Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On one of his many laps around the Town-on-Gorkhon, bright flecks of crimson caught Daniil Dankovsky's attention from the corner of his peripheral vision.

Wildflowers, he assumed. Even in such a dry September, the Steppe had cultivated plenty of blooming florals in all shades of maroon and saffron and amber, and walking along the railroad tracks on the outskirts of town like this, the heady aroma was ubiquitous. The late afternoon sun kindled the flowers and grasses like incense, blanketing the entire area in a haze of fragrant languor.

Daniil took another few steps, then froze again as he finally recognized the peculiar sanguine rosebuds: bloody twyre, or was it called blood twyre? He'd seen it depicted on the posters in Artemy's lair, poking out of his pocket, strewn across his workbench; that had to be bloody twyre, no doubt about it. His colleague used it to make his tinctures, and he'd watched him crush it into a fine powder using a mortar and pestle with an outsider's rapt curiosity a few times.

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, debating. Artemy would surely appreciate an addition to his herb stash that he didn't have to forage for in the Steppe himself, but Daniil still hesitated. What if he killed the plant by harvesting it? The stem looked so fragile, like the ruby buds were tethered to the earth below them by a single thread, and Daniil wouldn't describe himself as an exceptionally gentle man. Everything he did was decisive, confident, emphatic, and he worried he'd butcher such a beautiful thing.

As he was about to begin walking again, he spotted another familiar plant sprouting beside the bloody twyre, a taller one with delicate pale blossoms like white clover or jasmine. The name escaped Daniil, though judging by its coloring and the ones he remembered, it was probably either white whip or ashen swish.

He removed his left glove and crouched down, examining the stems for weak points. Once he saw one, he reached in and picked the herbs gingerly, wincing as the stalk snapped beneath his digits. Even using his bare fingertips, it was impossible to parse any tactile feedback due to the brisk wind chill, and he had to hope that he hadn't pruned the plants beyond repair. They looked rather wounded to him as he righted himself again, but then again, with conditions so suitable for twyre growth, they'd likely rebound quickly.

Dusting off his trousers with one hand and clutching his bundle of herbs in the other, Daniil shook his head before picking up his carpetbag and promptly starting along the train tracks again. What did Daniil care about those two specific weeds, anyway? He was being ridiculous and sentimental over nothing; the twyre season must have gotten to him.

He walked between the overgrown rails, inspecting the vibrant petals in the sunlight. A nervous twinge nagged at Daniil, an inexplicable snag in his thoughts. Alright, so Daniil wanted to do something nice for Artemy, sue him. Was it a crime to try to foster an amicable working relationship? Artemy had helped Daniil with some grim situations before, so really, it was the least Daniil could do. It was a friendly gesture, so why did he twist himself into knots as he approached the looming warehouse?

Too late to second-guess himself now. He knocked on the rusted metal, and within a few moments, Artemy opened the door with a shrill scraping sound that made Daniil recoil. Hurriedly, he hid his present behind his back.

Artemy's tired face immediately lit up once he saw it was Daniil, presumably since that meant he wasn't another patient to deal with or a patrolman to arrest him. His messy hair suspiciously resembled a bedhead, and when combined with his bleary eyes and his rumpled knit sweater, Daniil concluded that he'd definitely just woken up from a nap. The crease between his eyebrows faded and he stepped back, gesturing toward the entryway. "Well, hello there. Wasn't expecting you to drop by, oynon; come in."

"Thank you." Daniil bowed his head, crossing the threshold whilst conscious of how he angled himself within Artemy's field of view. He felt foolish, like he was about to profess his unrequited love in a stage play with cheap, unimaginative props. He felt even more foolish for agonizing over giving his colleague a simple gift.

"I'm happy to have company, but... why are you here?" Artemy asked bluntly, leading Daniil deeper into the workshop once the door was securely latched.

"Your hospitality is unmatched, truly," said Daniil, placing his bag on the least cluttered part of the nearest desk. "I came here to ask you a question about the Termitary, but first, I have a surprise for you."

"Oh? I hope it's not infectious, cursed, or flammable," replied Artemy coyly, the corner of his mouth curling upward into a sly smirk.

"No, my assassination attempts would be much more sophisticated than that." Before Daniil could back out, he revealed the meager bouquet of herbs and held it out to Artemy. "Here."

To Daniil's shock, Artemy instantly blushed redder than the bloody twyre, all the way from the bridge of his nose across his cheeks to the tip of his ears. His eyes widened, and he glanced between the underwhelming nosegay and Daniil's face repeatedly, raising his hand to cover his mouth.

"Wh—Wow, oynon, this is... I didn't expect this from you," Artemy stammered, his tone low and almost raspy.

What the hell was that reaction? Then, after a moment of confusion, it clicked: Artemy was impressed. Yes, that was it, he was awestruck that Daniil, an interloper, had picked up enough knowledge of the Steppe herbs to identify them in the wild! And, of course, he was flattered that he'd been so thoughtful.

"Yes, well. I've learned at least some things about the Steppe, haven't I?" Daniil preened, shooting him a modest grin.

"Ah, I suppose you have, oynon... th—thank you, truly." Artemy cleared his throat and accepted the offering, his touch warm and steady where he took the stems from Daniil's fist. He stared at them in his own palm, seemingly unable to tear his gaze away; Daniil rested his hands on his hips, posturing just the slightest bit. After a pause, Artemy asked quietly, "You picked these yourself, then?"

"Rem acu tetigisti. Exactly. I saw them growing side-by-side by the railroad tracks, about halfway between the Stillwater and here." Daniil was a little miffed that Artemy had to ask, but he was proud, so he didn't mind clarifying all that much. "I hope that they're high-quality enough for you, Artemy. I know you'll put them to good use."

"They're perfect, oynon." Artemy finally looked back at Daniil, and his mist blue eyes were unexpectedly blazing with intensity. His jaw clenched, and he opened and closed his mouth before he firmly assured him, "Yes. I will return the favor as soon as I can, and I promise to you that I'll repay it tenfold."

Before Daniil could respond, Artemy surged forward to capture Daniil in a tight hug, pressing them together from head to toe—at least, as much as possible with their prominent height difference.

Daniil gasped, paralyzed for a split second, completely and utterly stunned. Like Daniil, Artemy was not a touchy-feely man by any means, and whenever one of the children tried to cling to his leg or tug on his sleeve, he had no qualms with telling the kid to get lost outright. But now, he held Daniil flush to him like he was precious, twining his strong biceps around his ribcage and squeezing hard enough that he nearly lifted Daniil off the ground; Daniil couldn't help but wind his arms about his neck in return, maybe too intimate for a platonic embrace but by far the most comfortable position for their statures.

At the reciprocation, Artemy hummed into the collar of Daniil's trench coat, and Daniil didn't think they could physically get any closer yet Artemy seemingly tried anyway. Daniil was freezing cold in comparison to Artemy, who radiated a generous glow of warmth that quickly leached through every layer of Daniil's clothing the same as if he'd sat beside a bonfire. One of Artemy's hands slid to the small of his back, rubbing his thumb back and forth in slow, calming sweeps, and it took all of Daniil's willpower not to melt into the soothing touch.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged. Hell, he didn't think he'd ever been hugged like this, like Artemy wanted to incorporate Daniil's body into his own by brute force. With his head pressed against Artemy's sternum, Daniil could listen to his heartbeat, though he felt weirdly voyeuristic as if he were eavesdropping. Comfortingly, his heart was racing, too, just as fast as Daniil's if not faster. Maybe it had been a while for Artemy as well—he wouldn't be surprised, he didn't seem like a hugger.

Daniil had forgotten how good physical contact could feel, and God, he could've stayed like that for hours. He didn't want to pull away from the hug, but after a few beats, it had gone on longer than a typical hug. What was a typical hug length between colleagues, anyway? Did it typically involve a flutter like the one in Daniil's stomach from the massive hand that pinned his waist against Artemy's midriff? He had to extricate himself. Frankly, he couldn't believe that Artemy hadn't withdrawn first.

Daniil patted Artemy's shoulder and tried to back away, but Artemy drew him in tightly for a moment more, taking a deep breath before he finally freed Daniil from his clutches.

Daniil was beyond confused. He must've really moved Artemy with his gift if that was his response; he wasn't quite complaining, though. It was rather sweet to have so emotionally affected such a brooding, imposing man, not to mention such a stubborn one.

When Artemy spoke next, his voice was gravelly, almost sultry—Christ, had it really been so long that that's where Daniil's mind went? "Thank you for this gift, Daniil. I'm honored."

"I don't know who else I'd give it to," Daniil said, waving dismissively toward the fairly unassuming sprigs of greenery in Artemy's hand. They're nothing more than weeds to anybody but Artemy, aside from potentially Andrey Stamatin, but Daniil thought he remembered him griping that bloody twyre makes bad twyrine. "All yours, Artemy."

Artemy looked askance, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. The overhead lighting was harsh, but Daniil saw him turn an even deeper shade of scarlet, and Artemy bit his lower lip and raked his fingers through his hair before replying, "All mine, huh? Good. Good to know."

Something about the way Artemy said that sent a shiver down Daniil's spine. No, no, no. Fucking hell. The twyre had to be eating away at Daniil's brain, because under no circumstances could he possibly be finding Artemy Burakh attractive in this moment, or in any moment, for that matter. He was his colleague, they were working on defeating a damned plague, Daniil could not allow this to happen. He was talking about the twyre, clearly, he had to get his mind out of the gutter.

"So, about the Termitary...?"

"Right." Artemy nodded, still looking at Daniil with the remnants of a smile. "Ask away, oynon. Though you may know what's going on better than I do."

"Unlikely." Daniil had no idea what was going on, neither in the Termitary nor in his own pounding heart.

Daniil was convinced that somehow a switch had flipped in Artemy with that offering.

He became extremely touchy. Though then again, it was entirely possible that it just seemed extreme to Daniil, who hadn't felt someone snake a hand around his waist when walking past him in more years than he'd like to admit. It was little things, just innocuous enough to make Daniil question his perception of reality: a quick hug here, a clap on his shoulder there, a comforting rub on his knee when commiserating over the tragedy of it all that nonetheless collapsed the floor beneath Daniil's feet. Undeniably, Artemy was not this blasé regarding physicality before Daniil's gift. He was positive he would've noticed this sooner.

A few days after it began, Daniil visited Artemy's lair again to deliver some updates regarding the vaccine. As he spoke, his train of thought kept derailing due to Artemy always gravitating towards him.

"So—we'll have a vaccine ready soon, I think." An acute stab of pain smarted at the nape of Daniil's neck and he hissed quietly, reaching up to rub at the offending muscles. He lowered his head, and the muscle spasmed in protest. "Damn!"

"Are you alright, oynon?" Artemy asked, leaning toward Daniil with his brows drawn in concern.

