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The realization comes to him without any warning. Daniil is sitting at his desk, working on his latest research, and the thought worms its way into his brain. He’s studying the life cycle of insects, of molting, postulating how humanity can learn to molt and shed its skin into the next cycle of existence when he suddenly thinks, I ought to marry Artemy.
Funny how that happens. He’s not aware that the thought has slipped in, doesn’t make particular note of it right away. He stays focused on his work, underlining another passage of the science journal laid out on the desk before him.
We could have a small wedding. He’d like that.
Something about the exoskeleton – somehow relating life as it is lived to the exoskeleton of human existence, of death as an unnecessary barrier. Transcendence like a cocoon, emerging with new abilities, with wings. Flying beyond the constraints placed on humanity by society, by nature. After all, what is existence if not the constant evolution of life over nature?
I suppose the children would fight over who would be the ring-bearer, the flower girl. But we could have two, couldn’t we?
Yes, life is a struggle. But humanity has adapted, has overcome so many other obstacles in its path. Fire, water, steam, electricity, plague – why not death? Any death is an illness. If there exist vaccines against typhoid and smallpox: why not death?
There must be Kin traditions surrounding marriage we’ll have to follow. Hopefully none so secretive we can’t have our children and a few friends attend – I can’t imagine Lara or Eva would forgive us for not inviting them.
And any social ills leading to death – poverty, insanity, illiteracy – could be vaccinated against as well. Of course, ‘vaccine’ in this sense would be laws, authority, order. Any just and equitable society must start off with an aim towards immortality. It would be the great equalizer, total bodily autonomy, free from state interference.
Although, we could have two celebrations. First, for the Kin, to follow whatever rituals deemed necessary for a man of Tyoma’s standing; and second, for the Town, so that all who desire may join.
That’s when he stops, puts his pen down and interlaces his fingers, sets his elbows on the desk and rests his chin in his hands. He has a lot of thoughts that populate the background of his mind as he works, little theories and experiments always flitting around in his brain. Usually he is able to put them aside enough to focus on his work, but now the noise has become too… well, noisy, and he has to set aside this project to work on another.
When did he decide he wanted to marry Artemy Burakh?
Daniil sorts through his internal catalogue of thoughts. It occurred to him today, yes. But he’s not a rash man. He won’t act without thinking things through – now, at least, that he has the time to do so. This decision must be methodical. There must be a plan in mind if he is going to act at all. So, again: When did he first decide he wanted to marry Artemy Burakh?
He sets aside the papers he’s been scribbling on and pushes his chair back. This desk is the only part of his life in perfect order anymore, each drawer cleaned out and sorted from top to bottom, to find every article necessary to his work. In the bottom drawer is an unremarkable book, a plain cover with a flower pressed inside.
His personal diary. The one gifted to him by Eva when the Plague had properly diminished. She’d seen the state of his room – as if a whirlwind had hit it – seen the scraps of paper littering the floor, his previous journal in tatters from where he’d clawed it open in defiance of the life he was left with. There wasn’t much she could do to help him then, but she saw this – dear Eva – and she presented him with a new book to keep his thoughts in. “For starting your life over,” she’d said, a single sprig of Paeonia tenuifolia between the pages.
Artemy seemed dismayed she’d beaten him to the punch. And Daniil thought then he couldn’t bear to disappoint either of them, and agreed to stay in Town. That was what sealed it, the last nail in his coffin.
But that was too early. He and Artemy hadn’t really started to connect. It would be another month, at least, before their first date. Daniil flips through the pages of his diary now, skimming the passages for any word that sticks out to him, some sign of when his feelings started to turn. There are complaints, observations, quotations, to-do lists, more complaints, a scribbled-out attempt at the Polyhedron, some conversation he’d shared with a child in the square, and then –
He really does so much for me, my Artemy. Yes… I suppose I can call him that now. My Artemy. Mine. I know I must share him with the whole town, as his duty dictates. But wouldn’t it be nice to have him all for myself?
