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."