Archive of Our Own

The alembic's spigot dripped in staccato stabs that ricocheted off of the rusted steel walls of Artemy's lair, joining the crickets susurrating outside in a stilted duet. The hour was late enough that stray dogs had ceased barking, yet still Artemy laid awake, even though the insomnia-inducing stress of the Sand Pest had passed.

In the span of two weeks, his life had been uprooted entirely, or rather, re-rooted, plucked from the Capital academy just before his commencement to be deposited into a hellish version of the hometown that he'd sobbed over leaving a decade ago. He'd been sixteen then; he hadn't understood his father's intentions in sending him away, not until years later when he made it through the prerequisite courses and could dive into the practice of surgery and physiology. Admittedly, the dissections and observations embedded in his brain far more than the lectures on modern medicine, partially because the former served to reiterate his knowledge of the Lines and how to cut into flesh. All the same, the basic background in clinicals proved useful during the worst of the Pest, so it must have adhered at least somewhat.

He grew to be thankful for being forced to expand his horizons, though his memories of the Capital and the other cities he visited were mixed at best. He was too "rural" for the high society, too "wild", "untamed", "uncivilized", but as much as he felt like a circus animal to be gawked at by the patricians, the city and its inhabitants fascinated and disgusted him in the exact same way.

He'd reflected on it frequently since his bittersweet homecoming. Now, as cruelly ironic as it was, he had carved out all of the Gorkhon marrow from his bones and left himself hollow. Despite his attempts at blending in, camouflaging his accent and suppressing his native tongue and shirking any vestiges of Kin culture, he still didn't mesh—at times, it felt like the other students in his program were from another continent with entirely different practices and beliefs.

The memories from his time in the Capital were the only paradigm he had through which to understand the public opinion of Daniil Dankovsky, however.

Artemy had heard his name before, he reckoned, when overhearing the faculty discussing the hotshot bachelor who'd just graduated and was already set to head his very own research laboratory, the always-venomous title of "Bachelor Dankovsky". He'd never met him before the Pest, of course; he was certain he would've recognized his striking features or his slight frame clad in his signature snakeskin trench coat once he appeared in the Town-on-Gorkhon. Daniil wasn't a forgettable man, even for someone like Artemy who didn't bother to socialize much within his academic cohort.

Woodenly, Artemy rolled over in bed. Being so memorable had turned Daniil into a natural topic of conversation, particularly now that the Sand Pest was eradicated and there wasn't much else to talk about. Some of the townsfolks' verbiage had evolved over time, such as the initial accusations of "snake" and "devil" that had faded away once he proved his relative virtuosity, but epithets like "fop" and "dandy" stubbornly remained, usually spoken with a sly sneer.

Those words always snagged in Artemy's mind far longer than they should. Fop, dandy, coxcomb.

He'd overheard men being called those things in the Capital, too, and most pertinently and alarmingly, he'd heard the men referred to as foppish also be rumored to be laying with other men, often in the same breath.

Artemy's pulse quickened, his blind eyes widening as he stared in the direction of the ceiling through the pitch black midnight. The notion of men coupling with other men wasn't one he'd encountered in the Town-on-Gorkhon, only in the Capital—similarly, he had never witnessed the acts in any of those scandalous stories, never seen them in person. He made himself too busy with his studies to fixate on the concept back then, but now that the dust was settling and the nights were longer than ever, his mind wandered uncontrollably, forging new Lines linking the filthy hearsay from university to the esteemed Bachelor Dankovsky. Were the Gorkhon townsfolk implying the same thing his classmates had when they whispered about his fashion sense, were innuendos one of the only linguistic commonalities between the city and the Steppe? Did they know something about Daniil that he didn't?

Could he even picture it? Daniil, performing the acts alluded to by his peers... Artemy bit his tongue and flung half of the blanket off of him, suddenly warm enough to sweat. He shouldn't.

The specifics were kept secret enough in public, even among gossipers, but in the depths of his memory, he recalled just enough to make his stomach flip. One "foppish" medical student in the year above Artemy—Yevgeny, his sleepless subconscious proffered—supposedly spent more nights at his close friend's apartment than his own, a close male friend, and he distinctly remembered the name Arkady, as he'd habitually misheard it as his own name and thus eavesdropped more than usual. Speculation had been rampant for years, given that those student apartments were far too cramped to fit more than one bed and that the "dandy" Yevgeny would apparently never stoop to sleeping on the floor, not even for Arkady.

Artemy imagined him and Daniil trying to fit on one mattress, and despite the redundancy with his shadowed surroundings, he screwed his eyes shut. They'd be pressed together from head to toe, and shudkher, Artemy's breaths grew shallow at the prospect. With how much space Artemy took up on his own, Daniil would probably have to lay on top of him, chest to chest; he'd be able to feel his heart hammering like it was now, maybe even able to feel the stirring in his shorts.

Shame smoldered like embers on Artemy's cheeks. Much to his chagrin, this happened every time he indulged these wild trains of thought, yet he was too invested to stop now.

One past incident stood out to Artemy as he balled his fists in the scratchy coverlet: once, the whole anatomy lecture theatre had been buzzing about a bruise someone swore they'd seen peeking out from under Yevgeny's fashionable tie when he and Arkady left the student accommodation building that morning. He'd arrived late to lecture, glaring daggers as he took the seat in front of Artemy in the back corner of the hall, and behind Artemy's eyelids, he could envision the fabled splotch of violet tucked beneath his collar like it was yesterday. Evidence of the veracity of their peers' claims, evidence that he really had laid with a man, that that was possible; it brought social ramifications as a side effect, but it was possible.

Against his will, he saw visions of Daniil failing to conceal Artemy's marks under his carmine cravat, showing off fresh and florid love bites like cattle brands on his otherwise unmarred throat—bite marks that were too large to have come from a woman's mouth, too large to have come from anyone's mouth other than Artemy's.

He gnawed on his lower lip, fighting the vile urge to tend to his aching arousal. He could practically feel his teeth grazing against soft skin, sucking and lapping up the taste of salt with the scent of cologne dulling his faculties, Boddho, he could nearly hear the debauched sounds Daniil would make as he squirmed.

It wasn't just those two, either. He'd heard more than a few names thrown around; Pavel, Ivan, Lev, someone saw Pyotr wearing Nikolay's garnet cravat—that style was popular among dandies, apparently—truly, the gossip was relentless in the city. His focus veered back to sharing a bed, ruminating on what the rumors could possibly mean, mixing them with the ones he'd heard in the Capital: how might Daniil react to the kisses on his throat in such close proximity, what were the "foppish" men from university doing when they were alone, what would he do next? Would his delicate hand creep down Artemy's midriff, all teasing and taunting like he'd expect from Daniil, to finally ghost along the lewdly tented fabric?

