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She twinkled, standing there. The twinkled more, as she fell. As she was split into a thousand glass panes, projecting prisms of light across the town. He could hardly hear the shot ring out over his heart pounding in his ears. From the open window, he saw her, his daughter, shattered. From the open window, he could smell iron. Her blood? But why? What had she done to deserve this? To be ripped from the earth, from the children that loved her, from the man that made her.
It was nearly dark now, perhaps it was just ash obscuring the sun. He looked down from his window, and saw a familiar figure, shorter now than before as he was crumpled on the sidewalk. He can relate to the feeling, but cannot be forced to his knees, shock holding him up like scaffolding.
He goes to the street there, where the crumpled figure lays, a heap of shed snakeskin. He’s envious of him, of the tears he produces. Is there proper mourning without tears? He gathers that heap in his arms, there is no resistance, and he brings them along to his brother’s tavern. On the cobblestone, ash has fallen like snow, but it twinkles. Shards of her, flown through the air.
In the Broken Heart, Petyr looks to his own mirrored face and sees the same grief. Surely Andrey had heard the blast. He wonders if he saw it with his eyes as Petyr had or if he stayed underground in the bar, hiding from the sight. He looks to back but doesn’t speak. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are redder than they ought to be. From the bar he brings a bottle, liquor made from herbs that will never grow again. Yulia comes later, hobbling down the stairs, her eyes as gentle as she can muster. They sit together, the four of them. Visionaries and nobodies.
Burakh has been by, chatted with the others in the pub. Petyr could not face him, while Andrey glares at his throat while he speaks softly to Daniil. He doesn’t overstay his welcome. At some point the other two mingle and moved around, leaving the two of them alone. The snakeskin found in a heap earlier is more lively now, manic in the way he speaks, the way he grasps Petyr’s hand, his knee, his thigh. He shakily pours more twyrine into their glasses, the liquid dark and unwelcoming. A vignette appears in his vision, framing Daniil as he looks at him through the bottom of his glass.
Petyr leans against him, whispers something in his ear before his mind can figure out what he said. Whatever it was, it made Daniil blush down to his collar and peer away into the crowd. He looks to the crowd, but he cannot make out the forms of individuals, only shadows in the form of people. He looks back to Petyr, clear and crisp as he is, the colors are wrong. Too warm, and then too cool. He wants to close his eyes, so he leans forward and kisses him. Too gently for either of them to truly know if it happened or not. Daniil beams at him through half lidded eyes and says something back to him but all he hears is glass shattering. He looks around and sees nothing has broken. His head is pulled by his chin to face Daniil, no longer smiling, though his eyes are still dark.
“Do you want to go?”
Petyr hears it at the base of his skull.
He nods and Daniil stands slowly as if he is afraid one of them will spook. He allows himself to be dragged up with him, that serpent.
They leave the Broken Heart, hands clasped, eyes blurry and dry, one from tears one from the absence. He knows it's late but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how long they spent in the pub. The ash on the cobblestone glimmers as it moves and slithers through the wind, like a snake at his feet. It makes him stop, makes his eyes dart and his head pound before the snake beside him tugs his hand, smiles up at him with eyes still shining, still red and puffy. It settles his heart, his mind, and they continue.
Each breeze that falls over his ears feels heavier than it should. As it caresses his eyelashes, billows his shirt, chills his fingertips. The constellations above look too close, too textured. He could reach out and touch them, were it not for the man coiled around both his hands. He couldn’t shake him if he wanted to, Daniil’s grip firm and cold like a mannequin. He’s speaking, but Petyr cannot hear. He see his mouth moving, but Petyr can only stare at his lips. His eyes though dark, shine like glass. Behind his teeth is a universe where tragedy has not struck. His hands grab so tightly it feels like clay pieces being formed together.
They make it back to the loft, somehow. He does not recall the stairs, the door, yet he stands in the front room holding a key. Where before he was deafened, inside each sound is too sharp, too clear. Like glass, Daniil’s voice, his eyes still twinkle at Petyr.
“You look a mess, Petya…”, He hears him say, too gently, too sweetly.
Petyr’s inclined to agree with him. In the reflection in Daniil’s eyes he sees himself, greasy hair, sooty face, tired eyes. He needs a bath. Daniil seems to think so too, he’s slithered away, and now the only clear sound is the rush of a bath being filled. Shed is the snakeskin as he leans over, wipes away the paint and grime, and the clear water rises. Not sure what to do, Petyr pours two glasses of opal liquid. The light from the single window casts a spotlight on Daniil, adorning him with colored light filtered through a layer of dust. For a moment it looks as if he is made of glass himself, opalescent as the twyrine is.