There. Two months ago. Around a year that Daniil had stayed in town, eight months he had been with Artemy. Four months of them living together. The idea had certainly occurred to him, and he’d glazed right over it. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but the intent was clearly there. He wanted Artemy to be his, permanently. And now that the thought has caught up to itself, it’s time for him to act.
Daniil flips to the next blank page in his diary and takes up his pen again, only to realize he’s not really sure what to write. He taps the bottom of his pen against his desk, chewing on his tongue.
How do people normally go about this sort of thing? It occurs to him now that he’s never really felt this way before. It’s not like he didn’t know Artemy was special – how could he not be, if he convinced Daniil to stay in this wretched town instead of returning to the Capital to rebuild everything he lost? He didn’t do a complete rearrangement of his personality, true, but there was enough of a difference in him over the past year and two months that something (or someone) obviously had an effect on him. And he couldn’t recall that ever happening before. No other partner made him want to be different.
At the top of the page, he writes the words, I want to marry Artemy. He gives it a moment of thought, and then he crosses it out.
I want to ask Artemy to marry me.
It’s not a solid plan so much as a declaration of intent, but it’s a start.
The next item on Daniil’s list is determining if Artemy is ready for marriage. The subject has yet to come up, though whether that’s because Artemy is uninterested in the prospect or because he’s assumed Daniil isn’t, is difficult to discern. Daniil doesn’t want to do this clumsily; he wants his proposal to be absolutely perfect. It’s no less than Artemy deserves, and the more romantic the proposal the better the chance that Artemy will accept.
But that doesn’t answer the question of how Daniil should go about finding out Artemy’s feelings on the subject. It’s not like he can just ask – that would give the whole thing away! And proposals are meant to be surprises, from what Daniil can surmise. Not that he’s ever been close enough to give or receive one before now – but that seems to be the general consensus of all the literature he’s read. He’s not good enough at lying to come up with one on the spot when Artemy asks why he’s asking, and there’s no way he wouldn’t. Daniil will have to attempt subterfuge.
It takes a week and a half for him to find what he’s looking for, and far more gossiping than he’d usually permit of himself. Luckily for him, Eva is far more interested in the rumor mill than he’s ever been and manages to help him track down a vital piece of information, one he comes back home with triumphantly.
“Adelina’s getting married,” he announces. He’s waited for them both to get started on the night’s dinner to broach the subject, in an attempt to make the whole situation less formal. Less suspicious.
It takes Artemy a couple seconds to respond, broad shoulders stilling for a moment. Daniil’s busy working on the dough for their buuzy, so in the event Artemy turns to look he can pretend he’s engaged in rolling it out. It’s not hard work, but it’s methodical; something Daniil can appreciate. But his partner doesn’t turn, shoulders relaxing as he moves from the cutting board to the stovetop. “Who’s Adelina?”
Daniil scoffs at him, taking a second to inspect his handiwork. “Our seamstress.” He pauses. It doesn’t feel like quite enough information, but he’s having a hard time getting his mouth to work. “You know,” he continues, “the one across the street.”
Artemy takes his time responding, as if working through something before he asks, “You know the name of the seamstress?”
Oh no, Daniil thinks, I’ve already done something suspicious! He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a dry cough in the back of his throat. “Well, you know how Eva gossips,” he says. Just under the sound of the meat sizzling, Daniil hears Artemy hum. But he’s not offering any insights, so it’s time for Daniil to prod. “I thought that was interesting.”
“Did you, oynon?” Now he knows he’s being teased, and even if he can’t see his partner’s smirk he can hear it in the man’s tone. “And why is that?”
Shit, he picked the wrong words. He was hoping Artemy would agree, or disagree, say something about the idea of marriage at her age or her prospects or something that would give Daniil a better idea of where he stands on the subject. But now he has to answer more questions, and he didn’t even pre-script an answer! It takes some strength not to start chewing on his lips – Artemy will notice if they’re chapped – as he scrambles his brain for some sort of answer.