The makeshift bedframe creaked as Artemy drew taut as a bowstring. Even the lessened sensation of circling his cock and thumbing at his tip through a layer of cloth was enough to make him tense if he pretended it was Daniil's hand. The humiliation of succumbing to his unorthodox desire was potent, but he would never be able to sleep in this restless state without at least a few strokes, just enough to abate his hunger without rewarding such base behavior. Pleasuring himself to his male colleague would be too far, but massaging himself through his shorts didn't count, he reasoned, not if he didn't let himself cross the edge.

Then again, he couldn't be sure if Daniil really slept with men anyway; all of his dreaming was just extrapolating from past hearsay, it had hardly any basis in reality other than the potential shared insinuation laced in titles like "dandy". But despite himself, Artemy found himself desperately hoping Daniil was like those fops, with hickeys hidden under pristine collars after nights of... something amorphous Artemy was scared to let himself fantasize about in detail, too exhausted and ashamed to truly explore something so forbidden, even mentally. Maybe Daniil had that reputation in university, too—maybe he went to all of the parties and bars that Artemy had avoided like the plague, maybe he went home with men rather than women, maybe he gripped them and worked them as roughly as Artemy did now, twisting his wrist as a wet spot slowly formed.

Shudkher, Artemy was already dangerously close. He never was able to climax imagining women, but imagining the dandies at university, imagining Daniil, he was almost too fast, as if a switch was flipped the moment his attention shifted to how his narrow hips might feel and now his nerves were functioning properly. The stimulation made him dizzy, hellish friction winding his Lines into tighter and tighter spools while he pictured nonstop snapshots of Daniil's lips, Daniil's waist, Daniil's cock.

He wrenched his hand away in an effort to avert disaster, sliding it up his abdomen as he panted like a dog. Without any visual input to ground himself amidst a flood of endorphins and denial, the room spun; the nausea in his gut should have been enough to outweigh his arousal, but he throbbed obscenely nonetheless, too enamored by how Daniil's bulge might look in his hand to be deterred by guilt. Not just his bulge—his lust overstepped that boundary, too, suggesting that Daniil's bare cock would look even better, would probably look smaller in Artemy's hands, the ones he'd sarcastically referred to as "bear paws".

His delirium persisted: how would Daniil look naked, how would he touch himself, what would he envision as he came, would it be a man? With a pitiful whimper, Artemy canted up into nothing and spilled into his boxers, a thoroughly unsatisfying finale without any stimulation to assist the weak swell of relief.

His chest heaved. Untouched. The mere idea of Daniil playing with himself was enough to undo Artemy, untouched, Boddho, this was a new low. The reality of his depravity sank in as he grew increasingly aware of the tacky mess in his underwear, and in frustration and disgust, he kicked the sullied fabric off and onto the floor to deal with in the morning.

This obsession was getting out of control.

How could Artemy determine if the word association was true for Daniil without jeopardizing himself? If he asked, he didn't think Daniil would react too poorly, other than taking offense at the accusation if it was false—Daniil wouldn't accuse him in turn, surely, he had no idea why Artemy was asking. He would have no idea that Artemy secretly wanted the answer to be yes, only that he had overheard some chatter that piqued his curiosity. They were close friends, after all.

Artemy noted to himself that he needed to find other methods of inducing sleep. As a weary, coma-like slumber engulfed him, he briefly considered if twyre could be a promising solution, but he was already unconscious before a verdict could emerge.

Sparks of lamplight glinted off of the glass bottles, dancing in Artemy's periphery as he filled the last flask with a dose of immunity-boosting twyre extract. Once the trickle waned to a drip, Artemy turned the alembic's rusty stopcock with a shrill scraping sound that earned an annoyed huff from Daniil where he sat scrawling paperwork at the desk. It was another evening of busywork for the both of them, but the quiet companionship of tackling the endless monotony in the same room as the other eased the sense of loneliness that permeated the post-Plague town.

"Are you finally done, then?" Daniil shot him a wry glance over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking upward even while he acted irritated at the interruption.

Artemy snorted. "My apologies, oynon. Was my manufacturing life-saving tinctures bothering you?" He stood from the tiny stool, wincing and rubbing his bad knee as he righted himself. An idea began to formulate in the back of his mind.

"Yes, it was," Daniil replied bluntly, half-seriously. Upper lip curled, one thick eyebrow raised, daring Artemy to challenge him: an expression that never failed to make his knees wobbly. "The constant splashing noises are rather distracting, not to mention how loud the machinery itself is. It's impossible to focus under these conditions, you know."

The bottles clinked together in Artemy's arms like wind chimes without any labels to cushion them yet. He set them down on the desk beside Daniil, savoring the exasperated sigh that accompanied a dramatic roll of obsidian irises. Pushing the sleeves of his tawny sweater back up to his elbows, Artemy said, "Did you forget you're a guest, emshen? You're free to leave whenever you want."

Daniil clicked his tongue and gestured to the twin stacks of papers in front of him, one blank, one filled with sophisticated, calligraphic writing that seemed too artistic to be a doctor's penmanship. To be fair, Artemy struggled to parse even the neatest cursive, and Daniil's script looked much more like tangled Lines or veins than anything else; illegible to him, but aesthetically appealing.

"My work here isn't done, clearly. Finis coronat opus."

In the amber light of the oil lamp, Daniil's complexion was vivid with life, his cheeks and nose blooming rosy and vibrant in a way they never were during the Pest. Artemy averted his gaze and adhered the first label to one of the extract bottles. "There's really nowhere you'd rather be?"

Daniil didn't respond, only fidgeted with his silken cravat. Were they talking about the Town-on-Gorkhon or Artemy's workshop? Was there a meaningful difference anymore?

After a beat, Artemy impulsively tacked on, "You probably have plenty of women lined up waiting for you to return to the Capital, eh, oynon?"

It was a risk he hadn't fully meant to take. He'd been considering the best way to subtly and tactfully ask Daniil if the rumors were true for days, and that veiled jab was not high on the list. He had to know, though, and the sight of his mouth so close to his must have lured the question out of him.

Daniil scoffed, capping his pen and dropping it on the desk with a clatter. "Wow, Artemy. You have got a keen eye," he remarked, deadpan.

He paused and squinted at him. "...Do I?"

Daniil made a face, somewhere between endearing and in disbelief. "Do I really seem like a womanizer to you?"

Artemy shrugged in an unconvincing display of nonchalance, heart racing, unable to maintain eye contact with Daniil when he looked up at him through his thick fan of lashes like that. "Eva and Maria would agree. You're fashionable, no doubt. Famous, too." He swallowed, catching a glimpse of Daniil's bemused expression before adding hoarsely, "Pretty. Can't imagine why you wouldn't be."

