching for that reason, and he always enjoyed lecturing at the university as a way of sharing his passion. But there’s something altogether different between teaching and spending time with Sticky or even Murky, on the occasions she’s come out of her hiding place. Just last week he’d watched her eyes go wide in excitement as she captured a bug, twirling around to show him the specimen in its little jar. He’d rattled off all the facts he knew about the species and its habits, and she didn’t seem the least bit bored or annoyed with him for talking about it all. It was so different from the reactions he received from adults his own age.

In another life, where Daniil is someone else, where circumstances are different, he could be a second parent to Murky. He could teach her more about bugs, help her catch them, the way his father had done with him at that age. It’s a hopeless, despondent sort of feeling working its way into his stomach now. But all he does is shake his head and say, “Yes. Something like that.”

This meeting with Saburov goes much more smoothly and more favorably than the last one had. Of course, this time around, Georgiy Kain and Vladislav Olgimsky Jr. were in the room as well, though their addition hadn’t made Daniil feel any better at the start. If anything, it had made him more nervous; he hadn’t spoke to Georgiy since the second-to-last day of the Pest, and the younger Olgimsky was so besotted with Maria that for all Daniil knew he’d be holding some grudge against him for not seeing the Utopian plan through. In the end, it’s the latter that saves him, explaining to the others that a healthier work force was a happier work force, and a happier work force meant better profit.

Rubin stayed silent throughout the meeting, which Daniil had expected. It wasn’t Rubin he was worried about, but Artemy, especially when Olgimsky started to speak. He could see Artemy’s hand in the corner of his eye, curling into a fist, a sneer upsetting his pretty face. Without thinking about what he was doing, Daniil reached out and wrapped his fingers around Artemy’s wrist.

He doesn’t know if Artemy was even aware of their reflexes, but they were so distracted by the fingers around their wrist that they dropped the scowl in favor of staring at Daniil. Their hand loosened, and Daniil… Daniil did not move his own, after that. He got caught up in speaking. He felt more confident, with one hand on Artemy like that, only dropping it after he’d made his point.

It’s better if he doesn’t think about what that means for him. Especially as he has another date with Mark next week, and he’s sort of interested to see where things are going.

The sunlight is starting to fade when the three of them step outside of the Town Hall, Daniil stretching his arms behind his head to try and alleviate the tension in his shoulders. Artemy looks at him with a small frown, and shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping in your binder again,” he mutters so only Daniil can hear. It’s unnecessary to mutter when Rubin already knows and isn’t the type to go spreading other peoples’ secrets. Not that Daniil considers this much of a secret, proud as his is of who he is, of what he is. There’s no one else around to hear, anyway.

Still, Daniil scowls back at Artemy, dropping his arms to his sides. The half-binder has risen up his chest at the movement, and he’s trying to ignore it lest Artemy take it as confirmation. “I didn’t do that for fun,” he snips. It feels like his chest is going to fall out from under his binder and he gives up on letting it be, tugging at the bottom again to pull it down. If Artemy takes that as a yes, that’s their problem. “There were a lot of time constraints. Surely you slept in your clothes at least once during those twelve days?”

Artemy ignores Daniil’s question. “You just look uncomfortable, and you keep messing with it. Is it too small for you?”

Daniil hates that Artemy can read him so easily. He blusters as he readjusts his jacket, pulling it tighter over his chest. “For your information, I don’t do that anymore.” Artemy smirks. Exactly the reaction he’d expected. They shake their head again, their smile a pleasantly warm thing, and Artemy does not feel so embarrassed at being caught the way he was. The expression only leaves him feeling endeared. It’s horrible. How long will this feeling last before it goes away? “It’s just that this style is half the length of the one I normally wear. I thought it would be less conspicuous for today, but – did I really tug at it so often? I hope I didn’t come across unprofessional –“

“What are you two grumbling about over there?” Daniil had expected Rubin to head off right after the meeting, going about whatever business he normally attends to in the evenings. He hadn’t even wanted to come initially, pointing out that at least one doctor should be available just in case of an emergency. So it surprises Daniil that he’s stuck around afterward, but here he is all the same, glowering in Daniil and Artemy’s direction. Which, Daniil has to admit, has been pretty rude on his and Artmey’s part.

“Get over here. We’re discussing what we’re doing for dinner.” Daniil blinks in surprise. He wasn’t aware that he was joining Artemy for dinner, though it’s not like he’s planning on saying no. Rubin, on the other hand, hesitates, his brows furrowed and nose scrunched. Daniil worked with him long enough to know the expression is not one of disgust, but of uncertainty. “Come on, Stakh,” Artemy says, rolling his head along his shoulders, “you’re welcome to join us, of course.”

Daniil is used to Rubin being so single-minded that he expects the man to reject the invitation out of hand, but for once Rubin appears to really be considering his options. He looks back behind him, and in his face Daniil can see exhaustion. He sighs. “I’ll come by and join you later in the evening. The Kains still want to see me, though god only knows what for.”

Really? When they’d just seen Georgiy in the Town Hall? Perhaps he’d already left. Perhaps they wanted to talk to Rubin about how the clinic was a bad idea and sow the seeds of doubt in him before the three of them could even get started.

Perhaps Daniil was being a little paranoid from wearing his binder for too long. “Well, good luck to you,” Daniil says, and Rubin nods. Artemy waves to him as he turns and begins his walk toward the Crucible.

He spends a minute too long watching Rubin leave, all of his thoughts merging together into one tangled mess. The Kains, the buildings across the river, the new clinic, the new theatre. Artemy taps his shoulder to get his attention and jerks his head to the right when Daniil turns around to face him. It’s not exactly getting late, but Artemy does have two children to look after and Daniil doesn’t really have any other plans. Eva knew he’d be out for the day, and accordingly made plans with Yulia.

The two walk side-by-side toward the steps leading out of the Chine and into the Tanners, Daniil still fidgeting with the hem of his binder. Artemy watches him struggling, lips bowed down at his discomfort. “You can take that thing off when we get home,” they offer. Daniil only manages to grunt in reply, tugging his gloves off with his teeth to try and scratch under the line of his breasts. Artemy’s mouth pushes into a purse watching him, and Daniil just knows he’s about to get mothered. “I have a salve for that itch, too. You been using a lot of soap in your clothes-washing?”

“No,” Daniil snaps, “It’s just nerves.”

“Nerves from being alone with me?” He can’t tell if Artemy is teasing him or not, but he feels very suddenly like an iceberg, floating along in frozen waters. His toes are the first to go painful cold, his head barely treading water. Artemy can’t possibly know about his feelings. Daniil has done everything he can to hide them. But Artemy’s tone is so serious, as if it’s not much of a joke that he’s making.

“Why on earth would that make me nervous?” He’s thankful now that his voice is flat at the best of times, managing to sound far more unimpressed than he feels. Artemy doesn’t look at him. Daniil resists the urge to chew on his lips. “Seriously, Artemy, where in the world did that thought come from? You can’t seriously believe I’d fall prey to that inane belief you were some sort of mass murderer. We are friends, aren’t we? Being alone with you is the furthest thing from frightening. It’s –“

He cuts himself off before he can say something colossally stupid. Flat affect or not, there are some things that can’t be obfuscated by tonality. “I enjoy the time we spend together,” he says evenly. “It’s not you, it’s this whole meeting. Trying to convince your troglodyte rulers that a clinic would be a good idea.”

It unnerves him when Artemy doesn’t respond immediately. Normally he doesn’t think twice about the amount he speaks or the words he uses, but Artemy makes him feel self-conscious. It all just matters more when he’s with Artemy. He wants to say things correctly. He wants to get them right.

They’re crossing the bridge now, and Daniil is contemplating cutting Artemy off in his tracks. He wants to know what’s going on, why the sudden darkness has come over his back the way it has. Except he thinks he knows; Artemy spent those twelve horrible days being the subject of so much rumor that it must have taken its toll on his self-esteem. Daniil feels a desperate want to reach out again, with purpose this time. To say something to make Artemy feel better. It’s a foreign concept to him – outside of children, it never crosses his mind to comfort others.

“You’re right,” Artemy says. Daniil turns his head to look at them, swallowing down an anxious lump in his throat. “It was a dumb thought.” Daniil watches them roll their shoulders, admiring their breadth, imagining – no, not here, not now, he can’t do that. If his cheeks grow rosy, he’ll just pretend it’s further irritation from his binder. Artemy clears his throat, and Daniil whips his eyes up to Artemy’s face. “So,” he says, and Artemy’s face is the one looking a little red, “how was your date?”

For some reason, he wasn’t expecting Artemy to ask about the date. In truth, he’d almost forgotten it was a date in the first place. He starts to crack his knuckles under his gloves and says, “It was nice.”

Admitting that the date went well feels weird, because the concept itself is weird, but that’s nothing compared to Artemy’s reaction. He’s downright stunned, mouth agape when he looks at Daniil. “Nice?” he repeats. “Nice. You’re sure you went out with Mark? Immortell?” Daniil snorts and nods. Artemy’s lips press together thinly. “You have to tell me more than that. What do you mean by ‘nice’?”

“It means what it means, Artemy. There’s not much to explain.” Their mouth closes, but they don’t stop staring. “We mostly went for a walk and had a coffee. We talked, as you do on first dates,” I assume, “and he is actually quite interesting.” It’s not a lie, and it doesn’t exactly feel like one. But talking about it all with Artemy feels wrong. Especially with the look of disbelief being sent his way. “He used to be in the circus, you know,” Daniil says, and he can feel himself babbling. “He’s well-read, but never attended university. And he didn’t tell me much, but it seems his making residence here in Town was about as intentional as it was for the rest of us.”

Artemy raises an eyebrow. “I live here, oynon. I’m from here.” Daniil rolls his eyes. Artemy sighs, and this time Daniil’s eyes don’t follow his fingers as he rakes a hand through his hair. “Anyway, that’s bizarre to hear. But I guess you’ve gotten that out of the way, and he won’t be bugging you anymore.”

“Ah.” Artemy’s quick to look back at him, his eyes drifting off to the space in front of them. They’re nearly at Artemy’s house now, but Artemy stops him with a hand on his arm. His brows raise, clearly asking him what the ah was for. Daniil squirms, shifting weight between his feet before he announces, “I’m going out with him again.”

Artemy gives him an intense look of something akin to disappointment. Artemy’s judging his choice – not that it’s any of his business what Daniil does, how he spends his time or who with – and Daniil feels withered by it.

He tries to assert himself by standing up a little straighter. “I don’t see a reason why I shouldn’t give him a chance. You said it yourself, I need to broaden my horizons.” That doesn’t make Artemy look any happier. Daniil licks his lips, trying to figure out a way to defend his decision. “Alright, maybe Mark isn’t the man who rushes to mind when I think potential life-partners, but I can’t think of a good reason to not at least give it a shot. What reason do I have for being alone?”

“Is that why you’re doing this? Because you’re lonely?” He picked the wrong choice of words, evidently. He’s not sure how to explain his emotions to Artemy, or why he’s making the choices that he is. What was it he’d said while drunk? That he wanted to prove he was capable of loving, and being loved in return? His whole body flares with embarrassment at the memory, at being so weak and vulnerable in front of someone else.

But if it’s only in front of Artemy, then it’s okay. “I don’t really have a plan anymore. Most of my plans have been lost to the flames, you know.” Artemy’s frown changes shape, but at least the displeasure is gone from their expression. Now they just look at Daniil sadly. “I’m just playing things by ear for now. I didn’t hate the way that date went, so what’s the point in denying a second time? Who knows, maybe I’ll enjoy myself. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

Artemy turns on their heel and doesn’t look at Daniil as they start walking again, leading them back to the house. Daniil wishes he knew what they were thinking. “No,” Artemy mumbles, “I suppose there isn’t.”

It’s been three weeks of running around, getting various orders signs and decrees acknowledged before work on an office has started in earnest. They are not building an entirely new unit for the clinic, but renovating an apartment building that had been left empty from the plague. It’s a little unsettling, how much of the town is empty now, but Artemy tries not to dwell on the fact. He gets the impression he’s not the only one bothered by it, though. Rubin keeps stoic pretty convincingly, but he’s seen the way Daniil rubs at his arms and looks around when they walk with that small frown of his, like he expects there to be more activity around them than there is.

“It’s too quiet in here.” The words were soft and low, and felt as though they were spoken right behind Artemy’s ear. It isn’t possible. Daniil is too short to manage it, and he’d have noticed him standing so close. They always notice these days – how close Daniil stands, the expressions he makes, the way he tries to choose his words carefully when speaking to Artemy. They’ve been trying not to pay that any mind, either, but it’s been difficult to just ignore. It’s been getting too obvious.

It was that dinner, where Daniil explained how Mark flirted with him and let his fingers linger a little too long on Artemy’s arm. Artemy watched his eyes go wide, his pupils dilate, his tongue run over the curve of his lip before he remembered himself and drew back. He left the flowers Mark delivered to wither and die on Artemy’s kitchen table, though it didn’t matter much when he’d kept finding reasons to come over and hang around.

Artemy, for their part, doesn’t know how they feel. They haven’t exactly been avoiding Daniil, but the other man has kept himself so involved in the theatre’s puppet shows over the last several weeks that there hasn’t been an abundance of time for them to just get together and talk as they had been doing before. Artemy was thankful for the space at first, thankful to get some time to sort their feelings out, and they came to the conclusion that there were worse things in the world than Daniil Dankovsky harboring romantic feelings for them. Even if they aren’t quite sure how that happened, or when, or why.

And that’s bullshit, they think. They’ve been making a concerted effort to spend time with their friends, and that includes Daniil now. They may not be actively ignoring him, but they’ve let things fall by the wayside on purpose. They feel like a jackass for it. What’s the big deal, anyway? Even if he isn’t sure about his own feelings toward Daniil, that doesn’t mean he has to cut him off. Doing so hasn’t made things any better, and he’s not sure why he ever thought it would. Not seeing him over the past several weeks has honestly just made Artemy feel like shit.

So he’s here at the theatre now, under the guise of picking up his kids from the puppet show. Murky and Sticky are indeed attending with their friends, though Sticky had at first protested the idea. “Puppet shows are for babies,” he’d said, and Murky kicked him in the shin.

“It’s a shame, then. I guess you won’t be able to ask Dankovsky all the finer details of those Capital stories he’ll be telling.” Artemy took a long sip from their mug, watching the teen struggle with his thoughts on the matter. And privately, their throat hurt as they swallowed, reflecting on the way they’d defaulted back to Daniil’s last name. It was too late to bother correcting themself aloud when Sticky made the decision to accompany Murky. They’d gone each week, now, and Artemy found excuses the past two to be busy.

They don’t want to do that anymore. They’re arriving to the theatre late, but it’s not the show Artemy’s there to see. Adults aren’t normally invited to these shows, but Artemy is hoping he’ll be a permitted exception. If he’s lucky, Daniil will have been too busy the past few weeks to notice the distance Artemy has put between them – or if he has, he’ll chalk it up to something else. Artemy doesn’t intend to bring Daniil’s feelings up unless Daniil wants to talk about them.

The kids are all seated cross-legged on the stage, around the miniature stage in a circle. Daniil’s voice is coming from behind the curtains, high-pitched but as monotone as ever as he attempts to mimic a dainty woman’s voice. It’s kind of awful, and Artemy winces at the grating sound, but the kids either don’t notice or have gotten used to it by now. From what Artemy has managed to glean, the woman Daniil is so terribly voice-acting is making a deal with an older woman to… Well, he’s not really sure what the deal is.

Artemy has been standing just behind the stage, but finally walks up the steps and takes a seat next to Murky, who pays him no mind. He watches the puppets as the girl in Daniil’s right hand trades away some items made of gold and who knows what else for the chance to speak to what Artemy assumes is a prince, either dead or asleep. They never paid much attention to fairy tales as a child, and the ones they learned locally are much different from whatever myth Daniil is performing for them now.

Maybe Daniil would like to learn about the folk tales they tell out on the steppe.

Not much time passes between the moment Artemy sits down and the end of the show, the kids all clapping out of what Artemy can only figure is politeness. Most of them hop off the stage and scamper away, but a few linger behind to poke at the puppets Daniil sets down. Artemy doesn’t know where Mark is hiding, but something in their chest feels so warm and tender, watching Daniil interacting with the kids, using new puppets from behind the setup. He takes a puppet clearly designed to be a king and makes some exaggerated gesture that sends the little girl talking to him into peels of giggles, and Artemy very nearly touches their chest in a shock at the sudden onslaught of emotions they feel. They knew Daniil liked kids – that much they’d gathered from Peter. But seeing him interact with them is something else entirely.

It hurts, for some strange reason they can’t discern. And they feel it again, that odd tumbleweed of emotion in their chest – the one that made them start hiding from Daniil all those weeks ago. They know it’s better to face it head on than to wallow in the uncomfortableness of it all, than to risk losing Daniil as a friend because he’s scared of what it all might mean. The only way out is through.

While he’s been busy ruminating, another kid has jumped up in line ahead of him. “Uncle Bachelor,” he hears the kid address as he walks up to the man, “are you going to read us any stories from the steppe?”

“It’s not reading,” Daniil says, wiggling the puppet around on his hand, “It’s performing.”

“It’s more like reading, when you do it.” Daniil’s eyes grow sad at the comment, though he only permits himself the slightest of frowns, and the kid seems to miss it entirely, launching onto his next comment. “There’s the ones about the kin leaders, and the ones about the bulls. And the steppe people really believe them! Isn’t that absurd?” There’s unparalleled glee in the kid’s voice, and Artemy has to bite his tongue. “You don’t really think the world is a giant bull, do you?”

Daniil’s eyes flicker to where Artemy stands, greeting Artemy’s eyes with his own. It only takes a second, but the sadness Artemy had seen in darkest browns seems to disintegrate in a second. Daniil smiles, though only slightly, before he turns back to the child. “Even the settlers of the town hold beliefs the rest of the world would consider impossible. You never know – credo quia absurdum est. Stranger things have happened.”

Artemy almost recognizes that proverb. The child who’s been speaking to Daniil must catch where the other man’s eyes are pointed, and turns around to see Artemy standing behind him. He has the good grace to look embarrassed for what he said, but he doesn’t make an attempt to apologize for it, dashing off around them. Artemy looks up at him, smile pinched. “I didn’t think –“

Sticky interrupts them before they can finish the thought. “Hey, dad?” Artemy turns to look over their shoulder. “Murky and I are gonna go catch frogs, okay? Okay!” Sticky takes hold of Murky’s hand – or perhaps it’s the other way around, seeing as how the older boy is the one being dragged from the theatre, and not the little sister. Artemy turns back around to face Daniil, shaking his head. And Daniil is smiling, watching them go.

That’s another thing he’s missed in the time Daniil has been absent. Not Daniil interacting with just any kids, but Daniil interacting with his kids. He thinks they would have missed it too, if they weren’t showing up to these performances. Daniil has his eyebrows raised at Artemy, and Artemy smiles, less strained this time. “I didn’t think I’d hear you defending our beliefs, emshen.”

“Oh? We’re back to emshen, now? And here I thought we were on a first-name basis.” There’s no real anger to the words, but Artemy thinks he can detect a hint of sarcasm, and there’s a slight furrow to his brow to indicate that he is at least a little upset. It’s hard to get a gauge on just how upset he is when Daniil is not quite facing him.

“Daniil,” Artemy corrects himself.

Daniil waves his hand a little, and Artemy notes that he is miraculously gloveless. “Well, you know I don’t particularly believe in any creation mythos. But after the Sand Pest?” He pulls the dolls around from the front of the little stage, packing them up behind it. “Honestly, if you told me the disease took the form of a human being, I’d probably believe you.”

Artemy wishes they could feel the hilarity in that statement. They could tell Daniil, sure, but they don’t think it would do him any good, and Artemy’s not sure they really want to talk about the two Claras and the birds with the rattling bones. Maybe one day they will, but the memory of it is still too fragile in their mind, and fragile things make sharp edges.

“You should come over for dinner tonight,” they blurt out. Which is indeed what they came here to do, but they still feel sheepish saying it out loud, rubbing the back of their head. Daniil looks up at them with some surprise, which is how they know they messed up somewhere along the line.

They watch Daniil’s pale hands in motion, cleaning up the area around them, and curl their own into fists to try and outweigh the urge to run a finger across the back of them. Daniil must have left the gloves off to fit inside the hand puppets he was using today. They’ve never asked Daniil why he wears the things, but he’s seen Daniil cringing around certain textures the way Murky does and assumed it was the same thing. They can see the similarities between the two so easily, brought more into focus on the days Daniil comes over for dinner. And maybe that’s why Murky was able to let go of her grumpiness a little quicker around him, the way he’d so quickly and so confidently rattled off information about bugs to her out in the yard.

“It has been a while since we spent time together,” Daniil says, and Artemy’s heart pounds in their ears at how intimate he makes it sound.

“Yeah,” Artemy says dumbly, “that’s why I’m asking you to come over tonight.” Daniil lets out a slow sigh, and brushes the hair back from his forehead, turning to look behind him. When he does, Artemy catches sight of it – that little scar on his cheek. Two, actually, it looks like. Artemy wonders how he got them. He catches himself with one arm raised out, and he yells at himself to put it back in a safe space, curling it back around to the nape of his neck, toying with a curl. “We have some catching up to do,” he says, “and a clinic to plan out.” Daniil hums, nodding. “It’s not the only thing, Daniil. I do value your friendship, even if I’m not that great at showing it.”

“Yes, Rubin would say the same thing.” Artemy blinks in surprise that Rubin and Daniil would talk without him. A dejected voice in his brain tells him that Rubin and Daniil have probably spoken more to each other recently than he and Daniil have, but Daniil doesn’t look particularly mad at him or even annoyed. When he tilts his head back to look at Artemy, he’s smiling. “Alright, yes. Just let me grab my things from the back, and I’ll join you.” Artemy nods, and watches him leave. For a moment, they wonder if they should have followed Daniil to the back.

And the minute after he leaves proves that yes, they probably should have. “Ah, Artemy Burakh. Surgeon, Haruspex, Butcher and Ripper.” Artemy’s eyes close and they pinch the bridge of their nose, irritation welling up in their stomach. They can hear Mark’s cane tapping on the stairs up to greet them, and they’d rather not deal with him at all. “To what do I owe the pleasure of my competition’s audience?”

“Competition?” Mark’s face is pulled into a smug smile despite the hostility of his words, but Artemy can’t muster up the energy to care all that much about whatever weird game Mark is playing right now. “I don’t remember ever having competed against you. I can’t remember ever wanting to.”

“Not in the past, dear Artemy, but in the present. Here, and now. The reason you came into my theatre.” He lifts his cane to point at Artemy, infuriating grin widening. “Just because one game has completed does not mean a new one has not begun. There are still pieces in play and a battle to be fought. Amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus.”  His cane taps to the ground, and he leans on it. “Let the better man win, and I intend to.”

Is Artemy the only person in this damned Town who doesn’t speak a word of Latin? At least he recognizes one word – ‘amor.’ “What does love have to do with anything?” he asks. “I still don’t see how we’re in competition. I have nothing to do with the Utopians.”

“Now that simply isn’t true, Burakh. Why else would you have come to my theatre? I very much doubt it was to see me, but rather my beau whom you are trying to court.” His beau? Courting? Does he mean – “Or hasn’t Daniil told you, hm?” So that’s what the too-wide grin is for. Mark’s eyes glint in an uncomfortably bright color, and Artemy feels his stomach sink. It’s none of his business, of course, who Daniil chooses to date, but the idea that he’s still going out with Mark makes him feel strange. And it means he must have misread Daniil’s interest in him, unless Daniil has other reasons for not pursuing Artemy romantically.

Not that it really matters, of course, because Artemy doesn’t feel that way about him. “Daniil and I are friends,” Artemy says defensively. “I don’t really care what you two get up to on your own, but I enjoy spending time with my friends. You’re not going to ruin that for me.” Mark hums in a way that sounds like laughter, and Artemy’s eyes narrow. “What is it, oh deathless one?”

“You don’t realize the part you play in it at all, and in the end your ignorance will be your downfall. It’ll be fun, watching you squirm around, trying to grasp something you’ve never learned how to hold.” Mark tips his cane up and over his shoulder, leaning his weight on one foot. “You’ve hardly made your move, Haruspex, too busy lost in the minutiae. One day you’ll look over, and see the new Town fully finished, and wonder to yourself, ‘Where is my oynon?’ Well, Burakh? Where will he be? What sweet suggestions have you made for him to stay? Have you noticed the scar on his cheek, asked how he received it? Do you know what he dreams of, what he misses of home, what he plans for the future?”

So that’s what this is about. Not a rival for Daniil’s affections, but a rival in swaying him from one side of the river to the other. “Is that what you’re dating him for?” Artemy asks. “Just to serve whatever agenda you guys have going now?”

Mark doesn’t answer. Artemy doubts that he ever would have, but Daniil is coming back from behind the curtain now, coat pulled on over his shoulders and gloves back in place. He seems surprised to see Mark out on stage, but accepts the kiss on the cheek that Mark offers him before heading over to Artemy. “Have a good evening, Danya,” Artemy hears Mark say. Artemy only barely manages to refrain from sneering. Danya.

“Alright, then. Shall we?” He leads, and Artemy lets him, still feeling Mark’s smirk on his back as they exit the theatre. Daniil is quiet at first, and Artemy thinks to himself that maybe he should ask him about something light, something easy, like the plays they intend to produce, about the ones they have already completed. He could ask if Daniil’s had any luck finding a house and even gather his information that way, but it’s not what leaves his mouth. What he winds up saying is blunt and direct:

“Have you made any decision about the new Town?” Daniil doesn’t stop in his tracks, but he does look over at Artemy, blinking in surprise. Artemy can’t seem to get himself to shut up. “You know, decided whether you plan on moving to it, or not?”

Daniil’s mouth draws into a thin line, like he finds the subject itself distasteful. Picking this topic was clearly not Artemy’s best decision, but his need to know feels so immediate. “Not yet,” Daniil says. “I’ve considered putting it off until the new place is finished and I can have a look around. I haven’t gone looking at any new apartments in town, just in case I change my mind. I know it must be a terrible burden on Eva, and yet,” he sighs, and starts to tap his lip. As they round the corner, heading up the stairs, Artemy notices he must have slipped his gloves back on while gathering his things.

“It does seem like there would be some benefits to moving,” he continues, more thinking aloud than answering Artemy’s question. “A new house of my own, and I’m sure the Kains would commission the Stamatins for a lab if I wanted to resume my studies. Better try here than going back to the Capital, you know. Less people after my skin, here.”

Artemy nods. So Daniil is thinking about it, that much is certain. Artemy can understand why, but the thought of him moving so far is uncomfortable.

He internally shakes his head at himself. ‘So far’? The new town is only a short walk away, just across the bridge. But then what about the clinic, the one Daniil had insisted they build? A sudden flash of emotion gives them the bright idea to relay the last conversation they had with Immortell to Daniil, but they’re aware it would appear like petty jealousy if they did. Surely Daniil doesn’t think Immortell’s interest in him is genuine? Unless it is, and oh god, what is he supposed to do if it isn’t entirely manipulation? It’s been almost a month since they started seeing each other, Mark has moved on to using diminutives for him, and here Artemy has wasted so much time in trying to figure out how he feels about Daniil’s crush on him.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. But no matter how many times he repeats the words in his head, it does matter to him, so intensely. It feels the same as it would if it were Lara or Grief or Stakh who was thinking of moving away. Artemy feels a brush against their elbow and turns, suddenly aware that they must be making a severe expression. Daniil’s looking up at them with this unfathomably soft look, his lashes fluttering when Artemy looks back at him. Daniil’s hand falls back down, and his eyes look away, but there’s a rise of pink to his cheeks. “You seem lost in thought,” he says. “Anything I can help you with?”

Were Artemy a different man, smarter or kinder one, they might have given their next action some thought before they put it into motion. But Artemy has a consistent pattern of acting and speaking without thinking, of simply rushing headfirst into things without taking the time to contemplate them. Daniil, they know, is the opposite. And they know as soon as the words leave their mouth that Daniil will overthink them. It’ll plant doubt in his mind about his decision, and doubt is exactly what Artemy needs.

“Don’t go,” Artemy says. He keeps the words soft and measured, a low rumble in his chest. Not a demand, but a plea. Daniil blinks at them in surprise. Artemy watches their lips part, and sets their hand on his shoulder, bringing him to a stop in the middle of the road.

Daniil’s eyes flick over to where Artemy’s hand cups his shoulder, and Artemy squeezes, perhaps a little too tight, unpracticed in the show of affection. Daniil’s tongue slips between his lips, running across the bottom lip. Nerves, because this is more attention than Artemy has ever shown him. At least Artemy has enough restraint not to do something as colossally stupid as kissing him for effect. “What?” Daniil asks. He sounds like he’s lost all train of thought, head empty as Artemy toys with him.

“Don’t move across the river,” Artemy says. “I know it’s your choice in the end, but the people here need you. The clinic you’re helping to set up, the lives you helped save. Some of them will move across the river, sure, but don’t the people here deserve the same attention?” Daniil’s eyes attempt to read his face, and settle on his lips. No, there’s no way Artemy misread his intentions. Daniil is hanging onto his words too closely for there to be some other meaning.

And Artemy really should feel guilty. “I have –“ Daniil’s voice comes out a little too high, and starts to crack. He covers his mouth with his hand, and coughs, looking away for a moment in embarrassment. “I have obligations to the Kains as well, you know. They were my patrons when I first arrived, and I’ve already failed them in so many other ways –“

“But you’ve said it yourself, Daniil. This is your Town now too.” Artemy’s grip grows lighter, and he starts to trail down Daniil’s arm softly. “I know the kids would miss you, if you left. I don’t think Sticky would ever forgive you. And,” they squeeze Daniil’s hand, and watch his pupils dilate, frozen in a stare with his own. It’s strange that someone so icy should have the warmest shade of eyes, like he is the earth thawing out beneath Artemy’s feet. “I would miss you, too.”

That much isn’t a lie. And Daniil is sort of cute when he’s flustered, Artemy decides. His pale cheeks are burnt and his eyes flicker around them, like he’s not sure where it’s safe to focus. Artemy feels his hand curling and flexing, trying to decide whether to grab onto Artemy’s or not. Artemy pulls away before Daniil’s hand can make up its mind, something he hopes sticks in his mind as a metaphor for what will happen if he leaves, though Artemy’s not cruel enough to say it directly. Daniil’s left hand pushes through his hair, and he looks a little younger now with it out of his face this way. “Well,” he begins, but his words don’t go anywhere.

Artemy pats him on the shoulder, pushing him into continuing their walk back to his house. “You don’t have to make a decision now. But I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said.” He can feel Daniil’s eyes on him as his hand trails down the man’s back.

“Alright,” Daniil says, his voice soft and a little broken, “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Text

Daniil has been putting off this conversation for a month and a half now. The season - as Mark calls it - is coming to an end. They’ve performed about a dozen puppet shows for the kids, and Daniil has actually been enjoying himself. He enjoys interacting with the kids, feeling like he’s a part of something outside of his duties as a doctor.

In the Capital, he’d devoted all of his time and energy to his research and never thought of spending a moment on anything different. He considered it a waste of time, never seeing the point in deviating from his single-minded determination. His professors in university had praised that mindset, and if he noticed his relationships falling by the wayside because of it – well, he was doing more important things than fraternizing. He was so derisive about living a life outside of his work. But this, having a job and friends and a relationship… it all feels just as good as that singular goal had. Not better, but different.

Eva thumbs through the book in her left hand, leaning back on the piano with a hum, teacup balanced between her fingers of her right. Her brow furrows, and Daniil watches her pause and repeat a word to herself, smiling as he pulls his shoes on. “Another book with Yulia?” he asks, and she nods. He stands and moves toward her, hovering over her shoulder, careful not to cast his shadow over the paper. “And how’s this one going?”

“Ah, I don’t really understand it,” she says with a frown. She lets the book fall closed on her thumb, lifting the cup to drain the contents. She projects such an air of daintiness that it’s always so amusing to watch her break it when it’s just the two of them, one leg curled up under the other knee on the bench. “It’s not the words themselves, it’s the concepts. They’re so bleak! I’m not really sure what point the author was trying to get across. Must everything be so hopeless? Is there really something so wrong wanting to experience love?”

It makes sense that her reservations would rise with her girlfriend’s choice in literature. Daniil’s surprised their ideologies don’t clash more often. They’re a mismatched pair, and Daniil’s sure they both know it, but that’s part of what draws them together. He likes to think his friendship with Artemy is similar, however much it lacks the romantic sentiment Yulia and Eva share.

He feels his chest twinge when the thought crosses his mind, and he attempts to ignore it. “Well, that’s classic literature for you,” he says, giving Eva a soft pat on the shoulder. She sets her teacup down on her thigh and slips one gloved hand into her hair, lifting it up from her neck and around her shoulder. “I’m going out for a bit. Do you need me to pick up anything on my way back?”

She shakes her head and hums, already refocused on the novel in her hand. Daniil picks his jacket off of the coatrack, slipping it on and heading out the door.

The air is positively frigid, his breath coming out in small puffs as he pulls his jacket tighter across his body. He’s not going too far right now – just across the bridge to the new town, which he’s finally stopped associating with the decimation of the Polyhedron. Seeing that empty space in the sky has gotten easier over time, though he does still miss the wonderful tower. He’s sure he’s not the only one; he’s seen the children who used to occupy it wandering the street, looking a little lost, a little sad. Daniil’s not sure how many of them lack homes to return to, though he’s heard parents rejoicing to have their children back. He’s sure they’ll find new places to play in its absence, but he can sympathize with those he catches staring longingly at the sky. Nothing will ever quite the same.

The Kains, on the other hand, have moved onto bigger pictures.

Daniil stands at the end of the bridge, that giant platform across from the Polyhedron’s base, and stares out into the Town slowly forming across the river. If he squints, he can see workers in thick coats and thicker gloves calling out to each other as they construct rows of houses. A few other workers are focused on a building to the left that seems to loom over what little of the new town has risen so far. Daniil has not gotten around to asking the Kains what this first building is or what they’ve decided to name their new town. Something to do with Utopia, he bets.

In all honesty, he’s been afraid to ask. Every time he turns around, he expects to be confronted with questions he’s not ready to answer. Are you moving with the rest of them? Daniil digs his teeth into his bottom lip and thinks about it. A month or so ago he spoke to Artemy about the request the Kains had made – or rather, Artemy spoke to him. They were on their way to his house for dinner when Artemy suddenly stopped him, his hand on Daniil’s shoulder, and asked him to stay.

It wasn’t so different from the evening he asked Daniil to stay in Town, though Daniil had been slightly drunk at the time. Like an idiot and an adolescent, Daniil was unable to shake the warmth of Artemy’s hand on his shoulder, the way their fingers traced down his arm to take his hand. Artemy looked so sincere when they spoke that while Daniil had promised to think about it, his mind had already swayed.

And then things went back to normal, to the way they had been before Daniil had started dating Mark. Which is the whole reason Daniil is conflicted, really. Driven between two separate loyalties: on the one hand, to the Utopians, to the people who gave him patronage when he first arrived in Town; and on the other hand to Artemy, the man for whom he had agreed to stay. Maria expects him to leave. Mark expects him to leave. And since he’s staying in the general vicinity, does he not owe it to them for all of the trouble he put them through? He’s the one who failed them, and it’s not as though his dreams have really changed in the months since he has made this town his home. His ambitions are still firmly rooted in the impossible, even if he has started to settle for a life with more concrete meaning.

Funny, as he’s never thought of himself as becoming that sort of person - someone who settled easily. And he’s not, really. He still keeps himself as busy as he possibly can, lying in bed at night missing the lights and noise of the big city, the way they’d overwhelm him and drown out his thoughts so he could simply drift, limbless and numb, until he passed out. It’s harder out here to get lost in things the way he did in the city, but he still finds little ways to make himself feel important. To feel needed, since he clearly wasn’t in the Capital, despite all his hard work. The few letters he’s received from old colleagues have been warnings telling him to stay where he is, not to visit just yet. It aches every bone in his body to be kept away, to be deprived of a choice, but there’s not much he can do to change the situation. Not unless he makes some sort of breakthrough, something that turns the tides in his favor once again.

Maybe that can be his end goal, the ideal he holds out hope for. Daniil looks to the looming building, and thinks of how a new lab of his own might look as designed by the Stamatins. He can picture something akin to a tornado, or maybe a giant moth. They could be cheeky and build it as an elaborate coffin, descending into the earth. He’d like to think it’s not too late for him to start his research anew and discover ideas he couldn’t have before. The Kains still have one promise left to make good on in allowing Daniil to study their blood. Come what may, he’s determined to see that promise to fruition.

It’s another weight on the scale tipping Daniil’s decision in the Utopians’ favor. It may be harder for him to earn their participation if he doesn’t play his part here and shift to the new town with them. And he knows, though no one has said it, that he’s expected to play along in his interactions with him, always dancing on a very thin wire liable to cut up his feet. He feels just like one of the unfortunate protagonists of the puppet shows he performs, or like one of the puppets themselves, fabric stretched and worn thin from so much use. Siding with either party feels like a lie, and today both will expect an answer. The first set of new homes will be ready within the week, Daniil’s among them if he wants to pick.

On second thought, he’s not quite ready to give the Kains his answer.

The force of the wind pushes his coat open, a sharp cut against his body as he walks against it, turning on heel toward the office. His coat could have covered him easily when he was too busy and too poor to afford food, but in his post-Pest complacency he’s put on weight. No one has commented thus far, but it sticks out to Daniil as a moral failing. He hasn’t been pudgy since the first time he went through puberty, and were his parents to ever find out they’d suggest now as they did then that he needs more physical activity – as if a doctor need be reminded of such a thing. As if he wasn’t getting plenty in the first place in a town that lacks any transit system.

Daniil shakes his head, hoping to shake the image of his parents scolding him from his mind as he does so. He winds his way through the midsection of town to where they’ve set up their clinic, not far from the theatre. He can’t imagine his parents’ advice would do him any good now, but he knows exactly what they’d say: that he has a duty to the people on the other side, that they hold the key to his future endeavors. This was what he’d put so much time and effort into, studying and locking himself up in his apartment, in his lab. It would be stupid of him to pass up this chance, to risk such an incredible opportunity for another man on the basis of friendship, let alone for an improbable chance at love.

His mind is suddenly and invasively flooded with the memory of Artemy’s little touches; his shoulder, his hand, the small of his back. They were just little things, and Daniil was sure they carried little meaning because Artemy never acted beyond that. He’s come to the conclusion that Artemy Burakh is simply a very tactile person. Just because it felt like flirting didn’t mean that he actually was. People out here probably have their own intricate courtship rituals about which Daniil is completely oblivious. Nothing else Artemy has done has suggested a romantic interest in Daniil, and there’s no point in him letting go of a relationship that’s doing perfectly well for the sake of a feeling that might not even exist. Not unless Artemy gives him some other sign that he’s amenable to dating Daniil.

His fingers tremble, hands almost frozen straight through the leather of his gloves when he arrives at the clinic. He starts to rub them together in the doorway, hunching his shoulders up by his ears to try keep his coat across his chest.

Artemy makes his way out from the back, waving at Daniil before taking a moment to wash his hands off in the nearby sink. He crosses the room to the front and looks down at where Daniil shivers. “You’re all pink, erdem. You should invest in a scarf.” Daniil represses the urge to roll his eyes at Artemy’s incessant need to fuss over something, and steps further away from the door and into the office. “Think it’ll snow?”

“If it rains, we’ll get ice,” Daniil mutters. “Not that it’ll stop those kids from pelting me with snowballs. Ugh.” He doesn’t look forward to it. The first snowfall of the year had come and gone with all the typical fanfare he was used to seeing as a child in the suburbs. Things had been different in the city, but he didn’t find himself really missing the way things had been. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Capella this town had grown on him, strange as it is to think.

Artemy pats him on the shoulder as they move past him, opening a cabinet full of files. “We’ve got most of the Town catalogued now, but I left the sorting for you to do. We had a rush this morning, all head colds.” Daniil nods, coming to stand next to Artemy and batting their hands out of the way.

The first step of their clinic, at Daniil’s insistence, was to gather general health reports on the town’s populace. They’d started before the building was even finished, and now the task is nearly complete. It surprises him how many people there are in this town, between its size and the deaths from the Pest. He supposes he can’t really think of the town as ‘small’ anymore. “Rubin thought to make special note of the ones who’d contracted the Sand Pest and recovered, to monitor them for health problems later on,” Artemy continues.

Daniil’s eyebrows raise as he turns to face Artemy. “Fantastic work, on his part. That’s exactly the sort of thing we should keep track of. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.” He flips through the files, sorting them by name as he goes. “And how long has he been here? Should we send him home?”

“Early morning, I think. I don’t know exactly when, but he was already in when I got here.” Artemy takes a seat at his desk, pulling out a notepad and scribbling something down on it. “He’s doing a checkup with a kid now, but after that we should send him on a break.” Daniil turns back to his files, but he can hear Artemy tapping the desk with the end of his pen as he thinks.

Slowly, words start to form in the air between them, and he can hear Artemy picking them out carefully before he says them. “So. It’s almost the day, huh?” Daniil hears the pen drop, and Artemy scramble to find it. “Have you, uh –“ His voice grows louder, and Daniil imagines him under the desk, fishing for the thing. “Have you decided what you’re going to tell the Kains?”

“It’s not almost the day, Artemy. It is the day.” When Daniil turns around to look at them he finds panic in their cloudy blue eyes; but in the next second, they manage to cover it. Very smooth. Daniil’s chest dares to entertain a feeling akin to hope, if Daniil’s parting would really mean so much to them.

He refocuses his attention on the papers in front of him and clears his throat to keep his voice from coming out high-pitched when he speaks next. “Anyway. I haven’t decided what I’m doing just yet. I know it’s been months, but it still doesn’t feel like enough time to work out a decision that will impact the rest of my life.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Artemy nodding, watching him. “I feel I owe it to the Kains and the others to move across the river. They’re the ones who invited me to Town in the first place, the ones who have kept me housed in the Stillwater for the time that I’ve been here. I feel this weight of expectation on my shoulders the longer I stay in town – not to mention my relationship with Mark. Doesn’t it make more sense for me to go where he’ll be?”

Artemy is slow to respond, like they’re picking out their next words extra carefully. “You know, even if he moves and you don’t, that doesn’t mean you have to break up.” Daniil’s mouth pulls down with disbelief. He can’t imagine Mark handling the decision to abandon a new potential utopia in favor of the old one well. Mark hardly seems the type to handle any rejection well, and given his background Daniil’s not sure he can blame the man. “But even if it did, you know there are other people out there – other men. It’s not the end of the world, emshen.”

At first Daniil had thought the title was a distancing measure, to keep him from being friendlier than Artemy was comfortable with. But Artemy seems to call him emshen in ways Daniil hopes he can call affectionate, in tones he’d want to hear a term of endearment. Daniil keeps his head turned and hopes Artemy can’t see the way his face flushes at the attention, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “That’s true,” Daniil says, “but would you consider it giving the relationship a fair shot if I don’t do what I can to keep it together?”

“You’ve only been seeing him two months, Daniil. Wouldn’t it be a bit much to move house for a relationship you don’t think would last a simple distance?” Well, they have a point there. But by the same token, he’d be staying in Town for a man who, for all he knows, isn’t interested in him at all.

Unless this is a hint? Is this Artemy’s way of telling Daniil they want to be with him? Daniil runs his tongue between his lips as he thinks, and finds himself being turned around by a larger set of hands. Artemy keeps his right hand on Daniil’s shoulder, the left gesturing. The look in their eyes is soft and pleading. “Look, Daniil. You know what I think, and what I’d like. I’m the one who asked you to stay in the first place. But really, in the end,” they tap Daniil’s chest, “you should do what your heart tells you to do. Not your head.”

If it really comes down to a matter of following his heart, then Daniil has to admit he’s had his mind made up for weeks. He can feel the heat on his skin where Artemy touched him, thankful it’s not noticeable under so many layers. The intensity between them flips rapidly as Artemy takes a step back to tidy up around the office. Daniil’s heart beats uncomfortably in his chest as he tries not to stare – or not to stare so obviously.

‘You should do what your heart tells you to do.’

Daniil’s eyes follow Artemy’s back for a moment longer before he refocuses his attention on his task. And maybe somewhere along the line, he’ll learn how to put his heart in the right place, too.

Daniil had considered asking the Stamatins – now that Peter has started to work his way back to the land of the living (or at least, to Andrey’s pub) – and Eva for their thoughts on what he should do regarding the move. They’re the three he thought most likely to give him unbiased opinions on the matter. Yulia, too, would have been great at deciphering the potentialities that lay ahead of him in either direction, but every time the thought occurred to him he held back out of some smaller concern. Perhaps Andrey was too dependent on others and would ask Daniil to go wherever he did, as when he nearly returned to the Capital after the Pest; Peter is so fragile that Daniil fears another relapse if the interaction didn’t go so smoothly; Yulia may well just view his conundrum as entertainment, and twist his problems into a greater mess than he knows what to do with.

And now time is up. He could have at least asked Eva, but he should have acted sooner. Now it’s just him and his thoughts going into battle, Daniil’s attention flaking the whole day as he whittles down the hours trying to think of anything other than the decision he needs to make by five this evening.

He almost expects the Kains to be standing in the street outside the clinic door, hands clasped behind their backs like judges bringing down a ruling. He can just imagine Maria inviting herself into the practice, cornering him against a wall and demanding an answer. But when the time comes and the working day is over, the office remains quiet. Daniil hears Artemy’s chair creak and groan as they lean out of it, packing up their stuff and coming to stand by Daniil, staring out the window. They pat his shoulder, fingers trailing up to his neck, softly pinching the skin at the nape the way you’d tug on tense muscles. Daniil wants to rock back into their hand, to thaw out under their fingers, but his body feels too stiff to do more than rest there, frozen.

Artemy’s hand slides down to take Daniil’s shoulder and turn him, offering him a small smile. They look confident. “Whatever decision you make, Daniil, I’ll support it.” Daniil feels his heart twist around in his chest. He tries in vain to keep himself from biting his lips. His eyes pull away from Artemy’s, unable to hold his gaze as he nods. He knows Artemy nods back from the change in the shadows.

They’re gone before Daniil can finish collecting his own things, leaving him to pull on his coat and face this decision alone.

The theatre’s not far from the clinic, and so Daniil decides to stop there first. He spends a moment simply standing outside the building, staring up at it. This decision should not be causing him so much anxiety, and yet his stomach unsettles as he thinks on what he’s about to do. He can’t put it off any longer. At least once this is over, he can relax - he has a feeling that once he’s told Mark, the rest of the Utopians will know in an instant. They always seemed to act as a hivemind, each one knowing what the others are doing. His grip on his bag is painful as he marches up to the theatre doors and pulls them open.

Daniil’s silly, overdramatic mind expects some manner of grandeur when he opens the door. He expects today to be different, given the decision he’s meant to be making, but the theatre is as dimly lit as it always is. There’s no special set on the stage, just the puppet theatre with its curtains drawn, the haze and dust of the theatre swirling in the low lighting. For a moment Daniil entertains the notion that Mark may not even be in, but Daniil swears he can feel the man watching him from afar to see what he’ll do. It’s Mark’s usual modus operandi.

So perhaps Daniil is a coward, then, for not doing anything of note. He simply walks up the stage and stands off-center, his hands clasped around the handles of his bag, waiting for Mark to make his appearance.

His patience is rewarded all the same. “Danya, what a pleasant surprise. Should I be flattered you’ve come to see me first?” Daniil doesn’t have an answer for that, shifting weight between his feet as his fingers relax and flex around the handle of his bag. His binder suddenly feels too tight across his chest, looking around him to try and determine where Mark’s voice is coming from. It seems to echo on the walls with no clear point of origin, but in a moment the man himself appears on the stage, the tap of his cane against the wood announcing his arrival.

Mark’s wearing his usual too-wide smile, but there’s something different about it. It’s in the edges; rounded over time into something nearly human, the jagged lines are back now, sharp as a razor. There’s an emotion Daniil thinks might be excitement shining in the bright hues of Mark’s eyes, his fringe swept back from his forehead. Not for the first time, Daniil wonders what it is exactly Mark does all day, as he’s only ever seen the man outside his theatre a handful of times.

A thought pops uncomfortably to mind, that his appearance just in front of the bridge on the new town had merely been an illusion, something Daniil had only imagined happening. If anyone can manage such a feat, it would be Mark.

What was it Andrey had said? That the man was known for his manipulations, for stories that could tell the future. An insult to the late Nina Kain’s memory. Be careful.

Daniil dips his head at the welcome. He likes to think of himself as someone who doesn’t give into his nerves, who doesn’t change to fit the mold of what others think he should be, but Mark’s gaze is pressing. “I thought it would be most appropriate to inform you first of my decision, considering our relationship,” Daniil says. He keeps his eyes downcast, gaze fixed to the tips of Mark’s shoes. He doesn’t look up into Mark’s face as he continues, “It would be impolite of me not to warn you, I think, that I have decided not to move across the river.”

A second ticks by in ear-ringing silence. Daniil waits for the audible click of a cane against a stage in irritation, but the first noise he hears is, “Oh?” There’s an edge to Mark’s voice as the vowel is uttered. Daniil takes a deep breath, slowly moving his eyes up to meet Mark’s, but the near-gold of his eyes isn’t filled with the rage Daniil is expecting. The other man cocks his head to one side, posture relaxed, and asks, “And why is that?”

Is Mark expecting him to have an easily refutable answer? For there to be doubts he can dissuade with a wave of his hand? Daniil hadn’t planned on Mark asking him why, had only planned on a wave of disappointment, or perhaps anger, and then the inevitable cutoff from the rest of the group. He had planned on things going the same way he had in those final days of the Pest, when it became clear he couldn’t complete the mission he’d been handed and everyone around him became unreliable or else unavailable at the last second. The Stamatins, Mark, the Kains – even Eva had crumbled under pressure, becoming just about catatonic as things reached their frenzied height.

“I,” Daniil begins, but then realizes he can’t find words to describe what he’s thinking. He looks off the right wing of the stage, as though the answer will be held up on a cue card, will be whispered to him by a tragedian prompting his lines. He runs his tongue along the seam of his lips, and says the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t think it would be the right move for me.”

Mark hums. His cane taps against the stage as he starts to walk further downstage, closer to where Daniil is standing. “You don’t think it’s the right move for you,” he repeats. Daniil turns his gaze to Mark’s boney knuckles to keep from looking in his eyes. “And this is a decision you’ve come to on your own?” Daniil nods. So far this is going better than how he’d imagined. He’s never seen the director lose his temper, but he’s seen him close and has imagined something far worse than this. In his mind, Mark changes shape, taller with the shadows, as big and imposing as some of the Town’s buildings as he rains fire down where Daniil stands.

But Mark is only human, Daniil reminds himself, however inhuman he seems. Mark hums again, contemplative, and leans his weight on his cane. He stares at the stage for a moment before tilting his head to look at Daniil, his fingers curling over the head of his cane. “You know something, Daniil? I don’t quite believe you.”

Daniil frowns, his eyes moving to focus on Mark’s face. “Which part don’t you believe?”

“That you came to this decision on your own.” He says it so matter-of-factly that Daniil feels doubt coiling in his stomach. But he had skipped out on advice, had weighed the pros and cons of moving in his mind and decided he didn’t want to leave. He’s been called naïve before, and he’s aware of where he fumbles. He can’t bow down now and allow Mark to twist his mind around. Daniil rolls his shoulders back and tilts his chin up, trying to exert some manner of authority over himself if not the situation. “I expect someone else is exerting their will on you,” Mark continues, and the words themselves seem to curl up in their mouth with distaste. Mark shakes his head, his light brown hair falling around his ears as he does. “Might I ask if you spoke of your options to Artemy Burakh?”

“I did,” Daniil admits. Has a terrible feeling he knows where this is going. He pulls his left hand into his right, squeezing it firmly until the leather squeaks. “I spoke to a couple of people about my options, in order to weigh them. I thought it might be good to get multiple perspectives on the situation, to make an informed decision.” His mouth feels tight when he tries to smile around his lie, eyes never quite able to meet Mark’s. “It would be a hassle to make the decision so soon, only to find myself wanting to come back. And if I change my mind later, no harm done.”

“Oh, Daniil.” The words are spoken with a tinge of condescension, through a heavy sigh. Daniil doesn’t like it at all, cracking his knuckles under his gloves. His jaw shuts and his teeth grind as Mark rocks back lazily onto his heels. “You are a terrible actor, you know that? Never able to stay on script, never able to pass off a lie. Even the children can tell when you’re not being honest. You should consider yourself lucky they admire you.” Daniil swallows, thickly, and the light dies down in Mark’s eyes. “What is it you plan on doing in this Town, if you stay?”

“The clinic,” Daniil answers immediately. “It won’t be the same as life in the Capital, but it’s something to do. There’s nothing wrong with honest work, I did worse during the plague.” Mark doesn’t reply, and Daniil realizes he’s starting to babble. “It’s not as though I can go back to the city now, anyway. But there’s nothing saying I can’t continue my research out here, where the Powers That Be won’t bother to check in on me. And I figure, well,” he gestures to the puppet stage, helplessly. “Unless –“

“A new theatre has already been built across the river,” Mark chimes in. “Even you could not possibly have missed it.” The sting is hardly Mark’s best work. It answers the question he’s had about the mammoth building already established, the one that looms over the rest of the town.

“What will they do with this one?” Daniil asks. Mark gives him a withering look that says he knows Daniil is trying to change the subject.

“I don’t care,” he replies. He sets one hand behind his back and starts to pace near the edge of the stage. “And it’s none of my concern. My place is elsewhere. And yours could be too, you know,” he says with a turn, and the charming sort of grin he usually saves for their dates is back in place, pasting over the earlier irritation. Daniil tells himself not to trust that expression – and yet, he still feels guilty. “You could have a place with me. With the Stamatins. To learn new things, bigger things.”

Daniil sinks his teeth into his lip, looking away. His heart races, ears thrumming with the sound of his blood rushing. All his life he’s wanted to learn what lies beyond, what lurks beneath, to know the limits of humanity and break through them. And he can see himself so easily on the other side of the river, in a new flat, spending nights at the theatre and days at a lab, far removed from the people of this town. The idea is almost intoxicating to him. He could have a life not unlike what he had in the Capital, only slightly smaller.

But something about that image feels off. Something about it feels wrong. He wants it, but he doesn’t want it enough. He thinks of the flicker of low lamplights on the desk, staying up to ungodly hours working tirelessly on his theories the way he had back in the Capital. He thinks about his hollow acquaintances, the few hours he would spend on relaxation getting wasted, waking up and feeling miserable – the way he had even here, in the beginning. That didn’t feel like fulfillment to him. Helping Peter, helping the theatre – those were tangible things, things he felt he could be proud of in the same way he’d been proud of Thanatica. Those accomplishments didn’t make him feel restless, the way this new future he sees does.

And now he feels his stomach sinking in light of delayed realizations, more reasons not to leave. If he moves across the river, how often will he be able to see Artemy? To spend time with Sticky or Murky or Rubin? Will he be able to still work at the clinic alongside people he’s come to trust, or will he be expected to head his own new clinic alone? There’s a chance things will stay the same, but the flicker of doubt in his mind that they won’t, that Daniil will lose himself in the process, it all makes him think, makes him question:

Who is he, anymore? “I need more time to think,” Daniil says. His voice comes out somehow flatter than normal, more dead than he feels. He blinks at the stage as if in confusion at the sudden tick in his heartrate. “I can’t make a decision like this on such short notice. No – I’m staying, until I know what I want.”

Mark clicks his tongue against his teeth. “As I said: You fail to follow the script, to keep up with the plot.” He says it with a tone of dark humor, but that humor is gone from his eyes when Daniil turns his eyes up to look at him. The expression Mark wears now is closer to what Daniil had been expecting, betraying irritation and frustration. “You say you don’t know what you want, but you’re either lying or colossally stupid. I hadn’t thought the latter of you, but if you’re willing to give up your ambitions for Artemy Burakh, then perhaps I misjudged you. You are an idiot.”

Daniil’s cheeks burn with embarrassment and the sudden need to defend himself. His fingers curl tighter around the handle of his bag, so much so that his hand starts to shake. “There were many factors that played a part in my decision,” Daniil starts. “My friendship with Artemy is –“

“Friendship?” The way he says the word, the haughtiness, the distaste, the laughter in his voice – It shouldn’t matter, Daniil thinks. It’s just Mark. He’s always like this. But it does matter, because Daniil is not immune to the shifting emotions of relationships.

The weight of his disapproval is crushing. Daniil feels for a moment like he can’t breathe, and Mark laughs as he watches Daniil struggle. Not a forced laugh, not a hysterical laugh, but an easy, genuine laugh. Like the very idea of Daniil’s friendship with Artemy is comical to him. “The man who convinced you to stay put, to let your life in the Capital crash and burn. The man who beat you, Daknovsky, or have you forgotten that you failed? Failed to cure the plague, failed to create a vaccine, failed to save your life’s work, to protect the one thing that could have given you a shred of credibility, a future! And you failed, because of him.”

