Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Crucible was built first. Peter had no compliments or complaints for it. He didn’t care for residences, so it was fortunate that someone else had been tasked with it.

Their colleague, on the other hand, was jealous. Worse, it was him who they’d recommended for the task: Andrey had described him as a man versed in both the practical and poetic aspects of architecture, a man who could give strength and grace to the very material of a cairn or a castle or a cathedral, a man who could make the most obdurate stone sing…

Peter had been less abstract. He said that their colleague came from a family of stonemasons from the Near East, but he’d studied architecture in the Continent, and so his work gave consideration to both fields and worlds. They’d met during the construction of a small chapel– it was Peter and Andrey’s first religious commission, but their colleague’s fourth, which was to say he had more experience than them in these matters, and architectural matters in general. As for his character: he was fine to work with, and even better to argue against. His work was strict and direct, yet he considered all levels of the art, from the logistics of scheduling laborers to the sensuality of symmetry done well. Any further descriptions of him that did not at least involve schematics or photographs of his work would be doing him a disservice. 

To himself, he thought: his hands smelled fresh, his face was clean shaven, and the skin above his brows would frequently curl in surprise when he was in conversation.

…

The first letters sent to him were lost in the conflicts across the Continent, and he could not make it in time to aid with the design and construction of the building.

…

It was in the summer of the second year when he finally arrived. His hair had grown since Peter had last seen him. Gained flecks of gray, too. Yet he greeted Peter with a hand clasped on his shoulder and a bright smile. His shirt was a loose silk thing. His steps were brisk. He was instantly younger.

At once, he took to designing the lamp posts and benches around the Crucible, as well as tidying the apple orchard that faced it. He worked under the scalding sun and conversed with Georgiy in the shade of his new workshop. Shirt off, even tan. Peter watched a bead of sweat roll down his chest.

…

A third of the population were nomadic steppe people. Another third were laborers, thieves, and orphans living in the slums around the Slaughterhouse and the Metalworks. The final third were families of above average or noble standing, as well as the architects, mathematicians, philosophers, and artists who had been collected from all around the Continent for the advancement of the Town. 

Everyone lived in outdated lodgings. They had to have been built when the Town exported metal as opposed to meat, which is to say fifty or more years ago at the earliest.

Their colleague was put in charge of designing the new apartment blocks.

…

“You don’t have much,” Peter told his colleague.

“Eh. I’ll have more soon…” he said as he unpacked something ceramic. “Look at this.” 

It was a blue and white vase– or perhaps a watering can– with metal accents. The detailing on the ceramic was crude but followed a vision. Inspired by a courtyard, maybe. In contrast, the flourishes on the metal accents were fine and well designed, making them seem like mismatched parts. 

“You might get some scraps of meat for it… if the butcher’s wife has never seen art. What is it?”

“A waterpipe.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Look–” his colleague made a rude gesture with the vase, inserting a finger into the spout, and then bringing the horn to his mouth. His mustache and lips obscured the tip for some moments, and then he mocked blowing smoke. “It’s just missing the chimney and top bowl… I’ve got them somewhere...”

Their colleague brought out some things made out of wood and metal, as unfortunate and mismatched as the rest of the parts.

“Now this is shameful,” Peter said. His colleague snorted. “I’ve seen destitute men with better equipment.”

“Yes, I know. It’s quite unpleasant to smoke from, too… but I’m fascinated by individual parts of it, so it’s followed me everywhere.”

Peter laid back on the bed. It had no blankets. The stucco on the wall was bright and fresh.

“Do you have any coals?” he asked his colleague.

“I do… but they’re for a better time, and a better pipe…”

…

Andrey became friendly with all sorts of people from the Warehouse districts.

…

Andrey was gone often.

…

Their colleague made a good foreman. Peter could never be a foreman. Peter could never see himself relating to a foreman– and then his colleague would turn around to face him– and now he was the man he’d smoked with once, at dawn, on the construction site of their chapel.

…

Andrey’s latest project was the Den. It seemed straightforward enough to Peter: There were drinks, there were drugs, there was clientele, and there was money. Andrey was good with people. Andrey cut the shape of a criminal. Andrey was Andrey. Peter didn’t complicate himself with the finer details of his brother’s life.

…

“I’m not fond of that stuff,” Andrey said. “Twyrine’s expensive poison in the Capital, and nothing remarkable here.”

