what does your heart say? (would you listen anyway?)

by oynonrings

Summary:

"Yeah. I've been teaching the kid about the Kin traditional medicine, keeping him out of trouble the best I can. Though you'd probably say I'm indoctrinating him with backwater lies or some bullshit like that," Artemy spat.

Daniil contemplated for a second more. "I think we've been tricked."

Artemy chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Go on."

"Sticky is my apprentice, Burakh," Daniil revealed at last. "I have been teaching him pharmacology and medicine—or I've been trying to. Unless he has an evil twin like the Changeling, he's been two-timing us."

—

Sticky doesn't get why his mentors Daniil and Artemy are at each other's throats all the time. He takes matters into his own hands.

Notes:

the long-awaited parent trap fic is here! this fic was an idea back in like march on my tumblr (@oynonrings <3) but life happened and now im back! i still havent watched the parent trap though!

this is gonna be a long one, so buckle up! for now, enjoy silly sticky matchmaking shenanigans :)

title is from "ill look good when im sober" by lovejoy! (the whole song is so burda i love)

Chapter 1: i.

The September breezes buffeted Daniil's coat around him like bat wings made of snakeskin, yet he barely noticed the gusts in his reverie. His knuckles ached dully, a souvenir of a scuffle he'd escaped in the territory of the Ripper yesterday. He'd managed to land a hit on his arm that was solid enough to stun Artemy for a few beats and allow Daniil to scramble away to safety, though the recoil from the punch still reverberated in his metacarpals now, the evening of the next day. Before this week, he hadn't thrown a punch since university; it brought an odd surge of nostalgia.

The sun was melting spectacularly in the sky on the cusp of setting, but it failed to wrest Daniil's attention away from its fixation. He couldn't stop thinking about how striking Artemy had looked curling his fists, how his stubble-covered jaw had worked from side to side, how his grim blue eyes had flashed when Daniil reached for his revolver. He'd been lost in thought all day revisiting that fresh memory, picturing his crooked nose and gleaming canines every time his eyelids slipped shut.

He'd have to cordon off that unfortunate recess of his mind, however. That man was the Ripper, he was the patricide and the body-snatcher, it was frankly absurd that Daniil would entertain any notions of his physical attractiveness. Many monsters in mythology donned a human form to entice mortal men, and though Daniil was by no means superstitious, he knew better than to let a handsome face on broad shoulders beguile him.

He only had to ignore the nagging mental images of those bear paws on Daniil's waist, those bitten lips on his own, and those thick arms holding him up. That was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

Eva was absent from the Stillwater when he returned, and with a pang of guilt, a sigh of relief tumbled out of him. He was profoundly grateful to her for allowing him to stay here, naturally, but she could be rather distracting, and Daniil needed pure, uninterrupted solitude if he was going to complete half of the work he needed to have done by tomorrow. Thankfully, once he managed to ascend the dizzying spiral staircase up to the loft, he would have the opportunity to rest his wobbling legs; traipsing around the Town-on-Gorkhon had taxed his calf muscles terribly. He might be a couple of inches shorter on the train ride home if he'd be wearing down the soles of his boots this bloody much every day.

He dropped his carpet bag by the escritoire, shedding his trench coat and hanging it on the back of his chair. Craning his neck to either side with a pair of cracks, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolled up his sleeves, trading leather gloves for latex in preparation to work on his synthesis. The room was much dimmer in the evening than in the morning; he'd have to light an oil lamp soon, that is, if he hadn't already emptied his matchbox lighting cigarettes.

He stilled. Something was off.

Daniil plucked his glasses from one of the desk shelves and slipped them on, scrutinizing every inch of his workspace. No one aspect was flagrantly wrong, but everything was slightly off-kilter: his microscope was pulled forward to the edge of the table when he'd left it safely near the wall, the nib of his fountain pen faced right when he'd always placed it in its stand facing left, he'd left his test tubes near the center, but now they were next to the stack of books on the side, resting on top of his preliminary notes. He squinted. Did Eva go snooping while he was away?

A thud behind him reeled Daniil's head up from the escritoire. He slid his glasses upwards to rest securely atop his head, helpfully pulling errant strands of hair from his eyes as well, whilst his other hand drew his revolver. The chamber was only loaded with two rounds, so with his aim, Daniil had to be very careful with how he proceeded.

"Show yourself," he commanded, damning the unthreatening waver in his voice. A shuffling sound behind the folding screen to his right—he levelled his barrel in the general vicinity. Could it be a bandit? Maybe even the Ripper himself? "Now, before I start shooting," he bluffed.

"Okay, okay!" came a much higher voice than he'd expected. "Calm down, jeez." From behind the partition emerged a lanky boy with his posture hunched and an absolutely miserable expression on his angular face.

Daniil blinked. "Sticky?"

Sticky sheepishly shrugged, refusing to make eye contact and instead opting to toy at the tattered hem of his jeans with one sneaker. "Sticky the Nuthatch," he mumbled halfheartedly.

After the initial shock subsided, Daniil unfroze at last and lowered the gun, stowing it safely in a drawer. "What the h—what are you doing in here?" He stopped himself from cursing, though he knew a twelve-year-old boy undoubtedly spoke more vulgarly than he did. "Did Eva let you in?"

Sticky shook his head and slyly buried his hands in his pockets. "No. I have my methods."

"What do you have there? Did you take anything?" When he didn't respond, Daniil bent down to eye-level to force him to meet his gaze. He never was good with kids, but dread filled his stomach at the prospect of making an enemy of the town's children. They appeared to be the only reliable source of medicine and shmowder; if he made an enemy of one of their leaders, he risked losing a vital resource in a setting with very few to begin with. Slowly, but not accusatorily, he said, "Sticky, listen to me. This is serious. We're extremely low on supplies. I need every single piece of equipment I have, no matter how small or insignificant you might think it is."

Sticky nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm not that naïve."

Daniil's stare bored into him.

"I swear, I really didn't take anything!" Sticky huffed, raising his shoulders up to his ears. He scoffed in indignation, rolling his eyes as if Daniil was the one barging into his quarters. "Alright, fine, happy?" he spat, and reluctantly, he turned his pockets inside-out. To Daniil's surprise and solace, no pipettes or vials spilled out, nothing aside from what he'd been hiding: a damaged, rusty lockpick. He lifted his shirt to show he hadn't tucked anything into his waistband, either, and spun around to show his back pockets were also empty. "Nothing! I'm not a thief."

Daniil bowed his head in acknowledgement and stood to his full height. "I didn't say you were, but I appreciate the gesture nonetheless." He dusted off his slacks, deliberating what to do. He shouldn't castigate him, that much was clear, but he certainly couldn't give him free reign to poke around his ersatz laboratory. "Still... why are you here?"

Sticky's freckled cheeks lit up as he finally came to life. "I want to know how your type of medicine works."

"My type of medicine?" Daniil quirked an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"Yeah, you know, all your Capital chemicals and compounds and... whatever. I know lots about the Steppe stuff, but it's totally different from what you've got."

Daniil harrumphed. "You're interested in pharmacological science?" A theory formed in his mind, and he frowned. "Is this a set-up? Did the Haruspex send you?"

Sticky rolled his eyes again, more dramatically, lolling his head along with his hazel irises. "Are you even listening to me? I know how the Steppe folk healing works, I can tell you all about it—or I could tell you about the local customs. It's all boring, though. I think your fancy tinctures and glass tubes are cool, and... I'll be a very helpful assistant, trust me." Despite his attitude, the embarrassed tone of his mumbling came across as sincere to Daniil.

He sighed. Was he really considering this? "Who taught you about the folk medicine?"

At that, Sticky looked askance, just as sheepish as before. "...Old Man. Isidor."

The already-tense room became hostile. Daniil made a frustrated noise and ripped his glasses off of his head, closing the temples and slamming them on the desk behind him. "So Burakh did send you."

"No, he didn't, I promise he didn't!" Sticky protested, rushing forward to plead more effectively. "He kicked me out of his lair as soon as he saw me, I'm not here at his behest. I want medical training and I want to fight the Sand Plague, so I figured you were the next best option."

"Wow, thanks. I'm honored," deadpanned Daniil.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Sticky groaned petulantly. "C'mon, I really do want to learn. I'll sit still and be quiet, you won't even notice I'm here. I can help... Please."

Daniil took a deep breath. He wasn't a babysitter, and he didn't have time to teach a child enough of the basics of pharmacokinetics or anatomy and physiology to be useful. Allowing Sticky anywhere near his scientific instrumentation was only inviting disaster, and hell, he could poison himself and others if he decided to play shmowder with the concentrated reagents orderly arranged on Daniil's workspace. Nonetheless, Daniil did greatly miss his laboratory assistants at Thanatica, and he'd be a fool to refuse another set of hands with how thinly he'd spread himself here, damnatio ad bestias... Serafima and Platon would be offended if they knew their replacement was a snot-nosed kid, but Daniil had no other choices. In any case, Sticky could and would sneak his way into his room if his offer was declined; it wasn't ideal, but it would be for the best if Daniil could at least oversee him while he was intruding. He might gain useful information about the Steppe lore in the process, too.

Hestitantly, Daniil said, "If I were to accept, will you agree to never trespass here again without my supervision?"

"Yes!" Sticky instantly capitulated. "Never ever."

"And will you agree to not touch anything that I don't explicitly tell you to touch? Especially not any sharp things?"

Sticky's excitement didn't falter. "Yes, of course!"

Daniil pinched at the bridge of his nose. Encouraging him was a manifestly bad idea. "...Fine, then. For the time being, I'll allow it."

"Thank you, Bachelor!" Sticky beamed as his arms and legs tensed, almost like he was fighting the urge to hug him. "You won't regret it."

Daniil wasn't sure what to say. Awkwardly, he patted Sticky on the shoulder, then turned to sit back at the escritoire and begin working. He could hardly uncork the first vial before he felt a presence hovering at his back.

"So... when do we start?" Sticky asked, hushed.

"I don't know, but definitely not right now. Shoo."

---

"I'm back!"

Artemy glanced up from his mortar and pestle at the sound of metal scraping and worn trainers scuffing on the floor. "Didn't I tell you that you can't spend the night here, kid?" he said gruffly, resisting the urge to wipe his dry eyes—he'd made the mistake of accidentally rubbing twyre particles into his corneas with dust-coated fingers far too many times the last few days. His butcher's apron was caked in the stuff, stratified layers of black and brown and now red.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just stopping by to see if there's anything your favorite apprentice can assist you with." Sticky's voice was singsong as he approached, and Artemy immediately became suspicious.

He poured the fine powder into a jar, replaced the lid snugly, and then added a few sprigs of bloody twyre to the mortar to begin crushing again. "What did you do this time?"

"I didn't do anything." Sticky pouted, jumping up and backwards to sit on a stack of crates beside Artemy's working table. His skinny shins kicked in and out, and to Artemy, his even higher than normal energy level screamed that he was up to some mischief. "You're so cynical, Burakh."

"What did you do, Sticky?" echoed Artemy sternly, scowling at him without real malice. He had a bad feeling about this, but then again, he hadn't had a good feeling since he stepped off the train. Maybe his delinquency would prove beneficial for once.

"I think the real question is what did you do," Sticky countered, pointing at the substantial bruise on Artemy's forearm that was visible with the sleeves of his sweater shoved up to his elbows.

Artemy snorted. "Our lovely visitor from the Capital gave me a present the other day." They'd found each other by coincidence while crossing the railroad tracks in front of Artemy's lair, and Daniil hadn't hesitated to pull his revolver on him. Artemy was out of rounds himself, so he used his size and strength advantage to smack the firearm into the grass and convert the gunfight to a fistfight. For the record, he'd been winning the fight, had pinned him to the rails and almost started strangling him, but Daniil managed one blow to Artemy's ulna that made his arm buckle, and thus the serpent slithered away again.

It disconcerted Artemy that he had enjoyed it, and it disconcerted him more so that he almost looked forward to their next encounter. The Bachelor was so much shorter and smaller than him that their rivalry should have started and ended with Artemy emerging victorious on the first day they met, but the scrawny scientist had more bite than he would have guessed, and their clashes brought an exciting electricity that Artemy had never experienced before. He still hated the prick, of course, but there was something about him, some rough edge concealed by his genteel mien, that continually snagged on his thoughts.

"And...?"

Artemy snapped out of his fugue state and milled the crimson buds harder. "We had an altercation. The bastard got one good lick in before I let him go. What do you want me to say?"

Sticky took a decorative bull figurine from a nearby shelf, one that Artemy whittled out of firewood when he was around his age, and began fidgeting with it. "I don't know. Why do you two fight so much, anyway?"

The shrill scraping of stone on stone mirrored Artemy's grinding teeth. The most recent reason flashed into his mind, salting the wound anew: the scene of the aurochs carcass crucified on the bone stake, engulfed in flames, the smell of burning leather nauseating Artemy nearly as much as what it symbolized. "Because he's made my life very, very difficult. Why would we get along?"

Sticky stared at the carved bull's horns. "Well, you're both doctors, aren't you? You have the same goal of curing the plague, too. It seems more efficient to work together, doesn't it?"

"That's where you're wrong. He doesn't want to cure the plague, he only wants to prevent it in the healthy. He's leaving the sick ones to die," Artemy spat. "He thinks a panacea is impossible, so he won't bother trying to make one... And he's actively fighting my attempts every step of the way."

"That's not true." Sticky finally made eye contact with Artemy, and his unexpectedly genuine expression disarmed him. "He's nicer than you give him credit for. Even if you can't stand each other, why can't you call a truce so you can pool your research or something?"

Artemy sighed. The bloody twyre powder was finely-ground enough for use in brewing now, with the last of the clots disappeared under the pestle. "I'm glad you two are suddenly best friends, but he's not nice to me. Sure, he's got book smarts, but no common sense. He'd probably feed me incorrect information to sabotage me—he's conniving like that. Why are you so defensive of him? Did he send you here to spy on me?"

At that, Sticky buried his face in his hands and groaned. "No! I just don't get why he's giving you those," he cried, gesturing towards the bruise again, "or why you're trying to kill him when you're on the same damn side! You're both making this way harder than it has to be. Shit, you two are worse than Notkin and Khan!"

"Hey! Watch your tongue, kid." Artemy didn't care about swearing, but he bristled at the lack of respect. "You don't get it, alright? We're not squabbling over marbles, we're at war, and people's lives are on the line. You're too young; you'll understand when you're older." He tipped the rest of the powder into its container and wiped his hands on his apron, clenching his jaw. He needed to cool off.

Sticky was silent for a moment, brows knitted, and Artemy started to worry if he'd raised his voice more than he meant to. Then, he put the bull back on the shelf and hopped off of his makeshift seat. "Fine. To be honest, I don't really care if you like each other or not. Just looks real stupid to me, 'sall."

"I can live with looking real stupid," Artemy replied curtly, mimicking Sticky's tone as he took his apron off and slung it onto its hook on the adjacent wall. He donned his heavy leather coat, and as he fastened the buckles on his wrists, he announced, "I'm going for a walk. You still can't stay here tonight, by the way, but if you're going to loiter, could you at least make yourself useful and prep some herbs for me while I'm gone?"

Sticky whined, but he still took off his flannel overshirt and picked up the mortar. "A walk? It's ten o'clock at night! Where on earth are you going—got a hot date or something?"

Artemy chuckled. "You're a funny kid, Sticky. Boddho knows I'm not having any hot dates anytime soon." Between his murderous reputation and unbeauteous appearance, the very concept of anyone romantically pursuing him was laughable; he was far from a winner. "I'm going to check on Murky, make sure she's fed and healthy."

"That makes much more sense," Sticky replied, shooting him a cheeky smirk as if he'd really struck a nerve with that quip.

Artemy grabbed the last of his cans of undetermined food and headed for the door. "I'll be back in a bit, Sticky."

"See ya. Don't get mugged," Sticky bade him farewell.

The night was more brisk than Artemy had anticipated it would be, and he thanked Suok for the insulating leather he wore. The walk wasn't far, but it wasn't close, either, and he gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering as he embarked on the trek. He was on high alert as he crossed the bridge, but he luckily didn't encounter a soul there or on his way around the Warehouses; the moon was only a sliver short of full, so he'd be easy to spot by anyone still awake as he walked, towering over the fields of twyre.

When he reached her traincar, he knocked gently on the corroding metal frame to startle her as little as possible. Quietly, he called, "Hey, Murky. It's me."

He rounded the corner and was astounded to find her asleep. She was damn near nocturnal, but sure enough, her small form was rising and falling where she'd curled up against the wall of the car, dirty soles facing out.

Artemy had first come across her strange domicile on his second day in town, having been chased out of it and subsequently deciding to at least gather some herbs while he was roaming the Steppe. It was afternoon, and when he came across a young girl laying motionless, he asked if she was okay—wrong decision. She awoke from her slumber furious and proceeded to shriek at him until he fled, utterly bemused. Upon finding out that she was one of his Bound the next day, he cautiously approached her train car again with a fresh loaf of bread as an offering, and that won her over; since then, he'd made sure to bring her food every day, and in doing so he'd learned that she tended to sleep all day.

He glanced over her lodgings and found a candle still lit and a half-emptied can on the floor. Someone had beaten him to it, or so it appeared. Artemy seriously doubted that Murky had walked into a store and bought it herself, and he couldn't fathom that something so valuable was thrown away intact for her to scavenge it. Why hadn't she finished it? He furrowed his brow, but eventually decided he'd ask her tomorrow. For now, her soft snores were steady and she didn't seem to be in pain, so Artemy placed his can next to the first and left.

As he retraced his steps, though, his eyes slowly distinguished a silhouette between the darknesses of the Station and the Warehouses. Artemy's blood ran cold and automatically his hand ghosted over the knife strapped to his thigh. The figure was amorphous at first, but as it came into focus, he definitively recognized it as the Bachelor carrying his signature carpet bag. What the hell was he doing slinking around the Warehouses this late?

His heart raced. Heat unfurled in his abdomen. He hadn't seen him yet, Artemy realized, and with adrenaline buzzing in his ears, he held his shallow breaths and stalked closer to his prey. At last, he had the drop on the good doctor. He closed his fingers around the pommel and unsheathed the blade, steel edge flashing in the moonlight like meteor showers.

Daniil's hands seemed to glow in the pitch blackness, and Artemy noted that he wasn't wearing his gloves despite the chill; any punches would impact that much harder, then. The impulsive mental image of Daniil's bare hands on Artemy's body made him shiver, and the wind had plastered his trench coat to the contours of his body, defining his slim waist—fuck, was he really beginning to stir in his trousers?

Artemy suppressed those thoughts the best he could, like he always did. They cropped up often, but Artemy could usually redirect his focus into a more pressing matter or activity, and then he didn't have to reckon with how beautiful Daniil's profile looked bathed in cool starlight. Now, though... He licked his lips. It'd be easier if he didn't think so much. Daniil hadn't deliberated so much before ambushing Artemy, or he wouldn't have done it.

He lunged for the Bachelor. His intention was to stab, but his traitorous arm twisted away at the last second and he half-tackled him from behind instead.

Daniil made an undignified noise of surprise and dropped his bag so he could grapple with both hands. "Shit! Haruspex," he gasped, elbowing Artemy's side ineffectively as he struggled. "Unhand me!"

"Never," Artemy hissed, pulling Daniil flush to his chest and holding the sharp blade to his throat. His frame was so much smaller that he had to lift him a few inches off the dirt to get the leverage he needed; he hated the warmth that pooled in his groin at that, at the way Daniil whimpered involuntarily with every kick, at the weight of Daniil pressing against him. The heel of his boot struck Artemy's thigh with enough force that it'd be sure to bruise, and out of reflex, Artemy's arms jerked. The knife barely grazed Daniil's skin, drawing a single drop of blood that looked like ink in the spectral lighting.

Artemy couldn't slit his throat. He was weak, tenderhearted, he finally had the demon that was prolonging the Sand Plague and tormenting him every waking moment, yet he couldn't bring himself to lacerate the pristine blank canvas under his blade. Especially not after Sticky's pleas.

Daniil twisted in his grasp, using Artemy's moment of hesitation to grab his elbow and contort it until Artemy dropped the knife with a groan and he could slip out of the head lock. Like his blood, Daniil's dark brown eyes had turned to glittering obsidian under his long eyelashes, and Artemy didn't let himself admire them too long before he rushed at him again.

"Ah, fuck, can we—" Daniil began, cut off by ducking under Artemy's swing. He tried to return the favor with a punch to his solar plexus, but Artemy intercepted his fist, trying not to marvel at how easily his hand enveloped Daniil's while he pushed him away.

"No, we can't," Artemy seethed.

"Goddamn monster," breathed Daniil brokenly with a paradoxical smile, white teeth glimmering like fangs.

Artemy would get carried away if he permitted himself to think right now. Instead, he swallowed the observation that Daniil had a barely-perceptible flush to his cheeks and socked him in the gut.

Daniil spluttered and coughed, curling in on himself and clutching his stomach. "Ah, fuck, can we call it—hah, call it a tie?" he spat, moaning in pain with every trembling exhale.

The sounds weren't helping Artemy's willpower at all. That tone, that timbre, that screwed-up expression on his face, shudkher, Artemy was already half-hard. He didn't know if he had the fortitude to kill Daniil, not right now; he was exhausted, too, so low on sleep that his movements all felt leaden. Maybe that was why his brain was malfunctioning so severely.

Artemy met his eyes again and folded. "Fine. But next time, don't expect that I'll be so generous." He sounded haggard, even to himself.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Daniil straightened somewhat, staggering in the uneven marshy dirt over to his carpet bag. "Payback, isn't it?"

The spot on Artemy's forearm pulsed in time with his pounding heart. Last time, Daniil had come out on top; this time, it was Artemy. "Yeah. Payback."

Without another word, Daniil gave Artemy a lethal look and turned his back to him, stumbling with his bag towards the nearest streetlight as if he were drunk. Artemy watched his silhouette shrink for a while, long enough for him to feel confident he wouldn't pass out as soon as he moved, and only then did he bend over and recover his knife from amongst the brush.

---

Daniil took a long drag of his cigarette.

The Stillwater's pond reflected the late afternoon sky like a prism, flipped, an optically perfect facsimile inlaid within the earth. The bruise on his stomach ached with each inhale, and he knew that tobacco wouldn't expedite the healing process but his psyche had been tangled in Gordian knots all day. The tobacco didn't relax him nearly as much as he needed it to, but it was better than nothing.