“Yes,” Daniil says, “it’s – women in the Capital, you know. They can’t, ah – when they get married, that is – they tend to quit their jobs. Become dedicated housewives and mothers.” Oh, fantastic, now I’m lying! To the man I want to marry! Good going, Dankovsky! How can I fix this now? “Except when their husbands go to war. Then they have to – erm, they need the income to raise their families. And so they go to work in the textile factories. Actually, they have a pretty interconnected history with workers’ rights in the Capital, very active when it comes to striking.”
“Interesting,” Artemy says. And that’s all he says. Daniil realizes that he’s babbled, gotten too far away from the actual topic of conversation. But he can’t find a smooth way to bring it back to where he needs it to be, and Artemy is taking his sweet time responding. Daniil’s getting anxious again, rolling the dough out too thin as he tries to think of a work-around for his problem.
Nothing’s coming to mind. And that was all Daniil had to work with! Why did this whole proposal business have to be so damned difficult? All he needs is a simple answer: Is Artemy ready to be a husband or not?
Daniil grunts, packing the dough back up to reroll it. Think, Dankovsky, think! “You don’t suppose we’ll be invited, do you?”
“…I don’t think there’s any call for people in such a faraway town to go to a strike in the Capital. The workers in the cannery and the termitary can strike on their own.”
It’s like trying to pick glass up off the floor with his bare fingers. “I didn’t mean the strike, Tyoma, I meant – I meant about Adelina. Her wedding?”
“Oh.” Each break in dialogue feels painfully long. Daniil tries to refocus his efforts on the dough, trying not to arouse suspicion with his impatience. “Weddings here aren’t what you’d call exclusive. There’s never really a reason to either invite or disinvite people from attending. That’s the hazard of such a small community. Even if you hadn’t told me, I’m sure I would have stumbled upon it.”
Getting through to him is hopeless! Daniil hits the table a little too hard with the rolling pin, not bothering to mutter out an apology for his actions. He loves Artemy – obviously, he does – but the man can be so obtuse, as if he’s trying to drive Daniil crazy.
It's not that big a deal, Daniil tells himself. Just breathe, like mother taught you to. In through the nose, out through the mouth. There’s got to be another way of asking, something you haven’t thought of yet. You could ask if any of his friends are ready for it yet… Hmm, Stakh and Lara have been getting closer, maybe there’s something there to –
“Daniil, Daniil! There’s a huge bug in the bathroom, you gotta come see it!” Daniil’s carefully constructed calm shatters when Sticky skids into the room. There’s still dirt on his face from earlier in the day, and his eyes are wide with excitement. Which is strange, as it’s usually his sister who gets all in a tizzy over insects.
“What, now?” Daniil gestures to the dough with his hands. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
Artemy’s already looking over his shoulder, turning so his gaze can go from Sticky to Daniil. He shrugs, rolls his eyes affectionately. “Oh, go on, kheerkhen. I can manage to make the dumplings without you. I know how you and Murky love the bugs. You can give it to her when she gets in.”
That’s not really what Daniil has an issue with, but there’s no way for him to express that little problem without giving himself away. Daniil wipes his hands off on the nearest towel and crouches, rooting through the cupboards for a jar, trying not to scowl as Sticky leads him to the back of the house and up the stairs. “It’s in the bathtub again, I assume,” Daniil says, but once they’re both in the bathroom Sticky closes the door and locks it.
This doesn’t bode well. Daniil’s been the victim of one too many pranks since he moved to Town indefinitely, and he thought he’d left the rest of them behind with the last snowfall. But it wouldn’t be too out of the norm for their kids to pull a little mischief, and so Daniil finds himself squinting around the bathroom, looking for any possible signs of sabotage before he turns on his heel, gaze falling on Sticky.
The boy’s got his hands raised in defense as he starts to ramble. “Okay,” Sticky says quickly, “so I lied about there being a bug. But this is super important! I need to know what you’re planning with my dad.” Once he finishes, he blinks, and tries to school his expression into a mimic of the one Daniil usually wears then scolding him, his arms crossing over his chest and chin raised.