“Clara was every bit as in the way,” Daniil counters. His pulse races, but his voice is measured, calm, the affect or the effect of years of defending himself from accusation. “There were extenuating circumstances - Rubin disappearing on me, the three families always at each other’s throats, the Inquisitor –“

“And at the end of the day,” Mark says, his voice projecting enough to drown Daniil’s out, “you let Artemy Burakh give the final argument. The pièce de resistance went to him. The Haruspex. The man you yourself called a backwater surgeon.”

Shame floods Daniil’s chest, but it isn’t coming in the ways Mark is aiming for. He’s not as upset about his failures as he is about the other ways in which Mark is right, the ways in which he’d let his bias color his perception of the people around him. This, he thinks with his head swimming, is what he would have to look forward to on the other side of the river - more of this, more of the patronizing, the expectation of conformity, defending every movement he makes out of line.

He has always been terrible at staying on script. He has never been good at following the plot. But now, he knows he is done playing.

Daniil squirms where he stands. He’d very much like to leave the theatre, but his legs simply won’t move. The silence makes the air around them buzz, still echoing in Daniil’s ears as he speaks up. “It’s not healthy to live in the past. I’ve lost a lot, it’s true.” He imagines, in the curtain, the outline of the Polyhedron. And on the other side of the stage, his beloved Thanatica. “But I wouldn’t have gotten where I am if I’d let my failures define me.”

But that is what defines you! is what he expects to hear. A counter-argument, some little way for Mark to drive his point home, to bully him into submission, into playing his part. Mark doesn’t go that route, looking down his nose at Daniil from the edge of the stage. His lips curls into a sneer, his voice oddly cold for such a heated argument. “You don’t actually believe that he’ll love you, do you? That he’s even capable of it?”

His veins, his skin, the tips of his nails, the roots of his hair – everything in Daniil feels drenched and frozen over. He should get off the stage, should walk away before Mark can say anything more, but Daniil still can’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

The rebuttal is flimsy, and Mark knows it. He continues on, like a dog cornering prey. “He said it himself: ‘I’m not sure I even know how to love.’ And you think that you, who has failed to even win the favor of your own patrons, will be the one to change that? To teach him?” Mark’s lips press thin, his slight frame taking up Daniil’s space as he circles him. “Do you even know how to love, Daniil Dankovsky? That’s what this whole charade was, wasn’t it?” he gestures with one hand, splaying his fingers, palm up to the ceiling. “You, running around, trying to prove to yourself you’re capable of something you don’t even deserve.”

Daniil would hit him if he could feel his arm. He’d kick the stage they stand on if he could feel his feet. But as it stands, this conversation isn’t going anywhere, and he’s not sure how much more of this he can handle. He begs his stupid legs to cooperate, feeling weightless and airy as he makes his way around to the stage steps and down. Now that he’s got himself moving, it’s difficult not to bolt off, his calves aching at his pace picking up as Mark calls out to him with taunts he can barely hear.

The din of silence in the theatre still reverberates in his head as he steps out into the town, breath cutting into the cold air. It must be the wind on his face that makes his eyes water up, because there’s no way words that simple could get to him. Nothing that trivial could make him waver. He can’t be rocked by information already in his hands.

He doesn’t pay attention to where he’s going, and smacks into something large and heavy. His voice is snarling around the words “Watch where you’re bloody going” when a hand grips his shoulder too tightly for him to keep him from storming off. He expects a knife in his stomach next, to have to stumble away and back to the Stillwater with another sharp pain in his abdomen.

No pain ever comes. His right shoulder is directed by the other hand, settling him into place. “Dankovsky? You look terrible.” The voice is familiar. It takes Daniil a couple minutes to place it, but it’s Rubin. Rubin. What is Rubin doing out by the theatre? “Dankovsky? Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice comes out croaking, as if he hasn’t used it in days. His throat feels tight too, and his upper lip wet. He shoves his right hand in his pocket, feeling around for a handkerchief to wipe his running nose before anyone can see him in such ill shape. “Yes,” he repeats, and then before he can be asked, “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” The word is harsh, but it’s spoken with a tinge of worry. Daniil isn’t meeting his eyes, but he can imagine Rubin’s dour expression in increased severity. “Jesus,” he breathes, and Daniil can only imagine what he must look like if he’s got Rubin hissing like that. “What happened to you?”

Daniil isn’t sure if he should say, or if he even can say at the moment. He starts to stumble forward, out from under Rubin’s grasp, only to change his mind. He can’t possibly go back to the Stillwater like this. Eva will want to know his answer, and when she sees the state he’s in she’ll panic. He can’t tell her he’s not moving – if that verbal slap to the face had been Mark’s reaction, then what would hers be? Or the Kains? If they see him now and he has to describe what happened to make him so vulnerable, so close to tears – “You must be headed to Cub’s,” he hears Rubin mumble.

“Yes,” he says, though it’s not where he intended to go. He’s not sure where exactly he was heading, moving without thinking, but Artemy’s has to be a better destination than wherever his feet were carrying him.

“I’ll walk you there,” Rubin offers. He lets go of Daniil’s right shoulder to let him turn between the two buildings, down past the Lump. Passing by just reminds Daniil that the man now occupying the building, heading it as the ruler, is a Utopian himself. He doesn’t know and has never thought to ask how Vlad the Younger fits in with the rest, but Daniil can’t imagine the other man bothering to ask for Daniil’s decision. He hadn’t been all too concerned with the other Utopians or anyone outside of himself for most of those twelve days, never was the type to see past the end of his own nose. Mark had tried before to convince Daniil that he’d changed, but Daniil had never seen it.

“Seriously, Dankovsky, you’re never this quiet. Did you get mugged?” It’s not a funny suggestion, but Daniil laughs hollowly. He can feel Rubin’s eyes turning to get a better look at his face, though Daniil keeps it turned.

“Mark,” he says, his voice remarkably flat for the hysteria he feels. Rubin’s look turns to confusion, and Daniil wonders if the two have even met. It’s possible Rubin’s never seen Mark’s bad side before, his irritation and impatience. He swallows, regaining more feeling in his legs the farther they get from the theatre. He can feel his bag swinging and hitting his calves as they walk now. “I told him I’m not moving,” Daniil explains, and he sniffs, willing his upper lip to dry. “Safe to say that relationship is over.”

“And I take it things didn’t end well.”

“He told me I didn’t deserve love.” He speaks before he can second-guess why he’s telling Rubin, a man who has never cared much for gossip, who struggles about as much with empathy and bedside manner as Daniil does. Daniil simply feels he’s breaking apart in the moment, ready for another manic burst of laughter if the tears don’t get to him first.

Rubin snorts, not in laughter but derision. Daniil feels a sudden weight lift from his shoulders. It’s nice, actually, to be around someone just as caustic as he can be. “Fuck Mark,” Rubin grumbles. “He goes around pulling everyone’s strings to his whims, making people dance to his tune.” He makes a short, aborted gesture, and turns his head. “I hate it. I hated having to use the theatre as a hospital. I always dreaded running into him, and then what would I do? Have an argument about philosophy while I’m trying to study a tissue sample?”

For a half second, Daniil thinks of defending Mark. He wouldn’t say he got to know the man as well as he does Andrey or even Peter, but he certainly hadn’t been all that bad in the time they’d been dating. But as he thinks he starts to wonder how much of Mark’s demeanor around him was an act. How much of the time they spent together was a manipulation? How much had he done just to try and push Daniil into place, to make sure things went according to plan? Mark always said he served the Utopians, but how do the Utopians serve him?

“He did make the whole affair much more difficult than it needed to be,” Daniil admits. He lifts a hand up to his mouth, fingers tapping against his bottom lip. He grimaces, thinking back to one unfortunate instance, a decision that made the line between him and Artemy run thin. “The miracle at the Bone Stake Lot, do you remember?” Rubin nods. “Mark. He suggested that the crowd was –“

Daniil cuts himself off. What’s the point in relaying this information? But Rubin doesn’t indicate disinterest, nor does he ask for Daniil to finish his thought. He just mumbles the words That figures under his breath. He takes another moment of silence before he says, “I can’t even imagine him being romantic. There’s no humanity to him, no vulnerability.” Rubin pauses, tension in the air. His next words are stilted. “That’s what I would show, anyway. If I wanted to go about wooing someone.”

Someone Daniil can be vulnerable with, and someone who can be vulnerable with him. “It sounds like you’re all set, whenever you want to try.” He tries to think. Has he ever tried vulnerability before? Andrey wouldn’t let anyone see past the mask – Daniil doubted if even Eva has. Peter has his struggles, wears his broken heart on his sleeve, but did he ever really let Daniil see his vulnerability?

…would Artemy?

Rubin stops walking by the gate of Artemy’s house and gives Daniil a soft pat on the back. He still feels a bit shaken, but nowhere near on the level of instability he’d felt when he first bumped into the other man. At least now he can blink without seeing the Utopians as a swarm above him, leering and laughing. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the clinic,” Rubin says, and starts off back the way they came. The clinic must be where he’s headed now, to get work done after hours. Daniil makes himself focus on the seconds of admiration he feels toward Rubin’s dedication, to steady himself.

The door to Artemy’s house, like most other doors in town, is rarely locked. Sticky told him once that it’s a town superstition – that people only lock their doors when something bad is happening. It’s the reverse of what Daniil had gotten used to in the suburbs, in his time in the city, but tonight it is to his benefit that no one expects him to knock. It allows him to enter without much fuss, to lean his back against the door and start to take off his shoes while he acclimates to the sound of life around him.

He’s only in the door about a minute before he hears feet thundering down the stairs, bent down to untie his laces. Sticky races to greet him, skidding to a halt by his knee, talking a mile a minute. Daniil can’t process a single thing he’s saying, blending together to form a mush in his ears, and when Sticky gets a look at his face he stops in his tracks, his mouth still ajar.

Sticky closes his mouth, lips not quite pursing as he watches Daniil straighten. “You don’t look so good,” he says. He blinks, rocking back on his heels for a second. “Do you need a hug, Doctor Dankovsky?” He doesn’t actually wait for Daniil to answer, mouth barely open before Sticky’s wrapping his arms around Daniil’s midsection, giving him a quick squeeze. He steps back, and he’s off again, racing for the stairs, calling out over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go get dad!”

Ah, how nice it must be to be young, to have boundless faith in your parents, to believe that they can fix anything. Daniil tries to recall if he’s ever felt that. His own parents had been gentle realists, hoping to lead him by example. Daniil’s chest pinches too tight, and for a second he nearly struggles to breathe. It’s been years since he felt this desperate ache for his parents’ guidance, and his mind rushes him back to a seat at the piano, his father on the left, showing him how to move his fingers across the keys. Daniil watched intently, but he struggled to copy the flow of his father’s fingers. His shoulders were too stiff, his hands not relaxed enough to hit the notes with the right force at the right time.

His father said he would get the hang of it one day. Daniil rests his back against the door, his head cradled in his hands, and tries to breathe in and out to the click of a metronome. Four beats in, and four beats out.

He doesn’t hear Artemy on the steps, but on the floor as he makes his way to where Daniil stands in the entryway. He doesn’t know if he can lift his head without losing his composure, but he doesn’t feel as though he has much of a choice. Artemy’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, just a pressure at first, but when a couple minutes pass with no response Artemy shakes him.

Daniil looks up, swallowing the anxiety that’s been trying to make its way up his throat. He’s done a remarkable job of not crying, though he can still see Mark’s sneer when he closes his eyes, feel the bite of those words on his skin. It felt like having his knuckles slapped with a ruler.

Artemy’s eyes survey him with gentility, and without asking a single question they pull Daniil under their arm and steer him into the kitchen, sitting him down at the table.

As he takes a seat, his mind starts to flip with other insecurities – the light that’s started in his hair, the wrinkles in his skin, the weight he’s put on. Artemy cuts through it when they speak, rearranging things in the cupboard to come away with mugs for tea. “Do you want to talk about whatever happened?”

For a moment, Daniil hesitates. He considers vulnerability, considers openness. He thinks about allowing himself to be human for another person. He presses his tongue between his teeth, pinching down just enough to feel the pressure, his palms lying flat on the tabletop. “I made my decision,” he says, and he can feel Artemy tensing up, can feel the rigidity in his posture. Artemy turns his back, like he’s afraid the answer won’t be to his liking. Maybe that’s what he thinks Daniil is here for, to tell him which side he’s chosen. It’s hard to get a gauge on his emotions like this, when Daniil cannot see his face. “I told Mark. I’m not moving across the river.”

All the tension in Artemy’s back escapes in a single, fluid movement. Daniil can see the ripples in it through the creases in his tunic, his hand moving more quickly as he fills the kettle with water. It’s not a simple happiness at the news, but relief. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Daniil watches Artemy’s steady movements, setting the kettle on the stovetop, rolling his newly freed shoulders. When he turns to face Daniil his expression is composed, but there’s a light in his eyes he can’t hide. “I see,” he says, and rests his hips against the countertop, leaning back. “I take it he didn’t receive the news too well.” Daniil shakes his head. Artemy leans a little, crossing his arms under his chest, just resting on his stomach. “I’ve never seen you look this shaken up, Daniil. What in the world did he say to you?”

This would be as good a time as any to come clean, to be entirely honest about his reasons for not moving. He could pull his teeth off his tongue and admit he’s fallen into something deeper than fond affection for Artemy, that he doesn’t want to keep searching for someone to be with when he’s already found them. There’s an opening here, a gateway into that conversation. All he would have to do is be honest: tell them that Mark accused Daniil of staying in town for Artemy.

Say, He told me you wouldn’t love me. That you couldn’t. Daniil’s throat constricts, and his teeth don’t release his tongue but push harder down into it. He wants to be honest, wants to be vulnerable, wants to be human – but in the moment, it’s too much. Mark’s sneer, his shadow, all that condescension make shame course through Daniil’s body until he’s sweating it out on the back of his neck. What Mark has said should never matter, but Daniil’s brain keeps cycling through the same thought. If Mark was the leader, the director, always just offstage manipulating things, what if he was right?

“He called me a failure.” Daniil’s fingers start to curl. The gloves feel too tight on his hands for a second, sweating through them. “Reminded me of all the ways I’ve failed the Utopians, failed the Powers That Be, failed Thanatica. And then he said –“ One last chance for Daniil to say it. His heart is hammering so hard in his chest he can hear it, like an oncoming train. What is Daniil doing, standing so close to the tracks? “He said that I couldn’t love. That I didn’t deserve to be loved.”

Daniil feels miserable with this cowardice. He could always tack it on to the end, but it’s clear Artemy’s mind has moved on. Their eyes have lost that shine of victor they’d taken on when Daniil announced he wouldn’t be moving, growing dark and angry at Daniil’s explanation. He’s never been afraid of Artemy, not even when they were at their most furious, but being on the receiving end of that ire had been like the crackle of an oncoming thunderstorm. He feels hopelessly enamored, knowing they make this stormy expression now for him, of all people.

“Well, fuck Mark,” Artemy spits, hands dropping to his sides, toying with the hem of his tunic. “What in the hell would he know about love, anyway?” Daniil watches his back turn, and with it, his own window of opportunity slowly closing. “I don’t know how you can date Utopians anyway. They’re all mad, the lot of them.”

The window shuts, hard and tight on Daniil’s fingers. He reacts physically, knuckles cracking as his fingers tuck in against his palms. Artemy has turned back around with mugs of tea in his hands, and Daniil tells himself he needs to cover this moment of realization with something, anything, before Artemy can see the melancholy of lost opportunity on Daniil’s face. He shuffles through his internal catalogue of Latin phrases and lets the words stumble from his mouth. “Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixture dementiae fuit.”

Artemy raises his eyebrows, his usual irritation at the habit forgotten in the easiness between them. He sets the mugs down, one by the back of Daniil’s hand, but doesn’t stop staring. For the first time in a long time, it occurs to Daniil to ask, “Would you like me to translate?” Someone, sometime after he’d started Thanatica, had told him to stop translating. Said it was condescending, that he was ruining the joke. No one ever asked him to start it up again. Artemy nods, though, taking his seat across the table and leaning forward on his forearms. “There has been no great wisdom without an element of madness.”

Artemy rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say. Still, I don’t think I’d ever be able to date a Utopian.”

If Daniil had been hoping for his closed window to reopen, here is the refusal. It does not just lock: it bricks itself up right before Daniil’s eyes. Or perhaps it is more that Daniil goes to open his window to find it was never a real window at all, but a set piece. Mark is right, and it isn’t just that Artemy can’t love him, but that he won’t. Daniil’s heart beats sadly and too hard, staring down at his gloved hands as Artemy sips at his tea, oblivious to Daniil’s inner turmoil.

So what was with all the flirting, if Artemy can’t see themself with someone like Daniil? Why had Artemy touched him the same way Mark had, the way they’d discussed was meant in flirtation? It wasn’t just in the way they’d squeezed Daniil’s shoulder, but the way their fingers trailed down to his wrist, nearly holding his hand. The way they’d stared at his face and let their gaze linger on his lips. Had that been… no.

Had that all just been an act? Did Artemy simply play the part to keep Daniil in place? Did Artemy flirt with him, pretend to be interested, all to keep him from moving across the river? To manipulate him?

“You know, Daniil,” Artemy says, setting his mug down on the table with a little too much force, “I think you need someone more grounded.” Their fingers tap against their own mug as they speak, as if they’re nervous about something. Daniil can’t figure out what for, when he’s the one who’s been hurt. “Not that it’s bad to set your ambitions high, I wouldn’t want to change you.” Daniil pulls his arms in closer to his body, and stares into his mug, hoping to see something at the bottom of it that’ll keep him from losing his mind. “But I think you should be with someone who balances you. Someone to anchor you so you don’t drift away.”

“Right,” Daniil says. But he isn’t really listening.

Daniil must look especially awful, as Artemy offers to walk him home. Daniil tries to tell him that he doesn’t need a chaperone, but either he fails to make his point or Artemy doesn’t believe him. So they walk side-by-side, close enough that their hands brush as they make their way from one side of Town to the other. Daniil’s mind is elsewhere, whirling around the events of the day as Artemy prattles on about herbs or something. Daniil’s not paying much attention to him or to anything else, and hasn’t been since before dinner started. Not that Artemy seems to have noticed.

Murky did, at least. Daniil wasn’t sure how, or what she made of the situation, as she didn’t pose him any questions the way children often do. Instead, she offered Daniil a doll to hold onto through dinner and presented him with a drawing of a frog she’d done earlier that day before he left. The painting sits in his pocket now, a reminder through the dull throb in his head that someone does, in fact, care.

Artemy hesitates for a few minutes outside the door to the Stillwater, his eyes wide and expectant as he looks down at Daniil. What he’s waiting for is a mystery, and Daniil’s run out of energy to work out that puzzle on his own. Whatever it is, Daniil has taken too long to do it, and Artemy’s mouth pulls into a frown, leaning the weight off of his bad leg. He lifts his arm and rests his hand high up on Daniil’s shoulder, near the collar of his coat.

“Daniil,” he says, “I know it’ll take you some time to recover, but don’t give up.” When he squeezes Daniil’s shoulder, his thumb brushes against Daniil’s neck, grazing his skin softly. Daniil shivers involuntarily, but it doesn’t throw Artemy off. He hates being teased. “Mark was wrong.”

He feels too bitter in the moment to give Artemy a proper response. He nods just once, curtly, and it looks like Artemy has more he wants to say. He blinks, his eyes going softer as he takes in Daniil’s posture, and for just a second Daniil thinks he sees guilt in Artemy’s expression, his mouth pulled back into a grimace.

But the moment is shattered and whatever Artemy intends to say next lost when the door behind them opens. Daniil feels Eva’s hand on his opposite shoulder, turning him around to face her. She’s got her arms around him next, the words “Oh, Daniil! I was getting so worried!” falling from her lips. She pulls back from her impromptu hug, mouth open to say something more, and Daniil watches her bright, cheery expression fall away. “Why do you look as though you’ve been crying?” Her focus shifts over Daniil’s shoulder to Artemy, her look accusatory. Daniil wonders if Artemy still has that guilty look on his face.

Regardless of what part Artemy may or may not have played in Daniil’s mood, he’d really rather the two didn’t fight – he’d had enough of them not getting along during those twelve days. He doesn’t want to go into the humiliation he feels besides, and waves his hand in the space next to him. “Mark,” he says simply, and the name alone is enough to make Eva drop her budding hostility – though only by a little. She pulls Daniil into the house and slams the door shut, no doubt leaving Artemy disgruntled on the other side. Daniil can’t bring himself to admonish her for it when he feels as heavy as he does. He simply allows her to drag him inside, her hands at the top of his back, pushing him into the main room.

Yulia’s sitting in the dip of the room, right leg crossed over the left and glass of wine on the floor next to her. Her eyebrows raise as Daniil enters, setting the book in her hand down behind her. “Yulia,” he greets. “You came an awfully long way.”

“Thought I might get a look at the new buildings across the river while I’m this way over, pick out which one I want.” It’s Daniil’s turn to give her a look of surprise. There’s nothing calculating beneath her features at the moment, from what Daniil can tell. Her smile is pleasant, simple, but she can see the question he doesn’t ask. “I haven’t made up my mind entirely yet. I am fond of the Trammel, but Eva made a fantastic selling point.”

“I was the selling point,” Eva says proudly, her fingers patting Daniil’s shoulders. He sits across from Yulia, heels kicking the back of the pit. The walk back home in the cold has given his head a little time to clear before the space of the Stillwater starts to remold him. He hears Eva’s feet behind him scurrying to the other room, tinkering around the kitchen for something. “So, Daniil,” she calls from the other room, “What did Mark want with you?”

She tends to forget, perhaps by sheer force of will, that Daniil and Mark are in a relationship – or rather, that they were in a relationship, until today. Daniil’s too uncomfortable to discuss this with his eyes still on Yulia, and so he pushes his attention to the piano, trying to remember the order of the keys. How did the scales go again? “I was the one who went to see him.”

His voice doesn’t raise quite enough for Eva to hear him in the other room. Yulia can hear him just fine, though, and hums, leaning back, resting her weight on her left hand. Eva re-enters with the wine bottle and a half-full glass, handing it off to Daniil.  He knows drinking your troubles away isn’t a good habit to get into, but he’s having a hard time saying no to the thought tonight. Red wine is good for the heart, isn’t it? “I went to the theatre to tell him that I –“ Daniil pauses and swallows, glass to his lips. He hasn’t taken a sip yet. What will Eva make of his decision? What if she tosses him out? He’s worked so hard to keep these paranoid thoughts from overwhelming him, and today they’ve reached a new height. “That I’m not moving to the other side of the river,” he says softly.

Eva’s golden eyes don’t falter the way he’d feared. They stay just as bright as always, and even the little tug in her mouth doesn’t change direction. “I am sorry to hear that,” she says, “but I’m not surprised. You helped this town to heal, of course you would want to stay and see its success!” That’s a fair point to make, and one he probably should have leaned on more when speaking to Mark. Eva touches his shoulder gently before moving to refill her own glass. “Besides, you have your medical practice here, and you can’t just abandon it. I doubt the Kains will begrudge you that.”

Daniil’s not so sure, but he’s unwilling to broach that subject just yet. Yulia hums, holding out her glass for Eva to refill. “They’re planning to build their own hospital in the new town,” she provides, “but it’ll be a while before it’s completed. We will need doctors after that, if you change your mind.”

The tone in their voices indicates no preference or judgment either way, and relief courses through Daniil’s shoulders down to his fingertips. He’s been frozen since this afternoon, his toes numb even with the tea he was offered at Artemy’s house. But now, all at once the warmth of life washes over him. It’s not the wine – he hasn’t had the chance to sip at it yet. This is just the power of Eva’s company. “You’re not angry,” he says, mystified, and Eva shakes her head. She makes herself the point of their triangle, and Daniil notes that Yulia still has that soft smile on her mouth. “Mark was furious,” Daniil tells them.

“If you can stand to hear the truth, Daniil,” Yulia starts, and then she pauses to allow Daniil a moment to take a sip of his wine and nod, “Mark wasn’t angry because he lost you as a romantic prospect. He still views the people of this town, you included, through the lens of factions at war. In his mind, he is serving a Utopian cause, and your decision to stay here was a loss of one Utopian to the Termites.” She pauses to take a drink of her own. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your entire relationship with him was a machination to keep you from straying off the Utopian course.”

She makes eye contact with Eva, who picks up from there seamlessly. “It’s not just Utopians moving across the river, though. People from all over the town will be moving, regardless of ideology. And not all of us are moving, anyway!” She sets her glass down to card her fingers through her flowing hair, and Daniil ventures a guess that she’s nervous. “Andrey’s staying behind, for instance.” A pause. “His brother is moving with us.”

Daniil feels his jaw drop open in shock. “Andrey? Staying here and letting Peter go off across the bridge on his own?” Eva nods. He can’t find the right words to explain what he’s thinking. “What does Peter think?” he asks instead.

“He’s glad to finally be out from under his brother’s wing.” Daniil blinks. It feels like he missed a step going down the stairs. Eva smiles, covering up a pained look underneath. “You know Andrey,” she says, swaying in her spot. “How he hovers over people, protecting them from themselves. He does it with me, he did it to you. He’s the worst when it comes to Peter.”

So Peter didn’t really want someone to look after him? Oh, Daniil feels like he might be ill. But Peter hadn’t said anything to Daniil, hadn’t given him an indication he was unhappy with the way things were. Daniil was only trying to help – how come his help, whenever offered, is always unwanted? “I wouldn’t take it personally, Dankovsky,” Yulia says. Not for the first time it feels like she’s read his mind, her voice very structured when she speaks “But you tend to take things at face value. Not when it comes to science, but when it comes to people. You’re naïve.”

Eva tilts her head at her girlfriend, frowning. “Yulia…”

“No, no. She’s right.” Daniil sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve never been good at reading people. Mum and dad always said it would get me into trouble, and here it has.” He sets his glass down, his fingers curling over the edge of the floor. He doesn’t look up at Yulia, but he can feel her observing him. it feels different to the way Mark would do, like he was watching Daniil for entertainment, to see how things would progress, but it still leaves him feeling like an animal caged in a zoo. “I need to go to bed,” he says.

Eva’s eyes follow him, full and sympathetic, but even warm as he is he doesn’t have the energy to explain all the emotions that he’s dealing with, the thoughts that are racing around in his head. It’s all been too much for one day, and he just wants to sleep until he doesn’t feel quite so much all at once. Tomorrow, he hopes, will be different.

The next day isn’t better, and neither is the day after that. Daniil is starting to feel the way he had in university, hollowed out and pushed into a corner by a creeping sense of dread. That feeling had started to crawl up the slope of Daniil’s mind, only to be beaten back when Daniil met Andrey. Without the pillar of loneliness to hold it up it collapsed upon itself; but when Andrey left the health sciences, it lurked just out of sight, behind some corner, waiting to strike whenever Daniil didn’t have something new to focus on.

Here and now, Daniil does have things he can focus on. He has the clinic, he has friendships, he has a town of bizarre people who ask of him all sorts of little requests that need doing if he’s well and truly bored out of his mind. But none of it seems appealing, and when he awakens he simply lays on his side, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he thinks about how much he doesn’t want to leave the house. He doesn’t want to see people crossing the bridge to the new town. He feels it, very intimately, like a hand reaching through his chest and cupping his heart in cold, boney fingers.

Daniil doesn’t cry. He tells himself he has no reason to, even if there’s some certainty in the back of his mind that giving in would help him feel better. And so he doesn’t do much of anything with his day off, not-quite-content to just lay in bed and feel listless, trying to gather up the motivation to move.

(And when he thinks about it, there had been this feeling in the Capital, too. Evenings and dark days, times when he couldn’t get to sleep or else woke with a headache, feeling his fingers vibrate and letting the question permeate his mind. Why am I here?)

The Kains do not come by to ask Daniil where he’s been the past couple days or if he’s moving across the river with them, and Daniil is momentarily and selfishly thankful that gossip spreads so quickly in this town. Speaking to the Kains doesn’t frighten him so much as he doesn’t have the energy to deal with whatever fallout it entails. Three days after the move is completed, he receives a letter from Victor, polite as ever: We are sorry to hear that you won’t be joining us. You are, however, welcome to visit any time you like, and should you change your mind in the future, any residence of your choosing shall be yours. At least he can keep his options open.

Eva stays in the Stillwater through the week. On Friday morning, she places her key to the Stillwater in Daniil’s hand. Daniil’s rarely left his room, even taking his meals upstairs, and now Eva sits next to him on his bed to remain level with him. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she smiles at him, making the whole scene feel like so much less like a goodbye. His hands are ungloved as they have been all week, seeking some grounding in the environment surrounding him. The key rests warm in the center of his palm.

“I insist,” Eva says before he can object, her smile fond despite the way he’s let his room fall into disarray. “And I’ll come back to visit, of course. But only if you visit me too!” Daniil nods at her stupidly, and then he blinks, and she’s gone.

The week after that is awful, too. Daniil can feel himself spiraling as if the act is as physical as its description. Being alone in a house designed to twist the soul into something new - after months of cohabitation, to suddenly hear whispers swirling around his head, feeling himself being stretched out by the walls around him – makes him dizzy. He somehow manages to avoid getting out of bed at all until nearly six in the evening on Sunday, roused from his near-catatonic state by a knock at the door. It’s Shrew, giving him an exasperated look and shoving a loaf of bread in his hands.

Right. He’s missed the day he normally would have done the puppet theatre. He’s missed his usual rounds about town. And he’s missed, most importantly, the day he trades nuts with the teens in the Stone Yard.

It’s mildly embarrassing, having a teenage girl bring him food, but Shrew ignores whatever discomfort he may be projecting and sits herself at the piano. She takes a moment to update him on the latest gossip between the warring factions of the kids – not that Daniil understands it any better now than he had when he first arrived. Absently, Daniil thinks it’s nice having something small to invest himself in again, even if he still didn’t quite understand how the kids’ politics work. Shrew rolls her eyes at him a lot, but when she’s done with her overview she tucks her fingers under the bench she sits on and asks, “Are you gonna be the one to teach us now?”

Daniil, who has been fidgeting with the crust of his bread, sticks a strip of it in his mouth to drown out the ringing in his ears as he thinks about it. “That depends,” he says. “Who was your teacher before, and how do they feel about it?”

“Well, it was Mr. Golovkin,” she says. Her feet kick against the floor, and Daniil keeps himself busy chewing to avoid the urge tell her not to scuff the flooring. It’s his house, now. He’s not really sure that he cares. Her eyes, anyway, look stormy, when he catches them from the side. “And he died.” Daniil swallows roughly, aiming to tell her that he’s sorry to hear that, but she’s already shrugging. “He got shot by the military. Dunno what he was doing. I was on a train by that point.”

“There was a faction war in the military, too.” Shrew looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “They divided themselves into loyalists who wanted to stick with the Commander and follow whatever orders they were given, and people who just…” Daniil purses his lips with distaste. “People who just wanted to create chaos, I think.” It’s not the whole truth, but what good would come of informing the girl that the military came to hate the town and the people in it?

You were one of those people, too, his mind unhelpfully supplies.

“Huh.” Shrew doesn’t seem all that impressed with the information she’s been given. She shrugs. “Either way, we’re out of a teacher now. And I suppose we could get a different bored adult to teach us, but Sticky’s always going on about how much cool shit you know.”

Daniil finds himself snorting at her language, but he doesn’t think it’s his place to correct her. At one point in time – maybe even when he’d first arrived in town – he might have, but he thinks that’s a problem for her parents to discipline. For now he crosses one leg over his knee and asks, “What makes you think I’m bored?”

“You’re all alone in this big house,” she points out. “It’s not like with the Soul-and-a-Halves. You’re alone alone. You’re gonna go nuts if you don’t have something more to do.”

“I have the medical practice,” he informs her. Shrew rolls her eyes and stands up, brushing her skirt off with her hands. “Oh, what? Is being a doctor no longer a good enough profession? Where I come from, it’s considered a noble position.”

“Yeah, but what’re you gonna do with all that knowledge, huh?” She puts her hands on her hips and leans to one side. “Burakh’s gonna pass his menkhu stuff down to Sticky and Murky. I wanna learn how to raise bodies from the dead.” Daniil’s mouth curls up into a smile that’s half amusement and half some other, untapped emotion. So he has another self-styled apprentice, does he? Better not to tell her that Sticky also hopes to learn from him. In a philosophical sense, and a sociological one, perhaps, immortality is the passing of knowledge from parent to child. And as of yet, he’s still childless.

And it looks like I always will be. Daniil runs a hand through his hair, trying not to let the thought repeat in his mind. “Alright, then. Consider me convinced.” He can see in the corners of his eyes where Shrew is already bouncing on the balls of her feet, and whatever other doubts he’s been fostering seem to vanish. “I’ll see what Saburov has to say about converting an empty building into a school – I refuse to teach without a classroom. Perhaps the old Kain residence will suffice? Then I’ll see if I can find someone to teach the subjects I’m less well-versed in.”

She lunges forward to give Daniil a quick hug that he’s not quite sure he deserves. “I’m gonna go tell Cookaroo!” she shouts, and bolts out of the house before Daniil can tell her not to. Daniil looks down at the bread still in his hand, tearing another strip off and popping it into his mouth. Maybe Shrew was right, and he’s been letting his loneliness get to him. It’s been… what has it been? He hasn’t kept track of the days since Eva and the others left. It might have been a week, it might have been two months.

Daniil makes his way back up the stairs, mentally flipping through the clothes he’s collected in the months he’s been in Town. He’s not looking for something flashy to wear tonight; he can save that for when or if he ever has a more pressing reason to leave his room. All he needs for the night is a change of pace and a walk – to the Broken Heart, maybe. To see how Andrey is handling his brother and girlfriend moving house.

The weather is bitter, and for the first time it registers that Daniil needs a better jacket. A bigger one, and warmer gloves, but the clothes shops are closed now. He’ll have to make a list when he reach his destination of things that he’ll need. Like food, another staple he’d forgotten about until it was brought to his attention. If he was going to teach, he had to look out for himself as well. Couldn’t miss a class because he’d let himself grow hypoglycemic.

The bar is relatively busy tonight, and though Daniil had wanted to simply blend in with the crowd he can’t imagine taking off his jacket. He needs it to serve as a border between himself and the people leaning all over each other, so that no one can make the mistake of touching him without his consent. He’s not good with these kinds of situations and he never has been – every party he’s been to he’s spent in a corner on his own, drinking to numb himself to the noise and the crowding around him. Tonight, he only orders one drink from the bartender, holding the glass too tightly in his hand as he weaves his way around people, looking for Andrey. Not only does he not see his friend, he’s not even sure if there’s a place for him to sit.

After a few minutes standing there lost, anxiety mounting, he eyes pick out a familiar head in the back of the pub, near the corner. His breath jumps in his chest as he tries to work his way out of the mass of bodies, stopping at Rubin’s shoulder.

“I hope it doesn’t bother you if I sit here?” He can’t really take standing with all of these people around, but he’s not going to take his seat until Rubin indicates that it’s okay for him to. Rubin seems slightly dazed as it is, but shakes his head and waves his hand to gesture down the booth. Daniil takes a seat and scoots closer in. “It’s a little odd to see you out like this,” he comments. “Good, though.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Rubin says. Daniil doesn’t have a watch on hand, didn’t bother checking the time before he left the house, but he doubts it’s late enough to justify sleep. Not for the first time he’s left to wonder what sort of schedule Rubin keeps. “Thought I’d come and get some inspiration, but it’s so noisy in here. Now I feel –“

“Trapped?” Daniil finishes. Rubin nods. A woman to their right laughs a little too loudly, tipping over onto the man next to her. Rubin glowers at them and rubs his head. In irritation, Daniil thinks. “I had the opposite problem.” Rubin raises an eyebrow. “Sleeping too much,” he explains. “Thought I’d get out of the house, see if that helped my problem at all.”

“Surprised you didn’t go to see Cub,” Rubin comments. Daniil’s teeth click together, thinking about it. He hasn’t spoken to Artemy since that day he walked Daniil back to the Stillwater, and he isn’t quite sure how to act around him now. He’d thought of Artemy as the one person he could trust not to manipulate him, only to feel like his own obvious romantic interest had been turned back in his face.

He doesn’t regret the decision to stay in the old town, but he hasn’t decided yet how he wants to address Artemy’s tactic. Or if he wants to, at all.

How would Artemy explain himself? That both he and Mark were acting in the same interest, and there was no reason for him to get angry with Artemy? He’d had some feeble half-attempt at explanation for Aglaya’s deception, excusing her lying under the idea that Daniil had tricked himself by believing someone he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t see this going much differently. Artemy never said he was interested in Daniil. It was Daniil’s own fault for getting his hopes up, for misplacing them.

He hasn’t said a word about it to Rubin, hasn’t spoken at all since Rubin made the comment. But Rubin’s been watching him, apparently, and nudges his arm with his elbow. “Yeah,” he says, “I understand the feeling.” He takes a sip of the beer in front of him, eyes scanning the crowd as he talks. “Cub can be frustrating.  He’s so –“ Rubin shakes his head. “I shouldn’t say that, though. Not to you.”

“There’s nothing special about me,” Daniil says. It surprises him how easily the words fall off his tongue. He’d thought they’d come later, come harder, like a declaration of desperation. Rubin’s eyes watch him, take in the information he’s imparting, and it dawns on him that Rubin held back because he thought there was something between them. Daniil looks at the ground and flushes, taking up his own mug and downing half of it in one go. “Anyway,” he says when he pulls back, desperately wanting to change the subject to anything except Artemy. “I know what you mean.” Damn obsessive brain.

Rubin cracks his knuckles, eyes going back to their stare at the table. “It can be difficult to tell him things. He’s stubborn, always so certain what he does and says is right.” He sighs, long suffering, rubbing his head where hair would be. “He means well. He’s always meant well.” Yes, Daniil thinks to himself, And that’s the part that hurts. “That’s the part that hurts.” Daniil looks up at him, suddenly enough that his vision blurs, but Rubin’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut tightly. When he drops his fingers, he leans in closer to Daniil, speaking as if afraid he’ll lose his nerve. “The Kains asked me to move to the new Town with them. And I can’t tell him that, because I know he’ll lose his fucking mind.”

Daniil’s brows shoot up into his hairline. Were the Kains trying to scalp every doctor in town, or did they just figure their plans with Daniil would fall through? Rubin was Olgimsky’s man, from what he’d been told. There was no reason for them to seek him out especially. Not that any of it matters now. Daniil’s more interested to know where this is going. “What did you tell them?”

“That I’d think about it.” He huffs. “That practice doesn’t need three doctors. A third of the Town at least will be moving across the river, and they’ll need their own.” He gestures with his left hand, though what he’s picturing Daniil can’t imagine. “Cub has taken Isidor’s place, to teach me all the things Master never got a chance to. But he watches me like a hawk. I need to practice on my own, too. How will I learn if every move I make is monitored?”

Daniil can sympathize, and he can also see where this conversation would not go over well with Artemy. If he’d been willing to play dirty to get Daniil to stay in town, what would he do with someone he actually cares about? (No, no, his brain says, He cares about you, too. He’s just shit at showing it.) “I don’t envy you the need for that conversation,” Daniil admits. “I hope he’ll see reason, but…” he lifts his hand from his knee, and drops it back down.

“He’ll believe it’s because of the Kin,” Rubin says, as much to himself as to Dankovsky.

“Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt.” Rubin nods, and Daniil wonders if he actually understood the words or if he was simply being polite. “He,” Daniil begins, and then isn’t sure if he wants to continue. It’s showing vulnerability, but perhaps it’s too much. Perhaps it’s not quite right. “I’m not a fan of the methods he used to keep me in Town,” Daniil says. His throat feels tight and his voice too high when the words come out. He’d felt too embarrassed to explain it to Eva, who he knew would be infuriated on his behalf. But if he and Rubin are venting their frustrations here, then perhaps it’s safe.

Rubin looks at him, and for a horrible moment, Daniil thinks Rubin’s going to ask him to elaborate. Instead, he brushes Daniil’s shoulder with his fingers, gently. “Dankovsky. It’s not like you to wait for someone else, so don’t.” He shakes Daniil softly. “Besides, Cub’s not the only friend you’ve got.”

And when it feels like this, nice to have someone else’s hand on his shoulder, he can agree. “You’re right,” Daniil says. “He isn’t.”

Artemy has been giving him strange looks for a week now. Daniil has been trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore them, but without ignoring Artemy altogether the mission has been a resounding failure. And he doesn’t want to ignore Artemy completely, not really, even if he is a little ticked off at him. It’s a feeling he know will pass, and since they’ve had a conversation about this sort of thing once already, Daniil’s not looking to have a repeat. Artemy did what he thought was best in the way he thought was best, and Daniil will have to learn to get over it. Which he can do, really, once Artemy quits gawking at him like a pinned museum exhibit.

Part of the problem is that Artemy looks away every time Daniil looks over at him, and he’s just about worn out his sociability for the month. He’d been told quite often growing up that he had a ‘low threshold’ for masking his social ineptitudes, and he’s using up every ounce of it right now not snapping at Artemy. Commission a portrait, if you’d like to look longer. But then that would embarrass the both of them, and Daniil’s not looking for more embarrassment in his life. He’s got all he needs right here.

Daniil sees his last patient, an elderly man, out the door, face cracking from how rigid his mask has been and slumps against the door, shoulders drooping. The day has been an absolute nightmare, but there’s only a half an hour left before he can head back to the Stillwater and feast on stale bread and warm milk. Nothing like a melancholia meal, he thinks.

He shuffles back to his desk, running his hands through his hair and telling himself not to pick at his scalp as he goes. He’s only sat down for a moment or two before he feels Artemy behind him, hovering, pretending to be busy with reports or something while his eyes devour Daniil’s back. Daniil huffs, straightening his posture, and still he knows those eyes record his every movement. What, has he been letting his irritation show? If that’s the case, then why doesn’t Artemy say something like he always does, bring his discomfort out into the open? It isn’t like him to take so long to act on something he sees as a problem. It’s Daniil who usually hesitates, lost too much in his thoughts.

Before Artemy can comment (if indeed he was going to) or Daniil can snap (which he very well might), the door opens to Rubin, bundled up in a hat and scarf, glare cutting through what little of his face is visible. “Stakh,” Artemy calls, moving closer to the door. “You’re not supposed to be in today. What’re you doing out in this weather?”

This weather? Daniil peeks at the window and oh, yes, it’s snowing. Wonderful. As if his mood needed to more reason to plummet. Rubin stomps his heavy boots and pulls his scarf down. He’s got bags in his hands of what seems to be supplies, fresh from the store. Or maybe from that warehouse their friend keeps with the rats of the town. Daniil would offer to take the bags, but he’s learned that Rubin is stubborn and meticulous about how he does things, and detests helping hands when he can manage perfectly well by himself.

And he sees this play out in action when Artemy goes to take them, and Rubin makes a noise almost like a growl at the other doctor before he makes his way to the back of the office. Artemy rolls his eyes – Daniil can’t see it from here, but he can predict the movement easily – and heads back to his desk, running a hand through his hair.

Things are quiet, for a minute or two, and for what feels like the first time that day Daniil doesn’t feel Artemy’s eyes on his back. But that moment of silence and respite is broken up when Artemy coughs, and says, “You know, emshen, today would be a good day for, uh,” he pauses, looking remarkably like he’s lost his words, and finishes, “Soup.”

Daniil blinks at him. Of all the ways he could have started up a conversation, he goes with telling Daniil what to make for dinner. It’s bizarre, but Daniil supposes he can’t be too aggrieved by this turn of events. It could be worse. Artemy could be directing him in how to decorate his new home, or insulting his weight gain. Oh, but now Daniil is just being petty in his thoughts. Artemy wouldn’t criticize his weight, he’d put on some of his own. Those sorts of things don’t matter to him, anyway. Daniil’s mother was wrong: outside the Capital, they didn’t seem to matter anywhere. “Soup,” Daniil repeats, when he thinks he can manage without getting snippy.

“Yeah,” Artemy says. The conversation sort of dies on his lips, and he’s staring at Daniil a little too intently as he blinks. Daniil can see him looking for some way to pick up the dropped ball, morbidly entertained by Artemy’s floundering. “Uh. It’s… you know. The season for it. Because it’s cold out.” Daniil knows raising his eyebrow here is probably impolite, but he doesn’t see where in the world this is meant to be going. “You know,” Artemy says, and Daniil wonders if he’s aware he’s repeating words, “For a good soup, you should start work on it the day before.”

“So I’ve heard,” Daniil says. “Soup and bread.” Why are we talking about this? Normally he’s much better at this than I am.

He doesn’t have a chance to figure out whatever it is Artemy’s angling at. Rubin comes back in the room, and Artemy’s focus breaks with the interruption. Rubin’s slipped his scarf down his face and stares at Daniil, point-blank. “Some kids had questions about frostbite. One of yours, probably.”

“One of his?” Artemy asks, pointing at Daniil.

Rubin ignores him. “They said you’re going to be a schoolteacher. Is that true?”

“You’re leaving the practice?” Artemy jumps up with enough force to push his desk back a ways. He looks a little embarrassed by it, checks flushing pretty in the lights.

Dumb thoughts, Daniil chides himself. “I’m not leaving the practice, no, so you can sit back down, Artemy.” Artemy makes a face and doesn’t sit, probably because Daniil told him to. “I will be teaching, though. I figure it’s something I can split my time between. I can’t imagine them holding regular school here - nothing the way it was in the Capital or even the suburbs. I’ll have to find the other teachers and discuss it, but I’d only be doing sciences.” He shrugs. Rubin seems to relax.

Artemy doesn’t. “You didn’t say anything.” Daniil’s empathy, what little of it there is to begin with, drops to a record low and skids underfoot. Probably a result of stretching himself too thin for the day. Artemy seems to catch himself on the idea of being ridiculous, and opens his mouth soundlessly for a moment, closing it with an exhale. “Sorry, I just thought – we’re friends, aren’t we? Why wouldn’t you tell me about something like this?”

“Because I only discussed it with Shrew a couple days ago. We’ve been busy.” If Daniil wasn’t so numb to his emotions right now, he’d feel guilty. Maybe he does anyway, just a little beneath the surface. “I wasn’t keeping it from you, Artemy. I promise.” He barely thinks about the words before he says them. “I wouldn’t do that.” And then he has to think about them, to wonder if they’re true before he gets caught in a lie. He contemplates their meaning, and decides that for better or worse, they’re honest.

“Right,” Rubin says. Daniil watches Rubin’s eyes shift between Artemy and himself, and realizes that it’s not just him registering Artemy acting different. Which is good, as he’s never quite sure when someone’s acting oddly and when it’s just his imagination. “Well, you’ll have to speak to Saburov for that. Olgimsky won’t have anything to say in the matter. Even if something fell under his jurisdiction, I can’t imagine Vlad the Lesser saying no to you.” Daniil snorts at the nickname. The edge of Rubin’s mouth quirks up. “You might have to talk to the Kains, though. With them leaving for the new town, no one’s quite sure how their influence here changes, or even if it does.”

“They had control of the buildings,” Daniil remembers. It was one of those things Artemy had sat down to teach him during dinner one night. Vital information about the infrastructure of the town, if Daniil was going to stay. “Of course. We’ll have to see who that power falls to next, if anyone at all.”

“If you want to go and do that now, oynon…” The look Artemy gives him is pained, Daniil thinks, like he doesn’t really want to let Daniil go. There must be something he wants to talk about, but until Artemy can work out what, exactly, that is, Daniil’s not sure he wants to stay around for more of this bizarre back-and-forth. “I can close up on my own,” he offers, then turns his head to look at Rubin. “And Stakh, you go home, or something. Go out on a date. Just don’t waste all your life in work.”

Normally Rubin works well with instructions. Daniil had seen as much when they worked on the vaccine together, never questioning Daniil’s methods or directions. But that had been Rubin’s choice, hearing Daniil’s reasons for wanting the research completed, believing in the need for both vaccine and cure. Artemy did say something about being Rubin’s new teacher, but with how much he adored Isidor Daniil can’t imagine how Rubin is taking to being bossed around by his son. He considers Rubin’s disbelieving look at Artemy, the quite way he snaps his jaw shut and says, “Fine” in a clipped little tone.

Daniil’s not exactly eager to run more errands for the day, but he’ll take any excuse he can get to leave overstimulation of the office. He gathers his coat and curses his lack of foresight for not having brought better boots to work with him. All his things had been delivered from the Capital, but the city was better kept in the snow than it was out this far in the country. They don’t even have motor cars out this way, let alone snow plows. He had to imagine they had better clothing to make up for the deficit, but perhaps he’d have to employ a housewife to assist him with a new wardrobe.

Rubin steps out with Daniil, fuming. “’Go out on a date’,” he repeats to himself, sullen and serious. “He has kids at home, waiting for him, and he wants to be the one staying in the office?” he scoffs. He then looks over at Daniil and his too-open coat, puzzled. “Dankovsky, why are you dressed like that?” And without waiting for the answer, he takes the scarf from around his neck, and ties it around Daniil’s. “You should go home before you go out to see Saburov. Get changed into something warmer. You’ll freeze to death out here.”

“I don’t have anything warmer,” Daniil grumbles. “This coat used to fit me perfectly. It’s only recent – recent events that’s made it –“ He sighs, tugging the scarf tighter around his neck. Friend or not, he doesn’t feel like addressing his weight gain, and so he changes the subject. “Thank you for this, though. It will help. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t you even have gloves?” Daniil shows his hands. “Not those things, something meant for winter, not general use. Doesn’t it snow in the Capital?”

“Of course it does, but not all of my possessions made it here. Many were destroyed by the Powers That Be.” He tries to tug his coat tighter around his chest, to no avail. All it does is make his skin pinch uncomfortably. He grits out a sigh. “Thank God my parents never sent me anything of truly sentimental value while I was living there.” Rubin’s face looks contemplative, eyes fluttering shut before he sighs and rubs his forehead. “What?”

“I can’t let you walk around like that.” He wraps a gloved hand around Daniil’s elbow, and starts to direct him down. “I have an extra hat and mittens. And probably a sweater. It’ll drown you but it’s better than –“ his nose scrunches when he nods to what Daniil is wearing. People in this town and their unsolicited opinions about his outfit! “That.” Daniil doesn’t have much room to argue. He’s fucking freezing, can hear his own teeth chattering as they walk toward Rubin’s apartment.

The apartment building itself, on the ground floor, is not much better than the snowy streets outside. Daniil figures there must be heaters in the apartments themselves, though he hadn’t needed one last time he was inside. He could stand in the foyer and wait, shivering, by the door, but regardless of etiquette standards it’s not really something that he wants to do. It’s not like he’s never been up to Rubin’s home, anyway.

It’s only marginally warmer inside, but Daniil will take his slice of warmth wherever he can get it. Rubin doesn’t seem to mind him standing in the doorway, rubbing his hands together and mumbling to himself the words he wants to pick out for Saburov. His mind is as blank as the untouched snow outside. He can’t string more together than Have you ever thought of a school in Town? Would you support me starting one?

“That’s not a look that inspires confidence, Dankovsky,” Rubin tells him. “I wouldn’t bring that expression to Saburov, if I were you.”

Daniil huffs, and takes the sweater Rubin’s holding out. He rolls the coat from his shoulders, dropping it onto the desk to pull on the second shirt. He is actually much warmer with it on, though he’s even less capable of wrapping his coat around his body now. “Yes, well. I’ve worn out my politesse for the day, so he’s going to have to deal with whatever I can manage to scrape out.” Rubin shakes his head, and hands Daniil a hat and mittens. “Unless you have any better suggestions?”

Rubin considers him for a moment. “I get along better with the man than Cub ever has. We have an understanding. I guess it wouldn’t hurt your case if I went with you.” He doesn’t give Daniil the option to refuse his suggestion, though Daniil would not have anyway. The sooner they can get this over with, the sooner he can go home and eat dinner - if he can generously refer to his forthcoming meal as such.

On cue, his stomach grumbles. Rubin’s sharp gaze turns to Daniil’s stomach, and Daniil feels a rare burst of self-consciousness that results in him trying to suck his gut in as Rubin stares. “Well, let’s not keep dawdling,” he says, his cheeks burning as he leads the way out of Rubin’s flat. The man himself isn’t far behind, not bothering to lock his door as he follows Daniil out. Very odd, people in this town.

“Dankovsky,” Rubin calls, long legs catching up to him quickly, “Have you eaten much today?”

“I’ve eaten a normal amount.” Normal for Daniil, that is. Whether that constitutes a good diet or not is really open to interpretation. Either way, he waves his hand to dismiss Rubin’s obvious doubts. “It’s fine. What I have planned won’t take long to prepare when I get back home, just toast and some warm milk.”

“That’s it?” Rubin’s tone is incredulous. “You’re supposed to be the brilliant one, and you think that’s a meal?” Daniil believes he can detect a hint of some other emotion behind the judgment in his words. Concern, he thinks it is. Like himself, Rubin’s not the best at showing his softer emotions. It’s something they can appreciate about each other than Artemy most likely cannot.

Daniil doesn’t hear the disgruntled sigh he knows must accompany Rubin’s next thought. “Let’s get something to eat before we go to Saburov’s. You’ll have a better idea of how to talk to him if your mind’s not focused on hunger.” Daniil huffs - he’s not really interested in wasting the time he was given to go and speak to Saburov, but he can’t deny that Rubin has a point. He’ll think clearer once he’s eaten, and he’ll be stupidly embarrassed if his stomach growls when he’s trying to implore the governor for a school building. It wouldn’t be very professional, and he doesn’t want anything inviting more stares to his stomach.

There’s a restaurant not far from Rubin’s building, a place that Daniil suspects had once been a grocer’s before being converted into something homier and more open. They’re not the only people inside; there’s a line ahead of them of people waiting, rubbing their hands together to keep the cold out, chatting along the line. Rubin, usually quiet, takes the moment to mumble out, “What was life like in the Capital?”

The question comes out of nowhere. Daniil can’t fathom the internal logic that must have brought that up. He finds it strange that the only people who’ve asked Daniil this, up until now, are the children. He would have thought more people in a town this small would be interested in life in a big city. He always was, as a child in the suburbs. And then living in the city for college had been overwhelming.

“Loud,” Daniil answers, clapping his mittens together. He stares at the scraped wood of the floor as he pats his fingers together. He’s grown so used to the leather of his gloves that the soft knit of mittens feels foreign and almost uncomfortable to him now. “Hectic. Frightening, sometimes. I can’t explain to you how nerve-wracking it is to live in a place that hostile when the Powers That Be want you dead. The last few months I spent in the Capital, I found myself looking over my shoulder at every block, expecting to be followed.”

He turns his gaze up from the floor to look at Rubin, the other man’s forehead creased and brows narrowed. “What did you even do to earn that sort of notoriety? Cub said something about you not being able to return, but they didn’t go into specifics. I never understood why.”

“Ah. Well.” Daniil turns his gaze around to the restaurant they stand in, inching forward in line as he turns over the words in his head. “The State does not particularly value my work. My specialty, as you know, is in thanatology. We started along the lines of Cosmism – reviving the dead, if we could. Nothing to the degree of Victor Frankenstein, I assure you, but we made strides in emergency care. That, the state was fine with. But when they looked deeper…” He sighs. “We started to focus on gerontology and longevity. Not just reclaiming death, but prolonging life. And a state that relies on the subjugation of its people does not look kindly on the idea of a long and happy life.”

“You’re an anarchist,” Rubin says flatly. When Daniil turns, he has to lean up on his toes to get a better look at Rubin’s eyes. But where he expects dismissal, he finds something closer to amusement. “Funny. I didn’t expect someone who dresses the way you do to be so non-conformist.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Daniil says, nose tilted up. “Anyway, I’d be delighted to inform you that most of my associates in the Capital do not dress the way I do. This get-up is a show of non-conformity on its own, however odd that may seem. A friend once told me to take pride in the ways I stand out, and it’s something I took to heart.” They step up to the counter, and Daniil considers the menu. By god, his stomach hurts. “I’ll have the soup. Whatever your special for the day is.”

His companion orders a sandwich, something with meat and eggs. Daniil fishes for his wallet, and Rubin knocks his hand out of the way to pay for them both, and walks away to a small table in a corner of the room. Daniil sits across from him, one leg crossed over the other. “Buying my dinner for me? If you’re not careful, Rubin, I’ll think this is a date.”

He snorts. “Some date this would be. You’re hardly dressed for the weather, and we’re going to speak to the governor about a school. It’s not exactly romantic, is it?”

“I’ve had worse,” Daniil admits. Rubin looks up, quirks his eyebrow. Daniil leans back in his seat, and rolls his wrist. “There was a boy back in university who considered sharing classes dating.” Rubin lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “My first date ever was to one of father’s fancy military dinners. That was before I’d come out, so I was in one of those hideous, frilly dresses that made my skin break out in a rash. And I didn’t know how to kiss, so I tried pretending to have a cold sore to get out of it.” The look grows to one of more genuine amusement. “There’s also the time my date threw up on my shoes.”

