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When the door flies open with a loud bang, as if on its own volition, Fedyor almost jumps out of his skin, his heart hammering wildly in his heaving chest.
The last thing he remembers is a half-torn page from the human physiology book he was scrolling idly, and then...well, nothing. He must have fallen asleep. Which doesn’t matter, now, because he’s alert, probably fighting off a potentially life-threatening arrhythmia, and ready to unleash veritable hell on whoever has dared to kick the door of his assigned dormitory open in such a boorish fashion.
His eyes dart towards the intruder and when he finally spots him, the rage and the outrage just disappear, dissipated like a gust of smoke in the wind. He can’t help it, a smile blooms on his face the very same instant he peers at a familiar mop of unruly, always a tad too long to look halfway decent, hair.
Ivan.
The most talented Heartrender-to-be in their school. Young, powerful, clever and curious, with starry eyes and a sharp, pointy chin that will develop into a strong jaw when he’ll reach the milestone of puberty. It’s funny now to think that he himself has taught the rising star of the Corporalki order to read, not so many years ago, after he had been found in the vast plains squeezed up right between Ravka and Fjerda.
“Will you ever learn to knock, you uncultured weasel?” He says in lieu of a greeting, rising from his chair and stomping his feet to get a modicum of circulation back into his scrunched toes. His legs have gone stiff, wooden boards slightly shaking with the adrenaline still pulsing through his throbbing veins. Ivan looks contrite like a little penitent at the altar when his starry gaze meets Fedyor’s.
“I am truly sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, a childish frown on his bitten, slightly bloody lips.
Ivan is only two years younger than him, but Fedyor is already more easy-going, cunning, experienced; Ivan may be the most powerful Corporalnik to have ever walked through the gates of the Little Palace, but now that Fedyor is pushing his fourteenth year and Ivan is about to turn twelve, the difference between their general attitudes is striking. His smile deepens as he outstretches his hand to scratch at Ivan’s scalp just the way he likes it, eliciting a soft sound that resembles that of a purring cat.
“Yeah, but you did. Which means that you owe me a bite of your honey cake at lunch, tomorrow.”
Ivan nods solemnly. On Sundays, they get honey cake and a festive meal. Sunday is Fedyor’s favorite day, because there are no lessons, everyone gets an extra hour of sleep and even attending the morning Mass feels sweeter after a long week spent between books, Botkin’s brutal training and the Anatomy Room. Grisha put their faith in Small Science only, nowadays, but old habits are hard to kill and, although it may sound ridiculous, he's still very fond of the pungent smell of incense and mildew permeating the churches. Coming from a family with a strong religious drive may have helped him to retain what little respect towards the Saints he still bears. So, on Sundays, Mass it is.
“You can have the whole slice. I don’t like the coating, it’s too sweet.”
“Glaze is a key element in a balanced diet, Vanyusha,” he jokes, but since Ivan tends to take everything a tad too literally - Fedyor suspects it to be a courtesy of his unmistakable Fjerdan origins - he doesn’t get the joke and he just sways on the ball of his feet, sheepish and wary despite all the years they have already spent together.
“No, it’s not.”
“I was joking.”
Ivan furrows his brows before opening his mouth, closing it again and then summoning up the fakest laugh Fedyor has ever heard. He laughs too, then, but contrary to Ivan’s stilted bark his laugh sounds genuine.
“What’s the matter?” He asks when the minuscule tears pearling his eyelashes have dried out, shifting towards his crowded desk and claiming his seat atop of a stack of densely written paper. Ivan follows suit, sighing heavily and collapsing into the plush chair Fedyor has managed to steal from an empty room upstairs.
“I am a fraud and a failure,” he mutters, sprawling his already long legs under the table and biting down at his mauled lower lip, drawing blood as soon as his sharp teeth connect with the soft tissue. Fedyor thinks about the countless blood vessels that supply the lower lip with fresh blood. He has seen them during his first human dissection, and he has gagged when the skin had been pulled down to reveal the intricate patterns beneath.