"Bachelor Dankovsky?"

Daniil's head whipped around to see Sticky climbing the fence of Eva's side yard. "Sticky? What are y—get down from there!" he shouted, nearly dropping his cigarette in his astonishment. The fence had no gate, for God's sake, this was wholly unnecessary.

Sticky dropped to the ground as smoothly as a falling leaf. "Are you smoking? Can I try?"

Daniil scoffed and held it to his lips again, cherishing every moment spent with the familiar prickling in his lungs. Blowing the smoke in billows to the side, he turned back to Sticky and said, "Absolutely not. Smoking cigarettes is a horrible habit, and you should never pick it up. Especially not at twelve."

"I'm almost thirteen," Sticky chirped, as if that made a difference. "If it's so horrible, why do you do it, huh?"

"I am nothing if not a cautionary tale." Daniil finished it off, taking a few hits in quick succession until the cherry singed his nose and he discarded it, ashing the butt with his shoe. He'd sweep soon enough. "Let's go inside, it's cold."

Sticky followed him in, flying up the stairs faster than Daniil ever could. "What're you doing today? Need my assistance?"

"Sorry, Sticky, not particularly. I just finished setting up the synthesis, and there's nothing to do but wait and rest, hence the smoke break." Daniil slumped into his chair, rubbing his forehead to ease the last vestiges of a migraine. "Let me come up with something for you to do. What have you been up to today? Your pants are filthy."

Sticky peered down at his own jeans, covered in dried mud. "Yeah, a little. I've been chasing the Albino, and I almost got it this time."

"The... what?" Daniil asked, looking up.

"The Albino, duh. Ooh, am I going to teach you something?" Sticky grinned.

Daniil unpinned his cravat, placing the serpentine brooch and the carmine ascot on the escritoire with a quiet clink. The spot on his neck that Artemy nicked last night was so insignificant that it probably wasn't detectable to the naked eye, but the chafing of his collar against the skin that Artemy's knife had kissed less than twenty-four hours ago was insanity inducing. The icy steel shouldn't have felt so arousing when Artemy pressed it to his bared throat, holding Daniil's life in his hands and only using it to tease him, to lure him into temptation. Fuck, he hoped he hadn't been as obvious as he felt he was. Artemy's chest had felt so solid behind him, under his fist; he'd looked like pure danger staring at him in the abyssal night, and it was impossible to act like he didn't find it devastatingly attractive on a physical level.

He was distracted. Hopefully, removing the friction would alleviate that.

"You might. I know nothing about the local legends, I wouldn't mind hearing about it. Besides, docendo discitur. What is the Albino, or the—what is it... shabnag?"

"The shabnak," Sticky corrected. He pulled up a spare chair to the other side of the desk, leaning over with his chin propped on his elbows enthusiastically. "Well, the Albino is considered a shabnak. I used to think it was carrying the disease, but now I'm not so sure... Anyways, it's man-shaped, but all its parts are mangled and stitched back together the wrong way around, and its skin is the color of bleached bones!"

Daniil made a skeptical face. "Are you telling me a ghost story, Sticky? Here—help me set the test tubes out to dry, will you?" He gingerly moved a beaker of clinking glass tubes, cleaned and left to soak in ethanol for additional sterilization, closer to the center of the desktop.

Sticky cleared some space, brushing a ceramic mug and Daniil's accessories to the side. "No, only... sort of. It's not a ghost, but it lurks around the Cemetery, so sometimes people mistake it for one. They call it the bloodsucker."

"Really?" Daniil took a clean rag and laid it flat on the wood as a placemat for his test tube stand, taking two pairs of tongs and handing one to Sticky. "You know, I used to research bloodsucking creatures back at Thanatica."

Metal clicked against glass. Sticky's jaw dropped. "You did?"

"Yes, I have more than a few publications on the very topic; 'Longevity tendencies in Calyptra thalictri and other bloodsuckers' is the most cited of my papers, in fact. They're nicknamed 'vampire moths' for their peculiar dietary inclinations, namely, their penchant for drinking blood. I kept them in my lab and raised them from eggs." A fog of bittersweet sentimentality clouded Daniil's vision for a moment. He couldn't decipher if he was proud to talk about his research or mournful that it was all in past tense; regardless, he felt faintly choked up.

Sticky shook the excess ethanol off of a test tube and placed it on the rack upside down, still bemused. "I can't imagine you playing with bugs."

Daniil chuckled. "I had a whole bug collection when I was your age, you would've loved it." He reminisced on his arrays of beetles with elytra splayed open, boxes of insects meticulously pinned in place to mimic living poses, perhaps an early precursor to his obsession with death. "And I wasn't 'playing with bugs', it was rigorous academic research. Peer reviewed. Hasn't anyone taught you the scientific method?"

"Nope. Sounds like it's bug-related."

With a sigh, Daniil launched into a lecture on the fundamentals of scientific enquiry. To his credit, Sticky piped up often and vocally with a myriad of questions, and in that respect, he was more bearable than some of the undergraduate students at the university. In the back of his mind, he pitied the local children and their woeful lack of education; he contemplated who he would have become had he been born in the Town-on-Gorkhon. What career would he have chosen if not medicine? No longer an outsider, would he have more rapport with the townsfolk? Would he still be ideologically incompatible? Would he and Artemy get along, would they have come of age together?

He gnawed at the inside of his cheek. The sun had set while he'd been talking. "With that, seminar's over. Now you're enlightened and you know who Francis Bacon is; we'll get to Descartes and Newton next time, and if you're lucky, we might even cover Hume and Berkeley."

"Thanks, Bachelor," Sticky laughed, rising from his seat and stretching. "I don't know what any of it has to do with the Sand Pest, but—and don't let it go to your head—your lessons aren't actually as boring as I thought they'd be."

"You had no prior foundation, so I have to build your education ab initio," Daniil muttered. "From first principles."

"Yeah, yeah. Are you going to force me to learn Latin, too?" Sticky began inching toward the door.

"Contra spem spero," came Daniil's rejoinder, before an idea struck him and he remembered another task. "Ah! Wait, before you go, could you deliver Murky her rations?" He withdrew a can of food from his carpet bag, holding it out.

"Why can't you do it yourself?" bemoaned Sticky, snatching the can out of his hand anyway. Despite his ornery tone, Daniil had full confidence that he wouldn't steal it for himself.

Snapshots of last night flickered behind Daniil's eyelids: the ground falling out from beneath his feet, the long-forgotten sensation of a warm body on his, the glints of starlight in eyes the same color as pools of mercury, the same color as his blade. "I had a run-in with a rather unsavory character last time."

"So you're sending me?!" Sticky protested shrilly.

"Yes. You're sneakier than I am, and you're much less likely to invoke the ire of said character if he finds you. Or anyone else, for that matter."

Sticky scrunched his nose. "And who's that?"

More glimpses of stubble, scars, hands. Daniil gulped; thank God he'd taken off his cravat, he felt as if he'd be strangulated by it. "You can guess, can't you? The Ripper."

An indescribable emotion emerged in Sticky's bright eyes. "You're that scared of him?"

Daniil exhaled sharply, derisively. "Sticky, he nearly decapitated me last night." He doubted Artemy would have been so brutal in reality, but hyperbole never hurt when making the ill-advised decision of trying to communicate seriously with a kid named Sticky.

Sticky pursed his lips in a pseudo-scowl at his accusation. "Who, Burakh? He wouldn't do that."

The moon was already streaming into the garret with silvery beams of light; Daniil would have lit a lamp if he believed he could stay awake much longer. "I assure you: he would, and he did. I scarcely managed to disarm him and abscond before he sliced my jugular—that's one of the big, important veins in your neck, by the way. Why, are you under the impression that he's some gentle giant?"

To Daniil's stupefaction, Sticky broke their eye contact and raised his pale eyebrows. "I dunno. I think you two would be great friends." When Daniil merely gawked at him, Sticky paused before he continued, "Actually, he told me he thinks you're smart."

Every word Sticky said confused Daniil more than the last. Were Sticky and Artemy actually close enough to casually chat, and about him, no less? Alarm bells sounded in Daniil's head; they were closer than Sticky was letting on. There was no scenario in which Artemy was complimenting Daniil behind his back, not a chance. "You should know by now how much I hate being lied to, Sticky."

"I'm not lying! Ugh, I knew you wouldn't believe me." Sticky rolled his eyes and slouched melodramatically, turning to leave. "Whatever. I'll give Murky her dinner."

Daniil massaged his temple, trying to stave off an impending headache. He had no clue how to interpret Sticky's behavior, and he couldn't spare the brainpower right now. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow, alright? Take care."

"Later." With that, the door shut, and Daniil was alone again.

Tension began to drain away gradually, but the accumulating stress of the days had crushed Daniil so tightly that he wasn't sure he'd ever fully breathe out again. He checked his synthesis one more time, and only after that did he begin to undress, undoing each tier of buttons on his waistcoat, his dress shirt, his fly. When he was finally down to his underwear, a short union suit, he crawled into the bed that wasn't his and tried to fall asleep.

Damn his insomnia. Was it the copious coffee consumption, or could it be the cigarettes that prevented him from drifting off to the slumber he so desperately needed?

No, his hindbrain sardonically remarked, it was the recollection of Artemy's fist intersecting with Daniil's gut that held his consciousness hostage. He put his palm to his feverish forehead, dragging it down his face in disgust. That was what occupied him, what deprived him of sleep—Artemy Burakh's broad shoulders eclipsing his own? What was he, some virginal maiden in one of Eva's romance novels? No, worse, the flush that metastasized from his face to his chest to between his hips was because of an assassination attempt, something that basic human instinct should have shied away from but that Daniil's broken anatomy apparently craved. How morbid.

There had to be some property of twyre or something intrinsic to the Town that had deranged Daniil's faculties. He was usually so divorced from carnal desire, very rarely having the time or motivation to indulge his libido, but it was inescapable now, unbearable. No, he wouldn't give in to the foibles of his body, he was going to fall asleep. He rolled over onto his side, and like clockwork, the sight of Artemy snarling and the odor of smoke and herbs appeared in his mind, and he whined out of frustration.

He wouldn't give in. He watched his own fingers undo his underwear just enough to reveal his chest and stomach—and the blotch of a bruise Artemy had given him yesterday. It was large, just next to and below his navel, a florid and angry purple hue that had waxed slate gray with the filter of nighttime. It contrasted with his pale skin almost comedically starkly, so much darker than the surrounding midriff that it looked like he'd had a patch sewn into his flesh; it almost resembled a massive love bite to Daniil. The comparison made him throb lower down, and he staunchly ignored it in favor of running his fingertips along the abrasion.

He wished Artemy wasn't such a villain, but he wished even more that his insurgent arousal wouldn't find villains like him physically attractive to begin with. He prodded at the bruise and his spine bowed reflexively, a quiet, pitchy gasp escaping his mouth as the pain ignited along his groin—he imagined it was Artemy's huge hand pressing on it, the butt of his knife, fuck, his tongue. He'd bite hard enough to leave teeth marks, Daniil presumed as his other trembling hand snaked upwards to graze against his puncture wound, and if he didn't leave them on his midriff to match the first mark, he'd certainly sprinkle them along his décolletage.

Why didn't Artemy slit his throat when he had the chance? His blade had only nipped at Daniil's sensitive skin, and Daniil deliriously imagined it as a flirtation, a covert signal that he wouldn't injure him too grievously no matter what. He wondered if Artemy could see how lustful Daniil was then, just as much as he was now, dampening his linen with arousal—wondered if he felt it or saw it in the abyss, wondered if Artemy might have felt the same fatal chemistry, every point of contact connecting their bodies in itself a catalyst. Distantly, he recalled the etymology of catalysis, from the Greek: to loosen, unbind, but also to unyoke or to destroy.

He circled around the bruise, wincing at how he twitched, and rolled over again in bed to stubbornly compel himself to rest unsatisfied. He wouldn't give in, and he wouldn't let Artemy win.

---

When Artemy returned to his lair to Sticky gawping at him in the middle of the room, he knew something was afoot.

"What're you doing here, kid?" Artemy greeted gruffly, too exhausted to berate him as he locked the vault door behind him.

Sticky backed away like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. "Nothing."

Artemy began unloading the twyre he'd gathered from his leather pouches, black and brown and bloody, and organized the stems into messy piles on the work table. "Tell me, Sticky."

Rain fell diffidently atop the metal roof in a gentle cacophony, nearly drowning out Sticky's uncertain voice. "...Okay. I wanted to surprise you with something."

Artemy shot him a sidelong glance. "Good surprise or bad surprise?"

"Good." With that, Sticky revealed what he'd been holding behind his back with a flourish: a scrap of shining red silk. "Ta-da!"

Artemy narrowed his eyes. He seized the gift and inspected it, twisting the smooth fabric to observe how it caught the lamp light. It was much finer than anything Artemy's callused hands had ever held, supple and satiny, more like liquid than any of Artemy's clothing. Then, after a moment of pondering, he realized it was Daniil's cravat.

"Sticky! Where the hell did you get this?" Artemy shouted, closing his fist around the ascot as it nearly slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

"I found it!" answered Sticky, holding his palms up as if in surrender. "I figured you might like having it. A trophy, or something."

Artemy felt heat rush to his cheeks. This was the silk that touched Daniil's throat like his knife had, and Sticky had taken it for him, had known that he would have wanted it. A flood of conflicting reactions inundated Artemy as he struggled to formulate a response.

"Anyways, I'm going to go hunt the Albino now," Sticky declared, sidling past Artemy to scamper in the direction of the entrance.

"It's dark out and it's raining, Sticky." The rainfall didn't sound particularly heavy yet, but as much as Artemy wanted Sticky to leave him alone, he was still averse to sending a scrawny kid like him out to get soaked.

"Duh. Don't worry, I have loads of hiding spots for me to take cover and stake him out. This way, he won't hear me coming." After Artemy didn't relent, Sticky rambled on, "Plus I have a hypo-thesis that the Albino likes rain, so, you know. Testing it out."

From his own youth, Artemy could plainly see that Sticky was taking any excuse to flee before he was scolded; he could only hope that he hadn't tampered with anything in the lair to warrant a scolding. Giving him Daniil's scarf wasn't enough to earn a reprimand that would have Sticky anxious to bolt like this. If his own adolescence was any indication, Artemy knew that barricading him in here would only make him resentful. "Suit yourself. But don't get yourself sick, kid."

"I won't, I won't. If I've avoided the Sand Pest for this long, I think I can fend off a cold. Bye!" Sticky gave him a lazy salute and left, though he was barely strong enough to open and close the huge metal door himself.

Artemy carded his fingers through his hair and shook his head before walking over to properly secure the lock once more. Sticky was scheming, beyond a shadow of a doubt. He examined the cravat, thumbing along the strange shape, symmetrical and angular with a thinner midsection like the waist of a wasp, or—like the waist of its wearer.

Of course. As if there was anywhere else for Artemy's warped mind to wander.

After tossing the infernal silk onto the chest that acted as his nightstand, he shucked off his coat and boots mechanically, grinding his teeth out of habit. It was late, he couldn't justify brewing tinctures to preoccupy himself now, not when his muscles were sore and his tasks were finally done for the day. He had earned his rest. If that meant he'd have no cudgel with which to beat back these erotic visions of Daniil's slender physique and parted lips, then so be it.

He grew clumsy as he peeled off layer after layer, involuntarily imagining it was those nimble fingers unbuckling each leather strap and yanking his trousers down past his ankles; he'd be much more gentle than Artemy was with himself now, than how rough he'd be with Daniil. His throat went dry, and when his undershirt came off at last, he gratefully collapsed into his shabby bed. His fantasies took the form of a series of hypothetical questions. Would Daniil protest if Artemy ripped off his brooch, his waistcoat, his slacks like he yearned to, if he tore his pristine white button-down or the pristine skin underneath?

It was humiliating how rapidly his cock twitched in his boxers at the concept. Daniil's gilded smile had haunted Artemy since he first seen it, along with the airy indictment of "Goddamn monster" that fell from it, said more like a pet name between lovers than a scathing insult. What did that smile mean? Did he enjoy all of this as much as Artemy did? Was he as ashamed of the perverse gratification he took from it as Artemy was?

Scarlet was all Artemy saw; scarlet blush, scarlet blood, vest, tongue, scarlet bruise he'd left on Artemy's thigh kicking like a bucking bull, scarlet wrapped around Daniil's neck. Artemy thoughtlessly reached over and retrieved the cravat while his other hand tugged down his waistband. He'd bet money that Daniil had brought a whole collection of cravats with him from the Capital, such a pretty boy dandy.

He was, though, Artemy couldn't deny it—pretty, that is. He was gorgeous, unlike anyone Artemy had ever seen, striking and refined and ethereal. The fact that they stood diametrically opposed was a cruel joke played on them by the universe, Artemy was convinced. They would have slotted together so flawlessly in another life, entwined like snakes, spiraling around the other until they meshed together into one. He squeezed himself at the base, shuddering at the sensation of slickness dripping down his length.

He'd intended to only toy with the fabric, to feel the velvety texture while he started to work himself, but then it hit him: that smell, camphor and tobacco and salt—that was the scent overwhelming his senses when he had Daniil writhing against him, gasping and panting for him. What if he had given in to the urge to lean forward and inhale deeply like he wanted, or even plant a kiss on that lily-white neck? Would Daniil have protested, or would he go limp in Artemy's grasp, willingly permitting Artemy to suck and bite at his pulse point until all he could sense was that damn cologne? What did it say about Artemy that he wanted him to continue fighting after?

His palm's pace quickened. He wished he'd licked the droplet of blood from his neck, just to see if it'd made Daniil throb the same way imagining it made Artemy. He wanted it to—Boddho, he wanted to watch Daniil come apart because of him. The ruby satin would look like expensive jewelry on bony wrists, Artemy reckoned, if he used it to tie them together above Daniil's head or behind his back. His cock wept another bead of precum; if Daniil made such alluring whimpers when fighting, Artemy wouldn't survive any moans he let out while Artemy thrust inside of him or pumped his fist around him like he did himself, especially not if he was restrained. Another mental image, more like a pinup, popped up, one of Daniil kneeling eagerly with a vermilion blindfold. Red suited Daniil.

It was animalistic, primal hunger—Artemy wanted to prove to Daniil that he wasn't so above his humanity as he considered himself. He needed to bring him down to earth from his ivory tower, down to Artemy's level; he needed to desecrate and corrupt the one who proclaimed himself holier-than-thou, as if maybe once he came on all fours with Artemy rutting into him he'd see the error of his ways and agree to cooperate. The logic was tenuous even to Artemy's muddled brain, but the twist of his wrist and the glide of his grip persuaded him that he was making perfect sense. It was unfathomable that Daniil would ever return his ardor, but in his dreams, he was begging for more, unraveling under Artemy's attention.

He hoped that Daniil was stroking himself with the same urgency at the Stillwater, that he worried at his lower lip to stifle his debauched moans like Artemy did despite how loud the pounding rain had become. The thought of Daniil arching his back in bed as he touched himself sent Artemy careening over the edge, and instinctively, he held the cravat close to breathe Daniil in while euphoria overcame him as if he were holding him close to his chest instead. He was helpless, completely at the mercy of his desire and the aroma of neroli, and his post-orgasmic haze left him grounded only by that fragrant ghost of Daniil.

He was surprised to find himself still awake after the daze subsided. He nearly wiped his spend on the silk impulsively, but he prudently stopped himself and used a spare rag instead. All at once, the shame rushed in; not only had he pleasured himself with a stolen article of his sworn enemy's clothing, but it'd been embarrassingly brief because of how scintillating he found the prospect. They'd been trying to kill each other, Daniil held him at gunpoint more times than he could count, this infatuated lust was nonsensical and inappropriate and his hatred should have overridden any and all of it before it progressed this far, why had he let it progress this far?

In revulsion, Artemy balled the stupid ascot up and threw it as forcefully as he could, ridding himself of the demon torturing him. Maybe this was psychological warfare, he mused, and Daniil had laced pheromones or something into his clothing... he didn't know what kind of miraculous drugs he might have developed in his laboratory; if he was working to defeat death, maybe he gained insight into the little death along the way.

No, Artemy knew he had no one to blame but himself, his own lack of willpower. The next time he saw Daniil, he would be stronger, he would rebuke any debasing urges before they could compromise him even further. The cloying sickness in his stomach was the last thing he perceived before Artemy drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

Notes:

this fic will update a little differently from my past multichaps—because this is going to be BEEFY, im publishing the chapters as i finish writing them because theyre practically fic-length in themselves. so dont expect the next chapter tomorrow like i usually do, itll come out whenever im done with it^^;; i have an outline and everything im so professional

unbetad, so if there are any typos no there arent<3

Chapter 2: ii.

Notes:

note that i bumped it up to 4 chapters instead of 3—this is entirely because this was supposed to be only the first half of chapter 2, and as you can see, its 8.6k words^^;;;

enjoy💚

Daniil knocked with three loud clangs upon the door to the Haruspex's lair. He had his collar turned up against the wind, but his neck still felt naked and cold.

To Daniil's surprise, the response came as a call of, "Come in, 's unlocked!" He didn't question it and pried the handle to the side to enter the den of the beast. He'd never been inside Artemy's hideout before; he was grateful for that the moment he walked in. Rust and grime coated every surface, the temperature seemed ten degrees higher than it should be, and worst of all, the cloying twyre aroma was far more concentrated than it was out on the Steppe. Daniil coughed and folded his collar back down, already feeling woozy, and then he saw the Haruspex himself and swayed where he stood.

Artemy looked up from where he was working on the homemade alembic. He'd tied a blue sweater around his waist—Daniil had only ever seen the neck of it poking out from under his brown leather cowl—and was left in only his thin undershirt, yet still veiled in a sheer layer of sweat from the exertion. His bared biceps tensed when he saw who his visitor was, and Daniil loathed the way he salivated at the sight. He looked different like this; blond hair tousled, posture relaxed, tan skin glistening, crisscrossed with scars, visible.

"Bachelor? What do you want?" He locked eyes with Daniil, daring him to advance.

"Peace." Despite being the one trespassing in enemy territory, Daniil felt cornered. Perhaps he should have drawn his revolver by now. He saw Artemy's gaze dart down to his exposed throat, and a shiver wracked Daniil's body when he licked his lips as if preparing to sink his teeth in. "I only want my cravat, Haruspex."