“And which Stamatin was that?”

“Neither, if you can believe it.” Rubin shakes his head. “I could do a lot worse than a tall man with pretty eyes lending me his sweater and buying me soup.”

“You think I have pretty eyes?” He looks genuinely surprised. “They’re just brown.”

“They’re not ‘just’ anything. They’re the color of a perfect coffee, and warm as it, too.” It almost looks like Rubin is blushing, but it’s hard to tell. He’s never seen the man do it before. “And you have such long eyelashes, too. I have to wear mascara to get mine to stand out even half as much.”

“If you’re not careful, Bachelor, I’ll be the one thinking this is a date.” Daniil smirks. Rubin’s pensive for a moment. When he looks up, his lips pulled back, Daniil sees something defiant in his look. “You know what? Cub did tell me to go out on a date.” Daniil can’t help but blink back in surprise. “So, sure. Let’s make this a date.”

He isn’t sure if it’s just the urge to get back at Artemy that drives his decision, but Daniil hasn’t got a single good reason to say no. And more to the point, he’s not sure he wants to. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, is it really any worse than wallowing in self-pity? He’s definitely noted Rubin’s attractiveness before, even though his heart was always set on other places. But this, this could be nice. “If you’re up for it, then I am,” he decides, allowing himself a smile. And, he notices, a little more confidence in speaking with Saburov.

Maybe it’s a sign things will start looking up.

At two weeks post-breakup, Artemy was surprised to find that Daniil still had not made his move. They had assumed that once Mark broke up with him, Daniil would jump at the first chance to ask Artemy out, and the rest would be history. When Artemy walked him back to the Stillwater after a dinner that felt long and awkward even to Artemy, they hung around outside the front door with an assuredness that this was the moment. Daniil would ask them inside, offer them coffee, and unsubtly work his way into making Artemy his new boyfriend.

They could see it playing out so clearly in their head: Daniil seated on the piano bench with one leg crossed over his knee, toying with a cup of coffee, trying his best to look nonchalant and failing endearingly. He’d get that soft, sweet flush to his cheeks, just as he does whenever Artemy pays him a little too close attention, and the words would come stumbling out of his mouth. Artemy wouldn’t bother to act surprised, he’d just accept.

His stomach went all airy just thinking about it. He felt giddy, really. There was something exciting about the prospect of being next on Daniil’s list.

Except when Daniil did turn around to face him on the front step, he didn’t invite Artemy in. It looked like Daniil wasn’t quite sure what to say to him, just staring at Artemy blankly. Artemy was about to help him along, to ask if they could come in, but Eva opened the door before they could get the words out. And then for whatever reason, she’d thought Artemy was the one who’d made Daniil cry, an accusation Artemy still can’t work his head around. When’s he ever done anything to upset Daniil? That night alone, they’d given Daniil an opening or five to ask them out, and Daniil just didn’t take the shot.

When Eva moved out of the Stillwater and crossed the bridge into the new town, Artemy thought Daniil might invite him over in his newly empty house. They’d gotten into the habit of having dinner together once a week, and Artemy entertained the possibility that Daniil might have him over for something like a housewarming party. His dreams certainly had to say a lot about the possibilities with that one, leaving him embarrassed, sweaty and slightly sticky waking up. But instead of calling on him to come over, or even showing up on Sunday as he usually did, Daniil just kind of disappeared.

From what he’d heard – from what passersby on the street and kids who hung around the Stillwater told him – Daniil had started to spiral. Which was something Artemy was not equipped to handle. He hates to admit when he hasn’t been an attentive friend, but he’s never really known what to do in those kinds of situations. Daniil managed to get through the workday with what he probably thought was a convincing smile, and Artemy had to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling Daniil to drop it. They figured Daniil would talk about it in time, because that’s what Daniil does: He talks. A lot.

But the chatter never comes.

On week three of Daniil’s post-breakup not-asking-Artemy-out, Artemy tries to suggest Daniil come over to their house for dinner. Daniil has always enjoyed coming over and seeing the kids, spending time with them as a family unit. Hell, he is part of the family now, like the rest of Artemy’s friends. And maybe if Artemy does what they can to let Daniil know they’re available and ready to be asked out, Daniil will finally take his shot, and Artemy can stop waiting on the precipice as they have been.

Soup, Artemy repeats in their head, kicking themself internally. They were supposed to be inviting Dankovsky to come over to have dinner with them and the kids, and their mind completely blanked as soon as their mouth opened. All they managed to get out was the recommendation that the man eat soup, without ever specifying that it should be the soup Artemy specifically made to have Daniil over to eat. What in the hell is wrong with them?! Talking to Daniil should not be this difficult – it never has been, not when he was dating Andrey or Mark or even during those twelve horrid days.

Artemy’s starting to wonder if there’s just something wrong with them, specifically. They actually expected Daniil to rush to break up with Mark from the second they flirted him. It wasn’t like it was possible for Daniil to just not have picked up on what Artemy was doing – they’d had a whole conversation about flirting techniques only a month before! It was how Daniil even knew Mark was interested to begin with, surely he couldn’t have forgotten about it? And yeah, Artemy’s decision was made split-second, but he knew Daniil coming after him next was a risk of that decision. He’d steeled himself; when Daniil did come around to ask him out, he’d handle it like a mature adult. It was worth the trouble. He could date Daniil Dankovsky and do it better, regardless of whatever Mark Immortell thought. And then when Daniil didn’t run off and break up with Mark immediately, Artemy felt weighed down. Felt stupid. Felt embarrassed.

He laid in bed that first night, expecting Daniil at his front door the following morning with flowers and poetry or whatever the hell it was he did with the other guys he’d dated. That stuff was a little showy for Artemy’s tastes, but he was still confused when Daniil wasn’t there at all. He can’t boast to be a on the level of Yulia Lyuricheva, but he didn’t think he’d calculated things that badly. Daniil is definitely into him - the way he’d looked up at Artemy with such longing in his eyes when they’d touched his shoulder, moved their fingers down to his bicep, that spark of hopefulness in his eyes, the tilt of his lips into a reverent smile? And the way he’d told Artemy he’d think about it, his hand coming to rest overtop of Artemy’s own? No, there was no way Artemy misread his interest.

But, okay. Maybe Daniil’s relationship with Mark meant more to him than Artemy realized. Maybe there actually was something between them, a chemistry or a shared rapport that kept the relationship going. It’s not like Artemy ever asked for specifics. They’re both intelligent men, frightening in their own ways with ambitions beyond Artemy’s comprehension. Plus, Mark had been one of Daniil’s Bound, so it certainly wasn’t completely implausible that Daniil had developed some sort of warped affection for the man. Artemy will just have to keep insinuating that they’re available, and when Daniil gets over Mark, Artemy will be next. All they have to do was keep flirting with Daniil until Daniil gets the message, turns around and…

And this is what it always comes down to. Artemy thinks about Daniil turning those big, beautiful brown eyes on them, turning that soft, delicate voice in their direction, and they panic. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. They’d felt it in the office, and it’s how they wound up rambling about soup instead of asking the man to come over for it. Daniil would probably delight in it when he got around to asking Artemy out, reading Artemy as flustered. Artemy thinks about him naming a time and a place and asking if they’re free, and Artemy doesn’t have a chance or intention of lying to say they’re not. Actions have consequences, and Artemy is ready to accept theirs. They could do worse than Daniil Dankovsky. They already have.

So what is the hold up? It’s been four weeks now since Mark broke up with Daniil, and Daniil still hasn’t made his move. Artemy’s stomach plummets like an anchor in the ocean. He gets a horrible feeling in his gut, telling him that Mark said something to scare Daniil off from asking him out. He wouldn’t put it past the man to inflict the maximum amount of psychological damage, but he’s not sure what more he can do to indicate his availability to Daniil.

Something nags at Artemy in the back of his skull, but he can’t quite figure out what it’s saying.

Daniil comes into the office right as they’re thinking about him, and they sit up properly in their seat, trying to look like they’ve been doing something other than staring off into space and thinking about him. Daniil’s got new boots, boots made to handle the ice and snow, and he takes them off once he enters, waving goodbye to someone from outside the door. Artemy feels a snap in his chest, but he’ll hold his tongue from asking who that was, jumping up at the last moment to help Daniil out of his coat. “Oh, thank you,” he says. The scarf he unravels from his face looks a little like Lara’s handiwork, but Artemy’s not sure where he would’ve gotten it from.

He shakes off his negative thoughts, and says, “You’re looking in better spirits this week, Daniil. I’m glad to see it.” Daniil nods, pulling out his second pair of shoes from his bag and slipping them on. And while he’s feeling confident, he may as well take his shot. “I’ve been meaning to ask, would you like to come over for dinner tonight? It’s been a while since you’ve been over. The kids miss you.” He hopes the implicit I miss you is loud enough for Daniil to hear.

Daniil cocks his head up to meet Artemy’s glance, and he smiles. His lips don’t look as bitten raw anymore. That’s a good sign. “Alright. I don’t see why not. How are Sticky and Murky, anyway?”

“A handful, as usual. They’ll have tons of questions for you, now that you’re setting up to be a teacher and all.” Daniil raises his eyebrows, stepping away from the door. Belatedly, Artemy remembers to hang his coat up. “Sticky heard the news from Shrew, and the Soul-and-a-Halves have been scouting around the old Kain place, checking on the progress.” He smiles. “Sticky’s going to be in the front row, I hope you know that.”

“Perfect! Just as I used to do.” He really does seem thrilled with the prospect, and Artemy is so happy for him his chest aches.

As the day passes on, they fall back into the same easy pattern they used to have before things with Mark went south. In recounting how he’d approached Saburov regarding the administering of a school, he’d even lapsed back into his Latin quotes. Daniil recounts with embarrassment how he’d nearly insulted the man again in – and so soon after their disastrous last meeting. Artemy laughs, and Daniil shoots back, “Quid rides? Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur.”

Oh, Artemy has been waiting for this moment. He doesn’t even know the full translation of the sentence, and he doesn’t wait for Daniil to give it to him. He’s had a response lined up for weeks now. “Quidquid latine dictum sit altum videtur.”

There, right there. That look on Daniil’s face has made it well worth the hours practicing this exact phrase. He studied the phonetics as closely as he could, and though he’s sure he still got some of the pronunciation wrong, Daniil looks absolutely delighted. “Ah! So you’ve picked up Latin. No need for me to translate any longer?”

They laugh, and run a hand through their hair. “I haven’t picked up that much, emshen. I just wanted to impress you.” This is them flirting again, and it can’t possibly be misconstrued in any way. Daniil looks perplexed by it, face falling a little and eyes looking about the room elsewhere.

What is this, Artemy thinks, shyness? It looks foreign on Dankovsky. They’re not really sure how to ask about it, either, or if they should. They’re not as socially inept as Daniil seems to be, but they’re never sure if they’re getting things right when it comes to him. Daniil’s fingers flex against his desk, and Artemy takes a breath to prepare himself to say something else, to say anything else, but both their attentions are drawn to the door flying open.

The wind mostly seems to be what drives it back, because Rubin comes in with his arms full, looking a touch embarrassed by the drama of his entrance. Daniil hops up to grab the door, hissing a little at the smack of wind that comes through. “You need a hand, Stakh?” Artemy calls, though he knows very well Rubin won’t take it. And as usual, Stakh shakes his head, setting down the bags and going about restocking. Flirting in front of Rubin feels taboo somehow, so Artemy will have to hold off until he’s gone for the day. It gives him time to strategize, anyway, to determine the perfect thing to say to nudge Daniil in the right direction.

That nagging feeling inside pulls taut, like his lines being jerked in a forward movement.

It doesn’t take Rubin long to put away the supplies, second bag in his hand as he loops around to Daniil’s desk. He sets it down on top, startling Daniil from the file he’d been looking at. “What’s this?” he asks.

“Lunch,” Rubin sighs. “You’re not eating a handful of raisins and toast again. So, here.” Daniil’s eyes flutter, lashes low against his cheek.

Oh, no. No. No, no, no. No! No! Artemy does not like this. What in the hell does Stakh think he’s doing? And why is Daniil – why is Daniil looking at him like that? Sure, they worked well together during the plague, and okay, they’re friends, and oh god, Stakh is kissing his cheek before he turns to leave, like he’s embarrassed by his own actions.

Artemy’s lines snap. It so loud, so damn audible that for a moment Artemy swears they’ve broken their pencil in half. It’s still in one piece when they look down – hell, it’s not even in their hand. But everything just sort of scrambles in their brain as they work this out, hearing the front door slamming shut, Daniil setting his food aside with this smile on his face, this small one, one he usually wears in secret. It flashes in front of Artemy’s eyes, one of those enormous signs from the Capital. It wasn’t you, their brain says, but you wanted it to be.

Somewhere along the line, their thought patterns changed. Their mind races, trying to sort out when, trying to sort out where, trying to sort out why, and nothing comes to them. Just that they made the slip casually, that their thoughts transitioned smoothly from Daniil wanting them as a consequence to Daniil wanting them as a goal.

Not just somewhere along the line, no, four weeks ago. Four weeks ago, when they said to themself that they needed to keep flirting with Daniil until Daniil moved onto them. They were so arrogant, so careless, telling themself that Daniil wanting them was some kind of burden they’d have to bear as a consequence of convincing him to stay in Town, telling themself they’d done it for the greater good. Four weeks ago, or maybe longer, because now he has to sort out and ask himself why he decided Daniil had to stay in Town at all. Who did it benefit? They need a doctor on the other side of the river, and Artemy sure as hell isn’t going, and Rubin sure as hell isn’t going. For whose benefit had he convinced Daniil to stay? Daniil’s, or his own?

This hurts. This laceration feels infected, untreated for a month. An entire month worth of convincing himself that he’d deal with Daniil’s feelings for him because he couldn’t determine what his own were. Because he didn’t want to figure out what his own feelings were. He just assumed things would all work out, and they’d be comfortable. That he could have a life with Daniil and never question his own feelings on the matter because he knew what his feelings were, and just hadn’t wanted to confront them.

He’s bad at this. Isn’t that what Mark had said, that his ignorance would be his downfall? This must have been what he meant.

I should have kissed him. When I asked him to stay in Town the first time and touched his shoulder, thinking I was doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. I should have kissed him. So then it could be me kissing his cheek, not Stakh.

Artemy feels like shit. The selfish part of their brain wants to back out of dinner plans, but what good would that do them now? They want to get closer to Daniil, not farther away. If they need time to process all this new information, they can do it during sleep, just as they always have. Daniil seems to be looking forward to tonight, practically radiating all that energy he’d lost when Eva moved out, and I should have asked him out then, had him come home with me, made him dinner, made him feel loved, made him feel wanted.

“What’s on your mind, Artemy?” His hands are shoved into the pockets of his coat, not quite covering over his form anymore. He looks good like this, Artemy thinks to himself, filled out instead of so uncomfortably thin. Touchable, this way. In the darkening streets, his eyes shine in every light, turning his gaze onto Artemy, every breath puffing out like steam from his mouth.

Artemy feels like he’s cracking. When he’d contemplated earlier what flirtations he would make, still oblivious to his own intentions, he thought of being bolder, more honest. He thought of saying, You, when Daniil asked him something like this, and he was sure that he would. He had it planned out, pictured, walking back in the freeze, snow still not melted off the ground. It would look pretty, and Daniil would look prettier, and he’d keep pushing until Daniil made that first move. It was never Artemy making that move, and that was his problem.

So now he looks up to the sky, trying to think of something else. But the frigid air doesn’t feel nice, even this close to someone he cares about. He just feels frozen, uncomfortable. “Fate,” he says. “Missed opportunities. If they’ll ever come back up again.”

Daniil’s probably thinking he means his unfinished degree. It’s the sort of thing Daniil would think, and he doesn’t have it in him to elaborate right now. Daniil hums, and he feels him step closer. This is where he usually is, but tonight, he still seems so far away. “Astra inclinant, sed non obligant,” he says.

He does not remember to translate.

Chapter Text

Daniil takes a good look at himself in the mirror and readjusts his tie again. Loosens it a little. He doesn’t normally wear ties – not his style – but when he thought about the way his professors back in university dressed, he came to the conclusion that his usual style was far too ostentatious for a classroom. He didn’t have much of a chance to exercise his personal style, anyway; the clothes available to him here in Town don’t really fit his usual brand. Finding articles that not only fit his aesthetic but also fit his body has been a total nightmare, and he’s on the verge of asking the next woman he meets to assist him in altering the clothes he already has.

If he puts on another pound, he will.

It’s looking more and more likely that’ll wind up being the case, given the way his body has readjusted to life outside of the pandemic. To life outside of a big city. All the weight he’s put on makes him look at his reflection with disgust.

You don’t mind when it’s Artemy, the logical half of his brain points out. You think they look better with a fuller frame. And truly, they do. There weren’t many men with Artemy’s build in the Capital. Finding someone thicker around the waist and thighs was difficult in the districts Daniil frequented, and he’d been far too snobby and posh in the past to bother looking elsewhere. Maybe he would have had better luck finding a partner if he’d ventured outside his narrow scope.

Not that it matters anymore. He couldn’t go back to the Capital if he wanted to. And anyway, he has a promising new relationship. Things seem to be going well for once – which also means it’s inappropriate for him to be thinking of Artemy in this way, especially considering it’s the man’s best friend he’s gotten himself romantically involved with.

He wonders what Artemy thinks of the two of them. He’s sure Artemy saw Stanislav kiss his cheek the other day at the office. He’d heard the soft inhale when it happened, but hadn’t wanted to check and see what expression Artemy was making. The gesture almost made Daniil feel guilty since he hadn’t exactly been upfront with Artemy about dating his friend. Only, things had happened so quickly that Daniil didn’t have the chance to give him a head’s up – and Artemy didn’t ask about it either.

They had the opportunity to bring it up that night at dinner, but it seemed they both wanted to avoid the subject. All the same, Daniil couldn’t shake the feeling that Artemy was holding something back. Something about how pensive Artemy seemed at dinner, how shut in on himself he was after the excited way he’d asked Daniil to dinner in the first place. A part of Daniil wanted to just flat out ask what was on his mind, but every time he opened his mouth to do so he was struck with doubt. Everything he thought to say sounded insensitive in his head as his thoughts kept circling back to the same place: that whatever he wasn’t saying probably had something to do with Rubin.

Today he decides that when he sees Artemy again, he’ll apologize for not telling him about Stanislav. He’ll just have to hope the apology is enough, even coming in a few weeks late, because if it isn’t –

Daniil stops his thoughts for a moment to fidget, to dwell on the most dreaded outcome. If the apology isn’t enough, he’ll have to live with it anyway. It will be uncomfortable for a while. He isn’t used to having so many friendships to keep track of. Pretty soon he might even have to make a list of who all to keep check on – like Eva, whom he hasn’t visited yet in her new home –

No, no, he’s getting sidetracked. Nervous habit. He tugs on the bottom of his vest, staring at the bit of stomach poking out. He tries sucking his stomach in, but a roll of flab remains. The only particularly noteworthy item he’s permitted himself to wear today is the coat, his hair parted to lie neatly and evenly on each side of his head. It makes me look forty, he thinks, but the point of the day is professionalism. The kids won’t care what he looks like, as long as he plays the part of a teacher.

“Right.” Daniil clears his throat and smooths his hair down one last time before he picks his coat up from his desk chair and starts his way down the stairs. He pauses for a moment on the staircase, his ears tingling and head light. He swears he can hear voices. But – no, it isn’t possible for these walls to talk, no matter what people in this town think about the buildings. Daniil has said before he’s no positivist, and there are some things he’s been forced to accept about the nature of this town, but sentient buildings? He has to draw the line somewhere.

And indeed, as he continues down the stairs he finds he was right. It’s not the walls speaking, but three teenaged guests he didn’t know he’d be entertaining. He looks around with some confusion as his feet hit the last step, greeting them with, “What are you all doing here?”

Perhaps not his best entrance, but the three turn around to look at him on the bottom stair. Cookaroo doesn’t seem that displeased with him, but Sticky and Shrew give him twin looks of confusion. “What are you wearing?” Shrew asks, nose crinkled.

“Well, I couldn’t quite find a suit -” (that fit) “So I decided this would work.” Upstairs he’d been certain of his choices, but now the kids who have infiltrated his house are all looking at him with varying degrees of distaste. He can’t help but look down at his clothes again, trying once again to hold his stomach in as he asks, “Why? Is there something wrong with my outfit?”

“You look like a dork,” Shrew answers. Daniil sighs at her.

Sticky has more fruitful commentary to offer, stepping forward. “You just don’t look like you, Dr. Dankovsky. You kinda just look like someone’s dad.”

“And what’s wrong with resembling someone’s father? Plenty of people seem drawn to Burakh, and he’s your father.” Alright, so that wasn’t the retort Daniil had been aiming for, but it should work all the same. No one need ever know that Daniil is one of those people drawn toward Artemy.

“Nothing exactly, your excellency,” Cookaroo drawls, “but we were assuming you’d teach us that fancy Capital science. You don’t look like you’re gonna do that in –“ he gestures. “That.”

“I can’t start you off with thanatology, you need to learn the basics first.” All three teens roll their eyes at him. “Do you know anything about the natural sciences? I was given the impression heliocentrism was a new and blasphemous idea here.” He watches Cookaroo’s brows furrow, repeating the words. So he’s not too far off, then. That’s troubling. “Besides, would you really want a teacher who dresses so – so flashy?”

“Yes!” Shrew and Sticky say at the same time. Daniil fidgets for a moment before he gives in, sighing again. “Alright then, fine. I’ll go and see if I have anything better to put on. But it may make me a few minutes late.” His words are drowned out by cheers as he turns on the balls of his feet, retreating back up the stairs to his room.

Daniil opens his armoire to sort through his clothes once more, picking out another pair of slacks and a different shirt. He keeps the vest, but loses the tie in exchange it for a different kerchief and his usual pin. A dark red shirt, dark grey pants, black cravat… Definitely more his style. His hair tousles a little as he changes, and he lets it ruin the part in his hair just a little.

He descends the stairs once more, arms spread to indicate he’s ready for reappraisal. They all clap, half-sarcastic, but Sticky does permit, “Much better.” Daniil carries himself with pride to the front door, slipping on his coat and boots before his borrowed hat and scarf. He’s been wondering when Rubin will ask for them back, but he only ever seems to pull the scarf back around tighter when Daniil starts to fidget with the thing. He lets the kids out of the house first, and stares longingly at the lock as he leaves.

This town doesn’t lock doors. Now that he’s a part of the town, should he follow suit? Daniil chews his lip, deliberating for a moment, before begrudgingly letting go of the handle and following the trio toward the Crucible.

He’d wanted to oversee the renovation, but every time he came around to check on the progress he was shooed away. The workers insisted he could rest easy and get back to more important endeavors – like the clinic. But the thing is that he wanted to get to know the new space before he had to teach in it, to be able to visualize the classroom as he practiced his lectures. He hates walking into surprises, unaware of his escape routes.

The classroom is in Victor’s old wing of the Crucible, now deplete of the bookshelves and decorations that made it what it was. The walls have been knocked down to make the space larger, to accommodate the benches and tables for around twenty-five children. The difference between the room now and the room the last time he’d been in it, talking with Victor, makes his head spin and his ears ring. He has to remind himself the man is on the other side of the river now, that this building is otherwise abandoned.

There’s a new desk near the back of the classroom, a little older and bigger than the desk Victor used when this was his home. Daniil leans against it for a minute to catch his breath.

When he turns he finds that small space has become even smaller, filled out with bodies occupying it. His eyes dart about the classroom nervously, pivoting to remove his hat and scarf. This isn’t his first time lecturing. He’s used to bigger halls filled with students who whisper among themselves as he enters, but the children here are simply waiting for him with curious eyes.

Are they all really here to learn from him?

“Good morning, class,” Daniil begins, his throat already going tight with apprehension. They do not respond, but that’s alright. Daniil reminds himself they haven’t had much in the way of schooling before, and it will take a little time for them to all be on the same page. His knuckles crack beneath his gloves as his fingers curl, and he clears his throat to loosen it. He tries to remember how professors in university started their lectures. Would any of those methods be appropriate with the age bracket of his class? It’s only now occurring to him that he’s never lectured students this young – the oldest among them can’t be more than fifteen.

Again he coughs, more out of nerves than to clear his throat. He’s practiced this lecture routinely, whittling it down to exactly forty-five minutes, easing himself into speaking at a normal volume, at a normal speed. He’s practiced answering the questions most likely to be asked. No reason to back out now.

Daniil claps his hands together, and starts. “So. Today we’re going to discuss science.”

His first day of teaching goes better than he had been anticipating. In hindsight, his anxiety feels unwarranted; generally speaking, he gets along alright with the children in this town. All the same, he hadn’t been expecting notetaking – not on the first day. With the exception of Sticky – who had proudly showed his notes off to Daniil after class – he’d assumed the class would mostly just sit and listen. But over the course of the hour, Daniil saw nearly every student take out paper and pen and jot something down.

Not that his paranoia let him rest easy there. Oh, no. A vicious little voice in his head insisted it was some coordinated effort to humiliate him, that they were taking down notes to mock him later. But none of them were laughing, and on his way out he happened to peek at papers as he passed between the tables. The notes were hardly up to his personal standard, but words popped out here and there all the same: astronomy, geology, biology. Either the children were writing down words they didn’t recognize, or they were making note of topics they looked forward to learning more about.

And now he’s… excited.

I’ll need to do more research myself, he thinks. I’ll need to be an expert or damn near it before I teach anyone – biology will be easy, but astronomy and geology… He hums to himself as he walks, pulling the scarf up over his nose to keep the wind at bay as he makes his way to the clinic.

There’s a slight bounce to his step as he goes, his thoughts turning to the clinic. Just the other day, Artemy had asked him about vaccines. “You started work on one with Rubin, right? During those twelve days?” Daniil was distracted by the outline of Artemy’s shoulders, by how unnaturally tight and rigid they seemed.

He nearly slipped into inappropriate territory, almost asking Artemy if he needed a massage to work out the kinks. He shook his head, issuing an internal reprimand. Even without taking his current status into account, the idea just lead down too many dangerous territories. Too filthy for a colleague, let alone a friend. And Artemy, still waiting on an answer, turned around to face him, leaving Daniil’s eyes trained on the breadth of his chest. Daniil panicked, eyes trying desperately to fixate on his face and trailing down, all the same, to the purse of his lips.

If he’d allowed himself the weakness of contemplation, he’d note that they were pleasantly full.

Stupidly, Daniil blinked and asked, “What?” before his brain caught up and understood the question he’d been asked. His whole body overheated, sweat pricking up along his shoulders as he turned his attention elsewhere, on the filing cabinets in the corner. “Oh,” he said, as if the words were an afterthought. “Yes, I did. What of it?”

Then, strangely, it was Artemy’s turn to look lost in the conversation. Daniil wondered if they were trying to work out when he and Rubin got close enough to start dating. It would explain the sudden interest in the vaccine, given how little they cared before – but then why would Artemy care about something as trivial as Daniil’s interpersonal relationships? It wasn’t as though Daniil had never considered Stanislav attractive before, though he’d never said as much to Artemy. As a general rule they didn’t talk about things like that, not after the disastrous meeting at Andrey’s. It was something of a touchy subject.

Which is why Daniil ultimately discounted the idea that day, too. Artemy cleared his throat, apparently having decided the direction he wanted to take the conversation. He asked, “Could you synthesize a vaccine for other illnesses? Flu, or the common cold?”

Daniil let out the nervous breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and started to explain why a vaccination against the common cold was unlikely. Artemy listened with more attention than Daniil had expected, leaning closer as he started to list off what all he’d need in order to create a vaccine for the flu.

For another agonizingly embarrassing second, Daniil thought all the attention was strange – that it might mean something – before he shot the idea down. It was utterly absurd. Even if he wasn’t already in a relationship, Artemy had made their feelings on Daniil and his faction clear. And thinking back further, back to things they never really discussed, to things they’d avoided discussing, Daniil realized he had no evidence that Artemy is even attracted to men.

It had just felt to Daniil like they might be. Maybe that feeling had only been wishful thinking, but somewhere along the line he’d gotten the impression that it was something they had in common. Maybe it was the way Artemy was so relaxed with Daniil’s inclinations? It was rare in the Capital to meet people so accepting who didn’t share those proclivities. And he learned about halfway through those twelve days that Artemy didn’t identify with a specific gender – so perhaps that’s what made him believe the same was true for their romantic endeavors. He’d let himself think they shared that sort of connection, but the closer he gets to Artemy the less secure he feels in what he thinks he knows about them.

They were rather close with Aglaya. Daniil finds himself scowling as the idea crosses his mind. He hates that it occurs to him the way it does – he’s been trying specifically not to think about that, and yet it keeps coming back to him every so often.

Whatever, Daniil thinks, trying to mentally discard his feelings. Flashback over. This train of thought isn’t appropriate to be traveling along during work, and he’s just reached the clinic. He doesn’t particularly want to think about it anyway; who cares what Artemy Burakh does or doesn’t look for in a romantic partner? The answer, regardless, is not Daniil. Daniil probably wouldn’t make them very happy. He can barely make himself happy, on the best of days, and happiness is something Artemy deserves.

And Artemy is what makes me happy.

“Hei mihi! Quod nullus amor est medicabilis herbis.”

“Care to translate that one?” The question rings out so much closer to his ear than he’s expecting, and Daniil nearly jumps. He’d been too lost in his thoughts to even notice he’d entered the clinic, and here Artemy is stepping up beside him, pulling the scarf from around his neck. Daniil’s mind flashes like a moving picture, showing him an ideal world in which Artemy uses the scarf to gently pull Daniil to their chest, to tilt his head up and kiss –

Daniil feels himself flush, and scowls at himself. It’s stupid to allow his mind to show him such nonsense. “I recognize the word ‘amor,’” Artemy continues, “and I think the few after it, but I wouldn’t know the context.”

“The context is Ovid,” Daniil tells them. He’s counting on his usual flat affect to cover the swell of emotion in his chest, and he fails. He can hear how soft he sounds, and he hates it. The next swallow hurts his throat as he slips from his coat. Artemy opts not to take the article from him in favor of staring openly at his ensemble. It must look pretty stupid to the man who wears the same butcher’s uniform every day of the week. Rubin has a uniform of sorts as well, made entirely of black leather. It’s only Daniil who dresses as he pleases, and the bite of self-consciousness overcomes him.

And yet, he continues on his explanation as if nothing bothers him: “Where Phoebus begs Daphne to yield to his advances. ‘Oh me! Love cannot be cured by herbs,’ roughly.”

“Phoebus?”

Is he actually asking for Daniil to complete his explanation? That’s rare. Daniil looks to him for confirmation, and Artemy gives him a slight nod. Daniil takes a breath, and averts his gaze, fiddling with his gloves. “Yes,” he says. “Perhaps better known by his Greek name, Apollo.” He chances a look up, but Artemy doesn’t look like he’s having any revelations. “After angering Cupid, he was shot with an arrow intended to kindle love, and so he fell in love with Daphne – while Daphne was shot with an opposing arrow, one to dispel love.”

Artemy nods in understanding. Daniil fidgets. He feels like he should be moving more, perhaps removing his jacket – only, he needs the pressure on his shoulders to concentrate. His gaze flicks back to the windows as he mutters, “Though I doubt she needed the extra incentive. She detested men, wished to stay a virgin forever. Which was regarded as a great shame because of her beauty.” His eyes swivel over to Artemy’s hands, fingers still closed around Daniil’s scarf. Why hasn’t he hung it up?

The other man flushes and moves finally, quickly, behind Daniil to loop the scarf around one of the pegs of the coatrack. “So where do the herbs come in?”

“Oh.” Daniil waves his hand. “She pleaded with her father, Peneus, to free her of her beauty to avoid becoming Phoebus’ bride. And so she was turned into a tree.”

“Right.” Artemy clears his throat. Daniil can feel their eyes on his figure again, and feels the impulse to roll up his sleeves in his nerves. Why is does he keep looking at me like this? “And you were quoting this story because?”

“Ah.” There’s no way for him to give an honest explanation. Because I was thinking about how attracted to you I am, despite the futility of my desire? How, like Apollo, I am cursed for my hubris to forever chase a suitor who would sooner revert to nonexistence than be with me? “Well, I just thought the quote was fitting,” he says awkwardly. “After all, your culture reveres the herbs granted to you by the steppe. I admit there is something to them, I have seen how well they work, but they can’t cure everything.”

They don’t look like they quite believe his explanation. Daniil is aware he’s never been a very adept liar. He doesn’t lie often. He’s not comfortable with it, but the alternative here is just too embarrassing. It won’t take much to see through if Artemy asks him any further questions, and so Daniil rushes to move the conversation forward. “Did you know Ovid wrote a treatise on how to cure love?”

Oh, fantastic choice of conversation, Dankovsky. A real winner. Artemy smiles at him, but the expression is tinged with surprising melancholy. “Oh? Anything worth trying?”

A jealous and spiteful part of Daniil’s brain demands to know why they’re asking, if they’re just doing it to tease him. He manages to swallow the feeling uncomfortably, jagged edges tearing at his throat as he turns on the spot. He makes his way to his desk, leaving Artemy standing by the coatrack alone.

“Well, among other things, Ovid suggested war - which I understand you’ve already endured? - and agriculture - which you seem given to.” Daniil taps the pads of his fingers against each other as he turns again, resting his hip against the edge of his desk. “Then there’s physical activity, degrading your lover, having sex in a position less conducive to love, infidelity –“ Artemy looks like they’ve taken something into consideration, and lost track of the conversation they’re currently having. Daniil tries to muffle his sigh as she shakes his head, dropping his hands to his lap. “Certainly nothing I’d call a cure.”

“There is that one saying, though, isn’t there? Hominem…something. Uh,” Artemy snaps his fingers, moving back to his desk. He stares at the papers littering the wood as he continues to fidget, jaw clenched too tight. “Shit,” he hisses. “Treat the man, not the disease, right?”

“Hominem non morbum cura.” Daniil recites the words with ease, memorized years ago – back when he felt less old, less jaded than he does now. “Yes, I believe that’s an accurate illustration of the concept. Treat the whole person, not just the symptoms. It’s holistic, very progressive.”

It suddenly feels uncomfortable to stand like this, as if he’s lecturing Artemy. Funny how it had never been a problem for him before, but now he needs to turn, to take a seat himself. “Anyway,” he says as he settles into his chair, “I don’t think lovesickness is something that can be cured, no matter how skilled the physician’s hands – or the surgeon’s.” His gaze drops to Artemy’s hands, and as he gazes he thinks about the warmth of those fingers.

His hands curl instinctively. Daniil is rarely without his gloves, wouldn’t know what it feels like to hold one of Artemy’s hands between his own, and he wonders.

But wondering won’t do him any good. There’s no sense in wishing for things he can’t have. How many times am I going to have to remind myself of this before it sinks in?

“It’s good to see you in better spirits, oynon,” Artemy says, and Daniil perks his head up from where he has reclined with it resting against his shoulder. He hadn’t realized his eyes had drifted shut in his fantasizing – or perhaps it was the anxiety of teaching again. “After Ms. Yan left for the new Town, you seemed spiritless. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

He didn’t realize Artemy had even noticed – they’re not exactly the most observant person. Daniil tried to reason that it wasn’t their fault, that they have kids to worry about and Daniil is an adult with no need for a caretaker, but there was still some residual hurt. They’re friends, aren’t they? Now he just feels a twinge of embarrassment at the revelation, scratching his arm numbly as he nods. “The kids giving me a new project to focus on helped, honestly. Can’t wallow in self-pity forever, can I?”

“If anyone could, it would be you,” Artemy jokes. But that smile is gone in an instant, leveling Daniil with a much more serious look. He leans forward on his desk, fingers tapping against it. “Speaking of – are you free to come to dinner tonight? I thought maybe I could cook for you, and you could tell me about your first day. Your version of it, because I know Sticky will have his own.”

Why is he doing this? It’s something a lover would do, something a husband would do. Is Artemy just like this with his friends? And there he goes, getting his stupid hopes up again. He tells himself to calm down against his heart beating in his ears, scratching his chin. Rubin hadn’t said anything about tonight, and he seemed like the kind of person to appreciate planning over spontaneity, so it was probably alright. “I don’t see why not,” Daniil agrees. His heart twirls when Artemy grins at him and their hair falls onto their face, pushing it back.

Daniil feels the uncontrollable flush creep up his neck to his cheeks, overheating him in a second. They really are unfairly attractive, he thinks to himself. He can still remember the first time the thought occurred to him, dizzy from exhaustion and half-asleep at his desk in the Stillwater. Artemy had taken the bed, snoring – though not nearly as loudly as Daniil had assumed they would. They were curled up on one side, hand under the pillow and knees pulled up.

Looking at them felt dangerous, and when Daniil got up from his desk he downed three cups of coffee to keep himself awake and his mind focused on anything but Artemy. But as the minutes ticked by, his observations built up involuntarily. He started to memorize dimples in their smile, the chips in their teeth, the sharp line of their jaw, their nose, their eyes, their hair, their hands until all of it was one big painting in the back of Daniil’s mind. And when he realized what he was looking at, he tried to run, only to find there was no place left for him to go.

There’s a hand on his shoulder jostling him and shoving a cup of coffee into his hand. Artemy’s made it in the closest approximation of how Daniil likes it, enough cream and sugar to blanche out the bitterness. Like everything else in life, he drinks it too fast, too hot, and burns his tongue.

Two days later, Daniil realizes there’s been an oversight in their clinic. He doesn’t remember what it is he’s looking for, but his fingers toy along the edges of a folder he recognizes on instinct is empty. Sidetracked, Daniil plucks it from among its peers and clicks his tongue against his teeth. Andrey. Of course it belongs to Andrey – who else would manage to weasel their way out of a physical examination?

Well, Daniil’s not about to stand for it. “I have to go,” he announces, folder tucked under his knuckles. He’ll make Andrey come in for a visit if he has to drag the man in by the nape of his neck. And in all likelihood, he will.

Artemy doesn’t get a chance to ask him where he’s headed or why. If he even tries, Daniil misses it, mind set on his new goal. He even manages to quite literally bump into Rubin on his way down the Broken Heart’s steps, paying more attention to his destination than his current trajectory. He nearly trips backwards over a step when Stakh’s hand comes out to steady him, eyebrows raised. Daniil beats him to his own question: “Rather early to see you here, doctor. Not jumping on the wagon, are you?”

“I came here to try and get that oaf into the office,” Rubin grumbles. He tips his head in Andrey’s direction, and Daniil looks over the rail of the steps to where Andrey stands behind the bar, giving his bartender an earful. “He insists he doesn’t need it. Says he’s healthy as a horse. I figure the only way to get him in is if his brother meets him there.” Daniil turns his attention back to Stanislav, looking at him with a little bit of expectation. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

“I do,” Daniil confirms, handing the empty file folder over to Rubin, “but he won’t like it.” Daniil moves around Rubin and down the steps, pinching his fingers as he heads down. Andrey catches sight of him from the corner of his eye and straightens his back, an easy grin making its way over his face. It’s true that he looks well enough, but Daniil narrows his eyes all the same. Appearances are often deceiving, and Daniil refuses to believe Andrey is taking his brother’s absence this well.

Though Daniil has never been the best at reading social cues, he can understand the bartender’s look of mortification plainly says ‘help me.’ Daniil returns the look with what he hops is a friendly nod and turns his attention once again to Andrey. Stamatin drops his hands to the counter and leans forward, his grin wolfish. But something about the expression seems so artificial in a way Daniil has never noticed before. His teeth don’t look as sharp as they once did. “Ah, our beloved Capital patron is here! Business, or pleasure? Perhaps a little of both?”

“Cut it out, Andrey, you know why I’m here.” Andrey’s not the type to flinch in the face of a challenge, and Daniil isn’t arrogant enough to think he alone poses much of an obstacle to the man. A look of understanding flashes in his eyes, but his expression doesn’t change: his teeth are bared, his face open, the way he’d parade a knife in a crowd. “You know I’m not going to let you off the hook, so don’t even try. You need to come in for a wellness check and establish a file with our office. You will come in now or tomorrow morning.”

“Or what?” He sounds amused, which is what Daniil was banking on. He doesn’t have much of an advantage over Andrey – not in height, not in muscle. But every so often he still surprises the other man, as he does when he reaches up and grabs Andrey’s ear. Andrey yelps as he’s dragged down ‘til he’s nearly level with the bar, the bartender looking on with no small amount of shock and humor.

“I know everything on you that’s sensitive, Andrey.” Daniil can’t help but allow a little of the smugness he feels creep into his words. It shouldn’t be that difficult for someone as robust as Andrey to fight back, but here they are. Daniil watches Andrey’s fingers curl, nails digging into the wood of the counter. “That can be a very, very good thing or a very, very bad thing.”

“Jesus, Danko, not so rough –“ Daniil twists his ear, and Andrey hisses. “Come on, is it really that important? I’m healthy as -”

“A horse, I’ve heard. Are you aware that I’m going to visit Eva soon?” Daniil asks, nearly crushing Andrey’s face against the wood. “She’ll want to know how everyone on the other side of the river is doing. Wait until she hears about her boyfriend’s declining health, the state of his apartment, how he hasn’t come by to see his old friend Daniil in ages. Is he wasting away on his own, I wonder?”

“You wouldn’t,” he tries, but his voice doesn’t leave in the snap it needs to carry the sentence. That’s worrisome, but not unexpected. Without Peter, Andrey’s not quite the same man.

“Try me,” Daniil dares. “Or don’t you want to prove to Peter that you can survive just fine on your own?”

There’s a brief pause, then Andrey’s voice comes out muffled. “That’s low.”

“I can go lower,” Daniil offers. Andrey tries jerking his head back up, but Daniil’s prepared for it. He loosens his grip on the ear for half a second, and then redoubles his pinch and pulls him back down. “What’ll it be, Stamatin?”

“Fine. Fine!” Even his defeat feels half-hearted, not as bitter as Daniil has come to expect from him. “I’ll come to your damn office tomorrow. Just let go of me.” Daniil acquiesces and Andrey steps back, rubbing his neck. “Shit. You pinch hard for a little guy.”

Daniil ignores the last comment. “If you find it too difficult to come in, I do still have an extra key to your flat.” Andrey’s face goes a little pale. Daniil’s not sure whether to be flattered or concerned by his general lack of bravado. “Wellness visits don’t require consent, last I checked. I’ve got an arsenal to choose from, Andrey. Better to make this easy on yourself and come in voluntarily. You know I’m not above playing dirty to get what I want.”

He turns back around to face Rubin, looking at Daniil with a new sense of appreciation. It’s a small thing, rarely-seen, these genuine smiles of his, and Daniil is always happy to see them. They’d gotten along well enough during the course of those twelve days – respected each other, even, though Daniil had been told Stanislav preferred working alone. But regardless of how cordial Daniil’s relationship with Rubin had been those days, he’d often wondered why Artemy wanted to retain a friendship with someone constantly at his throat.

This, Daniil figures, is it, Artemy’s reason why. The look Stakh wears is nearly conspiratorial, and Daniil can so easily see the man as a child, helping a plan into motion. He can visualize the two as teens, Grief rounding out their little group, arms around each other as they work something out. It’s only Lara he’s unsure of, how she fits into the picture. “Whatever happened to the Hippocratic Oath?”

“I didn’t do any lasting harm,” Daniil defends with a sniff. He pretends to brush some lint from his coat and takes the folder back out of Stanislav’s hands. “Nothing that would leave a mark. And anyway, isn’t it better to get him in at any cost? If left to his own devices, Andrey will just rot away.” As soon as he says the words, they taste sour on his tongue, and he sighs at himself. “I shouldn’t say that,” he mumbles.

“And why not? Stamatin clearly doesn’t care much about himself.” Something dark lurks beneath those words, a deep current of what Daniil has come to guess is barely restrained self-loathing.

Rubin wasn’t the type to be forthcoming. He was a consummate professional – but despite the lengths he went to trying to keep a cover on his emotions, Daniil could sometimes see the specks of it floating to the surface. He would grimace, as if the thoughts themselves had a taste, and turn his head to try and hide his facial contortions from Daniil.

Now things are different, but only slightly. He’ll let Daniil get a glimpse at some deeper emotion, only to pull back before Daniil can identify it. He’s the most relaxed at work with Artemy, or in the moments Daniil sees him with Lara between classes. When he’s nearer to his friends he seems bolder, more… alive, and Daniil can see the influence Isidor must have had on him. Though Daniil had only met the man a handful of times before his death, he thinks he can see the same work values reflected in Artemy -

Pain surges through his chest, constricting around his heart as it beats faster. It’s the sudden blast of frigid air to the face as they pass through the doors that does it; he’d left the office without anything but his coat, too caught up in his mission to take notice, and now the kicking of the wind makes him wheeze.

It’s the damn binder, he thinks, patting his chest with his right hand. Daniil sucks a breath in through his teeth trying to manage the pain. Deep breaths, everyone always says, but the stupid thing is getting too tight. It’s getting difficult to take those deep breaths he needs, but he’ll be damned if he stops binding just because he put on a little weight.

“Are you okay?” The voice sounds distant through the fog of pain, but Daniil is steadied by a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He nods. It’s clear that Rubin doesn’t know exactly what to say, but it’s far better than Artemy’s attempts, repeatedly opening his mouth only to close it again. Stanislav, by contrast, simply observes Daniil as he formulates his thoughts. And when he does speak, his choice of words surprises Daniil: “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Even on dates, he hasn’t quite reached the stage of asking anything Daniil would consider personal. He’s asked all the basic things, about Daniil’s background and his life in the Capital, what sorts of things he likes to do in his spare time and gave his own halting answers for each in return. Rubin admitted once that he felt sort of dull by comparison, and Daniil laughed at what he thought was a joke. At least at that point, he’d been kind enough to point out when he wasn’t joking, even if Daniil thought a life spent devoting every minute of your time to your profession and helping others could hardly be described as dull.

Which is what he’s doing now, or so Daniil suspects. “Of course you may,” he replies.

“How…” Suddenly, Rubin falters, and Daniil watches as the other man turns his head to grasp at the words he’s considering, his fingers squeezing Daniil’s shoulder in a moment of self-doubt. But he makes up his mind to ask anyway, huffing out a breath. “How did you know that you weren’t a girl?”

The words are inelegant, but Daniil doesn’t blame him. He knows there are others in this town like him, but this is a smaller community with a smaller pool to wade in. Education here is hardly what it is in the Capital, and it doesn’t surprise Daniil that Stanislav doesn’t know all the terminology, the correct way to phrase things. What piques his interest is how sincere the question comes along, not at all like a doctor speaking to a patient.

It’s been a while since Daniil sat and thought about it, because it’s been such a long time since he’s been asked. He’s gotten used to living life the way that he has, and it’s been some time since anybody asked any questions. He runs his tongue across his lips, looking ahead as he thinks out his answer.

“It didn’t feel right,” he says slowly. “It felt like shoes in the wrong size. It was comfortable, for a while, and then my feet got too big. And staying in them was excruciating.” He pulls his hand away from his chest, visualizing the concept. “It took me a while to realize what was wrong, why I wasn’t feeling all the things other girls seemed to be feeling. But when I thought about those fancy men, the scandalous ones – that was what I felt a kinship with. And that’s how I realized.”

Come to think of it, the last person who’d asked him that question had been a potential partner, as well. They’d only been on two dates, but it had given them both a lot to think about. Sometimes he found himself wondering where she was, if she was doing alright now. His heart twinges to realize he may never find out.

“The last time I asked Cub,” Rubin says, his head tilted up to the sky, “he just said, ‘You’ll know.’” He sets his head straight, and sighs. “It wasn’t very helpful.”

“Do you feel like a woman?” Daniil asks.

It takes a moment for Rubin to answer. “I don’t know.” His voice is small, like he might collapse from exhaustion at any moment. Daniil wonders how many hours of the day he keeps himself going, and what it’s all for. He wonders if Rubin hears things whispering in the dark, too. “But what you said, about it not feeling right.” He shifts, head down on the street in front of them. “I don’t feel like a man. I don’t feel like much of anything.”

“You don’t have to be either. Burakh isn’t.” Daniil bites his tongue at the end of the words. It was a bad choice to point that out, after Rubin had already said the man wasn’t much help in that department, but if it bothers Stanislav, he doesn’t let on.

“Neither is Grief,” he says, and Daniil should have figured that someone who named themselves Bad Grief could not be confined to any sort of binary. “I don’t know,” he repeats, his eyes narrowed to a squint. “I feel the opposite. Like all these labels are too big, too loose. None of them feel right.”

“Well, sometimes that is the answer.” Rubin grunts and nods. Daniil blinks at him. “Did you have another name to go by, a different set of pronouns?”

Another quiet moment goes by as Rubin thinks. Then, softly, “I guess I want to try ‘they’ and ‘them.’” They sigh, rubbing a hand over their face. There’s a second where Daniil can sense some tension building up, and then the floodgates open. “I just want something of my own. Not something that’s been passed down or handed to me, not something another person has to teach me. Something I know for myself.” This sounds like a much deeper issue than Daniil will be able to help with. He’d pat Stanislav’s back, but they look on the verge of figuring something out, and he doesn’t want to break their concentration. “I feel like…” The words come slow as molasses, and Daniil gets the impression Stanislav has rarely opened up this far – perhaps even to Artemy. “I am grateful for the opportunities given to me. My family was never close. Isidor, Artemy, they may as well be my blood. But it feels like I’ve never really made something on my own. And I don’t care if other people know. I just want to have it.”

Daniil nods. “That’s why you’re considering moving, too, isn’t it?” They nod, slowly. “Have you tried – I know it will be difficult. But I think you should talk to Artemy about it. He’ll be terribly heartbroken if you move and never bring it up.”

They sigh again, longer and heavier. “I know. I know that. I just don’t want to think about whether it’s the choice Isidor would have made or not. Cub is so wrapped up in this Town, in the past, that I don’t think he’s considered the present much.” Daniil frowns, ready to argue, but he’s not sure what there is to say. “And I’ve done that, too. I know. But Isidor isn’t here to make choices anymore. I know Artemy is his father’s son, but I lived with him, too. I think he’d want someone to follow. If it isn’t going to be you…”

“It has to be somebody,” Daniil concludes. He feels a drive to defend Artemy, but the words weren’t exactly criticism. Stanislav’s assessment is fair. Perhaps Artemy didn’t consider them as being as close to Isidor as they were, but Daniil has worked enough with them to hear the way they revere him. It’s never sounded like a student speaking of a favorite teacher, the way Daniil often had during university, imprinting on minds he hoped to emulate. It always sounds, truly, like a son about the father he looked up to – and still does.

It makes the next breath in a bit difficult. “Grief is a complicated thing,” Daniil says. “And I don’t know that Artemy has taken the time to process it.”

“No offence meant, Daniil, but have you?” Daniil blinks up at them with surprise and some confusion. Stanislav’s head is tilted to one side, their mouth pulled back into a grimace, serving Daniil a rather severe expression. Daniil feels the need to brush the concern off, to inspect his gloves, but he’s not a coward. He’s also not entirely sure he’s understood whatever it is Stanislav is implying. And so they continue, “Your lab, in the Capital. Not going back to your home. That’s a huge loss. Have you really accepted it?”

Suddenly, he’s reminded of Peter’s painting of the Polyhedron, the memory committed to canvas. “O curas hominem! O quantum est in rebus inane!” He almost grimaces as he says it again. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. What point is there in lingering?”

“Huh.” Rubin blinks out into the chill of the air in front of them. They’re not far from the clinic now. “Do you always quote Latin before deflecting a difficult question?” Daniil flinches. Rubin moves a little away, so they can look Daniil in the eye.

Daniil coughs to clear his throat. He’s not good at this, at being vulnerable. He’s been finding out with alarming frequency that he’s not good at many things, but there are few things he avoids quite as actively as he does vulnerability. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, hoping it’ll soothe him, but all it does is remind him that he’s wearing leather, and scratching isn’t nearly as effective when there’s a barrier between skin and nail. “It’s not a deflection,” Daniil says, though he’s not sure what he would call it. Rubin looks doubtful. “What is it I’m supposed to do? Just wallow in my failures? I did that.”

“No, you drowned them out with alcohol,” Rubin corrects. “And then you started throwing yourself into any project you could find to keep yourself busy. What are you scared of, Dankovsky? The silence? Standing still?”

This is far more in-depth than Daniil usually cares to go, and every little movement feels tight, like Daniil can stretch right through the fabric of existence if he only pushes a little more. He’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t let himself think about it. Rubin’s eyes drift toward the clinic, their tongue reaching out to wet their lips.

“I’m afraid of it too,” they mutter.

And that’s all Daniil gets before they head back inside.

Eva’s new residence is what Peter calls ‘conceptual’ in its design. It is an open floor plan throughout, and even its second floor is see-through. He hears whispering as though it comes through the walls when he first pulls the door open. It’s this effect that has him entering with flushed cheeks and without knocking as he normally would; but none of the other guests seem bothered by his impolite entrance, and its host floats with elegance to his side.

It’s remarkable, how light the interior feels. He had expected it to be unfinished, but maybe that was his own reservation about decorating a home that wasn’t his to begin with. Eva seems to have had no trouble settling into her newest home, and here she sets her glass down to ease him out of his coat and curls her arms around his shoulders once it’s hung up. “I’m so glad you could come,” she cries, and pulls him to the center of the building.

At a larger party, Daniil could see everyone in the house gravitating to this center. He’d thought the outside of the home resembled a shell, but the inside was some sort of universe in miniature, a dark and oval table in the indent. Yulia sits with her bad leg stretched out, tipping a glass of water in Daniil’s direction just as if it were a glass of wine, her assistant next to her pressing her fingers tight together. She looks like she’s not quite sure what to make of the house she sits in, smiling tightly at Daniil before she goes back to looking around the room timidly.

Neither Yulia nor Eva appears to notice her hesitation. Daniil sits down opposite Yulia, startling as a glass of water hovers near his ear. There’s a few other people here, mostly men whom Daniil has never met before – though Peter is in the corner at an easel, Grace beside him with a smaller one, painting one of these men in slow and steady strokes.

Daniil’s stomach clenches when he sees them. He hasn’t gotten around to speaking to Peter since the adoption failed to go through. He didn’t realize Peter would be here, though he knows the man is friends with Eva. Things could get difficult, if Peter still doesn’t want to see him.

Eva, as usual, doesn’t mind whatever tension is in the room, perching herself near Daniil. She begins a conversation as though there had been no interruption, as though Daniil had always been in the room beside her. “So I hear you’ve started a school?” Daniil nods, and takes a sip of his water. “Well, you have to tell us all about it!”

“There’s not much to tell just yet,” he admits. “And I suppose I should tell you that it’s not really mine. I’m running it alongside Lara and a few other townspeople. Less influential than Lara or myself, of course, as we still haven’t gotten Yulia on board –“ Yulia smirks, eyebrows raised. “But we’ve got them learning science, literature, history. Once we get someone for mathematics, we’ll have the basics covered.”

Daniil looks at Yulia, and Eva’s gaze follows, her own more imploring. Yulia doesn’t budge under the scrutiny, though her fingers do tap along her thigh. Daniil wonders if she’s craving a cigarette. He still does, from time to time. “I’m just not sure if it’s the right move,” she defends.

“It isn’t chess, Yulia.” She doesn’t look convinced. Perhaps Daniil needs to work on his sales pitch. “I’m going to start them with geology, as that’s something they can touch. We’ll move on from there. I know quite a few students are excited to learn about the things they can’t quite as easily reach, astronomy especially.” He might be thinking too far ahead, but he swears there are kids in his classroom who look every bit as fascinated as colleagues he’s had in the Capital. It will never be the same – this town will never be a bustling metropolis, and all the better for it. But if he can foster a love of science in the children of the town? That would be worth something.

He can feel Eva smiling at him, lost in his thoughts, until he clears his throat and says, “Of course, to do the really exciting bits, they will need to know math. Chemistry, for example.”

Yulia hums. She looks amused, at least, tapping her glass now. “Well, I’ve left Aysa in control of my books back in the old Town, though I have my own collection here as well. You are more than welcome to come and borrow them at your leisure, though if you want anything more specialized you’ll have to order it from the Capital.”

“Duly noted. I thank you for your hospitality.” He figured she wouldn’t be swayed so easily, but it was worth a try anyway. He’ll have to tell Lara to keep searching for a mathematics teacher, and between the two of them they should manage to find somebody suitable. Perhaps one of the engineers Yulia had worked with, or even Aysa herself, though since she didn’t offer Daniil doubts how keen she’d be on the idea.

“What about an appreciation for the arts?” Eva asks. “Music, theatre, those sorts of things. Are you going to teach them?”

There’s laughter in her eyes, and Daniil pouts as he rises. “I could, you know!” Eva giggles. And now his mind is made up. “I happen to enjoy the arts a great deal!” Saying this, he finally takes a look around at the art hung up on the walls, the sculptures, the flowers in their vases, and where Peter is painting with Grace.

