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Artemiy isn’t sure how he wakes. He’s not entirely sure that he’s been asleep at all, and only realises that he’s been conscious in hindsight. As he lies smothered in sheets, almost drowning in the warmth of his quilt, he notices the noise of a pen scratching against paper. It’s a faint sound, as quiet as it can be with how Dankovsky’s hand rushes.
Slowly, he blinks and feels himself coming more to awareness. On time, the cathedral’s bell chimes, marking another hour. If he had to guess, by how the moon is positioned in the sky, and how low the light from the candle has burnt, it’s just turned two.
The light in the room helps him wake up too. Artemiy rubs at his eyes and brings himself to focus, though can’t find the effort within him to search the dresser for his glasses, of which had been recently gifted to him by Daniil himself. Instead, Artemiy watches Daniil’s reflection bounce against the wall behind him. It’s stretched to the corner, exaggerated in every minuscule movement that he makes; like this, he looks disfigured, horrific. Artemiy knows him to just be tired.
There’s a screen separating them. Before, when this room belonged to Isidor, there weren’t any partitions, nor was there a desk. Although he valued his work, the bedroom was one place that was free of it, for there was only so much of yourself that you should give; Artemiy made sure he learnt that lesson years ago, whilst Dankovsky seems to never have.
But the plague made slaves of them both.
Here, in their room, is where Daniil works best. It’s quiet enough that he can find his focus, and he never likes straying far from Artemiy during the nighttimes. He’s far too used to listening to the sounds of Artemiy’s breathing smoothing out, and he finds himself disorientated without it. Or so Artemiy has been led to believe; when it comes to his sleeping habits, Daniil is notorious for being so tight-lipped. Even Rubin’s concern as a doctor had been written off, and Eva always leaves him be after he promises to nap before exhaustion claims him.
All of a sudden, Artemiy decides that he’d prefer to see him.
The bed creaks when he stands, though Daniil is absorbed enough not to notice. He’s always like this when they’re at home: maybe it’s contentedness, or it could be exhaustion, but he lets himself be drawn into his studies, letting his guard down to all of the house’s inhabitants.
Artemiy keeps his footsteps light, nevertheless, as he steps around the screen. Everything is slightly hazy, in a way that only happens when looking at a light without any glasses to make the shapes crisp. He squints to see what object Daniil is twisting back and forth in his right hand, watching him as he moves over to his journal to scrawl something down with his left.
Daniil isn’t wearing gloves, he notices. His hands are a rare sight to see, even after the Sand Pest had finished with them; he only really takes them off to sleep, or to eat if they haven’t been recently sanitised. In fact, he wears them so often that his skin there is noticeably pale, so stark in the candlelight that the light reflections almost make Artemiy’s eyes ache.
His hands are delicate, though. Careful. Artemiy wouldn’t have thought it, with what he had seen during the Pest. But if everyone was judged solely by their actions in those twelve days, he doubts anyone would think of him here, admiring the man he loves whilst he works.
Artemiy takes the opportunity to look.
Daniil’s nails are clipped short and neat, easily out of the way. Although his hands aren’t exactly preened, they are cared for; they’re always soft to the touch and clean of any grime, and the nails are even painted, though it’s unlikely anyone but Artemiy would see it. It’s as if the idea of dirt revolts him, for how he shields himself from it.
His hands are still skinny, too. They’re beautiful, Artemiy thinks, but look so frail, as if they could be snapped like twigs. Daniil has piano-playing fingers; that much proved itself when Artemiy entered the Stillwater one day on a rare summons from Eva, only to find the two of them playing a duet by the door. There are slight bumps on one finger of each hand, from where he had overworked them for years spent constantly writing. They’re made more noticeable by how bony his hands are, and the slender line of his wrist.
They had all struggled during the plague, and most continue to struggle after it. Food had become scarce and the oncoming winter hadn’t helped any. If he hadn’t seen Daniil eat three full meals the day before, he would have wondered whether he ate at all.
But they managed. Stood here in the waning candlelight, watching his fellow doctor examine a beetle Artemiy had never seen before, he thinks they have managed fairly well, if the feeling in his chest is anything to judge by.
“It’s rude to stare, you know,” Daniil says, though it lacks any bite. It would be better to say it lacks any inflexion at all; the man is exhausted.