"I'm fine, I just have a crick in my neck from being hunched over my microscope all day. I'll take some meradorm once I'm back at the Stillwater." The pain was nothing new; he'd experienced it on and off for years, and it was nowhere near as bad now as it had been during his thesis, when he couldn't look to the left for a week after pulling an all-nighter in the lab. The coffee he'd had earlier probably exacerbated the tension, too, so it was no wonder why the stiffness had resurfaced. He wished it didn't have to resurface so abruptly, though.

After scrutinizing him for a beat, Artemy walked to the other side of the room to dig through his cabinet, and Daniil let out a sigh of relief. Vials clinked as he rummaged through the shelves, and when Artemy turned back around, he revealed a corked flask of viscous, pale pink liquid.

Daniil tilted his head, yet he was interrupted when Artemy ordered, "Take off your shirt and lay on the table, oynon."

"I—you—excuse me?" Daniil spluttered, glancing back and forth between the suspicious vial and Artemy's genuine countenance. "You can't be serious." He couldn't allow himself to be struck with arousal at the command, it was untenable and unsustainable to feel that way about his colleague, but Christ, there was a new tone to Artemy's voice that made him woozy.

"I used your shagnalda, oynon." The word Artemy used was unfamiliar to Daniil, but he inferred its meaning as he continued. "It took a day each to press and refine half of the twyre and white whip, but it made a very pure oil, the purest I've seen. Look at it in the light."

Artemy approached so near that Daniil could smell burnt leaves on his clothes, and when he held the bottle up, Daniil marveled at the way the liquid glittered like dewdrops on rose petals. He had no standard for comparison, but he was impressed that Artemy extracted that from the random plants Daniil found. "It'll work well. Let me retie your Lines and massage your pain away, oynon."

Daniil would not survive this. But his plaintive request was so earnest—and his neck hurt so damn badly—that he couldn't possibly tell him no. He didn't have access to his usual painkillers, and if his pain progressed, it would impede his work on the vaccine sooner rather than later.

"Alright. Alright, fine. Should I... do you want my shirt off?" Daniil mumbled, sheepish as he shrugged off his trench coat. He felt like he was stripping like one of Andrey's Herb Brides, and to his chagrin, it only made him more inappropriately excited.

"Yes, unless you'd like to soak your fancy Capital getup in oil."

Artemy's steely eyes were fixed relentlessly on Daniil's movements, and Daniil couldn't determine if he was imagining a voyeuristic fire behind them while he moved on to unbutton his waistcoat, or if he was projecting his own suppressed desires.

"Have you done this before?" Daniil asked, half-ribbing and half-serious. The hideout was far too silent with only the muffled industrial clanging of the Works outside, and he needed a reprieve from the deafening quiet to gather the courage to shed his vest.

Artemy snorted. "Of course not. What kind of man do you think I am?"

"Not a bloody masseuse, clearly," Daniil quipped too defensively. He untucked his dress shirt and began working on the buttons, fumbling with anticipation. He hadn't expected Artemy to use his herbs to produce massage oil rather than immunity tinctures, but he wasn't opposed if it meant his neck wouldn't hurt like this.

"I do know the traditional techniques, though." Artemy tugged off his own jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his sweater to the elbows. The overhead lighting emphasized the tendons in sinewy forearms, and Daniil discovered a couple of faint scars from past scraps decorating the tanned skin like trophies. "Don't worry, erdem, I know the Lines."

Brilliant. More esoteric Kin traditions to baffle Daniil. "Fine. Just... tread lightly around my neck, Ripper." When he parted the sides of his shirt, he felt like a cadaver revealed from under a sheet, or maybe like a butchered slab of meat dangling in a butchery; he squirmed as Artemy unabashedly looked over his bare torso. Daniil felt even more exposed once he peeled it off completely, but before he could feel too demure about his scrawny physique, a harsh tweak lodged in his cervical spine and he groaned.

"You forget that I'm a surgeon, oynon. I have steady hands. I promise I won't damage your delicate anatomy." Artemy cracked his knuckles, perhaps diminishing the believability of his statement.

Daniil rolled his eyes. "It's not a matter of my own delicacy, Burakh, it's a damn strain injury. How should I—chair, table...?" He spoke gingerly, skirting around the obvious answer so as to not seem presumptuous.

Artemy gestured to the mattress. "Lay prone on the bed. Traditionally, you'd grip your wrists to make a circle above your head, but I don't think you should do that if turning your head will hurt you. Here, prop your chest up with the edge of the pillow so your head can hang freely," he instructed, helping Daniil maneuver himself into the shabby bed until he was as comfortable as he could be with the stabbing pain. "Is that good, oynon?"

"As good as we're going to get," Daniil muttered, unable to move his jaw much where it hooked over the flat cushion. He wrapped his arms around the underside, hugging the pillow close to muffle his pounding heartbeat. Restless shivers crawled up and down his body, but out of dread, frigidity, or eagerness, he couldn't tell.

"Alright, then." The pop of a cork dislodged from a glass bottle neck rang in Daniil's eardrums like it were a bottle of champagne.

Daniil expected cold oil to pour on his back, or maybe he expected Artemy's hand to test the waters first. He did not expect Artemy to climb on top of him and straddle his ass, pinning him down with thick thighs on either side of narrow hips.

Crushed into the mattress, the sudden weight of him stole the air from Daniil's lungs. Artemy was just as warm as he remembered, but then he'd nearly raised Daniil off the ground—now he was digging into Daniil, dense muscle threatening to break that strange Town taboo and bore right through him. He arched into him instinctively and his neck protested as a result.

"Am I too heavy?" asked Artemy, planting a palm on Daniil's spine to restrain him. "I can reposition myself if you'd like."

The bare skin contact gave Daniil vertigo. He liked the presence anchoring him in place, even if it meant he was trapped against the mattress; against his better judgment, he trusted Artemy to do him no harm, albeit this was hardly lege artis. "No. You're fine. But do give me a warning next time, hm?"

"Didn't think you'd need one, but noted," Artemy scoffed, and Daniil heard hands gliding together behind him. "Your Lines are like a maze, oynon. All mixed up. The connections are impossible to follow... Do you ever relax?"

"During a plague? No, not often. Do you?"

"When necessary, particularly for my bad knee. Have you taken a single break of your own volition since you arrived?" Artemy's slick fingertips touched the tops of Daniil's shoulders, then glided down the length of his torso until they hit the hem of his trousers.

"Touché. There's no time." Daniil fought the urge to wriggle away from the langurous drag, but when Artemy repeated it again, and again, and again, he began to acclimate to the sensation. As the oil spread along his skin and soaked into his pores, the friction faded away, leaving only the soothing pressure dancing along his back to lull Daniil into a blissful daze.

Once Daniil was sufficiently malleable, Artemy began to knead into him, pushing the heel of his palm into knots he didn't know he had and effacing away the tension effortlessly. He gave into the rhythmic push and pull instantly, savoring the closeness and the attentive care and the creak of the makeshift bedframe as Artemy leveraged all of his strength to subordinate him with each plunge.

"Yag iim baina, khөөrkhen," Artemy murmured, lacking any of the bite with which he usually addressed Daniil.

Before Daniil could ask what any of that meant, his mind was scrubbed blank by Artemy squeezing the thinnest part of his waist, close enough to a grope that it made him twitch against the mattress. He tried to ignore it, but he had begun to harden embarrassingly quickly, and the greedy hands sculpting and molding him like clay were impossible to resist. He'd closed his eyes, and he could imagine that this was foreplay, that those thumbs sweeping along his tailbone were purposefully riling him up, that he worked into his tender flesh reverently instead of only thoroughly, that he could make out something like a bulge against his ass despite the layers of leather obfuscating too much of the shape to be certain. At least he was laying on his stomach—if their positions were reversed, Daniil wouldn't be able to explain himself.

If Daniil concentrated, he thought he would hear Artemy mumbling something under his breath. It sounded rhythmic, lyrical, definitely something in the Steppe language. The rushing in his ears drowned him out, though, and he struggled to wrench his focus away from the divine slide of giant hands drawing along each of his ribs like his fingers were made to slot seamlessly between them. Artemy's movements were intentional, confident, as if he was tracing a preexisting etching instead of exploring Daniil's body for the first time, as if he already had a map and merely followed the well-trodden paths of least resistance rather than forging new ones.

"Lines are already looking better, khөөrkhen," Artemy purred, eliciting a strangled noise from Daniil.

His fingertips were so well-lubricated, Daniil couldn't think any rational thoughts. He'd infused it with the herbs he'd given him, too; Daniil would pick him gardens worth of twyre if he'd procure more of that magical anointing oil. The lightest grazes felt like sparks igniting along his skin, and if he wasn't careful, he wouldn't be able to conceal for much longer how every vigorous circular motion on his back inevitably ground Daniil's now-aching arousal into the tantalizing friction between him and the mattress.

"You've really never done this before, Artemy?" Daniil sighed, stifling a humiliating groan at two thumbs burrowing into either side of his spine and carving out twin arcs across his obliques, medial to lateral. "You're—not half bad at it."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Artemy worked his way upward, gouging parallel lines into his latissimus dorsi, then higher and higher in inch-sized increments, all the way up to the fragile crests of his scapulae. By then, he must have felt the way Daniil convulsed when his pressure teetered on the cusp of excruciating, because his unforgiving manipulation blended into soft caresses when roaming over areas where the bones protruded unprotected by muscle or fat. Daniil didn't have much of either to spare after years of stress and now his time in the Town, and he thanked everything holy that Artemy knew exactly when to delve slippery digits into his weak spots and when to dotingly stroke overtop.

"You should. It was meant as a compliment," huffed Daniil.

"You don't need to compliment me with words, oynon, I can tell by your Lines that you're enjoying yourself," Artemy teased.

Daniil's cheeks burned, but that was nothing compared to the infernal fire that coursed down to his groin at that. Could Artemy tell that he was desperately aroused by his inviting touch, that the subtle way his hips rocked into the bed wasn't entirely from Artemy's cyclical motions?

"Boleesh, don't freeze up on me now," chided Artemy, petting up and down his flanks again before starting to rub at his neck. "Relax, khөөrkhen. Your Lines are so... intricate, web-like, even when they're pulled apart."

Daniil couldn't stand that metaphorical language. Was it muscular tension he saw in his Lines, if they were even real, or did he know that he was dripping into his undergarments right below where Artemy sat? Was he aware that Daniil was hopelessly succumbing to his lust more and more with every pinch and squeeze, or did the Lines completely blind him to how he affected him?

"Breathe, oynon. This won't work if you're so tightly-strung." Artemy skimmed the pads of his thumbs along each side of Daniil's throat, and he surely felt the thrumming pulse in his jugular despite Daniil's efforts to quell his excitement.