“But do you really understand them, old boy?” Daniil peeks over Peter’s shoulder to see the hint of a smile, muffled under the glint of concentration. Grace’s painting is a recreation, clumsy and splotchy, of what she sees before her. Her lines are uncertain, delicate, and there are signs that she had started to paint in one color only to change her mind and pick up another. They stand in stark contrast to Peter’s much bolder choices, his much more ethereal rendition of the man standing by the window. Both paintings show their experience with the medium, though even Peter’s seems…different than usual.

His hair is pulled into a low and messy bun at the back of his neck, his hands and face clean of the paint Grace is flecked with. Daniil thinks there’s more to what he’s saying, more than the surface level, but even his attempts to delve deeper leave him wanting. At the most he can think that Peter wants to know if Daniil’s understood him. Learned experience has taught him the answer to that.

“No,” Daniil admits, “I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s an improvement,” Eva says. Daniil turns to watch her move up from the center of the room to her kitchen, her feet dancing in smooth movements to music only she can hear. He had completely forgotten the invitation was for dinner, and realizes it’s been too long since he’s cooked food for himself. Ridiculous, that. He’s an adult now, and he should be able to remember such simple tasks.

He feels silly, all of a sudden, standing here in his proper clothes, holding his breath to keep his stomach in, drinking water out of a wine glass, thinking about what lessons he can teach to his class next week. It feels so very small, compared to the life he used to have.

There was that apartment, the small and dark one-bedroom, the kitchen barely more than a stovetop and an icebox, not even a closet, paying more than he could really afford for something tiny in the hopes that he could build something ten times its size one day. There was something grand about living that way, something exciting about being reviled for his work. It was a lonely life, but it was his. It all meant something to him. And this life he has now, it’s different. It’s living and breathing and existing and keeping himself busy so he doesn’t go mad with how very different it is. Smaller ambitions, smaller goals, smaller life.

Stanislav was right. He hasn’t processed it at all.

Daniil can count on one hand the number of times he’s permitted himself to cry as an adult. Even as a child he didn’t cry often. His parents didn’t reward tears. His peers didn’t grant pity. He thought he would only wind up bitter, wind up broken. But this he feels coming up his chest like a cyclone, one he tries to swallow down so he doesn’t spit it back up. He stares at the floorboards and blinks, focusing, as if he can will the tears back without anyone noticing their escape.

“Do you want to look at my painting, Bachelor?” It’s humiliating, being caught tearing up like a child by a child. He sniffs, and he knows that despite his best attempts it won’t sound or look as anything but a wet, dripping mess when he turns his head up. He won’t cry. Not here. His mind just keeps repeating, It isn’t safe.

“Of course I do, sweetheart,” he says. His cheeks are not a desert when he turns, but he can hide his face behind the canvas he is handed. Grace’s signature is everywhere on the page, in all those muted tones and hesitant strokes. But Daniil notices near the top that she has incorporated darker colors, more daring techniques. When he lowers the painting, he sees that she is watching Peter work, her eyes attentive to the movement of his wrist.

He comes home from the clinic on Thursday to find his house occupied. The dip in the center, though lacking a body around which to orbit, has accumulated its own satellites nonetheless. In the Capital, this would be cause for alarm, and it’s highly likely the Daniil of a few months ago would have tried to chase the breakers-in from his domicile, but this evening he only looks at them with mild interest. “Dear me, was I not invited to my own party?”

Sleepy Head looks up just a moment before Sticky, but it’s the latter who clambers up to greet him. “We had questions,” he says, and shows him the textbook he’s brought with him. “So we thought we’d come and get answers.” Daniil takes the book, turning it over in his gloved hands. It’s an older work, judging by the dating, but it’s still crisp enough to have been barely opened.

“I can see why,” Daniil mutters, handing it back to him. “You’re working with outdated material.” Sticky frowns at the cover, but takes it back all the same. Daniil shrugs out of his coat, heading toward the coatrack, the only real piece of furniture he’s added to the place since moving in. “If you give me a moment upstairs, I’ll go and collect the newer volume.” Sticky hangs around the door as Daniil heads up, not kicking off his shoes just yet. He won’t get comfortable while there’s still other people in his house, especially students.

When he descends the stairs again, Cookaroo is looking over Shrew’s shoulder at something. “Aha, no! No cheating!” Daniil calls, waving at the two.

The boy looks back at him, mouth downturned. “Who’s cheating? She’s not even working on science!” Daniil circles around, and sees her with a completely different book in her lap. Something from Lara, he’d bet. “And I wasn’t cheating for lit, promise. My report’s on a whole different book.”

Daniil hums, hesitant but accepting the explanation all the same. He hands the new book over to Sticky, who looks like he’d eat the tome if he could. His eyes go wide, hands feeling over the ridges and dips in the cover, slipping back down into the room’s circle to flip through the pages. Daniil pulls out the piano bench and sits, one leg over his knee, watching them. And that’s really all he does, all that really needs doing. They pop up with questions from time to time, most coming from Blacky and Sleepy Head (topical) or Sticky (about whatever came into his mind first).

He’s not really sure what to do with these kids who have made themselves comfortable here, zoning out as he watches them work. The more time passes, the less they call for his assistance; Shrew especially doesn’t actually seem to need his help with anything, not once even looking at something related to science. But that sense of oppressive loneliness he’d had the other day at Eva’s new home – it doesn’t return here. It’s like being in the classroom, though he isn’t teaching. He’s surrounded here, and he’s needed. He’s active, even if it’s just as a guardian.

Hmm. Funny. He never really thought of himself as protective, not of people. He’d spent so much time and energy protecting ideas: the Polyhedron, his Thanatica, the ideals of utopia. Yet his protection of his Bound had been for his duty to the Kains, out of obligation and trust. As he watches the children working together, sometimes laughing, smiling as they work something out…that’s something he wants to protect.

Two hours go by with Daniil hardly noticing, though by all means he should. He has to rearrange himself a few times when his ankle falls asleep, has to answer some questions, but most of it is passed with just keeping idle company in a way that feels familiar, but somehow distant.

I can’t keep them. “Well,” he says, sitting up from his bench. “I need to make dinner.” Blacky and Sticky both jump up, scrambling with their things, and Daniil smiles tightly. Blacky waves over his shoulder as he leaves, but Sticky takes his time gathering his things, and he hasn’t even brought that many. “I trust you’ll make it home in once piece?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Uh, want me to say hi to dad for you?”

Daniil blinks, confused. “Why on earth would I need you to? We work together.” Sticky pulls a face that suggests Daniil missed the point of his offer, but Daniil’s not certain he understands what the point of it actually was. He’s off next, but that still leaves him with three guests. None of whom look all that interested in going. “Don’t you all have somewhere to be?” he asks.

“My aunt’s,” Cookaroo said. “She won’t be home for another half-hour though. I can stick around and finish this question out, at least.” Daniil nods, but Shrew and Sleepy Head remain silent. He can buy a little silence as focus, but not with the lengths they’re going to.

Right. This Town and its orphan problem. Which Saburov has still done frustratingly little about, despite his insistence with Grace. Daniil heads back out toward the hallway, looking over his shoulder. “Well, I hope you children like curry, because that’s what I’m making!”

He doesn’t wait to hear their confusion or their questions, as certainly there must be questions. He can’t imagine a wide variety of dishes being prepared out here, but Eva has far more unique ingredients than he’s sure the rest of the Town has. It’s one of the few recipes he learned by heart out living on his own in the Capital.

Slowly, Daniil removes his gloves and washes his hands, settling into the monotony of preparing the ingredients. He can’t recall if he’s ever cooked for people before. Even with Mark they’d visited restaurants over making food for each other, and he’s never wondered if Stanislav would appreciate the effort. He knows Artemy does.

Or at least, Artemy likes making the food. Maybe Daniil should return the favor sometime. Thinking about it makes his throat feel dry and rough - the knowledge, maybe, that he shouldn’t be thinking of Artemy in that way. Though if Artemy can make food for Daniil as a friend, surely Daniil can make food for Artemy and his kids without it meaning anything either?

The act of cooking must take longer than it feels, Daniil used enough to the ritual of it all to allow his mind to wander as he works. He thinks about lesson plans, he thinks about recipes, he thinks about files in the office and coffee being made and having dinner with Artemy Burakh. His heart beats, and he swears he can feel the strain of it against his binder. Artemy Burakh, his gentle hands and unshaved beard and his soft hair and his laugh like the call of a bird.

Oh, Daniil is in trouble, because he’s never enjoyed the sounds of other peoples’ laughter so much.

But he’ll think of anything to keep from the nail-biting anxiety that hounds him next, plating the rice and the dish onto two plates, heading back out into the main room and expecting to be left standing like an idiot with more food than he really needs. It’s a relief, then, to come out and find Shrew and Sleepy Head still at work, swallowing as he stands in the doorway for a moment before coming over and clearing his throat. They look up, slack-jawed, and Daniil says, “Make sure not to spill anything, or you’re cleaning it up yourselves.”

Sleepy Head sets his book and pencil aside, his face reverent as Daniil hands him the plate. “You – you actually made us food? For real?” Shrew’s expression blanks before looking at the plate she’s receiving. Daniil knows the exact expression she’s making and what it means. He’s done it plenty of times himself.

She’ll speak when she’s ready to. For the moment, Daniil smirks. “I sure hope it’s real, but feel free to run any tests you want if you don’t trust my judgment. As long as a taste-test comes first.” He heads back into the kitchen, considering going out into the small section used for dining before he figures he may as well join his young guests.

It’s not the exact same as the way he used to make it in the Capital. This stove is a little better, the ingredients aren’t quite the same, but the real difference is the manner in which he’s eating at all. He’s managed to miss Sleepy Head’s first bite, but he’s shoveling his food in as any teenage boy would, laxer now that he’s explaining to Daniil without question when the last time he had a homecooked meal was. Shrew is more hesitant, but she does blink with recognition and surprise when she takes her first bite, making her way slowly across the plate.

“You know, Doc, you’re a better cook than I thought you’d be.” Daniil laughs as Sleepy Head claps his shoulder. “Seriously. I couldn’t imagine you making food when you live, well,” he gestures with his free hand around the living area. Daniil hasn’t really taken into account how barren it looks before, but it really does look abandoned without Eva’s little touches around the place. He should ask Peter, now that he’s doing slightly better, to help him decorate, or something. Even if he doesn’t want to come across the bridge, he can probably offer some pointers, and he’ll take his word over Andrey’s any time. Heaven only knows what Andrey would suggest. With more energy, Sleepy Head hops up, his dishes set to the side and says, “Think I’ll go for a run. Feels like I been studying all day!”

Daniil will have to teach him manners some other time. Most of the children here lack them, though now it’s just himself and Shrew in the house, and her thoughts are still elsewhere. Daniil’s slow at making his way through his meal, more to keep the girl from self-consciousness than anything else. But finally, she does look up at him, grey eyes dark. “Why did you do this?”

“Because I could,” Daniil answers. He pauses to let her digest the truth of the words before he asks, “Did you need something to drink? Water? Milk?” Shrew shrugs. Daniil gives her a moment of thinking before he prods a little more. “I can tell there’s something on your mind. Feel free to spit it out.”

He expects another question along the same lines, confused by his sudden kindness. Daniil is not known for his softer side. There’s very few people he’s allowed to see his attempts at domesticity, and had he given it a moment longer to think on it he might not have made them food at all. This decision of his was made without much thought put behind it, simply acting without giving himself time to doubt. Maybe he’ll regret it later, in the morning or tomorrow, but for now he can live with the slight discomfort of feelings he does not entirely understand.

But Shrew has other questions in mind, setting her for down on the side of her plate. “Why didn’t you go back to the Capital when you had the chance?”

Sticky and Murky have both asked this question before, separately, Sticky with curiosity and Murky with hesitation, as though a lot of decisions rode upon the answer he gave. Shrew doesn’t ask the way most of the other kids he’s interacted with do; she asks like an interrogation, almost hostile in her manner. He’d be baffled by it, if he wasn’t the exact same at her age. For the other two he could formulate a longer reason, something more tailored to their expectations, but there was no point in beating around the bush with Shrew. “I couldn’t.”

She crinkles her nose, but she’s satisfied enough with the beginning to take another bite of her curry. “Why not?” she asks. “Weren’t you some big celebrity? I’m sure people back home are wondering where you went.”

“I’m sure they are,” he agrees, “but I was given conditions to meet by the Powers That Be while I worked on the plague here. Impossible conditions, really. I was meant to work alone, to succeed without changing anything, and each step forward I made was a failure to them.”

“So you didn’t go back because you’re embarrassed.” Daniil huffs. He has a feeling nothing less than the entire truth would satisfy her. “That’s stupid. I thought adults were supposed to be above that kinda thing.” The sentiment behind it is clear. Daniil is supposed to be above ‘that kinda thing.’

“An nescis, mi filia, quantilla prudential mundus regatur?” Murky would roll her eyes, Sticky would try to repeat the words he speaks, but Shrew stares at him in a way that demands a follow-up. “Humiliation doesn’t stop in adolescence, dear Shrew. Many things embarrass adults, whether they permit others to see it or not.” He slouches back. “In any case, that’s not what I meant. My not returning to the Capital had little to do with desire, and all to do with capability.”

“The train took the General back,” she points out, tongs of her fork turned in Daniil’s direction. “You could have gone with him.”

Daniil squirms a second, uncomfortable as he thinks about it. It had been a long time since he’d seen the general. It wasn’t the right time for a sentimental reunion, but Daniil had thought…

What he thought isn’t relevant. “Block was headed back to the Front, and I’ve no desire to see more carnage than I witnessed those two weeks.” He sighs. “Here, I wasn’t going to treat you as a toddler, but the truth may be upsetting.” He levels his eyes with Shrew’s. “Had I returned at the time I considered it, I’d have been killed.”

For the first time, he sees a hint of worry in her eyes. She fidgets, and refocuses her attention to what’s left on her plate, but the upset is clear. Daniil’s not sure if sharing was the right thing to do anymore. Why is this so difficult?

“Why?” The word comes out trembled and upset, but her gaze is cast down. “I thought celebrities were well-loved.”

“Fame is a double-edged sword,” Daniil answers. “I am persona non grata – that is to say, an unwelcome person – in most circles of the Capital, for my politics as much as for my science. The two are inextricably wrapped, and that is on top of the usual threat to men such as myself. Being in the public eye only cast light on all the things I’d otherwise keep hidden.” He finishes his food, and sets his plate on top of Sleepy Head’s. “Things are not quite so black and white. All things in shades of grey.”

She clearly thinks about it, trying not to look too distraught by the news he’s handed her. “Well, I don’t think I’d come to a place like this if I was from the big city. There’s nothing really to do around here. It must get so boring for you.”

“The city isn’t really a place to lay down roots,” he says. For a second, he’s alarmed at how much he sounds like his parents. Hadn’t that been what they’d always told him when he said he was going to live in a little one-bedroom forever? He can’t stand the idea they were right about something, after so long being wrong about everything. The feelings of doubt overshadow him again, wondering what it is he’s doing here, if he’s really happy where he is.

“I don’t really care about roots,” she says. “It’s not like I have any, anyway. And I’m tired of living here. Every day’s just the same, and all my nuts are filled. I want to see someplace new, someplace exciting.”

“Maybe one day you’ll see the Capital,” he suggests.

“If you go back, you have to take me with you,” she says. It’s clear she’s trying to make light in the situation, finishing up and setting her plate aside. When her gaze turns back to him, there’s something else behind that look Daniil does not particularly want to see there. Another failure, on his part. “What are they gonna do? Kill a guy who brought a kid with him?”

They would. They absolutely would, and feel no remorse. Bringing her would be dangerous, but it’s not as though he’s ever going back, so there’s no harm in saying, “Alright, Shrew, you have yourself a deal.”

Daniil’s anxiety cinches tightly around him tonight. He’s met Rubin in the back of the Broken Heart as he usually does. He had just been thinking earlier in the day that it was strange he’d only been to their apartment a handful of times, and only once or twice since dating them. By their own admission, they don’t spend much time in the place, and when Daniil has visited he’s found that obvious. There are more touches to signify the house as a home than there are in the Stillwater, but that’s not exactly a feat. Daniil has done very little to establish his residence as his own, and he’s taken the time to look over the homes he visits in house calls to get an idea of how to decorate. He’d never really furnished his apartment in the Capital beyond what was absolutely necessary. Having the space to do so was foreign to him, as was the inclination.

Tonight, though, when their drinks are finished, and they’ve spoken of everything it’s occurred to them to go over, Daniil’s hand brushes Rubin’s arm, and he wonders if he should ask to be invited back, or if he should ask Rubin over to his. It’s the sort of thing couples do. He will not let himself consider the guilty thoughts that lead him down this road, if only because the thought of doing so makes him start to choke. He is still – he is always – thinking about Artemy Burakh.

Rubin’s hand covers his own, and there’s a serious sort of shine to their eyes when they look into Daniil’s. It is mesmerizing.

And still, Daniil feels nothing. The booth they are seated in is small and cramped enough that their knees touch under the table, and Daniil wishes he could feel something other than a pang of empty loneliness when they knock together. This would be easier to do if he felt everything, or if he felt nothing at all, but he feels this mediocre in-between. All in all, it is an awful feeling, but it’s one he is rapidly beginning to resign himself to. This is just the way that things will be for the foreseeable future. The only way out is through, as they say.

The sound of his shoes on the metal of the stairs rings in his head as they walk up, hands clasped together. It feels every bit as much of a lifeline as it is a pleasure, and there is no mistaking how nice it is to hold someone’s hand.

Daniil complicates his own thoughts by wondering what it is Rubin’s thinking of as they exit the pub. Rubin doesn’t seem like the type of person to make a movement in this direction without the feeling behind it, but Daniil’s gut keeps insisting that things are off-kilter on both ends. Rubin is quiet as they make their way to their apartment, dreadfully slow for how close the building is to Andrey’s place.

Rubin doesn’t ask Daniil if he wants to come up or not. They open the door to the building, fingers going slack in Daniil’s hold, a way to let him know that the tug is not a demand, simply a request that he will follow. And Daniil has no good reason to say no, so he does, despite the twisting in his stomach telling him he’s doing something wrong, doing something bad. When he looks at the wall, he sees his shadow cast in exaggeration, as with everything he does. Rubin’s is obscured by the darkness, leaving Daniil’s silhouette alone.

It’s such a mockery of the way things are, the way Daniil has been feeling the past few days. He doesn’t know what it is about the party at Eva’s that got him so worked up, but the dread has been building up in all his bases for the past two weeks: the soles of his feet, the tips of his fingers, the nape of his neck. He feels heavy with this sadness he can’t really see or touch, but that he knows by the taste in the back of his throat. It always comes on like this when he least expects it, like bile. One day, it’ll all come spewing out, and the cleanup will exhaust him.

He watches Rubin light the candles in this little room, and starts to feel the buzz. The one way he knows he’s still alive.

The light glow sets a kind of mood, but Daniil’s not entirely certain if things are progressing in that direction. There had never been a need to talk to Andrey about it, because expectations were never part of the deal. Mark had seemed to simply flick it off with his wrist, and the factor had never entered into the equation. But most people did have those kinds of ideas, and yet – and yet… they haven’t actually kissed yet.

That’s what it is. What’s been feeling so off-kilter. They go on dates, sure. They hold hands, sure. Rubin has kissed his cheek, but not his lips, and Daniil has not even tried because his mind has always given him a barrier. He thinks of Rubin, and he thinks of the friendship Rubin has with Artemy. He thinks of Artemy, and all hope of thinking of someone else is lost. That’s the way things go, always. He thinks of Artemy and his pulse quickens, his thoughts kick up a whirlwind, he feels alive and nothing else matters. The problem being that so much else should matter than his feelings.

What am I even doing here? He’s followed Rubin into the back, into his kitchen, where they’re making up coffee and not speaking, and has taken a seat without realizing how much he’s moved at all. Rubin’s back is to him and all his questions about himself and his life are fermenting in his stomach, wondering about what comes next. And Rubin turns, looking at Daniil like they have something they want to say. Daniil watches the slide of their tongue over their lips, and swallows nervously. He could kiss Andrey and he could kiss Mark, there’s no reason this should be any different.

“I want to try something,” Rubin warns. Daniil nods. Rubin kneels to be closer to his height, one hand on Daniil’s knee as they inch closer. Daniil’s eyes flutter shut. It isn’t horrible, that first brush of dry lips against his. It isn’t entirely unpleasant, chapped though it is.

It just isn’t much of any sort of feeling, and when Rubin pulls back his nerves aren’t calmed. His fingers have only dug into the fabric of his trousers, and he can feel how hot his face is in his neck. Rubin shakes their head and sighs. “No.” Daniil feels a rush of relief, body going cool beneath his coat. “That didn’t –“ Their eyes narrow in the darkness. “Did that feel right to you?”

“No,” Daniil says, trying to suppress a smile as Rubin rights themselves. He pushes his tongue past his lips, almost biting down. “It was nice, but it wasn’t –“

“Yeah,” Rubin says. They rock back on their heels, leaning against the wall for a moment. Then they busy themselves with the coffee, silent as they work, until they’ve handed one cup to Daniil and taken the other to the opposite end of the table. “It’s my fault,” they mumble. “It was nice, but I did have ulterior motives in mind.” Ulterior motives? Daniil leans forward, hand wrapped around the mug for warmth. Their long eyelashes cast shadow on their face, keeping their eyes from the picture the scene otherwise paints. “I was trying to forget my feelings for –“ They cut themselves off, bitterly. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

Of course it wasn’t, but why should Daniil care? He was only ever doing the same thing. “I wouldn’t consider this a total loss,” he says, sitting back in his seat. Rubin looks up from their coffee. They look exhausted. “It is nice to have more friends in this part of Town.” He pauses, as he remembers. “Ah. For now, anyway.”

Rubin considers his expression for a moment, pulling the mug up to their lips. “Nice to have friends who aren’t Utopians, you mean.” Daniil huffs. They sit in quiet for a moment, but it isn’t the same discomfort as before. This silence is nice, just sharing a moment with someone else who knows the weight of things. “There is Cub,” they finally say, “Who doesn’t have a faction.”

“Termites,” Daniil says. “Or at least, that’s what Maria called them. I don’t recall ever hearing him put a name to his troupe of orphans and Khan.”

They tap their finger against the table, collecting their thoughts. “He doesn’t really count as a part of that group though, does he?” They set the mug down, and though it’s difficult to see his conversational partner, Daniil can still feel Rubin looking. He wonders if they can discern his look of confusion in the dark. “They were the shepherd. A dog with a flock. That didn’t make them part of the herd.”

Daniil considers his words, considers if this makes him less than a Utopian. His ideals certainly match, lofty and ambitious as they are, but being in Town had started to ground him. It isn’t as though he no longer longs to defeat death, to extend life, to learn all that he can, but he’s still changed. This Town itself has changed him. First, to a bitter and nervous wreck, and now to something else. The Kains have had their effect, if not in the intended way: he wants something he never has before, something strange, but only to him.

But at the end of the day, he’s still him. He still has this label, and without it, what is he? His smile is tight when he turns it back on Rubin, but there’s no malice behind it. “So,” he says, and breath evening out, “Still friends?”

Stanislav so rarely smiles, but now they do. Soft, and small, Daniil’s eyes adjusted to the light just enough to catch it. “Yes,” they say. “Still friends.”

Daniil would not have thought this latest breakup would leave him feeling empty, and yet when he wakes in his bed, he feels a clawing ache of desperation, and he realizes why he’d accepted that first date even though his feelings weren’t romantic. Since he made that realization months ago, drunk and rambling that he wanted to know he was capable of love, he’s felt dull on the inside. The memory is too fuzzy to recall exactly what it was he said, but he remembers the feeling so intensely.

Now, this feeling makes his head throb. Which is ridiculous - he didn’t have that much to drink last night, and what he had he’d downed in alcohol he chased with coffee. He swings his legs out of the bed and rights himself, stretching, and quickly dropping his hands to pull his shirt down over his roll of a stomach. There’s no one around to see the curve of his body, but that doesn’t stop distress at the curves from kicking in. It’s just going to be one of those days. And right when he’d started feeling better, too.

Maybe I’m simply not built for happiness. Daniil considers the thought as he shuffles through his morning routine, desperately wishing for a newspaper to fiddle with like his parents always had. Maybe it’s nothing more than nostalgia, a desperate wish for his life to have turned out differently from the way it has, but he’s thinking with fondness about the way they’d switch sections between them and read pieces aloud to him.

He stops fidgeting with his neckerchief and looks at himself in the mirror. It’s not just his stomach; every curve seems more pronounced today. His hips, his chest, his shoulders, his face. Everything looks so round. And there are bags under his eyes, wrinkles forming on his face. In his mirror he sees himself age and crumple rapidly like a piece of paper caught on fire.

There’s a brief moment where he thinks of shattering the mirror, of taking out the gun he keeps hidden in his nightstand and shooting the glass. He’s not superstitious enough to believe in the curse of seven years bad luck, but even if he were - could things really get worse? He’s already lost everything that mattered to him, and what he’s looking at moving forward is an empty house and a life of solitude. In the Capital, that was enough. But why had it been? And why was it suddenly not enough now? Weren’t his expectations for life supposed to be getting smaller, here?

Daniil’s clenched his fist so tight his fingers ache, and when he realizes he makes himself let go, forces himself to breathe. Things are getting better. He has the clinic. He has the school. He has his friends. He has Andrey and Peter and Yulia and Eva and Artemy and Rubin. And that’s enough. It is. It has to be.

At the very least, the only place he’s going today is the clinic, and no one will notice or care if he wears a sweater instead of a button up. He goes through the process of redressing himself into something that makes his skin feel less like electrified rod. And if he still looks like an old hag in his new clothes, well, it’s not like he can simply skip work because of his vanity, now can he?

Snow has started to drift from the sky when Daniil finally steps out of the Stillwater, and he’s momentarily sidetracked from the melancholy in his stomach to appreciate the way the winter freeze has affected everything around him. He takes a moment to observe the small pond, testing with his foot to see how solid it is. Not, of course, that it would hold his weight, nor would there be much to skate on, but he imagines the children would be mystified all the same. And when his mind turns to that, he’s left to ponder where it is the street urchins go when it gets so frigid like this. That’s the next thing he should talk Saburov and Olgimsky into: with so many children in need of homes, they need someplace to go before they are housed. Saburov will no doubt be interested in getting them all off the streets, and for Vladislav Olgimsky…hm, perhaps his sister would have advice on how best to approach him? Artemy had said something a while back about her taking the kids of the town under her wing.

Artemy is at the door to greet him when he arrives, their fingers quicker on the collar of his coat than Daniil’s own. He removes his hat and scarf but keeps his usual gloves, fingers not warming up the way the rest of his body does. The gloves are wearing thin, and he rubs his hands together to stimulate warmth.

Artemy watches him, jaw clenched shut, and Daniil can see they’re trying to make some sort of decision. Then they clap their larger hands over Daniil’s, and god, their hands are warm. Daniil’s shoulders sag with his sigh, not even caring much about the too-friendly touch. If that was what Artemy was worried about – well, they needn’t worry. Daniil isn’t going to get any sort of idea out of this, not with how his hands ache from the cold.

In the meantime, Artemy has taken to looking him over, with an expression that Daniil thinks might be surprise.

“You’re out of the button-up,” they say, and Daniil nods, and decides to get a look at Artemy’s getup as well, if he’s going to be so bold about Daniil’s own. He’s in a dark green sweater, made of a thick yarn, the neck a little loose and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s a few shades darker than his usual uniform, and the trousers are different, too. Daniil wonders what he’s got himself so dressed up for, a date?

The dense hole in his stomach doesn’t allow for the pang of jealousy. All he gets is a dull ache, the thought that this may as well happen. Perhaps Artemy off the market will force his treacherous brain to focus his affections elsewhere, instead of lingering in the notion of how embraceable Artemy looks in this sweater. “Special occasion?” Artemy asks.

I’ll bet it is, and lucky them. Daniil only sighs, and stares dazedly at Artemy’s chest, up until the moment that they squeeze Daniil’s hands and get his attention. Daniil blinks, and – ah, that had been a question, hadn’t it, not a statement. “No, nothing special,” Daniil says. It isn’t until after he says it that his cheeks start to heat up, because there’s no way in hell he wants to explain right now that he’s feeling self-conscious, not while the embarrassment is still nagging at him the way it is. “It’s the cold,” he lies, though it is, in fact, still snowing out. “This is the warmest sweater I own.” He pauses. “It might actually be the only sweater I own.” He hasn’t really looked through his things recently. Sweaters weren’t fashionable enough to populate his wardrobe, and everything in the city had been closer together.

Artemy gives him another look he can’t really read, but it looks partially hurt and partially confused. “The cold has never stopped you before,” Artemy points out. “I’m not complaining, the sweater is very…” he looks over Daniil’s body, and Daniil’s self-consciousness kicks into overdrive. He knows there’s no way Artemy is judging him for how squishy his body looks, because Artemy would hardly care about a thing like that, but even looking at how bizarre Daniil is outside his usual attire is making him flustered. “It’s nice,” he finishes, something about the way he says it sounding off, “but why are you really wearing it? Did you lose a bet, or something?”

Daniil takes a breath, intending to shove the concern off, and then his lips tumble forward, “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Quiet. Even to himself the words are barely muttered. He feels the heat in his cheeks at the stare he receives in return. Far from easing Artemy’s mind, he seems to have made things a little worse. Vulnerability. Rubin had said something about being open and vulnerable with people, and Daniil only felt comfortable being vulnerable around Artemy. Which just makes him feel worse.

“Maybe over dinner?” Artemy suggests, and he’s quick to follow it up, looking bashful himself. “Sticky said you hosted some kids at your house, and I thought I could repay the favor.” That’s odd. Artemy’s never come up with excuses to have Daniil come over before. He tends to just invite, because excuses at their level of friendship are unnecessary.

“Sticky’s not the one I fed,” Daniil says, though pride swells in his chest at the thought that Sleepy Head and Shrew might have spoken of it. “But you know I’m not one to turn down an invitation from a friend. I have some questions for your son, anyway.” Namely about where his less fortunate friends spent their nights. Asking them directly might upset them, but he has a rapport with Sticky and an idea forming in his mind. “Questions for you, as well.”

Once more, Daniil is left with an expression he cannot quite interpret on Artemy’s face. His hands are warm enough now that he doesn’t need the continued heat from Artemy’s palms, but he is a selfish person, and allows the touch to linger for longer than necessary. Artemy only jumps apart from him when the door opens, suddenly busying themselves with other things around the office as Daniil greets their first patient.

The day passes by easily, but Daniil knows Artemy has not been satisfied by his request to not talk about the things bothering him. He feels their eyes on his back all day, watching him move around the office. It’s unnerving, being observed so fastidiously. Naturally he appreciates his friend’s concern, but he’s not used to having so much of Artemy’s attention.

At the end of the day, Artemy hands Daniil his jacket back, and watches him slip it on, eyes moving back down his body. Daniil wishes they wouldn’t stare at him like that, but it’s only a moment before they’re looking away again, handing Daniil his scarf and hat. Daniil shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat as they leave, teeth clicking together while his boots crunch in the snow. It’s no longer falling, but the sky looks like it could pick back up at any time. Artemy appears to be preparing a question, but Daniil beats them to it. “Artemy, how did you go about adopting your kids?”

They frown, jaw shifting as they scratch their chin. They look appropriately confused. Daniil’s heartbeat quickens as he watches them work around an answer, their cheeks flushed from the cold. “Truth be told, emshen, they’re the ones who adopted me.” He should have expected nothing less from Sticky, but Murky was grumpy enough that deciding to do anything regarding Artemy came as a surprise. He thought for sure she was adopted straight from Isidor’s list, to spare her the train car she used to sleep in. “What brought that up?” And then the next words fall too hurried from their mouth: “You saw Peter again, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Daniil admits. “But it’s not Peter I’m asking for.” Artemy goes slack-jawed, and with their mouth slightly open Daniil can see the uneven line of their teeth. His mind flashes the idea of Artemy digging them into his lip, pushed against the side of a building, soft and warm and all the things kisses should be. In his pocket, his hand curls to a fist, and he looks away, embarrassed by the thought.

“I’ve been thinking,” Daniil continues in a mumble. He has been thinking. All day, and the day before, and on and off since he fed Shrew and Sleepy Head and started to question where they went at night.

“You’ve been thinking about adopting?” The disbelief in Artemy’s voice wounds Daniil. There’s no reason for him to be so upset by it. He really isn’t the type, and Artemy has clearly seen that. But his head ducks, all the same. If Artemy thinks it’s a bad idea, then maybe he should reconsider. Give it some more thought before he makes a motion.

He’s never been so dependent on other peoples’ opinions, and maybe that has been part of his downfall. But this, this is something he thinks he needs, and the certainty of it has only been spreading the more he’s let himself entertain the idea. He’s gotten so many things wrong, but this is something he’s certain of. “Yes,” he says. He turns his head up and sticks his chin out, defiant. “I know you think it’s a ridiculous idea, coming from me –“

“I didn’t say that,” Artemy interrupts, but there’s guilt written into his features. Daniil would have felt victorious in the admission ages ago, but now he’s too nervous to feel anything save a shred of hope. “I know you’re fond of Sticky and Murky. I guess I thought it was just them.” They stop and laugh quietly, breath puffing out into the air in front of them. “I guess every parent wants to think their kids are special, don’t they?”

“They are special,” Daniil says defensively. “So are Shrew and Sleepy Head.” Artemy makes a little noise of understanding, and Daniil drops his head again. “I guess that means you couldn’t tell me how to figure out if they’re amenable to the idea, then?”

Artemy shakes their head. “My two simply showed up when they were ready to be part of the family. And then on that last day, the appeared on my doorstep, before even I got there.” Their hand shakes Daniil’s shoulder. “Like I said: they adopted me.” They huff, again, with laughter. “Murky did start out pretty moody, though. She used to tell me there was nothing about me to love. She’s taken to you a lot easier, but I guess you have things in common.” When they smile at Daniil, there’s a burst of love there he wishes he could touch. “She wants your bug collection, you know.” Daniil can’t help but smile at the display, but it’s too bright for him to keep looking at. “Is that what the sweater is for?”

“The sweater?” Daniil blinks down at himself, suddenly remembering. But really? Wearing a sweater for kids he hadn’t even seen today? It’s not like this was fancy by any means. He lets a breath go through his nose. “No, the sweater is because I –“ He flusters, and chews on his lip. “I didn’t like how I looked this morning, alright?” Despite his defensiveness, Artemy clearly isn’t laughing at him. He looks befuddled. Daniil rakes a hand down his face, thinking about how things went at Eva’s get-together. “I’ve had an episode, again.”

“What kind of episode?”

“Emotional.” Artemy gives them a look that almost seems disappointed. Whether it’s by his description, or something else, he isn’t sure, only floundering in the reception. “What? What is it?”

“Expressing emotions isn’t a bad thing, oynon. You do know that, don’t you?” Daniil’s ready to snap back about condescension, but Artemy doesn’t appear to be toying with him at the moment. He seems to get the gist from the way Daniil hunches his shoulders up near his ears, anyway, like a cat with its hackles raised. They wrap a hand around Daniil’s elbow and pull him closer. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about it.”

Daniil takes a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. “It’s something Rubin said,” he begins. Artemy mutters something under their breath, something that sounds like I should have guessed. Daniil glares at them, and they move their hand up his arm and squeeze again. “I’ve never really sat down and took stock of all that’s happened to me since I came here. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy so I don’t think about it all, and over the past week or so things have just sort of broken.” Daniil can see the outline of Artemy’s head in a nod from his peripheral vision. He’s mentioned Thanatica to Artemy before, but he doesn’t think he’s ever really explained anything. “I don’t know if you’d understand.”

“I’d like to try.” He sounds so sincere that Daniil has to look up at him, to evaluate the look Artemy is giving him. He wants to try? It doesn’t sound promising. Opening up has rarely been worth it in the past. Even in the relationships he’s had here, he held something of himself back.

That, he guesses, is where friendships differ from romance. There’s safety in knowing he doesn’t have a chance with Artemy to begin with, because his lack of understanding here won’t be a detriment. Things will just go back to the way they always have been, with little harm done. There’s nothing really holding him back, and he softens in Artemy’s grip. “Thanatica was everything to me. I poured every resource I had into this singular dream. I didn’t have a nice apartment or go to fancy parties or indulge in torrid love affairs. Everything I wanted was embodied by that singular institute. To triumph over death. And I was happy with that, Artemy. That seemed like a life worth living, even if I never did all the things my parents thought I should. It seemed better. It seemed bolder.”

“And you lost it,” they say softly.

“I didn’t lose it, Artemy. It was taken from me.” He can’t stand to look at the pity on Artemy’s face, moving his gaze to the block ahead of them. “I was sent here with unrealistic expectations. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t wallow in it.” He stops himself. “So I guess that’s what I’m doing now. Wallowing.” Artemy nudges him, but Daniil has closed himself off. So Artemy makes them stop in the streets, turning Daniil around, tipping his face up to look Artemy in the eye. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you.”

“Yes you are, because this dream is stupid to everyone except me,” he snaps. “But I was happy! That lab was my entire life!” His hands shake, and not from the cold. “I was alone. I had colleagues, but I was – I was alone! And I never knew anything else, I never wanted anything else.” He swallows. Things in front of him seem blurry now. “Staying here, I was supposed to limit my expectations. But this isn’t the Capital. What I had there doesn’t work here. I was alone, and I was happy to be. Here, now…”

There’s no better way he can express himself, but the right words don’t seem to be coming to him. He threads his fingers through his hair and pulls, tightly. Artemy rests their hands on his shoulders, rocking him. “You don’t want to be alone anymore, right? You told me yourself, months ago. You were drunk, but you said you wanted to prove that you were capable of…” And now Artemy trails off, like he’s afraid to speak the last word aloud. “What about Rubin?”

“We broke up,” Daniil says, waving his hand. “It’s fine, really. We decided we’re better as friends, but god, it hasn’t helped things any. I’m just back to hearing the droning in my head, like I have a bell cap over it and someone keeps smacking me.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then more words pour out. “And when I tried putting on my usual clothes today, I just looked so damned round. So that’s what the sweater is for, since you were asking.” He shifts weight between his feet. “I didn’t want to have to look at my body more than I absolutely had to.”

Artemy pats Daniil’s shoulder. “Well, first thing’s first. The weight you’ve gained is healthy.” Daniil rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. Those last couple of days at the end of the Pest, I could see your ribcage.” Right, right. He’d been staring. He came up while Daniil was getting ready to lie down to sleep, and couldn’t take his eyes off the way the fabric clung to his frame. Daniil made some passing joke about attraction. What an idiot he’d been. “You know that, you’re a doctor.”

“Indeed. I’m glad we’ve managed to agree on something,” Daniil drawls.

“Shut up.” There’s no malice in the words as they speak them. Despite himself, Daniil smiles. It’s a little cold for the gesture to make it all the way across his face, but it’s an effort he makes all the same. Artemy’s hands move down from his shoulders to squeeze his biceps, and Daniil swallows uncomfortably, wishing Artemy would find a different way to reassure him. “You won’t be alone, Daniil. I know things seem bleak right now, but you’ll always have me.”

He looks like there’s something else he wants to tack on – probably a clumsy affirmation that he’d meant the statement entirely platonically, once he can wrap his mouth around the right words to say it. Daniil puts his gloved hands on Artemy’s forearms, and squeezes. He hopes the movement is comforting to Artemy, slightly pushing him back. “I know,” he says, “and it helps some.” Artemy doesn’t look totally satisfied, but there’s no real fix for what Daniil is experiencing. “The rest I’ll just have to get over.”

Artemy doesn’t let go of Daniil so much as he follows where Daniil’s gaze is turning and acknowledges that they need to keep moving on. He finally drops one hand to keep walking, the other still tethering Daniil to him as they make their way to his house.

Daniil is partway through a lecture on earthquakes when he notices a figure lounging in the back of his classroom. He thinks at first it must be Murky, who had looked uncomfortable at the idea of showing up to class along with everybody else when the idea was pitched to her. He had tried, alongside Artemy and Sticky, to convince her that things would be fine, but she was adamant that the surroundings of a school would be “too much.” Too much with kids older than her in an environment she still wasn’t sure of.

“That’s ridiculous,” her brother said. Daniil and Artemy spoke his name at the same time, in the same warning tone, for which Artemy had rewarded Daniil with a small, uncertain smile. But Sticky ignored them; “You hang out with Notkin’s gang all the time.”

Sticky’s badgering didn’t help her any; she’d crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, upset. Daniil could understand her reluctance. He enjoyed school, but he’d been in a minority there. For people like him and Murky, school was either a godsend or a curse. It was the most social interaction Daniil was likely to get, and the only place to learn the rules of the game by playing them.

He thought it was odd for Artemy to worry about something like this. Normally, Daniil would express concern for something the kids of this town would say or do, and Artemy would easily brush him off. Especially when it came to Sticky and Murky. In the past, he’d shrugged and said, “They’ve raised themselves pretty well so far. The know their boundaries.”

With this, however, he took Daniil aside before he left, expression grim with worry. And Daniil knew that look, because his parents used to make that face. “I don’t want to ask you to tutor her privately,” was how he decided to start the conversation.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Daniil admitted. “She’s different, Artemy. She’s going to have different needs from the other kids. School might not be a good fit for her, at least not yet.” She’d gone back up to her room, and they could hear voice in a murmur above them. “It’s difficult for some kids to adjust. She’d been living in a train car before you found her. Let her have this for a while, maybe she’ll change her mind.”

So Daniil does not call the figure from the back up to the front, though it eventually becomes obvious they are too big to be Murky. Whoever they are, they’re polite enough to wait to get Daniil’s attention – not that Daniil doesn’t lose his place at the distraction all the same. This has to be an adult, and parent or messenger Daniil can’t imagine the reason for their entrance being anything but disaster. One thought intrudes on the others that he’s being called away to someone injured and dying, that it’s Andrey in a fight or perhaps Georgiy on his last legs. He can hear himself talking faster as the lesson goes on, unable to control his anxiety as it spikes.

When the lesson ends and he finds himself speedwalking to the back of the room, he’s perplexed and a little annoyed to find Bad Grief in front of him. They’re leaning against the back wall as Daniil stares them up and down, trying to figure out what the hell they’re doing in his classroom.

“Why in – the world are you here?” The kids, too, stare as they pass by the adult. A couple stop to stare at them with this look in their eyes that says they know Bad Grief, prompting Daniil to usher the children out of the room.

“What’s it look like, doc?” They push off the wall, slouching toward the exit. They watch as Daniil redresses in his coat and hat, wraps his scarf around his neck. Then they pull the door open, gesturing for Daniil to go through first. “I’m learnin’.”

Daniil frowns as he exits. “Learning?” Grief nods. He’s not really sure what to think of that proclamation. He could certainly buy Grief as uneducated, but then so were most of the other adults in the town. That anyone knew enough to be a teacher themselves was something of a rarity, and Daniil considered himself lucky that he’d managed Lara for literature and writing and that a young man had stepped up to teach history. “You want to learn science?”

The disbelief must be evident in his face, if not his voice. Grief shrugs. “Beats sittin’ around doing nothing. Besides, it’s something Victor suggested. If I’m gonna be learnin’ clocks, I should know my science and history.”

The wind blows their red hair strangely across their forehead. They look older with it plastered to their skin. It doesn’t quite distract Daniil from the fact that he’s carefully avoiding Maria’s old quarters, where Lara is waiting to greet students for their next lecture. “But not your reading and writing, I take it?”

“Are you kidding me? Gravel beat that into us as kids. Even Cub knows a line or two of poetry.” Daniil’s brows must be into his hairline by now, and Grief looks off, sighing heavily. “Art thou pale for weariness, Of climbing heaven and gazing on the Earth, Wandering companionless, Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever changing, like a joyless eye, That finds no object worth its constancy?”

“Percy Bysshe Shelley,” Daniil identifies. “Interesting. I admit I would have expected a dirty limerick from you before a Romantic.”

“Don’t worry, I got tons of those in stock, too. I’ve saved a few extra, just for you, Bachelor, if you’d like to hear them.” Daniil snorts. “I know you’ve got it in you. You used to hang out around Andrey Stamatin. That says a lot about a man.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you really think men are so defined by the company they keep? I’ve also spent time around your ‘Stakh’, what does that tell you?”

“That you’re desperate.” Daniil scoffs. Emotional breakdown in Artemy’s presence two nights ago notwithstanding, he doesn’t think anyone else would dare classify him as desperate. “I heard Stakh missed their shot, anyhow.”

“And what? You’re here to pick me up on the rebound?”

Grief rests back against the door to Georgiy’s old home, hands slung in their pockets, thumbs over the edge. What Daniil said had been intended as sarcasm, but either Grief missed it or Daniil miscalculated somewhere along the line. Grief is definitely giving him the once-over. “Maybe I am.” They nod at Daniil. “You look better since you put on weight.”

Now that, Daniil had not been expecting from anybody. His hand flies up to his cravat, toying with the fabric, turning it over between his fingers. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pardon denied. If Stakh’s not going to take their chance, I will.” Daniil blinks. He hadn’t been quite sure what to expect from Grief turning up at his lecture – well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d expected some kind of trouble, more than likely to have it brought to his attention that someone in their old gang was sick and Artemy was too busy to help them, and Stanislav had simply refused to. He certainly hadn’t expecting to get hit on. “I’m not hearing a no,” Grief purrs.

“Well,” Daniil says, and squirms on the spot. He’s not really sure what to make of this. He and Grief have so little to talk about, unlike any of the other people he’s tried dating. And more to the point, “I’m not sure I’m really ready to be in another relationship yet.”

It’s a neat answer, a tidy one, one that draws the line where it is. But Grief only shrugs where they stand, crossing one ankle over the other. “What relationship?” He cocks his head, and spreads his hands. “I’m not talkin’ about dating. I just think it could be fun, you and me. Even if it’s just getting shit-faced together.” He scratches his chin, and there’s something about his grey eyes that gives Daniil the impression there’s more going on behind them than he’s letting on. “You got all those stuffy friends, and not one you can relax with. D’you ever even take that binder off?”

“No,” Daniil grunts. “And I suppose you’re going to say you can help me with that?” They grin, cheeky, and Daniil shakes his head. “I don’t understand what’s got you interested all of a sudden. We’ve barely spoken since the plague died down, and I can’t imagine Stanislav talking that much about me.”

“I see what goes around,” they say. They flex their fingers, and curl them back again. “And I see nobody’s appreciatin’ that form of yours, so I figure ol’ Grief may as well do it, before you get the dumb idea to lose the weight.” Daniil scoffs. “I know I’m not the only one who likes it, but more’s the pity to those girls. I know you don’t swing that way. More for me.” Daniil flushes. The idea that anyone would find him attractive in this state is nice, he has to admit. “I don’t have much in the way of Twyrine since Andrey kicked me out of his pub, but I got plenty of other quicker liquors stored away from old times.”

“Twyrine’s not my drink, anyhow,” Daniil says. Grief quirks an eyebrow at him. Daniil refuses to buckle under the look. He casually wishes for a cigarette to keep his mind occupied and his hands warm, but he hasn’t smoked since he left the city. There wasn’t much time for it when the plague was ongoing, and he doesn’t care much for the brands they had available out here. Just another small, old thing he realizes he’s never getting back.

As long as it’s not a relationship, no expectations, no performances, there’s nothing to worry about.  He takes this moment to look back in kind. He’s never really stopped to think about Bad Grief. They’re interesting for certain, but Daniil has never considered whether Grief was his type aesthetically. He can appreciate the man’s laissez-faire attitude to binding. And they’re not, after all, bad looking. “I do have to wonder what Artemy would think, if he saw me around with another one of his friends.”

It’s Grief’s turn to snort. “Cub’s not exactly the most observant when it comes to these things.” Is that really what his friends think of him? Artemy’s fairly decent at getting a read on Daniil, or at least on trying to do so. But whatever the case, Grief doesn’t look particularly keen on sharing the information at hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it, doc. There’s no reason for Cub to ever know about us.” They smirk, tilting their head to look the other way. “So, is that a yes?”

Maybe Grief was right at first, and he really is desperate. He turns around to head back to the Stillwater. “It’s a ‘maybe’.”

Their dream light fades away so smoothly, so softly, a seamless transition from the drowsy world they occupy to the waking one, and Artemy tries to cling to it for just a second longer, grip tight against the pillow. They’re not ready yet, to wake up and deal with the implications of wanting to stay in their head for so much longer, but here they are all the same, eyes opening blearily to the sunlight streaming in through the windows. The wave of disappointment of exiting that sphere settles heavy around their heart, like a perfume, overpowering and oppressive.

It’s funny. They’d heard doctors go on and on about the book of dream interpretation, insisting all dreams were wish fulfilment, which Artemy thought was such bullshit. Not only does their culture have their own interpretation of dreams and their various meanings, but they’d been hard pressed at the time to think of a dream that they’d actually want to have happen. Most dreams were of war, of the sick, of things he’d learned in school, of disappointing his parents, of being a child and fighting with Ersher. Arguing the point with people who’d read the book was pointless, as all arguments were in the Capital. They’d just insist there was some latent desire to upset his parents, or a blatant yearn to be a kid again and see his brother once more. It never struck Artemy as being all that deep or all that accurate, but he doesn’t think his recent dreams have anything to offer him in the realm of reading his lines. It’s frequent now that he dreams about Daniil.

He extricates himself from the pillow he’s grabbed so tightly, letting his muscles go slack and pushing it back out of his reach. It’s a slow gesture, made longer by the fact that his silly brain cannot stop imagining that it’s Daniil’s body he’s pushing away. He’s tried to stop himself from having these little moments of inanity by reminding himself that he is a fully grown man and this object is a pillow, but his heart’s always been a bit too soft. The symbolic rejection alone makes it ache if he’s not too wide awake when he does it.

Artemy sits himself up, and tries to deal with the little feelings still running around in his chest. So what, it had been another dream wherein Dankovsky fell into his arms with a dozen kisses for him. It had only been a dream, just like any other. There was a person he knew and a place: Daniil, and the passenger station. He couldn’t tell what they were there for, but he’d felt the elation pour into his chest with every second their lips met, Daniil holding him close. Then they’d looked around, and asked where something had gone – something, but they weren’t sure what anymore, and Daniil had laughed at their concern and pulled them back under, a wave washing them back out to sea.

Of course, this was the problem of dreams-as-wish-fulfillment: that was what they were stuck in now. This dream didn’t fit the picture usually painted, the one of dream-as-prophecy, of dream-as-answer. This dream was a pure theatre for Artemy’s desires. They’d been trying to deal with these feelings for a month now, and wishing them away wouldn’t work. If they wouldn’t deal with their dreams in the waking world, the dreaming world would simply have to take over and do the heavy lifting for them.

But that was easier to say than to do, easier to dream about than to plan. He wants to woo Daniil, sure, but there must be some sort of a wait period before he can start. As if it wasn’t bad enough he’d made an attempt while he’d thought Daniil was still going out with his best friend. He’s bounced around enough in denial about the severity of his feelings, and his dreams are making an ass out of him.

Oh, you thought you had just a crush on Daniil Dankovsky? Here’s a dream about him being madly in love with you. Too bad you missed your chance and he’s dated around you to your best friend instead. Have fun with that. This was the justice he was getting for flirting with Daniil when he thought he had no romantic interest in the man. And then when they were still trying to convince themselves this feeling was just a crush, they tried to sabotage Daniil’s relationship with Rubin by dressing up and asking Daniil over for dinner. Not that Daniil seemed to view it romantically at all, but the gravity of what they’d been ready to do really bothers them in the aftermath. They feel gross. And the worst part had been that they’d talked themselves into thinking, again, that they were just doing what any friend would. Wearing his nice pants and sweater to work and ogling Daniil, nothing wrong with finding your friend attractive now, is there?

Artemy is an idiot and a fool. Each dream is pushing him closer to the realization that it’s not a crush, not at all. It’s a little far gone to be called a crush. They thought they’d skipped the first step entirely, but as they drag their fingers through their hair they think about the little snips during the plague, borrowing Daniil’s bed that smelled so heavily of him, asking him to stay in Town, walking him home from the pub with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and judging the time he spent with other men. Had there been a crush in there, somewhere, that he’d somehow missed?

It doesn’t matter now. His attempts to push his feelings down have clearly failed, since he’s not just dreaming of his friend but actively wanting to stay wrapped up in the fantasy of Daniil reciprocating. Artemy rubs their face and blows a breath through pursed lips. Daniil felt that way about them before, but the longer Artemy goes without making a move of their own, the more likely it seems that Daniil has just moved on from them. Artemy feels less sure about where they stand in Daniil’s life, which means it’s time to finally do something about it. A crush or more, there’s only one way to find out if these feelings will last. They need to just go and talk to Daniil.

They rise from their bed and rifle through their clothes. Artemy swears Daniil had been staring appreciatively the day they’d dressed up in that sweater and nice slacks, so Artemy should repeat the process today. They don’t know nearly as much about fashion as Daniil seems to, but they’ve caught a couple of women and a handful of men staring the last time they wore this grey sweater, and that has to mean something. They’ve washed and even ironed their nice trousers, so they can look their best when they go and speak to Daniil. He can catch the other man at home, before he heads out to the clinic. They can walk together, and Artemy can suggest they go out on a date. It’ll be simple. And Daniil will say either yes or no, and Artemy will deal with his emotions either way.

Unless he says no, in which case Artemy certainly won’t deal with his emotions at all. He stares at his mirror’s reflection, thumb pressed to the dip between his brows. He needs to shave. He needs to stop scowling so much, there’s no way the effect is attractive to Daniil. He looks like he’s got a unibrow every time he does, and even if Daniil did date Andrey Stamatin, Artemy is sure things are different with them. They have to be. Artemy wants more from a relationship with him.

The downside of the sweater is that it’s a little tight across their chest and stomach, but people in town seem more taken with the shape of their arms in it as they purchase a box of pastries to share with Daniil once they reach the Stillwater. A few townies try hopelessly to catch their eye, and they keep their eyes straight ahead, focused on their goal, running over in their mind exactly what they want to say.

Step into the Stillwater, ask Daniil how he slept, offer him a pastry, walk him to work, ‘Say, emshen, we haven’t had dinner just the two of us before. There’s a new restaurant in midtown I’ve been wanting to try, if you’re free this week.’

Their blood thrums in their ears, a deafening rush. They knock on the front door and think for a moment about entering unannounced – but, no, they need to be respectful of Daniil’s space. Capital manners, he would appreciate that. They shift between their left and right feet as they wait for Daniil to make it to the front door, blood elevated as they hear feet just behind the door.

Daniil is bleary-eyed and half-dressed when he opens the door, shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned. Artemy tries to drag his eyes someplace appropriate, but by god, is it hard. Daniil looks flushed, and blinks rapidly as he takes in Artemy’s appearance. “Artemy,” he says. “What a surprise.”

Unfortunately, Artemy’s eyes don’t go to an expanse less dangerous. They fixate on a bruise on Daniil’s neck, dark and swelling. His stomach drops straight through the ground he sits on. He’s broken up with Stakh, but Artemy knows a lovebite when he sees one. He’s already too late.

“Yeah,” he says awkwardly, and Daniil notices his staring enough to jerk the collar of his shirt up a little, cheeks tinged with pink. He looks so good like this, too, hair a bit of a mess. Soft, and approachable, and Artemy wishes he’d seen it for himself. He tries to move on autopilot, lifting the box in his hands. “I thought, ah. You don’t seem like the type to eat breakfast,” he rambles, “So I brought you some.”

And here comes an awkward part. Normally, Artemy would ask to come in, but he’s not sure he wants to see who Daniil has been with. He’s not sure he trusts himself not to say something stupid. He’s having a hard time not saying something now, something like, Why isn’t it me? I’m right here. I told you, you have me. Why do you need somebody else? But whoever he’s been with must be gone, or still upstairs, because Daniil steps back, feet bare, and lets Artemy into the house.

He’ll have touched Daniil without the gloves. Artemy’s heart flips in alarm. They grind their teeth, trying not to think about how soft Daniil’s hands would feel underneath the leather, trying not to backtrack to determine if they’ve ever felt the ghost of it themself. Andrey and Peter and Mark and Rubin and now, whoever this is, and Artemy feels panic rise in their throat.

Is there something wrong with me?

Daniil leads them into the little kitchen, a section of the house Artemy’s never had cause enter before. In their mind they can see Daniil cooking, for himself and for those kids, a little apron tied around his waist, sleeves rolled up, muttering to himself. And they want to wrap their arms around that image, kiss his cheek.

Oh, what an idiot they’ve been. Why couldn’t they have acted sooner?

Daniil takes the box of pastries from them, setting it on the counter. “Oh, I love these,” he says, picking up a sticky bun and tearing off a piece. Artemy watches him pop it into his mouth and hum, and their mouth waters. Great. They’ve found something he likes. And that information is useless right now, not unless they want to try to steal Daniil away from someone else.

