Work Text:
The train is empty when it arrives in the town. Daniil grabs his bags and tries to land gracefully on the platform. The air is stale, but not like in the Capital, with pollution – here, it is more like pollen and mold, all the scents of the earth, more overwhelming than anything he’d experienced before. For a moment, a wave of panic washes over him: he has no idea where he is, and he had no idea that a small town could look so imposing. To calm himself down, he wraps his coat tighter around him, and fishes an envelope from his pocket. Inside the envelope, a key and a map, with one building marked with red ink. He traces the route from the station to the building and deems the street network of the city needlessly complicated. Perhaps the map lies. It looks old. It looks fragile.
The map did lie – but not how Daniil had hoped, as the cobblestone streets curl into an even more convoluted mess than he had imagined. After running into half a dozen dead ends, he is ready to turn around and take the next train anywhere. He tries to ask for directions, but the townsfolk he runs into avoid his gaze, only to pierce his back with their suspicious eyes. What a lovely shithole, he thinks.
After what felt like an eternity, he finds the street, and the building. His new workplace, his new home. It could not feel further from home. Daniil looks around, trying to orient himself. Opposite from the house – his house – is a half open door, leading to a small shop. ”Tattoos”, the logo on the window says, surrounded by white, stylized flowers. Lilium Navona, perhaps, or Anemonoides nemorosa. Behind the window, a tall man is standing, strong back towards Daniil, and he tries not to stare. The man bends down, and picks up a small girl with wild, black hair in his arms. Even through the window, they look happy, warm, domestic, and an unnameable feeling curls within Daniil.
He slips his key into the door, and it creaks open. The air feels stale, and a shiver runs through Daniil. The coldness, emptiness of the house feels almost suffocating. The house is just as he was promised: a space for a store in the front, small living quarters in the back. Basic furniture included. Exactly what he signed up for – yet, he feels lost. He sets down his suitcases and sighs. He should receive a shipment in a few days, with the rest of his personal belongings and everything necessary to get his shop going. “It will be fine”, he mutters, and fails to convince himself. He rummages through his suitcase to find sheets, and throws them hastily on the bed, without bothering to properly make it. He curls on his side, still dressed in his snakeskin coat, and closes his eyes. He wishes he had sleeping pills. Or alcohol. Or something, to dull the loudness of his thoughts. Slowly, he falls asleep, and dreams of white lilies.
---
He wakes up to a sound, coming from the street. No, not from the street – the store, his store. He drags himself out of his bed, painfully aware that he is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and must look atrocious. He sneaks into the store, wondering if he should feel afraid. In front of an old grandfather clock, a red-headed man sits with his legs crossed, fiddling with the clock’s mechanics.
“Excuse me? What are you doing?”
The man turns his head and smiles. “Your clock is broken. The previous owner of this house died, so it’s stopped. Yet time flows, anyways, so you will probably need a clock.”
“Right”, Daniil says, wondering if he is still asleep. “And you are…?”
“Grigory Filin, at your service. Dankovsky, was it?” The man grabs a tool from his bag, waves his hand cheerfully at the general direction of Daniil, and returns to his work.
“Yes, but… I did not know I requested your services? Or let you in?”
“Well, the door was open. Or at least, I got it open”, Filin says and shrugs. “Nevertheless, your clock works now.” He pushes himself off the floor and takes an admiring look at his work.
“What do I owe you for this service that, I must repeat, I did not ask for?”
“Oh, nothing! This one is on the house. Well, not on the house, on Andrey Stamatin – owed him one, and he asked.”
Right. Of course. He had heard a rumour that twins were in town but had not thought much of it. The small, odd town was not really Andrey’s style. Apparently, the rumour of his arrival had reached them, a stark reminder to not underestimate the speed of gossip in a small town.
“Well, try not to die! The next repair will not be free.” Filin hands a contact card to Daniil and slips out of the door.
Grief’s Clockwork, the card says, and lists his number and address. A bit gloomy name for a clocksmith, Daniil thinks. But glass houses and throwing stones… He pockets the card and returns to his work.
---
It turns out that the opening of a new shop in a town this small is considered quite an event. There is no shortage of customers, though Daniil starts to doubt that they are more interested in gawking at the newcomer than buying flowers. Not that he cares, really – the curiosity of the townsfolk has proven rather lucrative to him, and he prefers having work to being alone with his thoughts.
The door opens again, and a blonde woman steps in the shop. She stops next to the first shelf, and looks at the flowers, seeming a little lost.