Without realizing, Petyr has gotten close enough to hover over Daniil’s back as he tests the water temperature. Without realizing, Petyr has gotten close enough that Daniil backs up into the hands that hold full, matching glasses. He is frozen where he stands as Daniil chuckles and takes the now half-full glasses from his hands and sets them on a stool. Gently, sweetly, he brings his hands to Petyr’s face, then down, to his neck, to his collarbone, to his wrists, to his hands. He sways a bit on his feet, eyes fluttering. His smile falls for a moment, and he tries his best to catch Petyr’s gaze.
“Are you okay?”,
Petyr nods slowly, squeezing Daniil’s hand back.
“I need you to tell me,”
Petyr brought his forehead to Daniil’s, looking into his eyes, clearer than he had earlier. His pupils seemed to blend into the darks of his iris. He didn’t realize he was shaking, perhaps it was both of them. In Petyr’s eyes perhaps Daniil saw how his own reflected off the milky green, how drink swirled around underneath. Daniil offered a squeeze of his hand, gently, sweetly.
“I’m okay…”,
He hadn’t made a noise since they left the bar, yet his voice shook and rasped. He wasn’t sure if Daniil had heard him, if he had even made a sound, but the man looked content enough and brought Petyr’s hands to his own clavicle. His vest had already been removed Petyr realized as his hands met soft linen. Not satin like he had thought. Up close he could see the careful weaving, the subtle off-white, how it folded around his arms and chest, how the thin cuffs accentuated his wrists, how – gosh, how the top button was already undone. For a moment he thought the stitching seemed to meld into Daniil’s flesh, seams running up his neck and over his eyes. He felt his hands being moved toward the clasped button and sought at discovering if any seams lie on the body underneath.
To his delight, all that ran underneath was warm blood and bone. Daniil let him spread his hands over his breasts and ribs, though he flinched a bit at the coldness. Daniil’s own hands were warm, undoing the threads of his shirt, pulling it over his head. He let his own ribs be touched, under the scars across his breastbone. It burned. Each small scrape of fingernail felt like too much. The touch went through him and between his ribs, under his lungs, up his spine. In that moment it was as though they were being soldered together, melded together into a single entity. Daniil kissed his shoulder and pulled back to unbuckle his pants and step through them.
Like this, Petyr could confirm no remnants of seams or stitching was present on Daniil’s body. The lines on his thighs and arms made him look twice, though they were certainly made from flesh. He watched him step into the bath and noticed how his ribs shook against bruised flesh; how his hips rose above soft skin, thighs strong though tired from weeks of walking. He wonders what could have built such a structure, such a man.
Daniil pulls him by the drawstrings gently, and the message is received. He stepped through his own trousers, fumbling a bit to get out of his boots. Daniil took the moment to settle in the bath and catch a glimpse. His thighs were thinner than his own, his hips higher, his ribs stockier and chest flattened. The light from the window painting his body every color, Daniil looked up at him, a tower of glass and impossible angles. He extended a hand and spread his legs for Petyr to sit between, which he obliged, connecting the tower and the earth.
Daniil pushed gently on his back and lathered the sliver of soap between his hands. Petyr allowed himself to be moved and washed, gently, too gently, the smell of milk and honey dripping off his body. The fingers kneading into his back no longer burning, but melting into him, his spine and up through his scalp. He allowed his head to rest on his knees as Daniil brushed his palms over his shoulders.
For a moment, he returned to himself, brought back by how Daniil’s arms shook as they curled around his centre, his hands digging into his ribs as though they grounded him. Daniil’s hands grasped at his chest, his arms, his hips, back up his spine to his neck. Petyr let his head be pushed forward, between his knees, into the water. He let Daniil hold his throat, hold him under. Perhaps he wouldn’t have fought if he had kept him under. But he didn’t. With one hand to his forehead and another to his throat, Daniil pulled him up.
It was dizzying. To be pulled up, to break through the water in a pseudo baptism, to be held. His world spun but Daniil held his shoulders firm, though gently.
Too gently.
What had necessitated this affection? Did Daniil pity him, was he grateful to him, father to the tower he saw such potential in? Their meeting in university, however ephemeral, however drug-fueled, however infatuated… had it been carried with him all this time? The three of them, alike in ideology, body, and tendencies. Perhaps they were bound together now more than ever before. Now they shared immense loss, of identity, of future. What did he do now to deserve how gently Daniil touched him? How much patience was afforded to him despite Daniil’s own exhaustion and grief?