Their mind stays occupied on it for the entire day, feeling numb, the same as they have all week. Since they had their realization, they can’t stop thinking about all the little things Daniil has to offer they hadn’t taken into account before; his dry humor, the intellect that usually drove them crazy, the passion for his field of expertise, all the ways he’d changed since deciding to stay in Town…thinking about it makes Artemy’s chest ache. They hardly even notice when Rubin enters, only rousing to the sound of voices. It’s Stakh and Daniil talking, in low tones.

Did they get back together? Well, that would be good for them both, Artemy tries to force himself to think. Because they’re both his friends, and he cares about their happiness. And it was awful of him to try to subvert that, gut curling in on itself in guilt.

He pretends to not have been trying to listen to them when they make their way back into the main part of the office, and Stakh stands with their hands at their sides, fingers toying idly with the hem of their shirt. He watches as Daniil nudges them, and they clear their throat. “I have an announcement to make, Cub.” Artemy swallows, and leans back in his chair to look up at them. Sitting down, Stakh is ridiculously tall, and their severe demeanor seems more intimidating at this angle. He waits for the blow, for something incredulous regarding their relationship with Daniil, and then Stakh mumbles out, “I’m moving to the new town.”

It’s not any better or worse than what Artemy had anticipated. Maybe it was stupid of him to assume everything revolved around his lack of a love life. This was still bad, just a whole and different sort of bad from what he’d been expecting. “Moving?” he repeats. “To – why?”

“It’s a perfectly fine solution,” Daniil butts in, and Artemy has the horrible realization that this is what they were talking about. Of course. Because they were friends, and friends had these sorts of conversations. Except for, apparently, with him. “They need a doctor on the other side of the river, and Rubin needs to test his capabilities unsupervised.”

“His training isn’t finished,” Artemy says bluntly. Which is technically true, but he’s aware he’s saying it in a moment of panic. He’d gotten Rubin not to leave with the army, only for them to move a couple months later? Except…no. No, it had been almost six months. Almost six months, and they’d kept this from him? “You’re not thinking of going, too, are you?”

Rubin narrows their eyes at Artemy, and they think perhaps they’ve shown their hand. But if they have, Daniil is blissfully ignorant. “No, and that’s what’s so neat about the entire thing! I can continue to stay here in Town, keep up the Stillwater, teach, run the clinic alongside you, and Rubin can still come by to learn while getting more practical experience under their belt.” He smiles, perfectly confident in his plan. One that Artemy was left out of. God, that stings. “There isn’t enough for them to do here. I think it works out nicely.”

Of course it does. It makes total sense. That doesn’t mean Artemy likes it. They turn their eyes back to Stakh, and feel like a damn about to burst. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Holy shit, they do not want to start crying at work. They can see Daniil’s shoulders slump in their peripheral vision, and they do not want to acknowledge it. “I’ve been your friend for longer, and you couldn’t tell me?”

“That’s why I couldn’t tell you.” It’s obvious Rubin is just barely managing to restrain their voice. “You get so invested in things, Cub –“ Oh no, not with the nickname. “I knew you’d be upset, so I wanted to run it by someone else first.” Which would explain why they’re so calm about it now. No one speaks for a minute, which must just be killing Dankovsky. They can see the other man bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to burst out. Rubin shifts weight between their feet, and asks, “Are you going to say something?”

“I don’t think there’s anything for me to say.” Artemy runs a hand down their face. This day was not going the way they’d planned at all. “You’ve already made your choice. It’s not like I can stop you.”

“What a mature position to take, Cub.” They manage to make the words sound like sarcasm, which feels a bit unfair. Artemy knows he hasn’t been the best in the past at giving up control, but when he’s surrounded on all sides like this, there’s not really much that he can do. And he wants to point that out, too: he wasn’t given much of a chance to have his own reaction. But Daniil is beating him to it, shaking Rubin’s shoulder and making them sigh. “You know I’ll still be close by, should you ever need me.”

“And I’ll be here for you too, Artemy,” Daniil adds. “Always. You know where you can find me.” Artemy looks up, because that line sounds so suggestive. It sounds like flirtation, but it can’t possibly be, because Daniil is already with someone else again. It’s a bastardization of Artemy’s point from earlier in the week, that he’d always be there for Daniil; but this time meant entirely platonically. Oh, how the tables have turned. “You know that, don’t you?”

He says it so quietly that Artemy almost mistakes the tone for something it definitely isn’t. Pleading, is what it sounds like, but what is there for Daniil to plead for? “Yeah,” Artemy says, “I know.”

Daniil has just finished setting the table in the little offshoot dining room when he hears the door open. That’s one set of feet he hears, and it’s one set more than he could truly have expected. This was a strange idea, for him. He thought his first guest to eat over at the Stillwater would be a boyfriend, or at least Artemy, and perhaps sometime in the future he’ll get one or the other over. But now, this is just as important, if not more. He struggles to swallow for a second, hearing the feet tentatively make their way to the main room.

There’s just a little time before the food is ready, and Daniil clears his throat before he makes his way out and toward the center of the building. Shrew is there, a ratty scarf still tied around her neck, a thin jacket over her shoulders. He’d offer to take them from her, but she still looks a little chilly. He wipes his hands on his trouser legs, and says, “You can move into the dining room, if you like.”

The look she gives him is wary, an animal who has not yet learned to trust human contact. He’s seen this look before, watching birds, watching birds that watched him back. Shrew’s steps into the dining room are careful, but curious, her head looking all around at the little touches Daniil has managed to come up with out of what decorations are immediately available to him: a few molds, a fancy plate, and a picture Murky painted for him of him at his microscope. It’s not much, but he’s not used to decorating. Hopefully, he won’t have to do it alone for long.

“What’re you making for dinner?” she asks, pulling out a seat at the table and sitting down. Daniil rubs his hands together, watching her remove the jacket, but toy with the end of her scarf.

He hears the door open and another, harsher set of steps come in, and turns quickly. He looks back, but she’s still taking in her surroundings. “Stroganoff,” he says. “I’ll be just a moment.” Back in the hallway, Sleepy Head is looking around, his hat pulled down over his ears, his jacket actually buttoned over his chest. His fingers must be frozen, curled and held up to his mouth to blow on them. Daniil gestures, and he heads through the kitchen and into the dining room.

The kids seem to exchange glances with each other before Sleepy Head takes his seat. Daniil heads back to the stovetop, regulating his breathing as he fiddles with what’s left to be finished. He can do this. He’s finally started to feel a rebuild of confidence in his chest, and he’s not going to let that go now. He plates the food, and brings it out, setting it before them, and heading back into the kitchen to get his own. As they had the last time, Shrew is taking a moment with her food while Sleepy Head tucks in, perhaps a display of the differences in their personality. To eat before it is taken away, or to hesitate in case it is.

Shrew is the one to speak up first, before she’s even taken a bite of her food. “Why did you call us over here?” She stabs at a noodle with her fork, and refocuses that daring glare on Daniil. Sleepy Head looks between her and Daniil, clearly invested in the answer despite his eagerness. “You didn’t really just make us dinner for fun, did you?”

“It’s because we’re failing, isn’t it?” There’s a levity to Sleepy Head’s voice, but it feels forced. “We’ll come over for tutoring more often, yeah? When you’re here, that is. Or I guess we can bug Sticky to help us out –“

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Daniil coughs, and reaches for his glass of water. He’d planned to wait until after they’d eaten to begin, but silly him, of course he came across as awkward and meandering. And these kids aren’t like any other, they’re special. They’re smarter. That’s why they’d reached out to him to begin with, even when he was damn near infected and telling them to go home. “I was just wondering to myself one day where you kids go when it’s cold outside.”

They look at each other quickly, turning their gazes back to Daniil. “Well, there’s some abandoned homes we can break into every once in a while,” Sleepy Head says slowly. “Mostly let the littler kids camp out there. There’s not enough room for us all, so we take turns. Sleepin’ on boxes in the warehouses, when we sleep at all.”

And Grief isn’t there anymore to make sure no harm comes to them. Daniil’s fingers tighten around his glass, leather squeaking against it. “Interesting,” he says. Depressing, but interesting all the same. Grief still knows their way around the warehouses. Daniil can’t help every child he comes across. “And what would you do if you did have a place to sleep, regularly?” He listens to a fork clatter to the plate, and it’s not Sleepy Head, who’s looking at him with his mouth hung a little open. It’s Shrew, her hands curled into fists in the hem of her skirt. “Oh dear. Are you alright?”

“Why are you even asking?” she shoots back. “I don’t get it. Why are you feeding us?”

“Not that we’re complaining,” Sleepy Head pipes up, and he feels the jostle under the table as he kicks Shrew in the shin.

“I think that’s a fair question,” Daniil admits. He sets his glass down and leans back in his seat, clearing his throat again. “I didn’t think much about families before I came here. And over the past six months that I’ve been in Town, it’s occurred to me that I…” he trails off, picking at the thumb of his glove as he tries to find the right words. “That I want one. And I know you can’t force these sorts of things, but you two seem to like being over here, and I want to try.”

He waits for the laughter, and feels his skin grow sweaty and cold. He doesn’t know which scares him more, the idea that they won’t take this seriously, or that they will, and still scorn him. Sleepy Head blinks at his plate, still eating, but slower. “You want to adopt us?” His voice sounds squeaky, high up in his throat.

“It doesn’t have to be official, if you don’t want. I wouldn’t impose myself on you.” Daniil fidgets, reaching back for the water, unable to eat with his stomach tied in knots. “But I could offer you a room and an icebox full of food. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be something.” Sleepy Head taps the plate with his fork, and goes back to eating, chewing thoughtfully.

Things are tense in the room, but when Sleepy Head finishes what’s on his plate he stands up, and looks around him. It won’t be long before he’s taller than Daniil is. “Is it okay if I think about it?” He seems genuinely anxious about the prospect, and Daniil gives him a soft smile, nodding when he can’t speak. Sleepy Head rubs his hands together again and starts on his way out, ruffling Shrew’s hair as he leaves.

It’s a sign of how deeply she’s thinking that she doesn’t smack him as he heads out. Daniil turns back to his food, picking up his fork and tapping at it, trying to will his appetite to come back to him. He’s mostly waiting for her to speak up and say something, and when she doesn’t, he tries. “Have I offended you in some way?”

She makes a strange little noise. He can’t determine the expression on her face when she looks up at him, but he thinks he sees tears of frustration. “You’re not just doing this because you pity me, are you?”

“I assure you pity is the last thing I feel.” His tendency toward empathy is far too low for that, no matter how well he has been learning compassion. “Pathos, sometimes, but never pity.” She looks back down at her food, and finally, starts eating it. “I don’t really know how these things are done,” he admits. “But it has been nice, being a teacher, having people to look out for. I thought I would try my hand at something more personal.”

“And why not a baby?” she asks. The tongs of her fork click against the plate. “That’s what people usually want, isn’t it? A baby, or a little kid.”

“Why should I? I’m familiar with the two of you.” She doesn’t answer, but she at least seems more comfortable now, eating in silence. Daniil starts to pick at his own food, making his way slowly. When Shrew has finished, she continues to stare at him, and he’s not going to bother pretending he understands why. He simply lets her.

“A week,” she says. He listens to her feet scuff against the floor. “I’ll try it for a week, and see if I like it.”

“A week,” Daniil repeats. “Sounds good.”

Chapter Text

“What about this? Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!”

Grief’s nose scrunches up, muttering the words over to themself again. It takes a moment for them to accept defeat, sighing and passing the bottle over.

Daniil smirks and takes a swig. “Keats,” he says, and hands the bottle back. He stands up from where he’s been sitting in the grass by the old tombs, brushing off his trousers. He hasn’t exactly let this rendezvous become a habit – he won’t be forming any more of those, not like this. Maybe of the healthier variety, getting up every morning to cook breakfast. But the kids are slow to come back in the evening, so he has a little time kill. He isn’t going to fill all that time up with drinking or smoking or having sex, but to have the option at all was nice. Things are finally starting to look up.

He looks around the area he’d been sitting in and doesn’t see that bundle of fabric until Grief holds it up for him, hooked around their fingers. He undoes the last couple of buttons on his shirt, sliding the binder back on overtop quickly before he redresses. Spending time without it, too, has been refreshing; not having to worry about whether he passes when his chest isn’t bound. He’s never really stopped to consider whether anyone in town would care, but he has this fear that they simply wouldn’t understand what it’s like. It’s something only another person like him would understand.

“Gotta hand it to you, doc, you sure do know your way around the body.” Daniil groans and rolls his eyes. Grief’s filled with these sorts of phrases, spoken half the time to try and elicit a laugh out of Daniil. He’s not too proud, hanging out as they have been, to admit when they work. Grief settles their arms on their knees and leans, looking up at the sky through the trees. Despite the humor in their tone, the wry grin on their face, there’s a note of hesitance under the mask. In more than one way, Grief reminds him of Andrey.

Unprompted, they say, “Things must look awfully different out here than in the city.”

Daniil takes the moment handed to him to look up at the sky as well. It’s not quite dark enough yet for the stars to show, but the sun is setting and painting a beautiful picture of the sky all the same. It’ll still be another week or two before he introduces the class to the basics of astronomy, and he wonders if Grief will make their way into the classroom proper for that lesson. He’d thought that Grief would stop appearing once they’d gotten what they wanted from Daniil, and he’d been pleasantly surprised to find them coming back all the same, always in the distance, always quiet.

“Yes,” Daniil says, and thinks of all the times he’d squinted trying to see the sky for the clouds and the light pollution around him in the Capital. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

But Daniil needs to get a move on, really. “Has it been worth it, stickin’ around out here?” Daniil shrugs as he gathers up his coat, having discarded it earlier in the warmth of the vodka. “I used to hope I’d get out of this town, and all these outsiders showed up and wouldn’t leave. Funny how that works out.” Daniil raises an eyebrow as he ties up his scarf, fidgets with his gloves, but Grief offers no additional explanation. He supposes the humor is in the irony alone, though it’s not all that funny to him. “What is it about this place that keeps people here after the job’s done?”

“Well, my job never really finished, if you take my meaning.” It doesn’t look as though they do. “I’m a doctor and a thanatologist. There will always be work for me, no matter where I am. And you people have a strange way about death and dying, so I had to stay and study it. What’s wrong with that?”

Grief shrugs. “Nothing wrong with it. I just expected you to say you stayed for Artemy Burakh.”

Daniil’s fingers freeze on the hem of his glove, still for just a second before they resume their idle tug. He contemplates clearing his throat and saying it’s preposterous, but that might give more away than Daniil is ready to. How could Grief possibly know such a thing?

They can’t. Daniil hasn’t told anyone about his feelings, so there’s no way for anyone to know. Not unless Artemy divulged that information to someone, but Daniil can’t see that. So that has to be a shot in the dark on Grief’s part, and Daniil doesn’t have to react to it.

Apparently, he doesn’t need to. “The silence is deafening, Bachelor.” Daniil shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels.  He turns around to look at Grief, eyebrows raised, trying to keep his face composed. But it has no effect on Grief, rolling their wrist with a knowing little smirk. “Come on, you don’t think you’re the first to fall for our Cub, do you?”

Daniil thinks of the Inquisitor, and his stomach feels hollowed out. He nearly shakes with vibrations, an echo bouncing around in a cave. “No, I know for a fact that I’m not.” And she probably got the closest out of anyone to capturing his heart. If only Daniil knew what it was about her that Artemy liked… No, even then it would still be pointless. Daniil isn’t capable of being anyone other than himself. Artemy likes him as a friend, and that’s enough. It has to be.

When he looks closer at Grief, he notices something off about that smile they wear. He gets the feeling, somehow, they’re counting themself among the crowd of people who have found themselves enamored with Artemy Burakh at one point or another. And it must be worse for them, being a childhood friend and all. Daniil watches them absentmindedly pull at the grass around where they sit, still not moving from their slouch or even redressing in their coat. There’s a slight flush to their skin from the wind, from the vodka, and it is rather pretty. Maybe in another life, this could be something more.

But things are fine the way they are. “I don’t think I’d stick around, if I had the chance to get out.”

Daniil blinks, slowly. “But you do have the chance to get out.” He gestures behind them. “The regular train. You could go anywhere you want. You could even leave the country.” I’ve left behind that luxury. Grief only shakes their head, and Daniil thinks he’s finally beginning to understand what it means to be Bound to a place. They were in it, too, the same as Rubin and Lara. Tied to the Changeling, even though she’d gone off with the Army.

“I thought about runnin’ before the Army came,” they say, wrapping an arm under their knees, pulling their legs closer to their chest. They look younger like this, less like the menace Daniil knew from the Pest. “Cuttin’ off those puppet strings. But a puppet without strings don’t move. If I left, then what? I can’t move on my own.”

“Pity doesn’t suit you,” Daniil comments. Grief grunts in dismissal, but Daniil is adamant, waving his hands. “I’m serious. Where’s your vigor? Your defiance? Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo!” Grief looks up at him, eyes carefully dulled. It’s the same expression Shrew gives him when she’s expecting to have her hopes dashed about something. Not for the first time, Daniil feels like he’s missing some greater context to Grief’s character. “You’re not the same person I met when I got here,” he says.

“The plague changed us all, doc. Even you.” Daniil rolls his eyes once again. “You think the version of you who arrived here six months ago would be wasting time with me, or adoptin’ kids off the street?”

Daniil doesn’t answer, fiddling with his cravat. Perhaps he has learned some compassion while he’s been here, but he must still be, fundamentally, the same person. He’s not capable of change. That’s what everyone knows about him, what everyone notes. Daniil Dankovsky does not handle change well. “Even our Artemy has changed,” Grief continues. “There’s somethin’ different about him, too. Can’t put my finger on what.” They groan and stretch their legs out, leaning back on their hands again, apparently more comfortable now that the topic of the conversation isn’t on them. “‘Course, he changed while he was away studying, too. I reckon that gives you more in common with him than I have anymore.”

Daniil’s not really sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything in response to it at all. An awkward second passes, Daniil struggling with the words before he says, “I’ll see you later, Grief.” They give him a lethargic wave, and Daniil makes his way back down the cape. He didn’t drink enough to feel woozy, but he still feels a sort of nauseated trickle down his spine, his sweat heavy as it drips down his neck. He’d thought this was a solitary moment of clarity for Bad Grief, but he’s haunted by words in the voice of Immortell. Do you expect him to love you?

Something like that. Daniil shakes it off his shoulders, turning and making his way to the street. He runs through the steps of the recipe in his head, one Artemy had taught to him on a night he’d been over helping him make dinner for Sticky and Murky. It shouldn’t take too long or be too hard on the stomach. He pops into the grocers to grab the last few ingredients he needs, and heads home.

The buzz the alcohol had given him is starting to wear off, and in the distance he hears kids running around after each other. Daniil smiles to himself as he listens to them. A week will be up tonight, though he doesn’t expect an answer right away. Things have been going smoothly, and he doesn’t seek to ruin it by expecting more than the kids are willing or able to give. It’s the sort of thing he wishes his parents had kept in mind while raising him.

Thinking of his parents is…difficult. He hasn’t contacted them in – what has it been, half a year? Not since he was in the Capital. He doesn’t think he even told them he was coming to the town, let alone that he stayed. What would they think of him now, a teacher, a few pounds heavier, an unmarried man adopting teenagers he’d met in the middle of the plague?

His parents’ views tended to run more conservative than his own. A few he had grown up with he had shed during university, and the rest had started to wash away the longer he spent in town. They were never awful. They didn’t understand, but they tried to support him in the way they thought was best. It was only that what they thought was best wasn’t always what he needed, and he wants to do better than that. Doesn’t every parent? Wouldn’t Artemy?

Whatever their reservations about the life Daniil has chosen to live, he’d like to think they’d be happy for him, if only because he desperately needs somebody to be. His heart stutters uncomfortably as he thinks, and thinks, and thinks. How can he raise these children when he has no one to guide him, no input to consider? Who is he meant to reach out to?

This anxiety comes to him every so often, always the worst at night, laying in bed, trying to sleep. His mind will race, he’ll inevitably think of the two downstairs rooms now occupied with living, breathing bodies, and he’ll panic. He’ll start to sweat, overheated, and then the sweat will cool against his skin and freeze. He’ll shake in place, pulling the quilt tighter around his shoulders, body curling on his side. It’s in these moments he gets the closest to doubting himself – he’s never been responsible for more than a couple lab rats. He’s never had to watch over children, let alone two. There are so many ways for him to fuck things up, to make their lives worse. And what will he do if he fails, if he can’t make things work out? Who will he turn to for answers?

Even now, walking home, he’s perturbed. It would be hard to feel the heat in the wind like this, but he still bites his lips bloody as he enters his home and makes his way to the kitchen. The Stillwater is warmer now that someone else besides Daniil lives here – had it been like this with Eva, too? The heating is on, there are smaller touches of other peoples’ presence: another coat on the coatrack when he goes to hang his up, an extra pair of boots by the door, gloves stuck in them. Other little things will come around eventually, like the hat he’d asked Lara to make for Shrew. This house will eventually home a family, he just has to give it time. And time is something he has in spades now, setting the groceries on the counter and starting up dinner.

He’s able to subvert his anxieties with the process of making dinner, hardly noticing when the kids come in until they’re at his elbow, taking a look at the food he’s cooking before they retreat to wash their hands. Sleepy Head beats Shrew to setting the table, but Shrew’s the one to get water for everyone. The whole party is seated by the time the food is ready, Daniil setting a fresh loaf of bread in the middle of the table. It’s a disastrous decision, watching the kids struggle to cut it. At least it’s amusing, sighing and redirecting their wrists and movements until the bread falls in thick, uneven slices.

“Didn’t take you for one to know your cutting, doc,” Sleepy Head says, slathering his piece in butter.

“Are you kidding?” Daniil shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I know how to perform autopsies! I used to do them fairly regularly, too, before I moved here. And dissections – Oh, but I suppose I won’t be able to teach a class that. I wonder if Burakh would be willing to help me out…” He takes his own piece of bread, setting it on a smaller plate and waiting for the butter to get passed around. “Anyway, I suppose I should be grateful you don’t know much about cutting.”

“I know about stabbing,” he offers. Daniil gives him a disapproving look, and the young man toys with the brim of his hat. “Well, not that it matters much at the moment. There’s a stalemate while we investigate the Termitary.”

He clearly knows he’s made a mistake before Daniil even has time to react. Shrew kicks him under the table, and he hisses through his teeth as Daniil sets his fork down. “Investigating the Termitary? Why on earth would you even want to do such a thing?”

“They think it’s haunted,” Shrew says. The roll in her eyes is evident from the way she says her words alone, taking a bite out of her bread. The sarcasm must feel like betrayal to Sleepy Head, regarding her with intense disappointment. Daniil watches her avoid his look until she simply shrugs in response, saying, “It’s not haunted. Ghosts aren’t even real.”

“How can you say such a thing! ‘Course they’re real!” Sleepy Head looks to Daniil for assistance, which is a bad move on his part. Daniil shakes his head again, and Sleepy Hand waves his hand. “I’ll get proof, you know. I’ll prove it to the both of you. There’s ghosts in that building, I know it.”

“There’s dead bodies in that building, is what there is.” Daniil picks his fork back up, attention returning to his food. “The smell must be putrid. I can’t imagine Vlad the Younger’s organized a cleanup crew or anything. I’d have heard about it, and I’m sure the Kin would have something to say.” And Artemy would have told Daniil about that, so either way he’d know something. “I know I can’t exactly tell you what to do, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t go in there. It’s unsanitary.”

A moment of silence goes by, a pause, and then Sleepy Head clears his throat. “Actually, you are kinda supposed to tell us what to do.” He hides the mumbled words behind a drink of water, and Daniil looks up, blinking. “You’re supposed to, like, give us rules and stuff. Chores.”

Oh. Right, Daniil’s chores had always been things like keeping his room tidy, helping his mother with the dishes after dinner. Before he’d come out, he had needlework to do, and after that his father had things for him to learn. Simple things, little fixes for everyday needs. He wasn’t very good at it then, but he’s been able to put pieces of it into practice over the years. It was necessary for the upkeep of his lab, and now that he’s a homeowner, it should come in handy here, too.

Daniil stares down at his plate and hums, thinking. What’s the best way to go about requesting? “Would you listen, if I told you not to go into the Termitary?”

Sleepy Head thinks about it. “No, probably not.” Well, at least he’s honest. Daniil probably wouldn’t have listened to his parents, either. “That’s not really the point, though, is it? You’re the adult. You have expectations for us.”

“Hm.” Clearly, they’re waiting on him to take up the mantle of parent. He can’t think of a lot of things for them to do around the house, but this could be the start of something. And it has to be a good sign that they’re even giving him an opportunity to do this. He looks up from his plate to level Sleepy Head with a serious look, his tone warning. “Well, I’m telling you not to. Don’t go in there. You’ve got an assignment from Ms. Ravel to complete, instead of investigating whatever. That should keep you busy.” He looks at Shrew. “And you, don’t go in there either, even if it’s just to laugh at them.”

She shakes her head, but it’s with the hint of a smile. He must be doing something right. “Oh, yeah. Capella said Clara’s coming back soon.” Daniil gives more of his attention over, eyebrows raised. “She’ll be coming back with the Commander. In a week or so.” She looks at Sleepy Head. “And she can tell you it’s definitely not haunted in there!”

With the Commander. His heart beats tightly with something like nerves.

The kids continue squabbling, oblivious to Daniil’s inner dilemma. “And what’s she gonna do, huh? Make up another story about living dolls? Wave her hands and make kill a passing stranger?” Shrew sticks her tongue out at Sleepy Head, who retaliates by flicking a bit of potato at her off his fork.

“Now, now, kids. No food fights, or you’ll be cleaning this whole kitchen.” For a moment, they appear to be seriously considering whether the consequences would be worth the reward. Ultimately, they go back to their respective meals. And Daniil, feeling strangely empowered, goes back to his own.

The clinic is busier now that it lacks a third set of hands to run the errands. Which is good – for Daniil at least, always in need of errands to ease his anxious mind through the slow moments. There’s a pharmacy not too far from the practice, and what inventory Daniil doesn’t manage to restock from there he can easily order elsewhere. Not that Artemy doesn’t do his fair share of errand-running, hauling in a fresh batch of tinctures from his Lair. It’s endearing to Daniil, the way the local kids point to the bottles on the shelves and call them potions, Artemy sighing and softly correcting them each time. It’s nice to not be the only pedantic member of staff. He’s used to people riling him up for fun and watching him go.

Today Daniil heads out to grab more bandages and antibiotics, to prepare for a new wave of influenza to hit the town. Artemy’s finally settled down to ask him what he’d need to help create a vaccine for the next strain, and if everything goes according to plan they could start working on a synthesis as early as tomorrow night. He’ll have to let Shrew and Sleepy Head know ahead of time, make sure the ice box and pantry are stocked with food that they can easily make for themselves.

He hasn’t had a dinner over at Artemy’s since they started staying with him regularly, and Artemy seems rather glum about it. Not that they’ve mentioned it in so many words, but Daniil can feel Artemy watching him from time to time, this tense feeling in the air as though there are words left unsaid between them. Daniil sometimes turns to meet their gaze and catches Artemy hurriedly looking elsewhere.

Maybe it’s just a sign that his worn-out confidence is slowly returning after so many weeks in a slump, but he’s almost convinced himself Artemy is looking with desire. He hasn’t dropped the weight, not one ounce of it. But he’s got bites on his thighs that prove somebody’s enjoying it, even if Daniil wasn’t too pleased about it at first. So sure, why not allow Artemy to stare? It isn’t hurting anybody.

Making his way out of the pharmacy it occurs to him that it’s lunchtime and he hasn’t brought anything with him – and neither has Artemy. They’ve spent enough time together that Daniil can make a reasonable guess at what Artemy would order, and doubts the clinic will get overwhelming in the time it takes Daniil to grab them something to eat.

When he arrives back at the office, he sees Artemy has taken a little notepad out to draw idly in its margins. Daniil is quiet for a moment, hoping to get a peek before Artemy can feel him staring. Alas, his shadow gives him away, Artemy nervously flipping the pad over as he attempts to hide the sketches. His cheeks are glowing when he looks up at Daniil, lips parted in surprise when his eyes catch the food Daniil has brought with him.

“Thought I’d get us something,” he says, handing Artemy a sandwich.

“Oh. Thanks.” He takes the offered sandwich from Daniil, and spares a moment to scratch the back of his neck as he unwraps it. He pulls the bread back to look at the contents, clearly surprised for a moment. He sets the piece back on top, confusion in his eyes. Daniil smiles at it. “How did you know I liked –“

“I know you,” Daniil says. He sets his own container of soup on the edge of the desk, his chair scooted forward far enough to bump his knees into the backing. He was hoping for some chitchat while they ate, but Artemy is almost somber as he digs in, and Daniil will not break the sort of focus he seems to have on his food. Spending quiet time together is just as good, really.

Daniil’s nearly finished when Artemy trashes his wrappings, getting up to dispose of them and sitting back at his desk. Daniil feels Artemy watching him once again, and refuses to give into the self-consciousness that lurks at that attention. “I heard the Army’s coming back to town,” Artemy announces gravely. Daniil nods. “Bringing Clara back with it.”

“I do wonder what the Saburovs have made of their child running off to war with ‘General Ashes.’” Artemy gives him a bemused look. He’s not sure what it is he’s said wrong, nor does he particularly care. Artemy has moved past the point of judging him for every misstep. “I still can’t believe Block brought a young girl with him. I’ll never understand what he’s thinking.”

“He’s in the army. It’s not his job to think, it’s his job to follow orders.” Daniil hums. His father was a military man, so he can certainly understand the sentiment. Oh, the arguments he’d had with that man as a child, begging him not to go back, to stay at home with him and his mother, to not fight for such inane reasons.

He shakes his head, disengaging himself from the memories and finishing his soup, but Artemy beats him to tossing out the cup, running a hand through their hair. They seem strangely nervous, and in a way that’s making Daniil excited. What reason could he have to be so nervous around a colleague? “How are your kids doing?” Artemy asks.

“They’re doing fine,” Daniil replies, pulling his chair back to his own desk. “Truth be told, I think they’ve sort of missed having an adult figure in their lives. They don’t talk about their parents at all, and I think it’s too sore a spot to bring up.”

“I would say so, yeah.” There’s bitterness in his tone. Daniil’s never learned what the full story was, and he wonders again if Artemy’s even let himself come to terms with his father’s death. He’s smart, yes, and caring, but so very, very stubborn. Daniil watches him breath out through his nose, hands steadying against his desk. “You haven’t been over to the house in a while,” he comments. Daniil hides his smirk in the turn of his head. “I guess you don’t need to see my kids, now that you’ve got your own.”

It’s such a ridiculous statement that Daniil nearly laughs. “Come now, Artemy. You know those two hold a special place in my heart. I’ve simply been busy, that’s all.” The way Artemy’s pouting shouldn’t be so damned cute – he’s a grown man, for God’s sake, and heaven knows Daniil would find it irritating on anybody else. But now he averts his eyes and ducks his head as he replies, “Besides, you should allow me the honor of cooking for you sometime. I’m not terrible at it, you know.”

Artemy sits up straighter, mouth ajar as he looks down at Daniil. “Really? You’d do that?” Daniil nods, and Artemy’s eyes flicker, for a moment, to the desk. His hands curl on top of it. “And that would be okay, all things considered?”

‘All things considered’? What on earth does that mean?

Well, the kids are still new to the concept of Daniil as a parent, but it’s not like they’re unaware he has friendships. They’ve even asked him about his friends before: Sleepy Head was particularly interested in Eva, as the former homeowner, and Shrew had heard a little about Peter from Grace and wanted to know more. They both know he works with Artemy, and he’s sure it won’t be long before there’s some amount of teasing and hinting coming his way for the amount of time they spend together.

“Of course,” Daniil says, nodding. “The kids know I have relationships outside of work. It just might mean I have to host some of their friends, too.”

They look at Daniil with a confusing expression, and Daniil can’t tell what they’re thinking. He realizes, in with something twisting in his chest, that he rarely can.

“I think this should be the last time,” Daniil says as he’s pulling his trousers back on. There’s probably a neater, nicer way to do this, but since feelings never entered into the equation there’s no point in finding one. Grief looks up at him, redressing their shirt, eyebrows quirked. “Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I am looking for something a little more serious, in the long run.”

“Makes sense,” Grief says, though they don’t stand yet. They just sort of lounge, looking up at Daniil, searching for his shirt. “You got the kids an’ all.” They lean back behind where they’re seated, producing Daniil’s binder from under a pile on the floor. “Got your eye on someone in particular?”

Daniil hesitates, thinking about it. He’s not sure how Grief will react to the answer to that question. They’ve guessed as much before, but that doesn’t mean they’ll approve. They’re friends with Artemy – what if they feel compelled to tell him, or give Daniil some advice he doesn’t really want to hear?

He ends the moment with a shrug. “Haven’t given it much thought,” he lies, “but there’s plenty of men in this town. At least one of them has got to be interested in a long-term relationship.”

“As long as you’re not thinking of takin’ another shot at Cub.” Daniil works on straightening his gloves, pointedly ignoring Grief’s remark. He’s hoping they’ll read the situation as Daniil blowing them off for the sheer ridiculous nature of the suggestion; but as usual, things don’t work out in Daniil’s favor. He hears Grief sigh and shuffle as they stand before they’re up, touching Daniil’s back softly. “That’s not gonna get you anywhere, Daniil.”

Being addressed so informally is what makes him turn around, an eyebrow raised. In his turn Grief’s hand has moved up to his shoulder, their tips of their fingers slightly chilled against the fabric of his shirt. Daniil doesn’t want to give more away than he’s ready for. “And what gives you the impression I would make such a mistake?”

“I see things.” How typically cryptic of them. Grief catches Daniil in a stare he struggles not to look away from. “Told you, I been there. I know what it looks like. Cub can be oblivious, sure, but you don’t do much to hide your feelings.” Their gaze turns up to Daniil’s hairline and starts to work down. Daniil feels the movement like being unraveled from a loose thread. “They wear their heart on their sleeve, our Artemy does. If he had feelings for you, he’d have said so by now.”

And here he’s heard something he didn’t want to anyway. The words settle in his stomach like a heavy rock dropped into a stream. That’s what I figured. Daniil swallows, tightly, smile playing on his lips. “You must be mistaken, then. I –“

“No,” they cut Daniil off. “I’ve barked up that tree already. Cub doesn’t date. I’m not sure if he even feels things that way.” Not unlike Peter Stamatin, then. Daniil’s pulse rabbits, and he feels the impulse to run off, escape this conversation; but with this thought in mind he feels directionless. “I think you’re right, that you need something serious. But you won’t find anything in that direction, except misery.”

“Then what do you suggest I do, hm? If you’re so clever.” The words don’t bite the way Daniil means for them to. It seems somewhere along the line, between borrowing someone else’s hat and lecturing in a classroom, between dinner parties across the river and sharing meals with another’s family, he’s started to lose his edge. The Daniil he’s become isn’t the Daniil he was. And he feels it again, heart contained by something too tight, restricting movement. That dread, that incessant worry. The fear of not knowing what he is anymore.

“Beats me,” Grief says, their shrug far too easy. “But I’ve watched you date these guys around Town, and I’ve seen you keep your heart wrapped up. You’re like a block of ice, too thick to melt. You want to find a guy to settle down with? Si vis amari ama.”

Daniil won’t waste the moment in shock. Grief has done much to surprise him as of late, why shouldn’t they know Latin? No, Daniil’s mind wanders elsewhere. He relives the last six months, relives each brush of his hand against Artemy’s, every time he’s glanced up to see his face glowing softly in the twilight, each scene bathed in a golden halo. Maybe it’s ridiculous, holding out hope the way he is. Grief has known Artemy for far longer than Daniil, and Daniil has never been one to trust instinct over fact. But the fact is this: his heart has already settled.

“I already do,” Daniil responds. He has to pull his eyes back to Grief’s from where they’ve lingered on the wall. “All of these dates, going out with other men – You’re right. I haven’t really been trying. I’ve already found the person I want to be with.”

Grief reaches out, ruffling his already mussed hair. “Well then, I’d say you got yourself a problem.” Daniil sighs, straightening his cravat. “If you wanna go down that road, I can’t stop you. Cub can be unbearable sometimes, stubborn as a mule. Don’t expect him to let you down easy.” Daniil nods, curtly, doubt starting to seep into his stomach again at the warning. He’d been so certain today, when they’d been alone together in the office. But he’d been certain before too, when Artemy had been flirting with him. He feels the wave of cold nerves on his shoulders, that crushing blow when Artemy had brushed him off.

But he has to know. He has to give it one last attempt, before he writes Artemy off entirely. And if this last time doesn’t take, then Daniil will just have to make himself to move on. He doesn’t start to turn or anything, but there’s a soft press of lips against his temple, and a squeeze on his shoulder before he’s out the door and into the streets.

Artemy is coming over for dinner, and to work on the beginning of the synthesis of their vaccine, and Daniil wants the soup to at least be started before either he or the kids arrive home. He’s told Shrew and Sleepy Head he’ll be having company, and they seemed uncertain about it until he’d told them it was only Artemy.

“You go over there a lot,” Shrew said, rather matter-of-factly. “Every time I tried to find you here before and you weren’t home, you were over at his place.”

Daniil laughed to cover the way his heart beat, uncomfortably new. Someone came to his house, looking for him. Not because of Thanatica, not because of the plague, but for him. He doesn’t think anyone’s done that before. “Well, he hasn’t ever properly been over here. I hope the two of you won’t mind?” Both kids shook their heads before lapsing into an animated discussion of the plan the Dogheads had in mind for investigating the Termitary (a plan they are definitely not a part of). And hearing that felt nice, felt like a home.

He is finicky picking out ingredients at the shop, because he needs everything to be perfect. Artemy makes his cooking seem so effortless, and what Daniil cannot supply in natural talent he will make up for in absolute perfection. The recipe is one his family has handed down to him, memorized over the years from repeated use. Whether Artemy’s had it or not is a mystery to him, as he’s never seen the man make it. A large, selfish part of him hopes it will be a new experience.

It takes him nearly half an hour to prepare all the vegetables, mind flittering around all the possible ways to bring his feelings up to Artemy. Not over dinner, not where the children could hear them. That wouldn’t be appropriate, no. While they work on the synthesis, perhaps. There will be a time when they’ll have to let it sit, before they can try and test it. It will be an easier vaccine to create than the vaccine for the Sand Pest had been. They’ll still have time, though. Time for Daniil to determine what it is Artemy is looking for in a relationship, to coax that information out of him as they work together in the low lamplight, daydreaming about brushing Artemy’s hair back out of his face, caressing his cheek on his way back.

“Uh, Doctor? Is the water supposed to be this red?” Daniil jumps, dropping the spoon he’s been holding. He hears Shrew giggling behind him as he stoops to pick it up, carefully washing and drying it before he goes back to his post over the soup pot. It takes a moment for his heart rate to work down, carefully stirring the mixture as goes. He still has to cook the onion.

He hopes Artemy doesn’t have any allergies. He’s never thought to ask before, it never even really seemed relevant - “Doctor?”

Oh, right. Her question. “What was it? No, no, don’t tell me – the soup! Yes,” he sets the spoon back down on the counter, bending down to get the frying pan out. “Yes, it’s exactly the color it’s supposed to be.” Shrew has moved around to look inside the pot, curiously, as he measures out the butter he’ll need to use. “And you can call me Daniil, by the way. Ridiculous to still be calling me Doctor, it’s not as though you pay rent.”

“Okay, Daniil.” There’s some kind of sarcasm in her tone, though she doesn’t seem to be mocking him otherwise. She actually seems to be watching his movements with interest. “Were you thinking about Artemy just now?”

In a manner most undignified, his cheeks burn pink. It’s been a while since he’s been teased for something like this, and it’s twice in one day someone’s addressed his attraction out loud. He’s never so much as muttered the words to himself, but if he wants tonight to be the night he guesses he’ll have to get used to it. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to admit it, mumbling, “And where would you get such an idea?”

“You get that look on your face whenever you talk about him,” she says. She leans against the icebox, hands behind her back. “And you talk about him a lot. I don’t even think you notice you do it.” He frowns. Does he really talk about Artemy that much? “It’s fine. I know adults have their own lives, or whatever. I’m not a kid. And it’s not like you’re kicking me and Sleepy Head out to go and live with him, right?”

“Don’t be absurd. If anything were to happen between myself and doctor Burakh, as you should be calling him –“ here, she does actually roll her eyes, “I would not be giving up on the two of you. I can have my family entirely independent of my love life.”

There’s another ten or so minutes before the soup will be ready, and in that time he hears Sleepy Head come in with another set of steps. There’s a moment where Daniil can feel caution in the space between the kitchen and the hallway, before he hears Artemy’s voice calling out, “Hello?” Shrew ducks out of the room without being asked, and returns a moment later with Artemy behind her. He’s never noticed it before, seeing Artemy with the tiny Murky, but the man seems so much larger when preceded by a teenage girl and so awkward in the small space of Daniil’s kitchen. He doesn’t pause a moment, coming to a stop right behind Daniil, hovering over his shoulder. “Borscht?”

“So you have had it,” Daniil remarks. He hopes Artemy’s expression isn’t one of disgust. He doesn’t want to turn around now and find out.

“Of course I have, emshen. I did study in the Capital for a while.” He looks around the kitchen, as if trying to find something to do with his hands. “It’s not particularly popular out here, though. Not nearly as much as it seems to be elsewhere.”

“This is family recipe you’re getting,” Daniil says, stirring the soup, “and it’s nearly done.” Shrew moves around them, grabbing spoons and going to set the table. Sleepy Head comes in at the last minute, taking his usual seat. Artemy is left to take the empty chair to Daniil’s left as Daniil brings the bowls out.

The kids chat as usual, and Daniil watches as Artemy directs his full attention to everything they have to say. He doesn’t fake a second of interest, the way Daniil had when he first arrived in Town. It makes him feel more aware of thing, suddenly curious as to how long these gangs have been around, if Artemy joined one in his youth. He could see that, with Grief as the leader – though if that’s the case, Artemy’s never mentioned it.

Sleepy Head clears the table when they’re finished, excusing himself to hang out with some friends. Shrew sticks around a little longer to ask them what they’re up to, but when it becomes clear no dead bodies are involved she loses interest and wanders off.

Leading Artemy up to his room feels like crossing some sort of line. He never stopped to consider the implications during those twelve days – everything moved so quickly that he didn’t have the time or inclination to assess a thing like that. But now, when situations are no longer dire? It feels far more intimate.

Maybe it always has been. Daniil remembers those long nights when Artemy crashed on his mattress, his shoes by the door, his snores a gentle buzz in the background as Daniil worked into the night. Daniil was used to odd hours, to never sleeping at a normal time or sleeping an adequate amount. Even before the Pest he preferred to spend as much time as possible awake. Only with people regularly relying on him has he changed his schedule, and found his energy increased with it.

Of course it has; he’s a doctor, he knows these things. But knowing and doing are not the same. Another example, here: Daniil prepared for this evening by bringing out all his equipment and setting an extra chair at his desk. He knew he would be working in close quarters with Artemy, but the knowledge hadn’t done much to prepare him for the warmth of their shoulder against his as they pick at and read the papers on his desk. “Now,” Daniil says, once Artemy has set a piece of paper back down on the desk, “you said vaccines aren’t your area of expertise. How much do you know about their creation?”

“I may have been exaggerating,” Artemy admits. His gaze lowers, staring at Daniil’s hands. Daniil’s fingers twist against each other at the attention. “I never got a chance to finish my degree. When the war broke out, it just seemed like there were more important things I could be doing.”

Daniil tries to make himself relax, forcing his fingers to go flat against the desk while Artemy speaks. When he’s finished, Daniil leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. At first he didn’t have the chance to ask Artemy what kept him from graduating, and once he had the opportunity he realized the subject might have been taboo and didn’t want to jeopardize a perfectly good working relationship for curiosity’s sake.

Now, he nods for Artemy to continue. They scratch their chin at the start of some stubble as they continue, “I got a lot of experience, wandering around, observing smaller communities before I came back home. But nothing you’d call an education. I never learned the fancy terms for things like you did.”

Something about the situation still hesitates off the horizon, remaining unseen. This is a little more information than Daniil is used to getting when it comes to Artemy, and he’s not going to push for more at the moment. He knows his role in the conversation now is to validate. “You did study, in a way - you have practical experience.” He sits up straight, hands falling to his lap. “Nonetheless, I will try to keep this in mind. I’ve been told my explanations can be condescending.”

“No shit.” Daniil huffs as if offended, but it’s all pretend. Artemy smiles at him. “I didn’t ever learn about vaccines, though. Most of what I learned from traveling around was… hm. How would you put it? Folk medicine?” They frown, and sharply turn their eyes back to Daniil, as though issuing a challenge. “I know how little respect you have for that.”

The jab is well-earned, he supposes. Daniil knows he hasn’t been the most open-minded, but he’s endeavored to put that in the past. He’s changed over the course of the past six months, and to hear Artemy say it like an attribute set in stone hurts. For a moment Daniil simply sits there, trying to figure out what he may have said or done recently to give Artemy the impression he doesn’t respect them or their culture.

He draws a blank. And they’ve been getting along so well all this time – why is he bringing this up out of nowhere? “I confess I don’t know what it is I’ve done lately to deserve that. I have my past, but I’ve made a concerted effort to grow beyond that.” It’s a bit of a struggle to make himself face Artemy, but he feels it’s important Artemy see into his eyes as he says, “If you have critiques of my behavior, don’t hesitate to bring them to my attention.”

For some reason, Artemy just looks more bothered by his response. “Alight,” he mumbles, averting his gaze. Is he trying to start a fight with Daniil? Why? “Anyway, I never learned about preventative measures like you and Stakh were doing.” Is this about Stanislav? Daniil would hate it if that was coming back now to bite him in the ass. Good thing he doesn’t know about Grief. “So whatever you’re going to say, start from the top.”

Daniil is practically jubilant to extend the use of his newfound teaching skills to Artemy. He’s sure it’s obvious his experience is primarily with children, but figures that instructing Artemy here is not all that different from his one-on-one tutoring with Sticky. He even notes the ways in which Sticky mirrors Artemy’s mannerisms, both drumming their fingers against the desktop as they think, making little noises of affirmation when they understand, chewing the tip of the pencil when lost.

They’re about halfway through their analysis when becomes clear that Artemy has gotten too restless to continue and Daniil sets his utensils down. “I think we’ve reached a good stopping point,” he announces. He leans back in the chair, his hands behind him and fingers interlocked, stretching his back out. Artemy’s expression is oddly sad until Daniil suggests, “We could go for a walk, if you need to stretch your legs.”

He’s not good at reading people, but something definitely seems off about Artemy. Once they’re out on the street, walking side-by-side, it becomes obvious. Daniil asks him about the kids, but Artemy responds in a grumble to the one thing likely to get him talking. They’re mostly quiet as they walk, and when Daniil sees the outline of the Broken Heart he’s relieved. Maybe taking the edge off will get Artemy talking about what’s on his mind.

“Fancy a drink?” Artemy gives him a strange look, but it only lasts for a second. He nods, and lets Daniil get the door for him. He doesn’t wait for Daniil to follow as he heads down the stairs. It’s not out of the ordinary for Artemy to get a little rude, but normally he does so in reaction to something.

The bar’s busier than Daniil assumed it would be for a weeknight. Daniil’s often wondered about the rates of substance abuse in this town, considering how uniquely addictive twyrine appears to be. He starts to think about the statistics - another thing to ask Saburov to implement if he hasn’t already – when Artemy interrupts his thoughts.

“Shouldn’t you be spending all your free time with your boyfriend?” Daniil hasn’t really been paying attention to his surroundings, but his head snaps up now. Artemy isn’t looking at him, scowling at the drink the bartender hands them.

Has he really been moving through the town so quickly that Artemy just assumed he’d have a new boyfriend by now? Daniil gives himself a second to breathe and order a drink for himself before he turns in his seat, running his tongue over his bottom lip. He curls a hand around his drink the second it’s set down before him, crossing his legs at the ankle and waiting for Artemy to turn and face him.

But they don’t. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” Daniil blurts out. He meant to say it more even and measured, but his nerves got to him at the last second. He struggles against the urge to tear at the skin of his lip as he continues, “I’ve actually considered –“ Considered what? Certainly not what he was going to say after he started this sentence, and now Artemy’s looking at him from the sides of his eyes. Daniil clears his throat and squirms, inching a little closer. “Well,” he begins again, “I haven’t been taking this whole relationship idea very seriously, and I’ve considered that it’s time to move on.”

Finally, Artemy turns to face Daniil. Their seats aren’t placed close enough together for their knees to brush, but Daniil finds himself scooting closer to simulate the feeling. He shifts his hands from the glass on the counter to sit between his thighs, pressed tightly together. In his head, Daniil rehearses his next lines.

It’s time I look for someone to be serious with.

“Really?” Artemy asks. Daniil nods.

I’ve considered my options, and I think I know the perfect person.

Artemy looks away again, toying with the napkin under his drink. “You know,” he begins, and pauses to swallow nervously, “I don’t really date, Daniil.” 

Daniil feels himself shatter. He’s an ice cube, alright – only, he’s not thawing out, he’s breaking apart. This is what Bad Greif had warned him about.

And Artemy continues, totally oblivious to Daniil’s plight, “But I think you should do what makes you happy, whatever that is. Be with someone who can make you happy.” He turns his head back around again to look at Daniil, expression grave. Daniil wants so much to scream. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

An ugly impulse Daniil thought he’d done away with long ago rears its head, his wrist twitching with the desire to slap Artemy. He can’t even formulate an answer, spinning himself back to face the bar and taking an unreasonably large drink from his glass. For someone with such poor manners, Artemy seems to know a million ways to politely let him down.

But didn’t he…? No. No, whatever Daniil is thinking, he must have misread. He always does. There must be something Daniil has missed. Artemy must have found out about Bad Grief somehow, and now he’s mad that Daniil has moved on through his friend group. Perhaps he thinks Daniil is trying to take his friends away from him. Or maybe he, like Daniil, is a selfish man who doesn’t want things to change.

They call his name, but their words sound far away to Daniil. He feels utterly miserable, and is doing his damnedest not to look anywhere in Artemy’s vicinity. He nearly chokes, ungracefully, on a mouthful of drink when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to his left, foam on his upper lip, and sees Alexander Block standing before him.

He’s quick to wipe off his mouth on his sleeve, forgetting his own manners in the moment. It’s bad enough he’s just been given the brush off by Artemy, he doesn’t need to look like an idiot in front of yet another failed romantic endeavor. Block looks between Daniil and Artemy, and clears his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he begins, “but when I saw you in here, Daniil, I had to speak to you again.”

“You’re early,” Daniil says with some mumbled surprise. “I thought you weren’t due back until next week?”

“Change of plans.” Block smiles. He’s got his hands pulled behind his back, and Daniil can see Artemy assessing him from his slouch against the bar. “A change that worked out beautifully in my favor. I’ve been wanting to come back and visit this town ever since I’d heard that you stayed.”

Daniil’s shattered nerves start to twitch. What in the world is he talking about? The last time they’d met he didn’t say anything about the past – Daniil wasn’t sure if Block had even recognized him. The revelation that he was the same Dankovsky Alexander had known as a teenager was an awkward, bumbling mess to say the least, and Daniil certainly hadn’t gotten the impression that he was interested in starting things over. All he can say is, “You have?”

“Yes.” Alexander looks at the ground for a moment, as if steeling himself, though how this could possibly rattle him when he’s persevered through so much sabotage and betrayal is beyond Daniil. Surely, speaking to one scientist isn’t that anxiety-inducing. “Are you free for dinner sometime this week?”

The state Daniil’s in, he wants to say no. He wants to say no to anyone and everyone else, lock himself away and become a hermit. He wants to waste away, dramatic and petulant, broken-hearted and awful and alone. He wants to be allowed the indignity of hating his position, of hating being unloved by the one person he wants. But he told himself that if Artemy rejected him tonight, he’d have to finally move on. And there was that well-meaning advice from Grief, to love if he wants to be loved in return. The Alexander he knows is a serious man, one who only acts with absolute certainty, and for whom second chances do not exist.

And Daniil could do worse. He could do a lot, lot worse. Especially when he knows Alexander, and this, like Andrey, will be rekindling an old flame. It’s a perfect mirror; Andrey has never been serious about Daniil, but Alexander always was. And that’s what Daniil needs in his life. Someone serious.

“Yes,” he says, ignoring the eyes boring into the back of his head, “I am.”

The past few days have been awkward. Artemy’s demeanor has not changed at all. He is surly, even at work, to the point where even patients have asked Daniil what’s wrong with him. Daniil has a modicum of control over his emotions, at least insofar as this brand of masking goes. He’s been doing it for long enough that he’s got everyone around him convinced he’s doing fine when he is, unmistakably, doing terribly. He holds it together just long enough to get curled up in bed at night and start to unfold like a paper animal, until he’s crumpled against the mattress. He feels just as badly worn, too.

He tells everyone that everything is fine, and finally pulls Artemy aside to tell him to knock it off. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you the past couple of days, but your attitude is terrible.” Artemy gives him a wild look, cheeks turning red, but they don’t bother to fight back. Daniil thought for sure they’d launch into an argument of some kind, erratic as their behavior has been, but they’ve learned enough to curb their sharp tongue.

That doesn’t stop them from watching Daniil intently, as if expecting him to turn around and do something unexpected. Daniil is not going to give into the urge to start up an argument with him. Whatever Artemy’s going through right now, he clearly doesn’t need Daniil sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. He’s already had his heart broken once. If he can keep their friendship intact, he’s going to. Artemy will come to him with his issues when he’s ready, and only if he wants to.

The one time he tries to ask Artemy what the problem is, Artemy gives him an incredulous look, and says, “Nothing.”

Daniil plans on pulling out all the stops in moving on, and gets out the nicest clothes he has, going through them to decide what looks the best. He’s learned a little about sewing from the nearby tailor and the woman next door, enough to adjust his clothes as need be. He’s looking at himself now, clothing mostly black to hide his curves, but with the exception of a white vest and a red cravat. Shrew stands by his door, looking at him with curiosity. When he notices her, he almost jumps. “You going to see Doctor Burakh?”

“No.” Daniil moves back to the discarded clothes on his bed, moving to hang them in his armoire. Shrew lets herself farther into the room to inspect his bookshelves, pulling out a thick tome and brushing the dust off the front. “I do have a date tonight, though. With the General.”

Shrew turns around to look at him, eyes wide and unblinking. “With the General? What happened to Artemy?”

He doesn’t bother to correct her this time. He chews on his cheek as he finishes re-sorting his clothes, and works to tidy up his desk before he leaves. “Things didn’t quite work out.” His voice comes out softer than he intends it to, sadder. He doesn’t want to drag the kids into his love life, any more than he feels they already have been. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“You know kids my age date, right?” Daniil whips his head around, and she’s smirking at him. “Not me. I don’t like any of the guys here, or any of the girls. But it happens. Like Khan and Capella, or Lukas and Matvei.” She holds the book up. “Do you care if I borrow this?”

“You live here, sweetheart. You can borrow any book you’d like.” He nods. “Incidentally, I hate that one, so if you enjoy it, it’s all yours.” She starts to move back down the stairs, and stops just at the top of them, turning around to look at him again. He fidgets with his gloves, taking in a deep breath as he checks his reflection. “Well,” he says, arms dropped to his sides, “How does this look?”

She appraises him for a moment, nodding. “It looks like you, alright.” She switches the book between hands, playing with it in a way Daniil knows he’s done before during classes. “Are you sure –“ She stops herself for a moment, as if afraid she’s going to be pushing something she shouldn’t. And then she looks up at him, head cocked. “Are you sure you’re going to be happy?”

It’s a heavy question to be asked from someone so young, and he’s not looking to disappoint her. Daniil smiles, and finds that it’s a little easier. “Yes,” he says, and for once he has complete confidence in what he’s saying. “I am going to be happy.” If for no other reason than because he will make himself be so. The answer is enough for his young ward, who sees herself down the stairs as Daniil finishes preparing for his date.

Daniil is downstairs in time to answer the door when Alexander knocks. He’s reminded of the last time a man came for him at the Stillwater, and he wonders idly what Eva would think of his choice in partner this time around. Now that they’re both located on the other side of the river, Eva has admitted she finds Mark decidedly creepy. Maria too; she’d come over one afternoon for a chat, and admitted she wasn’t quite sure what Mark’s role in the Utopian ideologies was, but that he never really left her well enough alone. Daniil isn’t sure how the Kains feel about him anymore, but he hates the idea of Mark hanging around her like a puppet master dangling a doll on thin strings.

He won’t think about that now, though. Alexander greets him with a bouquet of white camellias, and Daniil rushes to put them in water. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s received flowers in his life, and twice have been in this town. This, though, makes his chest ache a little, still right off the pang of last night’s rejection. He takes a moment arranging them so he can readjust his breathing accordingly, before exiting to grab his coat.