“Can I help you?” Daniil asks, and the woman smiles.
“Yes, hello-” She extends her hand. “Yulia Lyuricheva.”
Daniil accepts the handshake. ”Daniil Dankovsky. A pleasure.”
“Likewise.” She pauses for a moment. “You know, I’m not a local, either. I’ve lived here a couple of years. You’ll get used to it.”
It does make him feel a little better.
Yulia glances at the flowers, and ask: “If I would like something to represent courage and beauty, what should I get?”
“Well, the symbolism related to flowers is highly dependent on the cultural context and varies even between individuals of the same culture. Some more established and generally accepted interpretations than others. Many may believe that the meaning derived from flowers is arbitrary. However, I would argue that it is not unsimilar to art: significant because of the variation, not regardless of it.”
Yulia nods thoughtfully. “The meaning is what we make of it?” She stops by one of the shells, reading from the sing “Leucanthemum vulgare.”
Daniil nods back at her, secretly delighted at her near flawless pronunciation. “L. Vulgare, or oxeye daisies, as most say. Innocence and new beginnings, they are said to represent. Joyful, pretty. Not what I personally would choose to represent courage, but a solid choice for beauty, I would say.”
“New beginnings, huh?” Yulia says and lets out an amused huff. “I think I’ll have a bouquet of them. I… I like what they remind me of.”
As Yulia leaves the shop with her flowers, Daniil feels slightly more at home.
---
Daniil had received multiple letters from Andrey – first, politely inviting him to his bar, then, impolitely demanding that he should “drag his dandy ass here.” He is tempted, but something about the thought of seeing the Stamatins again terrifies him. Too much Capital, too much of the life he no longer had. Then again, better to go there voluntarily than have Andrey burst through your front door by force, he thinks, as he tuns the “Open” sign to “Closed.”
He makes his way to the address in Andrey’s letter, and only gets lost twice in the way, which Daniil considers a personal victory. He opens the door, and descends to the bar, wondering how many legs have been broken as a display of drunken agility on the stairs.
A very disapproving Andrey waits for him at the bottom of the staircase. “Well, you certainly took your sweet time, Danya.”
“It hasn’t even been a week, Andrey. I’ve had more urgent things to do than get drunk.”
“Oh, I am hurt, that I am not your first priority. Not even for old time’s sake.”
Daniil decides not to grace that with an answer and opts for a dramatic eye roll instead.
“Well, you’re here, and that’s all that matters!” Andrey wraps his arm around Daniil’s shoulders. “Anyway, Danya, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, I heard about…”
“Don’t.” Daniil shakes Andrey’s hand off him and shoots a glare at him. “Don’t.”
Andrey lifts his eyebrows but drops the subject. “Anyway, if you want a drink, just ask. And if should you feel more talkative afterwards…”
“Thank you, Andrey. Your hospitality is appreciated.”
Daniil makes his way to the bar counter and orders a glass of cognac. Peter joins him for a moment, they exchange pleasantries, but soon, Peter returns his full attention to his bottle. Daniil considers leaving, until a man sitting in the back of the bar catches his eye. A tall, handsome man. The man from the tattoo shop, he realizes, and feels himself drawn towards the man.
Daniil downs his drink for courage and approaches the man. Up close, he looks even bigger, and to Daniil’s dismay, even more handsome.
“You own the tattoo shop”, he states, and immediately doubts his skills in starting conversations.
The man lifts his gaze and nods. “Have we met?
“In a way. I saw you. In your shop. I moved across the street.”
“Oh!” The man smiles. “The new flower shop? I thought you looked familiar.” He stands up and extends his hand towards Daniil. “Artemiy Burakh, nice to meet you.”
Daniil accepts the handshake. “Daniil Dankovsky. A pleasure.”
Burakh gestures to the sofa. Hesitantly, Daniil sits down.
“I’ve been meaning to visit you. It’s been a while since this town has had a new arrival.”, he takes a sip from his cup. “Or a flower shop, either. Don’t think I have ever had fresh flowers at home, living here. Well, not counting twyre.”
“I just received a shipment of roses. I could bring you some. Free samples, or something.”
“I would like that.”
Daniil tries to ignore how happy those words make him feel. Andrey makes his way to their table, sets a bottle and two glasses before them, winks at Daniil, and leaves without saying a word. Burakh’s eyes dart between Daniil and Andrey’s back, but he too refrains from commenting. Instead, he asks: “We do not see many newcomers here. So, how did you end up here? It’s not like this town is known for a bustling floral business scene.”
