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There are many things in common, Daniil thinks, between sex and fine lime-tree honey - a rich sweetness with a spicy, burning aftertaste.
"Don't." Sitting astride Artemy's hips, Daniil snarls, seeing the hand reaching towards him. "You can watch, but not touch."
It's not that he doesn't want it, he yearns to be touched, but this - he likes even more: to see Artemy's desire and hold him in place with his gaze alone. Artemy bites his lips and clenches his fingers on the sheets. He obeys.
"That's a good boy…", Daniil purrs, riding him slowly, rhythmically. "My handsome boy…"
Artemy's eyes trace his every move.
A strong hand slides over Daniil's back, up his spine and the nape of his neck, holds him down. The heat of Artemy's body is overwhelming, almost too much. A blurry thought flashes over Daniil's mind: I've dreamt about it.
"Your Capital friends, they don't know you as I do", Artemy whispers into his ear, breathless. "They don't know what you are capable of. They don't know all these sweet noises you make when…"
Daniil tightens his lips in defiance, but Artemy's hand jerks his head upward and a small moan escapes his throat.
"Mine." Artemy's teeth brush his shoulder, a touch of the hot tongue. "You are mine, Bachelor."
Artemy's breath on his neck. A hand clenched on his hip.
Artemy always knows exactly how Daniil wants to be fucked.
"Say my name", he commands.
"Aa… aaah!"
Then - bliss.
There's sweetness on the back of his tongue. His body aches.
Daniil doesn't move; light and heavy at the same time, he feels like he's drifting. He likes these liminal moments, hazy and slow, between the raw sincerity of sex and the everyday life; blurry moments when their bodies are still tender and their thoughts tangled, and they can afford for their emotions to linger just a little bit longer.
A shift of weight at his right side and a wave of heat tell him that Artemy moves closer and soon he feels a warm hand on his chest.
His touch almost burns.
"Please don't touch me yet", Daniil murmurs. "It's too much."
"Mhm."
The arm retreats, but the rest of Artemy does not; glancing aside, Daniil sees one eye peeking at him from over the muscular shoulder. Daniil turns towards him and for a moment they just look at each other in silence, until finally, Daniil cracks a grin and Artemy's shoulders start to shake.
Laughter is the easiest thing in the world.
"Water?", Artemy asks in a hoarse voice.
They always keep a flask by the bedside.
Artemy pours in and brings the cup to Daniil's mouth; water is silvery and cold and delicious.
A part of him resents the fact that he appreciates it now only because he was deprived of it. A part of him rebels against the knowledge found in humiliation and despair; a part of him still struggles against what's been done with them, to them. But now his limbs are heavy and sweetness lingers on his tongue; now they are here: the Polyhedron fell and the new day rose and the water never tasted so good.
Artemy pours a cup for himself and drinks in quick hungry pulls. Water trickles from the corners of his mouth onto his chest, mixes with sweat on his skin. Daniil adores.
"Do you want me to untie you?"
"Not yet. I'm comfortable like this."
He curls in and stretches out his fingers, touching the pieces of smooth rope that tie his hands to the bedframe over his head. It's a comfortable position, one that, strangely enough, makes him feel both safe and exposed. There's something exciting in surrendering yourself, shedding self-control like an old skin and simply submitting, allowing yourself to be used. And his lover is the most skilful player, his inquisitive, patient fingers finding strings he didn't know he has.
The rope is still long enough to allow him to turn around if - when - Artemy would want him on his stomach. Burakh knows his way around bonds.
Still, Daniil's wrists will most likely be a little sore. He doesn't mind. There probably will be a bruise on his hip; he doesn't mind that either. Then he tries to stretch his neck and a sharp sting of pain brings his attention to the bite on the base of his neck. He can't see it - but he can see the blood on his skin.
"Huh."
"Uhm, yes. Sorry." Artemy moves closer, presses a light, apologetic kiss on Daniil's shoulder. "I got carried away."
"Evidently."
"I'll stitch it up later; bite wounds like to be messy. Sorry."