"If it doesn't work, you only have yourself to blame. I'm entirely willing," Daniil mumbled. He abstained from adding a sardonic, self-deprecating aside of "all too willing, actually."

Artemy grunted and massaged around the knobs of his vertebrae. "You were, but now you're thinking too much again. Byy. Trust in intuition."

He withdrew for a moment, and after a clink onto the bedside trunk, his digits returned with a new coating of tingling glaze. The oil trickled into the hair at the nape of his neck, but Artemy swiped it back onto his skin, circling around Daniil's throat to capture as much errant slickness as he could to redistribute it.

Daniil bucked once into the bed involuntarily. His hands wrapped so easily around the column of Daniil's throat, trailing down his windpipe even where it was hidden by the pillow; the power Artemy held over him was dizzying, but his touch was nothing short of worshiping. He must have felt the vibration of Daniil's swallowed moan on his palm but he didn't react, only continuing to assuage his pain methodically.

Daniil braced himself for Artemy to leap away once he realized that he'd rutted into the mattress, that he was frighteningly close to coming in his pants, but he never did. Maybe he never realized, because if anything, Daniil's response spurred him on to further ply him apart, flaying his skin open wide and revealing his inner workings with renewed fervor. It felt like he had been pleasurably numbed with etorphine, and now Artemy took his forceps to Daniil's nerves to excise the malignant growth painlessly. He'd known Artemy was called a haruspex, but he hadn't fully confronted what that meant until now, feeling for all the world like a sacrificial lamb vivisected under Artemy's auguring scalpel.

Artemy had begun susurrating his droning tune again, and though he hunched over close, the Steppe words still escaped Daniil's understanding. He kept driving Daniil into the mattress, and Daniil bit back a squeak every time he rubbed along the sheets perfectly. Shame nearly consumed him, but it wasn't enough to override the desire building in his gut, the reflexive bow of his spine as he approached his climax asymptotically, so close to coming in his pants in Artemy's bed, under Artemy's hips, hearing Artemy's hymns in his ear.

The cacophonous bangs of three knocks on the front door to the workhouse broke the both of them out of their reverie with a shared flinch.

Daniil reeled, not sure if he was irritated that they'd been interrupted or grateful it was before he humiliated himself. He throbbed in his trousers, any chance of a happy ending stolen by the bolt of fear the knocking had brought.

"Shudkher! Must be a patient or a kid or something." Artemy growled, just as exasperated as Daniil. He wiped the oil onto his pants, clambering off of Daniil and stumbling clumsily over to where his jacket lay crumpled on the floor. "Ugh. Sorry, oynon. Barely got started, damn it! We'll continue this later, yeah?"

Daniil propped his upper body up on his elbows like a cobra to watch Artemy, deliberately not moving his lower half. "Uh, yes. Yes, we can. Rain check, if you think that's necessary."

Artemy again dabbed his shiny hands with a rag to no avail before carding them through his hair. The residue almost gave the impression of pomade, and it'd be comical if he didn't look devastatingly handsome. "I swore I'd return the favor, khөөrkhen, and I will. This didn't count."

"Oh, Artemy, don't—" Daniil began, unable to believe that his banal offering of herbs was worth such attentive therapeutic care.

"I keep my promises, oynon," interrupted Artemy, and his jaw worked from side to side. "I don't do anything halfway. Does your neck feel any better, at least?"

Since the knocking disoriented him, Daniil had forgotten altogether that he'd had neck pain to begin with. He tentatively poked at his nape to find it tacky but cured of its crick. "Actually, it does. It feels great—no pain at all. Thank you, Artemy."

"No need to thank me. Though, if I can offer some unsolicited advice: might want to put your shirt back on in case we have company, yeah?"

Daniil blushed bright red, only righting himself once Artemy rounded the corner. "Advice taken."

Chapter Text

The next time Daniil saw bloody twyre growing in the cracks of the cobblestone streets, he picked it without hesitation.

This time it wasn't white whip that accompanied it, but an unfamiliar herb that Daniil had to assume was swevery. Vibrant orange blooms, star-shaped like heliotropes, surrounded the crimson teardrops like a halo along with a garland of emerald leaves. The colors instantly lured Daniil in, and before he knew it, he had knelt down and snapped the stems.

He tucked the herbs away into his pocket, but not without holding them to his nose for a brief moment. They smelled incredible and oddly addictive, more fragrant than any flowers Daniil had encountered prior, like something between bergamot and honeysuckle. The next time he saw Artemy, he'd be over the moon—however, if the first present was enough to warrant a thanks of that caliber, he couldn't imagine what another would yield him.

He wasn't far from his destination: the Shelter, Lara Ravel's domicile. For once, he hadn't a particular reason to visit; he simply hadn't checked on her in a few days, and she had seemed rather skittish the last time he did. Lara reminded him of Eva to a certain extent: fixated on the morbid and macabre and living in the shadow of death, though she lacked Eva's ability to successfully occupy herself with good art and good company. Her Shelter was always full of lively chatter, but she never ceased fidgeting with the clasps of her dress's bodice whilst scanning the room with wide doe eyes, as if the Reaper constantly lurked in every shadowy corner. Though, of course, Daniil would be hypocritical if he judged either woman for their obsession since his life's mission revolved around the very same foe.

The Shelter's front door was unlocked, and Daniil walked right in after rapping twice out of habit. He always had the impression that he was crashing a party when he visited, with all of Lara's guests that weren't much younger than him invariably gaping like they'd seen a ghost. Maybe they had.

Daniil lowered his head in deference and beelined for Lara's bedroom, stopping in his tracks when he was met with the sight of Artemy's distinguished shoulders drawn inward and down, stooped in hushed conversation with the lady of the house.

A lump of nausea formed in his throat. He knew that Lara and Artemy were friends in their youth, and it made rational sense that they would associate closely together now that they'd been reunited, but seeing the profile of Artemy's crooked nose and chapped lips brought nearly level with hers hit Daniil like a gut punch. Inexplicably, bitterness welled in his mouth like saliva just before vomiting.

Lara noticed him first and cried, "Oh, Daniil! It's so nice to see you!" At that, Artemy's head snapped up and he straightened, hands falling to his hips.

"Am I interrupting something?" Daniil said more irritably than he intended.

"Not at all, oynon. I have errands to run, anyway; we can talk more later, right, Lara?" said Artemy, about to move toward the door.

"Wait, Artemy. I have something to give you before you go," Daniil interjected, reaching into his pocket for the herbs.

"Really? Here? Now?" Artemy looked bewildered, jerking his head toward Lara with an emphatic expression as if playing charades. If Daniil had to hazard a guess of what he was communicating, it'd be that Daniil was a lunatic for wanting to give him a gift in front of her.

Daniil scowled. He would certainly see him again before long, but he had the urge to give it to him right now before the dainty petals got crushed, and after Artemy's cryptic pantomime, he decided to reveal the stems with a flourish. "I don't see why not. Here, Artemy. For you."

Both Lara and Artemy blushed and turned away, and Daniil could've thrown himself into the Gorkhon out of frustration. Lara's wan hands covered her mouth, which had fallen open in shock when she saw the fiery red and orange blossoms, and Artemy coughed awkwardly beside her. Daniil's blood pressure spiked; they were acting as scandalized as if he'd flashed them, for Christ's sake, when all he'd done was proffer two unassuming sprigs of greenery to Artemy. What the hell was going on? Was there some bizarre cultural more that he'd overstepped? None of this made any sense to Daniil whatsoever.

"Khөөrkhen, thank you, this is—thank you," Artemy murmured, taking Daniil's fist between his own hands and squeezing before he took the herbs from him. He leaned in close to utter against his ear, "I'm flattered that you're treating me so well. I'll keep up my end soon, once we're alone and things have calmed down. I'll have everything ready by then. Don't think I'm taking your gifts lightly, oynon; quite the opposite."

The husky timbre to his voice made Daniil's thoughts race as to what that could possibly mean. "I'm looking forward to it, then."

"You're going to drive me mad, khөөrkhen," Artemy hissed, and he smothered him in a hug tight enough to compel Daniil to exhale but short enough that Lara wouldn't think anything of it. There wasn't anything for her to think, Daniil knew, but somehow it felt like a secret anyway, and he returned the hug gladly. He clawed at the leather on Artemy's back, gathering it in his clutches as if he'd slip through like a sieve. Artemy approved, returning the favor by bunching up the snakeskin at Daniil's waist. "I appreciate the enthusiasm. Keep that up, oynon. I'll reward it. Not here, though, tenegh."

"Why not? I'm not doing it for a reward, but I'll be waiting with bated breath," Daniil replied, amazed at Artemy's rosy complexion and blown pupils once they withdrew. His cockeyed grin was genuine, mischievous, tempting, and Daniil mirrored it instinctually.

"Good." Artemy clapped Daniil's shoulder, then he waved to Lara and ducked out of the room. "Farewell, Gravel. We'll discuss more later."

"We surely will. Be safe, Cub," Lara called, still flushed and staring at the floor, and Daniil fought back a scoff at the nicknames. "Sorry about that. What brings you to visit, Daniil? Other than Artemy, that is."

Daniil wasn't sure if Lara suddenly got cheeky or if his ego was currently unusually sensitive. "I only wanted to check on you, make sure you're holding up alright. I didn't know he was here."

Lara nodded and smiled shyly. "That's very kind of you, Daniil, thank you. I'm alright, or as alright as I can be." She pursed her lips and paused for a second before continuing, "I never knew that you and Artemy were such... intimate partners."

Daniil quirked an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. What was she getting at? Was she somehow threatened by Daniil...? It'd be absurd, but he couldn't fathom any other explanation that fit with her gossiping with Artemy before Daniil's arrival. "Yes, we are very close. I didn't know that you two reconnected after his return, actually."

"Oh, yes, I've been helping him where I can. You know, he didn't remember some of the intricacies of the local customs... I'm sure you understand what I mean by that," she chirped thinly.

It wasn't like Lara to be passive-aggressive like this, but Daniil didn't know what he could feasibly be missing in his interpretation, and he replied coldly. "I'm a quick learner."

"I suppose you are, I'm very relieved!" she said, touching the snakeskin elbow of his coat. "You've adjusted in no time at all. He asked me if I was the one who taught you what you know, funnily enough." She peered up at him coyly through her eyelashes and continued with a secretive hush. "You know, he'd be livid if he knew I told you this, but he's so committed to getting everything right. He's determined for the courtship to progress according to tradition, now that he'll soon be menkhu. That's what we were talking about before you came... I've never seen him so anxious and excited."

Daniil bristled. So his gut feeling was correct; Artemy was courting Lara. Good for him. Good for the both of them, for that matter. He and Artemy were only colleagues, after all, why should Daniil feel queasy after hearing that news? How asinine. She must be joyous and itching to gush about the engagement or betrothal or whatever bullshit Steppe equivalent, then.