Alexander offers his arm to Daniil, and he can see the memory repeating in his mind – not just of Mark, but of Alexander as a younger man. He feels like a teenager again, going out for strolls without telling his parents where he was heading off to. They worried about him less that spring, knowing who he was with, even when he didn’t tell them he was leaving. And now no one is around to tell him what to do or what not to do, it feels somehow more frightening. “So tell me what you’ve been doing in this town since I’ve been gone?”

“Not a lot terribly interesting, I’m afraid.” Daniil slips his right hand into his coat pocket, flexing and squeezing it shut again. “I suppose I did get a clinic set up – with help, of course, from Stanislav Rubin and Artemy Burakh. The former has moved across the river to the new town just recently, but he still pops by on occasion. There is the school, too, where I teach. Science, obviously.”

“And were those students I saw at your house?” Daniil looks up, brows raised. “I came around to find you, and this teenage girl said you had just gone out of the house with Burakh.”

“Ah, right.” He feels a flush creep up on his cheeks. Why’s this embarrassing him? Because he’d never considered parenting before in the past? At the time, Alexander wasn’t considering it either. Things change. “I’m fostering them, as of right now. If things go well, I may adopt them.”

“Aha! So I see you have changed.” Alexander pats his hand, fondly. “I admit, it was strange to see you as an adult after so many years. It would be a lie to say I never thought of you and the person you might have become after that summer.” So he had thought about Daniil. Daniil feels some guilt that he can’t say the same. “You’ve grown into so much fire and feistiness, more than you had when we were young. But you’ve softened, too, and I think that’s wonderful.”

Daniil laughs, cheeks burning brighter. He would have thought it sort of embarrassing how much he’s changed over the course of the time he’s been here. “I worry sometimes I’m not the same person as I always was. Which version of me is fake: the one I am now, or the one I used to be?” He stops himself. Nervous habit makes him chew on his lip a second before he sighs. “Oh, you can tell I spend too much time with the Utopians, and doing philosophy courses in university. I’m sure such questions seem pointless to you.”

“Not at all,” Alexander says. “Identity is at the very crux of humanity. Knowing what you are loyal to is what makes a man what he is. And you know I’ve had my fair share of trials with that question.” Oh, he remembers. Daniil squeezes his arm as they continue down the street. “And, you know, I’m something of an adoptive father myself. I took Clara with me, after all. She has some remarkable powers, things I’ve never seen before –“ he stops their walk, and turns his head to look Daniil in the eye. “You know me as a rational man, Daniil, but she can do miracles.”

“I know, I’ve seen them.” Daniil shakes his head, kicking at a rock on the ground. “I didn’t believe in them before, and I’m still not nearly as religious as my parents, not nearly as inclined to mysticism as the people of this Town are, but this place is bizarre. I’ve seen the strangest things here, things I never thought were possible.” Daniil pauses. “And strange things have happened to me, too. Have been happening ever since I moved here. Things I didn’t think were possible. It’s this Town, I think. It manufactures miracles. The Plague, the Tower, Clara -”

Artemy Burakh. No, no, he shouldn’t be thinking something like that. He is on a date right now, and he is going to have a good time. He is going to be happy. He’s promised this to Shrew, who actually appears to care about his happiness. He is going to make good things happen in his life, no matter how hard he has to work for them.

Block doesn’t take his sudden stop to mean anything important. Daniil wonders if he’s always done this – trailed off in the middle of a sentence. He spends so much time in his head, it wouldn’t surprise him if he did this as a teenager too. And Alexander is giving him such a fond smile as he comes back to the present. “Don’t think of the ways you have changed in the form of a miracle. You are so much more than that.” Daniil can feel himself flustering at that, pushing his hair out of the way of his eyes. “Miracles can be fleeting. There are days Clara’s hands don’t work, and yet she persists. Her spirit is unbreakable, a trait you both share.”

Daniil is still not thrilled with the idea of Clara, still such a young teenager, at the frontlines of a war – though maybe now the army has made a stop in Town, Daniil can convince Block to leave Clara with her old guardians… though he doubts Clara would appreciate that plan. Following Block into battle had been, from what he can recall, Clara’s own suggestion.

“Where is she now, anyway?” he asks as they start up their walk again. “Don’t tell me you left her alone with all those soldiers.”

“Of course not,” Alexander scoffs. “It’s not her I don’t trust. I’d like to trust my men, but you remember how things were those last few days in Town.” He shakes his head. “No, she’s off with some friends right now. I expect she’s enjoying seeing the kids of this Town again. She received many letters from them while she was away.” He pauses in his speech to look down at Daniil again, that same look of steeled determination in his eyes. “I hope that when I return to the front, you will write to me.”

The hope Daniil has been trying to nurture in his heart starts to falter. “You’re not staying?” Alexander shakes his head again. Daniil runs his tongue over his lips. “How long will you be here for, then?”

“A month,” he responds. He squeezes Daniil’s hand. “Don’t misunderstand, Daniil. I wish I could stay for longer, but this is all the leave time we’ve been permitted. There are other battles to be fought. But with your letters to look forward to, there’s no reason for my outlook to be so bleak.” He inclines his head. “Please say you’ll write?”

The pleading look Alexander is giving him, there’s no way Daniil can say no. And what reason would he have to decline? It would give him another thing to do in his free time, and having someone to communicate with, someone who sees so much in him, it would be nice. His smile isn’t tight at all when he finally looks back. “I will. Absolutely, I will.”

Daniil doesn’t tend to remember his dreams, nor does he often dream in full color. Tonight is different. Tonight, his dreams take him into his past, the way the last night’s date had.

In his dream he is fifteen again, has just cut his hair off in the bathroom and is wandering, barefoot, across the front lawn of his childhood home. His mother is standing on the front step, and he can hear her crying after him. She is saying his name, his birth name, but he cannot hear the word. It has turned into slush, into an auditory blur, resulting in nothing. “How can you do that to your pretty hair?” she calls. “What will Sasha think when he sees you again?”

He remembers the bitterness of his words. Alexander isn’t going to see him again, he is going off to the military. To war, as his father had done. His emotional regulation had been even worse at that age, seeing this choice as an abandonment. Everyone always leaves him in the end. He’s never the first choice of the men he loves. He hadn’t waited to see if he could make Alexander change his mind; if men born men could make their own choices, craft their own destiny, then so could he. He is cold, he’s heard them say it. He is ruthless. Abnormal, for a girl. Respectable, for a man.

The skirt he wears is in tatters, because he’d torn at all the itchy lace until it came apart in strips under his fingers. And now he walks out, across the road, down a little path he knows. When this happened in real life, he ran before his mother had time to find the snippets of hair on the bathroom floor, in the bin next to the sink. He ran off, as he often did when things got to be a little too much, and found a place to hide.

But now, in this dream, he’s not alone. He can hear twigs and branches break underfoot just behind him, but he doesn’t bother turning. He knows who it is following him, and he is trying to escape communication. I’m not ready, he thinks. It’s too soon. He shouldn’t be here. All the same, those footsteps follow, and Daniil continues down the trail until he reaches his stopping point. A natural barrier. A river, cutting through the forest.

Three fingers push against his shoulder. Too hard, reckless, careless. They won’t leave a bruise, but an imprint. Daniil doesn’t turn, and those fingers are back, trying to rock his shoulder. Daniil shrugs to get them off, and they fall for a moment. Only a moment, and they are back again, this time with his name on dry lips. “Daniil,” like the earth below him calls to him. He isn’t known by this name yet. He hasn’t picked it. It sounds like leaves falling to ground, and his shoulder shakes again. “Daniil.”

Daniil turns, toes digging in the dirt. He’s always been picky about his textures, about touching the world around him, about dust and mold and dirt and grime and that day, this memory, he ignored it all because touching something he hated made him feel aware of the world around him. It made him whole. But he spent this day, this night, this memory alone, and he stares at the tan, bare feet in front of him with his brows knit together, because he has relived this moment many times and always, always alone.

“Go away,” Daniil says, though his eyes are lifting to the hands, dirt caked under the nails, a scratch on the back pulling the skin in red. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Be oylgono ugyb. I wouldn’t be here unless you wanted me to be.” Daniil can look up at them now, eyes clearer than the water behind him. He’s skinnier here – they both are, haven’t had the chance to grow into their features. Seeing them like this is surreal. Daniil would have no way of knowing this is what they’d look like, at this age. This Town is strange. “What do you want, Daniil? Why are you here?”

I don’t want anything, Daniil thinks. This is just a dream. “I want to go back,” he says. The dirt feels like dust under his toes, feels papery and thin. He doesn’t hear it in his own child’s voice, soft and high-pitched. It sounds cracked, deeper. It sounds erratic, emotional, the way he never does out loud. “I want to go back to when things were simple.”

“Things were never simple,” they tell him. Daniil can’t look at their face all in one go, the way he would appreciate fine art. He looks at it now in pieces, the way he should, to assess a change, to take in the little differences. “They only seemed simple because we were younger then. You were different, then.” Daniil tries to look into their eyes, but he can’t. “What are you afraid of? What are you running from?”

Love. “I’m not running because I’m scared.” He sticks his chin out, defiant. You. “I didn’t even run. I just walked. And I walked to where I always go, when things are too much. Out to the stream.” Daniil squats down in place, tearing his gaze back down to the dirt under his feet. “There are bugs out here. Ones I haven’t seen before. Ones I haven’t seen in years.”

Artemy squats down next to him, but doesn’t bother to look through the dirt the way Daniil is doing. They are almost close enough to touch, but Artemy is looking past him. Looking at the river. “What are we doing out here, Daniil? Why did you bring me out here?” This was before Daniil got his gloves, so why can’t he feel the mud under his fingernails? Why is everything so fuzzy, so flimsy? Why does his mouth taste like cotton? “Daniil?”

“I need you to understand,” Daniil says. His voice comes out so soft, so quiet, barely able to hear the words he’s saying. He can feel his lips move as if pulled against a fabric. A cloth mask. His hands are covered by a set of black gloves. They are standing in an alleyway, Daniil digging through the pocket of a mugger that tried to take his life and Artemy is looking at him with a piercing gaze, sharp enough to shatter the ice he’s lost in. “I need you to understand.”

Daniil wakes up with a flinch, fingers curling reflexively on his mattress. He tells his body to loosen its tensity and rolls onto his back, pulling his hands up to his face. His heart races for a moment, droning from his dream echoing in his ears. He’s dreamt of the Pest before, as he knew he would. It’s something that happens from time to time, something he has gotten used to. But the first part of his dream, the way it morphed into the plague – that, he doesn’t understand. His eyes close, and he covers them, rubbing at them hard with his fingertips. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and his hand travels down his face to tug on his lips.

The dream itself doesn’t linger, but the feeling it evoked does. As he gets up and gets dressed, his thoughts meandering elsewhere, he slowly begins to forget the details of the dream. But that affect, the meaning of it – it makes him start to panic, wondering if he should hold onto it. But what for? He knows himself, knows that he needs to work on letting things go. What other way is there of being happy?

He thought he was happy in the Capital, but maybe that’s not the word for what he was - he was driven into slumps there, too. Maybe the word was not happiness, but complacent. Contentedness. Maybe it was just comfort. Maybe it was just the only thing he knew, and nostalgia made it seem so much better than it was.

Maybe Daniil’s never been happy, not really.

He stares at his hands for a moment. He hasn’t gotten around to putting on his gloves yet, and he can see the veins through the pale flesh, the way his skin grows darker by his knuckles, the callous on his ring finger from years of writing, the burn scar on his thumb from a lab accident, the chips in his nails. He’s getting a little old now, isn’t he, to sit back and realize he’s not sure if he knows what happiness feels like.

Watching animals pace through the bars of the zoo. A blanket pulled up beneath his chin. A warm, dry hand on his as he walks through the streets. Sitting back, looking at a completed essay, hand sore from hours of writing. An easy moment spent in silence, knees brushing together under the table. Helping someone else cook a meal for more than two. No – it’s been small, but he has felt happiness.

And today, he’s going to experience some more. He’s not used to sharing his life with others. He was an only child, growing up, and then kept his flat on his own in the Capital. He had acquaintances he could call friendly at Thanatica, colleagues he respected, but nothing quite like he had grown used to here. Eva had pulled him aside the last time he was over to admonish him for never bringing a date with him. “How can we tell if we approve of your partners if you never bring them here?”

It shouldn’t matter, one way or the other, if Eva or Yulia or anybody else approves of his partners, but if this is what being alive is, then Daniil can learn to live with it.

(Alive. Maybe that’s what Daniil had never felt before.)

It’s only been a week, and so many conversations about the past, about things Daniil has missed, about things he can’t reclaim, but he’s bringing Block across the river to see the new Town, and he might as well meet Daniil’s friends while he’s there. He does want this to be serious, after all. He needs this relationship to be serious.

Shrew decides to put herself in charge of dressing Daniil for the day, and because he’s amused at her rather bold demand, he lets her. “What do Utopians even talk about during their parties?” she asks as she sorts through his vests. He watches her look go despairing at a pinstripe article, and laughs. “I don’t get what adults in general have to talk about. You guys don’t even carry around nuts! That must be boring.”

“To you, right now, it is boring. It was boring for me when I was your age, too.” He accepts the blue vest she hands over, slipping it on, buttoning it over his stomach. This one has a shorter cut than his usual red vest, so it’s less pressure on his chest. He hopes no one notices the curve. “It’s just a shift in priorities, in responsibilities. The older you get, you find yourself focusing on different things. Things that matter to you now may not matter as much in a few years.” She scrunches up her nose, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry. You’ve still got a while before you have to worry about anything like that. And the change will be so gradual, you won’t even notice.”

She doesn’t argue. She hands him his brush and watches him fix his hair before heading back down the steps and off to her room. Daniil can’t spend all day in the new Town; he needs to be back before nightfall to continue working on the vaccine with Artemy. Artemy, who has finally stopped stomping around but descended into his own brand of helpless melancholy. It’s getting slightly out of hand, and tonight Daniil has decided to confront him about it, no matter what the outcome is. If Artemy hates him for broaching the subject, then so be it. He thinks it’s the better option, even if he’s unused to saying he cares in so many words.

Alexander is there to meet him at the door once again, punctual as always. He does not bring Daniil flowers this time, and seems nervous in his own way. Daniil takes his arm without waiting for it to be offered, leading him down the path and through the archway.

“You seem anxious,” Daniil comments.

The other man fidgets with the buttons on his coat. “The last time I was in this town, I didn’t have much of a chance to interact with its inhabitants. Not beyond that strange –“ he stops toying with his clothing long enough to gesture, lips bowing into a frown, “that whole debacle where one of the women wanted to try and kill me. Whatever that whole spectacle was.” Daniil nods solemnly. “And these are friends of yours, the former owner of the house you now dwell in. It’s important that they like me, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a requirement, but it would be nice,” Daniil agrees. Despite his best attempts at a comforting smile, his suitor still looks understandably uncomfortable. Daniil huffs, one hand on Alexander’s shoulder to bring him down to level, to kiss his cheek softly. “They’ll like you. Eva likes everybody. And even if they don’t, who cares? It’s not as if I’m going to change my mind.” Alexander seems more comforted by that notion, though his posture is still ramrod straight as they make their way past the Cathedral and over the bridge.

The new Town must look bizarre to an outsider. Daniil hadn’t really thought of it before; he’s used to strange architecture from the Capital, used to the unique ideas of his friends on both sides of the river, and has never spared a thought for how threatening things might feel to someone else. The theatre is as ominous as ever, cast in deep red light as it overlooks the rest of the town. Daniil tugs Alexander away from his appalled stare at the ominous building and toward Eva’s house, washing up like debris onto the shore.

Eva opens the door to them excitedly, before they’ve even knocked to announce their arrival. She is bouncy, hair down almost to her ankles. She reminds Daniil a little of an excitable lapdog, dragging them in without a moment of hesitation. It seems half the new town is in her house, though Daniil knows that cannot be true. He doesn’t recognize most of the people crowded around, though here and there he picks out a familiar face – like Maria, graceful as ever, standing with her back parallel to the wall, looking out a window. Daniil does not often sit through large parties, too restless with the notion of making small talk for such a long period of time. He never liked it in the Capital, either, attending large galas and trying to flirt his way into funding from bored socialites.

At least he is here with someone who understands his pain, though it is clear that Sasha has some experience socializing like this himself. Army parties, Daniil figures. His mother had been to them when Daniil was growing up, always exhausted by the time she arrived home again. Daniil had been spared the tedium for a while, too young to attend most of the parties his father was invited to. But that had not lasted forever, and as a teenager he’d been expected to attend and behave himself. Which is, naturally, how he met Alexander in the first place.

He explains this to Eva, her hair now flowing over her shoulder, a cup in one hand. Andrey stands behind the island counter, making a drink for himself and one for Daniil, passing them over. Eva nods as she listens, and starts to comb her fingers through the strands. “So he’s your first love, then?” she asks.

How very like herself to ask that kind of question. Daniil had never considered the possibility before, because at sixteen his parents insisted he was too young to really know the meaning of the term. He didn’t appreciate their condescension. As an adult, he no longer knew what it was he had felt, only that there were some feelings now, too, growing inside his stomach, struggling for dominance. “I suppose so,” he says, taking the drink from Andrey’s hand.

“He’s as awkward as you are, Danko,” Andrey says with a nod in Block’s direction. If he is, it doesn’t seem to have deterred the interested townsfolk from flooding him with questions. When he looks in Daniil’s direction, he does almost seem to be drowning, blue eyes uneasy.

The difference in blues, the difference in hues between his eyes and Artemy’s. Daniil remembers them suddenly, piercing, his hands full of dirt, his hands full of blood, looking at each other. Looking past each other. His grip goes too tight against his cup, shaking it and spilling the drink over onto his gloves until Eva grabs his wrist. Daniil cannot think, for a moment. He can’t breathe. He suddenly needs so badly to talk to Artemy, his mouth dry, his throat cracked. He doesn’t know what to say, but it needs to be something.

“Are you alright, my Daniil?” Daniil only nods. His mouth goes flat when he tries to smile at her. He can’t go running to Artemy now, and so he heads back to where he belongs, next to Block’s side.

Daniil is so worn out after the party at Eva’s that he barely mumbles a goodbye to Alexander or a hello to his kids before he is up the stairs, slipping out of his clothes and hiding under his sheets. He has a little time to relax before he’s meant to resume his experimentation with Artemy, and though he only intends to stare off into space and let his mind reconnect, he dozes off. He feels warm, feels heavy and held against the texture of his sheets, all until someone is shaking his shoulder. He doesn’t think, for a moment, doesn’t react the way he should. He rolls over onto his side, cheek resting against the hand attempting to wake him up.

There’s a soft noise of quiet anguish, and something mumbled. “Not now, not now… Wake up, khayratay inagni. We had an appointment, don’t you remember?” Daniil feels himself sigh, and that thumb is soft as it strokes across his cheek. Artemy, he thinks. That sudden hypervigilance of the last week has rescinded, and here he is treating Daniil with gentility. Daniil feels words tumble from his mouth, though he doesn’t make out what they are as his eyes blink awake.

Artemy’s are shiny, gazing down at him. Daniil tries to stretch without the blanket dropping down over his chest, and Artemy busies themself picking up Daniil’s discarded shirt as he yawns. “Dear god,” Daniil mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “How long did I sleep?”

“I wouldn’t know. I only just arrived.” They hand the shirt over, and quickly look away again. Daniil would almost think them embarrassed, but they have no reason to be. Daniil is the one who has always been more uptight about privacy in this town. He starts to redress, but leaves his chest alone and shirt untucked from his trousers, hair messy even as he combs his fingers through it. “Your daughter let me in, said she was a little worried when you passed out immediately.”

“Socializing,” Daniil says by way of explanation. “And I have to make dinner now, if you’d be so kind as to wait a little longer.” Artemy shrugs, turning around to look him over. Daniil blinks at him, unsure what they’re staring at each other for. “I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.” Artemy nods, and holds their hands up, fingers spread. Daniil starts to lead him back down the stairs, throwing a “And how are you?” over his shoulder.

As they descend, Daniil is met by not two, but three faces. Shrew and Sleepy Head, he might have expected, but Sticky is here as well. He can feel the hesitation in Artemy’s steps behind him just as easily as he can hear it. “Don’t worry about me,” Artemy mutters, likely so his son can’t hear it.

“I had no idea I’d be having an extra guest for dinner,” Daniil says, and he looks around Sticky’s shoulder as he hits the landing. “And where is your sister? Don’t tell me you left her at home by herself.”

“She’s fine, Doctor Dankovsky. She’s with Notkin.” He wipes his hands off nervously on his jeans. “And you don’t need to worry about me, we already ate! I wanted to see if I could help you make that vaccine, like Doctor Rubin did.”

Daniil frowns, and looks at his own kids. “How late did I sleep?” He fumbles around his trouser pockets for a watch. It’s nearly seven-thirty. Hysteria bubbles up in his chest. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You seemed real out of it,” Sleepy Head says. “It’s fine, Daniil. We can fend for ourselves.”

“You shouldn’t have to!” he exclaims. “I’m your guardian, I’m meant to take care of you!” Artemy’s fingers press against his neck, and he starts to go sort of limbless around the pressure. It feels good, but he doesn’t particularly want to feel good right now. He’s messed this up, he can’t relax. But here Artemy is, shushing him, like a parent with a whiny child. “Still, I’ll – I’m going to make dinner, and that settles it.” He doesn’t wait for any argument, making his way into the kitchen.

The kids don’t follow him, but Artemy does, hovering over his shoulder as he rummages through his cabinets. He should have everything he needs for blini, hands trembling as he pulls out his ingredients and a bowl. “Are you sure you’re alright to cook, erdem?”

“I’m fine.” He intends to snap, but his words come out as a whine. He sees Artemy go up to his cupboards, casually, and pull something out. He can see the hand in his peripheral vision, offering him bread. “I said, I’m fine!” But his voice sounds close to tears, and Artemy is every bit as stubborn as he is, grabbing hold of the back of his shirt with their free hand and dragging him back.

“Your hands are shaking, Daniil. Please, this will only take a second.” Daniil huffs. They must look like a mother cat and kitten this way, but the kids are out in the main section of the house, so there’s no one around to watch his grief. He goes slack, and takes the bread more harshly than he needs to, tearing a giant piece out between his teeth. He half expects Artemy to pat his head and call him a good boy, but they only frown. “Did things not go well today?”

“They went perfectly fine. Eva had half the new town in her house. It was wonderful.” Artemy huffs a laugh, and ducks their head. Daniil almost smiles, despite his frazzled mind. “Really, though. Things went perfectly well. Maria opted not to comment. Andrey was…Andrey, but the rest seemed perfectly fine with Alexander.”

“Alexander,” Artemy repeats, slowly. Daniil looks up, fixated for a moment on the curve of Artemy’s lips before he makes himself look elsewhere. “Sorry. It’s just strange to hear him addressed by first name. By any name, really. Gravel always calls him General Ashes.” He walks around a moment, unsure of what to do with himself, and finally settles with one hip leaning against the counter. “You’re lucky she’s too preoccupied with the school to try and rework her old plan, not that I think it would get her far. I can’t imagine it going much differently than it had the last time.”

“He remembers.” Daniil can understand hearing Block’s name being a strange phenomenon to Artemy. Daniil hadn’t called him Alexander the last time he was here in an official capacity, hadn’t thought about him much in between then and now. But speaking about him with Artemy feels wrong, even tastes wrong, as though the bread in his mouth has gone moldy while he’s been chewing on it. Daniil swallows, and turns back around to restart his cooking. “While we’re here embarrassing ourselves with a breakdown, I think it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” Daniil starts to warm the butter up on the stove, whisking together the dry ingredients. “And whatever could you mean by that, Daniil?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Artemy.” He pulls out a separate bowl and starts mixing together the egg and milk. “You’ve been cranky for the better part of a week now.” The tension from the staircase is back. He’s not sure what gives it away, dropping the melted butter into his mixture. “I wasn’t going to push you, because I know how you hate to be rushed. But it’s important to me that you know that I –“ he pauses. Why is saying it still so damned difficult? His voice even gives out on the last word. “That I care.” For you.

No. No, none of that. Artemy is slow to reply, but they do say, “I care about you too, Daniil. A lot.” They clear their throat, looking down at the board. “I’m not really sure it’s something you can help me with, though. I’ve never been the best at voicing my emotions.” They raise their hand, and clench it into a fist, tightly. “It feels like the weight of the last six months have just now hit me. And it’s…” they trail off, shaking their head. They rub their forehead, and look at Daniil. “I’m sorry, emshen. I know I haven’t been the easiest to work with.”

“Let’s not be coy, I know I’m not either.” He combines the separate mixtures and gets to work cooking. “But I know we each went through quite an ordeal those two weeks. I only started to process them recently myself.” Artemy remains oddly quiet. It’s as though he isn’t even there. Daniil sighs just to fill the empty space with some noise. “It was pointed out to me that I have just been doing everything I can get my hands on in order to keep myself busy, and it’s not an entirely unfair assessment. But it doesn’t always work for me, so I’ll reckon it doesn’t always work for you, either.”

“Right,” Artemy replies. Their voice sounds so far off, though they haven’t moved an inch. Daniil works around them to quickly plate the blini as they finish. “Those two weeks.”

“And Artemy, I did study death and grieving. I’m not a psychologist by any stretch of the imagination, and I don’t feel that comfortable being another person’s shoulder to cry on, but,” he touches their arm, softly. Artemy’s pretty eyes flutter to meet his, lips parted. “Artemy, I would try for you.” He watches Artemy’s mouth twist as he grinds his teeth, staring down at Daniil. Something about this interaction feels dangerous, but Daniil cannot place why.

“Thank you, nookhnerni.” Artemy’s hand covers his, and he nearly burns a batch of the pancakes before he catches himself and starts to plate them. Artemy excuses himself to go call the kids into the dining room, and Daniil thinks he sees something sad and knowing pass between Sticky and Artemy, but he can’t tell what it is. It’s not for him to know.

The list of things to try to get Daniil off his mind is getting smaller and smaller. It wasn’t a very big list to begin with; he’d maybe gone a little too far into researching Daniil’s Latin reference of the day and come away with the conclusion that he was not about to go to war to forget Daniil (though considering current circumstances, maybe going to war would have had a favorable outcome), focusing on his herbs was already a part of his job and doing so little to help him out, and there’s no way he’s going to start dating someone just to get over Daniil. Maybe Daniil could do it – maybe that’s what Daniil is doing right now – but Artemy can’t make himself do something that unfair to someone else.

He tries focusing on that for a moment, on the idea that Daniil is being unjust to the people he’s with, dating them just to get his mind off of Artemy. That should make Artemy find him repulsive, shouldn’t it? But he’s working on not being so judgmental, and he can’t see any signs that Daniil is deliberately leading people on. Daniil seems to be genuinely trying in these relationships, and he’d been far from the first person to get over someone by getting under someone new, and it was sort of Artemy’s fault in the first place, and maybe Artemy had just imagined the entire idea of Daniil being into them to begin with. Maybe Daniil really has moved on. Even if it feels like there are still sparks between them. It’s not impossible. They’ve been wrong before.

Safe to say, these cures for love aren’t working. They’ve tried to tell themself their feelings aren’t real, to act as though they feel nothing when they feel so much, to focus on other things only to find Daniil still in the back of their mind, blinding as the winter sun. Artemy even attempted to start an argument between them, just to remind themself of all the things about Daniil that used to drive them crazy, but it didn’t work. Daniil’s changed too much, grown too much over the past six months. All it did was make them both upset.

Stupid, stupid Artemy. Why did they try to come up with some sort of speech about commitment and relationships that night, about moving between friendship and romance? They should have acted first, just said to Daniil they wanted to be with him and then explained later that their idea of dates wasn’t any different from what they’d already been doing. He shouldn’t have even tried words when he was never good at them. He should have just acted immediately, and then maybe Block wouldn’t have come over and made his move and Daniil would be with him now, and not the Commander.

Artemy tries to keep his cool for the first month of their dating, thinking to himself that he’s waited out worse. He’s not Block’s biggest fan, though at least the man had been merciful enough not to bombard the entire town when it came down to it. Not for lack of trying on Daniil’s part, which put them all at a strange standoff the way things were now. Artemy had to begrudgingly give him that much, even if he was still on the fence about Stakh’s initial plan to leave with the Army and Block’s own suggestion that Artemy come with them. It was funny to think about, in hindsight, that a little part of his brain nearly suggested he bring Dankovsky. Dodged a bullet there, only for it to ricochet and smack him between the eyes anyway.

It’ll all be over soon, he tells himself. The longest relationship Daniil has been in was with Mark, three months, and most of his relationships hadn’t even lasted that. However long it is he has to wait, he can manage. Artemy is a patient man – or at least, he’s going to be. He’d thought there weren’t many people left for Daniil to jump to, but clearly Artemy has underestimated Daniil’s stubbornness. Whatever it is keeping Daniil from considering Artemy as a potential partner, Artemy will just have to remedy it in the time it takes for Daniil to date the Commander.

Three months, maximum. Artemy just has to bide his time.

Block leaves about a month after he arrives, and Artemy is giddy at the thought of it. He tries to play nonchalant to Daniil over lunch one afternoon, their feet not quite touching under the desk. “What happened to Block?” Artemy asks. “I haven’t seen him around town.”

“He’s back at the Front,” Daniil responds. His tone is as flat as ever, and Artemy can’t pick out the emotion behind the words he says. They open their mouth to apologize for things not working out, when Daniil says, “And the first thing he does is send me a letter. Ridiculous! I’m glad to know he arrived safely, of course, but he has more important things to do then write to me.”

They pause for a moment, letting that roll over in their head. So their relationship hadn’t hit the natural end of Block leaving for battle? That’s no reason for Artemy to panic, though a clawing sensation in their stomach tells them even then that they should worry. There’s no reason for Daniil to introduce his friends to people with whom they were already acquainted, but that doesn’t stop them from worrying this relationship with Block means more to him than the previous five had. “You’re keeping up your relationship through letters.”

It’s meant more as a statement than a question, because a question would make them seem far too desperate. They watch Daniil’s mouth coil upwards, and some expression close to genuine happiness overtakes his face. “Yes,” he says. “I know it’ll be difficult, but I want something steady, something serious, and that requires work.” He settled back down against his chair, eyes closed, and said, “Post tenebras lux.” He looked up at Artemy, and translated. “After darkness, light.”

Artemy wants to kick something. Themself, preferably. They refrain by biting the inside of their cheek so hard it bleeds, tongue pressed against the swelling bruise. They try to keep in mind that all of Daniil’s relationships seemed good at the start, and all have fallen apart for one reason or another. But when he thinks that, two warring voices in his head crop up. The first one asks, How can you be sure yours would be any different? And the second, How can you be sure things with Block aren’t?

The short answer is that he can’t, but he refuses to entertain his anxiety over something like this. Over the space of six months, Daniil has become an incredibly important part of his life, and he has repeatedly risked losing him over stupid mistakes. He isn’t interested in numbly ghosting along with the hopes that he can fix himself up when the next opportunity arrives. No; if he wants Daniil’s attention, he’ll have to act whenever the opportunity arises.

On the second month of Daniil and Block’s relationship, Artemy makes unabashed moves to incorporate Daniil as part of their family. And since Block is out of sight, out of mind for now, there’s nothing stopping them from having Daniil over for weekly dinners. It’s just that now, they sweeten the deal: they suggest that Daniil bring his kids with him. And that’s clearly what tips the man over the edge into accepting his invitation, showing up on Saturday with both Sleepy Head and Shrew in tow. Sticky looks up at Artemy with a clear plan set in mind behind his eyes, and tears off up the stairs with the other teens to get out of the adults’ way.

“Kids,” Artemy breathes. Really, Sticky is far too intelligent for his own good. Daniil nods and follows Artemy inside the house. They spend a couple hours just talking as normal, everything going great, as if things had never changed. Daniil is light and happy, falling easily into the same banter they had all that time ago, but lacking the dangerous edges they’d cut themselves over. It really feels the way Artemy would want any date to go, if he’d ever spent his time imagining romantic interludes.

This, they think, is what love is. The sunlight filters in through the window and casts highlights in Daniil’s hair that nearly look silver, brushing his hair back over his head. His brows, for once, are not furrowed, no creases in his face as he recounts some ridiculous trial he faced in the Capital as a young man, dark brown eyes lost in a memory. He is gorgeous like this, and Artemy’s heart hammers painfully in their chest as they watch his gesture. He settles his hand back down to the table to grab his bottle, taking a swig of water.

“As you can tell, Andrey’s hardly changed since then.” Andrey, right. Daniil was talking about knowing him in college. He brushes the side of his cheek, against those gentle scars. “That’s where I got this scar, by the way. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed it.”

“I have.” Artemy’s hand starts to reach out, to caress his cheek, before he catches what he’s doing and lets his hand drop to the table. His cheeks must be absurdly red, but he’ll let his vulnerability show if it lets Daniil know that he can be serious, he can be steady. Because maybe that’s what Daniil has been looking for, maybe that’s why he hasn’t tried his luck with Artemy yet. Whatever reason Daniil has for holding back, Artemy aims to change his mind, one weekly dinner at a time.

When month three of the Block-Dankovsky relationship starts up, Artemy is thrumming with anticipation. There have been gentle reminders here and there that Block is still a figure in Daniil’s life. Artemy does not exactly ask, even in ways that would be deemed polite. He doesn’t want to seem too interested in the outcome, especially if he can overrun Daniil’s free time with other kinds of talk. He knows his hopes are naïve, childish even, born from a lack of object permanence. Block will not disappear from Daniil’s mind or heart just because Artemy is there to occupy his time, but all the same he catches himself daydreaming wistfully about taking Daniil’s hand in his, pulling it up to his mouth and kissing the soft wrist beneath the line of leather. He thinks about it so much he nearly does it, but Daniil is there again to tell him, “Alexander’s coming to visit next week.”

That’s all it takes to tank Artemy’s mood. “Oh,” they say. And that’s all they say, because there’s nothing else for them to really say. Daniil is toying with his cravat the way he always does when he’s nervous, and Artemy allows themself a brief moment to pretend things may end up on his side. “Something wrong, emshen?”

“No,” he says, mouth bowing.

Artemy’s fingers curl into their hand, tense. “You know you can always talk to me, Daniil.” Say the relationship isn’t working. “I don’t have much to give in the way of advice about these kinds of relationships,” Say you’re thinking of breaking up with him. “But I am here for you, to listen.” Say you want me instead.

Daniil laughs a little, a nervous sound. His hand moves from playing with the fabric of his cravat to pulling at the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s nothing bad, I just hadn’t told you.” Their heart leaps. Could they have missed something? “But – well, you are one of the best friends I have managed to make in my life. You are so very important to me, and Alexander knows that.” Was there jealousy? Had he said something that made Daniil think twice about their relationship? Did Block know Daniil once had feelings for him? “And it would mean a lot to me if the two of you got along.”

Ah, shit. Artemy hadn’t been thinking of that. They struggle to smile, but it’s obvious Daniil was expecting resistance to his plan. “I know you’re not the biggest fan of him, and I have heard Lara out about her personal grievance with the Commander –“ Really? He’d spoken to Lara? And neither ever thought to mention it to him? “But I’ve introduced him to my other friends already. I don’t think I’ll be able to reintroduce him to my parents, and so…”

“And so you’d like him to meet me. Properly meet me.” Daniil nods. This request couldn’t be much more disastrous if it tried. Artemy tries to think of a good reason to say no, but they can’t seem to think of one. They know their distaste must be showing on their face, considering the way Daniil is looking at them, so they don’t bother hiding the struggle in their sigh. “If it means that much to you, Daniil, then I will.”

They try to tell themselves it’s worth it for the grin Daniil gives them, but it doesn’t feel very worth it. Daniil goes back to relative normal once he’s gotten Artemy’s acceptance, and Artemy tries not to be too dramatic about the whole thing. The week passes, month four starts, and his whole body rails against itself when he feels Block roll into Town. And he truly does feel it, in the way he’s connected to the Earth here, clutching his pillow too tight as his stomach turns over.

Not being too dramatic, his ass. His body protests the very notion of playing nice with his romantic rival.

Block, though, doesn’t seem the least bit aware that Artemy stands in opposition to him. Daniil schedules them to all meet for lunch on a Saturday, relieving Artemy of the excuse to wear his work clothes. He fidgets in front of his closet, unable to decide if he should dress up nice for the day or just wear whatever’s clean. Sticky’s the one to take that option away from him, sorting through his clothes and picking out an outfit. He’ll never dress to Daniil’s standards, but Sticky has an idea of his own. “Doctor Dankovsky would like this button-up,” he hints, and Artemy wonders what it is exactly he’s failing to pick up on that his son is not. And when he meets the two of them in the park, Daniil is nervous, but Block is boisterous.

“Artemy Isidorovich,” he greets, hand out. His handshake is firm, warm without being sweaty. Daniil feels his hands as if they’re caked in dirt by comparison, and perhaps they are. Artemy nods and mumbles, dropping his hand. “I see your efforts to eradicate the Pest were a success.”

“You stayed and watched us bottle the cure,” Artemy points out. “The Army couldn’t leave until you knew we were successful.”

He watches Block’s face do something funny, suddenly realizing he’d made a completely obvious statement. It was the sort of thing Daniil sometimes did, the sort of face he sometimes made when he’d managed to misstep in front of a patient. He thought Daniil had only had that in common with Murky, and it burns to know they share traits somewhere else. Like Artemy cannot help but lose somewhere. Far from looking unimpressed with this misstep, Daniil looks endeared. “Yes, well,” Block says, his eyes never leaving Artemy’s, “There is always the possibility of a cure only sending the disease into remission. And no similar outbreaks have occurred since the fall of the tower?”

Daniil does flinch, a little. Score one for Artemy, they suppose, that they know not to talk about something and Block does not. “No, there haven’t been. Only seasonal colds and flus.” They look at Daniil, and he grins back, encouraging. He doesn’t want to make nice, not really, but he promised Daniil that he would. And so he swallows his pride for a moment, and lets the shortest man lead the way. He tells Block a little about the clinic he and Daniil run together. He’s unsure if he should make his sentences clipped and short, the way the Commander is used to, but Block never even stops to ask questions, waiting for him to finish before he says anything more.

In short, he’s a perfectly great listener. He’s easy to talk to. And it’s pissing Artemy off.

Artemy tries not to focus on the insane amount of ire he feels over every little thing as it crops up now. This is a horrible time for him to become over-sensitive, because Daniil is positively thrilled with the way things are turning out. Artemy doesn’t pay much attention to a bulk of the conversation they have, only really coming back into it with guilt when he notices Daniil staring at him with a small, tight frown on his face.

“You really do have quite a charming town here, Artemy,” Block comments. Artemy mumbles out a thank-you from over the lip of his cup of coffee. Block seems to be picking his words carefully, and Artemy wonders what a man like him has to say about this place, having been and seen as many varied lands as Block almost certainly has. He remembers Lara’s father talking about his travels when they were children, and Artemy had never put much thought into the fact that all those places being occupied could not have possibly enjoyed the military presence.

As an adult, he knows better. “Daniil certainly thinks so too. Now, anyway.” It’s petty of them, perhaps, to flaunt how well they’ve come to know Daniil in the time Daniil has spent in Town, especially as they can no longer claim to have known Daniil first. In a way, they feel they’re the last to come to know Daniil. “I imagine it’s a stark contrast from the very caedite eos world you live in.”

But whatever bait they’re attempting to dangle, whatever fight they’re hoping to unleash, Block misses it. He reaches over and grabs Daniil’s right hand, and Artemy’s pulse jumps in irritation. “Yes,” Block says, looking at his partner adoringly, sickeningly, “I know how much this Town means to him,” he looks back at Artemy. “How much you mean to him.” No, you really don’t know. “I wanted to thank you, actually. It’s hard, finding someone you can trust, someone to care so deeply for the same principles and the people you care for. It’s a problem Danya and I share. And I wanted to thank you, personally, for being his friend.”

Oh, god, Artemy feels guilt rolling around in his stomach. Guilt, from this. And he shouldn’t even – Block was gone! He’d had his chance to make a move on Daniil when he’d arrived with the Army all those days ago! Or back when they were in their teens, before he’d left to join with the Army. What right did he have now to come in and take Daniil away from him? Artemy’s teeth grind so hard his jaw feels wired shut, and he takes another sip of his coffee just to keep himself from seizing up. “Of course we’re friends,” Artemy manages to force out. “Daniil means so much to me.”

Daniil gives him an odd look, and for a moment they stare at each other, and only each other. Daniil is, as always, the first to break the eye contact, but Artemy can’t help it if his eyes linger helplessly on Daniil’s collar. “It’s made me think that, when it’s time for me to retire and settle down, this might be the perfect place to do so.” Daniil readjusts himself in his seat, leaning closer to Block. And he looks, really looks…interested. Like he cares. Artemy swallows thickly, as he always does when he’s on the verge of tears.

Stupid. Coming out with them was stupid. “It is a good place to raise a family,” he says, because there’s no way Daniil is leaving his kids out of this, no way Block is leaving Clara. Strange, taking a girl her age to war with him, but it’s obvious he cares about her as more than just a tool for slaughter. And in the end, having Daniil close but out of reach is better than having him nowhere near at all. “And Daniil knows that much, too.”

“Yes! I’ve met his children. Sharp, those two are. They’re flourishing in his care.” He smiles at Artemy. “And I hear you’ve got children, too. Tell me about them.”

So he does, because Artemy can never resist an opportunity to talk about his kids. His kids, who had asked him before when Daniil was going to be staying, when Artemy was going to be admitting his feelings, who were going to sigh at him with disappointment when he came back again, unable to follow-through.

“They adore Daniil,” he blurts out, near the end. He’s lucky to refrain the information, So do I.

Block’s off back to his hotel before Daniil opts to walk Artemy back home. In any context, Artemy would enjoy looking at him, but here he is especially overjoyed to do so. Artemy did not see him all dressed up for that party at Eva’s, but it must have been something similar. The dark blue of his vest, the lighter blue of his shirt. It’s strange to see him in anything that isn’t red or black, but seeing him branch out and flower from his roots is nice. If only Artemy had been the one to inspire that change. At least Daniil seems more at home in his figure now that Artemy has stopped ogling him at every given opportunity.

Daniil is quiet for several minutes, but he stops Artemy not far from his house with one hand on his arm. He had been ice before, now thawed, his eyes the color of coffee. “Artemy,” he says, and in that moment Artemy feels his breath arrested. “I want you to know that whatever happens between Block and myself, you will always remain my friend.”

Oh. He hadn’t even expressed his feelings yet, and already he was finding himself rejected. Is how he feels that obvious? He licks his lips, because he wants to open his mouth. He wants to argue. He wants to insist that he’s better for Daniil, that Daniil had wanted him first, what had changed that? What was he doing wrong?

But to bring it up now would be pointless, petty. He curls his lips, tucks them under his teeth, and says, “I know.”

Alexander,

You talk of my sacrifices, my losses, but it is you who is still under threat. Everywhere you are sent, I worry. It pains me to hear that the Powers That Be are still hounding you, after all you have done for this country. It would not surprise me if I were to hear that these mutineers were an orchestrated attack from the higher-ups. Quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius, as the saying goes.

When are you next on leave? Things have been getting rather overwhelming lately. I want to ensure –

Daniil pauses in his writing. He’s not sure what it is he wants to put down to words next. It will be six months coming up, and things have been moving so smoothly. So easily, so carelessly that Daniil has found himself forgetting from time to time he was in a relationship at all. He couldn’t tell if that was a good thing, or a bad one, but it felt dangerous. He’d be over at Artemy’s house, having dinner with him and his kids, and everything would feel so light and so airy, and all at once he’d remember he was with someone, and start to question what he was doing. Start to question his sincerity.

He can’t admit to someone else what he doesn’t want to admit to himself: that things aren’t working, and they’re not working because of him. Or, it’s not so much that they aren’t working, because the relationship is progressing perfectly fine. It’s the steadiest and most stable one he’s been in, and of course it would be. Alexander has always been reliable. But while it works, it still doesn’t feel right, and Daniil knows it’s himself that’s the problem. It’s always been him.

I want to ensure that I don’t lose interest. I want to ensure that this works. I want to ensure that I am loved, even if I cannot love in return. These awful words come to him, but he doesn’t write them down. It feels sometimes like his chest could be swiftly cracked open by a set of large hands, the cavity excavated to determine whether a heart beats inside or not. Six months, and Daniil is starting to wonder if last year’s play was right about him. He is cruel, he is vicious. He does not understand love, and he does not deserve it.

If he could make himself redirect his feelings entirely to Alexander, all his problems would be solved. God knows he’s tried – and he thought it was working, at first. And maybe it was. Maybe it is working still, only slowly. He knows that he feels happiness when they’re together, and that he can see them in a future together, more than he had let himself imagine with anybody else. But when he tries to put a name to his feelings, the word ‘love’ simply does not rise to the tongue. It sticks to the roof of his mouth like the few times he’d tried to eat paper as a child. It feels dry and unnatural, like taking in a breath and not being able to let go of it.

The breath slithers between his lips when he’s with Artemy. He knows this. He counts each exhale. They breathe in the same air so much of the time it’s hard to separate his real life from the one he shares with Artemy. They feel like two different things, like he is two different men. It’s not just the way he’s changed in Town, though Block has noted the differences with his fingers trailing down Daniil’s arm. He’s essentially still the same person. Daniil wonders if he’s even really changed, if he ever would have without coming here, and how much of this is real. And in the same way, he questions which feelings are real, which are appropriate.

He breaks into two separate pieces, and he knows he has to pick one up and morph into him permanently, and he has to choose which soon. It doesn’t seem as simple as picking between the past or the future; Daniil would pick the future, without question. And if Alexander were here, steady, constant, maybe he wouldn’t have this sense of uncertainty. Now it’s just two things that feel wrong: his relationship with Block, his friendship with Artemy. He loves them both in ways he shouldn’t.

That’s what it always comes down to.

To ensure that you are safe, he finally finishes, and ends his letter with a flourishing signature, a dramatic swoop of letters, bigger and bolder than they really need be. It’s the phrase least likely to be a lie, and Daniil has never been comfortable with the act of lying. He folds and seals the letter, grabs for his coat before he heads down the stairs. Daniil hands his letter off to the messenger and watches him run off with it, wondering where in this town they keep the post yet to be delivered. If there’s a post office, he’s never come across it. The whole town could be reading his letters before they’re sent off, for all that he knows. As long as it gets there safely, he doesn’t care.

Perhaps he would if more emotion was involved. He feels himself freezing whenever he’s alone like this, barely able to make the words out. It makes him a terrible partner, he’s sure, but he can make this work. He has to make this work. If he doesn’t, he’s doomed.

And so his routine falls back into place. His letter is sent, received, replied to. Alexander is coming back next month, and Daniil has a little time to prepare for him. Six months.

Daniil cannot ask him to quit his job just to accompany Daniil in the life he has set up here, but he is not faring well with the way things are.

Six months. It doesn’t quite feel like it, and it certainly does not feel like a year since the Pest happened. Daniil wonders if anyone’s really healed from it yet, if any of them ever will. He still sees it in traces, the way he keeps bits and pieces on his person to trade with, the way he’s never really stopped thinking about the Polyhedron and what could have been.  The way he dreams about it, even though he shouldn’t.

On the week Alexander is set to arrive back in Town, Daniil has a new addition to his class. He feels something is different before he ever looks up and sees her there. Clara, right in the middle of the classroom, just as natural as if she’d always been there. She waves a little, and Daniil falters for a moment. He only pauses briefly, scratches at his neck before he’s back to lecturing. Whatever she has to say to him - and she must have something to say - can wait.

She does wait, very patiently, even appearing to listen to the lesson as Daniil speaks, though she doesn’t take notes as the other students do. Daniil feels her careful eyes on him, though the peculiar sensation he used to get from her stares is gone. She’s a year older now. Daniil wonders how they celebrate the birthday of a girl with no memory.

“You’re looking well,” he says when the last of his students have left the room, when it’s just him with a book tucked up under his arm and Clara with her hands shoved in her pockets. He’d expected her hair to have grown out a little longer, but it seems she’s cut it short. With her own scissors, too, if he had to guess. “I was a little worried when Alexander took you with him. War is no place for a child.”

“I’m not a normal child,” Clara counters. She exits before he does, and holds the door open for him. Far more polite than she had been during those twelve days, but same could be said of just about anybody. She’s quiet for a moment, scuffing her shoes on the ground, kicking rocks out in front of her. “I’m surprised that you stayed this long,” she says, following him down the steps and through the archway. “You should have grown bored with this place long ago and gone back to your home. To the Capital.”

“The Capital isn’t really home for me anymore,” Daniil replies. Not that he really wants to talk about it, least of all to her. Even if he no longer mistrusts her the way he once had, there’s simply too much baggage involved to trouble a little girl. He huffs, looking around them, unsure of what to talk about. “I didn’t see you the last couple of times Alexander was in Town. I figured you didn’t really want to see me.”

“I don’t,” she says. If there’s one thing he can appreciate about the kids Daniil has met in Town, Clara included, it’s that they’re always honest with him. Though Daniil feels anxiety make a drum of his stomach when she says so. This damned town has made me too soft. Why do I care what she thinks? She seems to know what he’s thinking, taking her hands out of her pockets to wave her hands around. “Don’t take it so personally. I haven’t exactly gone looking for Burakh, either. I’m fifteen, what reason would I have for hanging out with a bunch of adults?”

“Right,” Daniil says dully. “So then what is it you want, if this isn’t a social visit?”

Clara’s quiet again, not even looking Daniil’s way as she follows him back to the Stillwater. He wonders if she told Block she was coming by, or even how she got to Daniil before Alexander did. When she says, “It has to do with the Commander,” he’s far from surprised. It’s the only logical conclusion to come to, and he figures her next words will be as well. “You need to say no to him.”

Perhaps those aren’t the exact words he was expecting, but in a similar vein all the same. Daniil rubs his forehead, and sighs. “I should have figured you wouldn’t like the idea of us together,” he grumbles. “You never came over with him. Things between us won’t work out if you don’t approve of me.”

“I agree,” she says. There’s more haughtiness in her voice than he’d expect for someone of her size and usual demeanor, but he gets the impression she’s not telling the full story. He doesn’t enter his home, standing out in front of it with his eyes narrowed. And Clara stares straight back at him, as if she could turn her hypnotism on him. But her tricks hadn’t worked in the last day of the plague, and he doesn’t sense them working now. She’s just a girl who doesn’t like her parent’s choice in a partner, and she has every reason not to.

Still. He’s not going to call off something healthy, something good, just because Clara doesn’t like him. She hasn’t even spoken to him in over a year. “What is it you don’t like about me exactly, Clara?” She snorts, and he knows that there are many things in the past to give her pause. He softens his face, pleading. “I’ve changed, you know. I have kids of my own now –“

“And they’re doing fine with you. Fantastic, spectacular. You have changed, Bachelor, and for the better. I believe you.” And then she drops the subject where it is, staring bitterly back at him. Daniil gestures at her to go on, and she sighs. Her left hand comes up to tug at the fraying yarn of her beanie. She looks more like a child, this way. Less like she’s gearing up to become the newest patron saint. “You’ll make everyone miserable if you say yes.”

“You haven’t even given me a chance,” Daniil says, and before Clara can open her mouth to argue he continues. “You haven’t given Burakh a chance either, I know. But I need something a little more concrete than your absent hatred of me before I’ll destroy something that I know works.”

“Do you know what happens if you stay together?” Clara asks. Her words aren’t filled with the angry passion Daniil would expect, but something tired. Weathered. There is a scar on her chin that Daniil hadn’t noticed before, and her eyes are dark like she hasn’t slept. “Our mission will be halted in its tracks. I’ll be sent off to boarding school, sent off to become normal. The Commander will die without me there to protect him. You’ll turn ugly again, and move away from here. This place will fall apart.”

Daniil’s mouth pulls into a frown. He can’t see himself forgoing another drastic change in character over something like that. If living with unrequited love hasn’t turned him into a monster yet, he doubts the foretold death would do it.

In his stomach, he feels a bleakness. If he doesn’t get Alexander to retire soon, that still could happen, Clara or not. But something feels off about these lines that she’s feeding him, and his gaze moves back to hold hers. “You’re lying,” he says.

She scowls, but the look is far too exhausted to carry through on its promised storm. Daniil watches her rub her temples. “Fine,” she mumbles. “I’ve been away from the town too long. I can’t see exactly what that future holds anymore, but I know enough. There are two paths before you. Don’t take the one that brings us closer. I’ll come back to you in time, but it’s not supposed to be like this.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“It means –“ Clara throws her hands in the air, and sighs, starting a circle on herself. “It means I can feel it. If you accept, something bad happens. I can’t see what it is, but I know it. I know this feeling, the one in my chest. It feels heavy. It feels bad.”

“My dear, that’s anxiety.” Daniil tries to pat her shoulder, but she shoves him off weakly. “Take a look at yourself, Clara. Your clothes are fraying. You look as if you haven’t slept in months. The gnawing feeling that you’re getting is the way your body reacts to stress.” Clara gives him a look of disgust, and he takes another step back to give her room to breathe, but he won’t give up on this. “Being at war is stressful, Clara.”

“Don’t start this,” she says, and now it’s her that’s pleading, her voice softer than the glare she throws at him. “I know what you’re thinking, but I need to be there. They need me there. It’s where I belong.” Daniil wants to argue, but finds his throat locked up. Clara is different from other kids, with different needs. Artemy had said the same thing once about Grace, and now Daniil can say he understands. Clara shoves her hands back into her pockets, dour stare turned back on the ground. “If you won’t take me seriously, then take yourself seriously.”

“I can assure you I always take myself very, very seriously.” He tries to inject a note of humor into his words, but Clara isn’t picking up on it, isn’t rolling her eyes or calling him an idiot. She just shifts her gaze once again to stare at him, blankly. He licks his lips nervously as he continues, “It’s because I take myself seriously that I can’t promise you I’ll say no. I won’t deny any question before I’ve heard it.”

“Then do us a favor and consider it. Think about it fully before you make your choice. Don’t pick the easiest answer just because it seems like something you should do or should want.”

Daniil laughs. “When have I ever picked something based on the word should?”

“Because everything about you is defiant,” she shoots back. “Your clothes, your field of study, this whole idea of making yourself love and be loved – you decided on it out of defiance.” She looks away. “A lot of people will be hurt if you just take the simple victory that’s handed do you. And it won’t be nice, or sweet, or happy. So just think before you make a decision. Truly think.” And then she’s gone, before Daniil can say anything else to her. Not that he’s all that interested in discussing his romantic endeavors with a teenage girl, but she’d seemed intent on getting involved all the same.

The door feels heavier in his hands than it should, and he figures to himself that Clara left behind a little of her worry with him. Ridiculous, that he should feel the weight of something more when he’s struggling mentally, but these things hardly run on logic. Life, as he has started to understand it, does not run solely on science.

Think, truly think. He’s been thinking for a couple of weeks now that something approaches him fast, and when he enters the Stillwater he notes Alexander’s military coat hung up on the coatrack next to where Daniil will hang his own. It feels too soon, almost, to be confronting him, but life doesn’t stop just because Daniil Dankovsky needs to think, needs time to process.

Everything in his brain feels like a whirlwind he can’t escape when he enters the main room and sees Block before him, down on one knee.

Chapter Text

He wishes it was late enough in the day to start drinking. If he were more willing to be honest with himself right now, he’d recognize the thought for the terrible idea that it is. Work, his kids, his friends – there’s a whole host of reasons not to pick up an unhealthy habit, but misery’s been sinking a little deeper into his bones with each day gone by. Now he wears it wrapped around him like a shawl and thinks there must be something to numb the pain.

Would Daniil even notice? Would Stakh? After all, they had no problems teaming up against him before. And all he wants now is a drink to forget about the whole damn thing, but it’s too early in the day for that. So he’ll sit here, patiently, waiting while his mind screams.

It’s not like it didn’t occur to him to be honest. Block’s not the sort to pace when he’s nervous, standing too still in the hallway with his hands curled into fists and leaning a little forward on his toes, pensive. Artemy wonders if he looked this intimidating himself when he did the same thing, lost in his thoughts, anxious about how little time there was left in the day to complete his tasks. Maybe Daniil likes men who all have the same stance, but – But if he liked you, he wouldn’t be with someone else, now, would he?

Artemy lets out a sigh, laying listless on the couch upstairs. They wanted to tell Block to fuck off, but they couldn’t do that. If they had just been honest about their feelings for Daniil, maybe Block would have backed off on his own. Maybe he would have found someone else to confide in about his plans. Maybe he would have dropped them altogether. Maybe he would have stepped back and let Artemy have a chance at wooing Daniil. Maybe, maybe, maybe, but Artemy will never know.

In the end, they couldn’t do it. They couldn’t do it because Block is nice and Daniil is their friend and they know Daniil has been searching for someone to make him feel alive, to make him feel like the last pieces have fallen into place, someone he can love and be loved by in return. And Artemy couldn’t wreck that just because they were late again. Late like always.