It would be cute if Daniil had any idea what the hell he was talking about. “We’re making dumplings, Sticky. I thought that was obvious.”
Sticky rolls his eyes and throws his arms up in exasperation. “I’m talking about what you wrote in your diary - about how you’re planning on marrying aba. I wanna know what your plan is! Maybe Murky and me can help?”
“Murky and I,” Daniil corrects. “I didn’t realize you could read cursive.” Sticky puffs his chest out with pride. Daniil taps on the jar with his nails as he thinks. He really should be angrier that Sticky’s gone through his things and read his private journal, but this could come in handy. Sticky’s far better at bending the truth than Daniil has ever been, maybe he’ll know a way to pry the information out of Artemy that Daniil can’t seem to get to. “First thing’s first, Sticky. I need to know if your father’s even amenable to the idea. I don’t want to go around making a fool of myself for nothing.”
“Oh, he’s definitely ready to get married.” The casualness with which he speaks throws Daniil off a little, blinking rapidly before he starts to roll his hand with impatience, urging Sticky to go on. “I overheard him talking to Aunt Lara about it. She said he should hurry up before you get bored and leave Town, and he said that he wasn’t sure if you were ready or not yet, and then Aunt Lara said –“
Daniil cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Sticky, Sticky! Stay on track here. You’re absolutely sure he would say yes if I proposed?”
“Uh-huh.” Daniil hums. “So? What do you think? You gotta make it special.”
“I know, I know.” He starts to chew on his thumbnail, thoughts swirling around in his head. That’s one step completed, and onto the next. However… “We can’t stay up here all night trying to figure it out, he’ll notice how long we’ve been gone.” Daniil hands the jar to Sticky. “Go out into the yard and find a bug to give to your sister. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”
“But what about your proposal? When are you gonna do it? Is tonight special enough? I think you should wait –“
“We can discuss this tomorrow, when Artemy’s at work,” Daniil cuts him off. “For now, I’ve got a kitchen to get back to, and you’ve got a bug to catch. Let’s get moving.”
On the couch before Daniil sits a council of children: those whom Artemy has formally adopted (Sticky, Murky), and those who have informally adopted Daniil (Shrew, Sleepy Head). He’s long since abandoned the chair he’d been sitting on in favor of pacing, the eyes following him back and forth as he moves.
It's just as nerve-wracking as any time he’s been before the Powers That Be. He didn’t think anything else could be as anxiety-inducing as defending his life’s work before the people who sought to destroy it, but here he is, wringing his hands, chewing his lip, steeling himself for the great defeat of his next words: “I’m afraid I don’t know how to do this.” There. The hard part is over. His shoulders deflate as he stops his walk, turning to face the children in front of him. “If you have any suggestions on how to make this proposal truly special I am, as they say, all ears.”
Sticky is the first up, raising his hand as if he were in school. Daniil gestures. “What about a scavenger hunt?” he suggests. “You can send him to all the places that are special, and when he gets back home you’ll be there to ask him to marry you!”
Daniil hums, rubbing his chin. “That’s not a terrible idea. But I’m not sure – he was born and raised here, surely he has far more memories of each location than I would have.”
“You could take him back to the place where you first met,” Sleepy Head chimes in next. “That’s romantic, innit? Then you can go into one of your long-winded speeches, pop the question at the end.”
“Under any other circumstance, that would be a nice, simple solution. However, we met in a…mutual acquaintance’s apartment. And I proceeded to inform him of his father’s murder.” All four of the kids give him a look of what he thinks may be disappointment. Daniil waves his hand in dismissal. “Suffice it to say, I don’t think he’d consider the moment quite as… mmm, celebratory as what I’m aiming for.”
“How about this: Get a copy of his favorite book – but hollow out the inside, and put a note inside asking him to marry you?”