At that, Daniil laughed, airy and effervescent. "You must not be very creative, then." When Artemy didn't know how to answer, Daniil tilted his head like a cat toying with its prey, leering at him and bringing his pen up to rest against his bottom lip. "I prioritize my work over almost everything, and certainly over women," he explained matter-of-factly.

The workroom fell silent aside from the sloshing of viscous tincture in the next flask Artemy picked up to label. It was evening by now, and judging by the rattling of screws in the support beams, the wind was picking up outside.

"But you're still human, no?" Artemy's tone wavered almost inaudibly, mirroring his shaking fingers as they marked how many stems of twyre went into each extract. Two black, one brown. Despite his questioning, he felt like the one under the microscope, nervous and shy under Daniil's inscrutable observation. "Hard to believe you're never tempted."

Daniil hesitated, and Artemy felt satisfied that for once, his rebuttal was sharp enough to cut through his armor rather than the reverse. When he peered at Daniil, waiting eagerly for his retort despite the anxiety pooling in his stomach, he was rewarded with a suggestive view of the silver pen clip tapping against shiny lips as Daniil pondered, deep in thought. The fountain pen wasn't all that phallic, really, there was no reason for Artemy to feel pinpricks of electricity travel down his spine at the way Daniil all but kissed the end of the cap with how much thinner it was than even his finger—nonetheless, his filthy mind was beset with ideas to match the glimmer of interest he cautiously identified in Daniil's shadowed eyes.

"I never said that," Daniil finally said, almost pouting against the ebony barrel.

Artemy took a shuddering breath and turned back to the extracts, plucking another blank bottle from the batch to identify. These implications and insinuations were going to drive Artemy mad, he was certain; he needed a concrete answer, a yes or a no, a straight confession to sate his curiosity. He ground his teeth together, a bad habit that he could never kick, and steeled himself to take the next giant leap into unknown territory. "Just... not by women, then?"

If he looked to see Daniil's reaction, he'd lose any semblance of confidence he had. His palms were slick and clammy against the lavender glass.

"No," agreed Daniil, shifting his weight in his seat so he faced Artemy. "No, not by women."

Molten fire seared through every artery, every capillary, every cell in Artemy's body, the very fibers of his being singing with the hope inherent in that phrase, "not by women"—perhaps he meant inanimate objects, or bribes, or status, but he didn't, not with the gleam of his adder's fangs unsheathed by his coy smirk. Artemy had been dead wrong when he'd been positive he'd have plausible deniability: Daniil did instantly know what he was asking, and he wasn't sure what had given him the impression that he could hide anything from him anymore. They knew each other's tells too well and they were both horrible actors, of course Daniil pinned his motives from the moment he breached the topic.

The workshop was quiet again, and thankfully, Daniil aimlessly rifled through the pile of completed paperwork to rectify the painful vacuum that had formed between them.

Artemy reached the last flask and scribbled his initials on the front with adrenaline buzzing in his ears. Fuck it.

"Do you sleep with men, oynon?" he blurted, blushing bright crimson as he slammed the twyre extract on the desk and forced himself to meet his intense stare.

That stoked Daniil's lively flush into a scarlet blaze to match Artemy's, enough to render him speechless for a few moments, opening and closing his mouth a few times before shaking his head and chuckling to deflect pressure. "Oh? Who are you asking for?"

Artemy's skin crawled with goosebumps; he was humiliated, giddy, keyed up, overcome with the blissful burden of Daniil's undivided attention when he felt least deserving of it, like he was unraveling at the seams. He stalled, attempting to decipher the correct answer. "Uh... me?"

The atmosphere grew cloyingly sweet, sugar-coated, suffocating Artemy more with each inhale. Daniil stood with a theatrical grace and reached upward to fiddle with one of the leather straps on Artemy's sternum, straightening the buckle while he froze dumbfounded. Standing this closely, Daniil had to crane his neck upward to level with him, prompting indecent thoughts about bruises that Artemy failed to adequately suppress.

"In that case," began Daniil, peering up at Artemy with dark circles like smudged ash under charcoal eyes. "Yes, I do. Exclusively, in fact."

Artemy gulped. His jaw clenched so forcefully he worried he'd crack a tooth. Skinny fingers adjusted each closure on his chest, attempting to distract him from the earth-crushing realization that yes, his suspicions and wishes about Daniil were true, yes, Daniil preferred the company of men, yes, Artemy wasn't the only one with these desires—it felt like the world was ending, never to be the same again with this epiphany. His sweater was far too warm.

After a pregnant pause while Artemy silently processed this information, Daniil's tongue darted out to wet chapped lips. Waveringly, he continued, "Do you, Artemy?"

The vulnerability that seeped into his previously-impervious tone gave him the impression of a wounded animal in captivity, and it ached like a bullet casing in Artemy's ribcage. He wanted nothing more than to give him another correct answer, to say whatever Daniil liked and ease the tension that began to accumulate in his shoulders, but Boddho, it was impossibly difficult to conjure the magic words when the walls around him were crumbling at an ever-accelerating pace. Too much at once, particularly with Daniil himself touching his chest. He needed to silence his brain.

"Not—not yet," he breathed, grimacing at how his voice cracked. Before he subjected himself to Daniil's reaction, he withdrew, bee-lining for a specific drawer in the trunk beside his bed. "I'm having a smoke," he announced whilst rummaging through the miscellany.

"Wh—you?" Daniil stammered incredulously. "Since when do you smoke cigarettes?"

"I don't smoke cigarettes, oynon." The lid of the trunk made a bassy thud as it slammed closed again. Artemy brandished two slim joints he'd rolled that morning in an experiment to see if the paper he'd managed to find was suitable; he was planning on smoking them later that night when he was alone and the insomnia was unbearable, but with the dread circling in his skull and the soreness radiating from his knee, now seemed like the perfect occasion. "Twyre."

Daniil furrowed his brows, perplexed. "The pollen of the twyre plant is so toxic that it can cause cardiovascular disease in healthy people, isn't it? It can't possibly be safe to inhale the fumes so directly."

"And cigarettes are so healthy?" deadpanned Artemy, snatching his matchbox from the desk.

"Touché," mumbled Daniil, but when Artemy struck one match and lit the end of one joint, he made a noise of indignation. "Indoors? Really?"

"There's a ventilation system, and everything in here stinks of twyre anyway." Artemy rotated the joint over the flame, snuffing out the matchhead afterwards. Then, he felt a pang of nostalgia pulling his lips in over his teeth to take his first hit since the age of sixteen; memories of the unique prickling in his lungs, the blanket of relaxation steadily enshrouding him that he had always preferred to the sting of alcohol, sharing with Stakh and Lara in the Steppe. After puffing a few times to get the cherry lit, he blew the smoke to the side, settling back onto the bed as if it were a sofa. "You can too, if you'd like."