Politely, he humored her. "Is that so?"

With a meek titter, Lara answered, "Of course! Oh, he'll maul me for telling you, but I can't help it. He's such a romantic, deep down; he's always been that way, since he was a kid. I don't know how to describe it... Chivalrous, I guess. It's his sense of duty and loyalty." She picked at her dress as she spoke, never meeting Daniil's stony gaze. "It's cute to see living proof that he's still the same boy, even now that he's a grown man."

"How sweet," Daniil said monotonously.

She nodded sagely. "Yes, he really is. It'll do him a world of good, I think, being in love. He'll be happy to have someone to rely upon, someone who can protect him as much as he protects them."

"I hope so." As if Lara was capable of protecting Artemy—as much as Daniil liked Lara, she was far too conflict-averse for that, and he wouldn't trust her to shoot a firearm in a life-or-death situation. What senseless palaver. Daniil wanted to leave, wanted to do anything more productive with his time than discuss Artemy's damned romantic endeavors. He didn't fucking care, and he didn't know why he felt like he had to check on Lara today. She looked just fine to him. If anything, she looked cheerier than usual.

"Does he—have you... well. Has he told you about how the local mating rituals are performed?" Lara asked precariously, choosing her words one by one.

Daniil couldn't stop himself from pulling a face and replying dryly. "...No. He has not. And I haven't thought it necessary to ask him."

"Oh, I don't mean—I'm only curious. That's like him, too. Stoic." Her demeanor had returned to its usual fretful melancholy, at least. "If it were up to him, he probably wouldn't mention it until he was at the Ragi Barrow with the udhey hovering over the aurochs."

"Well, I wish you the best, Lara. I have to make my rounds," Daniil said, straightening his pocket where it'd turned inside-out when he gave Artemy the herbs. Enough Steppe superstitions.

"Ah, of course! I didn't mean to detain you... good luck, Bachelor! I hope all goes well, and congratulations!"

Daniil didn't hang around to ask what she was congratulating him for, likely the vaccine. He didn't attempt to soften the glower he leveled at the young men and women who whispered amongst themselves and stared as he left, either.

The next day, nothing seemed different at first.

Artemy and Daniil met briefly in the morning, then went about their individual business like usual. When they reconvened in the evening, Daniil updated him in record time. He never left the entryway of the lair, explaining his urgency to leave by mentioning that he'd told the twins he'd drink with them that night to get them to agree to keep their heads down. It was true, of course, and mostly intended as an offhanded comment to excuse himself, but to Daniil's astonishment, Artemy had thrown his butcher's smock back on and met him at the door.

"You want to tag along?" Daniil balked in disbelief. "I thought you didn't drink."

Artemy shrugged. "Used to, but nowadays... well, I'm more amenable. I wouldn't mind not being sober right now."

"I can't argue with that," Daniil sighed, and with that, they left for the Broken Heart.

That occurrence was already odd enough by itself, but a few drinks later, Daniil couldn't pinpoint when exactly the situation had devolved past the point of no return.

The four of them sought their refuge in a secluded corner of the bar, protected from prying eyes at their modest table by a large screen. Naturally, Andrey and Peter sat conjoined on the side opposite Artemy and Daniil, and after his second drink, Daniil felt he was seeing double, or at the very least, a double-slit refraction pattern. He hadn't had more than one drink in a night since university, and in case he'd forgotten, Andrey very kindly reminded him.

"Shit, old boy, you can't hold your liquor like you could back in the day, can you? You're already tipsy!" jeered Andrey whilst he nevertheless poured Daniil another, leaning with his elbows on the table.

They'd had to drag a couple of chairs over from the main section of the bar that may have been a bit too big for this table, only accentuating the cramped feeling that permeated Daniil's consciousness. He kept brushing against Artemy whenever he moved, and the alcohol exacerbated his clumsiness by knocking his knee with Artemy's or bumping their shoulders together every time he reached for his glass. It was Artemy's fault, really, because he had such a wide frame. It was rare for them to sit crammed together like this, and the proximity made it clear why: Daniil had no personal space, though in his daze, he didn't miss it at all. His dear colleague was set to be a married man soon, anyway—he might as well cherish this while he can.

"Back in the day? You knew each other?" Artemy asked, punctuating his question by taking a swig of twyrine.

"Unfortunately," Daniil spat, hunched over his own drink. "University. Andrey flirted with Health Science for a few years before switching to Architecture with Peter, then they both dropped out to come here. I stayed enrolled." He shook his head at the deluge of wild memories supplied by his unconscious—or maybe it was the alcohol. "And go to hell, Andrey, I've never had twyrine before. Regardless, I'd be concerned if my tolerance hadn't waned in ten bloody years."

"Yeah, yeah. Nice synopsis, but I flirted with a lot more than just Health Science," Andrey chuckled, daring Daniil to castigate him and call him primitive or swine like old times.

Before Daniil could do just that, he was silenced by Artemy's thigh pressing flat against his own. It was definitely deliberate, no doubt about it: other than that, Artemy's body didn't move a muscle. The contact was hidden from the twins' view under the table, and Daniil faltered in his confusion.

Artemy polished off his glass—how many was that for him, three, four? definitely more than Daniil, but he was a substantial man with a fuller stomach—and shot a glare at Andrey. Deadpan, Artemy replied in Daniil's stead, "And how'd that work out for you?"

"We piqued the interest of the inimitable demoness herself, so fairly well, all things considered. In the end, kismet vanquished beneficence beneath its heel as always," Peter chimed in, as if he were reciting a poem rather than a rejoinder. He'd reclined with one foot up on his seat since they arrived, never setting his bottle down for a second, eternally lost in thought and staring at Daniil and Artemy like he saw right through them.

"I'll drink to that," agreed Andrey jovially, and all four lifted their cups, banged them on the table, and drank. They toasted either to Nina's memory or fatalism's triumph, which amounted near enough to the same thing from what Daniil could tell.

All the while, Artemy's thigh didn't budge, and Daniil wished it never would. He knew that he shouldn't be allowing himself to think such things, especially now that he knew Artemy was accounted for, but the twyrine warbled so lyrically in his ear that Daniil couldn't help but agree with its assertions. Yes, Artemy's thigh was approximately twice the size of Daniil's, and yes, Daniil would fit perfectly in Artemy's lap, and yes, it would be so much more comfortable than this horrible chair, if only he—

Artemy hummed. "In all fairness, oynon, your nose is pretty red. You might want to slow down on the twyrine."

Daniil groaned in exasperation. "Christ, lay off it!" He suspected they were mistaking his indecent flush for the alcoholic sort; however annoying it may be, though, it would behoove him not to shut down a convenient alibi, lest Andrey comment that he doth protest too much. Accordingly, he redirected the conversation. "If you think Andrey's a menace unto society now, you should've seen him in uni."

"Guilty as charged. You don't get sentenced to death in four countries for being boring and studying in your apartment all day, after all." Andrey beckoned for the bartender to bring another bottle of twyrine to replace their depleted one.

"Correct, you don't. You get a diploma." Daniil's riposte made Artemy laugh, and when their arms pressed together again, neither moved away. "Your death sentences were for your buildings, anyway, not your hedonistic escapades. And I went out drinking with you two plenty of times, as you'll recall."

Andrey kicked him under the table playfully. "How could I forget? I had to drag you kicking and screaming from your lab bench, begging on my knees for you to come down from your ivory tower and bless us with your presence!"

Due to the contact, Daniil could feel Artemy's bicep flex against his. His face didn't change, but he tilted his head to hear Daniil's response with interest.

"I could say that you don't found and head a research laboratory by getting sloshed every other night, but I wouldn't be so petty," Daniil murmured, his words starting to overrun each other the slightest bit. He wasn't in his cups quite yet, but he was teetering on the precipice of tipsy and drunk and Artemy was rudely distracting him.

When Daniil glanced back over, Artemy was still looking at him with an indecipherable mien. His crow's feet, one of Daniil's favorite features of his—he hadn't known that he had a list of those before now—were charmingly etched in the corners of his eyes, and his stubble-covered jaw was set in a way that gave him more of a smirk than a frown. Daniil felt the weight of his undivided attention on him like Atlas, and he took another sip to ease the dryness in his mouth. Twyrine tasted astringent like any hard liquor, but the lingering flavor of elderberry defanged the ethanol enough for the drink to go down smoothly. Particularly after three glasses.

"You have to admit that going out with me and Peter was more fun, though, eh?"

Daniil whipped his head woodenly to look at Andrey, but still, Artemy's eyes bored into him. Hell, maybe he was drunker than he thought after all. "I can't say I loved dodging bullets and barely avoiding arrest."

"You loved some parts, though," Andrey pouted, uncorking the fresh bottle the bartender brought. Conspiratorial, he cocked an eyebrow and peered at Artemy, who remained tensed. "Burakh, can I call you Artemy? Anyway, Artemy, I think my old boy over here should watch his tongue unless he wants me to tell you some very embarrassing stories, wouldn't you agree?"

"'Your' old boy, hmm?" Artemy grumbled, low in his vocal register. As he spoke, he slung his arm around Daniil's shoulders as if to yoke them together, blazing hot on the nape of his neck from the memory of their massage cut short.

Daniil melted into him, partially because the alcohol impeded his coordination and partially because the contact was exhilarating. He'd never realized how reassuring Artemy's presence was; Daniil had always despised physical contact, yet with the stress infiltrating every fiber of his being, he not only saw the appeal, but he craved it, craved far more than this. If he allowed himself to indulge in delusion, he could view the gesture of camaraderie as Artemy staking his claim, demonstrating to Andrey that Daniil was his, daring him to call his bluff. The idea made Daniil gnaw at the inside of his cheek as he imagined what Artemy would do if Andrey did. His brain swam in heady twyre aqua vitae.

Andrey blinked. "Eh?"

"Go on. Tell me some stories, then." Artemy was fully in Daniil's space now, or maybe it was vice versa, and the twyrine's effects on Daniil's inhibitions took the form of an impulse to bury his face into his throat that tested his discipline to the maximum. He'd never dare to embarrass himself like that in private, let alone in public, and definitely not in front of two dual vultures waiting to swoop, yet the impulse remained.

Daniil hadn't considered what stories Andrey might tell before he was already speaking. "Hmm, where to begin? Should I start with the celebratory drinks after first year finals when I searched for Danya in a crowded bar for nearly an hour, only to find him in the bathroom with a guy from Engineering—"

"Andrey!" Daniil shouted, and if he wasn't red before, he was now. The yell seemed to echo, even in the noisy pub full of carousers. He remembered that night since Andrey hadn't known that Daniil fancied men beforehand, and he'd been petrified when he kicked the door open. He'd never let him live it down, but only because it was in a grimy bar bathroom. Admittedly, it wasn't Daniil's finest moment, but for every story like that he had, Andrey had a dozen that were all far worse.