Instantly, the dynamic shifted. Artemy's brows shot upward, clearly caught off-guard by his request. He turned fully in his stool to face Daniil so he wouldn't have to twist around so much, and Christ, Daniil couldn't handle witnessing Artemy in that thin shirt, a palimpsest of his physique, fully on display; not when prior to this, he'd only had a vague idea of his shape. His shoulders really were as broad as they seemed, his musculature was even pronounced than he'd expected, his chest was as solid as it had felt when he'd crushed Daniil against it. He noticed the patch of muddy ochre on his forearm, and with a jolt, he recognized it as the bruise he'd given him on the railroad tracks; a sick satisfaction coursed through his veins, an intravenous bolus of delectatio morosa.

He hoped Artemy didn't notice him admiring his body like he noticed Artemy fixate on his throat. Something exceptionally flustered Daniil about that.

"You—your cravat?" Artemy finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

"Yes." Daniil took a few steps closer and craned his neck to demonstrate its blankness, savoring the reaction that elicited: long brown eyelashes blinking rapidly and a rising tinge of carmine coloring his cheeks. Fuck, what did that mean, was his interest predatory or lustful? Did it even matter to Daniil if he'd want to provoke him more either way? He prayed that Artemy noticed the mark denoting the spot where his knife had nicked. "My cravat has gone missing, and I've heard from a reliable source that you've got your bear paws on it. I'd like it back, and civilly, if possible."

Artemy opened and closed his mouth. "And what source was that?"

Daniil arched an eyebrow. "Why should I tell you and put an innocent life in danger? They're reliable, that's all." He inched even nearer, magnetically drawn in to irresistibly rugged features that he never got to see in such close proximity without a weapon involved. "I don't know why it's in your possession in the first place, but I'll magnanimously forgive you if you return it."

"Do you only own the one?" Artemy asked, condescending, slowly standing from the tiny stool.

"Yes. I packed for a weekend trip." Unease filled Daniil at the unfamiliar experience of not only being in Artemy's presence without fearing for his life, but especially wandering into Artemy's lair. "I have more in my flat at the Capital, but, well..."

"Understood." Artemy turned and Daniil followed him deeper into the living space, marveling at the geometric forms of his back as he opened a chest beside what had to be the most pathetic bed Daniil had ever seen, and he'd been a starving medical student—not that he was particularly wealthy nowadays, either.

Daniil couldn't fathom why Artemy had stolen it. When he couldn't find it whilst getting dressed that morning, he'd assumed that he'd lost it; however, when he ventured downstairs for coffee and found that Sticky had stopped by for breakfast, he was duly informed that he saw Artemy carrying a piece of fancy red fabric just now on whilst his way to the Stillwater. Daniil was skeptical, but Sticky swore up and down that he'd seen Artemy with it. He wasn't sure how Artemy would have done it logistically, but with no other leads, he loaded his gun in preparation for a confrontation. Sticky stopped him, though, and insisted that Artemy wouldn't attack him if he visited his lair and asked nicely for it, at least not initially. Daniil didn't believe him, but he agreed nonetheless.

Daniil balked when Artemy faced him again and lo and behold—his missing cravat laid in the palm of one of his giant hands. The silk was wrinkled, but it wasn't shredded like he'd feared.

Brusquely, Artemy held it out even farther from his body. "Here, Bachelor. Is this it?"

Daniil nodded dumbly, speechless, as he snatched it with his heart illogically racing. How was Sticky actually correct? He turned to the broken, cloudy mirror above the washbasin and started to weave the ends of his cravat together at his throat. "Thank you. When did you steal this, then, Haruspex?"

Artemy scoffed. "I didn't. Someone gave it to me."

"Who?" Daniil immediately asked, glancing at him as he tied the scarf without looking.

"They're generous, that's all you need to know," smugly replied Artemy.

Daniil chuckled softly, which came as a shock to both of them. He ignored the warmth radiating throughout his chest cavity, a lethal symptom of a disease that he refused to contract, and finished tying the knot. He felt relief at the return of the comfortable pressure on his Adam's apple, though he didn't miss how Artemy was becoming progressively more flushed the longer Daniil intruded.

"You should—" Artemy began, but he cut himself off.

"I should what?"

Artemy refused to meet Daniil's gaze, folding his arms and facing the entryway with a scowl. He considered for another beat before muttering, "You should skip the cravat."

Daniil froze. His brain struggled to compute. "...Excuse me?"

Artemy shrugged in a laughable attempt at nonchalance. "You look like a prick with it on." Daniil wasn't sure if he was imagining the unspoken implication of you look better without it, you look good without it. He needed to rein in his delusions before they got him in trouble, Christ.

The silence was thick. "You're just saying that so that it's easier to slit my throat next time," replied Daniil more breathlessly than he'd have liked.

"It's plenty easy either way." They were dancing around the fact that he hadn't, and Daniil couldn't think straight enough to cleverly call him out for it with all the twyre fumes and how hot it was and Artemy's arms.

This should not have felt like flirting. This was threatening, undoubtedly, but Artemy's body language... Daniil considered going without his cravat more often, if not just to see Artemy act so oddly. "I'm sure I'll prove you wrong next time. Until then?"

Artemy nodded, broken out of his stupor to walk Daniil out. It was bizarre, like Daniil was a one-night stand being shown the door the next morning. He wasn't sure why a cravat was enough to constitute a truce while the plague wasn't, but he wouldn't complain if he could leave the Haruspex's lair without a scratch. "Get out, Dankovsky."

"With pleasure."

The door slammed so loudly that Daniil reflexively tried to plug his ear.

Hours later, Daniil held his face mask over his nose as he climbed the stairs of a house in an infected district. The entire area seemed to have a poisonous green hue, the air itself turned to caustic fumes produced from plague sufferers' howls; sores and scabs latched onto buildings out of a macabre sympathy, as if the architecture lamented the destruction the pestilence wrought, too.

Daniil had been just passing through, but he made a detour when he heard a sign of life and saw a blond head in a second-story window. Surely that wasn't who he thought it was. He made his way through the wreckage of furniture to ascend the stairs, fueled by turmoil, and his worst fears were confirmed when he saw a child in a plaid flannel rooting around in a decrepit armoire.

"Sticky?" Daniil hissed. "You're coming with me, now!" With that, he grabbed Sticky's ear and dragged him downstairs, then out of the house, then fully out of the plague district into the neighboring burned one, all while ignoring his complaints. Still not safe per se, but infinitely more so than the alternative.

"Bachelor Dankovsky, I'm fine! Calm down!" Sticky yelped, rubbing his pinched ear in pain once Daniil let it go.

"No, you're not, you could be ill! What the hell is wrong with you? You know the basics of disease transmission by now, I've drilled it into your damned head!" Daniil's anger superceded his propriety, and he couldn't stop himself from swearing like he would at his real lab assistants.

"Yeah, I know, God!" Twig arms crossed his concave chest. "I can take care of myself, thanks. I was gathering medical supplies."

Daniil scoffed in disbelief. "Gathering medical supplies in a leper colony! Where did you get that bright idea? It sure as hell wasn't from what I taught you."

Sticky sneezed into his elbow and Daniil's blood rushed in his ears. Was the kid infected with the Pest, after they'd made it so far, after they were so close to a vaccine? Daniil wouldn't be able to live with himself if his pupil, the child who had burrowed his way under his wing, were to die of the Sand Pest on the cusp of its eradication. "I didn't say it was. It was kind of Burakh—"

A new wrath boiled in Daniil. He was going to beat him senseless the next time he saw him, cravat be damned. "I knew it, that bastard! Why are you—"

"Stop! He asked me to help scavenge whatever needles and drugs were left," Sticky explained, holding his hands out like soothing a wild horse. "I know all the burnt districts have been picked clean long ago, so I thought I'd take my chances."

Daniil was still incandescent with rage. That morning really was a ruse, then—Artemy's friendliness and cooperation and charming bashfulness were all a façade, him advising Daniil as to how he should dress, the blushing and dilated pupils were nothing but a mask Artemy had donned to lower his defenses. What kind of villain sent a child into a blocks-long sanitorium for his personal material benefit? Daniil could have vomited knowing how he'd fantasized about Artemy, how he'd almost caved to his ploy earlier that day. "Don't listen to anything he says, do you hear me?"

Sticky covered his face with his hands before turning and coughing. "It's not—not his fault, don't blame him."

"You're sick, Christ, I don't have any shmowder left..." Daniil muttered feebly, prodding his own forehead at the first pangs of a migraine, wishing his fingers were capable of pithing or trepanning. He didn't have enough antibiotics for a full course, either, and God knows what would come of a medication-resistant strain of the Sand Pest.

"It's a cold, dumbass!" squawked Sticky in exasperation. "It's just a cold. That's it! I was hunting the Albino last night in the rain, and it gave me a regular old head cold. Can you calm down now?!"

Daniil pressed his lips together in a firm line. A part of him hoped Sticky was right and it wasn't a serious illness, but a much larger part of him knew that he would never be so lucky. After a minute of deliberation, Daniil ordered, "Go home, Sticky, and stay there."

Sticky snorted. "Or what, are you gonna ground me?"

Daniil was not laughing. Numbly, he said, "Please, Sticky. If not for your own sake, then for mine." The world was disintegrating around him, chipping off in flakes like aged paint, and Daniil couldn't bear his sphere of influence shrinking any more than it already had.

Hearing the beginnings of a downward spiral in his tone, Sticky's demeanor changed, like the gravity of it all finally sank in. He hacked into his elbow again, harsh coughs that rent Daniil more with each bark, before he nodded deferentially at last. "Fine. Fine, I'll stay home today."

"Thank you, thank you," Daniil exhaled, awkwardly squeezing his upper arm in lieu of what would have been an even more awkward hug. "I'll teach you about anything you want as a reward, I promise."

"Will you let me play with the Plaguefinder?" Sticky grinned.

Daniil rolled his eyes. "If that's what it takes to get you to stay out of trouble, I might be amenable. Now go, before I change my mind."

"Thank you, Bachelor!" With that, Sticky practically skipped away toward the Skinners, yet Daniil still felt an additional weight piled atop his already-oppressive burden.

He aimlessly wandered into the jaundiced atmosphere of the burnt district, drawing his revolver out of preemptive caution. He had to scrounge up some more antibiotics, then, in case Sticky's diagnosis was mistaken. He felt as if he walked in a haze as he popped in and out of houses, something like somnambulism, checking drawers that were already flung open in a fatalistic state of oblivion.

He'd nearly given up when he saw a hulking form through a shattered window in the first floor of one of the houses, and at that, he stilled. Peering in between the shards of glass, he could discern that yes, that monstrous shape was Artemy Burakh; how typical of him, Daniil sneered internally, saving the safer parts for himself.

Quietly, Daniil crept into the dilapidated building behind Artemy, hands shaking where they laid on the guard of the revolver. He checked the chamber—only to find he was out of rounds. Shit. He'd forgotten that he'd had to shoot a rat in the plague district, and that must've been his last bullet. He tucked the firearm away and attempted to strategize.

No. He didn't have time for strategy. His lack of sleep compromised his decision-making, and his asinine bitterness over his false kindness that morning compounded the effect.

Daniil tackled Artemy with his full body weight, holding nothing back. Artemy lowed like a bull and stumbled forward, making a valiant effort of staying upright but ultimately falling forward onto the dusty hardwood.

"Shudkher—Dankovsky?!" Artemy wheezed, left stunned and prone on the floor under Daniil.

"Trying to get a child killed is low, even for you, Haruspex," Daniil seethed, snaking an arm under his throat.

Before he could strangulate him, though, Artemy thrashed to the side, throwing Daniil off of him to slam against the wall like a ragdoll, just below where amber light filtered through the broken window. No crunch of glass, though, to Daniil's relief; must have been broken from the inside, then. Artemy lunged after him clumsily, seizing Daniil by the waistcoat and grappling him in earnest.

They struggled for what felt like an eternity before suddenly, Artemy pulled Daniil in close to his chest, wrapping those tantalizing biceps around Daniil and clamping one hand on his mouth. He was warm, so warm, impossibly warm, so much so that Daniil couldn't help but melt at those strong arms around him, those arms drawing him so close to his chest that he was practically in his lap. One boot circled around Daniil's hip and stomped on the floor between his spread legs, pinning Daniil to him even further with a sturdy, thick thigh pressed against his waist. His other leg caged Daniil in, too, and he had never felt so utterly surrounded by a person before, as if he and Artemy were attempting to fuse their bodies into one person. All this chaos happened in only a few moments, and Daniil had no time to register what was happening until Artemy was constricting him and muffling his sounds.

"Quiet," Artemy hissed urgently.

Daniil saw a patrolman approaching from down the street. Ah, that was it—Artemy didn't want to be found by the police. Well, unlike him, Daniil wasn't a wanted man.

His hands flew up to Artemy's forearm and tried to tug it off of him while he screamed as loudly as his smoke-compromised lungs would allow.

In response, Artemy's grip tightened even more, physically holding Daniil's jaw shut and curling in on top of him to an asphyxiating degree; the scent of smoky firewood, copper, and herbs hit Daniil like he'd poured into his empty body as a vessel.

Then, Artemy drew his foot in more to pin Daniil's groin to his own—perhaps to prevent him kicking—and with that, rubbed the leather of his boot on Daniil's hard cock disastrously. He didn't know when he had stiffened, but he was hyperaware of it now. Daniil was grateful that he couldn't open his mouth, because the humiliating groan that would have surely left him could have been catastrophic, he had to escape his inadvertent teasing before he further embarrassed himself. He writhed away from the delicious friction, upwards and backwards, where he was immediately met with the prod of Artemy's own prominent arousal against his ass and a sudden hitch in the hot breath tickling his ear.

Christ. Daniil's entire body trembled, torn between bucking forward to rut against Artemy's boot and shrinking backward to grind against Artemy's bulge. And—fuck, what a bulge it was. Daniil twitched in his trousers at the size of it, the insistence of it; Artemy wasn't just coincidentally erect due to an adrenaline rush, he was just as revoltingly aroused as Daniil, and he made a stifled sound against his sweaty palm when Artemy rolled up into him and clutched his chest even harder.

He heard the scuffing on cobblestones and the jingly clicking of a rifle bouncing in a patrolman's grasp outside. Daniil wanted to cry out to alert him to the beast that had him restrained by brute force, but then he felt Artemy's ankle slide up his thigh, deliberately grazing against Daniil's length, and his willpower crumbled to ashes. The physical attraction was too much, either that or Daniil was too weak, having gone through too long of a dry spell and now succumbing to sexual frustration.

Daniil could feel Artemy's pulse with his wrist digging into his cheek—to his delight, his heart was pounding, too, though it wasn't clear if it was due to the risk of arrest or due to the stimulation. Either way, Daniil's nerves were awash with heat, and though he wriggled in his grasp, he wasn't certain if he wanted to escape. It'd be smart to stop this before he made even more of a fool out of himself, but Artemy was huffing in his ear, quiet, wanton groans that came across more as growls, and Daniil would die if he had to go without hearing those obscenities ever again.

"Shudkher, quit that," Artemy panted sotto voce. The words fanned hotly on Daniil's sensitive neck, exposed without the cravat, and mortifyingly, his hips canted into the sole of Artemy's boot instinctively. Here he was, dry humping Artemy's viscera-splattered ankle so soon after vowing to end him for risking Sticky's life. Actually, nevermind—he did not want to think about Sticky right now.

The marching steps and rifle noises outside paused, then began again.

When Daniil arched back into Artemy, sharp teeth suddenly nipped at his ear, and had he not been muzzled, he would have yelped loud enough for the patrol to hear. Due to the angle, Artemy only clipped the cartilaginous side; Daniil was certain he'd have bitten off a chunk of his ear if he'd managed to reach the lobe.

"Behave, tenegh, just this once," whispered Artemy. He sounded more plaintive than before, like he was finally getting desperate enough to beg.

Daniil didn't know what possessed him, maybe the shabnak, but he acquiesced and went still against Artemy's heaving chest. He fell with the silent sigh of relief Artemy let out, and like this, the smell of him was even more powerful, like no cologne Daniil had ever seen in the Capital. He was beyond ashamed of himself, but for a moment, he could slip his eyes shut and imagine a more playful wrestling, one that was done out of affection and would result in a happier ending.

The footsteps receded into the distance at last. Artemy shoved Daniil off of him like he was burned, and when Daniil looked back at him, he throbbed at the vision of Artemy in lust: his cheeks flushed red, his pupils blown into black holes, the shape of his excitement visible even through thick leather pants, his lower lip bloodied from gnawing.

Fuck, he looked good. Too good. Unfortunately, Artemy was eyeing up Daniil just as much as the reverse, and Daniil tried to cover his own embarrassment but it was far too late for that; Artemy had already seen the vulgar outline of him, his damned trousers had become slightly looser whilst food was scarce, loose enough that there was no hiding it. It was purely physical, that's all, physical—his new mantra, it seemed.

Robbed of his speech, Daniil stood up on wobbling knees and glared at Artemy's limp posture, like a marionette with snipped strings, before stumbling out of the abandoned house with a thorn in his side and a pit in his stomach. He didn't look back to see if Artemy followed.

He refused to think about it at all, and he succeeded—up until that evening, when his urges were too insistent for him to resist.

Another insomniac night, but this time, Daniil didn't bother pretending that he was better than the whims of his corpus vile. There were too many fragmented visions in his mind vying for his attention for him to fall asleep without some kind of muscle relaxant, and he was out of meradorm so this would have to suffice.

Daniil had unbuttoned his undergarments down to his midriff again, smoothing a thumb overtop his bruise as he reflected on the juxtaposition between the two Artemys he'd met that day. One had blushingly told him he should skip the cravat—which he did, despite everything—and the other had needlessly endangered Sticky's life. He couldn't reconcile the two conflicting characters; he wanted to believe that Artemy was as nice as Sticky said he was, as nice as he was that morning, as nice as he felt against him, but there were too many pieces of evidence to the contrary for him to ignore.

Like the way he got off on fighting him, for example. Daniil pressed on the abrasion and exhaled with a shudder as he grazed along damp fabric. Artemy was unmistakably aroused by the violence; Daniil could practically still feel his hardness pressed against his ass, could hear his half-concealed groans in his ear, could hear him begging Daniil to stop squirming lest the patrolman hears. Would he have come in his pants if Daniil disobeyed and kept moving? The thought was enough to make Daniil cave in, running one hand down under his remaining clothing. Artemy had certainly sounded like he was on the verge of something, and it wasn't just wishful thinking if Daniil knew he felt him thrust up into him involuntarily.

So Artemy had some sadistic or masochistic fetish, then—did that indicate a moral fault? Daniil was inclined to condemn it as perverse at the very least, but then he dug his fingertips into the aching tenderness of his abdomen and keened, dripping arousal into his other hand. If he were to judge Artemy's enjoyment, then he'd have to contend with his own complicity first.

He could still smell him, too, on his clothes, in his hair, on his cravat. He wasn't so indecent as to pleasure himself with his own ascot just because it was now infused with the same earthy perfume as the body restraining him, but he couldn't bear wearing it, either. Not when combined with the lingering ghost of Artemy's blade at his throat.

Daniil swiped a thumb across his head, horrified at how eager he was. He twitched into his palm at the unforgettable scene he'd left behind of Artemy splayed open, legs spread wide with a Daniil-sized vacuum in his lap and against his chest and in his arms. He tried to keep his pace slow, like some sort of punishment for having the indiscretion to touch himself to the memory of the Ripper at all, but his self control had flown out of the window and landed somewhere in the Steppe long ago, and his hand frantically worked his cock despite the prickling shame of it all.

It was biological, not emotional, Daniil asserted to no one—any fallible person would have reacted in the same carnal way had they been constrained by rippling muscles as he was, had they felt the perfect hardness rutting against them. It was human nature to respond to mating signals in kind. It didn't make Daniil such a profligate if he was gasping quietly into his pillow or picturing Artemy's cock filling him up or moaning his name as the mounting pressure released in the form of euphoria and streaks of white across his stomach; what made him a profligate was how he continued pumping himself through his climax, prolonging the rush of endorphins until he softened and couldn't handle any more.

His plan worked, at least: he barely managed to clean off his abdomen before he was unconscious, his orgasm overcoming both his regret and his restlessness.

---

The Skinners district was slowly revivifying after the Sand Plague ravaged it the prior week, but the walk from Artemy's lair to Sticky's abode was still much quieter than usual. Save for the barking of dogs two streets away and the rustling of the breeze through the grasses beside the walkway, it was unearthly silent. The eerie absence of chatter was both saddening and peaceful, unreal.

Which is why Artemy could hear the footsteps crunching in autumn leaves nearby. His knife beckoned from its sheath, but Artemy stilled, waiting for the ambusher to show himself. He stood at Sticky's door, fist raised, hesitating to knock until the coast was clear in case his pursuer heard.

"Burakh?"

Artemy did a double take. Daniil was the one who rounded the corner of Sticky's house, carrying his usual bag of tools. His eyebrows screwed together and up when he saw Artemy, and he surely mirrored the same bemused expression back at him.

"Dankovsky? What do you want with Sticky?" Artemy asked, though the timbre of his voice was more like a warning growl than a neutral query. They hadn't encountered each other since the incident in the burned district, when Artemy's body had betrayed him so completely that his only solace was that Daniil was in a similar state of unraveling. He wasn't wearing his cravat. Artemy tucked that observation away before it grew out of control.

Daniil scoffed. "I'm checking up on a sick child. In fact, I should be asking you that, Ripper, since you're the reason he's fallen ill in the first place."

Artemy rolled his eyes; at least he hadn't drawn his revolver yet. "No, I'm not. I specifically forbade him from entering infected parts of town—it's not my fault if the little shit didn't listen. I am not my apprentice's keeper."

Daniil's exaggerated annoyance instantly drained from his body language. He made eye contact with Artemy, dark irises glimmering with some revelation. "Your... apprentice, did you say?" he echoed tentatively.

"Yeah. I've been teaching the kid about the Kin traditional medicine, keeping him out of trouble the best I can. Though you'd probably say I'm indoctrinating him with backwater lies or some bullshit like that," he spat, craning his neck downward to maintain their locked gazes as Daniil approached him.

"He never told me that," Daniil all but whispered. He was pale, much paler than normal, and visibly shaken by this information, holding two gloved fingers to his mouth as he thought. Why, though, Artemy had no idea.

"Does he usually tell you things?" Artemy fired back sarcastically.

"...Yes." Stiff shoulders relaxed, falling like leaden weights. He contemplated for a second more, then looked back up at Artemy and said, "I think we've been tricked."