“Aba’s favorite book is a collection of steppe stories,” Murky mumbles. “It’s one-of-a-kind. He won’t let anybody touch it.”
“And so I can’t exactly find a copy of it,” Daniil concludes.
“Have the bull ask him,” Murky says after a moment of thought. “Daddy said he can talk. So teach him the words. He’s a smart bull, I think he can do it.”
Daniil’s not really sure what to make of that suggestion. If it were one of the other kids, he’d think they were pulling his leg. But Murky looks far too serious at the present for that, and they’ve established a pretty good rapport by now for her to let him know when she’s only teasing. Which leaves him with finding a polite way to decline the suggestion. “Does he, er… Does Noukher know Russian? I thought he only spoke the steppe language. And I’m afraid I don’t know much of that.”
“Don’t you know a lot of, like, romantic poetry?” Shrew pipes up. “You could recite one of those for him. Or write one yourself.”
“Oh, that –“ Daniil points. “Now, I think we’re getting somewhere. Yes… Yes, I’m getting a clearer idea of what to do.” He turns sharply, grabbing the notebook he’d set on the table and his pen to make a few frantic notes. A plan is starting to form vividly in his head, oblivious now to everything else. “And I know where I can do it, too – a place that has meaning to us, but isn’t quite as awkward as another’s house.”
He looks up from his notes to find all four faces staring up at him expectantly.
“Well, don’t leave us in suspense here, Daniil,” Sleepy Head says. “Out with it. How can we help?”
“You – you really want to?”
“Of course!” Sticky enthuses. “I mean, I know it won’t be a huge change. You already live here and stuff, Shrew and Sleepy Head come over whenever they want – but if you get married, we can be a real family. And they can take whichever name they want!”
“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Daniil says nervously. But the other two aren’t fighting him on it, and if they don’t mind the inclusion… “Alright then.” Daniil huffs out a short breath, turning to a new page in his diary “I will need some help with this plan after all: Artemy’s ring size, some cultural notes, someone to help with the setup –“ He tears the page out, handing it to Sticky to look over. He gives the kids a minute or two to look it over before he asks, “So. Does all of this seem doable?”
“No problem at all,” Sleepy Head says. “Just worry about getting that poem written, and we’ll cover the rest.”
Artemy awakens alone. It’s not all that strange an occurrence. Daniil keeps odd hours – from what the man’s told him, he always has, running between his lab and his apartment in the Capital whenever the mood struck him. He’d hoped Daniil would settle into something of a routine when he made this town his home, but Artemy supposes there are some things that simply can’t be changed. As far as Daniil’s bad habits are concerned, this is one he has learned to live with. And it’s not like he hasn’t been trying, so Artemy has to assign credit where it’s due.
But today is not one of those days. Usually, when Daniil is up first, he at least shakes Artemy and lets him know he’s on his way out, kisses his brow or something. It’s just a little courtesy Artemy has come to expect. Which means, he thinks, that Daniil must not be far.
The bed may be a little colder without his partner, but he expects to see him at the desk when he turns over onto his back. That was one of their little agreements: Daniil could get up in the middle of the night, work on whatever he needed to, but he should stay in their room. It was a stipulation made with the children, too. They both fret over them, over the town’s other strays. The kids here have a habit of raising themselves, and Artemy guesses he wasn’t much different at their age. Not that it stops him from worrying.
Daniil’s not at his desk, though. Artemy feels a knot tangle heavily in his stomach as he pushes himself up, swings his legs around the side of the bed. You don’t need to worry about him, he’s a grown man. But there’s always some underlying sense of unease at moments like this, that Daniil may be so dissatisfied with his life here that he would get up and leave without announcing his departure. Artemy tries to tell himself that it’s nonsense; his partner probably had too much on his mind to remember.
He wouldn’t have gone far. If Daniil was unhappy, he’d simply say so. He’s had no problem speaking his mind in the past, and things haven’t changed that drastically.