"So he likes engineers, then?" Artemy chuckled, evidently entertained by his suffering.

"Couldn't have liked him that much if they were in a bar bathroom," Peter slurred into the opening of his bottle.

"Oh my God, can all of you shut the hell up?" Daniil seethed, trying to finish his drink to show his disgust only to find it already empty. He refilled it, spilling a few splashes of twyrine in his haste. His sex life had to be the most boring of the four of them and he had to be the most reticent of them to share, too, why did Andrey have to antagonize him? "This was a horrible idea. I should've let both of you get yourselves killed, you should need no incentive."

Andrey pouted. "Oh please, old boy, play nice! Can't we at least celebrate the courtship that the whole town's buzzing about?"

Daniil almost punched him.

"He has a point, khөөrkhen, and it's free drinks," Artemy muttered in his ear, and Daniil almost punched him, too, until he felt the weight of his arm disappear. In Daniil's inebriated state, the action was a betrayal, a treason of the highest degree, but by the time he twisted around to accuse Artemy of this heinous crime, the contact was replaced.

Artemy slid that hand under the table to grip Daniil's thigh roughly, digging his fingertips into the pliant flesh through his tailored slacks. "You'll play nice, right? I want to brag."

Caught completely off-guard, Daniil made a humiliating, lewd sound, a cross between a moan and a gasp that announced that he was hopelessly aroused, had been since Artemy sidled into the seat next to him and the first sip of twyrine loosened the knot in his chest. The other patrons were far too rowdy for it to be audible to anyone but himself and Artemy, thankfully. He became acutely aware of how close Artemy's little finger was to where he strained in his trousers, and shit, Artemy's hand inched upward like he was telepathic. If he kept creeping up like that, soon enough Artemy would be rubbing his tip through his pants in the middle of the packed pub, in their corner across from the Stamatin twins.

That should not turn Daniil on as much as it did. He had to ascribe that to the twyrine for his own sanity.

"But..." Daniil couldn't bring himself to meaningfully deny him, and that had to indicate he was non compos mentis. Lara, what about her? Guilt soured his enjoyment temporarily, but another gulp of twyrine washed that back down. Artemy didn't seem worried, so Daniil shouldn't worry, he reasoned. Relationships appeared to function differently in this town, anyway, from what he'd witnessed of the Herb Brides and the odonghe. Courtship probably meant less than nothing. The real question was, how drunk was Artemy? He'd been touchy lately, but kneading his thigh in public was a marked leap from idle grazes when walking past.

"I, for one, am glad to celebrate," Artemy replied to Andrey, raising his cup for another toast that Daniil followed mechanically. That teasing hand on his leg was all he could think about, and a bar bathroom didn't sound all too bad right now, in fact. Would Artemy kneel before him on the grimy tiles like that nameless stranger had nearly a decade ago? After he licked a few errant drops from his lips, Artemy continued nonchalantly, "The whole town is buzzing about it, you say?"

"Oh, absolutely. The Ripper settles down! Especially after they saw you in the Shelter—that was brazen," Andrey tutted, subconsciously copying Peter's posture halfway perched on his chair. "I didn't think you had much, but have you really no shame, Burakh?"

"That wasn't my doing. I'm not usually into public displays." Artemy gripped Daniil's thigh hard, applying enough force to make him wriggle in place and potentially enough to leave five little bruises behind like a signature. "Though it took all my willpower not to give in then and there, if I'm telling the truth."

What were Artemy and Lara up to before Daniil arrived? Daniil was burning with rage, lust, or embarrassment, most likely a mixture of all three. What mattered was that Artemy's palm was running up and down Daniil's thigh right now, and if it was infidelity on Artemy's part, that wasn't Daniil's fault, was it? He placed his hand overtop Artemy's, transfixed by how different they looked. His digits weren't significantly shorter, but they were much thinner proportionally, and the feeling of the oil that Artemy had refined himself gliding along his skin shot to the forefront of his mind once again.

Artemy cast him a sidelong glance, and Daniil nodded yes, though to what proposition, he wasn't sure. Artemy let his hand roam inward and upward so slowly that Daniil felt like he would starve to death before his libido was satiated. All of this was safely concealed by the table, and the twins seemed none the wiser. Daniil hadn't thought himself an exhibitionist, but even if their cover vanished, he would still ache for more than his excruciating toying.

Artemy played all of this off much better than Daniil did, camouflaging the pause effortlessly. "You aren't exactly a nun yourself, Andrey."

Andrey guffawed. "Daniil knows that firsthand, right, old boy?"

Daniil pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he'd brought his revolver with him. "Don't start with that again."

"With what?" Artemy's voice turned serious, and this palm slid back down halfway to Daniil's knee.

"Come on, Danya, lighten up! Artemy doesn't care that you and I hooked up a few times in uni, see?"

The dark corner of the bar suddenly felt like an oubliette, with the slats of light that escaped through the hinges of the screen morphing into the bars of a cell on the wall behind them.

Oblivious or sadistic, Andrey snickered. "Who am I kidding? I'll bet he's already asked you where you learned to—"

"I didn't take you for someone so hung up on the past, Stamatin," Artemy warned. His grasp was like a vise, and Daniil automatically fanned his legs wide in response. "It's getting late, actually. I think Daniil and I need to get going."

"So soon?" Peter queried, swirling his bottle around like a hypnotist's pendulum. "We've barely begun."

"It's been over an hour since we sat down. We have work to do tomorrow," Daniil piped up at last, wondering how he'd stand up with the blatant arousal in his lap. He settled for wrapping his coat around himself to hide it. "Early morning."

"Bah, you're no fun. I'll have to rendezvous with Artemy to recount the details without you here, then," Andrey lamented, gesticulating to the bartender.

"Not if you want to keep all your teeth," replied Artemy calmly. Daniil stood shakily, ensuring his coat was in place and polishing off his last glass.

"Here, Burakh, accept this as a... I don't know, as a honeymoon present?" As he spoke, Andrey presented him with another unopened bottle, transferring it from the bartender to Artemy. Daniil's stomach churned, but not from the liquor.

"We'll enjoy it. Thanks." With that, Artemy tugged Daniil out of the Broken Heart and into the brisk Steppe air.

The pitch nights had only grown colder and less forgiving as September trudged on, and Daniil shivered at the steep temperature decline from how sweaty it had felt in the pub. Daniil didn't know what Artemy's plan was, but he surmised that it was walking him home, and he didn't object to staying entwined for the duration of the trek; he was grateful for Artemy's solid gait leading him through the streets since otherwise, he would be defenseless against muggers. Clinging onto Artemy's elbow, any attempt to attack Daniil in his intoxication would be suicidal.

He didn't wake up from his somnambulism until they were at the Stillwater. Daniil fumbled with the key, mumbling that Eva mustn't have been home if the lights were off like this. Artemy said something that Daniil didn't catch as the lock clicked.

In a split second, Daniil was shoved against the front door to slam it shut again behind them, and without further preamble, Artemy's mouth captured his.

Daniil immediately reciprocated, deepening the kiss and snaking his fingers in Artemy's hair before it even occurred to him that this was unusual. It didn't seem unusual at all, in fact, it felt like they'd done this countless times before with the way they matched each other's intensity intuitively. The serrated edges of each half naturally slotted together, and Artemy left no room for doubt or debate as he seized Daniil's hips to grind down into him. The shape of Artemy's arousal against Daniil's made him writhe, and he would've gasped if Artemy's tongue wasn't in the way. So it wasn't just Daniil feeling needy at the bar, then.

Artemy collided with him so forcefully that his nose dug into Daniil's cheek, but Daniil didn't mind it at all, cupping his face to keep him drawn close for as long as he could. When they parted, Artemy all but snarled, "Shudkher. You've made me into a territorial man, khөөrkhen," and ripped Daniil's cravat from his throat along with the brooch affixed to it.

"Have I? Mark your territory, then," Daniil retorted without thinking, and Artemy needed no encouragement.

Teeth clamped down on Daniil's jugular, triggering a yelp at the not-unwelcome pain before Artemy began to suck and lick at the skin to assuage it. The love bite was positioned unethically high on his throat—Artemy hadn't had the patience to undo more than a couple of Daniil's dress shirt buttons, which all but guaranteed that it'd be visible over his collar come tomorrow morning.

Deliriously, Daniil figured he wouldn't complain if a new rumor spread in town once he was spotted with an undeniable hickey the day after he left the bar with Artemy. There were more than enough witnesses. He wondered how it would play out amongst the same townspeople gossiping about Artemy's betrothal, and despite himself, the concept entertained his muddled psyche. How could Artemy conceive of courting anyone else when his lips moved so divinely against Daniil's, when he pounced on Daniil the moment they were alone like he'd needed him to survive? The conclusion didn't follow the premises; Artemy's voracity spoke for itself.

Once Artemy was satisfied with the first bite, he moved to the side, planting another that couldn't be missed as Daniil craned his neck for easier access. The crick had never returned, thankfully, which meant that Daniil could safely loll his head onto his shoulder and clutch at Artemy's shoulders while he nipped and lapped at the paper-thin skin. The foggy blur from the twyrine dulled his senses and thus heightened his tactile perception in comparison; every glide of Artemy's tongue felt as if it lingered and echoed long after he moved on, like ripples on the surface of a pond.

"Fuck, Artemy, bed," Daniil panted, unable to articulate a more coherent request with Artemy rolling their hips together like that.

That somehow sobered Artemy. He stopped, chest heaving, and reluctantly extricated himself from Daniil, who made a sound not unlike a whimper at his startling absence. "Shudkher. I—we can't."

"Why not?" Daniil couldn't conceal his indignant petulance. The foyer felt like a vacuum without Artemy's presence filling the void, and it spun around him, goddamn it, he'd die without that mouth now that he'd felt it on his own. He stared at Artemy in the dark house, his features only lit by the moonlight filtering in the windows. He hoped Artemy could see him better than he saw Artemy, hoped he could see how quickly he'd unraveled him, hoped he could see the bruises that were already smarting on his décolletage. "Volenti non fit injuria."

Artemy ran his hands down his face and sighed. "We're drunk."

"There are worse things to be." Like strung along, Daniil wisely refrained from adding. To his dismay, the clot in his chest that the twyrine had dissipated was returning.

"It's not right, khөөrkhen, for the courting ritual. Come to my place tomorrow evening and I'll finish what I started, okay? This... isn't right." Before Daniil could complain, Artemy kissed him again, languid and apologetic rather than fervent. Daniil barely even tasted the twyre on his palate by the time Artemy maneuvered him out of the way and exited the Stillwater, leaving him jilted and painfully hard. Did he have to confront his ethical dilemma after demonstrating how fallible Daniil was?