Artemy chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Go on."

"Sticky is my apprentice, Burakh," Daniil revealed at last. "I have been teaching him pharmacology and medicine, or I've been trying to. Unless he has an evil twin like the Changeling, he's been two-timing us."

Artemy bit his thumbnail. No wonder Sticky was so defensive of Daniil, then. He really should've expected this, in retrospect; Sticky was resourceful, and if he had a goal of learning how to heal, he'd absolutely use both the resources at his disposal. Sticky the Nuthatch had been flitting between two trees to peck out the most valuable parts of each—clever kid. "Did he tell you to meet him here?"

"Yes, at ten o'clock sharp." Daniil's irritation bled into his voice, though his annoyance didn't deter him.

"Huh. Me too."

"Precisely." Daniil shifted, looking at the door. "Is he here, then?"

"Uh..." Artemy knocked thrice on the metal lattice of the door. After a terse minute of quietude, he knocked again, also to no response. He tried the handle, and surprisingly, it was unlocked; he and Daniil glanced at each other in confusion before mutually agreeing to enter.

Sticky's base of operations was a cramped sort of cozy, with metal shelves digging into Artemy's side as he squeezed past into the hallway. The other rooms were empty, leaving only the winding path to Sticky's bedroom. Grime covered the floors; he'd have to teach Sticky how to mop too, apparently.

"I haven't been in here before," Daniil commented softly from behiind Artemy. "Is it always this..."

"Claustrophobic? Yes." Maybe not so much for Daniil—Artemy's forehead nearly banged against the last doorframe, but thankfully he caught himself in time. "Shudkher."

Sticky's bedroom was vacant, nothing but peeling brick walls and a tightly-shut window. Artemy bristled at the validation that yes, he had been duped by a twelve year old. A sheet of crumpled paper was all that remained, laying on his unmade bed; as Daniil snatched it and held it up to read, their breaths stopped in sync.

In a scrawl, Sticky had written, "Hunting the Albino, no meeting."

"He can't possibly be out in the Steppe," Daniil exclaimed, facing Artemy as if he were the one to blame. "He's bloody sick! I was doing a house call!"

"It's very possible. Well, I'm going to go hunt him down," replied Artemy gruffly. The tension was palpable, and before he could exit through the narrow corridor, Daniil blocked him.

Defiantly, Daniil said, "No. I won't let you get your paws on him, you're not a doctor. I'm going to find him."

Artemy planted his hands on his hips. "I'm a healer. I can carry him back to my hideout if I have to. I know the Steppe. Back off, Dankovsky. This isn't your job."

"I can assure you, it is," Daniil huffed, crossing his arms obstinately. "He's my apprentice. I'm searching for him, whether you like it or not."

"I don't. You're going to fall into the marsh and sprain your ankle if you tag along with those dandy boots." Even with the platforms, Daniil was still so much shorter than Artemy that he had to tuck his chin to glower at him from this close proximity. Shit, he recognized the smell of cologne. "You're not coming with me."

Daniil pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you're going out to the Steppe, then yes, I am. If we go off separately, you could find Sticky immediately and leave me wandering around for hours unawares—or vice versa. It's in our best interest to have either one of us or both of us searching, and I'm not staying home."

Artemy looked at the paper with Sticky's questionable handwriting. He didn't trust Daniil enough to wander out into the wilderness with him, not when he was so trigger happy with that damn revolver and not with how insatiably the marshy land could consume a corpse. However, judging by how Daniil's hackles were raised, he guessed that the suspicion was mutual. He remembered every time Sticky disagreed with his negative statements about Daniil; maybe Daniil really did care for the kid, too, if he held him in such high regard. Artemy wasn't letting him take Sticky without a fight, though.

"Truce? Just until we find Sticky?" Artemy offered his hand reluctantly.

"Truce." Daniil shook it firmly, his black leather glove cold against warm flesh. He dropped his carpet bag by Sticky's bed and led the way back out of the tiny house, shielding his eyes from the blinding daylight.

Artemy didn't wait for Daniil, walking south immediately in a beeline for the Steppe. He heard Daniil jog to catch up to him, and idly, he found it amusing that his legs were that much shorter that he maintained a brisk speedwalk to match Artemy's regular gait.

"Has Sticky given up any of his hiding spots to you, Burakh?" Daniil asked, breaking the silence they'd maintained until they reached the train tracks.

"No. You?" grumbled Artemy.

"No."

This was going to be exceptionally awkward.

The twyre snapped under their feet, and here, the fragrant air was refreshing to Artemy after the smog of the Works. He cast a glance back at Daniil, hiding a smirk at how high he lifted his feet to stomp through the brush. "Start near the Abattoir?" Artemy suggested.

Daniil scoffed loudly so as to be heard over the susurrating leaves. "So long as we don't get too close. They beat me half to death last time... Sticky said the Albino likes the Cemetery, if my memory serves."

Proof that Daniil and Sticky really were close, Artemy noted, vaguely impressed; without him, Daniil would never have bothered to know what an Albino is, much less where it lives. "He does say that. Let's sweep from the east to west, we'll hit the Cemetery on the way."

The mound of the Ragi Burrow loomed in the distance, growing taller as they walked nearer like the rising sun. Once they were sufficiently embedded in the outskirts of town, Artemy cupped his hands around his mouth without further ado and yelled Sticky's name at the top of his lungs.

Daniil flinched next to him and laughed at himself, clutching at his chest dramatically. "Hell, Burakh, you scared me!"

Artemy wasn't particularly bereaved, though it struck him how strange Daniil's face looked with a gentle grin, not a mad smile after having a knife pressed to his throat, but a genuine grin, if only for a second. He looked at where his glove pointed, up to his bared throat. Bared for Artemy, bared at Artemy's request. The twyre was messing with his method for repressing thoughts, he concluded. "Well, what else are we supposed to do? Do you know any bird calls? Sticky!"

To Artemy's satisfaction, another smile appeared on those striking features, and if he wasn't careful, he'd get caught staring dumbstruck at the sight. Shudkher, no, he was the enemy—this was only a truce, not an invitation to gawk at how picturesque black locks looked contrasted against the flaxen fields. Daniil ran his fingers through his hair, only for it to immediately fall into his eyes again. "Touché. I don't know if my voice can bellow quite as loud as yours, though."

They waded through the sea of twyre together, shouting for Sticky every ten feet or so to no avail. They remained stubbornly silent; there wasn't much to talk about, nothing to do but scan the barren landscape for a blond needle in a tan haystack. Once they reached the Cemetery, they paused, leaning against the wall to catch their breath some.

"This is going to take all bloody day," griped Daniil, shedding his gloves and shoving them in his pocket.

"What, you don't want to spend all day frolicking in the Steppe with your worst enemy?" Artemy replied sardonically as he wiped the sweat from his brow. It wasn't too warm, but the sun was beating down on them relentlessly, and with how difficult it was to forge his way through the wild grasses, it was exhausting work. "I'm having the time of my life."

"Wonderful, because I'm not." Daniil sneezed for the fiftieth time; Artemy almost felt bad for him because of his twyre hayfever, but he was distracted by the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. "I had things to do today, and they didn't include taking a hike with a mass murderer."

Artemy exhaled sharply. "That's how you view me? I don't kill unless I absolutely have to, tenegh."

"Whatever you say, Ripper. Must have earned your name somehow." Daniil's tone was derisive, and he pushed off of the wall to resume their trek. "Sticky!"

"Shudkher, I wish that moniker would die. Just to set the record straight, I got that title from my first night here—I stepped off the train and got jumped by three thugs. Sticky! It was all in self-defense, Dankovsky. I was half dead before I started fighting back." Artemy couldn't stop himself from contesting the epithet, and he thought of Sticky asking him why they couldn't get along. "The, uh, bad reputation issues compounded after that."

Daniil looked at Artemy with an odd expression. "...Is that true, Burakh?"

Artemy stared him in his eyes even as he walked. "Yes, it's true. On my honor." Realizing his honor wasn't worth much, he continued, "Besides, you knew my father; do you really think he would raise a callous serial killer?"

Daniil shrugged. "My father was a military man and he certainly didn't raise a doctor or a scientist, yet here I am. But—you're right, about Isidor." His voice faltered the slightest amount when he named his father. Artemy wondered how closely they'd worked, certainly close enough that Daniil would take a train out to the middle of nowhere at his recommendation.

"Sticky!" The way Daniil held himself made sense in that context, Artemy supposed. Chin high, back straight, shoulders squared—controlled, not quite so haughty. "Did you just say that I'm right? I could get used to hearing that."

Daniil rolled his eyes and clapped his hands as hard as he could, a compromise for not having the right tenor or lung capacity for a shout to carry whilst walking. "Ah, you were doing so well, Artemy. I almost didn't hate you for a second there."

Artemy's heart skipped. Was this flirting? Or whatever the friend equivalent was, Artemy didn't know. His stomach flipped at hearing his first name roll off of Daniil's tongue, not a curse or an insult or even his surname; shudkher, Artemy, remember who this man was. His mind regurgitated the memory of the aurochs in flames, the bones piercing its invaluable flesh as it turned to ash. "Wish I could say the same. Sticky!"

"Really? God, you make it so hard to be cordial with you!" Daniil's frustration echoed like Cathedral bells in Artemy's ears despite the flatness of the plains. His palms had to be red from how forcefully he clapped. "I can't fathom why you're even here looking for him, considering how you sent him into an infected district for supplies. You clearly have no regard for his safety!"

Artemy paused, too dumbfounded to keep hiking along. "I... What?"

"Yesterday—even a mindless beast like you should remember that!" Daniil continued without him for a few strides before noticing he'd stopped and turning to face him. "You told him to scavenge medical supplies, knowing that the scant few valuables left in this town are all locked away where even the bandits won't go: in the coffers of the diseased! He told me as much, after I rescued him coughing and wheezing from an infected house."

Artemy ran his hands down his face. He wasn't sure if Sticky misunderstood him, if Sticky misconstrued his words to Daniil, or if Daniil was lying, full stop. "No, tenegh, I didn't. I told him that if he happened to find any needles or tablets while making his rounds, then I'd appreciate any donations. Like I said before, I told him twenty fucking times to keep himself out of danger and away from the Pest."

"Not enough times, apparently!" snapped Daniil, marching off again.

"How can it be my fault that he didn't listen to me? Am I his babysitter? Why didn't you watch over him, then, if he's your apprentice, too?" Artemy snarled as he followed. "Sticky!"

"I've never made ambiguous, implicit commands like that to him. Maybe he doesn't respect you enough to listen to your orders. I wouldn't." The clap, clap, clap of smooth Capital hands cracked like gunshots; a sandgrouse took flight to their left, sienna wings fluttering in syncopated beats.

"Sticky respects me plenty, thanks. And you say I make it hard to be cordial!" Artemy barked a laugh completely devoid of mirth. "Everything you say is projection, you're such a hypocrite."

Daniil's upper lip curled into a sneer. "Is that so? Enlighten me, then, dear Haruspex; what grave misconducts have I committed that are on par with yours? Do tell."

"You scorched the last aurochs to ash, when I could've made an entire town's worth of panacea out of its blood!" Artemy's shouts were growing hoarse. "You left an innocent man to die in prison! You're the one that started this damn feud, anyway—I never wanted to fight you until you pulled that piece of junk you call a revolver on me! Sticky!"

Daniil shook his head like a disappointed professor to a failing student. "I thought you were the bloody Ripper, for Christ's sake, can you blame me? Regarding the poor falsely imprisoned man, I had no choice. I tried to prove his innocence, but I could not save him in time. Trust me, I know how much grief that failure of mine has caused." His mouth opened to elaborate, but he closed it again for a few steps, seemingly deciding against it. A pang of sympathy lodged in Artemy's chest like the udhey, as if he'd been impaled by the horn of Bos Primigenius. Daniil concluded, "And as for the bull carcass, it was a threat to public health."

"No, it wasn't," Artemy sighed, too tired to argue much more. "If you would just listen to me, you would know that I've made a massive breakthrough with producing the panacea, and that bull was the last ingredient. Before you ask, yes, the cure works, tenegh. I tried it on myself."

Daniil made an airy sound of amusement. "Shit. If that's true... How was it? As bad as taking shmowder?"

Artemy shrugged casually. "It was fine. No side effects, honestly. It was like a miracle." He glanced over to find that Daniil was already staring up at him, gold reflections of twyre like glinting veins in earthen irises. His bewilderment was suffocating, or maybe it was all the twyre pollen; either way, Artemy turned back to the horizon. "Sticky!"

The snakeskin on Daniil's trench coat made the same slithering sound as an asp as he trudged through the last of the dry ground, having approached the marsh. He very carefully planned each step to ensure he wouldn't sink into the wetland, and Artemy stifled any comments about how comical it was to watch him test the ground a few times before trusting it, almost resembling a newborn calf. "Well, as much as I'm loath to say this, I apologize, Artemy. I... I had no idea your folk medicine had any merit whatsoever."

Artemy's initial reflex was to mock him purely out of habit, but he suppressed it. He never would have dreamt of Daniil asking his forgiveness, and it all seemed surreal, especially Daniil's form bathed in sunlight and glowing amber; his skin had looked so pale and ghostly in the dark of midnight, but now he looked vivid, so full of life he was bursting at the seams, with a windswept rosiness to his cheeks and nose that twisted the udhey deeper in Artemy's ribcage. "I appreciate it. If it helps, I'm sorry for trying to kill you so many times."

Artemy would never recover from the sight of Daniil trying to fight back a grin that bubbled up to the surface anyway, spreading across his face despite his efforts until those dangerous canines were less like a viper's fangs and more like an alluring temptation. Shudkher, could Artemy crush these impulses if they started working together in earnest, if they spent more time together? He already failed miserably at the presence of his measly cravat, he didn't know how he would survive anything more than their occasional contact, but Boddho, he didn't know how he would survive without plying more of that effervescent laughter out of Daniil, a siren song falling from lightly-chapped lips.

Artemy wanted to kiss him. He swallowed, but the thought stuck in his sandpaper throat.

"Such a gentleman! It does help, I think." Daniil clapped again; Artemy had nearly forgotten that they were looking for Sticky, too enraptured to recall much of anything. "If I may, collaborating on our efforts to defeat the Sand Pest going forward seems like a more efficient use of our energy. Would you agree?"

The Pest wouldn't exist for much longer, Artemy knew. He had almost enough living blood now to cure hundreds of sufferers, and with Daniil and Rubin's vaccine, the transmission had slowed drastically. They only had a week at most together until Daniil boarded the first train out of town back to the Capital; selfishly, Artemy hoped the trains were continually delayed. He was thinking too much again, damn it all.

"I would agree. Extending our truce sounds smart. Sticky!" It irked Artemy that Sticky was right.

Artemy's boots finally stopped embedding into the muck, and though he was grateful for the respite of solid ground again, it hardly compared to Daniil's audible sigh of joy. "God, we've crossed the entire town by now. Could we have missed him?"

The Polyhedron and the Cathedral were close enough now to protrude from the haziness of the September air, and Artemy hummed indecisively. "We couldn't have. He wouldn't go hunting for the Albino in town, so he must be out here somewhere... Sticky!"

"Hey! Over here!"

Their heads both swung to the right, near where a familiar voice had yelled at them. The sight of Sticky sitting next to the Stillwater's back gate with one leg straight and the other bent, chewing on something tough and waving a skinny arm at them, was equal parts relieving and infuriating. This was purposeful, then, intended to waste the entire day for both Daniil and Artemy for some arcane purpose that only made sense in Sticky's mind.

"Sticky!" they both shouted in sync before immediately jogging over to him.

"What're you two doing?" Sticky asked through his last mouthful of smoked meat, completely unbothered. "Going for a walk together?"

Artemy's groan mixed with Daniil's. "We've spent all day looking for you, you little shit!"

"What were you thinking, Sticky?" Daniil added, crouching to inspect Sticky closer. "You're sick, and instead of staying inside like I told you, you decide to go gallivanting through the Steppe chasing a supernatural being?!"

"I'm not sick! I already got over my cold, see? No coughing here." Sticky fake-coughed into his fist, then gesticulated at his own lungs afterward as if that incontrivertibly proved his health. "I was bored and I didn't feel like getting lectured, so I went hunting for the Albino. You can't be mad at me, Bachelor, I'm at a much lower risk of infection out here than in town, or in my house. I even left a note!"

Daniil slid a hand under blond bangs and felt his forehead, checking for a fever. He mumbled to himself, "Abundans cautela non nocet..."

"Yeah, you could've been more specific in your note, kid. And when exactly were you going to tell us you were working for the other one too, by the way?" Artemy rasped. He might not be able to talk tomorrow, if the scratchiness in his larynx was any indication.

Sticky finally looked sheepish, craning his neck to let Daniil gauge his pulse and palpate his lymph nodes. "I dunno. It never came up."

"Yes, it did!" Artemy hissed, at the exact same time as Daniil said, "It bloody did!"

"You both asked me if the other sent me to spy on you. I said no, which is the truth! Neither of you ever asked if I was assisting the other one, and it never occurred to me to bring it up," argued Sticky adamantly. "If you wanted to know, you should've asked!"

"You should be a lawyer when you grow up, kid," said Artemy through gritted teeth.

"Obviously I was thinking doctor more than lawyer." Sticky's self-aggrandizing smirk tested Artemy's patience more than it ever had before. "You two look chummy now; I'm shocked you didn't murder each other. Did you kiss and make up yet?"

At that, Artemy's sunburnt face reignited into a new shade of crimson. It was just a phrase, he knew, and a teasing, childish one at that, but a shred of fear wedged into his cerebellum anyway whispering that against all reason, Sticky somehow knew about Artemy's inappropriate desires. Had he read it on his face in conversation about Daniil, or when he gave him that cursed cravat? The thought Artemy tried to swallow earlier—the one about how much he wanted to devour those lips in a kiss, the one that now branched into thoughts about how hungry he was seeing Daniil's tongue dart out to wet them, about how it might feel if it was Artemy's instead—obstructed his breathing upon hearing Sticky say "kiss", leaving him speechless and unable to smother the smoldering fire in his chest.

"We're on better terms now, yes," answered Daniil delicately, standing back up and dusting off his slacks once he was satisfied with Sticky's vitals. "There's no reason to continue deceiving us from now on, right? We've agreed to work together. You win."

Sticky bolted to his feet and hugged both of them at once, pulling them in close for one quick squeeze before retreating, seeming somewhat embarrassed. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you!"

"Don't ever do that again, got it?" grumbled Artemy, ruffling Sticky's unkempt hair.

"Got it," Sticky beamed, fully unrepentant.

Chapter 3: iii.

Notes:

apologizing in advance to any russians reading if my diminutive bullshit is wrong. if it is then blame the (very kind) people who gave me advice in my tumblr dot gov inbox

The weeks that followed the Sand Pest's defeat passed by Daniil in a blur.

To his chagrin, Sticky was correct: he and Artemy were much better working together than against each other. Soon after they aligned, the miracle happened, purifying the town of its pestilence whilst the Polyhedron remained as if keeping vigil for the dead; after that, a strange new definition of normalcy was established in the rubble.

The first odd thing was how Daniil found himself hesitant to return to the Capital. He had been yearning for the train that would whisk him away to Thanatica, away from this nightmare, yet now that it was over, he kept delaying his departure. He had so much more to do, plenty of clinical oddities to document, dozens of survivors to finish treating that Artemy was too swamped to heal on his own. It would be cruel to leave the Town in such a state and especially cruel to leave it in the sole custody of Artemy, who was overworked as it was.

And there was the second odd thing: his camaraderie with Artemy didn't end with the Sand Plague, and neither did their shared mentorship of Sticky. Daniil had expected one or both of them to lose interest the moment that more exciting opportunities presented themselves, but he couldn't have been more wrong. Sticky was even more invested in learning medicine, perhaps more willing to get hands-on experience when the illnesses were more benign, and he bounced between his mentors multiple times a day.

Outside of that, Artemy seemingly spent every free moment by Daniil's side, or maybe Daniil spent his by Artemy's side, he wasn't sure; there wasn't much free time, granted, but they spent it together, and Daniil savored the simple joy of chatting about much milder topics. Faux bickering about the best way to make coffee—Daniil preferred it black, Artemy staunchly argued that he was a masochist for drinking it without milk or cream—was a welcome relief after they'd genuinely fought for so long. It was surreal, to be sure, and their more hostile past escapades often starred in his dreams at night, but Daniil was thankful for the change of pace.

Clara called them "attached at the hip", but Daniil wouldn't go nearly that far. Their duties overlapped, so naturally, they conferred often. They traded Sticky off between them, partially because he wanted to learn everything and partially because his energy level was impossible for one of them to handle for extended periods.

Though Daniil never would have believed it before, it appeared that he and Artemy were, in fact, friends. This, of course, had disastrous consequences regarding Daniil's little crush on him—well, not a crush, an... infatuation, Daniil mused, but that almost sounded worse. Telling himself it was only physical was becoming less and less convincing.

No time to think of that now. He took the petri dish in one latex-gloved hand and the inoculated swab in the other, tilting them both towards Sticky so he could replicate his movements better.

"You have to be fast once you start, but you have to be very, very gentle, alright?" Daniil began, glaring at Sticky over the rims of his glasses for emphasis. "If you break the surface of the agar, it won't work right."

"Yeah, I get it, super gentle," Sticky assured excitedly, jiggling his leg enough that his chair squeaked. "Show me."

Daniil walked him through the process, sweeping the tip of the swab across one quadrant, then the next, demonstrating how to properly spread the sample material. Sticky looked the most focused Daniil had ever seen him as he attempted to copy what he just saw; he was pressing too hard and his zigzags were uneven, but Daniil was distinctly proud of the little lab assistant he'd made out of a twelve year old.

"Good, now we label these and incubate them for a day or two to see what grows. Congratulations, Sticky, you've successfully completed your first streak plate and thus completed the first step of culturing and isolating bacteria." Daniil gingerly placed the lid on his plate and flipped it upside down, scanning his desk for something to mark their respective cultures with.

"I feel very successful," Sticky replied, inspecting the barely-visible streak marks on the medium.

"Don't hold it so close to your face, you'll contaminate it," Daniil sighed, but before he could snatch it out of his hands, the door to the garret opened.

"Am I interrupting?" Artemy asked, still holding onto the doorknob. "I'm here to pick up Sticky."