"Strong words, Vanyusha," he says, acting all wise and smug, planting his foot into Ivan's chest to annoy him. His heartbeat feels strong, only slightly disturbed by whatever it is that's bothering him, a little faster than it should be. Ivan shakes his head, batting Fedyor's foot away and crossing his arms over his chest imperiously. Fedyor offers him a soft smile. "What is it, Vanyusha? What happened?"
Something in Ivan's posture loosens up a bit, making him slouch over the chair with a grim look in his usually so clear eyes.
"They say I'll be a great Heartrender, one day, but I can't grasp the basics, Fedya. The basics!" He lets out, outraged, fetching a folded piece of paper in the hidden pockets of his red kefta and handing it over unceremoniously, his munched lower lip trembling with frustration. Fedyor examines the tattered sheet carefully, frowning now and then as the familiar theory written in Ivan's brand elegant and slender handwriting floods through his mind. He smooths the creases in the paper and gives it back, snorting quietly.
"Do you realize this is hardly the basics, Vanyusha? This is a very advanced exercise in control, steadiness and focus. It took me months to get it right, and sometimes my hand still slips when I can't concentrate properly," he says, trying to be reassuring, emphasizing the word months so that Ivan can understand that he's not a failure, nor a fraud. He's just a kid, and as a wise instructor has told Fedyor sometime ago, kids are allowed to make mistakes as long as they do their best and actively try to fix them up. Ivan, however, doesn't seem to vibe with the idea and blatantly dismisses it with a loud sneer.
"I should be able to," he states, firm and definitive, determination sparkling flames behind his irises. Fedyor puffs his cheeks and deflates them, blowing warm air square into Ivan’s face.
“No, you shouldn’t. You haven’t even started real practice yet! Saints, for all you know, you could decide you want to be a Healer in a year, so...don’t get ahead of yourself. This thing is advanced. ”
“And I am gifted. So I should be able to... perform,” he complains, sounding almost petulant. Fedyor sighs again, heavily, grazing at the soft lining of his inner cheek until he tastes blood on the tip of his tongue. Ivan is a strong-willed little shit that won’t walk away from his dormitory room empty handed. Still, Fedyor feels unsure on what to do next. He doesn’t like to see him like this, all defeated and sulking, and he’s sure he’s taking up his role of best friend - ish - a tad too seriously of later, but...he must ponder carefully, because Ivan can be gifted, that’s true, but practicing outside lesson hours is strictly prohibited, especially for Corporalki. For Saints’ sake, their abilities kill. And, for how much faith he puts in Ivan, he’s not sure he’s ready to die helping him get ahead of the standard program.
“What if you ask an instructor first?” He hints, sucking at his lip and proceeding to meticulously nibble off the jagged edge of his favorite fingernail to chew. Again, Ivan snorts.
“I asked Yuliana. She dismissed me with a laugh and told me to focus on my assignment instead.”
“Which would be?”
“Mending pierced skin. I suck at healing. I leave ugly scars and Annika says I’m not even trying.”
Fedyor shrugs. Annika will be a mediocre Healer at best, and she would make a risible Heartrender should she come of age and decide she’s done with broken bones and ripped skin and royal arses with saddle-induced blisters. He tells Ivan that, and for a moment the shadow crossing his face is gone, replaced by a real, open-hearted laugh. “I’m sure you’re trying your best,” he offers, poking Ivan again with his toe.
“Help me? Please? You’ve already practiced slowing heartbeats. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll ask Petra to come over and you will... supervise. Please?”
Fedyor doesn’t know why his stomach twists and churns with sheer jealousy when Ivan carelessly drops that he could manipulate Petra’s heartbeat instead of his. It doesn’t make any sense but, at the same time, it does, and tremendously clearly moreover. He draws in a sharp breath, his head almost spinning.
Oh, Fedyor. What the fuck are you doing?