“Cheap real estate.”
Burakh raises his eyebrow, but does not comment, clearly expecting Daniil to elaborate.
Daniil doesn’t. “That is all there is to it”, he says with a note of finality in his voice, to break the silence.
“Right”, Burakh answers, with disbelief written all over his face. “So, do you like it here?”
“Too many Stamatins, other than that, it’s… Fine.” Andrey shoots him a glare across the bar, and Daniil returns the favor with his best imitation of a cheerful smile.
“I take it you know each other?”
“I used to study with him – them both, in the Capital. I studied biology, they architecture – ended up in the same calculus class, for some reason, then in the same bar, for multiple reasons.”
“Biology, huh? What changed? How does one get from studying biology in Capital to selling flowers here?”
“I completed my bachelor’s, started to work towards my master’s, was close to finishing my thesis. Had a doctoral position waiting for me. Virology, mostly. Then I had a bit of a… crisis of faith, you could call it. I was interested in viruses because of their near immortality. You can freeze them for millennia and wake them up. Endlessly fascinating, to me. But then… I started to doubt that my perspective was fundamentally wrong. What is the value of immortality for a virus, as they are not even truly alive? Without life, there is no death, and vice versa.”
“And thus, you became a florist?”
“I got blackout drunk. Then, I became a florist.”
“Not to be rude, but I don’t really follow the logic.”
“Flowers are, undoubtedly and vibrantly, alive. Their nature is fleeting, temporary: an intrinsic part of their beauty is in their mortality. There is no triumph in keeping a virus from dying. Their very essence is to survive. But a flower? To preserve that spark of life, that beauty? There is value in that. There is beauty in that. So, now I work with flowers. Try to preserve them, understand them, revel in the wisdom they hold.”
“That’s—”
“Awfully pretentious, I know, so I have been told.” Daniil shakes his head, trying to hide the uncharacteristic blush creeping on his face. “Your turn. How did you end up as a tattoo artist? It’s not like this town is known for a bustling tattoo scene.”
Artemiy snorts and takes a sip from his drink. “I come from a family of menkhus – people who know the lines, people allowed to cut into flesh. Surgeons, butchers, all that. Also, we are allowed to tattoo others. My father taught me. He wanted me to be a healer, first and foremost, but Stakh was always better at that.”
“Stakh?”
“My father’s student. My brother, in many ways. A pain in the ass. Has a knack for medicine, though.”
“Hmm. How did your father take your choice?” It’s not Daniil’s business, he thinks, but the stranger seems eager to share. Perhaps as a result of the rather disgusting booze Andrey had served then. Twyrine, the local specialty.
“Well, he sent me away to study, thinking it would change my mind. Died a little over year ago, so he was not around to be disappointed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Burakh shakes his head and reaches for the twyrine bottle. “No need to turn this into a pity party.” He pours another drink for both of them and raises his glass. “To new neighbours.”
“To new neighbours, and all the pity parties that follow”, Daniil smirks, and downs his shot. The twyrine burns all the way down and raises a flush on his cheeks. “I wondered how you people keep warm during the winter, in the middle of steppe. I guess I found the answer.”
Burakh laughs, each of his laughs deeper and warmer. “It’s one way.” He pulls his sweater off, revealing a dark brown tank top underneath and the redness of Daniil’s face deepens, as he tries his hardest to not to stare. But then, the sleeve tattooed into his left arm catches Daniil’s eye, and his heart skips a beat. Between the rune-like patterns, there are flowers. Swevery, carnations, and lilies.
Daniil cannot help but stare. Burakh notices and doesn’t seem to mind. Daniil finds himself stuttering. “Far be it from me to... I mean, the flowers on your skin... Quite... Noteworthy.”
“Noteworthy?” There is a hint of amusement in Burakh’s voice.
“Well, for you to have tattoos of flowers, and me… Nevertheless.” Daniil gestures towards an especially intricate part of the tattoo. “Dianthus caryophyllus. They’re my favourites. Red carnations. Extraordinarily beautifully drawn, as well.”
“Fate, then?” Burakh no longer smiles, but stares at him with burning intensity.
“Well, as I was about to say, I do not consider myself a man of mystical inclinations. But nevertheless, guess you could see it as a sign.”
“Of what?”
“Of friendly neighbour relations, of course.” Daniil darts up, as his drunken brain finally decides it is time to evacuate from the situation. “I’ll bring you the roses. See you, Burakh.”
“Looking forward to it, Dankovsky.”