Daniil took his reading glasses off. "No, come in. I've taught Sticky how t—"

"Look, he taught me how to streak!" Sticky interrupted Daniil, leaping out of his seat to show Artemy his unassuming petri dish.

Artemy shot Daniil a glance, and the crow's feet at the edges of bright blue eyes combined with Sticky's unfortunate double entendre made his cheeks burn. Daniil coughed and clarified, "He means streaking plates, as in culturing bacterial colonies."

"... You might have to teach me that, too, Daniil," Artemy chuckled, eyebrows knit in confusion. Daniil still felt a cloying fuzziness hearing his name fall from Artemy's mouth, though they'd been on a first-name basis since they ended their rivalry weeks ago.

"It looks lame right now, but it's going to get super gross and cool tomorrow." Sticky finally put the lid on his surely-ruined plate and Daniil took it from him to incubate later. "Show him the old ones!"

Daniil acquiesced, opening a drawer and retrieving some of the microbiological cultures he'd done and sealed shut in the last week. He spread out a few of them to display the abstract geometrical shapes that the mostly-dead colonies constituted, varying sizes of dots and circles methodically arranged as if it were pointillism. "Here. Don't touch, Sticky."

In two strides, Artemy was hovering behind Daniil, and Daniil could sense the proximity by the emanating heat that seeped through his waistcoat. "Huh. I have no idea what those are, but I'm impressed."

"Oh, wait! I just remembered, I left something downstairs. I'll be right back," Sticky chirped, and before either of them could question him, the door was slammed shut.

Immediately, a comfortable suspense filled the room. Daniil craned his neck to look up at Artemy from his seat, and Artemy just shook his head fondly. "That kid is something else."

"You're telling me." Daniil turned back to the desk, surveying his handful of plates. This was the least sterile laboratory Daniil had ever seen, but it was all he had to work with.

Artemy inched ever nearer and placed a hand on Daniil's shoulder, too close to his neck for Daniil to process anything beyond his own breath hitching. His hands were so damn big, Daniil knew that fact very well, it distracted him constantly—but the infernal heat radiating from him was always more addictive than he could have anticipated, made even worse by the light squeeze on his décolletage. He wasn't wearing the cravat, and he didn't know if he should be happy for that fact or cursing it because he couldn't tell if he was imagining the thumbing at the nape of his neck.

"You're his favorite, I think," murmured Artemy lowly, leaning down to whisper in his ear conspiratorially.

Daniil shuddered, melting under Artemy's innocuous touch; he didn't shy away, as much as his self-preservation instinct compelled him to, and the contact was so casual, so disarming, so enthralling that he selfishly basked in it for as long as possible. Collecting himself, he replied, "You're mad if you honestly believe that, Artemy. You two are far more similar than he and I are."

Artemy huffed. "But I'm just going over the local practices, all the stuff he more or less already knows." Daniil's eyelids fluttered shut for a moment when Artemy's other hand came to rest on his other shoulder, so heavy and warm and firm that it derailed any train of thought he might've had. "Your lessons are more exotic to him, it's something wholly new."

Daniil's head spun. He focused on the circular plates on the table, training his eyes on the parallel streak patterns to school his features. "Maybe. But you're probably a better teacher than I am."

Artemy scoffed, pressing his thumbs into the base of Daniil's neck to almost knead the tender muscles there, but not quite enough to do more than tease through the fabric of Daniil's shirt collar. Daniil leaned into him, letting his head fall back slightly and exposing his throat in the way he had what felt like ages ago. So he wasn't imagining the caress, then—he really shouldn't be deriving this much gratification from the tame imitation of a neck massage.

"Come on now, Danik," Artemy said carefully. "You're the academic."

Daniil's heart skipped. Time seemed to creep at a languorous pace. The tension in the cramped attic was so thick a scalpel couldn't so much as scratch it; affection spread through Daniil's infatuation-infected chest like the cultures on the escritoire, and he hoped that Artemy couldn't feel his pathetically quick pulse under his fingertips at something as banal as a less-formal form of his name. At the risk of a massive understatement, neither of them were paragons of emotional vulnerability, so it felt like a monumental gesture that Artemy had risked making a fool of himself with a faux pas by venturing to codify their relative closeness. Diminutives were a true rarity in the Town-on-Gorkhon, too, which might have amplified its gravitas in Daniil's malfunctioning brain.

"I—" Artemy began again, shrinking away slightly, but Daniil cut him off smugly.

"It's Danya, actually." His face had to be flushed a humiliating shade of vermilion, he was certain, and the quiet intimacy of Artemy's bare hands on Daniil's barer-than-usual neck wasn't helping matters. Without his presence to anchor him, though, Daniil feared he would unravel at the seams.

"...Danya, then," grinned Artemy as he squeezed his shoulders.

Fuck. Daniil couldn't handle how saccharine sweet the diminutive sounded in Artemy's gravelly voice, couldn't handle that Artemy was the only one in the town who even knew which one he used, that Artemy was the only person here who would call him that. It was just a name, it shouldn't have affected Daniil so much, particularly not to the degree of imagining Artemy saying his name in other contexts; the confirmation that they were marginally closer than coworkers felt like champagne going down, no matter how overblown his reaction might have been.

The Cathedral tower tolled to indicate that the world had begun to turn again. "Artya?" Daniil guessed in response. He hadn't met an Artemy before him, but he reckoned that the uniqueness of the name suited him.

"I'm tempted not to tell you," teased Artemy, but he relented when Daniil looked up at him expectantly. "It's Tyoma."

"Tyoma. Duly noted." Daniil should not be giddy like this, but God, his skin felt electric under Artemy's gentle hands, he'd have thought they'd exchanged wedding vows by the way his stupidly lovestruck expression refused to fade even as he blinked up at him. He reminded himself that Artemy would never return his more-than-friendly feelings, though, and that helped temper his asinine glee for the moment. He needed a cigarette.

Footsteps bounded back up the stairs and the handle rattled.

Artemy and Daniil sprang away from each other like the same poles of two magnets, both crashing into the desk on either end in their frantic scrambling. Everything on the workspace shifted, and the plates and test tubes jingled like wind chimes as they jostled together in the commotion. Their contact wasn't improper or scandalous by any means—to Daniil's lament, it was entirely platonic—but something about it felt forbidden nonetheless, like it was something to be saved until they could ensure they had full privacy. Artemy knocked over a stack of books in his maladroit clambering, wincing as they thudded deafeningly loudly upon the floor. Daniil stifled a laugh, which was much easier upon remembering how expensive those textbooks were.

The door hinge squealed. "...Hey. I'm back," Sticky said awkwardly, glancing at Daniil covering his mouth, at Artemy still standing with one leg raised in shock at the toppled books, then back at the stairs. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Artemy lied. "Dropped some books. What's going on with you?"

Sticky shrugged. "I, uh, thought I left my lockpick downstairs?" The upward inflection of his answer ensured it wasn't true. More urgently, he said, "Can we get going soon? I have some stuff I have to do before tonight."

Daniil quirked an eyebrow. "And what's tonight?"

"I'm going to the Broken Heart," Sticky answered plainly.

"What on earth do you have to do at the Broken Heart? It's not for kids!" cried Artemy, indignant.

Sticky rolled his eyes. "Khan and Notkin wanted to talk. Something about wanting my help settling a dispute, as a neutral third party. I don't know, I'm pretty sure they're just dragging me into another one of their pointless dick-measuring contests—"

Daniil choked on a sip of water, but before he could reprimand him for language, Artemy was interrogating him whilst picking up the old tomes. "Why are they meeting at the Broken Heart? I'm surprised they can even get in."

"They're not nobodies, Burakh, it's Khan and Notkin. We can't even order drinks, so it's fine. I don't know why you're freaking out," Sticky whined.

Wiping his mouth, Daniil protested, "There's... dancers there, not fit for young eyes!"

At that, Sticky harrumphed. "I've grown up around Herb Brides, Bachelor. It's nothing I haven't seen. Look, I'll be fine, they meet there, like, all the time because it's the most neutral territory in town. Not claimed by the Dogheads or by the Soul-and-a-Halves. You're not stopping me from going, so don't worry about it. I shouldn't have mentioned it." His petulance matched his crossed arms, and Daniil wondered drily if taking on a teenager as a charge would ever prove worth the trouble.

Artemy took a deep breath and frowned at Daniil before turning to Sticky. "No, kid, you should have told us. If I—we—really can't stop you, then be safe, alright? Don't do anything dumb."

With a melodramatic exhale, Sticky said, "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Dad."

"You little shit—! If I were your dad, you'd be grounded for life!" Artemy shouted, grabbing him by the collar and wrestling him into a pretend head lock with a restrained strength. Sticky shrieked with panic that soon dissolved into shrill giggles and yelps as Artemy dragged his knuckles across the crown of his head, grumbling something inane that Daniil couldn't hear.

Daniil hid a snicker poorly with one hand. Artemy was too young to be Sticky's father, but if Daniil squinted, he could almost see them as brothers, particularly when Sticky wiggled out of Artemy's grasp and Artemy simply lifted him up by the armpits to immobilize him. The afternoon rays of sunlight hit the window at just the right angle to illuminate the set of Artemy's chiseled jaw in chiaroscuro, and Daniil was flooded with emotions that felt too strong to be healthy.

"Dankovsky thinks it's funny!" Sticky crowed, kicking and flailing his legs where they dangled a foot above the hardwood.

"Danya!" Artemy play-growled over his shoulder through a devastatingly charming grin. "Don't encourage him!"

Daniil hid his face with both hands now, hoping to conceal the mortifying blush that he couldn't suppress as well as the idiotic smile that accompanied it.

When he peeked between his fingers, he saw Sticky's stunned face, mouth hanging open and eyes wide as they darted between his mentors. Artemy finally dropped him; his sneakers hit the ground with a much larger thud than the books had. Sticky didn't comment, but he had a knowing smirk that made Daniil dread whatever he was scheming up.

---

The Broken Heart was cacophonous when Artemy arrived, full of music and Friday night revelers and the clinking of glasses. He'd taken a shadowy corner table as his outpost for the night, too far from the rest of the bar to draw attention but still precisely positioned to spy on where Khan and Notkin squabbled on the ground floor.

He had no idea when Sticky was planning on meeting them, but Artemy would stake them out as long as necessary whilst nursing his bottle of twyrine. He hadn't had twyrine since he was a dumb teenager; he'd forgotten about the heightened sensory perception it granted, the main aspect that differentiated it from regular liquor, until everything noticeably transformed into a more vivid version of itself.

Without warning, a figure slinked into the seat opposite him. "Fancy meeting you here, Tyoma."

Artemy smirked before he could startle, a little too happy to see Daniil. "Ditto, Danya. Are you also here to—"

"To keep an eye on Sticky? Yes." Daniil placed his glass of some clear spirit on the table after taking a long sip. Artemy watched entranced as Daniil's Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, conveniently exposed without his cravat. He hadn't expected Daniil to actually listen to his advice when he told him not to wear it, but he was unreasonably pleased that he had.

"Up there. He's not here yet," Artemy said, pointing up at the balcony where the warring figureheads sat.

Daniil coughed and made a face. "Ugh. I haven't had vodka this cheap since university." He swirled the short glass, scowling down at the offensive alcohol. "If I wanted something this astringent, I'd drink the ethanol from my lab supplies."

Artemy brought the rim of his bottle to his mouth and leaned back in his stool. "Because it's not the house specialty. You should've gotten twyrine; Andrey makes sure that's top shelf worthy."

"I haven't tried it," Daniil admitted sheepishly. "After seeing how addictive it is via Peter, I'm a little reticent."

Artemy scoffed in disbelief. "Peter's an exception. It's just as addictive as regular alcohol and perfectly safe in moderation." When Daniil eyed him skeptically, Artemy swilled the rest of his mostly-empty bottle and banged it on the tabletop before standing. "Here, this round's on me."

"Wait, you don't have to—" Daniil objected, but Artemy was already at the bar and flagging down the bartender. It was a travesty that Daniil had stayed in the Town for this long and yet never tried its signature drink, an injustice that must be rectified. Artemy wasn't going to let either of them get too tipsy, though; he glanced up at the boys, somewhat relieved they were still sans Sticky.

Afterward, he returned to their niche, brandishing two full bottles of fragrant twyrine as Daniil finished downing his first drink with a grimace.

"That good?" Artemy joked.

"I wanted to get it over with," spat Daniil with a visceral shiver. "Don't want to taint my palate, it's not a fair taste test that way. Cheers, Tyoma."

"Cheers, Danya." He decided that he liked being the only one who called him that, and he washed that thought down with a clink of glass and a swig of liquid twyre.

"Damn," Daniil remarked once he pulled the bottle from his lips. The lighting cast him in a medley of pink and purple and gold, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone and the straight slope of his nose. "That's... actually really good."

Loftily, Artemy grinned. "I wouldn't lie to you."

It was near the end of that second bottle that Artemy realized that twyrine was significantly stronger than he thought it was. Typically, it took at least four drinks for him to start feeling it depending on the strength, but now he was already teetering on the verge of tipsy and merry and Daniil didn't seem to be faring much better. Slamming the vodka probably didn't help Daniil, either.

The music harmonized much better by then, and Daniil's voice sounded smooth as silk in Artemy's hazy mind. "Is Sticky here yet?" Daniil asked, twisting around in his stool.

"Nope. Why don't you move to this side, tenegh, so you don't have to contort yourself like that?" Artemy asked, taking another sip for confidence.

Daniil considered for a moment, then dropped down from his seat precariously and dragged it over to Artemy's side. When he hopped back onto it, Artemy regretted his recommendation; the proximity was untenable, far too risky, but the twyrine purred that it was exactly what he pined for, in fact, he should move even closer.

"You know, I don't know if I ever really hated you," Artemy blurted involuntarily. The sober part of his brain wanted to clamp a hand over his mouth, but that part was disappearing steadily with every gulp he took to avoid speaking.

Daniil gazed up at him with his lips parted, grazing against the rim of his bottle in a way that was objectively not obscene yet Artemy was awash with a lovely tingling sensation anyway. "Wow. Sine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus, indeed."

"How many drinks until you stop talking in Latin?" Artemy asked half-seriously.

"I think I'd speak more Latin directly proportionally to the more drinks I have, but I don't know if it's wise to test that theory now," replied Daniil matter-of-factly. He was near enough that Artemy could smell the elderberry and herbs on his breath, and he really had to stop staring at his lips before he made it weird, but it was even harder to control his eyes than it was his limbs or his mouth. "Though, then again... I'm not sure when I'll have another opportunity for inebriation," Daniil mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe it is a good idea."

Artemy took that as an order and obeyed instantly. When he returned with two more bottles, Daniil looked so relaxed, so at ease, lacking the dark circles and worry lines that betrayed his stress level, and Artemy's mind was a deluge of urges that ranged from sappy to filthy, never quite forming a coherent request or fantasy. He'd unbuttoned an extra button on his dress shirt, Artemy noticed, showing another sliver of skin stippled with beauty marks. Artemy didn't think he was a promiscuous drunk, but the sheer want that coursed through him at the sight of a disheveled, placid Daniil waiting for him made him reconsider.

In lieu of a greeting, Daniil nonchalantly said, "I truly believed that I hated you, but I think I might have overestimated my conviction, judging by how easily you changed my mind," as he took his fresh bottle from Artemy greedily.

Artemy tried to absorb what he'd said as he took his seat once more. He was definitely tipsy. "Am I that charismatic?" he quipped.

"Your reputation says otherwise," Daniil replied slyly, and shudkher, his eyes glittered like the stars, like the glint of Artemy's blade. A group of drunks banged their pints on a nearby table with a boorish yell. Tilting his head away almost imperceptibly, Daniil tacked on, "But... our fights were fun."

Artemy stilled mid-drink. Was he speaking generally or was he referencing their last hostile encounter, when Artemy almost lost control of himself and rutted into Daniil like a feral animal? He felt himself continue to stiffen in his trousers as he remembered how Daniil writhed against him and the high noises he made, and he discovered that reminiscing about that series of events was a dangerous tightrope for him to walk when twyrine was elevating each memory to a full-body vision. It was as if he could feel Daniil bucking in his lap even now, and despite his knowing that it would only exacerbate the problem, he took another drink to soothe his dry throat.

Daniil seemed lost in the pause Artemy accidentally created in his reverie. "You enjoyed them too, then," Artemy finally said, looking askance.

"A little too much," Daniil laughed, swaying to the swell of the music until his leg met Artemy's, then opting to stay nudging into him. Even with layers of clothing between them, the contact was dizzying, psychologically more than physically, although every sense was also enhanced by the twyrine. "You said you wouldn't lie to me, Tyoma, so don't tell me you don't miss it a little bit." Daniil's words started to run together in an endearing way, a man who was normally so eloquent and well-articulated now slowly losing his refined veneer, reflected by his swigging motions growing accordingly clumsy.

The words echoed in Artemy's mind like an accusation, and his mouth turned to cotton with the recollections of a knife flashing above scarlet silk, of Daniil purposefully arching against him, of Daniil in his arms. "I wouldn't dare," Artemy breathed. "I miss it too sometimes, in a bizarre way."

"Is it bizarre if I say I was sad when the bruises you gave me faded?" murmured Daniil, barely audible in the lively bar, flushing floridly enough that it was evident even in the dramatic stage lighting. He looked back down at his bottle and the sticky table, not bothering to push the hair out of his face. He bit his lip—was he regretting saying that, too?

He hoped not; a wave of arousal washed over Artemy at the confession, spoken like a prayer. Something about it gave him butterflies, maybe his tone or his leg pressed against Artemy's or his embarrassed grimace, and it took Artemy a few beats to formulate a response that wasn't outright pornographic. "Yes, in a good way. I can give you more bruises if you'd like, Danya," he responded at last, an unintentional husky timbre in his voice. "All you have to do is ask."

His suggestive innuendo was rewarded by Daniil covering the lower half of his face and looking away, clearly flustered; Artemy made it his mission to coax that delicious reaction out of him as often as possible. "Next round's on me," Daniil mumbled, standing abruptly with an unsteady jolt and fleeing towards the bar.

Artemy admired his profile as he waited for their drinks, a lovingly sculpted piece of art amongst a sea of eyesore drunkards. Daniil was the most beautiful creature in the bar, no question, outshining the Herb Brides with ease. His addled mind didn't even consider that getting this drunk may end in disaster if it made him too honest, only considering how he could peel back Daniil's layers of coy caginess to reveal his inner workings. It'd go both ways, of course, but Artemy was terrible at acting, anyway.

When Daniil returned, he seemed more composed, and he took his seat again without reinitiating their contact. "Cheers."

Without thinking, Artemy placed a hand on Daniil's lower thigh and pulled it flush with his own harder than he intended. Daniil gasped, blinking rapidly; if he felt the same radiant bliss where they intersected as Artemy did, he probably didn't mind the touchiness too much. Artemy hoped he was as hard as he was, too, but he didn't dare look or feel to check.

"Jesus, the twyrine makes everything so..." Daniil began airily, peering at Artemy with a curious expression. "Colorful. No, that's not quite it. Not vibrant, either..." His face screwed up in vexation as he searched for the right word, and Artemy had wanted to kiss him hundreds of times before, but never so vehemently as right now. Lips wrapped around his twyrine bottle, and Artemy couldn't look away. His hand had decided of its own accord to rub up and down Daniil's thigh lightly, not enough to be caught by anyone who happened to look in their private recess of the bar, but enough to leave shockwaves in his wake, enough to feel his muscles tensing under his fingers each time they trailed upwards. "Intense. It makes everything so very intense."

"It's nice, isn't it? I'd have guessed that you would like intense," Artemy said.

Daniil made eye contact with him for the first time since sitting back down. "I do. I really do." A short pause. "That's why I've always liked you, even when I didn't."

Artemy felt pinned in place like he'd been skewered with Daniil's gaze boring into him relentlessly. His brain was too sluggish to come up with any witty rejoinders, too fixated on how lovely Daniil's leg felt against his palm and how much better it could feel if they hadn't had these wretched clothes in the way. "Aww, you like me, Danushka?" he ribbed, leaning up against Daniil's side for comedic effect and definitely not for more of that irresistible contact.

Daniil closed his eyes, spread his legs a little more, and let his head loll back, showing off his pretty throat and practically begging Artemy to shower it in love bites. He nearly did, if Daniil hadn't interrupted. "Go to hell," Daniil muttered, but it lacked any real spite. "You know what I meant. Christ, I need a smoke."

"We should get going anyway," Artemy concurred, polishing off the last of his drink and standing on wobbly legs. He slurred, "I think we've both had enough."

Daniil stepped down from his stool but faltered at the last moment, grabbing Artemy's arm for support. "Yeah. Shit, I'm drunk," Daniil chuckled, as if it were a massive secret he only just realized.

They stumbled up the stairs gracefully enough, and only then did Artemy notice that Notkin and Khan had disappeared. Oh, right—he hoped Sticky wasn't getting into trouble. Neither he nor Daniil would be able to rescue him if he was in this condition, somewhere between sloshed and hammered.

Amber autumn leaves danced like embers in the breeze. The night outside was freezing compared to the sweltering heat of the Broken Heart, and maybe that was why Daniil clung to Artemy's arm, leeching off of his warmth. With great effort, he managed to retrieve a cigarette, strike a match, and light the end, taking a few drags into the cold air.

After a few moments of contemplative silence, Daniil asked, "Do you smoke?" while holding the cigarette up between two fingers.

The answer was no, but Artemy couldn't turn down anything Daniil offered him. "I do now," he replied, taking it and drawing a long inhale. This was an indirect kiss, his brain supplied unhelpfully, his lips were touching the remnants of Daniil's. He'd half hoped the fresh air would sober him up, but that was clearly not the case. He handed the cigarette back by holding the filter end toward Daniil, making him blush as he positioned it between his lips to reclaim it, nearly brushing against Artemy's knuckles.

"Let's start walking home," declared Artemy, suddenly realizing that he was far too hard to be in public at the moment. He wasn't sure what "home" meant, because Daniil wasn't making it back to the Stillwater in this state and Artemy wasn't eager to pull away from him anytime soon.

"Yes, good idea, Tyoma." Daniil tugged on their entwined arms and began walking south, blowing smoke away from Artemy's direction every so often. Their steps were staggering, Daniil's more than Artemy's; he was more of a lightweight than himself, Artemy presumed, and he listed so much that he eventually resorted to completely using Artemy as a crutch. Not that Artemy was less impaired than him—they were both impressively incapacitated—but his mass seemed to make his steps more sturdy than Daniil's, who draped himself on his elbow to stay upright.