“Silly,” he replies, trying to sound casual. “Practicing is prohibited and Petra is the biggest gossip of the Etherealki. You sure you want to find out what they do to those who dare break the rules, Vanyusha? Maybe you’ll get sent to Tsibeya straight away, and Petra too. Better not to risk it, hu?”
Ivan’s eyes grow three times bigger as he gasps in utter shock. Fedyor would very much like to burst out laughing, but he can’t shrug off the feeling of a sword hanging over their heads by a frayed thread. Shit. Maybe they’ll really get exiled to Tsibeya. Or sold to the Shu to be experimented on like sick cattle. Or maybe handed over to the slave traders and end up in Kerch. The prospect is absolutely terrifying, and a shiver runs down his spine.
They really shouldn’t be doing this.
Yet, trying to convince Ivan to slow down to a more age-appropriate pace would be completely useless, the kid is more stubborn than an oaf and twice as resolute. Plus, he really can’t say no to Ivan’s practiced puppy eyes. They do weird things to his heart, making it flutter senselessly about his chest, and...yeah, no, he can’t refuse Ivan a single thing. Ivan wants a cookie in the middle of the night? Damn right he’ll have a cookie, even if Fedyor has to sneak out past curfew – been there, done that. With the sole exception that they were both children and no one would have cast them to Tsibeya because the newcomer wanted a cookie after a nightmare.
He swallows compulsively. Ivan mirrors him, and Fedyor can’t help but notice the faint tremor in his usually so steady hands, now thrumming with fear and excitement. Ivan was wayward, at first; rules made no sense to him, and he was always questioning them or openly defying the instructors or their elders, hoping to get away with it. Time has made him dutiful, but Fedyor doesn’t doubt he still beams at the thought of breaking the rules once in a while.
“So you...will help?” He asks in a whisper, an edge of uncertainty to his changing voice. It’s becoming deeper, now. Booming. It’ll sound hoarse, like a twig breaking, while Fedyor’s has finally settled to a honey warm, accented tone that has earned him more than just one glare from girls his age and older. A pity indeed he’s not interested in them.
“Of course I will, Vanyusha. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t?”
Ivan lets out the relieved breath he was holding all along and flashes him a small, grateful smile that makes Fedyor’s heart leap in his throat.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, a secret whispered between the two of them, something that’s all theirs and will always be all theirs, no matter the outcome.
Fedyor can only pray for everything to go smoothly, though. A kid, no matter how skilled, is still a kid.
***
“Are you sure you want to do this? I can ask-”
Fedyor shushed Ivan promptly, his finger traveling to the other boy’s lips. Is he sure though? Hard to tell. His heart is hammering in his chest as if he had just run leaps across the courtyard with Botkin.
“Yes, I am sure,” he finally says, sinking deeper in the mattress, his arms at his sides, trying to ease the tension in his aching muscles with a couple of discreet deep breaths. Ivan ogles at him suspiciously, swaying on his knees, the bed creaking slightly in protest.
“If you don’t want to-” Ivan charges again, and Fedyor rolls his eyes.
“Can you stop talking for a second, weasel? If you want to try your abilities out, then do it. Hopefully, you won’t kill me, so pay attention and don’t be a brat. Deal?”
Ivan nods. Somehow, his lips are in a worse condition than before. When Fedyor finally pulls his finger away from his mouth, the pad is stained crimson.
“Deal,” Ivan replies, rueful and somber. Fedyor sighs.
“Hey weasel. Vanyusha. Look at me. I trust you. You won’t kill me.”
“I shouldn’t have asked you in the first place.”
“Well, you did. And now I want to have a taste of the famed power that everyone seems to know except your closest friend. Now, do you remember the theory? From memory?”
Another rigid nod.