“Well, make something better, then,” Peter said as he unpacked a shipment of ochre and charcoal. “They’ll like your spin on it. If you won’t do that, then get me a bottle, at least.”

…

“It’s ancient,” his colleague said. “An Englishman gave it to me.”

Peter traced the imprint of the shell with his thumb. The stone it was left on was pitch black.

…

Peter didn’t work with other people. Everything he would want and need was within his reach. It had always been this way– but as he watched his colleague outline the perimeter of his next building in the earth with ash, he could imagine striding alongside him.

…

Parts of the city were electrified. Their colleague’s streetlamps shone in the night.

…

The apples from the orchard were sweet.

…

“Hmm,” Andrey’s colleague used a toothpick to pack the shisha flatter.

“Not good enough, professor?”

“It’s fine. Just a habit.”

His colleague pressed fragments of hashish into the shisha.

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s not very strong.”

“Ah.”

His colleague filled the glass base with water, and inserted the chimney briefly before taking it out and adding more water.

“You’ll want a thumb’s length of water over the pipe inside of the reservoir. If you’ve added snow, you’ll want to add less, but not much less.”

“The snow isn’t any good here. It’s thin, and muddy, and superstition follows it.”

“Well, alright. You could still collect some on the roof.”

“Eh…” Andrey said. “Maybe, if I’m not too lazy. The thing is, I don’t like smoking alone.”

“Then invite me over,” his colleague said. “And your brother…”

…

Peter’s colleague had let him stay the night. They had talked and drank in equal amounts, which was to say too much, and according to his colleague, Peter had narrowly avoided giving himself a concussion against a dresser. Maybe he had actually managed that, and they’d both forgotten– his brain felt hot and bruised and shrunken all the way up until noon. They had nowhere to be, though, so they let themselves recover in the single bedroom house.

Peter watched droplets roll down his colleague’s back as he washed himself over a basin. Peter watched him run oil through his still wet hair. Peter watched him get dressed. Peter watched him leave. Peter left eventually.

…

“You two have kept yourself busy since the chapel,” his colleague said.

“Yeah,” Andrey replied, a sour taste in his mouth.

Peter had destroyed most of the original schematics when their buildings in the continent had been torn down, but Andrey had managed to keep some cyanotype copies. Splayed out on the coffee table, they looked like photographs of the sky. 

Two shotglasses and a bottle of Stamatin twyrine accompanied the cyanotypes.

“Well, all of that... you know.. ‘talk’... It doesn’t offend me. They’re buildings.”

“I don’t care. Do you care if a child on the street insults your clothing?”

“Eh, that’s not how I meant it… I meant that I can appreciate this sort of creative direction. It’s not offensive to me, or contrary to my work. Rather, it’s complimentary.”

Andrey leaned over, rubbing his neck. His colleague poured him another shot.

…

Complimentary.

The comment stuck in his mind.

Complimentary implied there was anything of theirs to compliment his work, which there wasn’t. Yes, Peter and him had built the Stairways– and nothing else– during their first year in the Town, but those were made of the same primitive materials that the Stillwater and the apartment blocks were made of. Worse, they were falling into a state of disrepair, becoming ruins that the streets grew around…

Georgiy told them to bide their time. He didn’t mind being held on retainer, but with the apartments and the Stillwater complete, and Victor spending an increasing amount of time with their colleague as opposed to him and Peter… He had to wonder if they could become redundant.

…

“I don’t want to invite him over,” Peter told his colleague, resting a hand on the inside of his thigh.

His colleague exhaled smoke– held his cigarette with one hand– took Peter’s hand with the other. Calloused, thick. Warm. Ran his lips across his knuckles.

“I was simply being friendly,” his colleague said against the tendons of his hand. “But I understand.”

…

He was a good foreman and a good summertime friend. He was a good architect and a good autumn lover.

…

Winter.

…

The Cathedral was beginning to take shape. It was a perfect, desolate companion to the Crucible.

…

Peter huddled around the furnace-stove. Andrey had made tea earlier, and they’d shared a cup, but then he had left for the Den. The air still smelled sharp and bitter.

…

Everything had crystallized outside, but no snow had fallen.

...

His colleague spent more time with the laborers and other architects. His colleague was older in the gray light. His colleague was reticent, not so playful anymore. His colleague was busy. His colleague was doing what he came here to do. His colleague was like the Capital and good food and nude women and hungry mouths on hot skin: distant and inaccessible.

…

Peter forgot the warmth of his hands.

...

There was nothing left to do but draw. So he drew.