"Tyoma," Daniil sighed wistfully, stopping to ash the stub of his cigarette. "Tyoma. Am I the only one in town who calls you that?"

Artemy's heart ached. The buildings around them were spinning, forming lazy spirals in his mind. How was a totally neutral nickname enough to make him feel oddly possessive?

"Do you want to be the only one, Danya?" he asked, low in his register. He grit his teeth to prevent any more words spilling out, unable to wrench his gaze away from Daniil's figure next to him illuminated under a streetlamp. There seemed to be a halo encircling his head where the sheets of light caught on stray strands of dark hair; it was difficult to discern any details of Daniil's visage in the new moon's night, but Artemy could picture the crescent scar on his cheek warping back to straight when the corner of his mouth rose.

Daniil yanked on his arm to inspire him into moving again. "That's a non sequitir," he griped, accenting his irritation with heavier stomps of his boots on the cobblestones. "Whatever. Doesn't matter."

"You are, by the way," Artemy offered, holding him a tiny bit closer. The night was frigid, but Daniil was warm, warm, warm, from his tone to his limbs hooked on Artemy's. "Even my childhood friends, they—well—you know." He couldn't articulate anything more concrete than that. "I know for a fact I'm the only one in town who calls you Danya."

"You don't know that," Daniil huffed.

"You don't like anyone else enough," chuckled Artemy. They were at the end of the Works already.

Ignoring his comment, Daniil whined, "Can I spend the night at yours, Tyoma? The Stillwater is—is so far away."

"Sure, of course," Artemy instantly replied, pulling Daniil off the street and onto the informal path to the lair. Once they were closer to the Steppe, the twyre-infused atmosphere surrounded them from all sides like a lover's embrace, mollifying and hypnotizing. It wasn't until he had to reluctantly untangle his arm from Daniil's to unlock the door that he remembered his sleeping arrangement: one too-small bed that Artemy himself barely fit in alone.

Artemy furrowed his brow as he lugged Daniil's carcass through the doorway, puzzled as to how to solve this conundrum. The lair was pitch black, but it wasn't worth lighting a lamp just to snuff it out in a couple of minutes; he relied on muscle memory to guide him deeper into the entryway.

"Thank you," Daniil said as Artemy led them both over to the bedroom area, and he hummed when he extricated himself from his grasp.

"No need. Alright, you'll take the bed and I'll take the floor." With that, Artemy started fumbling with the leather straps at his wrists, cursing his drunken fingers.

Daniil slid one boot off, knocking something over in the dark that Artemy hoped wasn't fragile. "What? No," he protested. "You're not sleeping on the—on the floor, you're the host, if anything I'd be sleeping on the floor." His slurring chivalry was endearing, but not persuasive.

"You're not sleeping on the floor, Danya," Artemy said, shucking off his butcher's smock before bending over to work on his laces. "We won't both fit in the bed, so I'm on the floor, end of."

Daniil kicked off his other shoe in Artemy's general direction. "We can absolutely both fit in the bed, so long as you're not sprawled out like an idiot. Don't be obtuse."

Artemy paused and the room fell silent aside from the rustling of fabric and the clinking of his belt buckle. He would not survive a night cuddled up next to Daniil in bed, not when he was this inebriated and this aroused from earlier—they'd have to be pressed far too closely for him to hide anything if they stood a chance of both fitting on the sorry excuse for a mattress. "No, tenegh, we can't. It's tiny. One of us would roll off the edge and crack our skull open. Probably you."

"No, it'll be fine," retorted Daniil stubbornly. He didn't stop undressing at his top layer like Artemy, who had fully intended on sleeping in his clothes; instead, Daniil struggled through the buttons on his shirt, then ripped it off in one jerky motion and moved his slender fingers down to his fly. "Come on, Tyoma, or we'll both be on the floor."

Artemy's stomach flipped at the barely-visible silhouette of Daniil in his cups trying to buck off his trousers as they caught at his skinny ankles. His thighs, shudkher, Artemy was stunned by the exposure of pale skin, dark hair, beauty marks, and in his stupor, Artemy nearly mistook his sock garters for lingerie. Vertigo enveloped him, and he had to prop himself up with a hand on his desk to stay sane. His impulse control was dodgy to begin with, and after Boddho knows how many glasses of twyrine later, it was utterly shot.

"I snore," said Artemy weakly. His face must have been bright cherry red like that damn cravat he'd touched himself to in that very bed, and shit, this was perverse, he couldn't let Daniil rest there, where he'd defiled him in his mind every night for far too long. He despised how the depravity of it all only augmented his desire.

"I—" Daniil hiccupped. "I suspect I'll be unconscious very quickly, don't worry. I'm a deep sleeper."

Artemy couldn't bear to witness Daniil in such a state anymore. Looking askance, he pulled his sweater over his head, considering how best to remove his pants without Daniil seeing his inappropriate eagerness. Useless, considering how he'd be feeling it soon enough if Artemy gave in.

When Artemy finally gained the courage to remove his trousers and turn around, Daniil was standing by the bed and wrapped in the scratchy blanket already, eyes trained on Artemy's movements. Petrifying heat prickled at Artemy's face, and he hoped it wasn't visible in the darkness.

"Please, Tyoma?" Daniil whispered.

Artemy knew this couldn't end well, he was drunk and in love and he'd have to revisit that revelation later, but for now he couldn't say no to Daniil, never could.

"Fine. Have it your way." Artemy salivated at the thought of bare skin on bare skin, though he wasn't sure if it was out of hunger or nausea. He surmised that Daniil was waiting on him, so he collapsed into bed first, hitting the mattress a little more forcefully than he meant to.

He'd hardly regained his bearings before Daniil crawled in next to him, stealing any thoughts from Artemy's brain with the too-much potent warmth of his body slotting into his. They fit like lock and key, like a pair of mandibles, like the broken pieces of a wishbone, and Artemy didn't know if it was the alcohol or his feelings that choked him when it occurred to him just how snugly Daniil settled into his arms.

Daniil cozied into him until his entire body was flush to Artemy's from spine to knee, his back to Artemy's chest, and there was no way he couldn't feel how painfully hard Artemy was against his ass. There was no way he didn't know, this was a horrible idea, why was Artemy so devoid of willpower?

It felt like an eternity of terse stillness with Artemy's lungs refusing to release the breath he'd been holding in the fear that it'd come out as a moan. Maybe Daniil had blacked out, Artemy feebly prayed, so he wouldn't remember how humiliatingly hard he'd gotten just from rubbing his leg at the bar and observing him stripping. Artemy might not be able to fall asleep at all.

Then, Daniil shifted.

Artemy exhaled sharply at the sensation of Daniil inadvertently grinding back into his lap, right onto his aching cock through just two thin layers of fabric. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, tried to regulate his breathing, failed, wondered what he did to deserve Daniil teasing him in his sleep.

One or both of them must have been dreaming, because soon after that, Daniil did it again. And again.

Artemy clenched his jaw. He reached up to Daniil's side and seized his hip, securing him in place until his nightmare subsided. Unhelpfully, he recalled their last hostile encounter, deciding that he much preferred this level of undress despite how self-destructive it may be. The room was spinning again. He hadn't fully registered it before, but the scent of camphor and cologne was sinfully strong with his nose less than an inch from Daniil's mussed hair, and it helped ground him in the space when the twyrine disoriented him.

Before he could hope that he hadn't woken him up with his touch, Daniil keened quietly and rolled back again into the pressure Artemy was exerting on his hipbone. Shudkher, this was like that final fight, wasn't it? He barely avoided coming in his pants when Daniil had taunted him like this before, and he'd had significantly more buffers in place then—now, it was just him and Daniil, damp undergarments, and the clandestine confidentiality of night.

Another ruinous sound, sweet as honey. Was Daniil awake, or did he sleeptalk, too? Bent with his lips ghosting on Daniil's neck, Artemy warned directly in his ear, "Danya. Careful." He couldn't bring himself to say "stop", even as he acknowledged how dangerous this was.

Daniil merely whimpered in response. Then, his hand slid downward between his legs, and Artemy wasn't positive that he wasn't hallucinating when Daniil's wrist flicked rhythmically and he realized he was palming himself though his underwear.

"Shudkher." This had to be a wet dream, undoubtedly. He throbbed—Daniil could probably feel it, horrifyingly enough—and tried to repress the overwhelming stimulation. He fought to think of a solution that wasn't passionately ravishing Daniil, but the friction on his dripping arousal was impossible to ignore. If Artemy separated them like he knew he probably should, he'd push Daniil off the edge of the bed. He had half a mind to accept that this was a twyrine vision and let himself indulge in his lust, but the scene was too realistic, too detailed for him to he certain, and he settled for trying to hold him steady until he determined if he was conscious or not.

Daniil shivered under Artemy's grip and buried his face in the pillow, panting heavily enough that he pushed back against Artemy each time; he squirmed insatiably, like he was trying to escape his body and possess Artemy's instead. Artemy had a white knuckle grip on Daniil's hipbone, but he wanted this too much to resist for much longer. He considered throwing off the blanket to watch him, to memorize how his hand squeezed and tugged at himself, but most of all, he wanted to see Daniil's face. If he did, though, he'd climax instantly—he was at least that self-aware.

His fingertips dug into pliant flesh, a final warning before Artemy succumbed to temptation.

"Please," Daniil mumbled, and Artemy was too drunk and too horny to do anything but oblige, slipping his hand beneath Daniil's to feel his erection for himself.

Daniil unabashedly moaned at that, pitchy yet alluring, and Artemy pressed a kiss to his neck softly to muffle his own gratified sounds. His digits closed around Artemy's as if by the palmar grasp reflex. "Fuck, oh God, you're so..."

"It's okay," Artemy coaxed, delirious at the sensation of Daniil Daniilovich Dankovsky's hard, leaking cock in his hand, soaking through his linens under the pad of his thumb. He must have been dreaming after all, that or so drunk he was seeing and hearing wondrous things. Either way, he was never forgetting how Daniil felt thrusting clumsily into his hand, would never forget that damned camphor smell or how turned on Daniil had to have been to twitch and jump in Artemy's palm like this. Did twyrine have an aphrodisiac effect? Artemy wasn't complaining—he'd take Daniil out for drinks every night if it meant he'd put on this obscene performance for him in his bed afterwards, if it'd grant him the privilege of serving a needy Daniil with his hand or his mouth or, shudkher, any part of him afterwards.

Daniil's hand withdrew to trace up Artemy's forearm, drawing him even closer as he groped him roughly, too enthusiastic for his own good and too amazed at how perfectly his length fit in his fist. Impulsively, he started to suck a hickey into Daniil's neck, low enough that it'd be hidden by his cravat if he ever wore it again while still giving him the bruise that he wanted so badly. He irrationally hoped Daniil never put his cravat back on, that he purposefully wore his love bites with pride so that everyone would know that it was Artemy who got to leave his branding marks on the column of his throat, Artemy who got to jerk him off in his bed, Artemy who got to call him Danya.

"Ah, Tyoma—!" Daniil gasped, and at the partially-intentional scrape of teeth, he was rutting back into Artemy's cock and forward into his fist as he came.

At Daniil trembling before going entirely taut and then wetness spreading under Artemy's fingers, Artemy groaned wantonly. He'd only wanted to relieve Daniil of his libido, not himself, but the lewd noises Daniil made were too much for him to contain himself. He involuntarily held Daniil to his groin with the heel of his palm while gently working him through his pleasure with his fingers, and it was an embarrassingly short amount of time before Artemy began to cant up into him, coming in his boxers very soon after.

He uncontrollably moaned "Danya" into the sensitive skin of his throat that he'd once held a knife to, and to silence himself, he placed sloppy open-mouthed kisses along the crook of his neck, nipping and bruising when he deemed fit. The euphoric release flowed between their sweat- and twyrine-soaked skin, a closed circuit, one loop, one whole. He kept fondling and toying with Daniil as he softened, and though Daniil let go of Artemy's forearm, he made no indication that he wanted Artemy to stop touching him.

Before they could clean or sober up, they were both asleep, subject to lucid twyre-induced dreams.

Notes:

in vino veritas trope stays winning!!!!

Chapter 4: iv.

Notes:

remember when i said i thought this fic was going to be 22k words. wistful sigh.

thanks for staying for the ride, everyone💚

When Daniil came back to life, it was to the migraine-inducing sound of metal scraping.

Blearily, he took a deep breath, slowly rising from the dead. The first observation he made was that he had a horrific hangover. The second was that there was a peculiar rigidity to the fabric of his undergarments, and all at once, last night's events crashed into his mind, concussing him with an all-consuming shame and an intolerable warmth.

The fresh memories reopened like torn sutures. Artemy's tongue had been on his neck, his large hand had snaked down to his cock, he'd rutted against his ass like he couldn't stop himself, everything had been beautiful and dazzling all drowned in twyrine. Daniil's head spun remembering how basely he'd acted, he'd initiated it, after all, by writhing with arousal at how hot and big and close Artemy was in bed. He abjectly recalled his perverse drunken thought process: that if he subtly rocked backwards against him acting like he was only trying to get comfortable, then he'd get to luxuriate in feeling Artemy's hardness without alerting him to his own indiscretion hidden under the blanket. It was pure hubris to think he could surreptitiously sample the forbidden fruit that eluded him like Tantalus; he had no doubt that his self-serving intentions were painfully obvious despite how bulletproof his plan had seemed while four or five bottles deep. The texture of dried spend in his underwear was nearly as unpleasant as the acrid humiliation thrumming through his bones.

Artemy snored softly behind him, and Daniil's heart stopped for a few beats at the recognition that he hadn't left yet. His heavy arm was slung around his waist like a yoke, holding him close in their sleep, and for Artemy's sake, Daniil hoped he could get out of bed before he arose.

He sat up and subsequently regretted it; his head swam with vertigo at the sudden movement, and he warily tried to open his eyes but only managed a squint.

"Bachelor Dankovsky?" came the voice of Sticky from the entryway.

Instantly, Daniil was fully awake. Shit.

He made eye contact with Sticky and panicked. He impotently tried to shove Artemy off of him, but Artemy's sinewy arms cinched around Daniil's waist in his slumber with a sigh, drowsily tugging him back down to lay flat against his chest where he belonged. To his dismay, Daniil was inordinately enamored by his insistence, flattered and pleased that he missed his presence unconsciously, and had they been alone, he'd have surrendered without hesitation. Even more so once he felt Artemy's morning erection prodding at his ass in an echo of last night's debauchery.

However, Sticky standing in the foyer with eyes wide enough to see full rings of white around his hazel irises was more than enough to snap Daniil out of it. By the contrast between the cold of his chest where the blanket had fallen and the heat leaching through under Artemy's touch, Sticky could probably see Artemy's arms wrapped around his waist, could definitely see one fist clutching at the fabric above his solar plexus. This was catastrophic.

"Um... hi, Sticky," Daniil rasped, shaking Artemy more vigorously. The name woke Artemy up, and he instantly withdrew from Daniil's body and sat upright. A mortified blush blossomed on the surface of Daniil's skin; he knew Artemy was shirtless behind him, he knew their situation was painfully obvious.

"...Hey." Sticky coughed, averting his gobsmacked gaze at last. "I, uh, saw that you weren't at the Stillwater, and I, um. Wanted to make sure neither of you were in... trouble."

Hoarsely, Artemy said, "We're doing just fine. Stop breaking into our places, kid."

Sticky nodded rapidly. Daniil could have laughed sardonically at how it took walking in on his two mentors the morning after a drunk hook-up (if it could be called that, Daniil had no idea) for Sticky to learn his lesson about not trespassing.

"Listen to me, Sticky," Daniil began delicately, head pounding far too severely to articulate himself as well as usual. "You cannot tell anyone anything."

"Not that there's anything to tell," Artemy tacked on defensively.

Sticky gave a tepid thumbs-up, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Right."

"So, uh, how did your little rendez-vous with Khan and Notkin go?" Daniil asked awkwardly in a futile attempt at distraction. He desperately wanted to not be in the same bed as a mostly-naked and mostly-hard Artemy while Sticky was there, but he'd be damned if he emerged from under the blanket first.

"Oh, that? I didn't go."

Both Daniil and Artemy froze. "You... what?"

"I listened to you guys, it was a bad idea. You told me not to. Did you think I'd disobey a direct order?" Sticky had a tricksy tinge to his voice, as if he'd accomplished some mischievous plan by not going to the Broken Heart after all.

Daniil would have sobbed or laughed with cupio dissolvi at how avoidable last night's calamity was if he wasn't paralyzed by the question of if Artemy even remembered it. He wasn't sure if he wanted him to; maybe he should act as if nothing ever happened, to be safe. How would he even address it otherwise? Was Artemy even conscious enough to register that it was with a man?

"Sticky, there's—there should be some money on the desk there. Can you go buy some coffee beans? I'm all out," Artemy grumbled, rubbing an eye and gesturing in the general vicinity of the table.

Sticky eagerly pocketed the coins and nodded. "Yep. How much should—"

"Whatever you can buy. Just... now, please." Artemy sounded just as unwell as Daniil.

"Alright. I'll be back in a little bit," Sticky replied, bolting for the door.

Once it screeched shut, Daniil turned to face Artemy breathlessly, throwing the coverlet towards the foot of the bed. "Well, shit."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Artemy chuckled deliriously.

Daniil's eyes darted downward to where Artemy still sported a noticeable bulge. He had the untenable impulse to ask if he needed help with that, to get on his knees or pull on his similarly-filthied boxers, but his reason had thankfully returned enough to dissuade him.

"Um—shudkher, let me get dressed," Artemy mumbled, covering his lap with the blanket again.

Daniil nodded and finally climbed out of bed, cringing at the feel of his undergarments but having no more sanitary options. He flushed again at the scene they'd left behind, clothes strewn about the room like they'd been tearing them off of each other, and damn it, Daniil shouldn't feel heat pooling in his gut at that prospect. He started to gather his wardrobe from the floor, sock garters, trousers, belt, and then he saw it: his shirt, covered in a massive twyrine stain, unwearable.

"Oh no," Daniil groaned, holding it up to the light to assess the damage.

"What happened?" asked Artemy, approaching a chest of drawers beside him.

"My shirt is ruined." Daniil tilted his arms so Artemy could see the iridescent oil slick stains, and he grunted in sympathy. "It's really not fit to wear, but I can't just walk around town in only an undershirt..."

"Borrow one of mine."

Daniil worried at his lower lip and looked at Artemy to gauge if he was serious or not. He was, deathly so, studying Daniil and his throat before digging through the top drawer. Daniil might pass away from arousal if he were to wear Artemy's clothing like a lover, fuck, he almost wished he could borrow his boxers, too. "You—are you sure?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Artemy retrieved a long-sleeved shirt in an earthy maroon shade. "Here, this is the smallest one I own, but uh, it'll probably still be too big for you. Sorry."

Daniil couldn't believe Artemy would ever think he had to apologize for his size when that was one of his most attractive features. "That's fine, I don't mind. Thank you, Tyoma," he murmured in disbelief.

Artemy handed the wad of fabric to him, and Daniil immediately threw it on to feel even marginally less naked. His breath hitched at the overwhelming scent of Artemy, twyre and smoke, and then again at just how oversized it was on Daniil, exposing the top of his collarbone to the cold air. He caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror, and he grew dizzy at the sight of a few hickeys along his throat. Jesus.

The love bites looked frankly obscene with the drooping neckline, as if he were purposefully showing them off. Sticky had seen them, certainly. Anyone he passed on the way back to the Stillwater would see. He hated how the thought appealed to an exhibitionistic part of him.

When Daniil turned back to Artemy to thank him again, he shuddered at the unbidden desire evident in his blown pupils. He was unabashedly staring at Daniil, and Daniil noticed his stubble-coated jaw shift with his teeth grinding. He must be misinterpreting, but he couldn't be—that was the expression of a starved man. He glowed even rosier, embarrassed that he loved the attention enough for him to throb both in his underwear and in the hickeys at his pulse point.

"Thanks," Daniil said softly.

Artemy licked his lips and stepped into his trousers. "Any time, Danya."

By the time they were more or less fully dressed, Sticky knocked on the door to the lair. Daniil looked at Artemy, who couldn't suppress a snicker at how Sticky now seemed to remember how to announce his presence before entering. "Come in."

Sticky was visibly relieved to find them clothed when he put the bag of coffee beans on the desk. Daniil yawned as Artemy began preparing the coffee, preferring even an excruciating silence to conversation with his headache.

"So... who am I going to be shadowing today?" Sticky hesitantly asked after a few minutes of nothing but brewing and dripping sounds.

Simultaneously: "Danya." "Tyoma."

Artemy glared at Daniil, pouring the coffee into two earthenware cups.

"What, neither of you want my help?!" Sticky's offense was understandable, but he was the last thing Daniil needed to cure his hangover.

"No, it's just..." Daniil began reluctantly.

"Look, Sticky, nothing happened, alright?" Artemy interjected, pouring a ridiculous amount of milk into his cup after handing the other to Daniil.

Sticky looked uncomfortable. "What?"

"I know you kids talk a lot, so I want to set the record straight. Nothing happened last night. We went out for drinks and Daniil didn't want to walk all the way back to the Stillwater, that's all." The uncharacteristic waver in Artemy's voice betrayed his anxieties.

Sticky glanced at Daniil, then at Daniil's hickey. Self-consciously, Daniil tugged the collar of his—of Artemy's—shirt up. "...Okay. Doesn't getting drinks count as something happening?"

Artemy made a face. "What? No. By 'something happening' I mean... you know, something that's... whatever, forget it."

Despite all logic, Daniil felt a little hurt that it was nothing to Artemy as he sipped his black coffee. Maybe he was downplaying it intentionally. Maybe he really didn't remember. Maybe Daniil was attributing more to their pitiful tryst than was there in actuality.

The rest of their morning consisted of much less incriminating palaver. Eventually, Daniil agreed to take Sticky for the day, only once the caffeine kicked in and he felt like he wouldn't assault a child for talking too loudly; he wasn't impressed by Artemy's crisis aversion skills thus far. As Daniil donned his coat, Artemy called to him, "I'll stop by the Stillwater later, I promise. Take care, Danya."

Daniil popped his collar before following Sticky outside. "Farewell, Tyoma."

They managed to make it past the railroad tracks before Sticky couldn't resist the urge to pipe up. "So... I didn't know you two got along so well."