He felt hands again against his neck, suds running down his face, keeping his eyes open as he went under. Fingers ran through his scalp and behind his ears, nails dug in pushing him over toward the limit of what his hips would allow. It felt as though there were hundreds of hands on him, caressing him, digging into his flesh, holding him under. All at once they subsided. Under the water he heard, one, two heartbeats. Each beat quieter than the last until there was just the one.
A lurch in his chest reminded him of the need for oxygen. He pulled his head above the waterline, pushed the tendrils of his hair out of his eyes. The bath feels stiller than it had a moment ago. Gone is the shake of arms and a warm body pressing against him. Involuntarily his chest shook and heaved. His sudden panic had also instilled a mighty thirst, and he reached to the stool to pick up the lone, full glass.
He brought it to his lips and wrapped his other arm around himself, trying to ease the way his body rattled. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine, to remember what may have been real. Of course his mind would conjure up pleasant fantasies after a traumatic event, such was the nature of things. He brought the glass to his lips, and tasted salt. He opened his eyes to find tears holding his eyelashes heavy. He allowed himself to crumple then, like how he had seen that figure crumpled in the street. He allowed himself the mercy of imagining warmth again as he shivered, the bathwater gone cold.
Quietly, but close, he heard a sound. Music, some orchestral piece he couldn’t put a name to, familiar as it was. The way the audio pitched and warbled told him it was on his own phonograph. In his peripheries he caught a glimpse of black silk. There he was, the good doctor, the Bachelor of Medicine, Danya. In one of his own robes, putting on his own music, holding his own glass. The scene, how lovely in its domesticity, how easily he could exist as though the last 10 days had been like any other.
Stumbling a moment as he put the glass down, Daniil walked back to where Petyr lay crumpled, peering up at him over the rim. Likely snappier than intended, Daniil pulled the glass from Petyr’s hands, though the glass was gently replaced with his other hand.
His legs shook like a calf’s as he stood. Cold and naked he stepped out, leaning on Daniil more than he ought to as he was led to the bed where a towel waited. Again Petyr allowed himself to be handled, pushed gently, body dried, hair ruffled. He allowed himself to be pushed onto the bed, so sit, and then to lay on his back.
Daniil looked to him now, eyes hungrier and greener than before, but with the same underlying mercy. He braced his hands on either side of him, his legs on either side of him. From this angle, Petyr could see the subtle fullness of his beasts, feel the warmth between his legs. The air around them feels heavier than before, thicker, tinted mahogany. It feels natural, the way his hands graze up Daniil’s thighs, the way he brings his knee upwards. A moment that feels lived a thousand times before.
“Is this okay?”
Petyr nods slowly, firmly – though not without anxiety. But he wants to trust Daniil, to allow himself to. Daniil is hurting just the same, perhaps he is asking for himself as well.
“This is okay,” he tells the both of them.
Now Daniil allows himself to be handled, the way Petyr allows himself to handle another. He lets himself bring Daniil’s head down to kiss him, properly, as a weight crashes down onto his heart. Truly what has he done to deserve this? The way Daniil whimpers into his lips as his hips are pulled down to rut on Petyr’s thigh tells him it doesn’t matter. Perhaps Daniil felt the same. Who was Daniil to earn a gentle lover? Ones that did not urge him to drink more, did not urge him to take more touch than was welcome, ones that would kiss him softly and let him pick the pace. Daniil Dankovsky, the man who failed to defeat death, somehow afforded one last sliver of agency. Did it have to take a tragedy to allow himself to be touched gently?
Petyr brought a hand under his thighs to stroke him directly, to bring him between his fingers. His hands at the core of him, Petyr could feel the ways his thighs flexed as he whimpered and sighed against jaw. His fingers find his clit, slick and heavy from before, and an unfiltered moan came from Daniil’s throat. Petyr turned his head into Daniil’s and offered some chaste kisses along his slack lips, his cheek, and under his jaw.
The hand not occupied with the thick heat between Daniil’s legs is wrapped behind his head to grasp his throat. In that, Daniil’s legs falter and he allows Petyr to roll him onto his back with Petyr attached to his side. The robe that reflected like onyx slips open and Daniil allows his legs to be spread wide by Petyr’s hand. How wonderful, how vulnerable, how trusting. One could get lost to it, addicted.
