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Strychnine-laced consumables weren't doing Daniil any good anymore, his receptors burning out at breakneck speed. His insides yearned for a kick, for something to pull on his distressed nerves, match the insane tempo of the past weeks. His body wouldn't let him stop. That's how he found himself practically overflowing with twyrine at Artemy's man cave. In his (flawless) defense, he couldn't pass up on the thrill of doing something he's not supposed to, having to be covert. Not after his life turned into torturously hurried, yet precise, clockwork for what felt like a decade.
— Would you happen to know who shattered all the mirrors in town, emshen?
Cornered, just like this, out of the blue. Daniil was glad he was looking into a microscope, turned away from Artemy, so he couldn't see the uncomfortable, crooked smile, the pained, shamed grimace. Daniil decided against commenting: whatever he could say would give him away instantly. He hummed instead, fiddled with the microscope some more before looking away from it and making himself seem consumed by busywork.
To some people, Daniil had unintentionally revealed the paradigm he found himself in. Wasn't like they would really know what he's talking about, though. One has to experience the amalgam flow to truly get it, he supposed. With what limited explanation he could provide, whoever heard him out would probably deem him insane, and rightfully so. Artemy had been incredibly tolerant of the bewildering rituals of the steppe and the weirdest happenings of the town, though – he seemed so unaffected by whatever bullshit life threw his way, he could understand, perhaps. At the very least, he wouldn't burn him at the stake for hallucinating some magic doodads powered by silvery butterfly wing dust, which let him warp time. That's what Daniil presumed, anyway.
— Emshen, look at me.
He obeyed, begrudgingly.
The only mirror he wouldn't wish to shatter were Artemy's eyes. They were, in fact, his favorite way of looking at himself. He is famously vain, but vanity reaches new heights for him when he sees his reflection, a vague dark blob, in the forget-me-not colored irises. Along with himself, he sees the early crow’s feet, the wisdom in his gaze, the iron, the soil, the cloudy skies over barren vastness. They're magnificent, and some of the magnificence rubs off on his appearance somehow.
He wonders if his face goes stupid while he stares. Probably. Artemy doesn't comment on that, though.
— We should walk. Come.
With that, he grabbed Daniil’s coat and put it in his arms, then aimed for the exit, not looking back. Daniil did as silently commanded, put the coat on, though he felt so warm he could probably wade out in his shirtsleeves and be fine. The twyrine made blood pump in his ears. He would take that over a metal barrel in his mouth any day, though.
Daniil could swear he could see the ropes holding the world together, the thin and the thick. He could feel one sticking out of his vein like a catheter, tugging him forward. As they came outside, Daniil shivered, both at the sudden touch of breeze and the view his mind should have made up, which was the only explanation he could come up with. The steppe grass, each strand of it, continued upwards with a hair-thin fiber, as if he and Artemy were insects witnessing the expanse of a long-pile carpet in front of them. The fibers waved idly in the wind, translucent, alien.
He shut his eyes forcefully, then opened, and decided to focus exclusively on Artemy. He felt a bit blinded by the world around him, so his hand reached involuntarily for Artemy's elbow, but he caught himself in time to put it in the coat pocket instead; “Stay out of sin’s way”, — a sentence echoing in his mind, like it was whispered to him by the all-encompassing fibers, not thought by his brain.
They walked for a while, Daniil trying his best to breathe, to set one foot forward, then the other. Finally, they arrived at one of the big rock gatherings. It was pure void pierced by the carved stones, oil lighting of the town not reaching this far, moonlight muted by clouds; and silken fibers, tangling, reaching out, pulsating, caressing each other.
Artemy sat in the grass, leaning against a rock, looking at Daniil expectantly. He was all too happy to stop supporting his weight, dropping himself beside Artemy. He stared out into the sky, and almost instantly got dizzy from all the unnatural movement, a never-ending dance of soft strings. Artemy was silent, aside from some noisy gulps of mystery liquid, also twyrine, he supposed. Daniil wouldn't dare look his way now. He felt like he didn't know the bounds of his self anymore, blending in, being woven into the cosmic fabric, like the Moiras were carefully unraveling him, undoing him and putting his threads to better use. Things having lines that could intertwine, names not mattering — all the steppe woowoo bullshit suddenly made sense.
Daniil lolled his head over to the side. He was faced with Artemy's thoughtful stare. It felt like he was perceived in the most intense way, drunk in adoringly, praised, venerated. This would have been deeply uncomfortable in any other situation; it felt right in this one. He saw Artemy fiddle with a flower. His own skin felt the wet tender petals, as if it were himself touching it. Daniil took in the sight of Artemy, wild in his eyes, yet calm, like it was more natural to him to be this than simply a person.
In this moment, he was not, in fact, anything close to a person. The grass, the skies, the boulders, Artemy, death, life, time, absence of anything — all was him. It's bound to get quite crammed inside a person's mind once they try and contain forever, all and everyone in there. For a moment, though, Daniil was able to do so, and he ceased existing as Daniil: he was the universe experiencing itself.