Daniil bristled. He hadn't ascertained the Town's outlook on partnerships of his proclivity yet; he knew that Yulia was downright brazen and yet still well-respected, so much so that she designed the Town itself, but he didn't want to gamble that the blind eye afforded to women like her would also be extended to men like him. Artemy hadn't seemed offended by his interest, at the very least. "We don't. I'm sure I don't know what you mean by that."

Sticky gave him a deadpan scowl. "You're getting drinks together. And sleeping in the same bed. And sharing clothes."

Daniil closed his trench coat tightly around himself as if to hide that he was clad in Artemy's shirt, secondhand in the same manner as the snakeskin. "It's not like that, Sticky, truly. I ​didn't think you were so obsessed with love stories—you sound like Clara, for Christ's sake."

"Hey, I never said love!" Sticky cried, holding his palms up in innocence.

Daniil blushed. He struggled to articulate a rebuttal, particularly with the suggestive nature of the alleged "love" in question. Did the Town's kids get the, er, the-cows-and-the-bulls talk by age twelve? That was an anatomical topic that Daniil would categorically refuse to teach to Sticky under any circumstances. To be fair, Sticky had said he'd grown up seeing Herb Brides dancing in the Steppe and walking the streets, and Daniil couldn't imagine the topic hadn't come up in the context of cattle breeding, if nowhere else. However, Daniil didn't know how Sticky had interpreted their sleeping in the same bed, both in their underwear and one shirtless, Artemy's strong arms circling around his waist to pull him back in, and God, the pulsing bruises on his neck that really shouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't been entirely too drunk and giddy to hold his bottle upright at the bar. Would it even make things any better if Daniil denied it, told him it was no strings attached, no love involved at all?

Sticky kicked a rock as they walked past in silence and pensively watched it skip along the cobblestones. After a while, he said, "I'm not judging you or anything, Bachelor, if that's what you're thinking. Seriously. It's not my business either way, and even if it was, I wouldn't care." Daniil scoffed mentally; as if that'd ever stopped him from poking his nose in anyone's business before. "I'm just happy to see you two hit it off, that's all. You know, weeks and weeks ago, I was kind of terrified that you were going to be way madder at me for being friends with both of you."

Daniil hummed in consideration. "Fair assumption. In all honesty, I probably would have been upset and accused you of subterfuge or sabotaging me on his behalf if you'd told me before we hashed things out ourselves. We... really didn't get on."

Another silence, a more comfortable one. The Polyhedron towered on the horizon; they were already approaching the porch of the Stillwater. "What changed?" asked Sticky earnestly, the same way he'd ask what an amino acid was or what alkaline meant.

Daniil tensed, hand on the doorknob. Did promenading around the Steppe looking for their shared student really transform their relationship so completely, or was it working together in the aftermath of the Pest that bound them so solidly? Was it foolish to hope that Artemy hadn't regretted last night, if he remembered it at all—to hope that he would do it over again if he was sober like Daniil would? Shifting from enemies to friends was drastic enough, had enough time passed to justify another level of affection? Daniil took years to begrudgingly warm up to new people, and it was beyond strange that Artemy had wormed his way under his skin and made a home there in such a short period, perhaps even before their rivalry ended.

"I'm not sure... Maybe nothing at all." The key turning in the lock hauled him back into reality. "Ah, stop this gossiping; I'm teaching you medicine, not divulging every detail of my personal life."

When Daniil opened the door, Sticky scampered in. "Sorry. Was just curious."

"Go upstairs and set up the test tubes, would you? I have to get some things downstairs first," Daniil said, ears burning. Sticky nodded and bounded up two stairs at a time, allowing Daniil to gratefully change out of his dreadfully uncomfortable undergarments without traumatizing Sticky more than he already had been.

Once he was feeling much more dignified, he ascended to the garret and began showing Sticky how to fractionate blood and make a serum. Sticky had shown a special interest in serums, of all things, and he was more well-behaved than he'd ever been—he even wore his safety gear without complaint. He looked at ease, contented, relieved; however, it would be presumptuous of Daniil to attribute that to his and Artemy's ever-improving relationship, a non causa pro causa.

"Okay, so with the sample of tissue, gently place it in th—" Daniil instructed, but a shuffling sound from behind startled him, and he yelped in surprise when he saw a small creature moving out of the corner of his eye.

"Bloody hell! Goddamn it, you—sorry, sorry, language," Daniil shouted, finally realizing it was a girl and not a massive plague-infested rat. Murky had emerged from behind one of the decorative screens and scared the living daylights out of Daniil in the process, just like Sticky had what felt like ages ago. Sticky cackled as Daniil took deep breaths and Murky stood silently frowning at the desk. "How long have you been there?"

She didn't answer, blinking intently a couple of times while creeping up to the workspace. This was an oddity. She rarely materialized inside the Stillwater; typically, she preferred to loiter near the pond on the rare occasion that she left the sanctity of her traincar at all. He still delivered her victuals to her in the evenings, but he and Artemy alternated visits nowadays after discovering that she'd been blithely eating twice her share—neither could be upset with her, though, considering how direly she needed the nutrition. With the worst of the food scarcity fading, there was enough to spare that she could eat as much as she wanted without making the tired healers walk twice as much as necessary.

"Careful, Murky, this is delicate equipment and we're handling biohazardous material. What do you need? Are you hungry, thirsty? Hurt?" Daniil asked, shoving his glasses up into his hair with one wrist while bending over slightly in his seat to stoop to her level. When she didn't reply, he took a deep breath. No matter how hard he tried, he was no good at divining the inner thoughts of adults, let alone children, and least of all Murky.

"I think she wants to observe," Sticky chimed in, leaning over to peer at her, too. "She's just too shy to ask."

"I'm not shy," Murky grumbled self-assuredly, refusing to meet either of their gazes. That was the extent of her response, though, and Daniil took that as confirmation of Sticky's hypothesis.

"Here, if you want to watch up close, then put this on." Fishing a spare surgical mask out of his carpetbag, Daniil turned and offered it to her. She scrunched up her nose and shook her head vehemently. Daniil pressed his lips together in a firm line. "The vaccination isn't a guarantee, Murky. You could still get sick from this if you're unlucky and immunocompromised enough, and you're so young... I won't risk you falling seriously ill on my watch. Wearing this is mandatory if you want a front row seat, I'm afraid."

Murky finally met his eyes, glaring at him for just a split second before she looked at the desk again, her thick brows that resembled Daniil's still furrowed. She clutched her doll to her chest.

Daniil didn't know what to do to appease her. He looked sideways at Sticky, who shrugged. He cared deeply for Murky and tried his absolute best to compromise with her, but this was why he didn't want to be a damned babysitter.

At that moment, four brisk knocks resounded on the door. Daniil flinched again, prompting a giggle from Sticky, and before he could grant permission to enter, Artemy was in the room.

"Wow, throwing a party without me?" Artemy grinned. Upon entering, he immediately sidled up to Daniil and covertly whispered, "You, uh, left... this, at my place." With that, he showed Daniil his twyrine-stained shirt, and Daniil felt blood rush to his ears.

"That's—um. Thank you, Tyoma. Just... put it on one of the boxes or something." If Daniil wasn't explaining what happened last night to Sticky, he sure as hell wasn't explaining it to Murky.

"As you wish." Artemy tossed the heap of fabric over one of the screens, and before he could ask what was going on, Murky threw her doll on the bed, skittered over to him, and attached herself to his pant leg. He bent over and ruffled her already-unruly hair in acknowledgement. "Hey, kiddo. You're clingy today."

"She wants to sit in on my tutorial demonstrating how to make a serum, but she won't wear a face mask," Daniil explained, hoping Artemy might have secret Murky-whispering powers. "Any ideas?"

Artemy pondered for a beat. Then, he unceremoniously reached down, swept Murky up, situated her atop his shoulders, and stood to his full height in one fluid motion. She made no sounds, but her eyebrows shot upwards as he situated her. He held onto her dirty ankles gingerly, securing her in case she lost her balance. "How about this? Should be enough distance from above my head down to the desk."

Daniil's chest ached for an unidentifiable reason, or, rather, one he didn't want to identify. Seeing Artemy, the man he'd known as the Ripper, a violent, ruthless murderer who harvested organs for black market trading, now standing in his bedroom with an orphan girl perched on his shoulders was surreal. He wouldn't have guessed Artemy would be good with kids, not in a million years. Daniil had never wanted children, and he wouldn't have wanted them even if it had happened to be in the cards for him; nevertheless, the kindness with which Artemy held Murky, the compassion in his making her feel included, the suppressed triumph on his face for coming up with a solution to their predicament... it affected Daniil more than he'd like to admit.

"Good idea, Tyoma," Daniil croaked. He cleared his throat. "Murky, is that okay with you?"

Murky nodded vigorously, nearly banging her chin on Artemy's skull.

"Do you have anything to do in the next... hm, hour, say?" Daniil asked Artemy, wanting to minimize any chance of a tantrum by finishing the lesson before Murky had to step away.

"Nothing better than this," Artemy replied plainly, plucking the mask Daniil had taken out for Murky and slipping the loops behind his ears. She grabbed handfuls of blond locks to use as reins as he slowly moved closer to the desk. "Alright, what's your lecture on, Professor?"

Daniil scoffed and nudged his glasses to fall back upon his nose as he resumed his position at the workspace. "I'm not a professor, don't oversell me. I'm a remediary tutor at best."

Said lecture went well enough, Daniil supposed. It lasted an hour and then some; Murky sat rapt on Artemy's shoulders the entire time while Sticky participated attentively. Artemy answered some of his more general questions, actually, and Daniil felt somewhat proud of the both of them by the time the serum was made and the gloves and masks could come off.

"I can walk Murky back to her train car, if you'd like," Sticky offered once Artemy kneeled to let her dismount. Murky retrieved her doll from where she'd left it before taking her spot by Sticky's side.

"That would be great, Sticky." Artemy stood once more, rubbing his knee and stretching his upper back. "I wanted to talk to the oynon about something, anyway."

At that, Sticky's face lit up and Daniil's stomach dropped. "Oh?" he goaded.

"It doesn't concern you, kid," Artemy dismissed coarsely.

Sticky took hold of Murky's arm and shepherded her towards the door. "Fine. I know when I'm not wanted."

Artemy shot Daniil a doubtful look as if to say, he does?

"Tomorrow, you're going to Artemy's," Daniil called after him as the door clicked shut. However, the handle kept jiggling, and then suddenly, a loud clunk startled Artemy and Daniil.

"What was that?" Artemy accused, crossing the room in seconds to investigate. The unmoving knob seemed tiny in his bear paws, tendons flexing against the silver. Over his shoulder, he hissed, "It's stuck."

"Stuck?!" cried Daniil, springing to his feet to test it for himself. "What do you mean, 'it's stuck'?"

"Uh... I think the lock broke," Sticky eked out from the other side. "Maybe it was Murky?"

Daniil pinched the bridge of his nose. He had been dreading this conversation with Artemy, so naturally, the universe wouldn't impart him any hope of escape or absolution. "You're the best locksmith in town, Sticky, surely you can figure it out. Un-stick it."

When there was no reply, Artemy groaned. "Don't you have a lockpick?"

"The last time I brought a lockpick to the Stillwater, Dankovsky waved a freaking gun at me!" Sticky shouted, fruitlessly shaking the doorknob as if it'd miraculously free the pins. "I got the message the first time!"

Artemy gave Daniil a bemused look, and Daniil merely pressed on his temples to fend off the migraine that was sure to come. "Long story. Well, can't you procure one?"

Sticky paused. "Yes. But I'll have to run to my house. It'll take a long time, I probably won't get back here until evening." The handle shook under Artemy's ironclad grip again. "Can you wait that long?"

"Do we have a choice?" Daniil snapped.

"I could break down the door," Artemy mumbled, and Daniil glowered at him, refusing to deign that with a response.

"I guess not. Okay, I'll start heading over then!" Sticky yelled. Daniil could make out the taps of Murky's bare feet descending the staircase already.

Daniil sighed. "Can you knock this time so I know you're not a burglar?"

"Yeah, yeah!" With that, Sticky and Murky were gone, leaving Artemy and Daniil trapped in the garret with nothing to discuss aside from the unspeakable.

---

When he heard Sticky and Murky leave the Stillwater, Artemy felt uneasy.

He had to assume that Daniil was mad at him, judging by how he had yet to acknowledge last night. Still, Artemy couldn't stop staring at the love bite on Daniil's throat peeking out from the collar of Artemy's shirt, Artemy's shirt that he was still wearing even though he was home and could have changed hours ago. He'd strategically angled himself so the kids couldn't see the hickeys, but Artemy knew, and now they were alone with no audience to enforce propriety. Daniil looked gorgeous in his reading glasses, too, comically large and rounded—he figured they weren't reading glasses, then, more like scientific experiment... goggles, or something, Artemy didn't know. Either way, he looked devastatingly handsome; he looked like the head of a prestigious laboratory in the Capital that he was.

Artemy coughed, noticing how close they were crowded against the door. "How are you feeling?"

"Aside from the hangover? Swell." Daniil retreated back into the study, leaning back against the desk to face Artemy more comfortably, impassive. "And you?"

Artemy shrugged. "Holding up." The terse silence that followed wedged like a stake in Artemy's heart.

"My neck is killing me." Daniil craned it to each side, loosening a crick he must've earned while hunched over his serum. For a few seconds, the hickey was on full display, a vivid shade of violet in the shape of Artemy's mouth dyed into the pale skin of his throat. His breath stopped. It was impossible to focus on their conversation when Daniil was so swamped by Artemy's tightest shirt that wearing it seemed more indecent than if he had been nude.

"From performing the synthesis, or—uh, or do you think you slept on it funny?" Artemy stumbled through the sentence, realizing how pathetic he sounded accidentally breaching the topic he was terrified to bring up. Daniil hadn't mentioned it, he was probably too drunk to remember it. Or worse, he did remember it and he regretted it. Either possibility was nauseating, and Daniil definitely would have talked about it by now if he had anything positive to say, right?

Daniil's cheeks turned an enticing shade of pink, and seeing him fluster like that was almost worth the embarrassment of mentioning the incident first. Haltingly, Daniil said, "From hunching over for an hour working on the synthesis, undoubtedly. I... I slept just fine last night, actually. The best sleep I've had in ages."

A tentative inkling of hope unfurled in Artemy's stomach. Did that mean that he was satisfied, or did it mean that he was blacked out when he begged for him? A perverse fantasy emerged in the back of his mind: he knew Daniil suffered from insomnia more often than not, and if he slept well only after Artemy pleasured him, he wouldn't be opposed to making house calls every night to ensure the poor bachelor could get some rest. He dismissed the dirty thought to the best of his ability, but the memory of wet linen under his thumb refused to dissipate. "Good. That's... good. Bet you're glad you tried twyrine, eh?"

Daniil fidgeted with his belt buckle. "Hell. Somehow, I am. I think I had a little too much, though."

Between the touchiness in the bar, the stumbling home to insist upon sharing a bed, and the grand finale of the night, Artemy couldn't decipher what he was referring to in particular. He wasn't sure which option he'd prefer; they'd all sting the same, he supposed. "Too much?"

The room lapsed into quietude. Particles of dust floated into and out of the sunlight like fireflies. "I—yes, don't you agree?" Daniil's voice was taut, strained. He wandered over to pick up his stained shirt, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "I apologize for my... indecorous behavior. I don't normally lose self-control like that."

Artemy didn't agree. He watched Daniil gnaw on the inside of his cheek, refusing to meet his eye contact, and delusional desire rippled down Artemy's spine at the implication that his self-control was the only thing stopping him from acting like that more often. "It's okay, Danya. If either of us are at fault, it'd be me."

Daniil's heel swiveled on the hardwood. Aghast, he replied, "What? No, no, I'm the one to blame. I... you only did what I asked of you."

The breathy, solicitous "please" that had escaped Daniil as he touched himself resonated in Artemy's ears for the hundredth time. "I could've said no if I didn't want to," he said meekly.

Daniil looked at him at last, glittering eyes fixed on his with a lethal intensity. "Are you telling me that you did want to?"

Shudkher. Artemy was trapped by that piercing gaze, pinned under Daniil's microscope. He'd revealed more than he'd intended; out of his peripheral vision, the hickey on his throat taunted him. Confessing his feelings and how frequently he'd dreamt about having Daniil in his arms like that was unthinkable, it'd ruin their burgeoning friendship the moment Daniil rejected him, but Artemy feared he had already given himself away too much to avert disaster.

"Uh... maybe I had too much, too." Seeing the instant disappointment on Daniil's face at the lackluster alibi, Artemy took a deep breath, tamped down his pride, and added with a healthy dose of self-deprecation, "But—yes. You didn't coerce me. Obviously, I wanted to. You could feel that much, couldn't you?"

Daniil flushed even deeper, and Boddho, Artemy yearned to bestow kisses on every inch of sanguine-tinted skin on his body. The attic had shrunk until it only contained the two of them, allotting them no extra room to breathe or move or think without colliding with the other. After nibbling on his lip, Daniil finally muttered, "I didn't think you were lucid enough to register who exactly it was in your bed, or... or if you could even tell it was a man."

At that, Artemy snorted incredulously. "You think I didn't notice what I had my hand wrapped around, Danya?" The concept was ridiculous, how could he have mistaken Daniil for a random person, male or female? He proceeded with caution, choosing each phrase carefully. "I was drunk, but I knew exactly what I was doing. If that makes you think less of me, so be it. I understand."

Daniil furrowed his brows. "Why would that make me think less of you? I'm the one who imposed myself upon you, I'm the one who begged like a dog when you generously tried to stop me from disgracing myself." His words came out waveringly, unsteadily, volatile. "I... fuck, I was certain that you wouldn't have done that if you knew what you were doing, or if you knew it was me."

"You've got it the wrong way around," Artemy murmured, taking a step closer to Daniil, closer to the abyss. Ethanol and heme permeated his consciousness, mixed with adrenaline—this couldn't be real. "You weren't imposing, or at least if you were, then it was far from unwelcome. Frankly, I can't imagine that you'd find me worthy of imposing upon on the first place, even when inebriated."

Daniil licked his lips, so close that Artemy could see the pinpricks of ruby where he'd bitten them. "Tyoma, I've been dying to do that for ages." He placed a trembling hand on Artemy's chest over his sweater as if trying to feel his heartbeat; he probably could, if it was hammering as hard as it felt like it was. "And—God help me, I don't regret it. I'd do it again, if you'd allow me," whispered Daniil, barely audible, like it'd shatter the spell over both of them if he spoke any louder.

Artemy knew that he was long past the point of no return, so more willingly than not, he careened into destruction.

"Please, Danya." He cupped Daniil's soft, clean-shaven jaw, so criminally close that they seemed gravitationally attracted. With his voice cracking, he breathed, "Do it again. Do it over and over again, please."

In response to that, Daniil surged upward to capture Artemy's chapped lips like a knot with the ends pulled, inundating him with pure relief as he reciprocated the kiss just as ardently.

The atmosphere turned from sterile to febrile instantly, as if they were two of Daniil's reagents igniting upon making contact; Artemy could've sworn they had from the sparks cascading through his veins. Daniil circled his arms around Artemy's neck to pull him even closer and he gladly obeyed—he'd always gladly obey whatever Daniil asked of him, that would always be his downfall—pressing them together by the small of Daniil's back. He drew him in so forcefully that they staggered backward until Daniil's legs hit the desk, and automatically, Artemy lifted him up onto the surface without breaking the kiss.

All of Artemy's anxieties were assuaged by Daniil's molten tongue lapping into his mouth, assuring him that he wanted him just as badly, that Artemy wasn't alone in his hunger, that he craved Artemy as much as he'd craved Daniil. It was inconceivable that Daniil loved Artemy's crooked nose and scar-crossed skin the same way that Artemy loved Daniil's slender wrists and constellation of moles, but if Daniil wanted to take on a charity case, Artemy was too greedy and too smitten to deny him.

They finally parted for air, and Artemy took the opportunity to yank his sweater and undershirt up and over his head, desperate for skin-on-skin as soon as possible.

"Fuck, how can you say you're not worthy?" Daniil hissed, unabashedly ogling Artemy's physique. "You've been tempting me nonstop."

Artemy shuddered. "I have?" He'd never felt like he was anything to look at, especially not compared to the specimen before him, but Daniil admired him like he was a work of art worth keeping; the sheer adoration in the lustful flutter of inky eyelashes made Artemy dizzy with arousal, stirring in his trousers more than he'd have expected from just being watched.

"You have to know what you're doing when you're showing off like that, Tyoma, Christ. You're incredible, stunning, cygnus inter anates." Daniil kissed him again briefly, as if to revel in the fact that he could, before retreating to eye him up and down even more. "I—fuck, I've been drooling over you every time you're dressed down like this, hell, I need you."

Artemy was too flustered to fully process the influx of praise, so instead of responding, he hugged Daniil to his chest for a moment to recover and only grew more lightheaded at the scent of camphor. Hearing Daniil say these things was the best kind of overwhelming yet still overwhelming nonetheless, and Artemy's ribs would burst if he kept talking like that, like he really meant it. A part of him didn't believe him, couldn't believe him, but he knew Daniil hated lying, and his enthusiasm was undeniable.

"You have me, Danya, you always have," Artemy mumbled into his hair, just before he gained the courage to pull away and face him again. He was rewarded with the sight of Daniil fighting back a smile, the sight that had sealed Artemy's fate what felt like eons ago, and it made his knees weak just the same if not more so with the addition of his shirt draping off of his thin frame. "Always. Shudkher, you should wear my clothes more often."

"I'm in favor," Daniil chuckled fondly, hooking a finger in the collar and exposing his throat. "And this—I missed the bruises. I wouldn't mind more of these, as vulgar as it looks without my cravat."

"That's the best part," Artemy retorted, leaning in to suck and bite at the other side of his pristine neck.

"Fucking hell, my neck is sss—so bloody sensitive," Daniil whined, rolling his hips against Artemy's and showing him exactly how affected he was. Artemy kissed the soon-to-be abrasion to tease him, relishing how he squirmed impatiently. "When you had your knife to my throat, God, I was gone. I was so turned on I couldn't think, I convinced myself you were, too..."

Artemy nipped harder, compensating his candor; his entire worldview was inverting as his foundational belief in his own undesirability began to fracture. "I was. Every time."

Daniil convulsed at that, grinding his bulge against Artemy's and sighing brokenly. "How the hell are you so perfect?"