“Slowing down someone’s heartbeat,” he recites, “is a very delicate matter, because it requires focus and technique. One shouldn’t try to cut the process short, because a rapid decrease in the heartbeat could cause a potentially deadly disruption in the rhythm, and damage the brain permanently because of the sudden lack of oxygen caused by the dropping heart rate. It’s highly recommended to follow a pattern and those who start practice shouldn’t cut more than three beats at a time while slowing the heartbeat down to forty-three beats per minute, which should be enough to put someone in a state of deep sleep. Rates may vary according to the state of health of the individual and it’s up to every Heartrender to adjust accordingly after a quick assessment. This is particularly useful when-”
Fedyor interrupts Ivan again, not exactly eager to hear him quote an entire chapter of a theory book by heart. Well-known facts, by the way. He’s not in need of a run-through yet.
“Fine, fine, you know your theory, smartass. No need to quote the entire book to prove a point.” He swallows, his teeth on edge. It’s now or never, Fedyor. Now or fucking never. “I am ready when you’re ready,” he says, hoping to sound confident and convincing. He throws in a smile just to be sure Ivan gets a confidence boost and - oh Saints! - doesn’t screw up. There is a time limit in which a Heartrender can make a still heart beat again, and Fedyor doesn’t want to dance with Lady Luck too cockily, because cocky assholes die first.
Duh.
“If things go awry…”
“They won’t. Let’s just...uh...give me your free hand, please,” Fedyor requests, undoing the hidden buttons of his kefta. Suddenly, the room has become unbearably hot despite the fact that spring has yet to bloom in full. When he’s done with the buttons of his shirt too, he grabs Ivan’s hand and places it on his chest, right over his pounding heart. His breath comes out slightly ragged as he feels the familiar weight set right on his most vulnerable spot, and he parts his lips like a stranded fish for a moment.
“Like this?” Ivan asks, and his voice is thick with something Fedyor can’t recognize.
“Yes. It will...keep you grounded. Focused. So you don’t kill me or maim me,” he says, attempting some levity. Ivan wreaks havoc over his chapped, split lip.
“I don’t want to kill you. Or maim you. Or hurt you, for what it’s worth.”
Fedyor waves his hand noncommittally in the still air, Ivan’s nails grazing at the sensitive skin of his collarbone.
“It will be fine. Now, quick, we don’t have much time. If the others get back, they might report us, and I’m too young to have my nose freeze off in Tsibeya. It’ll compromise my looks forever, how am I supposed to marry rich if I lose my nose?” He jokes, faking giddiness. After a moment of silence, he instructs “A piece of advice. Count my heartbeats before we start. Adjust to that. See if you can bring me to the edge of consciousness, but don’t make me pass out, I won’t be able to help you if you do.”
Ivan gives him a solemn nod, already hyper focused, already bursting with raw, untamed energy. Fedyor knows he should feel intimidated and humbled by that, but truth to be told he’s mostly in awe, alarmingly drawing near adoration. Fuck, Fedyor, what the hell are you thinking?
He gulps down a lump in his throat.
“How many beats per minute?”
“Many,” Ivan says, frowning. “Are you scared?”
“Antsy. Never planned to visit Tsibeya once. How many beats, Vanyusha?”
“Ninety-eight.”
“Wow, that’s a lot.”
“Told you so.”
Fedyor’s mouth feels sand-dry when he speaks.
“Start out softly. One beat at a time. Drive me into relaxation slowly.”
The hand pressed on his chest feels a little sweaty. Saints, what might have possessed him to be so foolish to be dragged into unsupervised practice while he should be studying or idly hanging out with the others? He dreads the answer, to some extent. He exhales another little shaky breath as he begins to feel the familiar tingle of Ivan’s power cursing through the surface of his skin like warm electricity. Slow, he would like to say. Gentle. Yet his tongue remains stubbornly glued to the roof of his mouth.
Ivan doesn’t get it entirely wrong, at first, he must admit. He’s caring, and he counts each beat under his breath, his lips twitching ever so slightly as he murmurs like a pious man kneeling down in church. He hits the eighty-five beats per minute mark. It’s nice for now. Fedyor’s breath feels steadier, and he relaxes just the slightest bit against his overstuffed pillow.