Something still doesn’t feel right to Artemy, though. Daniil has been especially secretive recently, writing in that diary he thinks so well hidden more than ever. Artemy won’t break his trust by reading it, but remembering it fills him with such unease as he dresses for the day and leaves his room.
Sticky startles him, standing so close to the door that Artemy nearly runs into him as he exits. “Hey,” Artemy says, patting him on the shoulder, “have you seen Daniil around anywhere?”
His son blinks up at him, and says, “Life is a theatre set in which there are but few practicable entrances.”
Which is strange. Artemy’s not sure what to make of that, returning Sticky’s blank stare as he tries to figure out where Sticky would have even picked up such a thing. It sounds like something from one of Daniil’s books – and if that’s the case then… okay, but what the hell does it mean?
“Right,” Artemy says awkwardly. “But –“ Sticky doesn’t wait for him to finish, dodging out from under his hand and running to his room and slamming the door behind him. Leaving Artemy to stare after him, brows furrowed in confusion.
He’s not about to go and bother Sticky if the kid’s keeping out of trouble. Besides, chances are good Danya’s downstairs with his coffee, complaining to whoever will hear him about the lack of a town newspaper. Artemy takes the stairs a little too fast, that knot in his stomach making its way up to his chest. He rounds the corner, mouth open to relay the bizarre conversation he’s just had, only to be confronted with no one.
Or, well. Not no one. Murky sits at the table, her doll in her lap, finishing up an apple.
Artemy sighs and pulls out the chair across from her, taking a seat. “Hey kiddo,” he greets. Murky doesn’t look up from her apple, but there’s nothing too out of the ordinary about that. “Was Daniil in here earlier? I’m looking for him.”
She takes a moment to finish up the chunk she had shoved in her mouth before she looks up and away, grumbling out, “Act well your part; there all the honor lies.”
Okay, now things are getting weird. Sticky, he can understand. He’s always idolized Daniil to a degree, so picking up on his esoteric speaking habits isn’t out of the realm of possibility. But Murky’s never been like that, more straightforward, in her own way. This is beginning to feel like a hint of some kind.
“Murky,” Artemy says gently, “what did you mean by acting a part? Are you trying to tell me something?”
Her eyes turn to the doll in her lap, hugging it tightly. “I said what I was supposed to. And now I’m going upstairs.” She hops up out of her seat and pads off to the hallway, and presumably up to her room.
This is starting to get unnerving. Artemy hasn’t felt his moves being directed like this since the Pest, and he didn’t appreciate it then or now. It just sets off alarm bells in his head, waiting for some great catastrophe to make itself known. If this is what the universe wants, then fine. He won’t sit around waiting for Daniil to show up, he’ll go out and find him.
Exiting the house, he finds himself confronted with the last set of kids who may have an answer. Shrew’s to his right, Sleepy Head to his left, standing there with their hands behind their backs. Before Artemy can get a word out, they start to speak, trading off from one another.
“All the world’s a stage –“
“And all the men and women merely players –“
“They have their exits and their entrances –“
“And one man in his time plays many parts.”
“Right,” Artemy says. “I take it someone wants me to meet him at the theatre. But why? What’s going on?”
“I guess you’ll find out when you get there, won’t you?” Sleepy Head smirks, and then the two take off past Artemy, running in the house and locking it behind them. Not that Artemy was planning on heading back in before he found his wayward boyfriend, but he’s nonetheless perturbed by all of this.
He half-expects there to be more signs on his way to the theatre. Tragedians, maybe, flanking the streets, townsfolk coming up to him with cryptic words of advice trying to move him along a little faster to his destination. But for all that his and Daniil’s kids are acting strangely, the rest of the town seems the same as it ever was. People wave, a few mutter, but no one seems to be avoiding him or giving him looks of pity.
The theatre looks… untouched. He wasn’t even sure if Mark had stayed in town, since the Kains were still determined to move across the river and take a third of the town with them. But who else would be calling him here if not the Director, the one to always pull his strings? A little less subtle this time, but perhaps his powers had faded with the destruction of the Polyhedron. Lots of things appeared to die alongside it. He was just thankful Daniil wasn’t one of them.