Well, the least he can do in the future is not be late to their wedding. He assumes they’re planning it right now, Daniil at the kitchen table with his organizer laid flat, tapping his pen against his teeth. He can picture it easily, Shrew and Sleepy Head over either shoulder and Block at the seat adjacent, bouncing dates back and forth like a tennis ball. Sure, they’ll need time to get it all prepared, but they won’t want to wait too long – Block is needed back at the Front. Besides, Artemy knows Daniil’s anxieties; he can’t stand to wait, he’ll want the wedding soon. He and Artemy are opposites in that way. Before they know it Daniil will be at his desk, writing up invitations in his best imitation of a dainty script.

Has time tempered Daniil? Will he be satisfied with a small gathering of close friends, or will this wedding be a big damn circus, like the affairs in the Capital?

If Artemy can’t drink, maybe he can sleep. Just go to bed and wake up when this entire nightmare is over.

But it never ends, does it? If they get married and move here, as Block implied before, then Artemy will have to see them every day for the rest of his life – unless Artemy is the one who moves away, though why should he? This is his hometown, and after everything he sacrificed to keep it alive? Moving now wouldn’t make any sense. And his kids would never forgive him for it.

He’s about to give in and sleep off his depressive slump when someone starts beating their fist against the door, erratic, as if panicked. Someone in dire need of medical attention? A little backwards for him to be looking forward to a medical emergency, but he’ll take whatever he can get his hands on now to distract himself.

He tries to pay no mind to the way the stairs creak loudly underfoot, but he can’t help thinking his weight just another point against him, another signifier of how little he has to offer. As if Daniil would want to be with someone who looks the way they do when there are so many other men to choose from. That has to play into it, right? Why they were never on Daniil’s list, despite his obvious feelings for Artemy?

Except, after all that – after a year of Daniil living here, of them working side-by-side, it no longer feels fair to accuse him of being that…shallow. It feels like an easy answer he’s telling himself to make himself feel better, not quite like a platitude, but no truer than if it were. He shakes his head at the floor, one hand on the knob, and takes a breath. No patient needs to see him like this. He contorts his face into something resembling a neutral look, and opens the door.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. It’s Daniil on their front step, one arm still raised to knock. He looks like a spooked animal, eyes wide and uncertain as he looks at Artemy. For a second it looks like he might turn around and go back the way he came, eyes darting from side to side as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Artemy can’t muster up the energy to give him any sort of proper greeting, but since when has Daniil needed it? He doesn’t wait for it; he pushes past Artemy into the house, and Artemy does nothing to stop him, closing the door in his wake.

Should they offer to take Daniil’s coat? He looks so guarded, wrapping his arms tightly over his chest as he stands in the doorway, still looking bewildered. He looks so much smaller like this. Artemy wants to hold him.

Their knuckles crunch as their fingers curl reflexively. Why couldn’t they have had this revelation sooner? The first time they invited Daniil into their home for dinner, back when they could have acted on the impulse? They could have treated that dinner like a first date, could have taken Daniil for a walk around his hometown and shown him all the places he and his friends used to hang out as kids.

Even thinking about that now feels wrong. They can’t change the way they used to feel, and acting before they had the emotion to back it up would have been a betrayal – not just betraying Daniil, but betraying themself.  It wouldn’t have been a natural progression of feelings, even if the natural progression is what’s left them so miserable.

Daniil hasn’t spoken yet, just standing there, shoes still on in the entryway to Artemy’s home. Artemy makes a sort of rumbling sound in the back of his throat to clear it, asking, “Are you okay, emshen?”

It seems pretty obvious the answer to that question is no, though Artemy can’t fathom why he looks as panicked as he does. This should be a moment of celebration for him – but his back is turned to Artemy, one arm reached across his chest to grip the other tightly. Occasionally, his hand will flex, rubbing his bicep up and down. Artemy’s heart stammers, imagining reaching out to touch his fingers and telling themself no; but they do move closer, until they’re standing close enough to touch.

The other man turns suddenly, nearly colliding with Artemy’s chest and stumbling back onto his heel. Artemy watches his teeth pull at his bottom lip as he tries to work words out, mouth opening and closing almost comically. Artemy knows what words are coming, and yet they still feel the gut punch when Daniil actually manages to work out, “Alexander’s proposed.” The words come out clipped and he sways on his feet from side to side.

It seems like he’s getting ready to rest himself on Artemy’s chest – but he doesn’t.  His eyes, however, do run up from Artemy’s neck to his eyes, betraying how overwhelmed he really is.

(Not happy, Artemy thinks. Just overwhelmed.)

Artemy’s heart rabbits in his throat. He shouldn’t let himself get too excited over something that’s pure speculation at this point. It’s not unusual to experience anxiety over massive changes, even positive ones. “Congratulations,” he says, and Daniil gives him a wild, unamused look. Artemy tilts his head, trying to keep up the façade of surprise while wondering if Block deviated from the script he’d had when he came to talk to Artemy about it. From what Artemy could remember it was a perfectly serviceable proposal – pleasant, but brief and to the point, exactly the way they both figured Daniil would appreciate.

I don’t want to live without you. Please, marry me.

He’s been trying not to let himself wonder what he’d say if it were him in Block’s place. He’ll have time to kick himself over it later, when they’re setting up house and Artemy here, with Sticky and Murky and no partner. For now he simply blinks down at Daniil, back teeth grinding against each other as he looks for the words to ask Daniil what’s wrong. But all that comes out is, “You don’t look happy.”

Daniil looks at Artemy like he ought to know why Daniil isn’t happy. Whatever he’s trying to communicate via expression isn’t parsing, and he must realize that when the look on Artemy’s face doesn’t change. He shakes his head, starting to peel the gloves from his hands, and Artemy finds it hard to swallow. All this time together and he still hasn’t touched Daniil’s hand without gloves, never even been close. He understood it was one of those things Daniil had in common with Murky: the textures of the world around them are too much. But now he removes the border to run his hands through his hair without obstruction.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses. “It’s been six months – is that too early, or is that normal? I can’t tell anymore. But I –“ Artemy’s eyes trace the line of his throat as he swallows. “When he asked me, I panicked.”

Isn’t this exactly what Artemy wanted to hear? Panic, because Daniil knows somewhere in his heart that he’s meant to be with someone else. Artemy’s pulse quickens so suddenly he gets dizzy. “Panicked,” he repeats, spots floating before his vision. He shifts weight between his feet as he tries to steady himself. “And what did you say?”

No, no, no, Artemy’s brain chants. Please say you said no.

“I said I’d need time to think about it.” Daniil moves from running his fingers through his hair to scratching at his face. He pushes up the hair around his ears as he does so, frown working into place. His lip is back between his teeth again. It won’t be long before it splits and starts to bleed, at the rate he’s going. Daniil opens his mouth to say something else, and Artemy watches as he thinks better of it and closes it again. And then he repeats the motion, but this time the words come out. “I don’t know what to say. I really don’t.”

“I’d think that would be the easy part,” Artemy admits, shifting a little closer. They’re standing so near each other that they must be breathing in Daniil’s exhales. It’s hard to think straight like this, all the energy in their body dedicated to keeping themselves from reaching out and grabbing Daniil, pulling him in, never letting him go. He imagines the simplest touch sparking an electric shock, and they don’t want to hurt him.

They don’t want to get hurt, either.

Daniil’s expression doesn’t change as sways a little, but Artemy can sense the concentrated frown looming just in the distance. “It’s a simple yes or no question,” Artemy says. “Either you marry him, or you don’t. Do you love him? Can you see yourself being happy with him?”

Artemy’s starting to let the anxiety they feel fade into elation. Their mind races as they imagine the next few seconds: Daniil admitting that he doesn’t love Block, that he’s always had his heart set on Artemy, and then Artemy will take his chin between their thumb and forefinger, tilt Daniil’s head up and kiss him –

“Yes.” Artemy feels himself about to explode. They nearly laugh out of pure nerves. Daniil is blinking rapidly as he turns his head and then his shoulder, Artemy repeating the simple word over and over to themself. Yes. Yes. Yes? Artemy never gets anything right, do they? “I can see myself being happy with him. I… I am happy. With the way things are right now. Mostly.” Daniil sighs heavily, his hand tangling in his hair again, starting to scratch at his scalp. Artemy feels numb, watching him. “Something is just –“

“Daniil,” Artemy interrupts. Daniil flinches, his shoulders drawn up to his ears. Artemy places a hand on his shoulder, and Daniil turns into the touch. Artemy takes a second just to stare into his eyes.

This might be the last time he ever gets to appreciate them so closely, so openly. His hand lifts of its own accord, thumb brushing Daniil’s jaw softly. He feels possessed by all the feelings he never got a chance to express, but he’ll stop them just short of inappropriate; he’ll stop just short of kissing Daniil, and this is the closest he’ll get.

“I know you want to love. I know you want to be loved. And if you have a chance at happiness, I don’t think you should pass it up. If you love him, and you will be happy – if this seems like the right thing to do…” Can Daniil hear how heavy his sigh is? How broken he feels? “I support you.” His hand drops back down to Daniil’s shoulder. He wishes he could feel his shoulder through the heaviness of his coat. “I want you to be happy, Daniil. You deserve it.”

He waits for the moment when Daniil will break into a smile, perhaps hug him, thank him for the confidence he needs to go forward. But Daniil doesn’t smile. He just keeps staring at Artemy, almost pained. Artemy doesn’t know what it is he’s doing wrong, why Daniil still looks uncertain. Daniil runs his hand through his hair again and turns so his shoulder is brushing against Artemy’s chest. “In nocte consilium,” he says. He reaches out and grabs Artemy’s arm, squeezing lightly. “But thank you, anyway. You have given me something to think about.”

At night, he dreams of kissing Artemy.

He doesn’t know why he thought speaking to the man himself would cease his confusion, why he thought it was a good idea in the least. He just needed someone to talk to, and Artemy was the closest.

But even that isn’t the entire truth; he could have gone to Andrey. He didn’t want to. He wanted to know what Artemy thought, specifically. As if whatever he had to say would somehow help Daniil make his mind up. But he had already spoken to Artemy in a way that was meant to help him make up his mind. That was why he’d decided to go out with Alexander to begin with, why he’d dedicated himself to making things work.

If Daniil had been given a few more moments to think about it, he would have realized what it was Clara meant by Alexander having a request she wanted him to deny. This was the choice he knew was coming. Two different paths to walk down, not a future or a past, not an easy choice to make. A part of him wants to say yes, but some instinct also begs him to say no. And now here he is, dreaming that Artemy had swept him into their arms and kissed all over his face, and he has an easy answer to give.

Alexander wants his answer before the end of the week. Daniil can understand why. It would be a terrible thing to go off to the Front once again and not know. Whenever Daniil closes his eyes in the waking world, he sees the man on his knee again, ring box open, soft and nervous smile on his face. Daniil’s whole body felt feverish in the moment, and it does still when he remembers it. “I don’t have much to give, but know this: That I love you, and I will give whatever I can to make you happy.”

This would all have been easier before Daniil had started to change. He wouldn’t have thought twice about breaking a man’s heart before, and maybe it’s not the heart breaking he has a problem with – though he cares, he really does, about Alexander. It’s hard not to care about your first love on some level, even if the feelings never quite returned to what they once had been. But before, before – this wouldn’t have been a problem at all. It’s this stupid search he’s put himself in, this idea of finding someone to love him and be loved in return, just as Clara had said. Just as Artemy had said. Doing all this was dooming him. He was just meant to be alone.

I know not many places in our country recognize same-gender unions, but it would make me so happy if you consented to being my husband in the few places it counts. A larger smile, but his fingers trembled. Here, being one of them.

He feels like a cheat, though there was nothing but platonic affection in the way Artemy touched him. He knows this, he knows this, and he keeps reminding himself that Artemy told him to go for it because he can’t give himself an inch, can’t consider anything else, can’t let himself get his hopes up unnecessarily. There’s nothing left for him to hope for. Running off to Artemy like that had to be his last attempt. His last ditch effort. His last failure. He feels the flames of Thanatica about his arms as he considers what his next move should be.

He needs to get out.

“How would you feel about getting out of this town, seeing the City?” Shrew and Sleepy Head look up in tandem, but their reactions are exact opposites. Shrew doesn’t bother to contain her excitement, smile and eyes wide, but Sleepy Head looks less than impressed. “Sometime soon. Just the three of us, if you’d both like to come.”

“I thought you said they’d have your head if you went back there?” Sleepy Head’s already refocused on his homework: a mathematics sheet he insists he doesn’t need help with. “This ain’t some kind of suicide mission, is it, Daniil?”

Daniil thinks about it, fingers curling over the back of his chair. He hasn’t sat down yet, hasn’t even really thought this plan through. He came up with the idea and had to share it before he could second-guess himself.

In the year that he’s been in Town, hasn’t received any missives from the Powers That Be demanding he return. He’s been allowed to live out this self-imposed exile ever since the Pest ended. And maybe that’s been enough of a penance – or perhaps they’ve just forgotten about him.

“Well, I still have some affairs to attend to that I never closed up,” Daniil says. “I’m sure people must be wondering where I am.”

Even to his own ears, the pretext sounds flimsy, but Shrew isn’t questioning it. “It’s not like they can just take you away if we’re there,” she reasons. Daniil smiles uneasily at her. He’s not so sure about that. “I’ll come. Absolutely I’ll come! I want to see what the big deal is about the Capital.” Daniil reaches out and ruffles her hair. At first, she freezes, and then she relaxes into the motion. She continues on as normal, turning her attention to Sleepy Head. “And what’ll you do if you don’t come with us?”

Sleepy Head looks up at Daniil. “I could have the house to myself?” Daniil narrows his eyes. “No wild parties, honest. What, you think Stamatin wouldn’t notice a bunch of teens raiding his stash? If all the twyrine goes missing from the stores, someone’s bound to notice.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Daniil rubs the back of his neck. “But what will you do for food? Do you know how to cook for yourself, for your friends?”

“Yeah, Daniil, I’ve been studying how you do it! I can do dinner tonight, prove it to you!” He doesn’t wait for Daniil to protest that it really isn’t necessary, he’s up and into the kitchen before Daniil can get another word in.

So now he has, in effect, an escape plan. Childish, immature, selfish, but he feels himself collapsing. It hasn’t been this bad in a while. He’d thought the way he started to diminish after Eva crossed the bridge was severe, but that was nothing compared to this. Cruel, heartless, cowardly, but Daniil feels he’s at an end now. He’ll make sure Shrew has a ticket back to the Town, if he has to put her on the train himself. He won’t let her see him dead, if that’s what it comes to. Or if she likes the Capital well enough, send her to his parents. It’s been a while since he’s seen them.

What in the world would they think of him now? What has he really managed to accomplish since he left for the Capital all those years ago? He can’t imagine them moved from the outskirts, from the little suburb where he was raised. He’d told them of his successes, hid all his failures, and it’s been over a year since he wrote to them. Each time he got out a paper to do so, he felt guilt swallowing him whole. Never much of a daughter, and now not much of a son.

Shrew shakes his arm. “Are you okay?” Her grey eyes reflect the light around them, and it makes her look even more vulnerable, staring up at him. How can he be in charge of kids when he barely has a handle on himself? Does Artemy ever feel like this?

“Yes,” he lies. “I’m fine.”

Two days, and Daniil has all his plans laid out, all his preparations made. When he tells Lara that he’ll be out of town for a while, she looks up at him with a surprising amount of hostility. “How long is ‘a while’?” she asks, her normally soft features razor sharp.

She plays the part of a schoolmistress well enough that he feels he cannot lie to her. “I don’t know,” he admits. Lara crosses her arms under her chest. There isn’t a height difference between them, and yet he feels she’s looking down her nose at him. Like he’s being scolded, though no words accompany her disappointment.

When she speaks again, it surprises him. “You’d better tell Cub.” Not a question – not ‘are you going to’ – or even a suggestion – ‘you should’. It was a threat: ‘you’d better.’ And he believes in her ability to back it up. He’d seen the guns on the walls of the Shelter, knew how easily she could handle them. He was a military child, too.

“I will,” he promises. Lara narrows her eyes at him, and he knows she’s assessing him, trying to figure out if he’s lying. He isn’t, not really, but he’s putting it off. It’s a dirty trick, but he knows what he needs to do. If he’s going to leave and come back clean – if he’s going to come back at all – he has to be completely honest, and he’s not sure how he’ll survive. His stomach aches just thinking about it. He feels something deeper than dread coursing through his veins when he thinks about the exact words Artemy will say to him. He knows what they are, and he doesn’t want to hear them until he has absolutely no choice.

And so he’ll go at the last minute. He’ll allow himself the train ride to compose himself, so he can enter the Capital with a clear mind. And so he doesn’t do anything stupid, like ruin all his connections in town.

The week comes to an end, all the things Daniil will need packed into a suitcase and waiting for him upstairs. He’s tried preparing himself for this day all week, coaching himself on what to say, on how to say it. He still doesn’t feel confident in his choices either way – it all feels wrong, a bad texture on his skin he tries to wipe off with the constant brush of his fingers against pant leg. He spends the whole working day with his nerves on edge. He can feel Artemy’s eyes on the back of his head, but can’t stand to turn around and look at him. Just another person he’s letting down by failing to move on, to imprint on someone else.

He thinks about it now as his hand hovers over the doorknob, trying to steady his breathing. He knows Alexander is waiting for him inside, and so he’s asked the kids to keep themselves occupied while they talk. He hasn’t told them anything, didn’t want them to get too attached to the idea when he knew he wouldn’t be able to deliver.

What was it that kept him from refusing outright? The look on Sasha’s face when he asked? The knowledge that this was something Daniil should want – someone Daniil should want – something he should only be too happy to have?

Daniil’s hand finally makes contact, twisting the knob, pulling the door open. He’s not sure what to do with his face as he enters. A smile would be perverse, he thinks, so he steels his face into something impassive. He’s never had to do this before. He doubts he ever will again.

Sasha has his hands behind his back, head bowed. He’s staring at a suitcase in the corner, a small thing, one he purchased for Shrew. She’d been so excited that she packed right away and set her suitcase out so she wouldn’t forget it in the morning. She didn’t like to show her cards so fast and so easily most of the time, but this was different. Daniil could understand, could sympathize. He took every trip to the Capital just as seriously when he was her age.

Alexander’s handsome face is drawn into a rather severe expression, and Daniil knows already he’s been caught. He feels his heart skip a beat as he watches that frown turn on him. That look is the same one Sasha gives all his military maps, the way Daniil has seen him pour over them on hotel table, planning out his next move. Never a man to take time off the job, dedicated through and through. It’s something they have in common, that restlessness. And here, now, he looks at Daniil as if he’s a plan that’s yet to work out, and Daniil supposes he is. He figures Alexander will be the one to speak first, and so he waits.

The silence is tense, but Daniil won’t buckle. Whatever blow is coming next, he deserves it.

“You’re leaving.” The words are an accusation as much as they are a remark of disbelief, of confusion. He says them because he knows Daniil won’t lie; not just that he can’t, but that he isn’t going to try. If he were, he’d have thought to hide Shrew’s things in her room before Alexander had the chance to see them. But then the next words, he doesn’t expect: “I spoke with your daughter.”

Ah. Well. So much for the assumption that some things were obviously meant to stay hush-hush. He should have had the foresight, or at least considered that not everything evident to him was evident to everyone else. Not that he can really blame Shrew – she’s so excited to go, he’ll be surprised if Artemy hasn’t heard already. And he’s never been good, anyway, at seeing things in the bigger picture. It seems that’s a trait that hasn’t changed with age or circumstance.

“How long will you be going?”

Initially, Daniil had only planned on being gone a few weeks. But now, he shrugs. “I don’t know.” He hasn’t made any concrete plans. He brushes his knuckles against his trousers, and is flooded with the memory of Artemy’s house, of removing them to feel the weight of his hair through his fingers as he stimmed. He needed to touch something then, to feel grounded, and he feels that tug again.

He slips one finger under the hem of his glove and pulls it up over his left hand, coming to drop it on the piano bench. First one, then the other. “I just need some time to be alone,” Daniil says.

The silence returns, louder than before. If he concentrates, Daniil can hear the clock in his room ticking away, noting the passage of time. Anxiety crawls over him, that he still has to make dinner after this, that he still has to find the strength to prepare all his notes and scrip all the conversations he’ll need to have when he gets back to the Capital. All the assurances he’ll have to make, just in case he doesn’t ever return to Town.

“Alone.” Daniil realizes now he’s said the word when he meant he’ll be with Shrew. But it’s not quite the same, is it? And Alexander clearly knows what he means. Daniil feels the warmth of his hand across his jacket, and is glad he hasn’t had time to take it off yet. Just one more layer protecting him from the overwhelming nature of it all. He struggles to make eye contact.

Alexander’s eyes seem so much bluer through the hurt. “Did I move too quickly, Daniil? Did I act too soon?”

“No.” Any time would have been too soon. Daniil breaks the eye contact. He can’t look at Sasha right now, not while he’s trying to keep himself together, swallowing down a thick knot in his throat. He feels like he could choke on any given breath.

But it’s a cowardly decision. His hands shake at his sides, but he makes himself look up again anyway, because that is what Alexander deserves. There aren’t quite tears lining his eyes, but the hues have softened. They look like water, fluid and moving, nothing at all like the ice of his youth.

Time has softened them both. “It isn’t anything you did,” Daniil assures him. “It’s me.”

“Do you need more time to think?” He can hear the words stretch, an attempt to bridge the gap Daniil is putting between them before it separates them for good. A clean break is what they need, but Daniil is floundering. He doesn’t want to lose the safety he has built here, to give up on the goal he has come so close to meeting.

This project was supposed to be simple. To prove that he can love and be loved. But the two do not work in conjunction; there is no assurance that loving will bring love in return, and there’s nothing else for the two of them to do.

Daniil stares at his fingernails, hands still shaking, almost blue. He has been wringing his hands this whole time, too tight when he grips, cutting off circulation. His own form of punishment, to lose physical feeling when he lacks the emotional output. “I don’t think time would change my answer.” He pauses, runs his tongue over his lips. They feel too wet. “No, that’s not quite right. I’m afraid time would make me reconsider. Time has changed me before, and I don’t want to be weak. I don’t want to give into something I know wouldn’t make me happy.”

His partner looks surprised. Daniil can hardly blame him. “I wouldn’t make you happy?” There’s a breaking point laid out ahead of them, and they’re dancing dangerously close to it. Daniil grabs Alexander’s wrist, because it’s important that he understands. Daniil could lie to many men with whom he does not share quite so much history, but this hurts. It hurts, and he’s not the one being left. But he doesn’t speak, for however many words float through his head. He wants to say something, but no words will come out.

So Alexander tries again. Tries to understand. “Marriage wouldn’t make you happy?”

“At this point, I don’t know what would,” Daniil admits. Sasha pulls his hand back, and Daniil lets it go. His lips taste bitter, cracked with blood. He’s been chewing them again without even realizing it. “I wanted to be loved. That’s what I sought out. And I thought that if I tried hard enough, I could make myself love anyone.” He’s been looking elsewhere again, avoiding his target. If he’s going to shoot, he should have the decency to look his victim in the eye. “I do love you, but not the way you want me to.”

Alexander’s eyes are covered by his hand. Daniil does not hear him breath, does not see his shoulders shake, but he knows if he were to touch his cheek that his thumbs would pull away wet. Things were like this years ago, too, when he said goodbye. But that had been Alexander’s choice, leaving Daniil, leaving what future they might have had together in favor of the Army. When his hand drops his eyes are rimmed red, and he laughs the way glass shatters. “If I hadn’t left, then? Thirteen years ago?“

Daniil shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Of course the situation would seem similar, even standing as stiffly and as awkward as they always had. “There’s no way to tell. I may not have been the man I am now. I would not have pursued my passions –“

“And that is what I love you for.” His voice is so desperately fond that it almost breaks Daniil. He suddenly can’t stand to be seen anymore as this wonderful thing. After years and years of trying to be recognized, to be admired, to be adored, this is what butchers him. This is his breaking point.

“I’m sorry,” Daniil says. The words are barely whispered. He’s unused to them. He’s not the type to apologize with so much sincerity, with so much thought. He never thought that he would, but then he never imagined himself the type to break someone’s heart. He never envisioned that in his future, in the times when he sat down to plan his life meticulously. “I’ve been terribly unfair to you. And you don’t deserve this, the way I’ve used you. I…”

He can’t find the words to continue. He feels the compulsion to be entirely honest, if only because lies have never felt right on his tongue and the lack of disclosure would be just as bad. But he’s held back by the thought rolling along in his head that he should think, just once, about how his words would effect someone else. Would it do him any good to know the truth? That Daniil could love, did love, but just not him? That he could be happy, but only with someone else? What good would the absolute truth do, when it wouldn’t make either of them feel any better? Which matters more in the end?

In his frozen state, Alexander takes it upon himself to touch his cheek. “Don’t apologize. Not for this. Even the best laid schemes do not go according to foresight.” Daniil would laugh if he felt he had any humor left in him. All he feels now is an aching numbness. “And even if what I feel for you is not returned, it has been worth it, loving you.”

Oh, how he would laugh. “How can you say that? How can anything be worth that sort of pain?” His usual demeanor, his flat affect, it’s all broken, now. He can hear bitterness in his words, and he tries to shut his mouth on his tongue to keep from spitting out so much venom. If he is dedicating himself to minimizing pain in this instance, he can’t let Sasha know there are more feelings at stake than what he has admitted to already. This wasn’t fair of him to begin with. He should be on his own to do this, sorting through his emotions alone. A sad child, trying to put a puzzle together with half the pieces missing.

“It just was.” There’s no great revelation in his words, and Daniil feels childish for hoping there would be more to it, an answer he could hold onto. Because his question was never about easing another’s pain, only looking for a way halve his own. In the end, he has not changed so much. He is selfish. Always, always selfish.

Artemy allows themself the indulgence of sleeping in just this once. On a normal day they’d be up by now, lumbering sleepily into the kitchen to start the coffee and breakfast for the kids, listening as Sticky and Murky recount their dreams to them in the most fantastical terms. Artemy likes their little routine, planning out each day with the kids – even when those days follow the same patterns. It helps them to feel connected, the way they used to as a kid with their father and brother. It reminds them this little family they have now is just that: a family. It reminds them things are safe now, allows them to relax their shoulders.

It’s been a year since those twelve horrid days, yet they too often find themself waking from dreams about the Pest, fighting their racing heart and compulsion to jump up, to run out the door half-clothed to check on everyone whose names they can remember. Some days their dreams go farther back – to their time spent studying in the Capital, waking with the half-formed notion of writing a letter home only to slowly wake with the realization there’s no one home for them to write to.

And it stings. Worse than they’d ever anticipated.

Maybe Daniil is right. Maybe they never quite healed from the death of their Father. In the months since Daniil suggested it, the sorrow has come back to bother them more than it ever had before. And they had tried so hard to ignore it, blown away by how off the mark Daniil was from whatever the topic at hand had been.

(Feelings, he reminds himself; they were supposed to be talking about his feelings for Daniil).

It’s funny in a way, how Daniil can be so blind, but see Artemy so clearly, seeing things Artemy couldn’t see in himself.

Except where he doesn’t want to.

When Artemy finally returns to wakefulness, he only rolls over onto his right side, arm asleep under his pillow. He was having the loveliest dream, surrounded by his friends at his house, Daniil cooking something with Shrew and Sticky’s help while Sleepy Head played some game with Murky in the background. Everyone was laughing, celebrating some great accomplishment together, happy for once, and Artemy turned Daniil around on the spot to kiss him. Not for any reason. Just because he could. And he doesn’t want to leave this dream just yet, doesn’t want to admit that a dream is really all it is. It feels so nice to be held, Daniil’s head pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around his back. I can hear your heartbeat, Daniil says.

And that’s when he’s roused from that pleasantness, it’s to the sound of his door creaking open, alerting him to another presence in the room. He stares, wide-eyed at the wall, until he feels a little hand shaking his shoulder. “Aba?” It’s Sticky. “Are you okay?”

Artemy licks their lips and tries to arrange their expression into something approximating a smile, or failing that, something neutral – if a little bleary-eyed. They roll onto their back, and see their son is giving them a cautious stare, eyebrows disappeared into his hairline with worry. And Artemy can’t allow that; after spending so much of his life on his own, Sticky deserves more than a parent who can’t get their shit together. So they smile, even though it hurts, and take a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” they say. “I’m okay. I just…over-exerted myself last night.”

Sticky frowns, nose scrunched up. “You mean you drank too much?” Artemy laughs a little, hollow and fake. Sticky doesn’t seem convinced by their laugh, shifting weight between his feet. “I know what adults are like when they’re drunk,” he says, chin lifting with confidence. “And they get hanged over the next day, right? So you need water and a painkiller.”

Oh, no. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place here. He doesn’t want Sticky thinking of him as irresponsible, but he can’t tell him the truth, either. If he tells Sticky he messed up, he’ll be disappointed. Or worse – he’ll be upset, upset that Artemy couldn’t make Daniil stay. And it’s really not appropriate, is it, to trouble a kid so young with his problems.

“Yeah,” Artemy finally says. The less complicated, the better. “Some water, at least. I think I can take the headache.” Because the headache isn’t a product of the drinking. He knows his limits, and he was woozy last night, but not drunk. He knows his tendency to talk too much when he’s inebriated, to shoot his mouth off and make bad decisions he can’t take back. He didn’t want to risk it. He was liable to go find Daniil and try to talk him out of saying yes to Block, and he wasn’t looking to ruin someone else’s life just because he wasn’t quick enough on the draw.

This is just his life, now, and how it will be for the rest of it. Always remembering he was too late, that he could have had something wonderful if he’d acted sooner. He sits up slowly, ignoring the empty side of his bed and swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress. Sticky’s back up quickly with a bottle of water for them, looking just as unsure as he had when he’d first come in to wake Artemy up. Before Artemy can get another word out he offers, “I’ll start up breakfast,” and runs back down the stairs.

Kids. They wonder if Daniil’s ever do this for him, how close he’s managed to get to them in the time they’ve spent together. They wonder if the happy couple will move into a different house, or if the room upstairs in the Stillwater will just be seeing some rearrangements to fit two people. The Commander never seemed fond of the architecture around here, as outsiders rarely were. They wonder if the two will want something more conventional, like the suburban life Daniil had grown up in. Or if they’ll move to the other side of the river.

It's ridiculous for Artemy to pout like this, thinking to himself that the marriage will take Daniil away from t hem. Daniil was never theirs to begin with, and all because Artemy refused to take that risk.

What if I had just told him not to say yes? What if I had been selfish?

Last night at the pub, Grief dropped a bombshell on Artemy. “I didn’t know you were interested, Cub.” They’d said the words so carefully, tiptoeing around Artemy’s unsteady frustration. And in reality, it was a good thing they did; it was a good thing Stakh sat as a barrier between them, because the next words out of their mouth were, “I told him not to go for it.”

Artemy could have snapped. He really wanted to lash out, friendship be damned, he was just that frustrated. Grief knew the extent of the threat, hands up in front of their face as they continued, “Said you were the type never to change his mind.” The confession answered one question: who Daniil had been with before he moved on to Block. But it wasn’t of any use to Artemy now.

His anger died out quickly. How could he be mad at Grief for inadvertently screwing him over when he was the one who decided to sit on his hands yet again? If only he’d acted when he realized Daniil was flirting with him, then -

Oh, his head feels dizzy again. He gets up to start getting dressed for the day, moving slowly around his room, his bathroom, too tired to bother shaving. They’re not dressing their best if it’s only them and the kids, and the news that will be coming their way at some point in time that the Doctor is getting hitched. They should be happy for Daniil, and one day they will be. But today they’re going to let themself be miserable.

Sticky’s plating pancakes by the time they make it down the stairs, ruffling their son’s hair before they take their seat at the head of the table. Murky gets up and places a doll in their lap, clearly sensing that they’re upset. Artemy laughs a little, patting the doll’s head. They’ve often thought this one looked like Daniil. They’ll try not to take it as a hint.

Breakfast with the kids is a gentle experience. Like Grief the night before, Sticky and Murky seem to be walking on eggshells around them. Artemy has to ask the two about their dreams to get them to open up, but once they get going their enthusiasm spikes. Artemy envies the fantastical imagery, wishing his dreams were of the more absurd variety. They smile as they try to listen, but their mind is only half in the space they share with the kids, the other half so far away. He’s hurting, but he doesn’t want them to know that he is. It’s a parent’s job to take care of their kids, and not the other way around. But they still notice that he’s not doing his best, and take turns attempting to make him laugh.

It's a valiant effort. Artemy’s heart aches with how much he adores them, chest swelling and aching at the thought of how lucky he is to have them in his life.

Soon enough he is kissing their foreheads and telling them not to worry about him - to go out and have a nice day, enjoy the weather before it creeps back into frigid temperatures once more. Both look unsure about it, even as he insists, saying that he has his own chores to attend to around the house and around the town. It’s a lie, though; he is set on all tasks that need to be completed. What he needs, really, is some time to himself. And when they’re gone, he places his head in his hands, and breathes deeply.

He doesn’t get much of a chance to rest on his own. He hasn’t even made it up the stairs when he hears someone knocking at the door. He contemplates, one foot over the third step, just ignoring whoever it is, but he feels his lines being tugged back to his door. If it weren’t for that, he’d be back up in his room, lying on his bed and staring aimlessly up at the ceiling, letting the minutes tick by in his head. They begin the trek back to the door, feet scraping on the floor as they go.

It’s Daniil.

A sigh feels trapped in Artemy’s chest. They try not to grimace down at the other man – they should have been expecting him to turn up. Daniil came to him right after being proposed to, naturally Artemy would be the first on his list to inform of his engagement. Even if he wasn’t, they are still friends – he can call them that, right? They haven’t fucked that up too? They certainly like to think of themselves as the closest friend Daniil has in this town, considering how much time they spend together. And here Daniil is, mouth pulled into a tight, thin line, giving Artemy an odd look.

 “Daniil,” Artemy greets, stepping back. “Come in.”

Daniil does so, quietly, but he doesn’t make for the kitchen or upstairs or even take his shoes off as he usually does on his visits. He only comes far enough inside to actually be in the house, and lingers near the window, his fingers toying with each other as he stands uncomfortably still. He looks around without meeting Artemy’s eyes, eventually turning his frown to the wooden floor beneath him. Artemy can tell he's trying not to pace, and watches him switch weight between his feet in agitation before he finally, finally looks up and in Artemy’s direction.

But still, he doesn’t look Artemy in the eye. “Well,” he says, and then he sort of deflates, chest sinking and shoulders slouching. “Acta est fabula, plaudite. It’s all over.”

Artemy nearly lets his held sigh escape. He doesn’t recognize the Latin and he’s too tired to try and decipher its meaning through context clues alone. He doesn’t know what Daniil is talking about and doesn’t really feel like guessing. He barely manages to refrain from rubbing his forehead, not wanting to give any sort of indication as to his feelings at the moment. Getting over Daniil will take time. “What’s all over?”

“Everything.” He listens to Daniil’s knuckles as they crack, his hands curling tightly into fists. A year ago he would have thought this a warning sign, an indicator Daniil was about to turn to violence. Artemy didn’t really know him then, had just made all the assumptions that lead him to where he is now. And now, he recognizes the sign of distress.

Alertness works its way through his body to his mind. Clearly, something didn’t go according to plan. His back straightens to give Daniil the attention he deserves, and he continues talking when he notices Artemy listening. “My relationship with Alexander, my time in this town, my search to find someone to love.” Artemy hears the first part of the sentence, and his mind shorts out on the rest.

His relationship with Block is over.

“I wanted to –“ Daniil cuts himself off, and a nervous hand moves up to feel his lips through his gloves as he pauses. The revelation is still sinking in that Daniil is single once again. “No,” Daniil says firmly, looking up at Artemy, “I needed to come here to tell you, as you deserve the truth -“

The sigh they’ve been holding in evaporates in a moment of overwhelming elation. They feel like a bomb going off, energy exploding in burst of energy. They are the one to cut Daniil off this time, abrupt and forceful, their hands pushing his shoulders back against the wall, their lips overtaking his. A noise of surprise escapes from the back of Daniil’s throat, and Artemy recognizes this kiss is a clumsy one. Their lips don’t quite align the way they should, but they’ll have a million other chances to get it right. What matters now is that they try, that they get their message across so they can do it again and again and again another time.

Or so they think.

Daniil doesn’t become pliant in their arms the way they’d envisioned this moment going. Instead, Daniil pushes back, face splotchy red and expression overwhelmed. Artemy hesitates, unsure why they’ve been pushed away, hundreds of questions racing through their brain as Daniil’s face slowly works its way into a scowl. Did they misread him again? This whole time, has Daniil really not been interested? Or is there something wrong with Artemy in particular? Had Daniil been trying to signal he wasn’t interested after all, and they’d missed on all the signals?

“I can’t believe you,” Daniil hisses. “I have been – this whole time!” He rubs his eyes, and Artemy mirrors Daniil’s own nervous habit, running their tongue over their lips. They’re trying to will the words to come out. If any time is good for an explanation, it’s now, but their head has gone blank.

They start to move toward Daniil, and Daniil tries to take a step back, hitting the door. “You can’t do this to me!” Daniil says desperately. “You can’t want me only when I’m unavailable to you!” Artemy feels struck by his words, but the only sentence he can form in his head is a weak but indignant parrot of Daniil’s. “You can’t do this again, try and stop me from leaving by manipulating my feelings for you. I get it. Humilitas occidit superbiam.” He crosses his arms over his chest, shaking. For a moment it looks like he might…

Oh, no. No. He is crying. How did Artemy manage to mess up this badly?

Daniil takes a breath, and looks away from him. “I’m done. I’ve accepted that I can’t make myself love someone else when I already love you.” He looks at Artemy, trying hard to keep his mouth steady and thin.

And absolutely, positively failing. “Daniil –“

Saying his name isn’t enough to change his mind. He doesn’t look the least bit interested in what Artemy has to say, turning quickly and leaving through the door.

He should be following after Daniil. He should be running out and grabbing him, telling him to stop running, but – but he’d just tried acting on his feelings, acting without stopping to plan or speak, because he thought it’s what he was supposed to do. Waiting had never paid off, and now acting has backfired. Because he misinterpreted something in Daniil’s words? Because he hadn’t listened to him? He’s not even sure how he managed to do it wrong this time. He stumbles back against the wall, rubbing his eyes.

They breathe, slowly, but their fingers tremble all the same. They have the rest of the day to work this out, to devote to understanding where it is they went wrong in this encounter. They turn, steps sluggish, making their way back toward the steps.

You can’t want me only when I’m unavailable to you. Their stomach turns. Have they been making that mistake the whole time? They thought they’d only been showing interest when Daniil was single, but they never really stopped to assess what it might have looked like to Daniil. Not past getting him to leave Mark.

I’m paying for it now, they think. But they’d kissed Daniil this time because Daniil said that he’d broken up with Block. How did Daniil read that as only acting because Daniil wasn’t available?

You can’t do this to me! Not just hurt, but pleading with Artemy to stop. All Artemy ever does is wreck things, bull in a china shop that they are.

This whole time…I can’t make myself love someone else when I already love you. So why were they having this issue? Artemy sits on the edge of their bed, and slowly leans back until they’re laying down, their hands thrown over their head. If acting was wrong, then what was right? Simply blurting out their feelings? Maybe they should have led with that. Just said the words I love you. I want you. Don’t be with someone else, stay with me. Been gentler with him, taken his hand.

But they can plan that now. Give Daniil half a day to cool off, find him across town. He’ll go to Eva, almost definitely, if he can’t go to Artemy. Artemy can bring him something special. Flowers, maybe. Something he couldn’t pick in the steppe, something from the florist around the corner. Hadn’t he liked it when Block brought him flowers? Or would it be garish to repeat another man’s actions? 

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t have one of Victor’s clocks in his house, doesn’t hear the time ticking by. It must be after noon when the door opens and shuts, and feet start scrambling around the house.

“Aba?” He sits up just in time for Sticky to come barreling up the stairs, face flushed from his sprint. “Aba! You have to stop him. He’s getting on the train right now!”

The train right now?

You can’t do this again.

“Who?”

“The Bachelor.”

Try and stop me from leaving.

Artemy’s hands slap loud on his face, bolting up off the bed. By manipulating my feelings for you. Christ, that’s why he was so upset. He had said everything was over – something, something, my time in this town, words along those lines. Artemy had only heard, had only cared that his relationship with Block was over. He’d acted on those words alone, but they hadn’t been the only things of note he said. Artemy nearly trips over his own feet running down the stairs. His stomach aches, his leg aches, because of course everything goes wrong just when he needs it to go right.

Everything around him seems so slow, and whether it’s his leg or his mind making him feel like he’s moving underwater he doesn’t know. People stare at him trying desperately to jog down the street, to make it to the train tracks. He’ll cut through like that, limping as he tries to run. The uneven ground here doesn’t do him any favors, panicked sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

The train’s horn sounds impossibly loud for how far away he still is. “No, no.” No, no, no. He’ll keep muttering it to himself, knowing it won’t do him any good. It feels like a knife is stuck straight in his leg, but he can’t slow down, he has to round this corner, has to make it to the passenger station. He has to. If he doesn’t, if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t –

A rock catches on his toe and he trips, landing hard on the railing. His wrist will swell and bruise, but that’s later. He’ll worry about that once he’s caught up, once he’s talked Daniil off the train, off going wherever it is he’s heading. And if it’s to the Capital, what then? Death? A second wind breaks in his chest and he’s throwing himself over the tracks, up the walkway.

But he’s too late. The train is already moving. “Daniil!” Stupid. Calling his name won’t stop the train. And what is he supposed to do, jump off of it? “Daniil!” He’ll scream anyway, he’ll drag his cramped leg behind him after the damned train. “Daniil!”

It’s too painful to make his way far out, and what would be the point even if he did? Panic reforms in his chest, brighter and louder than it had been before. This can’t be real, it can’t be happening. He’d stayed in Town for a year, only to leave? Leave work, leave his kids? No, there’s no way. He wouldn’t leave on such short notice. Sticky must have been mistaken, must have seen the train and made an assumption. If he goes to the Stillwater, Daniil will still be there, pacing upstairs, angry with him, or maybe distracting himself with some new endeavor.

They’re a little slow making their way around the station. They don’t think they can manage to pull themself through a stream right now, so they have to pass through the town, not looking at anyone else as they make their way to Daniil’s home. His home, which he can’t leave, because it’s his. It houses his soul and his memories and his life, and he can’t just abandon it. Not when he’d promised to Eva to take care of it, not when all of his things from the Capital were in it. No, that’s simply ridiculous. And Artemy is pounding on the door to prove to themself just how ridiculous it all is, heart in their throat as heavy steps come out to greet them.

Sleepy Head pokes his head out and takes a look at them, frowning. He shoulders the door open and stands there, arms crossed over his chest, appraising Artemy. “Something I can help you with, doctor?”

“Yeah.” Their pulse is fast, heart beating so hard they could feel it with their hand through their sweater if they tried. “I’m looking for your – for Daniil.” And Sleepy Head gives them a look, a cross sort of look, one that makes its way into something pitying. His eyes turn to the ground, shuffling his feet. Next he’ll say that Daniil doesn’t want to see him. He’s banking on it. He’s hoping on it. It’s better than the alternative.

“Sorry, doc, but Daniil isn’t here.” No. He feels the attack gripping at his arms, like someone dragging him backwards off a well-lit stage and into darkness, into a dusty room, into a coffin. “You just missed him. I saw him get on the train.” He’s looking at Artemy very carefully, like he’s not sure what to make of him. “I saw you there at the station, too, calling after him.”

Oh, great. And he must not have been the only one there. Artemy was so single-minded in his goal he didn’t pay attention to his surroundings. Now he’ll have the whole town gossiping about him, chasing after the train like an idiot. But he can worry about that later, worry about all the little unimportant things some other time. “Where did he go? Did he tell you where?”

“The Capital.” The Capital. That’s suicide, a death wish. That’s why he never went back, wasn’t it? “He took Shrew with ‘im, so he won’t be having to deal with quite as much shit from the Powers That Be. ‘Scuse my language.”

“And did he say for how long?” The teen shakes his head, and Artemy swears, running a hand through his hair. “Did he say where he’ll be staying? Give you any way at all to contact him?”

“What makes you think I’d tell you if he did?” Artemy blinks in surprise. “You were the last person he talked to before he left, and he came back here all upset, waving his arms around and trying to act like everything was fine. So what reason do I have tell you where he’s staying, and when he’ll come back if he does at all?”

“Kid, I’m begging you –“ They’re not sure if it’s them calling Sleepy Head ‘kid,’ or if it’s something else they said, or if it’s just the fact that it’s them at all that makes him turn around and close the door on Artemy, leaving them standing outside the Stillwater with the biggest lump in their throat they’ve ever felt. It really is, as Daniil said, over. Artemy takes a step back until they hit the outside wall, and starts to sink to the floor. They bring their knees up to their chest and hide their face in their legs.

They tell themselves they’re not crying.

Daniil does not permit himself to fidget. He sits in his seat, in what he thinks is a very dignified and patient manner, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes closed, trying to breathe evenly through his nose. In order to maintain this façade he has to hold himself very straight, very poised, because if he doesn’t tightly regulate his composure he will fall apart altogether. And he’s done quite enough falling apart in the town, because of the town. He doesn’t need any more of that, thank you very much, especially if he’s going to be in the Capital for a while. It’s not the sort of place he can break down in easily. Even in his flat during college, it didn’t feel safe to have a meltdown. He’d always swallow down his tears of frustration and anguish, forcing his face into something sharp and frightening to go out into the world around him.

He let himself get soft, and he’ll be taking some of that softness back with him. That was the hazard of adopting kids – or the reason he wanted to in the first place. But that same softness was also the sort of thing that would get him eaten alive in the parts of the Capital he was accustomed to. People always look for weakness in men like him, and he won’t survive if he lets them see it.

Shrew bounces around the train, excitable as he’d probably been his first time on one, though he’d been much younger than she is now. It’s lucky for him she’s too polite – or perhaps too uninterested in adult affairs – to ask questions. Not that he knows what he’d say to her if she did, because there’s no good way to describe what’s been going on between himself and Artemy. There’s too much history, and somehow it’s still not enough. He’s spent a year getting closer, and yet here he is taking a massive step back. He’s not sure which direction he’d consider growth.

His lips were soft and slightly chapped. Daniil’s hands curl into fists as he thinks about it. He doesn’t want to think about it, nor should he. That kiss didn’t mean anything to Artemy. It was just another manipulation, an attempt to make Daniil stay in Town, all because he doesn’t handle change well. He couldn’t let the Polyhedron stay standing if it meant change for his town, couldn’t let Daniil move if it meant change for his life. Heaven only knows what he’ll do with Rubin now without Daniil there to mediate. He guesses that task gets relegated to Lara once again, if she can gather up the strength to manage it.

But it felt real.

Daniil digs his teeth into his cheek. The kiss only felt real because he wanted it to be real. He doesn’t really want to leave. So much want in his thoughts, and so little need. And the reason he needs to leave to is so he can get his mind off Artemy, however long that takes. And then when he’s done he can go back home and have a normal, happy life, and a friendship he can treasure instead of ruining. He’ll learn to be happy without the one thing he so clearly wasn’t built for.

Instead of feeling relieved, he feels hopeless, and the further the train takes him from the Town the stronger that feeling grows. Like he’s being pulled in the wrong direction, away from something he’s tied to, tearing something unnaturally. He grew into the town, became a part of its body.

The concept feels strange to him, belonging to a community in that way. He’s not sure if he’s ever felt it before. He doubts he’ll ever feel it again.

And it could have been wonderful, if he could have kept his feelings in check before today. Would it have been wonderful if he’d let himself give in, too? He wanted to kiss back, wanted to melt, wanted to believe that lie. Even now he feels a pain in his chest at what could have been if he’d just let Artemy kiss him. His fingers tighten in their curl so hard his knuckles ache. If his teeth pinch any harder, his cheek will bleed.

He has to stop this, to think of anything else. The way Artemy kept turning him down, the subtle signs he’d given that he wasn’t interested. The way he would have turned it around on Daniil for getting his hopes up about something that wasn’t there.

But then why did he kiss me?

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Daniil blinks his eyes open, spots dancing before his vision. It takes a moment for the haziness to clear so he can look around, look to his side where Shrew has taken a seat next to him, leaning over with her hands on her knees. She looks concerned, her small mouth dipped down at the sides.

He shouldn’t be ruining this trip for her. This is her first time outside of the town, and he should be sharing her enjoyment. Isn’t he looking forward to going home again after so much time away? “Nothing,” Daniil says, forcing a smile on his face. “Nothing important, my dear. Just the usual anxiety.” He runs his tongue over his lips, trying to find a way out of the conversation. “Did you need anything? Water, a snack? This train ride will be awfully long, you know, compared to what you’re used to –“

“You wanna know something?” she interrupts. “You’re a terrible liar.” She’s not kicking her feet in the relaxed way she normally does when they talk, her fingers tucked under the seat she sits on. And she doesn’t sound nearly as relaxed now as she usually does, either. Far more determined than usual, frown a little more rigid. “You look like you’re about to start crying. What’re you thinking about?”

Daniil’s fake smile falters. He shouldn’t let her get all worked up and worried about something she can’t control, something neither of them have a say over. But he doesn’t want to lie, either. He can’t see another lie going over well when she can spot them so easily.

He stares down at the floor of the train car, absentmindedly scratching his face. “Something rather stupid, I’m afraid,” he says. Saying it now feels so silly. “Nothing you should let yourself get worried over.”

“Well it’s too late for that now,” Shrew says. It surprises Daniil how haughty her voice sounds, like a perfect imitation of his own. She’s got her chin tilted up, enough to give him the same sort of look he normally gives others when trying to assert himself in a conversation. It’s heartwarming, if not a little embarrassing. “Does it have to do with Doctor Burakh?” His heart jolts. Something must give way on his face, because she’s looking at him now, her darkened expression returned. “I saw how upset you were when you got back from his place this morning. Sleepy Head and I both decided not to ask, since you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

So they could tell. He feels ashamed of himself. He’d tried to hide it by nitpicking the order of their items, by loudly going over the itinerary, assuming he’d succeeded when neither of the kids stopped him. He swallows around a lump in his throat, wishing it would all just disappear. That’s why he’s running the way he is: to try and make it all go away, to erase the last year, to eradicate these useless feelings from his mind.

Suddenly, thinking about it is too much, and he feels like he could collapse at any moment. Not in front of Shrew. I can’t break down in front of a child, I have to be the adult. And being the adult means not having emotions, not showing how I feel. How else will people respect me?

Daniil tries to laugh, tries to cover his emotions with a huff, but it’s not enough. He’s still feeling that dim hollowness in his chest. He covers his eyes with his hand, fist shaking in his lap.

Shrew tugs on his shoulder, and in the softest voice he’s heard from her yet, she calls, “Dad?” Daniil makes a strange, half-strangled noise in the back of his throat, still trying to hide what he’s feeling. He feels just like a porcelain doll dropped onto the cold, hard floor, shattering into several tiny pieces. He never used to allow himself the indignity of tears, but something in the town compromised his structural integrity. He’s no longer impermeable, no longer solid, but some squishy, fleshy mess. He’s alive, and it feels horrible.

“Don’t think too unkindly of him,” he says, his voice pitching up a couple octaves. He’s used to wearing it down, to being flat and soft and calm. Not this hysteria he feels bubbling up to the surface. “He’s just doing what he thinks is best for the town.” And best for himself. “It’s not his fault that I… care for him.”

She doesn’t have an answer for that, but he can feel her fingers lock around his elbow, and a moment later her head rest against his arm. She lets him grieve something he cannot touch for several minutes, for maybe even half an hour, before she speaks again. “Tell me about where we’re going in the Capital.”

Daniil takes a shaky breath and clears his throat. His eyes, still closed, try to bring his old university into focus, imagining the tall buildings and the spires, the clouds hanging over the science buildings, the snow falling and making icy patches of the sidewalk. It feels like going right back to where he started, to where he became himself. He loosens his fist, and lets his fingers fall flat. “We’ll start with a place to stay, and then I can show you my alma mater…”

My dear Daniil,

I can’t believe you left with such short notice! I heard, of course, of you breaking off your engagement (or did it never truly begin?) with Alexander, and I understood immediately. The Stillwater, she is loving, but the kind of love she gives… It’s difficult to take when you are grieving, or so I’ve heard. I’ve been by to check on her and your young ward, not long after you left. Or should I perhaps say, your son? I heard him refer to you as ‘dad’ once, just a slip of the tongue, and my how he blushed! I think he would have begged for me not to tell you, but he was trying to play cool in front of some friends. It seems your home is currently playing mistress to a number of homeless children in your absence. I spoke with Lara, and she’ll be bringing by sleeping bags for those who’ll be staying. I think she’ll have found a new purpose for the Shelter by the time you get back.

Oh, and you had better be coming back! I absolutely won’t forgive you if you stay in the Capital. It’s madness that you went at all. I thought Andrey might run all the way after you when I told him the news, he swears for certain you are doomed if you choose to stay there. I told him you would not have taken a child with you if you thought you were in any immediate danger, and I should hope that’s true. Still, it scares me. Please write me back as soon as you get this! I need to know that the two of you are safe and accounted for.

Love,

Your Eva

PS, Artemy Burakh came by to ask after where to write you. I have a feeling I know why you didn’t tell him before you left, but Daniil, you cannot do this to yourself. Talk to him! I did. I won’t tell you what about, as I think they should tell you themself, but I don’t think you’ll regret it.

Daniil,

I don’t know how to write a letter. I haven’t done it in so long. I don’t even know where to begin. Should I start by saying I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I acted without thinking. I know I do that a lot, but I didn’t want to lose my chance again.

I don’t know how to say this in a letter. It would be better if I could say it out loud to you. I wanted to scream it at the train as you went away. I love you. I love you, and I should have said that first.

I love you. Please come back.

Artemy

Dankovsky,

When I told you to talk to Cub before you left, I didn’t mean to wait until the day you were leaving. For someone who prides himself on his fancy Capital etiquette, that was pretty rude of you. And here I thought you a changed man, but whatever you said to him must have been pretty upsetting. He’s good at masking his feelings, but I’ve known him long enough to see through that façade. Even if I didn’t, I know what it looks like to try and hide your tears from everyone else.

He wouldn’t want someone to fight his battles for him, but I don’t know if he has it in him to tell you off. He’s too smitten with you. But I’ve never had that problem. Even with Stakh I have no issue speaking my mind. Fix this, or don’t come back to the school.

Lara

Daniil,

I don’t really remember what I wrote in my last letter, but I know it was pretty rushed. I felt like I had to send one out as soon as I could, try to reach you as quickly as possible. And I guess I didn’t say much in it. I thought about it, and I figured out how you got the impression I was just trying to keep you here, and maybe I am trying to keep you here, but I don’t want you to leave because I love you.

It took me so long to figure it out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for flirting with you before I really meant it, but I did mean it, these past six eight nine (???) months. And I didn’t want you to be with Mark because I wanted you to be with me. I just didn’t know at the time that’s what I wanted.

I feel like this isn’t making any sense. I’m not good at putting my thoughts and feelings into words like you are. But I can express it better when you come back. Please say you’re coming back.

Artemy

Dankovsky,

So, you decided to run away. I’d say that’s an interesting development, but what’s truly interesting is the way in which you left. From what I have heard, you were seen storming out of Burakh’s house, covering your mouth with your sleeve. I doubt it’s a cough you’re hiding, unless you’re planning on dropping dead in the Capital like the heroine of some cheap novel. Might I guess that you confessed your feelings for the Haruspex, only to have whole affair not go according to plan?

I’m in much higher spirits now that I’ve this wonderful new theatre to play around in. Allow me to offer you this piece of advice, while I’m feeling generous: spend your time listening to people. You are not so good at doing what is expected of you, and that is how you have earned your fame and your infamy. But if you were to think back and truly listen to the things you have been told over this past year, you may find evidence which fascinates you.

I can’t say I personally care very much what you choose to do next, but you have rather torn at the tapestry this town was weaving, and I do hate to see a beautiful piece of art wasted. You are, for better or worse, ‘our man,’ and Maria insists the Town is wounded without you.

1. Immortell

Daniil,

I understand why you’re angry with me. And I know I’ve sent dozens of letters over the past several weeks. I’ve probably written a letter for every day you’ve been gone. I don’t know how many of them will reach you, or how long they’ll take to get there. But I need you to know that I didn’t kiss you because I didn’t want you to leave. I mean, I don’t want you to leave, but that’s not why I did it.

When you broke up with Mark, I thought you would ask me out. I didn’t make the move because I didn’t think I had to. I thought, “He’ll come to me, and I won’t have to do anything but say yes.” And then you didn’t, and I thought I had to make it more obvious I was waiting for you. And then when you broke up with Stakh – I waited what I thought was a good time for you to deal with that, and then – that day I came over to your house? I was going to tell you. I wanted to tell you how I felt about you, that I wanted to be with you. But you had these hickeys on your neck, and I thought you were with someone else. I felt like I couldn’t win. And that’s why I was so pissed off all the time. It didn’t have anything to do with my dad, it was just me missing my chance with you over and over again. And then when you started dating Block…

I was going to tell you that night. I had this big speech prepared. I even started saying it, but then you just looked so zoned out. I tried getting your attention, but you weren’t there. You didn’t really come back until Block came up to talk to you. I never got to finish what I was saying, so I guess I’ll say it now.