Daniil stared at him blankly. "I'm out of cigarettes." Then, with an inquisitive mien, "Does twyre give a—a high, or is it perhaps like drinking twyrine...?"

Of course he had only a researcher's inquiries in mind; he'd expect nothing less. "Here. Try it." Artemy took another hit with one hand and patted the thin mattress next to him with the other before he could regret it. "Milder than twyrine. I haven't had it in ten years, though."

Daniil debated for a second, a less torturous pause than it would've been without the promising beginnings of a high weighing in Artemy's limbs, and then climbed into bed to sit beside him. The space between them was small, yet Artemy's traitorous body would have preferred it to be much smaller, small enough that the scent of the cologne on Daniil's décolletage would overpower the pungent notes of bloody twyre even before he began marking up his throat.

Wait, what? Was the urge to sidle up against Daniil always this prominent, or was this a side effect of twyre flower that he'd forgotten about? He'd been flustered beforehand, but having Daniil in his bed, the reputed Bachelor Dankovsky seated in the exact spot where Artemy had touched himself while musing about how his cock might look—it was equal parts terrifying and exciting, and the more he indulged, the worse he feared his inappropriate impulses would become. It was too late to back out now, though, and he only had to pray that Daniil wouldn't notice the odd impact it was having on him.

When he handed the joint over, pinching it between the first knuckles of his index and middle fingers, he expected Daniil to take hold of it—instead, Daniil leaned forward and downward, holding Artemy's forearm steady with one freezing cold hand as he took the end into his mouth. Artemy watched this sordid display unabashedly, barely feeling the twyre leave his grasp when Daniil straightened his posture again, only bringing his hand up to steady it after he relinquished Artemy's arm. A pleasant thrill ran through Artemy's core seeing Daniil's mouth pursed where his was moments before, an indirect kiss; it was immature, he knew, but already the mollifying comfort of the herbal fumes had lowered his threshold for self-castigation enough that he allowed himself to enjoy the childish exhilaration of having a crush.

The cherry flared brighter, then Daniil pulled off with a shallow cough. "Hell."

As the joint switched hands again, Artemy asked softly, "Alright?"

Strands of inky black hair fell onto Daniil's forehead like spiderweb fractures as he nodded. "Yes, it's fine. Only a bit... strong. Fragrant."

Another drag that made Artemy's head spin. "Agreed. It's much stronger than I remembered. Could be due to whatever's causing the heavy twyre season, maybe?" He was completely guessing, but Boddho, he didn't recall ever feeling so dizzy and fuzzy from so little. At least the pain in his knee was already ebbing away into nothingness, just blending into the hazy, tingly tranquility that rippled through his body.

Daniil hummed. They passed it back and forth freely in contented silence for a while, listening to the howling gusts of wind rustle the grasses on the other side of their sanctuary walls. The twilight must be frigid out on the harsh and unforgiving Steppe, but in the muggy balminess of the lair, reclined here in Artemy's bed, the world was cozy and safe and restful.

"So..." Artemy heard himself begin from a distance before taking another small hit and blowing out a billowing cloud of incense. "Are you... Do you have a partner, then? A man?"

Daniil snickered, swaying to bump Artemy's shoulder with his own and purloining the twyre in recompense. Everything was sweltering, but the point of contact where they intersected was pure fire, even through the buffer layers of clothing; Artemy began to unbuckle the highest strap on his butcher's smock to counteract his febrile state. His addled mind needed his clothes off as soon as physically possible, but it was difficult to discern if it was the euphoric part of the high goading him on or if that was his own perversion bleeding through his weakened defenses.

Daniil's rare grin was both audible and contagious when he replied, "Why do you want to know? You're awfully interested in my amorous affairs; I'm growing suspicious. De omnibus dubitandum."

Woozy and happy that he wasn't punished for asking such an invasive question, Artemy continued maladroitly fumbling with his belts in reflection. He smacked his lips a few times in an attempt to fight his cotton mouth and muttered, "Never really heard of, uh, two men... like that, I guess. A little curious."

The double entendre didn't occur to Artemy until Daniil turned away to giggle at him, and Artemy corrected himself clumsily, "Shudkher, you know what I meant—curious in a... you way." That didn't make it much better, and everything was too funny. "In a scientific way, erdem!"

His humiliation was far more bearable like this, much easier to laugh off when every Line on his flesh was lax, insouciant, reverberating like a plucked string in dulcet harmony with Daniil's as he listed back into Artemy, reconnecting their arms and resting his head on his shoulder. Artemy hadn't noticed any aphrodisiac effects when he'd smoked as a teenager, but maybe he was too young then; now, they were inescapable, with shockwaves of pleasure emanating from Daniil rather than body heat and the tickling of silky hair brushing Artemy's neck eliciting a shiver of anticipation. Like this, nothing he could say would be so uncouth as to offend Daniil—it'd only coax more of that mellifluous laughter from him, and he needed a good laugh almost as much as Artemy longed to hear it.

"I don't, for the record," murmured Daniil. "Contrary to your assumptions, I really am married to my work these days."

With a clink, Artemy fed the leather strap through the last buckle on his smock, and he reached behind himself to yank it up and off. Somewhere between accidentally and deliberately, he gripped the material too forcefully and shirked off his sweater underneath as well; he would've sworn it was unintentional, but he did feel significantly less feverish left in just his thin undershirt.

"'These days'?" Artemy echoed, leaning back against the wall. Either he or Daniil had inched closer during the movement, or perhaps gravity had attracted them, because now they were flush from knee to shoulder and neither moved away. "Are you saying you did in the past?"

Daniil forked the joint back over, burying his red face in one of his hands. "Maybe. It's all ancient history, though, Artemy. Nothing... substantial, or long-term."

With twyre unfurling from his lungs, Artemy admired the crescent-shaped scar that passed for a dimple when Daniil smirked. "But you've had short term, then?"

His pulse was entirely too fast to be asking such vulgar questions, but Daniil was responding beautifully to each one, shaking his head and sighing and smiling all the while. Could it be Artemy's wishful thinking, or was he encouraging him? Was it just the high?

"Is this an interrogation?" For all of Daniil's sardonic affectation, he didn't let it stop him from talking. "Yes, if you must know. Very short term. Flings, essentially, in my early university days."

By Suok, Artemy hoped that his trousers were thick enough to camouflage the way he'd begun to rise to attention more with each morsel of information. "And—And how did... how did those, uh, go, oynon?" He cringed at his own eagerness.