Unwittingly, Artemy keened high in his throat, blushing the color of bloody twyre and rocking into Daniil's ass. Something had to be wrong with him, Suok damn him, why did that rile him up so much?

"Are—are you... do you like being complimented, Tyunchik?" Daniil purred, scratching lightly down Artemy's bare back with blunt fingernails.

Artemy couldn't bear to face him, not when his cheeks were so painfully hot and his arousal was so suffocatingly potent. He slipped one hand under his shirt on Daniil's chest, frustrated when he still had another layer of fabric to bypass before he could touch him properly.

"You do, don't you? I didn't think you'd have a penchant for that," teased Daniil airily, rucking up the shirt to help Artemy undo the buttons of his union suit.

"I didn't think so either," muttered Artemy in lurid defeat. Between the sweetness of the praise and the humiliation of enjoying it so much, one of those factors should have contradicted the other and nullified his ridiculous reaction; instead, they formed a vicious cycle of mad desire, and he'd last an unspeakably short amount of time if Daniil kept stroking his ego like that.

Before Daniil could terrorize him any further, Artemy kissed him again languidly, still amazed that he had the privilege of tasting coffee and tobacco on his tongue. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed anyone, but if his technique was rusty, Daniil didn't seem to notice with his adulating motions and soft whimpers that Artemy could ease out of him for hours. His pulse rose even higher at cold fingers grazing lower and lower down his midriff until they hit his belt buckle, so maddeningly featherlight as they skimmed along his abdomen.

Daniil withdrew and Artemy chased after him, pecking at his cheek and the corner of his mouth when he dodged his lips. "You're immaculate, Tyoma, I've never been able to stop thinking about you since we first met. So handsome, gorgeous... God, I'd have told you all of this earlier if I had known you'd react so wonderfully," rambled Daniil as he fed Artemy's belt through its clasp, and Artemy was powerless to do anything in retaliation but gasp and leak into his underwear inches below his touch.

"Shudkher, you're going to kill me," Artemy panted, throbbing hard enough that it made his heartbeat feel secondary. "It's—It's too much too quickly, Danya. Just be quiet for a second, will you?"

Daniil took that as a challenge. He tore Artemy's fly open and snaked a hand under his trousers but over his boxers to give him a shameless squeeze, making Artemy moan lewdly in his ear and shiver in his grasp. "One. There, I was quiet for a second. Now can I tell you how nice your cock is?"

Artemy forced himself to lean back, extricating himself from Daniil just enough to hide his face and try to steady his breathing, reeling with lust and the instinct to thrust into his hand. Rationality flew from Artemy, supplanted by the vulgarity, the bluntness, the skinny fingers groping him. Unable to conceal his whiny tone, he groaned, "No, fuck. Why are you so cruel? Do you want this to be over immediately?"

"No, I want to get back at you for all the times you did this to me." Daniil nudged Artemy's pants and boxers down his hips and Artemy got the idea, shucking the last of his clothing off and leaving himself entirely nude. He regarded Daniil with delirious vulnerability, his arousal fully exposed in stark contrast to Daniil's modesty, still fully-clothed. Another obscene bead of precum continued to dribble from Artemy's tip when Daniil finally started to disrobe as well, removing his belt, shirt, slacks, and half-undone underwear in record time before grabbing something from a drawer. "Bed."

"Keep my shirt on," Artemy requested without thinking, beseeching. He slumped into bed, too woozy with want to try to intuit what position Daniil wanted him in, more than content to let him direct given his inexperience. This all still felt like an overindulgent wet dream, even with the unmistakable taste of Daniil's spit on his palate. If he let himself speculate on what stances they could adopt—Daniil on all fours, Daniil laying helpless beneath him, Daniil between his thighs—he'd go mad long before Daniil could drive him to insanity himself.

Daniil shot him a dangerous smirk with an asp's fangs, quirking an eyebrow as he obliged. "My, you are possessive."

"Guilty as charged." Artemy knew it was counterproductive to gawk at the curves and planes of Daniil's body when he was trying to cool off, but he'd been haunted by the thought of it for so long that he was completely at the mercy of his lithe form. "Is that a bad thing?"

"God, no. I love it. We're the same, in that regard." With that, Daniil straddled Artemy's lap unceremoniously, the tented maroon fabric coming unbearably close to brushing against Artemy's length. His weight was comforting and familiar; feeling Daniil's body against his was an old habit, one he'd missed dearly.

"Shudkher, khөөrkhen," Artemy seethed while grinding his teeth. "I'm—I'm not normally this..." Pathetic, eager, needy?

Daniil uncorked a vial of unidentified oil and drizzled it first on his fingers, then on Artemy's cock, making him inhale sharply at the coldness. "I wouldn't mind if you were. It's cute," he chuckled breezily as he discarded the bottle.

Cute, that was a first. Glistening fingers disappeared underneath the hem of his carmine shirt; narrow hips settled down onto Artemy's lap, onto his own fingers hidden from view, and Artemy lowed with need at the implication. Daniil kissed him, messy and unhurried, both apologetic and unrepentant for neglecting his weeping length in favor of working himself open. Artemy's fidgety hands shook, unsure where they were allowed to roam, if they were at all. Everything was too much, the sight of Daniil's lips parting, the sound of Daniil sighing, the taste of salt, and when Daniil finally touched Artemy, he flinched.

"Ah! Ha—ah, fuck," Artemy gasped, gripping Daniil's hipbones hard. Stars danced in his vision, a kaleidoscope of pleasure, and he winced at his own excitement. It wasn't that different from his own hand mechanically, but after so much longing, it felt nothing short of revolutionary, like Daniil had introduced him to a wondrous drug in return for his acquaintance with twyrine.

"Look at you, God," Daniil grinned, spreading the slick down Artemy's length. "So eager, what are you, a virgin?"

Artemy reddened.

Daniil tilted his head while scrutinizing his countenance. "...Tyoma?" When he still didn't respond, he leaned forward. "Tyoma. Are you a virgin?"

The air was stifling, unbreathable. Artemy didn't know why it mattered that he hadn't found anyone worth bedding until Daniil—or, rather, that nobody had found him worth bedding until Daniil. Revealing how inexperienced he was felt like a deliberate form of degradation, and he suddenly felt inexplicably small under a man half his size. "Why do you care?"

"Am I your first?" Daniil breathed, and oh. After hearing the husky interest laced in his words, Artemy understood: Daniil liked that fact. A damp spot had begun to form on the last article of clothing between the two of them, and Artemy didn't miss how it darkened a little more at the insinuation that Daniil was not just the only one in town who called him Tyoma, but the only one who'd felt him harden under his fingers like this.

"Yes," admitted Artemy. Daniil's hand glided upwards in recompense, and Artemy cursed. "Shudkher. My first—and only."

He hadn't meant to say the last part, but that was the right answer; Daniil bit his lip and angled Artemy's cock to align with his entrance, and with a pitchy sound, he began to descend onto him. "Fuck, yes. Good. Perfect."

The heat was so immediately overbearing that Artemy had to alter his grip on Daniil's hips to give himself purchase to clutch him with the bruising force he needed. He yearned to push his shirt aside and unveil Daniil in his full glory, but the combination of his tightness, his hickeys, his hedonistic focus, all of it was already far too much, and Artemy screwed his eyes shut to survive as Daniil lowered himself at an agonizing pace. Too much. Shudkher, it was too much.

When he was finally seated fully, they both took a moment to breathe in wanton synchrony. "Christ, you're big," Daniil huffed dreamily, in awe. "How has nobody thrown themselves at you yet?"

A drop of sweat traced a line like a tear track down Artemy's temple. "Nobody connects with me like you, Danya, nobody. We're—we're two halves, we were specially made to interlock. We fit together like the hemispheres of a brain, like the chambers of a heart, atria and ventricles, you complete me, always have." He was rambling blindly, and if he were more mentally coherent, it'd probably embarrass him; however, it crucially diverted his attention from the heavenly pressure threatening to prematurely truncate the moment that Artemy never wanted to end, so he'd yammer on as long as necessary if it'd delay the inevitable. "Never could deny it, and I tried. You're... different."

In response, Daniil devoured his lips in a kiss. More searing, visceral sensation, searing on his tongue and searing on his cock, yet another duality; Artemy was Suok, an endless void, and Daniil was Bos Turokh, smothering him from all sides until he consumed him whole. He was happily trapped within Daniil, literally and figuratively, but inexplicably, he felt more constricted as Daniil began lifting himself off of him. He pulled away to breathe and Artemy unraveled even further when he saw the contours of lean muscle that had carved themselves into quaking thighs.

"God, you're divine. So—fuck, so perfect," keened Daniil moments before reconnecting their hips once more in one fluid motion.

"Boddho! Danya, shudkher, wait." Artemy gritted his teeth in bliss, shutting his eyes for a few beats as claustrophobic walls squeezed the life from him.

"Aww, Tyoma," Daniil cooed, laden with condescension and lust. He rocked ever so slightly to torment Artemy even more before leisurely bouncing again. "Too excited? Adorable."

Artemy didn't know why the humiliation struck him as appealing just as much as the compliments did, but he smoldered with profane mortification as he dripped like a faucet inside of Daniil. "I, shit, I'm not going to last if you keep, shudkher—if you keep this up, I'm serious, khөөrkhen," he heaved, exerting all of his willpower to contain the building rapture before he couldn't anymore.

"Come on, we've barely started." Daniil's cruel smirk and florid complexion were equally alluring and petrifying, and if Artemy was afraid that he was genuinely mocking him, he was reassured by his shirt slipping to reveal Daniil's achingly hard cock, shiny with slick arousal just like Artemy's was. His mouth watered, and one of his fleeting ideas from last night returned uninvited: the desire to taste him, to serve him, to run his tongue along him. He'd never tried it before, but Boddho, he wanted to try with Daniil.

"Ah, close!" Artemy warned, though with how tense he was, it came out as more of an amorphous grunt. Daniil took no heed, striking up a languorous rhythm of oscillating motion like a pendulum. Despite how slow and deliberate his motions were, it was still too fast for Artemy to process, and in his mindless fever, he bucked upwards, held Daniil down, and came uncontrollably with a cry of "Danya, khөөrkhen!"

Euphoria crashed over Artemy in waves as he spilled inside of him, every part of his anatomy gone rigid with exertion. A primal part of Artemy loved fulfilling the animalistic instinct of claiming Daniil like this, sheathed as far as he could go, subconsciously thrusting up into his heat in the hopes that they'd meld together permanently, becoming inseparable, conjoined in one form at last. For what felt like an eternity, reality escaped him, and all there was was the unimaginable ecstasy and the scent of camphor; eventually, though, his sanity returned.

"I apologize," Daniil exhaled in bewilderment. "I didn't realize you... I thought you were exaggerating."

Artemy lifted his eyes and was shocked to find Daniil's bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat, his pupils dilated enough that the sunlight only highlighted the thinnest ring of rich brown around them. "Sorry," he replied lamely.

"No, fuck, that's—that's very attractive." Daniil extracted himself while Artemy let out a hiss of discomfort. However, the sight of his cum dripping out of him more than made up for the momentary unpleasantness, he decided. "God, don't apologize. I'm flattered."

Artemy hid his face in his hands. The afterglow was thankfully dulling the utter humiliation he'd surely feel once it wore off. "Shudkher, this isn't how I wanted this to go."

At that, Daniil kissed him chastely, though when he parted, he looked at him like he would eat him alive. "It's alright, I should've expected as much. Fuck, it's hot to me, don't worry."

"Can I make it up to you, Danya?" Artemy asked, glancing down at his still-prominent arousal. He couldn't imagine that his overexcitement was hot in any way, but then again, Daniil was indisputably amorous as he toyed with his collar and poked at his hickeys.

Daniil raised an eyebrow and leaned back. "Alright. I certainly won't complain. Just—"

Before Daniil could finish his sentence, Artemy surged forward, manhandling him by his skinny waist until he laid flat on the bed with Artemy nestled between his thighs. Daniil made a high sound at the exhibition of strength, and Artemy committed the vision to memory: his shirt riding up Daniil's midriff to uncover a trail of ebony hair, just above where his seed overflowed onto the sheets.

"Christ, Tyoma, are you sure?" Daniil propped himself up on an elbow. "You don't have to, if it's too much."

Artemy circled a hand around the base, still astonished that he was permitted to. "Returning the favor."

Daniil huffed a laugh and collapsed back onto the mattress in incredulity. "Do ut des."

Unable to wait any longer, Artemy licked along the underside experimentally, casting a glimpse at Daniil for approval before taking his head into his mouth. The shape was foreign to Artemy, but not unappealing, and he awkwardly enclosed his lips around him and began to suck; though his technique had to be suboptimal, he wanted to serve Daniil, to pleasure him and ease the strain in his Lines, and he lapped at the velvety skin with curiosity and gratitude.

Daniil snaked a hand down to thread into his hair, clumsily scraping his scalp just enough to make him let out a low hum against his tip, which in turn coaxed a keen out of Daniil. Artemy pulled away for air and blushed at the thread of saliva that connected his lip to Daniil, breaking it with his thumb to ask, "Good?"

The bedframe creaked under both of their weights as Artemy readjusted for a better angle. "You're doing very well. Fuck, I never thought I'd see you like this," said Daniil, dazed, petting Artemy like he were a cow. For some reason, he preened at the touch that might have otherwise been interpreted as patronizing.

"Me neither," Artemy replied truthfully, and with a kiss to the head, he began to swallow him down properly, steadily sinking onto him until his nose nestled in a thatch of black hair. The scent of Daniil was ubiquitous like this, with his neck bracketed by Daniil's thighs, but it was the musky undertone that lay beneath the cologne's façade that intoxicated him, something metallic and human and mouthwatering; their pheromones must have been compatible, or maybe their Lines interacted in just the right way to make every aspect of Daniil biologically irresistible to him. Artemy had the impression that they were fated to be together from the beginning, yet now, witnessing how he came apart at the seams under his amateurish idolatry while setting the tempo with a gentle grasp on his hair, he knew that it was fact.

"Good, just like that, hell," Daniil whimpered. If Artemy hadn't had his mouth full, he'd make a sly comment about how Daniil really is the better teacher of the two of them. Then, he got too confident in his bobbing, and Daniil wrenched at his blond strands with an admonition of, "Teeth!"

Aside from that, the litany of praises and moans from above convinced Artemy that his passion was satisfactory; he repeated the adulations that earned him the basest noises, not dissimilar from the noises he'd made while scrapping in the burnt district, when that was all the physical connection they'd been granted. Now that they'd been granted so much more, down to the maladroit canting into his mouth, Artemy knew he'd never bear giving any of it up, not after having developed a novel dependence to the slightly nicotine-bitter taste painted along his tongue.

"Fuck, Tyoma, I'm close," said Daniil, fingers winding even further in his locks.

Resisting the urge to look up at the beautiful face he must be making, Artemy stayed the course, ignoring the ache in his jaw to work Daniil over the edge with the reverence he deserved. When Daniil's spine arched and he cried out "Tyoma!", Artemy took him as deep as he could and swallowed every drop of his release like bitter seawater. The texture was off-putting, like twyrine extract left out to sit too long, but his gratification from knowing that it was Daniil's far outweighed any consistency issues. Drinking up Daniil, Danya, his khөөrkhen—it was an act of devotion, of worship, of offering to take everything he'd be willing to give and then some. If Artemy's refractory period was any shorter, he'd be stirring against the coverlet again, no doubt.

Artemy marveled at the odd sensation of Daniil going flaccid in his mouth, but after a beat, Daniil decisively reined him off and upwards to lay beside him rather than between his legs. Without thinking, Artemy kissed him with his lips still swollen and wet; the salty flavor mingled with the dregs of black coffee, and again a torrent of love overpowered him.

"Oh Tyoma, I'm... in disbelief," Daniil whispered, cupping his scratchy cheek. Then, quieter, astonished, almost immaturely, "I mean, Christ, you swallowed."

Artemy knit his brows, searching for meaning in Daniil's blissful expression. With a new grittiness to his intonation, he asked, "Was I not supposed to?"

Daniil laughed, a delightfully exhilarated sound, and pressed his forehead to Artemy's. "No, no, it's—if you want to, you have my blessing. It's simply not something I would have guessed." There was a gleeful lilt to his tone that reflected Artemy's own enamored haze.

Exhausted, Artemy's eyelids slipped shut, and he felt the mattress dip as Daniil presumably reached for something to clean himself. The rush of oxytocin only bloomed larger as Daniil slotted back into his grasp, chest to chest, legs entangled, much more intimate than even their fling last night. Artemy fell asleep amazed that this wouldn't be the last time he'd hear Daniil's relaxed heartbeat and satisfied sighs melded with his own.

---

"Dankovsky! Burakh! I'm back, don't be naked this time, please!"

Daniil shot up straight. Déjà vu.

The banging on the door gave way to the mechanic fiddling clicks of the lockpick. Thankfully, Daniil had barely managed to doze off; he was far too excited to be able to fall asleep when he finally had his dreams manifest in reality, snoozing beside him, though he was coincidentally more naked than the last time Sticky walked in on them. He leapt out of bed and started getting dressed, snatching the blanket off of Artemy to wake him.

"We aren't! Your reward for knocking!" Daniil yelled, doing every other button of his underwear and throwing Artemy's boxers and sweater at him from where they lay on the floor. By a miracle, Artemy was conscious the next time Daniil glanced up at him, donning the garments as Daniil supplied them with a golden mane of a bedhead and a grumpy squint to his steely eyes. Daniil debated putting a spare dress shirt on instead of Artemy's loaned one to ensure the hickeys were hidden, but as the lockpick ticked like a pocket watch, he knew there wasn't time to do all of those buttons, too. Pants came first, then he could worry about dignity.

Daniil was yanking on his second sock garter when the doorknob finally managed to turn, and he sat down on the coverlet at Artemy's feet just before Sticky entered with Murky in tow. He wasn't sure how long they'd lazed together, but it was enough time for the sunset to arrive and stoke the study ablaze in hues of scarlet and amber.

The awkward silence and conspicuous restlessness wasn't easier the second round.

Sticky smiled, close-lipped and smug—Daniil never should have doubted his apprentice's ability to comprehend what he saw before him, because he was clearly and unequivocally gloating. Before he could ask what had him so proud of himself, though, Murky spoke.

"So your plan worked, then?" she murmured, clinging onto Sticky's flannel.

"Plan? What plan?" Artemy croaked. Daniil looked at the ceiling to fight back a reaction to how gravelly and guttural his timbre was.

Sticky elbowed Murky. "There's no plan. I don't know what she's—"

"Sticky, quiet." Daniil's attempt at sternness had meager results. "Murky, what was that?"

"Don't ask her! She likes to make stuff up, she's got an overactive imagin—"

In a flash, Artemy launched out of the bed and nearly tackled Sticky, wrestling with him for a moment in a cacophony of squeals and grunts and emerging victorious with his palm clamped over his mouth. "The oynon said be quiet, kid."

Murky, who had sprung back from her accomplice once the pandemonium erupted, took a few hesitant steps toward Daniil, but didn't speak unprompted.

Daniil crouched over on the edge of the bedspread, fighting the urge to wipe away the streaks of dirt on her impudent windswept face. Softly, he asked, "I believe what you say, Murky. What was his plan, dear?"

"I dunno." She fidgeted with a sheet of paper covered in layers of crayon scrawling, shooting daggers at the restrained Sticky out of the corner of her eye. She continued, taking long pauses between each statement, "When you were angry, he wanted you two to be buddies so he wouldn't have to sneak around so much. That was a while ago, though. Once you did, he figured you'd make a good couple, too. You just... needed a reason, or something? I dunno, I don't listen when he talks about icky stuff like that. Ask him."

Although his blood pressure rose at the news, Daniil still felt overjoyed that Murky trusted him enough to share such a confession with him. If Artemy thought Daniil was Sticky's favorite, then Artemy was decidedly Murky's, and it filled him with pride that he'd balanced the scales enough for her to huddle close to him like this. His bedside manners would instruct him to pat her on the shoulder, but he knew her well enough to bow his head instead. "Thank you for telling me, Murky. Is that a drawing you're holding?"

Suddenly, scuffling erupted on the other side of the room. Sticky broke free, scrambling away from Artemy with a squawk and leaving him to balk in outrage and swear hoarsely. "Did you just fucking lick me?!"

"Language," Murky muttered drily, only loud enough for Daniil to catch over the din.

"In my defense!" Sticky yelped, whipping his head back and forth from Artemy to Daniil to plead his case. "In my defense, clearly you two do make a good couple!"

Daniil rubbed his temples, but despite everything, he couldn't be mad at Sticky with his smattering of freckles and endearingly crooked teeth. He grimaced at the thought of a twelve-year-old boy orchestrating his love life, but he reckoned it made sense: he'd stolen his cravat to give Daniil a reason to visit Artemy when they despised each other; he'd set them up by hunting the Albino during their scheduled meeting time; he'd faked an appointment with Khan and Notkin to get them to go on the semblance of a date. And—goddamn him—he'd absolutely deliberately locked them in the garret. "Sticky, that's not for you to decide."

"But you agree!" Sticky gesticulated between them wildly, looking pained. "Sure, you can be pissed at me for playing matchmaker if you want, but you can't say I didn't do a good job!"

Artemy coughed, still wiping his hand off on his trousers. "You can't take all the credit, tenegh."

"But I can take some of it," Sticky grinned now that he knew he wasn't going to be mauled.

Daniil took in the mise-en-scène, bathed in the dying rays of the setting sun. Artemy crossed his arms with a fond severity, Sticky jutted his chin out cockily, Murky nodded sagely and tore at the edges of her drawing. Somehow, hours away from the Capital, he felt at home. He'd become sentimental. "Do you promise to stop meddling with our romantic pursuits?"

"Uh huh, I've achieved my goal anyway." agreed Sticky. The atmosphere was effervescent, shimmering, teeming with the impatient energy of things to come, though that might have been Daniil's infatuation seeping through as he met Artemy's lovestruck gaze.

Then, Sticky added, "And I swear I'll knock from now on!"

"Thank Boddho," Artemy rasped gruffly.

Notes:

shoutout to the one anon that started this all. this is by far my longest fic to date and by god it almost killed me so please be niceys to me even though i didnt have the strength to do more than basic proofreading.

hit my line on tumblr @oynonrings<3 (also @whollysensei on tumblr did some BEAUTIFUL art of ch 3 so go check that out too!!) okay i love you bye