I don’t really do dating, never really got the hang of it. But the way things have been, you coming over for dinner, spending time with me and the kids, is that enough? I know we’re both busy people. I feel like we’re already so close, the biggest difference would just be getting the chance to hold your hand when we walk around together, if you’ll let me.

It’s not as eloquent as I’m sure Mark was, or Peter. I’m sure you’d do it better, if you were in my shoes. And maybe if you were in my shoes, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Friends keep telling me they can’t read my mind. I guess I treated you like you could. I didn’t mean to do that.

I love you. Please come back.

Artemy

Down the hall, Daniil can hear the soft notes of a piano drifting slowly, unsurely through the air as someone works their way through the scales. He can’t see the scene from where he sits on his bed, but he can imagine it easily: Shrew on the bench, his father beside her, teaching her how to move her fingers. He’d done the same for Daniil when he was a little younger than Shrew is now, though Daniil didn’t quite have the aptitude for music. He can still play scales and the one or two songs he memorized through muscle, but not much else. Eva once suggested that he pick piano-playing back up as a method of de-stressing, but never being able to capture something perfectly is part of what stresses him out.

It doesn’t matter when it’s someone else. He doesn’t begrudge the missed keys he hears now, he only listens to someone else’s growth, to gentle redirection. If he closes his eyes, if he focuses, he can hear his father’s encouragement, Shrew starting from the beginning. From Middle C.

His mother re-enters the room with a box in hand, and he steps up from the bed to take it from her. She’s gained new wrinkles in her face since the last time Daniil saw her – though that was well over five years ago now. He hopes the lines are all from laughter, not worry, though he knows he got his anxiety from her. It’s always surprised him, how much he looks like her, even years into his transition.

Her brown eyes still have a sharp edge to them as she moves to set the box down where Daniil had been sitting just a moment ago. She tucks a lock of her chestnut hair behind her ear and wrings her hands. “I think this is the last of it,” she says, and he can hear the slight cough in her throat from the dust on top of the box. She must’ve been keeping it in the attic. She doesn’t drag her fingers through it, though her nose wrinkles at the texture when she goes to remove the lid. “They were in such good condition. I always hoped one day you’d make yourself a family –“

Daniil tucks his bottom lip behind his teeth, biting down softly. They’ve been trying, he knows that much. Each carefully worded letter told him that they’d been working on the change. They never needed to say that it had been difficult for them, that much had been apparent in the tightness of their voices. It could have been worse, Daniil knows. He’s always been a difficult child.

He lets his lip go and tries to smile at her. “Well, it’s a good thing you kept them then, isn’t it?” She declines to comment, setting the lid down behind the box, top up to keep the dust from scattering through the room. Daniil reaches out, and then stops himself. He can see the way his mother’s eyes focus on the gloves he wears, and he pulls back to tentatively remove them. He still doesn’t like more than half the textures he feels on the clothes, but that’s not for him to worry about now. “Do you think they’ll fit her?”

She hums, picking up a blue blouse, turning it over in her hands. Daniil can remember the soft rustle of fabric on that one, how it was one of the shirts he’d wear over and over again. He’s a little amazed his mother has managed to keep it in one piece. It should have worn thin by now. “They should, yes. Though if you have any issues getting them to fit, your city does have the best tailors. They can adjust anything to her size.” She folds the shirt, sets it back down in the box, and turns to him. “Danechka,” she starts, and for a minute he is too overwhelmed with happiness that he neglects the obvious question in the word. “You still haven’t told us why you came back.”

Ah. Right. He should have known she’d want an explanation for that, after spending so much time away. Even when he lived in the city, he rarely visited, preferring letters to letting his parents see the state his life was in. Daniil runs a hand through his hair, tangling in the locks. It’s so hard not to pick at his scalp when he gets as worried as he does, and the past month has been nothing but worry for him. He hasn’t even looked at apartments yet, though the hotel certainly doesn’t seem to mind eating up the change in his pocket.

Maybe I should just move back home?

“Things got complicated,” he says.

“Things,” his mother repeats. She clasps her hands in front of her, setting against her lap. “Things, my dear, are always complicated. That is what it means to be an adult.” Daniil nods uncomfortably. He starts to tug his gloves back on. He can feel his mother watching him as he does, though he doesn’t look up at her. “You must know we don’t mind you coming home to stay, but it has been over a year since we’ve heard from you.” She lets the pause hang in the air, and Daniil feels like he’s swallowing glass. “A little context would go a long way, sweetheart.”

The word ‘sweetheart’ lingers uncomfortably in the air. Daniil’s never used the word with anything but sarcasm, and he inherited his dry wit from her. He fidgets under the scrutiny. His mother takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and looks to a spot on the other side of the box of clothes, waiting for Daniil to take a seat there. He wipes his hands on his trousers and does so, crossing his right leg over his left knee. His eyes fix on the closet doors, on the little wooden slots like blinds. He remembers hiding there as a child, peeking through, wondering if anyone would find him.

“There was a plague,” he says. “And before the plague, there was a town. A strange town, with strange people. People with amazing lifespans, people I thought I could study.”

“And?” It feels like being interrogated by a professor again, like being held accountable for his actions. So different from the ways the Powers That Be hold him accountable, so different from the ways he holds himself accountable. His parents always had a way of reeling him in. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No.” The word comes out so much more confident than Daniil feels it. After a year, it’s still a struggle to admit how he’s failed, how much he’s lost. He’s just getting better at faking it. “The man I was meant to study died before I arrived. Died of the plague, in fact.” Daniil takes a shaky breath. “I couldn’t leave. I thought about it, but even if I’d bothered trying – I instated quarantine. There was no way for me to leave.” He stares down at his nails, tries not to start picking at them. He’d given up chewing on them as a teenager. This visit home is stirring up a lot of memories, a lot of habits. “Those twelve days… When they were over, I still couldn’t leave. It felt like there was nowhere for me to go.”

There’s a soft rustle of fabric, and his mother places her hand on his knee. Daniil lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He hasn’t wanted to think about things, to think at all. He hasn’t wanted to relive that nightmare, hasn’t wanted to explain it to anybody. It was just so much easier if he never had to. “But why didn’t you write?” she asks. His laugh is hollow. “Daniil –“

“How could anyone understand what I went through? I lost everything. My lab, my colleagues, my dreams, all up in smoke.” Something sticks in the back of his throat. “I didn’t think I could return. And I didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t. I took the coward’s way out. It was easier not to get anyone else involved.”

“Is that why you never came back?” Daniil shakes his head. She squeezes his knee. “Don’t do that, sweetheart. You know I don’t know everything. You have to tell me, I can’t guess.”

But the words won’t come out. There’s so many of them on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out, to tumble as one big wet mess, and Daniil can only shake his head at himself. How could he explain that coming back was a death sentence? That he’d only managed it after a year because he’d been completely forgotten by society? His parents would worry, would try and coddle him like they had as a child. And is that even really the truth, the full of it?

“There was a man.”

Don’t think about Artemy. Not thinking about Artemy had been the whole goal of coming out here. To forget, to move on, for his life to continue. His heart clamors restlessly. His mother’s voice comes soft, and slow. “I see.” She lets a moment of silence drift between them, and he can feel her turning towards him. “There’s a reason you didn’t bring him with you.”

“I was…” There’s no word for it, nothing that describes the way he’s been feeling, the last year of life he’s been living. He twists his fingers around each other, listening to his knuckles crack. “I don’t know. Afraid.”

“Of what we would say?” Daniil wants to shake his head, but his body won’t move. Nothing feels right, nothing at all. “We’re not so naïve, Daniil. Things have changed while you’ve been gone. We’re different, now.” He feels her fingers slide against his forehead, parting his fringe, pushing the locks back. “We know you are different. You always have been. Maybe things haven’t been perfect, but we love you regardless.”

Daniil laughs, but it’s broken and humorless. Why couldn’t he have heard this twelve years ago? “It isn’t that,” he says, leaning into her touch. Everything comes pouring out at once. “I’m afraid that love will change me. That I’ll lose myself, that I’ll cease to exist. I’m afraid I don’t know how, that what I feel is fake, that it won’t work out.” His nails bite into the center of his palm, giving up on the pretense, biting into his lips. “I spent a year trying to prove to myself that I could love. I tried to love so many people, but it never worked. I could never love the way people needed me to.”

“I don’t know about that,” she says. “You have a daughter in the living room learning piano from her grandfather. She says you have letters awaiting you back at the hotel. You’ve been gone two months, Daniil, and people miss you.”

“But I don’t love correctly,” Daniil insists. “I never have. And all this time I’ve hated people –“

“Hated them so much you tried to save them?” Her fingers tangle in his hair, drawing his head to her shoulder. Daniil rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You have always been capable of love, and you have always been afraid of it. That’s why you run towards it, like an enemy in battle. But love isn’t death, Daniil. Stop fighting it.”

“I’m not trying to! But I need to know that he –“ Daniil stops, and turns his head around. He stares at the little desk he used to sit at, doing his homework, reading his books. Everything had seemed so much simpler then, when all he cared about was the beetles he found in the yard. His fingers twitch, and he itches to do something. To elope like he used to.

But his mother is right, and he needs to stop running. “I came back because I wanted to forget him,” he continues. “I wanted to forget everything, to start over again. Now, being away from that town just feels wrong, like I’m turning something inside of me in a direction it wasn’t meant to turn.”

His mother takes a moment, her fingers tickling the back of his neck as she reaches around for his shoulder. “You can take all the time you need. And if you need to come home, come home. But life isn’t a series of straight lines, Daniil.” She kisses his forehead. For a moment, he feels like a child again. “Happiness isn’t a place, my son, or a person. It isn’t a thing you can hold onto. You have to make it yourself. And if you were gone for a year, I think that you have.”

“What if it isn’t permanent?” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Nothing is,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try at all.”

“I want to go home,” Daniil says. The admission itself scares him, but at the same time, he feels excited.

His mother smiles against his brow, and says, “Then go.”

Dear Doctor Dankovsky,

Hi, it’s me! Sticky! I am writing this letter with help from Ms. Ravel because I still don’t know how to spell some things. We’ve been learning a lot of new words while you’ve been gone. She says it’s only been too two months, but it feels like a whole year! By the time you come back I bet I will be able to read all of those fancy Capital books in your house. Sleepy Head has been letting me borrow a few. I mostly look at the diagrams. I have been trying to memorize the names of all the bones so I can help aba out. He says I’m getting good at it.

He misses you a lot. My dad, I mean. Artemy. He does not talk about it a lot, but I can tell. He looks so sad sometimes, like on day’s you are supposed to come over for dinner. He looks alot at where you are sposed supposed to sit and gets this very sad look on his face. I think he is lonely without you. And I think you are lonely without him! You get grumpy so easily, I can’t imagine what kinda mood you must be in right now.

Murky and me miss you a lot too. Things just are not the same with you gone. Ms. Yan came over to see your house the other day and she told us your address, so we thought it would be inportent important to write you and ask you to come back soon? This town is your home yaknow. We love you here.

Your friend,

Sticky

PS, I am including some drawings Murky made that she wanted to show you, but make sure you bring them back!

PPSS, Please bring nuts!

Daniil,

It’s been driving me crazy, not knowing if you’re getting these letters. I keep having nightmares of you in the Capital with all that hostile architecture, running around like a puppet being dragged on strings. Your lines are too far out for me to feel, I can’t even tell if you’re still alive or not. I wish you’d write back, even if it was just to tell me to fuck off. You could be burning these letters, for all I know, but you could just as easily be dead, and that terrifies me. Even if you never spoke to me again, if I knew you were alright, I’d be – well, not happy. But I’d be at ease, I guess.

The kids miss you a lot. I’m not trying to say that to get you to come back. I mean, obviously I want you to come back, but I think it’s important that you know that people miss you here. I remember you were so worried that first month or two that you wouldn’t fit in, but patients ask me about you all the time. It’s kind of funny, actually. Some of them miss that you were short with them. They think you were a nice middle-ground between me and Stakh.

[a few inkblots on the page indicate where the writer started and changed their mind, before the sentence actually begins]

Stakh told me something interesting. Well, it was interesting to me, anyway. He told me he thought we were already together because of how we acted. Hearing that sort of felt like a kick in the chest. I don’t know if you would have liked that, though. The longer you’re away the more I worry. Did I not show my appreciation enough? I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do. I’ve only ever been in a few relationships before, and they didn’t exactly go smoothly. Not that I think it matters. No one I’ve ever met has been like you. And I just want to make you happy, Daniil, whatever that means.

I hope you’re safe. I love you. Please come home.

Artemy

Dankovsky,

I didn’t think I’d catch myself writing a letter. I’ve always hated letters, but here I am. I can’t exactly complain to Grief or Lara about work troubles, and Cub is indisposed as of late. So here I am, writing to ask you: How in the hell did you deal with the Kains? The Utopians, the whole lot of them. How did you manage this? How did they not drive you crazy? They’re the absolute worst. Maybe that sounds harsh to you. I guess Victor is fine. He’s the only one who shuts up. Khan refuses to be seen by me, always heads off to Cub. I guess that’s okay. He was one of Cub’s Bound. But Georgiy keeps insisting that he’s Simon, which I think is a convenient excuse to explain why he hasn’t been taking his medication as directed. Maria always leaves halfway through a checkup.

Please say you’re coming back soon. I don’t mind helping Cub out at the other clinic, obviously. You know I always like to have something to do with my time, but this is getting to be a bit much for just the two of us. Lara’s forcing me to sleep more, too. I guess that’s a good thing. She agrees with you that I always look like a dead man walking. It’s been…nice, spending time with her. I won’t get my hopes up, though. I don’t want to end up like you, no offense. Though I guess I shouldn’t say that, since it turns out Cub does actually return your affections, he just sucks at showing it.

Did he really tell you he wouldn’t date a Utopian? I can’t believe he didn’t think that one through. What an idiot.

You don’t have to write back or anything. But you seemed so keen on sharing information, I thought I should try that too. But I’d appreciate any advice you have on dealing with the other side of town.

Rubin

Daniil,

Maybe I haven’t been clear enough about my affections for you. Stakh says I’m an idiot, and bad at this sort of thing. And he’s right. I really am. But I’ve spent too long trying to run from things, so I’m going to try and write it all out here, and then I’m going to make a copy so I can read it out loud to you if you ever come back. Here it goes.

I love the passion and dedication that you put into the things that you care about. Even when it’s just put into your work, your goal to defeat death, I admired that. It sort of drove me crazy, but I guess I was also kind of envious that you had something in your life that you were so serious about when I always felt like I couldn’t commit to things. That’s the word I’ve been looking for – committed. When you set your mind on something, you don’t let it go. It’s incredible. Especially when you turn that into building a clinic, setting up a school, adopting children. You’re a lot of things, but never idle. And I admire that about you.

I love that you always speak your mind, even when you shouldn’t. Especially when you shouldn’t. Telling off Saburov for not letting Peter have Grace, or really any time you’ve spoken to Saburov. Or the Vlads. I think you scare the Younger a bit, he certainly can’t seem to say no to you whether what you want is in his best interests or not. I can only imagine what kinds of things you’ve said to other people in power over you, to professors and administrators and inquisitors and the Powers That Be themselves. I’m sure that’s how you got yourself into that mess in the Capital, why they hate your work. I couldn’t be more proud of you for it.

I love how seriously you take your job as a doctor. Sure, your bedside manner isn’t the best, I won’t deny that, but you don’t sugarcoat things and sometimes that’s what people need. You know what you’re doing and you know how to get it done, and you don’t let anyone else stand in your way. Your intellect has made us butt heads from time to time, but I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t change you. I love you exactly the way you are.

And I love a million other things about you. Small things. The way you mutter under your breath when you’re thinking, the way the light shines in your eyes when you’re amused but trying to play it off like you aren’t, how slow and soft your speaking voice is, the fact that you don’t talk down to kids but treat their words with legitimate concern, how lost you get in conversation when you’ve found something you’re really interested in, the scars on your cheek, the ridiculous amount of layers you wear, the precise and ordered way you cut vegetables, that little wheeze in your laugh when you’re caught off-guard, the fact that you practice so much of your speech. I even miss you speaking Latin, Daniil. I’ve been trying to learn a little since you’ve been gone. Sticky’s better at it than me, I guess because he’s young.

Wow, I wound up talking about the kids again. But it makes me wonder how Shrew is doing. Sleepy Head still won’t tell me anything. I guess I deserve that. I’ve been a dunce, making you upset like this. I know it won’t be immediate, but I hope you can forgive me sometime. And even if you don’t want me anymore, I need you to know that I love you. I love you, and I miss you. Please come home.

Artemy

Danko,

I’m sure Eva’s told you all about my grand plan to come and rescue you from your own dumb decisions – the Capital, old boy, are you serious? With how much they want your head? But, as you can tell from the stunning lack of heroics on my part, she managed to talk me out of it. Two bad ideas don’t make a good one, or something like that. She also said something about my “pathological need to take care of others,” if you can believe that. And then Peter kept staying my hand when I tried to write to you by always keeping me tied up in some project or other – he wants to install sculptures in the new Town, something Grace has helped him figure out. He’s come a long way, my brother has. Four and a half months sober. Better for him that he’s too far from the Broken Heart. I wonder if it’ll stick this time. Saburov sent some men over to inspect his new home and found it an ‘adequate living space.’ If he manages sobriety for six months, they’ll do a trial run with Grace to see how things go. Lara Ravel was over to see Eva and suggested he teach the kids how to paint. I’m not sure he knows much about talking to kids, but hey, this town’s gotta foster more creatives. We can’t be the only ones.

Trying to figure out what all would interest you while you’re in our beloved city makes life here seem rather dull. I’m sure you’ve got plenty going on, assuming the Powers haven’t had at you yet. Or maybe that’s what’s taking you so long? Eva says not to worry. She’s heard it from Maria that you’re fine, and if Maria says it, it must be true. No word on when you’re coming back, or if. So I guess that’s why I’m out here with my pen now, trying to convince you to come back. Things are always better the more friends you have in a Town, and I think my brother could benefit from as many friends as he can get.

He’s not the only one. Listen, old boy, I’m not blind, deaf, or dumb. I can’t believe I’ve watched you fart around with all these men the last year and some change. I’ll forgive you for Peter, since I know you helped him out quite a bit, but Mark? Grief? Jesus Christ, my good man, I told you that you needed someone grounded. It’s like you don’t even listen. I thought you’d settle down with the Haruspex – how much more grounded can you get? The man picks herbs for a living. I didn’t say anything, wasn’t my place, but now you’ve gone and left our only doctor a real sad sack. You can see the rings ‘round his eyes that says he’s been doing a lot of crying and not much sleeping. Bad Grief says he’s been writing you letters nonstop since you left. Are you really gonna just leave him in the lurch? That’s a bad move, my friend.

You know, he waits by the station, every day. Doesn’t matter if a train comes or not. He hangs out there with the kids, waiting for the train to come and bring you home. And this is your home now, no denying it. You may have come with Capital dust on your shoes, but you brought our soil back under your feet.

Drop a line and let us know you’re alive, at least. These pins can’t hold me much longer.

Andrey

Daniil,

The first snowfall came this morning. It made me wish I had any sort of artistic talent. We don’t have photography here. I’m not sure how well photographs would be able to capture snow, anyway. But I wanted to share this moment with you, watching the snow drift down from the sky in these big, fluffy flakes. Especially since the kids managed to make a snowman to look like you. I could tell from the little eyebrows they used – they must have dug through the snow to the dead leaves beneath, and then a stick for the mouth. They exaggerated our height difference, though. I’m not really two heads taller than you, am I?

The Kin are talking about restarting some of their old winter traditions again. They didn’t last year, because of how many we lost in the Termitary during the Pest. I wouldn’t say we’ve healed completely, but Taya was adamant that we celebrate what we have, not just mourn what we lost. She’s still young, but she’s a smart one. I don’t know if you ever got the chance to meet her. I know you and I met at the Termitary a time or two, though I don’t see how your business could have brought you out there. I know you expressed an interest in the Kin’s traditions, maybe sometime I could explain them to you. I don’t know how many you’d be allowed to observe, but if it’s just a one-on-one thing, we’d probably be fine.

I keep coming up with ideas of what to do if you get home before New Years, during New Years, after New Years. And that leads me to wondering if you’ll even be home in the next year. I keep thinking about the fact that you could never come back, and that I’d have this space in my heart that you occupy. It would hurt, but I think it would be worth it. I think loving you is worth it.

Please come back home.

Artemy

The sun is just now starting to rise over the horizon, sliver by sliver, its slow ascent casting everything around Artemy in a pale shade of blue. Like this, the grasses of the steppe could be an ocean for them to get lost in, the edge of the train platform the shore of a beach, or maybe a dock, their feet dangling into the water. It’s just them out here this early, alone with the wind and the distant sounds of birds and this growing melancholy in the pit of their stomach.

The scene should be beautiful – it is beautiful – but its beauty is what makes them ache. It’s not the twinge in their bad knee or the cramp in their hand, strained from the tight hold they keep on their pen, but a full-bodied disappointment they can’t shake. It’s early enough in the morning that Artemy still has a little time left to work on the letter in their lap before they need to head off to work, but instead of writing they’re tapping their pen against their leg in anxiety, trying to find the words to express what it is they feel the need to say.

They have no way of knowing if Daniil even reads the letters they send to him, no way of keeping track of the things they’ve written. How many times have they repeated themselves in the tangled mess of thoughts they’ve spit onto paper? In the dozens by now, surely. How many different ways can they even express the agony the last three months have been without him? Artemy knows he’s not the only one who’s written. He’s surrounded now by the ghosts of Daniil’s previous relationships, all alive and pitying him. Talk travels in a town this small, and Artemy can feel their stares when they’re not around. He thinks about the things they must have done to win Daniil over, the poetry and the flowers and the art, and he knows there are too many ways in which he will never measure up. He has nothing to offer that someone else hasn’t given him already. All Artemy can really say is I love you, please come home.

When Daniil first left, Artemy entertained the notion that he could feel a line being tugged with each letter Daniil opened. But his intuition was messy, too desperate for an answer that wasn’t coming. With time, they realized they felt that same tug with every supply train that rolled into town, their fingers buzzing as they searched through the compartments as if Daniil might be hiding behind a box of oranges. It wasn’t a tug of lines he felt, but of anxiety. A tug of hope, a tug of neediness. Trains would come and trains would go, and never would Daniil be on one.

A month and a half later, Artemy stopped trusting that tug.

For that first month they waited, bated breath, for any kind of response from Daniil. Just a postcard with a simple note: Stop waiting. I’m never coming back. But it’s been silent, and Artemy has spent enough time waiting in silence. Waiting. Wanting. Wishing.

If nothing else is stacked in Artemy’s favor, they have this: they know Daniil. If Daniil wanted to be given up on, to be left alone, he’d show his claws. He’s done it before. He could break Artemy’s heart so easily, if that was what he wanted. He knows exactly where to puncture to inflict the most damage. So Artemy holds onto this last thread of hope – that Daniil’s silence is contemplation, that what Artemy needs is to find the right action, the right words to reel this line in and bring Daniil back home. There is proof somewhere that things will be different, that they’ll be right, that they’ll work; Artemy just needs to expose it. And here Artemy sits, every day since Daniil returned to the Capital, a piece of paper in their lap, writing a letter that may never be opened.

There’s a tremor in the tracks, a ringing in Artemy’s ears that hails the oncoming train. It’s Thursday, another shipment of goods coming in. That hopeful tug toys with him once again, so strong he nearly sways on the spot.

He ignores it, and turns back to his letter.

The kids are making sugar cookies today. Murky wants to make one in the shape of a snake to save for you. I think she’d send them to you if she could, but I think they would be stale by the time they reach you. It’s more of a gesture than anything else, anyway. They stop to think, start a new paragraph. Sticky has taken your old microscope. I’ll tell him to return it if you come back.

If. No longer when. The thought makes their throat close around a swallow. All the time Daniil had spent trying to plan a future for himself, and now Artemy is grasping at straws to determine their own.

The train arriving is a part in the sea, a tidal wave crashing over Artemy, overwhelming and all-consuming. For a few minutes, all they can do is sit there, staring at the tracks as the rocks beneath them shake. They allow themselves to get lost in the noise, the screech of metal against metal, the whistle blowing, the gears grinding as the machine crawls to a stop. They start to indulge a new thought, a fantastical idea: how difficult would it be to take the next train out, find Daniil’s residence, deliver his confession face-to-face? To pull out all the stops and do whatever it is Capital folk do when they’re in love. To cut their hair, to don those stupid fancy clothes, to take Daniil dancing. Whatever he wants, whatever it takes to bring him back.

They dismiss it with the next shrill blow of the whistle. There’s no assurance that Daniil would appreciate that sort of gesture, and the idea that Artemy could further jeopardize their relationship, could push him farther away – his body reacts as if in allergy, a wheeze breaking past his lips. Everything feels so precarious when they can’t see or speak to Daniil the way they’ve grown used to.

As the driver works the train, Artemy’s eyes flutter shut. Three months, and they still don’t have the heart to watch another unloading, Daniil nowhere in sight. Instead of watching the procession, they think back to their own time spent in the city: bright lights, motor cars, garish architecture, obscenely tall buildings, blood thrumming in their ears.  It’s an easy memory to get lost in, easy to mix the noise of the train with the bustle of people on a city sidewalk. They can envision stepping off a train themselves, onto a crowded platform filled with people in colorful coats with expensive suitcases swarming as Artemy seeks out a map on a nearby wall. He imagines making his way from the station to a taxi, giving the driver Daniil’s address, a paper in hand as he does now – only here, in his mind, he is scripting what to say to Daniil when they meet.

But what would they say? What can they possibly say that they have not said a million times before? Every word they consider seems trite, every sentiment rings flat and hollow as they try to picture expressing it all to Daniil in a hotel lobby. A subpar profession of love, waiting for those warm brown eyes to turn cold with rejection. Artemy shivers where he sits, shivers again when the cold whips his hair around his ears. And where would he go after this failed confession?

Someone is standing next to him now, too close for Artemy to feel comfortable continuing to drift in this daydream. His eyes flutter open, brighter out now than it had been when he’d closed them. Between the sudden burst of light and the distraction he glowers at the ground in front of him, at the wheels of the train on the track. He’s tempted to snap at the interloper, to tell them to mind their own damn business and be on their way. He doesn’t care if he’s in the way.

Only, the person standing watch over him doesn’t try and call attention to their presence. They don’t ask for Artemy to move. They simply stand there, patiently, hovering by Artemy’s shoulder as Artemy sets the pen back to paper, scribbling circles of frustration on the paper when words won’t come to him.

Then, the visitor speaks. Their voice is soft and slow. A smooth, affected accent. “Well?” they ask, letting the word dangle in the breeze between them. Artemy’s heart expands, beating too fast and too wide for their chest. The pen drops from their fingers to the grass below. “Are you going to get my bags, or are you just going to sit there and look pretty?”

Artemy’s reaction time is off, rusty from disuse. It takes a moment for his head to snap over his shoulder with the urgency he feels, his neck cracking as it moves. He doesn’t dare look up at first, doesn’t dare to get his hopes up. He stares first at the shoes, those terrible heeled boots and pinstripe pants. He recognizes the words, too, and how they’re spoken.

He forgets all about keeping his paper neat and clean, crumpling it in his hands and dirtying it on the platform as he pushes himself to his feet. He feels dizzy as he stands, his heart beating loud in his ears. He finally meets Daniil’s face, but his eyes can’t stay there, flicking all over his body, drinking him in. Daniil is not quite smiling, but there is a hint of some humor in that expression, some underlying emotion Artemy could easily reach out and touch if Daniil will let h im. The amusement gives way to anxiety as the gaze lingers, but he looks unharmed. And here Artemy’s worst fear had been that the man met his end in the city.

Their mind races through all the things they can remember writing in their letters, all the things they thought of saying, all the things they might have said. They think of all the imperfect words that came to mind and didn’t make it on paper, all the ways they’ve appreciated Daniil from afar. They think about the light shining on his face and that touch of early gray in his hair and the uneven cut of his sideburns and the way he’s watched him file his nails down almost to the quick in the few times they’ve seen the man without his gloves. They think about his small, bemused smile and the way his brow furrows when he talks and the bickering they do, the unintended but inoffensive arguments and the way they could admire the hum and glow of the steppe together or study the twyre. They think about how badly they want right now to take Daniil’s hand and ask him to be human with Artemy, to be alive with them, to live with all the imperfections and uncertainties and relapses and recoveries. All the words they feel but can’t articulate, can never quite get out the way they want to. And they know that right now they are just staring, just looking at Daniil with their mouth slightly open, holding onto the letter in their hand like the fragile paper is the only thing keeping them upright.

Daniil observes him just as silently, eyes traveling down to Artemy’s hand and the paper he fiddles with. He doesn’t gesture as he asks, “I assume that’s for me?” Artemy nods, and Daniil tilts his head up once again to catch Artemy’s eyes. His cheeks fill in pink and he glances off again, looking at the lines of the train tracks. Artemy can hear people speaking around them, but the words are all a blur. He sees people offloading supplies, sees them hauling more onto the train, but it all turns to mush in his mind. The only thing in clear-cut focus is Daniil, curling his tongue over his lip.

“Where’s Shrew?” His voice is unsteady, rough, as though it’s been years since he’s spoken. Everything feels so slow when he talks, his energy leagues beyond his question. He should be looking around for her, should be interested – and he cares, he does, but this is the moment he’s been begging for. It’s hard to think of anything else.

At least Daniil seems just as frozen. “Ran off home ahead of me,” he says. Seconds tick by as they stare at each other, the world going on around them but this moment – this moment is arrested. Like they’re both afraid to break something to move.

But one of them has to, and they nearly do at the same moment. Artemy watches his mouth open to speak, yet Artemy’s impulsivity beats him to it.

“Go on a date with me.” Daniil’s focus retrains on Artemy’s face, his eyes glittering as that coy smile makes its way back over his face. Something – not the sunlight, but some unexpressed emotion – is turning his eyes the color of fresh Earth, of life. It takes a lot of strength to keep Artemy from reaching out and touching him, paper shredding in the tight grasp of his hand. “Right now. I’ll buy you a coffee at that shop around the corner from the clinic. We’ll walk around the park.”

“I just got in,” Daniil points out. He gestures to his suitcase, to the boxes standing next to him that must have come offloaded with the rest of the goods from the Capital. All of it noise, all of it nonsense.

“I don’t care.” The faint hint of smile on Daniil’s lips becomes more relaxed, eases its way into visibility. It’s delightful to watch. It makes Artemy’s chest combust. “Tonight,” he says. Anything to keep that smile on him. “Come over for dinner. I’ll cut my hair and slick it back –“

Daniil’s nose crinkles, and he shakes his head. “No. Don’t do that.” His left hand lifts and moves, so slowly, to the side of Artemy’s face, one gloved finger toying with a curl resting against Artemy’s ear. He looks so very soft like this, touchable in a way he never has been before. “I like it,” he murmurs, his pull gentle. “I like this.”

Heat courses through Artemy’s cheeks as Daniil wraps the lock around his finger. He wants to pull the glove from Daniil’s hand, to touch the soft skin of his wrist, to redirect the fingers to his mouth and kiss them. At his sides, his fingers tremble with want, right arm raised just slightly in a burst of momentum. “I’ll send the kids to Grief’s,” he suggests. Daniil’s mouth pivots into a frown. “What?”

“I want to see them,” Daniil says. “They sent me these lovely drawings while I was gone –“

“But I want to kiss you,” Artemy interrupts. His voice is strained, whiny and pathetic. He can’t recall the last time he sounded so petulant.

But something about that childishness must work, because he watches Daniil’s eyes soften once again and fall to his lips. His hand slips down from Artemy’s hair to his cheek, and he doesn’t care at all that it’s the leather of a gloved thumb across the skin. Everything in the world seems to stop for a moment when Daniil says, “So kiss me.”

Artemy doesn’t wait, and Daniil is pressed halfway up to meet him. Maybe he’d moved too fast the first time and scared him off, but he can’t brush off the impatience he feels as his lips press against Daniil’s. Daniil’s mouth purses to greet Artemy’s, his fingers curled around to draw his face closer. Artemy drops the paper in his hand, cupping Daniil’s neck. He moves in closer each time he goes to press his lips against Daniil’s, right hand settled on Daniil’s waist. They kiss him and they kiss him and they kiss him, until Daniil is rocking back on his heels with a little wheeze in his throat, his fingers slide down to the nape of Artemy’s neck.

“Marry me.” Artemy knew the words would eventually blurt from his mouth, too early to be spoken aloud. He panics, tongue between his teeth as he searches Daniil’s face for any sign of discomfort. But Daniil only huffs a laugh in response. He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t look away. And Artemy cannot stop himself from speaking again. “Share my life with me.”

“I’m befuddled and intrigued by the implication I could spend your life with someone else.”

He’s not saying no. Artemy doesn’t waste their breath on the words You know what I mean. They tilt their head until it presses against Daniil, breathing in the scent of the Capital, of metal and smoke around Daniil’s hair. “Share your life with me,” Artemy continues, lifting their head to drop kisses along Daniil’s hairline. “Sew our lines together. Keep me up all night reading your articles, and then wake me up at two a.m. with one of your revelations. Nag me about my posture and say something obnoxious in Latin and swear at the neighbors. Teach the kids about things and keep it secret from me, argue with me about something stupid. Make me look skyward, Daniil, and let me keep you grounded.”

Daniil laughs, something choked up in the back of his throat. Artemy listens to his uneven breaths, kissing his cheek, moving down to his jaw. “And you still want me? You’ll still want me when I burn out and start to fade?”

You could never fade. Not to me. But they know saying that wouldn’t help the shades of melancholy he feels. He nods, nails scraping the back of Daniil’s neck as his fingers curl. “Even then,” he says, settling his lips over Daniil’s again. And Daniil leans into him, resting his weight on Artemy. “Always,” he says, lips brushing Daniil’s as the word leaves his mouth.

They stay wrapped up in each other for minutes that feel too long and too short all at once. Artemy knows he can’t stay like this all day, that he has work to attend to, and yet – “Come home with me,” they say, their voice a low rumble in their chest.

“I need to attend to my own home, first,” Daniil says. He steps back, and Artemy feels the loss of heat as he does so. His eyes are gazing up Artemy, hand soft on his jaw. “And you have work to attend to. Work that I have missed in my absence. But I will see you soon. As soon as I can.” Daniil captures his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, bringing him down to kiss him softly again. Artemy feels it, the security he lacked over the past several months, trying to figure out what he was missing.

Now his home feels like home again.

Daniil intends to spend his first day back home with his kids, though they seem to have different ideas about that. He’s exhausted from the travel, and he’d assumed Shrew was too from the way she raced home ahead of him; but when he enters the building, she’s about to run out herself. She takes a second to catch her breath and asks, “Is it okay if I go and see Notkin?”

He considers arguing with her about it. Three months they’ve been gone, and then the long and early train ride back, and she wanted to rush out immediately? He supposes he could tell her no, force her to stay in and hang out with Sleepy Head, but he doesn’t really want to. He can’t blame her - if he had the energy, he’d probably be back at the office already, tending to patients. They’ve been away for a while, it’s only natural that someone her age would want to catch up with friends. So he shrugs, and Shrew takes it as acceptance and bounces off out the door.

Sleepy Head’s not far behind her, though he stops when he sees Daniil and lets a grin break out on his face. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says, voice kind of low and quiet. He looks to the boxes in the hallway, carted from the station with Artemy’s help before he’d run off to the clinic. “Need any help with those?”

“I will later. Hold on just a moment,” Daniil says. It takes a second to get his brain working properly, moving over to the top box and rifling through it for a smaller box inside. Sleepy Head hovers behind him anxiously until Daniil turns with a clothes-box in hand. “Since Shrew got new clothes while we were there, I figured it would be impolite to return without getting you something as well.” He watches Sleepy Head unwrap the items, anxiously wringing his hands. A new blazer with a warmer lining in deep maroon, a new hat, a new shirt. “I wasn’t really sure what would have been in your style,” he starts.

“No, this is – this is wonderful, dad, thanks.” Daniil sees his fingers freeze, and he look up with some amount of caution. Daniil doesn’t change the expression on his face, as far as he can tell, trying to stay neutral as Sleepy Head’s fingers curl around the fabric. “Is it…alright to call you that?”

“Of course,” Daniil says, a small laugh in his throat. Sleepy Head relaxes visibly, turns on his heel back to his room to go and change. Daniil rummages through the box some more, pulling out the photographs of his parents he’d taken, running his thumb over the frame. They’d told him he could always visit, but he wonders now if they’ll do the same, and what they’ll make of this place if they do. This town is special. It’s not for everyone, that much is certain, but Daniil hopes they’ll understand how it’s become a part of him.

When he turns, Sleepy Head is standing there, watching him. There’s still that caution in his eyes, and Daniil knows why it’s there. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to come back,” he says plainly. Sleepy Head shrugs, but he knows he’s hit some unrevealed insecurity by the way he nods. “It wasn’t a very mature response to give into. I just wound up thinking – scio me nihil scire. I had to clear my head.”

“And it took three months.” Not an accusation, though that would be what Daniil deserves. Both these kids have been through so much that they seem to simply accept things as they come. More adult, in some ways, than Daniil has ever been.

“The first two were that, yes. The third, I simply got distracted.” Sleepy Head doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve seen my desk,” Daniil says, gesturing at the stairs. “I figured I couldn’t return with nothing in hand, so I went by the old site of my lab to see if there was any sort of memento I could take. And then I thought I should get something for you, and I’m quite finnicky, or so I’ve been told.“ Sleepy Head snorts. “And new textbooks for the school. A couple of days’ worth of looking turned into weeks, and then it was just…difficult to leave. I don’t adjust to change well.”

Sleepy Head hums, and comes over to clap a hand on Daniil’s back, a mimicry of adulthood. “Well, I mean it. I’m glad you’re back, and I know I’m not the only one.” He falters, and the hand turns into a one-armed hug. He steps back, and nods. “I’m gonna go out, but I’ll be back in time for dinner, yeah?” Daniil nods, and watches him leave.

He expects that to be it for his daily interactions, at least until it’s time for him to go and grab food to make for dinner. But this town has never known how to keep quiet, and it’s maybe twenty minutes at most before Eva’s at his door. She’s balancing on her toes before she throws herself into his arms, nearly sending him to the ground. Daniil huffs out a laugh, and realizes Andrey’s not far behind her with a bottle in his hand. “A little early for a drink, isn’t it?” he calls when Eva pulls away.

She swats his arm. “It’s sparkling cider,” she says, and then mumbles close to his ear, “since Peter will be coming.” She moves past him into the Stillwater, and he waits for Andrey to catch up. Andrey claps him on the shoulder as he enters, and Daniil suddenly wonders if there’s a point in closing his front door at all.

“Don’t tell me you planned this?” he asks, moving into the center room. Eva’s pulled the lid of the piano up, pulling out the bench and running her fingers along the keys. She sits, legs crossed at the ankles, and pushes her hair out over her shoulder. She doesn’t reply, starting out a warmup of scales. “I know word travels fast in this town, but I’ve only been back a few minutes. How did you coordinate with Peter already?”

“Calm down, Danko,” Andrey says, setting the bottle down on top of the piano. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall. “We knew you’d be back in time. It was just a matter of when, and preparing for it.” He stares at Daniil’s shoulders, eyebrows raised. “Why don’t you take off your coat and stay awhile, my friend.”

“I haven’t even unpacked,” Daniil says with a sigh, rolling his coat off. “You two make yourselves comfortable while I do that.” As if they hadn’t already, looking perfectly at home, in tune with one another as Eva starts humming along with her playing. Daniil doesn’t bother to move the boxes – he’ll do that as he empties them out, as long as he moves the berries to the icebox he’ll be fine. He rolls his sleeves up before he gets to work, looking at the jumbled mess of his room, the papers askew on his desk, the books missing from their shelves. Even having been gone a few months, this place is still his home.

He sets the photographs of his parents down on his desk, smiling softly at them. A reminder to keep in touch with his roots, however far he may have grown from them. He sets down next to it a well-packed vial of ashes, the remains of his belove lab, letting a heavy sigh escape his chest as he caresses the glass.

What am I doing, locking myself away up here? I wanted things to be different. It’s time to start.

Daniil closes his suitcase over and leaves it on his bed, ignoring all the unpacking he said he was going to do. His friends are over now, over to see him when he’d left without a warning for three months. Sure, they hadn’t protested, had known him too well to be angry, but what had the last year of learning to love been for if he was going to turn his back on people who love him? He takes a breath and makes for the stairs again. He descends just in time for someone to knock at the door, to answer before Andrey or Eva is interrupted from their singing

Sticky is on the other side of the door, Murky just behind him, a new doll in her arms. He hadn’t seen this one before, but its jacket is suspiciously patched in black and greys with a red lining. Before he opens his mouth, both have wrapped their arms around him, nearly knocking him over. All three are quiet for a moment, before Daniil pats their heads with his hands, pulling them closer. “I missed you too,” he says.

Murky doesn’t wait for an invitation to walk inside the building, though Sticky hangs back for a moment. He fixes Daniil with a serious gaze and asks him, quite plainly, “You’re not gonna be leaving us again, are you?” Daniil shakes his head, and Sticky swallows. He nods, and invites himself in. “I got to help one of the Halves deliver puppies,” he says, conversation as easy as if Daniil had never left. Inside, Murky is giving Andrey an intense stare that he is matching back. Sticky sits on the floor next to her, reciting all the anatomy he has memorized with a finger to point at where on his body it falls.

A couple minutes later, Sticky lapsing into a discussion of the book he’s reading for class, they are interrupted by another knock. It’s Peter, his long hair pulled back out of his face, supplies under his arm. He greets Daniil with a warm handshake, his fingers slightly trembling from the cold, and steps inside. Murky seems excited to see him, showing him her doll while Sticky preoccupies himself at the piano, Eva showing him the keys.

Peter isn’t the last to arrive. Yulia comes next, leaning on a cane, and before Daniil can find a seat for her Andrey is dragging one in from the kitchen. Lara makes her way over, surprised by the number of people in the house, and at first tries to refuse to linger until Eva grabs her hand and pulls her toward the center of the room. Grief stops by to return a book, and finds himself in a conversation with Andrey. Victor makes his way over, Maria hovering just behind him, finally offering Daniil a semblance of a smile. Neighbors stop by, people Daniil has treated at the clinic, children he has taught at the school. A few bring drinks, bring food, settle in the kitchen, in the hallway, in the middle room, crowding and talking.

Daniil thinks back to his small Capital flat – not the one he’d occupied in solemn spaces working as a postgrad, but the one he’d had in university. Cramped, bathtub in the center, a tiny and uncomfortable bed on a rusted metal frame, floors worn thin. The kind of place that seemed to sap the light from outside and twist it into a void, leaving him in a melancholy abyss. How different the Stillwater is by comparison, stretching him into something new, something beautiful, to occupy all the feelings he hadn’t realized he could experience.

It overwhelms him. He sits in the dip with Murky by his side, coloring what appears to be the graveyard with oils Peter has brought with him. He sits on her other side, not quite watching her, sketching his own ideas on a pad. Murky leans against Daniil’s arm, and he lets himself relax.

Shrew and Sleepy Head come home with paper bags full of food. Daniil nearly disturbs Murky to stand, but Sleepy Head puts his hand out first. “I been cooking the whole time you were gone,” he says with confidence. “I got it for tonight.” Without further explanation he disappears into the kitchen, Shrew on his heels. Rubin’s just behind them, a medical bag in hand, looking tiredly around the room. Daniil watches his eyes settle on Lara first, and then on Grief, dramatically reciting poetry for Sticky and a few townsfolk whose names Daniil did not catch. He waves at Daniil, and then points behind him.

Artemy is in the doorway, hand still on the knob. Daniil is happy to see he has not cut his hair as he had threatened to do, though he has it pushed back out of his face. In his left hand he holds a bouquet of flowers – heliotrope, Indian jasmine, celandine. His expression betrays surprise at the sudden town gathering Daniil now hosts. Murky has shifted enough for Daniil to stand up, to rush to greet Artemy at the door. He takes the flowers with hands he refuses to admit shake, circling Artemy’s wrist and sliding his hand down to fit his fingers between Artemy’s. “I didn’t plan this,” he says softly, and the people nod as he walks past the center room and into the kitchen.

Their entrance startles Sleepy Head, scooping up bread off the pan with a spatula, voice far too loud as he starts to say, “Dinner’s almost –“ He stops, frozen in place, as he looks over Artemy. Daniil swears some look passes between them, but he doesn’t quite understand what it is, dropping Artemy’s hand to look for a vase. “Is it okay that he’s here?” he mutters as Daniil fills the vase. Daniil nods, and Sleepy Head clears his throat. “Right then – should be ready soon. I’ll just need one more plate.”

People don’t seem to mind Daniil disappearing to eat dinner. They don’t leave the house, using the space to catch up with one another. Artemy stands awkwardly next to Daniil as he eats, keeping unusually quiet as the kids tell Daniil all about Notkin’s recent plans and the developments he’s missed while away. Daniil nods, and prods where he doesn’t understand, and warns where he thinks they should use caution. They laugh at him a little, but he doesn’t mind the jabs. He’d have done the same thing at their age.

The kids head back out to the party – for by now it is almost certainly a party – and leave Daniil alone in the dining room with Artemy. They pull out the seat Shrew had been occupying and sits so close that their knees brush Daniil’s beneath the table, leaning forward with their cup of water dangling from one hand. They look far away for a moment, before they say, “I had a dream like this once.” Daniil raises his brows at them, setting one hand on Artemy’s knee. “Where you had a housewarming party.” There’s no mistaking the blush that comes over their cheeks, words muffled against the glass. “Went much differently than this, though.”

Daniil squeezes their knee and pulls his seat closer, resting his head on Artemy’s shoulder. He can feel Artemy’s head turn, their lips brushing the top of his head with soft, easy affection. Just as it always has been between them. “I’m glad to be home,” Daniil says, breath barely leaving his chest.

Artemy tilts, pressing their head against Daniil’s, exhales brushing the top of Daniil’s ear. “I’m glad you’re home, too.”

The guests Daniil does not know by name leave first, each one stopping to thank him for opening his home, to thank him for coming back to their town. “We must have so little to offer in comparison,” one woman says, and he can feel Artemy tense next to him.

He doesn’t let go of her hand as he shakes it, shaking his head. “Nonsense,” he says. “This is my home, too.” She pulls him into a hug he feels awkward receiving, patting her on the back softly before letting her go, his distaste plain enough on his face that more than one person has a laugh at him for it. Grief is the next to go, clapping them both on the back and then the ass before he races out the door, leaving Artemy rolling his eyes.

No one else seems to be going anywhere anytime soon, so Daniil pulls Artemy out the door and into the yard, around to the little pond. He thinks, for just a moment, about removing his socks and shoes and dipping his feet into the water. It must be frigid, though, and so he only sits in front of it with his legs crossed. It takes Artemy a moment to join him, simply staring at Daniil before they sit. Daniil leans against them, pressing his face to their shoulder and wrapping one arm around their back. Like this, he can hear the erratic thumping of Artemy’s heart as they breathe, chest rising and falling with the movement.

“I thought you might’ve found someone else,” Artemy admits, their voice cutting through the air in silver puffs. Daniil looks up their chest at them, not quite looking down. “When you didn’t respond to any of my letters, to anyone’s letters. I thought you might not come back. I thought you’d move on.”

Daniil shakes his head, enjoying the feeling of the soft yarn moving against his cheek. “Nearly a year I spent trying to forget you. Six men, and you thought three months on my own would change things?”

Artemy’s pulse races. “I started to wonder if you just thought I wasn’t good enough for you.” Daniil blinks, fingers curled against Artemy’s back. He tries to process how the other man would come to such a conclusion. “After you broke up with Mark, and you didn’t want me. And then you broke up with Rubin, and you didn’t want me. And then you broke up with Block, and –“ He cuts off. Daniil feels his fingers threading through his hair. “I started to think there was something wrong with me.”

“You kept giving me mixed signals,” Daniil says. “Little things you’d say or do would convince me you weren’t interested. I was positive you were rejecting me, kindly.” He licks his lips. “When you said you didn’t date, I thought you meant anyone. That you were affirming our relationship would only ever be platonic. So when you kissed me… Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare. I didn’t want to keep making the same mistake, getting my hopes up.”

“Yeah,” Artemy sighs. “Yeah. Had a talk with Rubin and Grief. I get it now.” He pauses. His voice escapes, high-pitched on the next sentence. “Did you ever read my letters?”

Daniil laughs, partly from nerves. He’d run a hand through his hair, but he doesn’t want to give up the warmth of his body against Artemy’s. “Not at first. I let every letter I received pile up on the desk in our hotel room. Then one day, Shrew got the bright idea to start reading them aloud to me.” Artemy makes a small noise of embarrassment in the back of his throat. Daniil rubs his cheek against their sweater. “She read aloud the parts she thought I should hear. That’s what really lit the fire under my ass, what made me come home after I’d gotten so distracted.”

It suddenly hits him, weighs on him that he’s home, that he’s here, that Artemy is with him. He feels a rush coursing through his veins, sitting back suddenly and pulling on Artemy’s shoulders to drag him into place. Artemy fixes him with a look of confusion, but allows Daniil the moment of staring at him, hands dropping from his shoulders to remove the gloves. He can feel Artemy’s eyes on his fingers as he moves, sliding one hand up to cup his face, thumb pressed against his lips. “It occurred to me,” Daniil says, “that for all the times you’ve said it now, I’ve yet to say it back.”

“Say what?”

“That I love you.” Daniil sets his left hand on Artemy’s cheek as well, pulling him down until their foreheads touch. “I love you,” he repeats. “Should I say it for every letter you sent? I love you.”

“I wrote a lot of letters,” Artemy points out. “We could be here all night.” They turn their body more fully to face Daniil, hands resting on his hips. “You don’t have to say it all at once, Daniil. If you’re not leaving, then we have time. All of the time in the world.”

For the first month, Daniil counts the days. The calendar that hangs on his wall is marked with little roman numerals to mark the passage of time, starting from the day he arrived home on the train. His walls now bear the marks of more intimate touches: a few decorations he picked up in the Capital, a watercolor of the city at dusk, art his kids have created, a rendering of how Murky envisioned his Thanatica. It’s nowhere close to the space Daniil had actually occupied - in many ways, it is so much better. His desk is no more orderly than usual, grading mixing in with experiments, with building plans, with ideas of things he wants to try. Recipes he wants to make. Books he wants to read. Ideas he wants to discuss with his friends, with his family.

That’s the crux of it. Family. Daniil had put this feeling on the backburner all the years he spent in the Capital, trying to make a name for himself. He doesn’t regret the time he spent doing it, doesn’t regret the choices that he’s made. Things are not perfect, but they are good. He is not as idle as he’d assumed this kind of life would make him, and not as lonely as he’d always assumed he’d be. When he comes down in the morning, even before he’s made himself up for the day, he feels loved. He feels needed.

Artemy invites him over for New Years, and Daniil falls asleep just after midnight, his head on Artemy’s chest. The kids cover them in a blanket, hiding their hands held tight together, Daniil’s gloves long forgotten by the front door. There’s a sort of intimacy he cannot find elsewhere in watching Artemy wake up, squinting against the light that pours in, blinking away the dust mites, running a hand through his hair. Daniil watches, and leans in to kiss Artemy’s neck, feeling his pulse pick up under his lips.

It takes another month for Daniil to feel it in another context, under his lips, under his hands, his gloves on the bedside table. He feels high in the rush, in breathing in every breath Artemy exhales, in tasting noises that escape from his mouth, rising on the tip of his tongue until everything moves as one blur. He loses himself completely in the moment, his identity discarded, only picked back up when he lays next to Artemy with the sweat cooling on his skin, their legs tangled together.

He wears the gloves to block out so much noise, to filter his experience into something he can control, but in this moment he lets himself overwhelm, lets himself feel it all. Artemy’s skin is slick under his fingertips, buzzing as Daniil runs his fingers down from shoulder to elbow. “Was that anything like your dream?” he asks.

Their eyes dip, hazy, lips pursed as they consider. Daniil’s hand falls to their side as they lift up to brush hair back behind Daniil’s ear and pull his face closer, kissing him until his eyes fall shut. “Dreams have always paled in comparison,” they say, “never more than they do now. Here with you, it’s seeing things in color for the first time.”

In month three, Daniil makes himself stop counting the days. He decides it as he watches snow melt and drip from the roof of their clinic to the sidewalk, the sun blinding as it pours in through the window. It occurs to him that he could get up and close the curtains over, and the unrepentant grouch in him wants to do just that. But he steps on its hand, forces it to curl up in a ball, to hide back wherever it came from. There are days he still indulges its whims, days he cannot force himself to sort his hair or clips his nails, days when kids are especially cautious around him and Artemy says nothing, placing a coffee by his elbow on his desk, his posture an open offer of affection.

But it’s the same, he realizes, everywhere. There are days he watches the people around him fold in on themselves and start to shrivel up. He sees it in his neighbors, in the patients who come by the clinic, in the kids who fill his classroom. He sees it in Artemy, days that weigh heavy on their shoulders, their head cradled in the palms of their hands and shoulders turned up at the world. And Daniil still does not know what to do, still chokes, still falters, but he extends his hand now. Even gloved, people need him. And he wants to be there.

The word want gets to him. He’s known want as a single point, a single focus, a single idea. He’s known want as hunger, as desperation, but never in this sweet and soft expression, never in the attainable. When he feels want now, he reaches out and touches. He braids Shrew’s hair, he fixes something fancy for breakfast, he visits Eva, he pulls off his glove and holds Artemy’s hand. He feels a shift he cannot explain or touch, and even in looking at the past, he feels his want within reach.

“What would you think,” he asks Artemy one Sunday (six months, perhaps, or seven), “of the Stamatins constructing a new laboratory?” He watches those hands pause their movements over a potato, knife just barely cutting into the flesh. Daniil looks up to his eyes, but the expression is momentarily unreadable. “I wouldn’t move,” Daniil assures them, his own movements continuing. “But now I’ve spent some time away, I want to research again.”

Comforted, Artemy continues on, chopping, dicing. “Still planning on challenging the gods, Daniil?” Their words are spoken with humor, but Daniil feels a tremor in his chest. It never mattered before what another person thought, but it matters so much now.

It matters because it’s real.

He is so focused on the vegetables under his hand that he doesn’t notice the way Artemy looks at him until Artemy is pushing his shoulder, directing his attnetion elsewhere. Their eyes are so serious when they say, “I support you, whatever your decision. I wouldn’t love you if I wanted you to be somebody else.”

Daniil swallows. It aches, how very much he feels. He tries to smile, but he isn’t too certain what expression his face is actually making when he does. He can feel Artemy’s hand on his shoulder as he turns back to cutting the vegetables. “I’ll study longevity first,” Daniil says softly. “Your people live so much longer here than in the Capital, so even if my goal never comes to fruition, there is still a lot to be learned, ways life can be improved over all – think of how much people will be able to do with their time, how much more of their lives they will enjoy if they have more of it to live!” Artemy hums. Daniil feels it, again, pressed to the top of his head in a kiss.

Their children come in through the door just a minute afterward, breaking the comfortable silence with comfortable noise. Artemy moves to the doorway to greet them, to tell them to be ready for dinner within the hour. Daniil often wonders if this house would be big enough for the six of them, pretending he doesn’t notice the way they drag their feet each week when their mutual dinner is over and it’s time to go back to the Stillwater. There’s a question he is waiting to ask, biding his time, waiting to strike when the moment is right. He has tried so much harder now not to rush things, to let them come naturally, but he knows it is just around the corner. He will let the moment come when it does.

Sticky sets the table, Sleepy Head brings out the bread, Murky sets her doll next to her and Shrew excitedly tells Daniil and Artemy every aspect of the day they had. They both listen, respond in different directions, prod the others for answers, and Daniil can feel everything inside him start to melt by the time it comes to sit down around the table. It’s not their first time eating as a full family, and he knows not by any outward signs but by what he feels that it won’t be the last.

“Kheerkhen,” Artemy calls from across the table, and all eyes fix on him. “What is it you’re thinking so hard about?”

“You’ll find it silly,” Daniil says.

“Is it in Latin?” Sticky asks.

He nods. Artemy shifts in their seat, small smile on their lips. “Well? Let’s hear it then.”

Daniil runs his tongue out over his lips, and clears his throat. He raises his glass, as if in toast, and says, “Nunc scio quid sit amor.” He can’t quite manage to look at everyone as he translates. “Now I know what love is.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Shrew says, scoffing, and Daniil knows uncomfortable eyes have turned on her. For someone who is not biologically related, she mirrors him in so very many ways when she turns up her chin and says, “You always did.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Daniil says. “Maybe I did.”