"How did they go?" Daniil couldn't suppress another chuckle, nimbly undoing his cravat and its pin as he continued. "Well enough. I never had any complaints. Most were drunken forays for the night, though I quickly grew too paranoid for that; some were, ah, 'study sessions' with a peer." A pointed cough, then an outstretched palm. "Being secretive was paramount, naturally."

Artemy's lust caught in his larynx, a clotted mass of far too many questions to ask: how did he do it, what was his favorite act, how did it feel, would he demonstrate if Artemy begged him? The query that escaped, though, was almost too transparent. "What did these men look like?" He tried to cover for his fumble by adding, "Foppish, or...?"

Daniil inhaled again, and Artemy took in his stunning profile; a handsome brow, a strong, straight nose, wine-red lips that curved into a rounded chin. Normally, Artemy wouldn't allow himself to ogle him for such an extended period, but everything was permitted now, and he looked ethereal in the dim glow.

"Some were considered fops, but they weren't what usually caught my eye." Daniil angled his face towards Artemy again with a sly satisfaction, nudging into the bare skin of his arm. "I've always fancied tall men. Given my stature, that seems statistically inevitable, but all the same, I find myself preferring those who are bigger and broader than average." As he spoke, he gesticulated vaguely with the joint like a priest waving incense—another thing Artemy had only seen in the Capital. "Blonds, too. The opposite of myself, frankly. Don't tell Yulia, or she'll psychoanalyze me." There was an undercurrent of bitterness in his words, amidst another indecipherable emotion, a slight trace of fear?

Artemy's subsequent blush was amplified by the twyre into a sensual inundation of endorphins that rushed straight to his groin. Daniil had to be aware he just described Artemy, right? Even in his intoxicated state, it was clear to Artemy that his comments were purposefully calculated to rile him up, and Daniil's mischievous expression confirmed it; hell, it wasn't a stretch to interpret that as Daniil telling him he found him attractive, as unbelievable as it sounded. He felt himself throb, but he was too cowardly to check if his arousal was visible yet, particularly since he knew the answer was undoubtedly yes.

"Your secret is safe with me," Artemy said falteringly, unable to put on a joking pretense when he had Daniil against him, looking him up and down, sizing him up. "I... Boddho."

Daniil offered the nearly-spent joint as a peace offering. "I apologize, was that too much detail?"

"No, shudkher." Artemy took a prolonged drag in an attempt to distract himself from how achingly hard he was, a decision so irrational that he could only blame it on the high stymieing his judgment. "Detail is exactly what I'm asking for. I'm... ignorant."

At that, Daniil giggled again, an infectious sound that spread to Artemy instantly, shaking the bedframe with their convulsive fits. Daniil pinched the bridge of his nose to try to contain himself. "This is bloody surreal."

Artemy nodded and hummed, feeling the vibration thrum through his bones and then reflect through Daniil's, too, focusing back onto a single point where their forearms met. "How did you start?"

"That's—very personal," Daniil exhaled. Bony knuckles turned white as he gripped his own thigh, near his knee. Artemy tried not to stare. "Probably the same way you started with a woman, I'd wager."

Unlike the prior silences that befell them, this one was drowned out by the turbulent woosh of blood in Artemy's ears, pounding in a carnal rhythm. No wonder smoking twyre leaf had been part of Kin mating rituals for generations—Artemy would gladly dance like an Herb Bride in time with the drums like this, and he wouldn't be opposed to losing more articles of clothing, either.

"I'm ignorant," repeated Artemy flatly, passing it again. The twyre numbed any of the nervousness of admitting his virginity; he felt secure here, like this, with Daniil.

It took Daniil a few beats to comprehend his statement, and when he did, he made a pitchy noise like a gasp crossed with a whine. "I see. I see." His features knit together, caught by surprise from Artemy's admission. With a new sultriness, he spoke sotto voce, "I've known I didn't care for the fairer sex since I was young, but my first real encounter wasn't until university."

"Uh huh," Artemy spurred him on, lightheaded.

"We... hell, we were drinking in his flat, far too much." Daniil took a hit, now down to little more than a roach. "He was a flirt, and I was drunk enough that my libido overpowered my shame." Slowly, he trailed a hand up his own leg, his little finger grazing Artemy's outer thigh as it traveled upwards. "My memory is indistinct, but he made the first advance, touched my thighs, and between—between them, too."

Daniil's sentences began to blur together, and Artemy watched deliriously as he palmed the bulge in his nice slacks that he'd purposefully avoided eyeing for his own sanity. So the twyre did have an aphrodisiac quality; it had to if Daniil was rubbing at the outline of his dick so brazenly and rocking his hips into the stimulation.

Artemy felt as if he was dreaming, hypnotized by the lurid motion of tendons that he'd only ever seen himself perform. "Is that how he did it?" he rasped, betraying his own desperation.

"Yes," gasped Daniil. He groped himself with more intent, gripping his length through the fabric. Showing off, Artemy reckoned. "He knew I was hopelessly aroused, and he kissed me so I wouldn't be so tense... God, even the teasing felt good, Artemy."

Hearing Daniil say his name with such a wanton timbre was enough to make Artemy set his jaw and strain in his confines. The psychoactive properties of twyre only enhanced his visualizations of what Daniil described: he felt Daniil's mouth on his, he felt his fingertips sliding up to squeeze his blatant interest, he felt his own thumb swiping across his covered length, shit, when did that happen?

Boddho. He wouldn't survive this.

He lumbered out of bed, yet he was dismayed to find that distance wasn't sobering enough as to preserve any hint of his dignity. The pleasant vertigo was much less severe than if he'd been drinking twyrine, but every sensation was augmented tenfold still—the wood of the trunk was more textured than usual, the sheen of sweat on his exposed skin was more damp, the friction was more enticing, too many sensory inputs for him to categorize and process in his stupor—and he reeled with his feet scarcely supporting his dead weight. He glanced over at Daniil again, saw how he'd frozen and paled at Artemy's absence, and instantly decided he'd had enough of a break. How selfish of him to leave Daniil waiting.

He grabbed the second joint and collapsed back onto the coverlet, conveying his remorse for scaring him by nestling in closer than before. He reached for a matchstick, and Daniil gestured with the tiny stub that remained.

"Don't waste a match, can't you just light it with this, like a cigarette?" he protested.

Artemy never cared for tobacco, but he got the gist of what Daniil was referring to when he beckoned him in while presenting the smoldering cherry with the jut of his chin. The scent of bergamot and cologne shone through the herbal aroma, and Artemy felt a tremor of anticipation as he leaned in, pressing the tips of the joints together. Another indirect kiss; a flash of heat diffused down his spine.