Daniil looks him in the eyes and holds his gaze, trying to read past Artemy's guilt-ridden smile, undermined somewhat by a rusty-red smudge on his lips and chin. Daniil squints.
"You enjoyed it."
"I…"
"Tyoma, you have my blood on your face; I'd say that we're past the point of being bashful." He blinks lazily. "I won't lie, it was… thrilling." He drags his tongue over his teeth, tasting the word. "But please, do use a knife next time. A clean one."
Artemy releases his breath in a low, bemused chuckle.
"Is that what you were doing with Andrey?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." He doesn't want to think about Andrey right now, even though the idea of Artemy being jealous of him pleasantly strokes his ego. But now is not the time.
Instead, he considers blood, dark and sticky, more salty than sweet despite what everyone says; he remembers that one night, knives and guns and the heart in Artemy's hands like rotten fruit. He thinks about that night Artemy arrived at his doorstep holding a flask full of blood of the sacrificial bull; about that other day when he stopped the plague and made his god bleed.
It seems fitting.
Appeased, he shifts his hips and pokes Artemy with his foot. "I want a smoke."
Tyoma tilts his head, laughter still visible in the corners of his eyes.
"I didn't take you for a smoker."
"I'm not. But I enjoy the taste, from time to time."
Artemy sits up. "Well, I can't offer you tobacco, because I hate it." He frowns, to make his point come across, no doubt. "But if it's about the taste, I may have something better."
"I don't use hashish. And opium fell out of style."
Artemy blinks rapidly. "What else do you expect me to have here? A bloody mandrake?"
"Mmm yes, Mandragora officinarum, or dudai'im, as they were called." The words flow to the surface of his memory. "There was a quote…", he doesn't finish, because Artemy leans down again and kisses his temple.
"No mandrake either, Danyechka." There's a fondness in his voice. "Only brown twyre."
Daniil scrunches his nose; something in the way Artemy speaks his name makes him feel light, translucent like a wing of an insect.
"I should know that you would smoke it too."
"It's a herb of many faces."
He ponders for a moment, whether it's wise to experiment with some untested drug which is likely to end him up with a nasty headache, but his thoughts are still fuzzy and clumsy like bumblebees so he lets his curiosity win. Something about this seems appropriate, there's a pattern, brown twyre and fire and smoke and the honey on the back of his tongue; the colours match.
"Let's have it then… that last bit of twyre. There will be no more of it."
Perhaps he shouldn't say it out loud, because Artemy tightens his lips - but it lasts only a moment.
"Let's. I'll make one for us then." Artemy slides down the bed and kisses Daniil's chest right over his nipple. "Don't go anywhere."
Daniil rolls his eyes.
The springs of the bed groan, relieved of the pressure of Artemy's body. Daniil stretches once again, from fingers to toes.
"Yet there will be something new in its place…", he says half to himself, "...and we are alive to see it happen. There were verses…" But the thought slips away and he doesn't care to catch it.
He closes his eyes and sighs softly; drying sweat cools his skin. He will soon yearn the warmth again, the touch - but not yet. His body is tender.
He listens to Artemy's bare feet padding on the floor.
It would be easy to fall asleep now in this honey-sweet haze, but he doesn't want that; this moment feels singular, suspended in-between, precious, and to sleep would mean to cut it short. He blinks and lifts his head; the wound on his neck sends a spark of pain, jolts him awake. Good.
Artemy's broad frame is not a sight he would ever like to miss.
The red, jagged scar over Artemy’s ribs makes him more real, more present; there is a history written on this body, a tale Daniil has only begun to discover. Artemy has lost so much during these two weeks and yet here he is - he is, simply as that, and he is his, Daniil's, from his feet to his god-killing hands, and the realization makes his heart sing.
The awe fills him, suffuses his tongue and throat, smooth and sweet and burning, and the right words come to him at last. Ego dilecto meo, et dilectus meus mihi.
"Pone me ut signaculum super cor tuum", he whispers, "ut signaculum super brachium tuum, quia fortis est ut mors dilectio, dura sicut infernus aemulatio."
"That's a lot of Latin." Artemy lights up the tip of the cigarette; fire flickers in his eyes. "Must be important."