Daniil tried to rub his eyes and nearly smacked himself instead—alright, maybe Artemy had a point about the drunkenness. He heard the clinking of his belt buckle and watched himself ease it open as if it were someone else; maybe his eyes knew it should be Artemy pulling him out of his underwear instead, knew that it should be Artemy thumbing away the copious amount of precum that beaded at the tip. Artemy would probably make a snide remark about how eager he was, too, and with the help of the twyrine, he might have heard it. He tried not to think about Artemy's explicit regret, but it irked him anyway, even as he started to work his length.

The viscous atmosphere gave Daniil the impression that he was a primordial insect encased in amber, and the rhythm he established with his wrist was accordingly sloppy and dyspraxic. He'd already been near to the brink twice now, once in the bar and once in the Stillwater, so he lacked the coordination to counter the jerky twitches that each shock of pleasure elicited. His trench coat was too stuffy, but pausing to take it off was out of the question when the memory of Artemy's impressive outline rutting into him was so fresh in his memory. God, he'd presumed that Artemy would be big since he was a big man in general, but actually feeling it thrust against him was the best confirmation he could've asked for.

With the hand that wasn't pumping himself, he traced along his upper thigh where Artemy had in the pub. His mind raced with what could've happened if Artemy kept sneaking upward. Would Artemy have palmed him through his slacks right there, under the table while acting like nothing was wrong? Andrey and Peter would have immediately clocked them from the placement of Artemy's wrist, but in his fantasy, Daniil wouldn't be disinclined. Artemy was territorial, after all, he'd said it himself; maybe he'd haul him into his lap to illustrate his power over Daniil, all the while continuing to chat with the twins as if he wasn't debauching their "old boy" in plain view. Artemy wouldn't expose Daniil's weeping cock to them, he didn't think, not like how he was touching himself now—either because that was for Artemy's eyes only or because he wanted to show off how he could ruin Daniil even while clothed.

He moved from his midriff to his collarbone, then higher to press on the fresh marks. The ache mingled with his pulse, further affirming that they would become wicked bruises by tomorrow morning if they weren't shading in already, and his pace grew frenzied. Daniil typically wasn't one for romance and especially not for being treated like property, but he could admit he was a bit of a dreamer and a romantic in the idealistic sense of the word, if not the amorous one. The idea of being prized like that, like he was something treasured worth claiming and defending and flaunting, pushed him over the edge at last as he came into his shaky palm with a cry of bliss.

The twyrine already had him feeling limp and tingly, and his climax magnified the mollifying satisfaction exponentially. His knees tried to give out, but he clung stubbornly to the wall he'd leaned on at some point as his eyes rolled back in sheer euphoria. Though he managed to catch most of it, his coordination wasn't intact enough to spare the floorboards and his abandoned cravat from a few errant stripes of his release, yet he couldn't bring himself to care with the aftershocks resonating throughout his body. His heartbeat hammered in the love bites, matched evenly on the left and right sides.

When Daniil came back to life, his limbs still glowed with endorphins, and he couldn't tell if it was from the twyrine or from Artemy. He crouched down and snatched his stained cravat, then wiped the remaining evidence of his indiscretion off of the floor with it since it was already filthy. He'd regret it tomorrow when he'd need to launder it very thoroughly—he'd probably use the rest of his soap, damn it, maybe Artemy would donate some as restitution—but he already surpassed his own expectations when he remembered to pick it up in the first place. Despite his disgust at how unsanitary it was, a sick artistic fascination bubbled up in him at seeing the pearl splotches discoloring the garnet silk like variegation.

On his wobbly legs, he knew he wouldn't make it up the spiral staircase without either passing out halfway or tripping and concussing himself. Instead, he trudged over to Eva's luxurious four-poster bed and fell asleep before he even hit the coverlet, still fully dressed.

Chapter Text

The following morning may have been the most miserable of Daniil's life thus far, Sand Plague included.

Aside from starting off with a killer hangover, he did end up using the rest of his soap to clean the cravat. He didn't account for the fact that the silk would take ages to dry, though, and thus he'd have to go without it. He had more ties and cravats in his apartment back in the Capital, of course, but he hadn't expected this trip to last more than a couple of days, and it wasn't exactly a popular style sold in the Town's clothing stores.

Going without one of his customary accessories threw him off-kilter enough, but when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in Eva's broken mirror, he seriously considered just staying inside and saying to hell with curing the plague.

The two hickeys were the color of merlot, and both peeked above where his collar normally sat. Moreover, his collar drooped a little lower without his cravat to hold it in place, ensuring that they were even more humiliatingly obvious. Irate, he'd scrubbed at the skin as if Artemy had left mere lipstick stains, and to his chagrin, they predictably did not budge. What was he, a teenager trying to prove something? He'd throttle Artemy when he saw him, give him ten finger-sized bruises on his own neck, if only he didn't have that turtleneck to cover them. He couldn't even meticulously angle himself to hide it—if he turned one way, the other side had a love bite just as prominent and just as violet as the first.

He couldn't lie and say it didn't make him stir a little, at least while he was safely hidden away in the Stillwater, drinking his coffee and staring at his reflection. The caffeine did wonders for his headache, but his gaze remained glued on his own neck's reflection with each swallow. The unapologetic hickeys were immature and unbecoming, yes, but they were damn appealing, too.

In retrospect, he should've asked more questions. It was unlike him to act without investigating further, when nothing made sense and Daniil felt utterly lost. He always sought knowledge and understanding, and he never shied away from voicing difficult or awkward concerns, but in the moment, it had felt so daunting to disturb their precarious situation. If he asked what Artemy was doing with his hand on his thigh, if he asked about Lara, if he asked why Artemy behaved so peculiarly, then he risked Artemy snapping out of it and denying Daniil the physical contact that he'd come to rely upon. Once his appetite was whetted, he couldn't take that risk. His fears were proven valid last night.

While he finished his coffee, he looked over Eva's vanity for any saving grace yet only found rouge and perfume, nothing that could help cover the blooming marks. Branded with Burakh's identifying sigil like a bull, he poked one and winced. He bruised easily and often, even when he was well-nourished. These would stay for a while.

When he finally left the house, he mainly took backways and side streets. Thankfully, it was a windy day, so he didn't look too out of place with his shoulders hunched and the collar of his trench coat popped; he did notice some strange looks, but it may have been his paranoia. Selfishly, he hoped that they assumed it was sores from the Sand Pest.

By the evening, he still hadn't decided what to do regarding Artemy. He hadn't stopped by the Stillwater that morning—extremely unusual—and Daniil didn't know if the drunk invitation stood, or if he even remembered it at all.

Daniil nearly reneged on their meeting only a few minutes from Artemy's lair when he saw it: bloody twyre growing in the accursed train tracks. Déjà vu. Another herb grew beside it, resembling fennel but with tiny scarlet blossoms instead of yellow, and they both danced in the gusts of wind at his feet.

Daniil didn't believe in omens, but he believed in this one. After everything, he'd learned that the herbs were far more resilient than he once assumed, and handling them so gently was pointlessly complicating it. He picked the stems, figuring that the one that wasn't twyre had to be ashen swish via process of elimination, and marched on to the hideout. At the very least, he was demanding some of Artemy's soap to wash his cravat.

The sun set as he knocked thrice, summoning memories of the ill-fated massage again. To his surprise, the door opened almost instantly to reveal Artemy, clad in only a thin undershirt with his typical olive pants.

"You're late," he growled.

"Late? You said evening, Artemy, and the sun is still out." Daniil retorted, entering the lair despite his offense and dropping his carpetbag unceremoniously. Holding up the twyre and ashen swish, he spat, "Here, then. I brought you more accursed herbs, if you still want them."

In a facsimile of last night, Artemy swung the door shut, picked Daniil up by the backs of his thighs, and pinned him against the wall to kiss him within an inch of his life. Daniil's eyes widened, then slipped shut as he circled his arms around Artemy's neck to follow his lead. He wouldn't be opposed to Artemy always greeting him like this, with teeth grazing his lower lip and their mouths moving in synchrony, though he had no idea what was happening. Without his layers of thick protective garments, Artemy's skin was sweltering, from his scalp where Daniil scratched his short nails to his palms where Artemy groped at his ass. He wasted no time—understandable, considering how his arousal already pressed into Daniil eagerly—and devoured him like they hadn't had an identical dalliance less than twenty-four hours ago.

Daniil wasn't drunk now, though. Lara sprung to his mind, and his conscience couldn't be ignored anymore. Despite how much he hated it, he pulled away from the mesmerizing kiss, pushing on Artemy's sternum weakly when he chased after him anyway.

"Ah, Artemy, what about the—the courtship?" Daniil barely got three words out before Artemy was attacking his throat again, nibbling at the tender flesh just below his ear.

"Planned to wait until I was officially menkhu, until I could sacrifice the aurochs and bind us," Artemy muttered, then bit down hard to make Daniil seethe. "But I can't wait any longer, khөөrkhen. Need you now. Don't care if it isn't proper."

Daniil was quickly approaching Artemy's level of enthusiasm, especially with how sultrily he spoke. He wanted to ask any number of questions, but he chewed on the inside of his cheek and responded, "Mmh, but—fuck, what about Lara?"

At that, Artemy's barrage ceased. He withdrew and looked Daniil in the eyes, confusion evident in the wrinkle between his eyebrows. A veil of cerise tinted his cheekbones, forming a striking combination with his tousled blond hair and lidded eyes. "What about her?" He captured his lips again briefly like he couldn't survive more than two seconds without kissing some part of Daniil, and he continued, "I had a feeling she was the one who told you about the language of herbs, but she swore it wasn't her. Who taught you that, then?"

Daniil frowned, but Artemy was already back at the other side of his throat before he'd finished speaking. "What do you mean?"

"Who taught you to offer your soul and body to me in the traditional way? With the bloody twyre?" A peck to his pulse point, then a squeeze of his ass and a rut into him that stole a half-stifled whimper from Daniil. "And then in the Shelter with the swevery, Boddho! I wouldn't have thought you were such an exhibitionist, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to give you exactly what you were asking for."

Daniil's face had to be nearly as vermilion as his hickeys. He listened to what he said but the meaning didn't register, as if he spoke a foreign language and the only cognate Daniil recognized was "exhibitionist". His reasoning failed him at the constant bombardment of stimuli, unable to process all of it in such rapid succession, and the desire surging through him took priority over the dawning realization that there'd been a critical miscommunication. As long as Artemy didn't stop. "What?"

"Don't play coy, khөөrkhen, you knew what you were doing. Offering me bloody twyre and swevery, you were practically begging me to bend you over and claim you, right in front of Lara and all of her guests... bohir, bohir. Look at what you do to me." With that, Artemy took Daniil's hand to bring it down to his own bulge, rolling up to meet his palm.