He wasn't sure how long it'd take to light, but he could sit like this forever, near enough to Daniil that their noses could almost brush, that their mouths could connect if not for the hastily-rolled twyre between them. Breathing him in—did the herbs grant the ability to detect pheromones, or was Artemy simply attracted to Daniil on every level, from the loftiest intellectual to the most primal animal?

Daniil retreated after a second, scoffing around the near-roach. "Have you never done this before? Suck."

That word spoken as a blunt command went down like cheap liquor, straight to Artemy's gut to join the scalding-hot pool of desire that had formed there. He obeyed without question, scarcely noticing if the maneuver was successful due to his preoccupation with Daniil ordering him to suck in other contexts, shudkher, his barriers were down and so his filthy thoughts overflowed unfettered for the first time.

The respite only lasted a few seconds, though. Daniil withdrew, satisfied with Artemy's participation; Artemy automatically took a couple of short draws to keep it lit despite his better judgment, resulting in a barking cough as his lungs, like the rest of his body, forgot how to function.

If Daniil's laughter was any indication, Artemy figured he was safe to utter a genuine contention under the guise of a dirty joke once he regained his speech. "And sucking, is that—is that something you do often, then?"

Daniil discarded the roach with a grin, taking that as a cue to reinstate his prior indiscreet hand placement. "On occasion. I've been told I'm rather skilled at it, though truth be told, it can be difficult with the partners I prefer."

"What do you mean by that, oynon?" Artemy whispered, worn raw.

Glittering, Daniil looked Artemy in the eyes, then at his lap, then back at his eyes. "I prefer big men in every sense of the word, Artemy."

Then, Daniil sighed as he massaged himself, and Artemy's self-restraint snapped like a wishbone. He mimicked Daniil's touches on himself, but unlike Daniil, he lacked the patience to delicately sneak his fingertips downwards, and instead he pawed at his bulge openly, finally tending to himself the way he had during so many nights alone; Daniil's back bowed in response, a torrid feedback loop spiraling back and forth between them in cycles. Artemy's grip on himself was so vicious it should have been painful, but it was heavenly instead, probably an illusion no different than the auditory hallucinations of twyrine but disarming nonetheless.

"But doesn't that hurt you?" needled Artemy, nearly dropping the joint he'd forgotten he was holding and offering it to Daniil for safekeeping. "You're pretty... petite, oynon."

"I can take more than you think, Artemy," Daniil purred, and oh, Artemy couldn't mask how that undid him, not with his hips involuntarily canting upwards so transparently.

Before Artemy could respond, Daniil elaborated, "And sometimes, being hurt a little can feel utterly fantastic. Dulce periculum."

He'd never enjoyed being gawked at, particularly not for his physique, but now, hearing and seeing Daniil's evident attraction as he blatantly stared at the vulgar shape of Artemy's hardness, not repulsed by him but transfixed—he was addicted. He'd never understood when men described their hunger for a woman, when they were drunk and ribald; as a combat medic, he'd heard tall tales from patients bragging about their girlfriends back home, and it'd always left him mildly disgusted. He'd considered himself broken for not finding these stories amusing or titillating, but everything clicked with the help of the twyre, elucidating that no, Artemy wasn't doomed to loneliness like he'd presumed, he just needed to watch a man, Daniil, jerk off while admiring him for it to sink in.

"Boddho." Artemy spread his legs instinctively. Reality was fuzzy, indistinct, and the lines between him and Daniil seemed to blur together. "Did you... shudkher, did you suck him off?"

Stygian eyelashes fluttered over glazed, unfocused eyes. "What? Oh, right. No, not my first time." His pale fingers, usually covered in leather but starkly naked tonight, snaked up to his belt. "Right, God, where was I? He—ah, he kept kissing me as he undid my trousers, just like this." He interrupted himself with a long pull, blowing smoke to the side as his dominant hand worked leather through the serpentine silver buckle. Then, he popped the button of his slacks free, and idly, Artemy noticed both the subtle gray pinstripes in the fabric and the delicious way that they warped around his crotch.

The teeth of his trouser's zipper yawned wide, and though Artemy salivated like a mutt, Daniil paused. Was he having doubts? Artemy's brain was operating too languidly to read him, but his adulating motions never slowed. "And then?"

That was enough to assuage any doubts Daniil had. "And then he, fuck," he keened, exposing himself to the stuffy air.

Artemy had seen plenty of dicks in his life between surgical schooling and learning the Lines and communal showers, but Daniil's was perfect—objectively unremarkable, maybe, but it was Daniil's, stiff and dripping because of him. The urge to taste the clear droplets weeping from the head was all-consuming, but Artemy was too paralyzed with aphrodisiac delight to do anything but observe.

"Shudkher."

At that, Daniil preened. "When he wrapped his hand around me, it was so natural, Artemy," he said, reenacting his movements, flicking his skinny wrist. "It feels even better now, Jesus, that twyre really is something."

Artemy gulped. Palpitations, sweaty palms, damp boxers. Fragments of the world, broken into pieces small enough that he could process them.

"A man has more experience with our anatomy, of course; even the most experienced woman couldn't compete with firsthand knowledge. He knew exactly how to work me into madness, kneading me like clay, God, it was spectacular, Artemy."

The way his name sounded in that precise Capital accent, devolved into a drawl over the course of too much flower. Tingling. The psychoactive phantom of Daniil pumping Artemy's cock, so realistic that he had to squeeze at his base to control himself.

"Oynon," he pleaded helplessly.

Daniil gave him the joint—a misunderstanding, Artemy presumed—and used his freed digits to unbutton his slate gray shirt, shedding it like snakeskin. Artemy's focus flickered between his collarbone and his cock, two forbidden regions of skin he'd never thought he'd have the privilege of viewing, whilst taking a hit that started to burn up the side of the paper. Shit, he really had rolled it poorly.

They'd had enough, anyway. He bent towards the trunk and snubbed the joint, ensuring it was fully tamped out before returning with both hands empty.

"By Suok, oynon," repeated Artemy, processing the avalanche of stimuli again: flushed tip, wavy black hair, the smell of mandarin oranges and salt, waiting patiently for Artemy to encroach once more.

"Hm?" Daniil clasped his hand over Artemy's, guiding it to rest atop his own thigh as if to comfort him. "What is it that you want?"

Artemy exhaled sharply. Flesh, muscle, bone. He gave an unthinking grope that Daniil welcomed with a semi-stifled moan, sliding his grasp inwards, upwards. Permission to roam, permission to stray, permission to feel.

"I want... shudkher, I want you to show me." With every word, Artemy feared that doll stuffing might fall out along with his confession.

Daniil's scleras were bloodshot, blushing like the rest of him. "You do?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, please." His ego would have stung more without the high dismantling his pride, but as it was, he had nothing to lose but Daniil's intoxicating contact.