“I’m not staring,” Artemiy argues. “I’m admiring. It’s romantic.”
Daniil ignores him. “Did I wake you? I tried to be quiet…”
“None of that now.” He chides gently. “You’ll ruin your eyes like this. We should go see the stars.”
“What, like you’ve ruined yours? I’ll have you know--” He starts, no doubt, to bring up his days of university, but when he turns to argue his point, he sees Artemiy and all the fight drains out of him. Wearily, he brings a hand up to wipe at his eyes, as if he hadn’t realised how much they ached. “You’re not wearing your glasses either.” He finishes.
“I’ve only been up a minute,” Artemiy says. “I’ll put them on if we leave the house, though. We should. It’ll be good-” He peers briefly out of the window, and notices the trees stand still- “It’s a nice night for it.”
“It’s late.”
“But not late enough for you to be working.”
“Fine.” Daniil concedes. His tone is clipped, but Artemiy can see the sharp jut of his shoulders soften slightly. Even without the guidance of the Lines, it’s easy to see that Daniil is wound up like a ball of yarn, and with this, he finally begins to unravel. “But if we see any thieves on the way, you’ll be the one doing all the work.”
“As if I’d let my beloved come in harm’s way.” He replies, if only for how it makes the rosy colour blossom over Daniil’s cheekbones. “And you know the town isn’t like that anymore.”
“Well, some anxieties are hard to dissuade,” Daniil replies. Artemiy sees Daniil’s hand, the one holding the pen, move towards his gut like he’s attempting to soothe away a scar. “But I know when I am beat.” He sets the pen down before reaching for a glass case; he carefully sets the beetle inside before closing it again, placing it in his topmost draw with a few others of his collection. He doesn’t bother locking it; not because what is inside isn’t precious, but rather, he wouldn’t like to give Sticky the practice of picking locks. Nor would he appreciate having to replace them each week.
He stands then, stretching out his shoulders. An almost-shocked expression appears on his face as a hand comes to his chest; then he looks over guilty.
“If you would allow me to change?” Daniil asks. Artemiy gives him a look but says nothing, leaving him to switch out of his bindings. Although Daniil isn’t ashamed of his chest, he much prefers to dress alone, so Artemiy heads over to their bed to find his glasses and a jacket that’ll be warm enough for him.
Daniil returns a few minutes later, emerging from behind the partition in his casual attire he’s taken to. With his stay in the town, he quickly shed his old clothes— now that he needn’t worry about having enough money for food every day, he was able to expand his wardrobe past the three sets of clothing he had originally brought— and changed into attire more befitting of the Steppe. The trousers had remained the same, though he was convinced to change his shirt into a much warmer (and comfier) red jumper.
He’s adjusting the tie around his neck when Artemiy looks at him again. Even in the low light, or perhaps because of it, Daniil still manages to cut a striking figure. Like this, Artemiy thinks, it’s no wonder he frequently becomes the talk of the town at least once with every passing month.
“Come on, leave the tie behind,” Artemiy says instead, rather than voicing his thoughts. “We’re going to be comfortable.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re facing the world in the clothes you’ve slept in, then?” Daniil answers, but begins undoing the tie anyway. He leaves it across his chair, looking a little bit softer without it. “Where will you take me then, oh, Haruspex?”
“We won’t be doing any more work, if that’s what you’re hoping,” Artemiy replies. “Though I should hope it’ll help whatever mental block you’re suffering from. Perhaps, it’ll even work well enough so that you’d sleep.”
Daniil laughs a little at that. “Ambitious. I like that in a man. What will you do if your experiment brings successes?”
“I suppose I’ll carry you home again.” Artemiy ponders. In truth, he doubts that Daniil would actually fall asleep out there, but he hopes it will at least soothe him. “I know all the short cuts. No one would see.”
“And yet, the general public would consider it old news by midday. I fear if we even joke about it, we’ve already doomed ourselves to the spinning of rumours.” If he had said this a month ago even, Artemiy would have thought it to be a scathing criticism. But with how he smiles, gently, Artemiy knows him to be fond of this place, despite everything.