"It is."
He didn't believe it. He has read Shir Hashirim, over and over, and he appreciated it both as a poem and a relic - but he did not believe that it could speak the truth. That there can be the delight of the sheer fact of someone's existence.
He understands it now.
Artemy inhales deeply and closes his eyes, holds his breath for a moment; exhales slowly, deliberately, smoke swirling around his face. He looks like a dragon.
"It's been ages since I smoked a good twyre." He sits on the bed; the springs groan again. "Here, taste it." Daniil lifts his head up, but he moment his lips touch the cigarette, it moves away just beyond his reach. Daniil glances up, frustrated, meets Artemy's amused smirk and let his head fall back on the pillows. "What's the matter?" There's a playfulness in Artemy's deep voice.
Daniil turns his head away.
It's a game, he knows, an echo of the more intense one they have just finished playing, and for this reason, he plays along; defiantly, he presses his lips together feeling the dry end of the cigarette tracing the line of his lower lip. Then the smoke reaches him and his nostrils flare; there's… something spicy in it, like cinnamon and burned amber. He closes his eyes.
"Danya…", Artemy murmurs, "Danyechka…"
Daniil feels a warm hand on his cheek and turns his head; Tyoma's lips are dry, but the inside of his mouth is wet and hot and bitter with smoke. Daniil leans into their kiss, eager, hungry, until he steals the last of his lover's breath. Then he falls back on the pillows.
"You are gorgeous." Artemy smiles lazily, taking another puff. "And greedy."
"And recklesss." A wisp of smoke escapes his lips like a tongue. "What kind of effect should I expect from this thing?"
"Just the taste. If you start speaking in tongues again, that's on you."
Daniil grins. "It tastes good… More, please?"
This time, Tyoma lets him take a puff in peace. This time, it tastes like strong tea and morning air in winter.
There is something bittersweet, he thinks, in sharing bits of the world that is slowly, irrevocably fading away - but there is a tang of triumph too. They are alive, and the dead can hold no claim to anyone. Dead gods being no exception.
Dead miracles either.
"You are still bleeding." Artemy's voice interrupts this moment of reflection and Daniil shudders, suddenly aware of their nearness, of the warmth radiating from Artemy's body. His fingers twitch around the rope. "I'm sorry."
Artemy leans down over his neck. The touch of his lips is light, venerative; the tip of his tongue is hot against Daniil's skin and the sensation sends a shiver down his arm and up to his neck, a wave of sweetness with a tang of pain.
"Someone once called me Artemy the artist. Artemy that cuts arteries", he murmurs against his skin. "I'm much more the latter than the former, but I'll try. Can I?"
Daniil nods.
With his index and middle finger, he gathers the blood that trickled down Daniil's chest and draws a line, an inverted arch from his right collarbone to the left. Then other lines and spirals and curls; more and more rusty red on his ribs and stomach. Daniil tries not to breathe, transfixed, but when he finally takes a gulp of air the symbols move, grow, pulsate...
Artemy sings quietly in his throaty language, then lowers his voice to a hum. "A body is the mirror of the universe", he says. If this is a translation of his previous words, Daniil doesn't know. "I'm happy that you are alive."
Daniil feels the blush crawling up his face. It's funny that he still can be flustered, but well. What can be done?
"Untie me. I want to touch you."
They are slow and lazy. Artemy embraces him, and Daniil leans into his touch, into the warmth radiating from his body; he strokes Artemy's back, slowly, gently, tracing the curve of his shoulder blades, the line of his spine. Artemy's breath tickles his ear.
And then, like everything else, the moment passes.
Artemy chuckles.
"A bath?"
"Oh yes."
That's another thing connecting sex and honey, Daniil thinks, sitting on the bed. It makes everything sticky.
He reaches for the red bone charm, lying on the nightstand next to the flask of water, and hangs it on his neck. It's a small thing, but with it against his sternum, he feels complete. Just where he should be.
Pone me ut signaculum super cor tuum,
ut signaculum super brachium tuum
There is a pattern.
He leaves the bed to join Artemy in the world where the great miracles are gone, but the small ones happen all the time.