Until.
Pain shoots through him, lancing and sharp. In the heat of the moment, he curses and bites his tongue, dizziness overcoming him in waves. Through the haze of his unfocused eyes, he catches a glimpse of Ivan’s face, twisted in a distressed, pained grimace that hurts Fedyor’s heart more than his now not-so-gentle manipulation.
“I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I got lost Fedya, I got lost, sorry,” he blabbers, words coming out of his mouth in an endless stream. Fedyor grunts, his chest aching badly and his heartbeat a veritable mess. Luckily though, Ivan is quick to restore a pattern that makes sense, and Fedyor gets the distinct feeling that he has started to rub soothing circles into his chest, his palm still resting over his heart, pressing just a tad too hard to be truly comfortable with.
“I said,” he gasps, “One beat at a time, Vanyusha.”
His heart rate has dramatically dropped to sixty-two. Ivan nods frantically, holding his breath, power still prickling over the tip of his slightly crooked fingers.
Oh fucking Saints.
An arrow shot from a risible distance would have hurt less. Ivan’s starry gaze is almost too much to bear and Fedyor is sure that if it wasn’t for him controlling the rhythmic contractions of his heart, he would have experienced at least a couple of skips for the sight alone.
“See? I can’t do it, Fedya. I can’t. I’m only good at breaking things, I can’t get this right, I’m a failure. What use do I have of this power if I can’t-” An ugly sob escapes Ivan’s lips. “I’m a fraud. Good at nothing. I can’t focus, I call on my power and it’s...I…”
Yes, Fedyor can partially understand. It’s like the rising tide, an all-encompassing force that swallows you whole. The wolf that swallows the moon. Power calls for more power, and in Ivan’s case it must feel amplified somehow, more enhanced. It’s common knowledge that Grisha power, when it’s at its peak, feels intoxicating and almost pleas for more. Fedyor, however, is a foolish, idealistic bastard; Ivan should know he can do this, he should be able to understand how much of a valuable Grisha he’ll become when he’s ready so, instead of asking him not to try this on him again and kick him out unceremoniously to curl up on his side and wait for the pain to vanish, he encourages him to go on and test himself.
“Can you cut with this...nonsense? Start again. Focus. Close your eyes. It’s just the two of us and what matters is my heartbeat, understand?”
Ivan tilts his head on a side, looking like a dazed puppy that’s unable to follow a simple command.
“I hurt you,” he points out, almost outraged. His hand is still plastered to Fedyor’s chest, though. He acts as if nothing at all had happened, praying for his little con to be credible enough. Ivan, however, is overly cautious, and he’s still keeping the worst of the temporary damage he has made at bay.
“Not purposefully. And it’s gone by now. Come on, it’s less than another ten beats, okay? Then we’re done and you can make up to me anyway you like. I’m not mad at you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Ivan squeaks quietly, a mouse crushed by the sole of a heavy boot. He looks like a scared child now, all doe-eyed, his cheeks red with burning shame.
“I hurt you, Fedya.”
“Yes. And you’ll have time to be terribly sorry later. Can we just get this thing done? I am really scared of Tsibeya, Vanyusha. Like...my worst nightmare coming to life.”
Ivan seems to consider his offer thoughtfully, a streak of dried blood on his chin that must have dribbled down when he has bitten on his lower lip hard enough to make such damage. Fedyor would really reach for his face and wipe it out, but his limbs feel leaden, heavy, and he doesn't want to show Ivan how shitty he's feeling after his careless slip.
Note to self: never ever do this again.
"You fear Tsibeya more than you fear me?"
There's a slightly panicked hint in Ivan's strained tone. It's subtle and controlled, but Fedyor knows him so well he can tell when he's putting on a facade. He forces himself to nod.