Petyr presses harder onto his throat, open mouthed kisses turning to gentle bites under his jaw. His hand moves faster, however gently, and Daniil brings his forehead to Petyr’s. He is breathing heavy, but he is lucid in how he brings his hand over Petyr’s, urging to press a little harder, bringing his hand up Petyr’s wrist when he finds the right pressure. He pitches his hips towards the touch, trying to match the rhythm though his body shakes. Daniil’s head pitches back and Petyr can feel his trachea against his hand, the way his voice rasps. His back arches and Petyr can see how his ribs heave as his mouth goes slack, his brows furrowing. He can feel a rush of wetness and a rhythmic throb beneath his fingers as he kisses Daniil’s throat, whispers sweetness in his ear about how beautiful he feels, how good he is.
He continues to stroke, gently, until Daniil’s thighs flex closed and his hand travels back down to catch Petyr’s as it stills. Daniil looks to him, his chest still heaving, his mouth wet. He rolls into Petyr’s body, brings his mouth to his throat. Petyr allows himself this now, to be handled, to be touched. It comforts him, how the green is wiped from Daniil’s eyes, how his face relaxes without hesitation. He allows Daniil to slither a hand under his thigh to bring it over his body, to pull him up.
Petyr is atop him now, Daniil’s eyes watching him startlingly closely, hands stroking his cheeks and brushing through his hair to his shoulders. He caresses the flatness of Petyr’s chest, feels his sternum, his ribs, the iron rods holding him up. His hands find his hips, between his thighs, dripping. Behind his thighs, gentle pressure.
Daniil looks to him now, his eyes serious. A request for permission. It doesn’t have to be said, only told in the way Petyr kisses him gently before yielding to that pressure.
He scoots his knees upward, until Daniil’s arms coil around his hips like support beams, until his hips are brought down, until Daniil leans up to drag his tongue through his wetness. Petyr’s vision spins; his eyes squeeze shut, but the back of his eyelids only show him shattering glass. Daniil’s tongue feels like fire, turning him molten from the inside, fusing them, binding them together.
What mercy is this, to be held above someone like Daniil, to trap him beneath arms and legs? To be held above the earth and cherished. He opens his eyes and braces his head on the headboard, meeting Daniil’s eyes. And he is cherished, in how Daniil looks back, in how Daniil broadens his tongue against him and pulls his weight down.
A hand finds its place at Petyr’s waist, the other contorted behind him. His movements stutter as Daniil brings two fingers into him, piercing him, pulling him apart, seam by seam. He pumps his fingers slowly to the knuckle as he places open mouthed kisses to Petyr’s clit, suckling gently. He hums against it as Petyr’s legs quake, his foundation crumbling. Petyr gasps, a bead of sweat dripping onto Daniil’s forehead as his hips move on their own. The fingers in him coax out obscene sounds, from his body, from his mouth. He cannot hear them over the blood rushing through his ears. A blinding light flashed behind his eyes like a gunshot in the dark, his body heaving, railing against how suddenly it hit.
Water hits the earth, rain flowing into its tributaries. The scaffolding falls away, leaving only a figure of flesh and bone.
The beams connecting him to the earth caress his hips as they pull him to the side to rest against the headboard. An iron grip holds him there, level with the earth now. If he were to move on his own, he surely would shatter, more than he already had, panes of opal and crystal. So he stays still. He stays quiet. Not to anger the earth. The earth that brings hands of bone – not iron – to his face, tucking his hair behind his ears, brushing thumbs under his eyes. He hears the earth speak but does not understand its words. Surely it is scolding, rebuking him for his creation, for thinking it was anything but sacrilege. A fair price has been paid, he supposes.
The earth pulls him down, he lets himself fall.
Petyr feels a weight being brought over his shoulders, a warmth beside him, a heartbeat within him. He feels how his jaw shakes against the nose pressed against him. Daniil whispers praise into his throat, against his ears. In thinking of the boundless nature of the sky, Petyr had forgotten the roots beneath his feet, how they tied him to the ground. The flesh and bone pulling a blanket to his chest, threading a hand through his hair. A body, warm and tired. A body that held him willingly to itself. A body quite like his own, he reminds himself. Not of soil, not of herbs, not of glass nor iron.
He sighs heavily, through clear lungs. He looks to Daniil, finds him tucked against his side, his arm wrapped over his chest. His eyes are shut. Of course, the last 10 days have been harder on him, hadn’t they? Flesh, raging against soil, raging against iron. Petyr brings his arm under Daniil’s neck, allows his hand to drape over his shoulder. He brings a kiss to Daniil’s forehead lets his head rest there.
From where he lay, Petyr can see through the window, the sky darker than it once was. His eyes close. On the back of his eyelids purples and reds dance to the rhythm of two heartbeats.