Artemy takes a steadying breath before he pushes open the doors of the theatre. He anticipates the spotlight blinding him the second he comes through the doors, but it’s already trained elsewhere: off stage right, occasionally catching the shadow of a man pacing the floor.
“Daniil,” Artemy calls, making his way to the front. The other man stops pacing and rights himself, rolling his shoulders back, assuming a more authoritative stance. “What’s going on? I got all these weird hints to come here. I expected it to be Mark up to his old tricks again, but –“ Daniil holds a hand up to stop Artemy from coming up the steps of the stage, and that knot of feelings that had started to uncoil at the sight of his partner curls in on itself again. He watches as Daniil reaches into his left pocket and takes out a thin slip of paper, the lighting showing frustrated cursive on the other side of it.
Daniil clears his throat, and starts to recite.
“Artemy, my most treasured companion,
Allow me the honor of professing my deepest affection to you:
Had I the answer to my most pressing questions,
I would enshrine you in a never-ending light, that you may never fade from this Earth;
For there are two now that I hold most important,
And one cannot be got without the other.”
As he looks down Daniil’s form, Artemy notices his hands are shaking, rustling the paper. Daniil’s tongue darts out to wet his lip as he continues.
“If I am to seek immortality, my dearest lover,
What good could it do me to search alone?
While there are many things the gods may deem among their heresies, surely it is one
To live apart from you when we are meant to be joined,
Two hands reaching out, realizing at once they comprise a single whole.”
He folds the paper over slowly, sticking it back in his pocket. Daniil looks down at Artemy with a small smile, trying and failing to cover the nerves Artemy can feel in his lines. It’s clearly an effort for him not to begin pacing again, and Artemy finds himself at a loss of what to say. Daniil’s quoted poetry to him before – whispered in moments of passion against his skin, uttered softly into the dark as he drifts into sleep, mumbled into a kiss as Daniil passes him his morning coffee. But he’s never had words created for him like this, and he doesn’t quite know what to say.
And here he was, convinced Mark was going to tell him Daniil had grown bored with him and left town, or that there was some new forthcoming terror to worry about.
That self-assuredness Daniil usually wears so easily is starting to slip. Artemy knows it before he even opens his mouth; he’s started pacing again, or trying so hard not to that he’s just shifting weight between his feet, restless. “It sounds better in Latin,” he says, which might be his idea of a joke. “But you’ve told me time and again that you never picked up on the language, so I thought I’d read you the translated version.”
“It was lovely,” Artemy assures him softly. “But… but what was it for? It’s not our anniversary.” He swallows thickly, the anxiety creeping up over his shoulders once again, weighing him down. “Are you trying to tell me something? Break it to me easily?”
“Right! Yes!” Daniil kneels down on the ground to his discarded carpet bag, and Artemy would roll his eyes if he weren’t so concerned. He uses this time to climb up the stage, wincing as leg starts to cramp with psychosomatic pain. When Daniil turns back to the front of the stage, Artemy is behind him, tapping his shoulder and nearly startling the other man. Daniil whips around, a façade of cool and collectedness, and presents Artemy with a blue bag. “This is for you.”
Artemy takes it gingerly, face horribly flushed. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he can make out a little by the way Daniil holds the bag out to him, by the contents clacking together softly as he lifts it, his own hands starting to tremble as he opens the bag. It’s not exactly right – it’s ceramic, not silver – but the intent is there. “Daniil, do you know –“
“Of course I know,” Daniil interrupts. Artemy watches the shadow of his arm as he lifts to run his fingers through his hair. “I did my research! Open-mouthed gifts, correct? It’s traditional. I’m not very good at ‘traditional,’ but I am willing – well, for you, I am willing to try.” Artemy still doesn’t know what to say. He thinks if he looks up at his partner, he’ll just burst into tears. “And in case I got it wrong, there is – you should look in the bottom of tea-cup.”