He isn't afraid of Ivan. He really isn't. He's just a kid, and kids "are allowed some mistakes" even if they're as powerful as Ivan. Tsibeya, on the contrary, is absolutely horrifying, and Fedyor isn't eager to try out the experience any time soon.
A small, condescending pft escapes his lips.
"Of course, Vanyusha. Should I be afraid of the scrawny weasel I tutored to learn how to read? Come on. Who do you think I am?" Ivan huffs out a broken, wet laugh. Half a sob, half an undignified snicker. "Time's ticking," Fedyor says then, urging him to finish up his practice before someone finds out. He's not exactly anxious to submit himself again to Ivan's ministrations, but he's confident he'll keep steady now, given how hurt he seems to be by the fact that he has unintentionally subjected him to such pain.
Which, in retrospect, wasn't as excruciating as Fedyor has perceived it, but – well, a little theatrics has always been his thing. It saved his and Ivan's sorry arses more than once, truth to be told. Still.
"If you're in pain…"
"Yes, I'll tell you straight away. Now, ready when you're ready," he nods, clearing his throat and shifting to a more comfortable position.
Ivan's nails scrape again against his skin and his power starts flowing through Fedyor in gentle, extra controlled waves. Holding back is clearly costing him so much already. He's concentrated, his sparse eyebrows furrowed over his straight nose in a funny V shaped wrinkle Fedyor will tease him about for days.
"Right," he mutters to himself. "Slow and steady, slow and steady, slow and-"
Fedyor starts drifting away after the sixth, maybe seventh slow and steady . Ivan is doing good now, keeping his heartbeat from fluttering and skipping as he slows it down below sixty beats per minute, breathing through his mouth, straining to pour the right amount of energy in his task.
Languidly, Fedyor murmurs "Good...you're doing fine…" while watching him through his barely cracked eyes.
The throbbing pain in his chest has subsided to a dull ache making his left side numb all the way down his midsection. A dreamy sigh escapes his lips.
Ivan shudders at the sound, his fingers twitching over Fedyor's heart.
"Am I hurting you?"
Fedyor shakes his head.
"Keep...steady," he yawns, his jaw popping loudly. "Feels...mmmh...comforting…"
"I'm almost done."
"Pity."
"Fedya…"
Fedyor blows a weak raspberry in his general direction, his head pleasantly fuzzy and light.
"Right...speed it up...gently. Gradually...I was falling asleep."
"Please don't."
Again, the panicked edge. Fedyor wants to laugh, but he grins instead. Oh, Ivan.
Surprisingly enough, Ivan manages to bring Fedyor's heartbeat back to a normal rhythm without any further incident but when he's done he looks so guilty and broken that Fedyor toys with the idea of getting out of bed and slip to the kitchens to steal a spoonful of cookie dough for him. He likes raw dough. Fedyor, on the other hand, finds it stringy and rather unsafe to eat. He's too spent to do anything, though, besides patting Ivan's thigh and telling him what a wonderful job he has done, despite his slight moment of distraction. This doesn't seem to improve his gloomy mood, as he keeps repeating that he won't do it again, that he's sorry and whatnot.
Fedyor deems it perfectly fit to shush him with a clumsy, awkward kiss on the mouth, which does it's job perfectly but – in hindsight, putting his finger to his mouth would have worked just as fine.
Well, not that he can take it back now, can he?
Act cool, Fedya. You've got this.
"So…" he starts, "Got...uh...anything to do now? Studying or...mmmh...you know...usual Saturday activities?"
"No, I...I wanted to stay...in case you don't feel good. But I'll go If you want me to."
Fedyor has to hold himself back if he doesn't want to sound suspiciously whiny.
"You can stay, weasel. But make yourself useful," he quickly adds, smothering out the needy tones in his voice. Right now, he needs to check on Ivan as much as Ivan needs to check on him, he might have put years of friendship to mortal danger after all. And just with one kiss and a bundle of feelings he can't quite understand, even if he keeps tossing and turning in his bed all night trying to dissect it like a corpse in the anatomy room. Oh Saints, what have I done. Oh Saints, oh Saints, oh Saints oh-
"How?"