“Our reputations have survived worse.” Artemiy only says. “Come, now. Let’s see the stars-” Daniil shrugs on a jacket as they reach the front door, and they both step into their shoes. Artemiy knows he looks a little ridiculous, the piles of his pyjamas stuffed into heavy work boots, but Daniil says nothing, only allowing himself a small snort- “They should calm you, if the cool air doesn’t do it.”
Daniil looks at him then. They’ve stepped onto the porch, and Artemiy is locking the door behind them, as quietly as possible. The kids can handle themselves, yes, and it wouldn’t do to wake them needlessly.
“I’m sure it’ll be your presence,” He says. “Rather than anything the Steppe can grant me that will bring me peace. That much I know already.”
Daniil is startlingly sincere.
“Ah,” Artemiy responds eloquently. “I see what you mean now.”
“Disarming, isn’t it?” Daniil nods. He feels like a teenager again, awkward and blushing with the smallest of actions. Daniil doesn’t seem to mind, however; in fact, he grows smugger with each stutter that emerges from Artemiy’s mouth.
They begin walking through the town again, taking a leisurely pace. Both of them make a conscious effort to slow down compared to their typically brisk speeds, taking in the sights that usually go discarded in all the hurry. Even now, as two-thirds of the town’s doctors, they still find themselves hurrying from place to place. Habits so engrained are hard to break after all.
Then, Daniil clasps Artemiy’s hand in his own, skin against skin. When Artemiy casts him a look, Daniil only smiles.
“Look at me.” He says. “I’m feeling affectionate. You wouldn’t push me away, would you?”
“Never,” Artemiy promises. Daniil lets out a breath and presses even closer, until their arms are joint. They make a funny pair like this: one half-dressed, the other fitting for sleep, roaming the streets in the early morning hours. But neither of them mind the strangeness and only revel in it.
Unsurprisingly, most of the town’s inhabitants are sleeping. Together, they follow the streetlamps that act as beacons, as well as the occasional dim light from someone’s still-lit window. They pass by a bar on the way, one of Andrei’s side establishments in the Hindquarters, and the echoes of drunken cheers interrupt the silence of the night.
They steer clear immediately, continuing on. Eventually, they pass by Sahba-ötün’s house, taking the shortcut through her fence. Artemiy takes a deep breath as they finally leave the town, passing by the cemetery, and the air here already feels different. Light buzzing begins to fill his head, growing louder with every step; the opposite happens for Daniil, though.
Artemiy watches him subtly, as Daniil takes step after step, seemingly lost in his thoughts. To him, the Steppe is deadly silent. No sounds, no distractions. It aids them both in different ways. For Artemiy, it brings him peace; for Daniil, it gifts him clarity.
“Here,” Artemiy says eventually. They come to a halt after minutes of walking, where the first stalks of bloody twyre are beginning to poke through the ground. “We can lie here.”
“You brought me stargazing, Artyom?” Daniil asks. Artemiy settles to the floor, and Daniil joins him a half-second later. “You don’t mind getting your pyjamas dirty?”
“They’ll wash.” He says. “Come here, lie down now. It’s clearer out here than in the Capital.”
So they lie there. Artemiy rests on his back with Daniil curled up against his side, head on his shoulder. Like this, the stars seem so unobtainable, so far. It takes one beat, two, before the tension wholly leaks out of Daniil. His form becomes almost limp as he closes his eyes and breathes, before opening them again. He admires the stars the way one would admire art, taking in every inch of the sky that he can see.
He admires the impossible, dreaming of what he can never have. It has become a soothing thought; Artemiy knows that fighting death has been put on the backburner whilst he struggles to reconnect with the last of his colleagues. And so, the stars have become a new fixation, along with those beetles he collected as a child. Now he dreams of new impossibilities. Categorising stars and never reaching them; filling in observations of beetles in an attempt to recreate childhood.
Perhaps that is why Daniil stayed. He has changed so much.
“You’re out of time,” Artemiy says.
Frowning, Daniil tears his eyes from the sky. “Hm?”
“With the Earth, I mean. You breathe out of time with her.” Artemiy says softly.
“How am I supposed to breathe then?” He asks. Like this, he looks earnest, crowned in the silver light of the moon. He looks soft, like how he is with the children. “I can’t hear anything…”
“You don’t need to,” Artemiy assures. “Place your head on my chest— there, yes— and hear my heartbeat. Feel the rise and fall of my lungs. If you imitate it, you’ll gather what I mean.”