Daniil was already fascinated that Artemy didn't waver when he switched to supporting him with one hand instead of two, but Artemy holding him there, guiding him to feel how aroused he was, how aroused Daniil made him—he screwed his eyes shut, not sure if he'd maintain consciousness if he saw Artemy react to his next movement. He closed his fingers as much as he could around his length through the leather, and Artemy keened in his ear, trapping Daniil's hand with his own to buck into his touch.

Shit, Daniil had gotten sidetracked. "Hnn, hold on, I don't know what you're talking about," he panted, though tellingly, he didn't stop kneading him.

Artemy huffed affectionately. "You are shameless, no wonder the whole town is talking about it. Maybe one day I'll give you what you want, let everyone know that you're mine. Nearly did last night in the bar." He nuzzled into one of the hickeys, making Daniil grimace at the dull pang before he kissed it gently. "Those bites are looking nice. Would look even better with more of them."

"Shit." Daniil couldn't pretend that he disagreed, not with those sounds in his ear and the thoughts that he'd masturbated to yesterday.

"Didn't wear your tie, too, to show them off. Trying to kill me, moga." Artemy pried Daniil's hand away and hoisted him up on his hips, retreating from the wall with Daniil coiled around his torso. The bundle of herbs felt more like fuses in his fist, and he'd forgotten he was holding them until he clung to Artemy's shirt for balance. He slumped against him for the brief few seconds it took for Artemy to walk them from the entryway to the living space, and by the time he threw him onto his bed like a ragdoll, Daniil was just as hard as Artemy.

Once he did, Artemy remembered the twyre and ashen swish as well, and he took them from his ironclad grip, sniffed the petals, and gingerly placed them on a nearby desk. "I need to catch up, oynon. This is supposed to be a mutual exchange, yet you've already given each of your Layers to me..." Daniil watched dumbfounded as Artemy talked while retrieving things from his storage cabinet, first a flask of the special oil, and then something else. "Well, I'll have to perform the Medrel binding rite again because we left it incomplete, but for now, here: the Yas rite."

Daniil couldn't remember what those meant, nerves and bones, maybe, but he knew at least the latter was correct when he saw Artemy reveal a necklace.

Oblong bones clacked together like charms, strung along on a thin leather braid that had been dyed a vibrant shade of cochineal red with crude knots tied between each one. They weren't human bones, though Daniil initially mistook them for giant metacarpals; they were too stout for that, too disproportionate, and the alabaster white concealed too much detail for Daniil to tell from where he sat up on the bed, bemused.

"I'm not an artisan, but I hope this is up to your standards." Artemy's features were gravely serious.

"You... made this? For me?"

"Of course, khөөrkhen. Made from the skeleton and hide of an ancient aurochs, dyed with your bloody twyre and sealed with your swevery." Artemy lowered the necklace over Daniil's head like he was crowning him royalty, reverently, until Daniil felt the bones of the strange torc rest against his sternum. From how loosely it laid on him and how the bones skimmed his solar plexus, Daniil figured the cord was too long, and he wondered if Artemy had modeled it on himself. "It was... difficult to acquire the materials, but I did my best."

"Why?" Daniil breathed, too afraid to touch the talisman despite his curiosity. He looked up at Artemy, awestruck as he met a gaze teeming with fierce adoration.

Artemy kissed him, not chaste but not urgent, either. He cupped Daniil's cheek and swept a calloused thumb across his skin, and Daniil wasn't sure he'd ever been shown such tender care. His heart sank with how long he'd been unaware of how badly he'd wanted it, how he'd only found it at last here in the maw of the man formerly called the Ripper. When Artemy broke away, he pressed their hips together again and murmured, "To show my devotion like you've shown yours. Only the best for the future menkhu's betrothed."

Daniil's blood ran cold. He couldn't delay it any longer.

Numbly, he asked, "What do you mean, 'betrothed'? I thought you were courting Lara?"

Artemy stopped rocking into him, and the room was dead silent. The sharpest scalpel at Thanatica couldn't cut the tension in the room. The alembic dripped in the workspace, echoing on the rusty walls.

"You thought I was... why the hell would I be courting Lara?" Artemy started out quietly, but his volume soon ramped up with his incredulity.

Mortification prickled along Daniil's skin, and he hid his face halfway. He'd seen this expression of Artemy's before, it was one he typically reserved for when the children did something unbelievably stupid, and Daniil knew he wasn't the moron here. He spat derisively, "I don't know, you two appeared pretty bloody close to me the other day! Why the hell would you be courting me?!"

"You? You initiated it!" Artemy shouted back, more stupefied than angry.

All Daniil could do was scoff and shake his head. "What in the world gave you that notion?"

"You gave me your shagnalda—the bloody twyre and the white whip!" Artemy said it like that incontrovertibly proved his point, and when Daniil only shook his head again, he elaborated with obvious exasperation. "In the Kin tradition, that's unambiguously a love confession." He fidgeted with the buttons of Daniil's waistcoat. "Or, rather, a lust confession. The beginning of the mating ritual."

"Oh my God, Artemy." Daniil absentmindedly began undoing the buttons from the top, anxious for something to occupy his restless energy. It made sense, bit by bit: the flustered reaction to the innocuous gift, the sudden touchiness, the massage. "Why would I know about some arcane Kin practices?"

"I don't know, you're a genius!" Artemy yelled, and Daniil might have taken that as praise if he wasn't nauseous thinking of what might change now that all of this was just a misunderstanding, a vaudeville of a shadow on Plato's cave wall with the torch now snuffed out. "What are the odds you randomly decide to give me a bouquet of the only two herbs that signal your interest in courtship, that say 'I am offering myself to you, here's the first of my Layers'? White whip is incredibly rare, oynon!"

Admittedly, the odds were slim. The blame laid squarely on Boddho for them growing in tandem, then, or was it Suok? Daniil couldn't fathom that they'd been courting each other this entire time, but he couldn't fathom them stopping now, either. Could he really have humiliated himself with an indecent display in front of Lara and her visitors? "But that—me propositioning you out of the blue—that really seemed more likely than a coincidence?"

"You responded very enthusiastically! You nearly came when I performed the Medrel work, the massage, the untying of the Lines and retying them together." Artemy's shouting became more hushed, and he reached down to brush his knuckles against Daniil's tented slacks. "If you weren't offering your body to me, then why were your Lines telling me you were?"

Daniil looked at the pile of papers and medical instruments on the workbench to his side, too horrified to face him. "Y—You... noticed that, then." His heart might give out; it was too much to learn that Artemy knew all along, that he couldn't hide anything from him, knew that Daniil wanted him even now, when he was so ashamed that he really shouldn't still be this hard.

"Fuck, khөөrkhen, how couldn't I?" Artemy purred, and some of Daniil's fear disappeared at the return of his adulating tone. "Every Line of yours I tethered to mine, I felt more of your desire. It was so damn potent; if I hadn't been interrupted by the patients, I would've caved. It never occurred to me to doubt your proposal because you were so receptive."

"That's what the white whip meant?" Daniil canted into Artemy's featherlight touch involuntarily, and Artemy rewarded him with more substantial heavy petting. His Lines must be conveying that this changed none of his wishes, judging by the way Artemy read his mind. The epiphany that Artemy had not only interpreted his arousal, but somehow felt it himself through the Lines that Daniil had thought were bullshit mysticism, made him squirm beneath Artemy.

"Yes, I was supposed to accept the proposal by binding us together beginning with the Medrel layer, the nerves, using the ritual oil made from your shagnalda, your gift. And the damn swevery at the Shelter, Boddho—that's the second step, the Yas layer, you were presenting me your bones, your body," Artemy rambled whilst Daniil stripped off his coat and vest, which had become fully undone at some point. "And the traditional response to that would be for me to—well, to claim you, and we'd consummate the exchange. Marks are easiest so they're the most common, but jewelry, clothing, anything identifiable on your body that labels you as mine. I started work on the necklace that day."

Daniil must have been dreaming. He would never understand these practices, no more than he understood the Polyhedron or the Powers That Be, miraculous and incomprehensible. "So that's why everyone was so scandalized," he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Daniil, you asked me to claim you and fuck you in broad daylight, in front of Lara and her friends, practically half the town." Artemy yanked Daniil's shirt out from where it was mostly-tucked into his trousers, tearing at yet another set of buttons between them. He leaned in close, ghosting his lips against Daniil's, and said, "And you should know that I nearly did."

Against his will, Daniil whimpered high in his throat. He bridged the miniscule gap to connect them again, and now the desperation returned in full force, their teeth clicking unpleasantly in their passion like the aurochs bones rattling on his clavicle. Artemy pulled away, scratching Daniil with his stubble to speak into his ear. "You were so confident, your Lines were beckoning to me; I didn't even consider that you didn't mean it, because you clearly did. I thought you wanted me to bend you over on the dining room table, show them all who you belong to—and I nearly obliged you. Mating's usually more private in the Steppe, but they already saw the shagnalda, they knew what it meant. I can never tell you no, khөөrkhen," he confided slyly, then without warning, he ripped Daniil's shirt open with an airy laugh. "Almost tore your dandy clothes off of you just like that, and I honestly would've if Lara wasn't there. By the way, tenegh, she's like my sister."

Daniil protested at the buttons popping off of his nice dress shirt, but he was so turned on by the mental image Artemy was conjuring that his enjoyment outweighed his annoyance. His underwear was becoming damp with precum, soon to be soaked if Artemy kept talking like that. "You're lying," he goaded, praying he'd provoke Artemy into continuing despite knowing full well that he could see right through his scheme. "That's not believable in the slightest. And you're calling me an exhibitionist?"

"Shudkher, you're stubborn. I wish I had, just to see your face. I nearly did at the pub, too; should've taken you on the table so that asshole would never call you 'his' again, or even better, on the stage where the whole bar could watch. But it'd be unorthodox to do it drunk; I wanted us to consummate it while sober." Artemy felt up Daniil's exposed chest, sliding digits under his necklace and carefully pulling it taut like it was a dog collar. Daniil was effectively collared, he reckoned, with two dog tags on his scruff that read "if found, return to Artemy Burakh".

"I'm sure everyone noticed today, don't worry," Daniil deadpanned as he craned his neck. Artemy bent to suck another hickey into a pristine area while Daniil kept reprimanding him. "When you threw my cravat on the floor, you st—stained it, too, by the way. Not like I could conceal love bites this high, anyway, you animal. Leaving me like that was cruel." He hoped he hid the stutter well enough when he accused Artemy of staining the cravat.

"...I didn't want to fuck this up," Artemy said after a beat, and Daniil was surprised to hear genuine turmoil laced into his words.

He sank his teeth into his throat again to deflect, but Daniil caught the crack in his affectation and pieced it together: it had to be linked to his father's death, his insecurity about his alienation from the Kin, his completely irrational complex about not being fit to assume the role of menkhu. The revelation made everything click to Daniil, more succinctly than his initial thought that Artemy was merely impressed by his first fateful offering.