He snaps back to reality just in time to see Ivan jumping off the mattress in a graceful leap, his feet light on the intricate rug next to the bed and the smear of blood still sitting on his chin. He draws in a deep breath.
"The book on the desk. Bring it over and we'll read together for a while, how does it sound?"
Ivan hums in agreement. When he's kneeling back by his side, Fedyor wets his thumb and wipes away the bloodstain from his face. "There," he smiles, feeling an unfamiliar flush rising to his cheeks. Ivan is the blushing type, between the two of them. "You had blood on your chin."
"Oh. I think I bit my lip."
Fedyor shrugs, scooting over so he can make room for Ivan, whose shoulders are getting broader and squarer by the day. Ivan tucks himself into his chest with a soft sigh.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, maybe for the millionth time, "I really didn't want to hurt you."
"I know. Accidents happen. You owe me all of your cake, now, okay? And next Sunday's dessert. Now, uh, where was I," he says, flipping through the pages for a lack of any better thing to do. He still feels a little dizzy and sleepy, and Ivan is holding him in a bone-crushing hug that's going to leave bruises on his ribs.
Who cares.
He starts reading out loud. Sometimes, he catches a glimpse of Ivan's dark eyes scanning his face, but he does his best to ignore him and pretend he hasn't kissed him in a haste after having broken one of the most sacred rules of the Little Palace on a quiet Saturday afternoon.
It's fine.
He's fine.
It's going to be fine.
***
"Fedya?"
Fedyor blinks twice, the book heavy on his stomach and Ivan's hair tickling under his chin. They must have fallen asleep and, somehow, missed most of the afternoon that's now bleeding into an early sunset.
"Morning," he says, his voice hoarse with sleep. He feels Ivan stir like a lazy housecat, his knee jamming into his thigh, and doesn't restrain himself from giving him an affectionate scratch on the back.
A long pause. Ivan's breath is warm, his heartbeat steady on the edge of Fedyor's hearing. He considers skipping dinner and get back to sleep, his legs tangled to Ivan's and their keftas all crumpled up.
"Fedya, are you still my friend?"
The question is so sudden it takes Fedyor aback for a moment. Unconsciously, he tightens his grip around Ivan's waist and pulls him closer, breathing him in.
"Why shouldn't I, Vanyusha?"
"Because I hurt you."
Fedyor groans.
"I swear to the Saints, Vanyusha, if you say that again I'm going to feed you to the sharks at the bottom of the lake."
Ivan studies him from bottom up, his clever gaze gleaming in the fading sunlight.
"There are no sharks in the lake."
"Well, then I will drag you to the Shadow Fold and gift you to the Volcra if you don't stop saying I'm sorry ."
He pouts childishly.
"You would never."
"Yes I would."
No, he wouldn't. He'd gladly let himself be eat by a squadron of Volcra before putting Ivan in danger. The weasel doesn't need to know, though.
"But you're still my friend?"
Fedyor sighs, placing a kiss atop of his head. His scalp smells salty and sweaty. He loves it to no end.
"Of course, Vanyusha. I'll always be your friend."
Ivan seems pretty satisfied with his answer, because he tucks his head back into his chest and relaxes visibly, a little graceful yawn slipping past his ruined lips.
Friends, of course, why not.
Maybe kissing him might not have been the best of ideas, but Fedyor is glad that Ivan does still value their friendship so much. Gently, he starts drawing arabesques on his back with the tip of his finger. His left arm is sore for the hours he spent holding onto Ivan, but even that feels good.
"Fedya?"
"Yes?"
"Can we stay a little longer? I'm more tired than hungry."
Fedyor nods, closing his eyes.
"So am I," he mutters, and soon enough they're both fast asleep again.