Oh Boddho. He swallows, too tight in his throat, and peeks inside. And the ring is silver, no doubt about it. It must have been reworked from something else, maybe from a piece of jewelry Daniil brought with him, because there’s no way the town would just carry something like this. Relationships like theirs may not be foreign to the Kin, but in the Town, men don’t usually propose to one another. “Daniil –“
“If it doesn’t fit, we can take it back and have it adjusted. I mean, it should fit. I had Sticky measure your fingers while you slept.” He’s babbling now, the only sign in his otherwise steady voice that he’s nervous. “I had all the kids help, actually. Murky did some asking around for me, I’m still not sure the Kin trust me – and I know you’ve explained, I understand why, but it was important that I get this as close to perfect as I could.”
“Daniil –“
“Of course, I’m not sure what the protocol is for relationships like ours. I was told love matches aren’t all that uncommon these days, but then I wasn’t clear on what the gifts were meant to be. I can’t exactly ask your father, and mine – well, you know what the post around here is like, how long it takes to get an answer back, and he wouldn’t know anything about the steppe outside of what sorts of insects can be found here –“
“Daniil -”
“Or if you’re going to say no, then I think you should keep it. I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway, I have so many teacups at home. I know you have your fair share of them as well, and so you probably did not need another, but I wasn’t sure what else constituted an ‘open-mouthed gift.’ I suppose I could have asked Lara – I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before! She would have been able to tell me –“
“Daniil, would you shut up and let me talk?” Artemy finally looks up from the cup, dainty and fragile, to the man before him. He used to think of Daniil as delicate, not unlike the teacup he was presented with. That was before he’d really come to know him, really come to appreciate him. He couldn’t help being drawn to Daniil, even if there were times in the past when that attraction felt ill-advised. But standing here with him now, he sees how much of that fussiness was put toward doing things right. He never expected to feel like this, to be treated like a delicate and breakable thing for someone else to fuss over. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
That doesn’t seem to do much more than elicit a grimace from his lover. Daniil shifts weight between his feet once more, huffing out a breath. “I didn’t know that,” he says. Artemy can hear him barely restraining the defensiveness in his voice.
“I appreciate that you did things this way. You’re not known for your, ah…” How to put this gently? “Sensitivity.” Artemy licks his lips, looking down at the cup again. “I never thought – well, I never thought many things. That you’d want something like this. That I’d be offered something like this. I’m a little overwhelmed, as you can see.”
“Take your time.” It’s funny to hear him say that. Artemy even laughs, looking at the expression on his face, and covers his mouth with his hand. “What? What are you laughing at?”
“I don’t need to take my time,” Artemy says. “I just want to hear you ask.”
Daniil doesn’t wait for another prompt. He pulls at the fingers of his gloves until they are bundled together and shoves them, unceremoniously, into his coat’s pocket. Then, gently, he cups Artemy’s hands in his own, and lowers himself to one knee. “Artemy Isidorovich Burakh, will you marry me?”
“Yes.” The word feels caught in his throat, as though it’s foreign to him. Daniil relaxes for the first time, offering one of his few genuine smiles. And just so they can both hear it again, Artemy repeats himself: “Yes.” Daniil stands slowly, his hands moving to Artemy’s face, pulling him down into a kiss, and Artemy wants nothing more than to drop what he’s holding and pick his partner up. But he won’t – this is an important step in the process. “You’re supposed to put the ring on me,” he says, and Daniil backs up to pick the item from the cup, leading Artemy’s left hand to his chest to slide it on.
It's a little bigger than it needs to be, but Artemy doesn’t mind. It’s his, a symbol of infinity, of togetherness, a circle becoming whole. Artemy lifts his newly adorned hand to Daniil’s cheek, brushing back a lock of hair before he leans in and gives his fiancée another kiss.
Fiancée.
If he thought things were good before, that was nothing. Now, truly, they are perfect.