For a moment, it seems like Daniil will say something, though he bites his tongue and settles again, eyes closed. They settle in a position imitating two strings tied together, practically tangled. Daniil’s hand finds itself gripping Artemiy’s upper arm, painless but firm, and Artemiy loops his arm around to that he holds Daniil within his grasp.
It takes a few seconds for their breaths to align, but when it happens, Artemiy almost feels himself sink deeper into the ground.
They don’t speak for a while. They don’t need to.
(If the Bachelor cannot breathe with the Earth, then he will breathe with the Haruspex. In all eventuality, perhaps it means the same thing.)
Together, intertwined, they stay in that position until the sky begins to lighten, and their backs begin to ache. Daniil lifts his head and winces, a hand coming up to hold his neck. Artemiy hardly fares any better, with how his shoulder’s feel as though they had been pulverised.
“Are you asleep?” Daniil asks, breaking their vow of silence. His voice is soft-spoken, as if he’s afraid to ruin their peace.
In truth, Artemiy had almost faded, despite the uncomfortable ground digging into his back. He’s slept in worse places, and there was something peaceful about being out in the endless stretch of land. But he had held on, and so he opens his eyes and smiles down at his love. “Not quite. Are you alright?”
“Only cold, but I’ll warm-up,” Daniil says. “I wouldn’t want us to sleep out here, anyway. It wouldn’t do if we were both sick, now, would it?”
It’s a reasonable excuse. Only by the way his eyes shift ever so slightly to the side— Dankovsky’s simplest tell— does Artemiy know that he’s lying. Artemiy grins: he knows that Daniil is most likely embarrassed by the state of things, in hindsight. To be dragged out of the house without being properly dressed, all because of an unpleasant evening.
But Artemiy doesn’t mind. He only feels fond. “It’s far too late for that, oynon. We’ve been out here long enough.”
“All the more reason to head inside now,” Daniil replies. “Aren’t you cold too?”
“No.” Artemiy grins. “I’ve had you lain across me like a hot water bottle. Quite cosy, I have to admit. But we’ll go, to save your old bones.”
“Old?” Daniil echoes. “The disrespect of the younger generation…” Instead of sounding offended though, he’s simply tired. “Help me up then.”
Artemiy stands and offers a hand; Daniil takes it and doesn’t let go.
They only separate when they make it back home again, having spent the walk pressed closer than usual, almost wrapped against each other’s side. Just another reason their outings are better made in the secret of the nighttime.
Although nothing is truly a secret in the Steppe.
Their house is just as silent as it had been when they parted. They slip their shoes off by the door before heading up the stairs. Quickly, as Daniil goes to change out of his clothes into something more bedtime appropriate, Artemiy checks on the children.
He opens their doors as quietly as possible, smiling softly to himself as he realises they seemingly hadn’t moved very far. Taking great care to avoid the creaky floorboards, he enters Sticky’s room to turn off his lamp, before removing the textbook he borrowed from Daniil from under his head. He allows himself a little laugh as he pulls the blanket up to his boy’s chin, reminded of himself as a child.
Murky is an even simpler case. Daniil had put her to bed as usual, although she seems to have almost thrown her blanket off her in her sleep. As he had done with Sticky, he treads carefully and tucks her back in, just loose enough that she can still move around without feeling trapped, just how she likes. Knowing she’s a deeper sleeper, Artemiy is daring enough to press a gentle kiss against her brow bone.
“There you go, Mishka.” He murmurs, before retreating back to his own bedroom.
There, Daniil waits for him drowsily. Although he has his eyes closed, it’s clear that he’s awake, waiting for Artemiy to return to his side. As he approaches the bed, Daniil lifts the covers for him to slip in easily beside him.
It’s silent in the next few minutes as they slot back together again, Daniil’s skinny frame locked tight in Artemiy’s thick arms. He wonders whether the still-loud sound of Daniil’s mind will keep whirring, though eventually, he starts to settle again.
But then, so quietly that it’s almost lost in the small space between them, he says, “Thank you.”
Artemiy smiles against his neck; presses forward just to kiss it.
“Sleep well, my beloved,” He replies. “But if you don’t, I’ll still be here waiting.”