"Good." Daniil brought Artemy's hand down his thigh, then up, puppeteering him like a marionette, luxuriating in his pliant obedience. "Before I laid with another man, it was impossible for me to conceptualize how it'd feel, though that didn't stop me from trying. Full of shame and delectatio morosa... but hell, it all disappeared when he touched me, fuck!"

He brought Artemy's hand to his length, and Artemy eagerly closed his grip around him. It wasn't all that different from his own, but his mind stalled over the fact that it was Daniil's hard cock jumping under his palm, velvety soft and already wet with precum, the exact right size to fit in Artemy's grasp, like he was made for him.

Daniil twitched into him, followed by a frantic wriggle. "My God, your—your hands, shit, they're so big, and so... warm."

"Like his?"

"Better," Daniil said blithely. The herbs had thickened time itself, and it crawled along as Daniil nudged Artemy up and down once more. "Hell. He was certainly more enthusiastic than you are."

Artemy heard himself whine. "'S not a lack of enthusiasm." Somehow, he was oddly petrified by the pressure to perform; stagefright, maybe, that was even more powerful than the peacefulness granted by the twyre.

"It's similar to masturbating, isn't it? Just do to me what you'd do to yourself, Artemy." Daniil had the tone of an impatient professor tutoring an unmotivated student; Artemy filed that scenario away for later. He wasn't sure why he kept saying his name, but it was music to his ears, especially with his husky and breathless intonation.

"I'm not very gentle with myself," retorted Artemy.

"I said I like a little pain, didn't I?" In retaliation, Daniil planted Artemy's hand back on his own belt. "Suit yourself. Show me, then."

Artemy frowned, but he started to remove the offending strip of leather anyway. "Show you what, exactly?"

Daniil didn't deign that with a response, but Artemy heard him gasp when he at last revealed his own cock. Insecurity pierced him like a steel blade even through the armor provided by the herbs. He was exposed, vulnerable, searching Daniil's face for any hint of a reaction and praying it wasn't disgust. He regretted putting out the second joint.

"You're... God," Daniil began, and before Artemy could ask, he kneeled and threw one leg on the other side of Artemy, straddling his lap in one fluid movement. With one hand on Artemy's shoulder and the other winding around to the nape of his neck, Daniil sank back onto his haunches, carefully avoiding any collisions.

The world fractured again. Daniil's weight, eclipsed light, ragged breathing.

"Do you still want this? Do you still want me to show you?"

Artemy met his bleary gaze. He listened to the voice of the twyre in his ear and clutched at Daniil's hips to pin him in place, ignoring his resultant writhing. Angular hipbones dug back into his thumbs. "Yes. As long as you do."

Daniil scrutinized him for a moment more. Then, he descended upon his mouth and kissed Artemy like he was trying to devour him alive, nails clawing at the back of his scalp in synchrony with the teeth scraping at his lower lip. The pace was leisurely, but Daniil worked his jaw and lapped at Artemy with enough passion to compensate; they had plenty of time to enjoy this, and the lingering haze encouraged them to take advantage.

Kissing a man wasn't as climactic as Artemy expected. The earth didn't open to swallow them both, Bos Turokh hadn't cursed either of them, the night outdoors was just as placid as it was before—they simply melded together without catastrophe, lazy tongues darting across bitten lips, and Daniil was right: it felt like the most natural thing in the world, despite Artemy's inexperience. Under the half-floral, half-metallic taste of bloody twyre, there was coffee, tobacco, and citrus, a mix of flavors that should not have appealed to Artemy, but through his rose-tinted lens, he would've found anything delectable if it accompanied the press of Daniil's mouth on his.

When Daniil parted, Artemy chased after him shamelessly. He dodged his advances, however, and bestowed sloppy kisses along his throat; it was an entirely novel sensation for Artemy, and he lowed softly at the teasing suction, wetness, warmth.

"Khөөrkhen, can I—" Artemy stuttered, feeling cold fingertips trailing down his abdomen. "Can I leave marks? On—on you?"

Daniil's thighs snapped like a vise around Artemy's at that, and he craned his neck to whisper in his ear, "Fuck, yes, go ahead."

He took his opportunity to materialize one of his fantasies without hesitation. Surging forward, he latched onto the sensitive point just above his collarbone, partially copying Daniil's technique and partially following his instincts. When he bit down, Daniil repaid him in kind by encircling his cock at last.

Artemy muffled his cries by attacking his throat, but Daniil tittered at his dramatic response anyway. "God, Artemy, I won't be able to get you inside me at this rate."

"Sorry," Artemy mumbled against a blossoming bruise.

Mortifyingly, Daniil swept up the drop of arousal that escaped at that, ensuring that yes, he caught Artemy's eagerness to be inside him. He couldn't fathom what exactly that entailed, what he'd feel like, what Daniil would get out of it, but Daniil had been planning on it, and that was enough to set Artemy's imagination into frenzy.

"Don't apologize, I wouldn't last long enough to adjust to you." His nimble digits began to gingerly dance along Artemy's length, so tender that it could've been another herbal hallucination. "You'll be the biggest I've taken, you know."

Artemy's insecurities welled up again. Was his body capable of giving pleasure? It was always too intimidating, too scary, the frame of a Ripper, not a lover. His physical form was destructive, with musculature fit for either causing or setting dislocations and subluxations, not for caresses or trysts. People in the Capital called him a brute, and it became difficult to resist believing it as the years bore on.

"In a good way or a bad way?"

Daniil tightened his grip and thumbed along his slit for a rush of endorphins. "Good. Very good, Artemy, haven't I made myself clear?" His tone was bewildered, like it was ridiculous for Artemy to even consider that he might be too much. "I'll have to show you that, too. How good it feels to be full."

Artemy bucked like a bull into Daniil's fist.

Smugly, Daniil kissed his jaw before continuing to mutter in his ear. "I'm not as well-endowed as you, of course, but I suspect you'll be more than satisfied when I fuck you next time."

Next time. Daniil fucking him. Artemy whimpered; he swam in vertigo. Against his will, he said, "You're bigger than I thought you'd be."

Surprised laughter erupted from Daniil. "I'm average, thank you very much. Do you picture my cock often, then?"

In any other context, Artemy would find the condescension belittling and get defensive. With Daniil grinning against his skin, though, his palm gliding along Artemy's length, prodding at his midriff with his own—he was safe to admit the secrets that had been tormenting him, that he was positive he'd never tell another living soul. Then again, were his and Daniil's souls really separate? They felt like extensions of each other, like the waxing and waning moon.

"I do," croaked Artemy. Daniil's rhythm, temporarily dyspraxic from mirth, quickened. "Shudkher, I do. Try not to, know that it's wrong, but I can't help myself, especially at night."