"And that's why you were talking to Lara." That was why she had said that Artemy was anxious about the details, that was why she talked to Daniil about it in so much detail, that was why she told Daniil that it'd be good for Artemy to be in love. Warmth bloomed in his ribcage at the thought that Artemy could love him, could be in love with him like Lara had described. He wouldn't have thought that Artemy would divulge that to her, but then again, she was a perceptive woman and Artemy was notoriously bad at masking strong emotions. On the other hand, Daniil never permitted himself to think about what he felt for Artemy outside of late nights when nothing else could get him off—these days, that was every time—yet it somehow didn't faze him at all when the natural thought that followed was that he might love Artemy back already.

If Artemy read that in his body language, then at least it'd save him the ordeal of confessing.

Satisfied with the additional bruise, Artemy shifted his focus, silencing him with a tug on his belt buckle and refusing to make eye contact. "Yes. Didn't trust my memory of the rites, wanted to double check. I asked Aspity first, but she only speaks in riddles and metaphors... I'm still walking on eggshells around Rubin, I'd be insane to ask him anything regarding the Kin. Lara was the only one I trusted who knew the Town well and could keep a secret. Clearly, you had no interest in keeping us a secret, though," Artemy said timidly, gaining more confidence once he could flip it on Daniil.

Unluckily for him, Daniil had more ammunition than he knew, and he got a giddy thrill from hearing Artemy refer to them as "us". He smirked and rucked Artemy's shirt up as he teased, "I don't know if Lara can keep a secret. She told me about your excitement, how you wanted to get everything perfect... That's why I thought you were courting her instead. A case of non causa pro causa, to be sure, but I'll defend that it's an understandable one."

Artemy made a sound Daniil had never heard him make before, frustrated and embarrassed and affectionate. "Shudkher! I had a feeling she would tell you something like that. I told her to keep mum about it, but I guess I can't fault her for telling you of all people, especially after your obscene little spectacle. If she told anyone else, though, I'm going to kill her."

"No, don't be cross with her. It's... sweet." Upon seeing Artemy's scowl, Daniil kissed him, attempting to lift his top off, too. He'd never get tired of kissing Artemy, he decided, not with how earnestly he responded to him, how hungrily his bitten lips moved against his, how he melted when Daniil lapped into his mouth.

Eventually, Artemy caught on and separated to discard his shirt and belt. Daniil took the opportunity to remove his own as well, automatically shifting left and right to shimmy his trousers off when Artemy continued undressing. The anticipation was palpable, and Daniil was the first to speak next. "So... what's the traditional way to proceed, then? Totus tuus." Artemy wouldn't understand the Latin, but he'd understand that he told him "all yours".

"You want to?" Artemy grinned, wolfish and charming. "We might break the boxes my mattress sits on, khөөrkhen." He didn't seem too bereaved.

"What does that mean? You keep calling me that, is that another word for 'oynon' or 'erdem'?" Daniil asked. It'd been bothering him since he first heard it, and it'd grown more and more common over the other epithets.

Artemy placed a searing hand on Daniil's thigh, almost encompassing half of it. "It means 'my beloved'. It's what fiancés and spouses call each other once the courtship process begins." Daniil hadn't recovered from the saccharine fondness imbued in that statement before Artemy followed it with, "All fours on the bed, then. If it breaks, so be it."

Of course his attraction would revive Artemy's smug pride. Daniil obeyed, though he swayed at the memory of the massage as he held himself up by his forearms on the coverlet. "Awfully confident, Burakh."

From where he let his head hang freely like his necklace, he saw Artemy step out of his last article of clothing, but he climbed onto the bed to kneel behind him before he could catch more than a peripheral glimpse. He didn't have to speculate for long, though, since Artemy spread Daniil's legs wide to fit his own between them and pressed against him soon after. "Not overly confident, I just don't trust the construction of the bedframe. But I'll do my best."

Daniil heard a familiar cork, and though his view was almost entirely obscured, he saw Artemy lean over to return the flask of oil to the lid of the trunk. Thumbs snagged in the hem of his undergarments and yanked them down. Artemy's impatience bled through, simultaneously wrapping eager fingers around Daniil with one hand and teasing from behind with the other. Daniil exhaled sharply at the dual sensations, though Artemy's touch was so frictionless that all it left was pleasure.

He was trembling for a few reasons: his arms couldn't support him when he was overwhelmed like this, Artemy was already sinking a finger in, he was inexplicably nervous about baring himself and how vulnerable he was and how much he wanted this. Artemy must have noticed his quivering because he moved his palm upward to gently press between his shoulder blades, silently suggesting that he relax; Daniil complied without much of a fight, letting his forehead hit the bedspread despite how lecherous presenting himself so brazenly felt. To reward that, Artemy resumed stroking him, though in this position, he started to smear precum on his own midriff.

As Artemy worked him open, he started murmuring in the Steppe language, the same way he did when he massaged him—Daniil identified that now as some sort of binding or mating chant. When Daniil arched back into him to urge him on, he grinned at the resultant hitch in Artemy's breath, at the way he stammered and had to repeat himself to continue his recitation. In retaliation, Artemy crooked his fingers and rubbed back and forth torturously on the same spot, and Daniil promptly shut his mouth yet whined loudly anyway.

By the time Daniil was ready to admonish him for his villainy, he was relieved to hear the sound of Artemy finally pouring the rest of the oil onto himself and discarding the bottle. He'd moved to hold onto Daniil's hipbones instead of his prick, which would be preferable to Daniil for the sake of his longevity if he didn't take so inhumanely long to get himself situated.

"Come on... khөөrkhen," Daniil pleaded. The pet name felt odd on his tongue, but Artemy tightened his grip approvingly and acquiesced.

Audibly smiling, Artemy proclaimed, "Tiimel daa." Daniil knew that one: "that's right, it is so".

With that, he buried himself in Daniil agonizingly slowly, suppressing any attempts at quickening the pace by freezing them both until Daniil behaved himself. He would never inflate his ego by telling him, but Daniil was begrudgingly grateful that he took his time letting him adjust to the stretch—Artemy was not small, and by the time their thighs collided, Daniil was convinced that Artemy was the half-man, half-bull chimera he'd been searching for.

"Shudkher." The only downside to being mounted like this was that Daniil couldn't see Artemy's face as he cursed and throbbed inside him.

"Please." It wasn't the word that Daniil had meant to say, particularly not with such a lewd lilt, but it worked.

Artemy set an unhurried rhythm, similar to when his palms had ebbed and flowed in circular movements upon his tired muscles. Everything he did was cyclical, oscillating, mathematically precise. Continuous, unbroken marionette lines of motion seemed to lead him like reins, guiding him in and out of Daniil, and maybe they were the Lines of theirs that Artemy had already merged together; Daniil surrendered instantly, seizing fistfuls of the coverlet to brace himself against the languid drag as it gradually accelerated.

Another fact that Daniil wouldn't admit: Artemy was entirely justified in worrying about the bed. Daniil hadn't realized how precarious it was until Artemy was relentlessly driving into him, both big enough and ardent enough that every thrust imparted enough force to make the shoddy frame creak perilously under their combined weight. It would have been a turn off if Daniil could process anything other than Artemy's cock, but as it stood, Daniil couldn't even filter his speech, spouting a wanton fountain of praise and moans and Artemy's name.

The thought that Artemy said he nearly did this to him in public sent a shiver down Daniil's spine. It would never progress that far in reality, but to his libido, the prospect was irresistible. Daniil would never be taken seriously again if anyone saw the sordid tableau vivant they made, if anyone observed the uncontrollable gasps and sighs at each brush against his prostate and the arousal leaking from him like a faucet, both slathered on his abdomen and dribbling onto the sheets below him. He pictured them on stage in the Theatre, with a whole live audience watching him and Artemy become one. His legs instinctively spread wider than he'd thought possible, and Artemy apparently interpreted that as permission to fuck him without restraint.

Unfettered, Artemy's rutting became ruthless, and the vulgar symphony of percussive impacts grew syncopated as it crescendoed. Daniil understood why this was part of a claiming ritual; he felt utterly subjugated, like he'd never be able to forget the feeling of Artemy filling him up, like he'd never feel complete without his racing heartbeat thrumming along his collar of love bites. From Artemy's unbridled noises, Daniil had taken him just as much as the converse—he wondered if he'd be diverging from the standard procedure when he returned the favor.

Sooner than Daniil expected, Artemy groaned and climaxed, coming to an abrupt halt and fixing Daniil in place like he was trying to fuse them together by their hips. Daniil was too unsteady to effectually move his arms at all, let alone reach to finish himself off, but Artemy took care of that for him, albeit clumsily due to his own euphoria. Daniil didn't take long to dissolve into a puddle of endorphins under the supplicating contact, muffling a keen against the mattress as he joined Artemy in orgasmic bliss.

Once he collected himself enough to grimace at Artemy withdrawing, he opened his eyes to see that in addition to the bedspread, he'd also managed to get cum on his aurochs bone necklace. He almost felt guilty for besmirching such an invaluable gift as well as Artemy's coverlet, but then again, Artemy was the one who aimed him; when he rolled over to let Artemy clean up and he saw him smirk at the glistening white atop matte white, he knew that he wouldn't take any offense by it.

Daniil was dozing by the time Artemy crawled back into bed and tugged him onto his chest. Their limbs tangled together comfortably, interlocking like zipper teeth, bare skin melding together from head to toe. Sleepily, Daniil latched onto Artemy's throat like a vampire, impulsively sucking a love bite into the flesh to match his own.

"D'you want to go through with the last binding rite?" Artemy whispered, the vibration reverberating through Daniil's mouth on his pulse point.

"Do I look like I'm backing out?"

Artemy scoffed and danced his fingertips along Daniil's spine at the base of his neck, where pain had once struck him. "Don't be sarcastic, khөөrkhen. Wanted to make sure, now that you know what you're doing."

"I always know exactly what I'm doing. You said I'm a genius, remember?" Daniil jibed between kisses to his jugular. "What's left, then? It seems pretty consummated to me."

Artemy chuckled. "We've done bones and nerves, Yas and Medrel, so the last one is Zürkh, the blood layer. You already did your part—the bloody twyre and ashen swish—so it's mostly my turn next. Sacrificing an aurochs at the Ragi Barrow, reading its Lines, giving the blood to Boddho as thanks, taking the hide for the home. It seems like bulls are used more these days, since aurochs are all but extinct."

Daniil hummed to convey his understanding. Another bite to the other side, though his lips became lethargic. He owed Lara an apology, he idly thought.

"We can talk more tomorrow." Somehow, Artemy sounded fully awake, though his heart rate indicated complete relaxation.

"Didn't break the boxes like you promised," Daniil mumbled, though he was asleep before Artemy responded.

"Guess I'll have to be rougher next time."