Daniil awoke aching all over. The bed bruised his back with springs so hard and noisy he could practically see the millennium’s worth of rust on them crumbling as he moved. He was covered haphazardly with miscellaneous fabrics, weighing him down delightfully. As he opened his puffy eyes, he saw the storage closet Artemy called his bedroom, and not his Stillwater penthouse. It was surprising, though logical.
He took inventory of his surroundings:
Window (barred, dark); coat (intact); water flask (thoughtfully left on the makeshift nightstand); flooring (half-undone, ugly color); Artemy's boots (older than Simon if he had to guess); Artemy's pouches (plentiful); Artemy's sweater (so prickly it pricked when looked at).
With an exasperated sigh Daniil turned onto his back, wrestling the heavy covers off. He had no way of knowing what happened after – or during – his sudden ego death, which was worrying, and had the potential to become humiliating.
By the feeling in his stomach he'd figured it's been a solid amount of time since they left the lair. Esteemed Bachelor rose, finally, bare feet on the dreadful flooring. He had most of his normal clothes on, only they felt and looked beat up: stained green in parts, wrinkly, not sitting the proper way on his frame. He waddled forth to inevitably meet Artemy out, busy as ever, far livelier than himself. The sight of Daniil awake and on the loose did manage to stop him, make him carefully put down the herbs and wipe his hands on a rag.
— Had your fun, Dankovsky? — he chided, lips curving in amusement (if you squint).
— Honestly? I don't get how Pyotr tolerates this much of this stuff. It's a universally huge stretch to call any of it fun. What even was that? — Daniil rubbed and scratched his face, still getting back into being a person in a body.
— Sit. Tell me. — Artemy pulled a chair out (chivalry: attempted), and stepped away to steep some tea. Daniil sat, slumping.
— I felt like… Like I vanished, you know? There was this wispy grass, and I felt free, yet chained, kept. I… — Daniil tried his best not to remember, nor think about, how he felt tugged towards Artemy by the wrist. The Line connecting them was an artery. He was now truly part of the world, shared capillaries with everything living, dead and immaterial, but this one connection felt as if severing it would kill them both.
Artemy returned with the hot drinks, barely managing to set them down before Daniil jolted up and got in his face, bothered. Daniil stared into his favorite mirror for a moment, then sheepishly reached for Artemy's face. He cupped his jaw gently, then trailed the long, trembling fingers down his neck, then his chest. His mouth was open, as if to say something, but he was uncharacteristically lost for words. Being a person again, he was fascinated, yet equally as terrified, by being made aware of the existence of an Artemy, separate from himself, a Daniil. Artemy was taken aback by the sudden contact, yet it seemed like he was ready for something like this to transpire. He put a reassuring hand on the small of Daniil's back, trying to ground him. It was quite a bit easier to exist with his hand there, curiously.
Winding down a little, grabbing the fabric of Artemy's shirt weakly, he asked:
— Is this what it's like? Each time anyone gets wasted at Andrey's, is this what happens to them?
— No, erdem.
It would be extremely helpful if Artemy elaborated, thought Daniil – and suddenly the curiosity escaped him, like a cat slipping through a fence. He felt the Lines, he lived through being nothing and everything, he didn't need to intellectualize it. For the first time he understood the people accepting some things without first taking them apart and glaring into their components. He would never decide to leave anything not dissected thoroughly, not explored as fully as possible, but this moment, this state of mind, needed to be left alone.
The one stomachable discovery he made by having this experience, though, was immeasurably valuable. Death is not, in fact, what it's generally thought to be. He'll process that later, though.
Judging by Artemy's endearing half-smile wrinkling under his eyes, Daniil should have been frozen in thought for a while again. Shaking off the embarrassment of that, of being so vulnerable, he loosened his grip on Artemy's clothes.
— You've had this happen to you before, then.
— Yes, when I was around sixteen. Snuck some away. Father saw through me instantly. Avoided the beating by a miracle. — Artemy paused to rub Daniil's back lightly, then added shakily, — You were stupid. You're lucky to have picked a good spot to do the stupid.
Daniil felt like he should say he's sorry. He wasn't.
Now that he thought about it, though, it was absolutely true. Were it not for Artemy having his back, guiding him, watching over him, he could have been anywhere by now, from down the Gorkhon’s stream to the square in front of the Cathedral, smashed by gravity into a gruesome monument to all the people having glared into the incomprehensible unprepared.
He was a bit sorry now. Wouldn't consider speaking of this ever, though.
Daniil put his face flush against Artemy's chest and allowed his tender, aching flesh and mind to lean into the touch, the intimacy of it. He hoped he wouldn't have to speak the words of what it meant, either, exhausted.
— You have me, emshen. Now, yesterday and tomorrow.
Fuck. Now he definitely had to say the damned words.
— I'm yours.
He prayed it would be enough talking for the time being, as he relaxed into Artemy's warm embrace. It was.