"Mhm? Go on." Rather than hostility, Daniil met him with lust, something that would have been incomprehensible to Artemy yesterday.

"'S hard to sleep, and... I can't, shit," Artemy panted, losing his courage momentarily until Daniil kissed his jugular again. "Can't get off to women, and all the men I imagine turn into you."

Daniil moaned lowly, relying on his arm around Artemy's neck to keep him upright as he angled them together, slathering Artemy with his obscene slickness. Wrecked, he cajoled, "Yeah? You touch yourself to me, hell, right here? In this bed?"

"Yes, khөөrkhen." His cheeks must be ruby, all of his blood allocated between each head. "Frequently."

"Good," Daniil hissed. He jerked them together, rutting against Artemy like his hand wasn't enough, and all Artemy could do was hold onto his hip, his waist, his ass. The combination of thrusting and holding them in parallel ensured that Daniil was humping Artemy's cock with each grind, and it was unlike anything Artemy could have let himself envisage before.

How could this be wrong? This was the epitome of his nightmares: other acts could be committed with a woman, but this, crudely rubbing their manhoods together, this was undeniably taboo, something only two complicit men could do, yet in spite of how horrific it had been made out to be, it was pure bliss. Maybe it was the high, but he'd never felt more attuned with Boddho than he did with Daniil in his lap.

Sheepishly, Artemy noted, "The real thing is better." He kissed Daniil's shoulder, right on a beauty spot, marveling that he could.

Daniil shook his head fondly, nuzzling into Artemy's décolletage. "This is tame, Artemy, really. This is nothing compared to what you can feel, if you'll only let me take care of you..."

Artemy never saw himself as something worth taking care of, but he wouldn't refuse anything the doctor saw fit. "In what way?"

"You're practically a surgeon, I believe you know about the prostate—but I doubt you've come from it."

Artemy hardly comprehended what he said. Everything was building, every frisson, every stain where sweat leached through their undershirts, every pornographic sound of slippery skin on skin, all of these profane thrills compounded until they obfuscated his rationality, leaving him dazed and at Daniil's mercy. If he were sober, he'd be shocked at how content he was to be powerless, putty for Daniil to expertly manipulate, surrendering himself to the long-disregarded whims of his heart.

He considered it; Daniil's guess was correct, Artemy had never dared to penetrate himself nor had the creativity to conceive that it might feel good, and even still, his masculinity twinged in the back of his mind imagining it. But the Rubicon was crossed, as Daniil would say, and furtively, he pondered it. He could massage his prostate manually, like a doctor giving an exam, but with a wash of heat, Artemy thought he might prefer if he fucked him.

"Oh, you'd like that?" Daniil stroked them as one, smearing the additional sticky precum that had leaked at the thought.

"Yes, shudkher, please," groaned Artemy thinly. He was nearing the brink rapidly, and the approach was only intensified by the promise of Daniil bending him over, introducing him to an unthinkable intimacy, mounting him, fuck, coming inside him.

"Good. If I had the stamina, I'd take you apart on my fingers right now," Daniil said, extricating his arm to slip his unoccupied fingers down Artemy's boxers.

Any complaint or concern Artemy could have raised was nullified by Daniil applying a dull pressure on his perineum, unveiling yet another unfamiliar kind of eroticism that sent Artemy careening over the edge instantly.

"Daniil, khөөrkhen!" he seethed through gritted teeth, twyre-fueled apparitions of sparkling starbursts purling behind his eyelids as euphoric release poured over him. The combination of a more internally-directed stimulation in his core along with Daniil's adulating cadence on his cock was unreal, an otherworldly ecstasy, and when Daniil captured his lips, he involuntarily moaned into his mouth without remorse.

Automatically, one of Artemy's hands that had clutched at Daniil's hip drifted inwards, replacing Daniil's and triggering a gorgeous cavalcade of responses that culminated in streaks of alabaster landing on Artemy's chest. This was right, Artemy knew; Daniil's nose crushing against his cheek as he went rigid, his lithe frame trembling against him, all of this was right, his fears were unfounded.

The twyre's decadent indolence enhanced the orgasmic trance, but once the crashing waves subsided to mellow ripples, they separated and fell to lay more comfortably. Tangled in each other's limbs, basking in the afterglow, Artemy never felt more at peace than with Daniil in his arms like this, in the bed in which he'd tossed and turned every night with dreams about how unattainable this very thing was.

The night was still as indifferent as before. The lamp still flickered, the rusted walls of the workshop still stood as impassively as ever. Like himself, Daniil appeared to be floating in a half-awake, half-asleep lull, and Artemy didn't attempt to stop himself from kissing his forehead when the fancy struck him.

"Mmm?" Daniil glanced up at him. For once, he lacked the worry lines that must have plagued him since long before he arrived in the Town.

"Thank you, khөөrkhen," Artemy mumbled, feeling indebted.

The sentiment was genuine, yet Daniil dissolved into giddy giggles anyway. "What? What's so funny?" Artemy pouted, or he would have, if he weren't smiling unwittingly.

Daniil wound his calf around Artemy's a little tighter, sidling ever closer. "Nothing, it's just—you thanked me after sex, like I did you a favor."

"You did!" Artemy rebutted. "Sorry for expressing my gratitude. It won't happen again."

"No, no, mon cœur, it's endearing." A guilty peck. "If you knew how badly I'd been dying to do that, you wouldn't feel the need to thank me."

Usually, Artemy would have rejected the premise that Daniil had returned his feelings as inconceivable. With the herbs' openness, he trusted everything Daniil said unblinkingly and allowed himself to experience the affection; he tugged him even nearer, afraid that he'd disappear like a drug-induced phantom.

"For teaching me, then."

"I don't mind, not when I have such an excited student." Daniil cupped Artemy's face, skimming his thumb atop scratchy stubble. "Homosexual, by the way."

Artemy assumed he'd said something in Latin and ignored him, but after a beat, he realized he was expecting a response. "Huh?"

"That's the term psychologists use for men like me—like us. The Greek prefix 'homo-' meaning 'same', plus the Latin 'sexus' or 'sexualis' meaning 'sex, male or female'. Thus, homosexual: same sex." Daniil had taken on an almost clinical aspect, as if explaining a diagnosis to his patient. "It's not exactly... popular, and outsiders often classify it as a disorder," he qualified haltingly. "But for your information, there's more of our own kind than you think."

"Hmm." Something about that did alleviate Artemy's gnawing sense of isolation, in a bizarre way. "Thought it was just 'fop' and 'dandy'."

Daniil snickered and kissed him again. "Those, too. I'll have to review vocabulary in our next lesson."