---
Next morning, he wakes up with a headache. Not unexpected – he was notorious for having headaches, and even more notorious for not handling his booze particularly well. He drags himself out of bed and to the coffee maker. He abandons his dress shirt, and opts for a dark red mohair sweater, instead. Too nauseous to use a cravat, he thinks. Too nauseous to exist, actually. As the caffeine starts to resuscitate his brain cells, he opens the store’s door and sighs. Behind the door, Peter is waiting, idly smoking a cigarette. “You’re late”, he notes, as Daniil steps outside.
“Good morning to you too, Peter.” Daniil doesn’t even try to hide the annoyance in his voice.
“Andrey wanted me to check on you. To see if you’re still alive. Apparently, you indulged yesterday – both in twyrine and the company of handsome men.” Peter makes his way into the store, admiring the flowers on his way, captivated by the multitude of colours.
“Spare me the dramatics, Peter. I was simply having a conversation.”
“Well, that didn’t seem all you wanted to do. Never seen you blush like that.”
Daniil can’t be bothered to argue. With Peter, it was usually pointless – he had exceptionally sharp eyes, especially on his rare sober moments. “Well, what I want is inconsequential. I have a hard time believing he’s interested.”
“Why not? He seemed rather… Invested in your conversation.”
“I’m pretty sure he has children, you know.”
“So? I have a daughter. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to get laid.”
“I mean, but he… Wait, what?” Daniil turns from the roses he’s arranging, almost knocking the bouquet time as he processes Peter’s words.
“Well, sort of. There’s this girl. Orphan. Grace. She’s been living with me for a while, in lack of better parents.”
Daniil did not expect that. He’d never imagined Peter as a family man, or as someone particularly wanting to have children. But there was a light in Peter’s eyes as he talked about Grace, a light otherwise so tragically rare. “You seem very fond of her.”
Peter smiles. “I am. It is easier, with her around. I may not be able to make the effort for myself, but for her, it seems almost easy.”
“I get it. You can hurt yourself. You won’t hurt her.”
“Yeah. And she’s known pain and loss. We understand each other.”
“It’s good to hear.”
“Speaking of loss…”
“No.” Daniil interrupts Peter and turns his back, marching towards the cash register. “Did you want something else? Flowers? For yourself, Andrey? Grace?”
Peter stares at him for a moment, then regains his composure. “I guess. Grace would like flowers, I think. She likes red.”
Daniil makes him a bouquet, filled with red, in silence. Peter thanks him and turns to leave. “You know, Daniil, at some point, you should probably talk about it. I may not be the best person to ditch out mental health advice, but…” The rest of the sentence is left hanging in the air.
Daniil’s eyes are filled with ice. “Tell Andrey I said hi.”
Peter nods, with sadness in his eyes, and steps out. Daniil’s mind is filled with regret, guilt and grief – what a lovely combination, like a bouquet of misery.
---
The rest of the day is, to Daniil’s relief, rather uneventful. Still, when he closes the store, he feels exhausted. On the other side of the street, he catches a glimpse of Burakh. Right. The roses. He gathers a bouquet and crosses the street.
The door is open. Daniil steps inside and takes in his surroundings. In the front, there is a chair for tattooing, with an impressive number of related tools, neatly arranged in rows. In the back of the shop, there is a large sofa, and a desk. At the desk, a blonde teenage boy sits, focused on tattooing what looks like a piece of pig’s leather. The whole parlour seems warm and cozy.
“Dankovsky! Welcome”, Burakh steps from the backroom, a wide smile on his face.
“I hope I am not interrupting”, he answers.
Artemiy shakes his head. “No, no. I’m glad you had the time to visit.” He gestures towards the boy. “This is my son, Sticky. There’s also Murky, but she’s out, playing. Sticky, this is Mr. Dankovsky, our new neighbour.”
The boy turns towards Daniil, and waves politely, then turns his focus back onto the leather. Daniil returns the gesture and tries to conjure a smile. “I can see the resemblance”, he notes to Artemiy.
“I cannot”, Sticky announces, not lifting his gaze from the leather.
“Oh. Well, perhaps he takes after your wife, then?” Smooth, Dankovsky. Very. Fucking. Smooth.
Sticky snorts, and Artemiy shakes his head. “No wife. Just me and the kids. And the kids are adopted. But guess familiarity breeds resemblance.”
Warmth spreads in Daniil’s chest, and it feels awfully lot like relief. “Well, nevertheless, I promised you roses. Here, Burakh.”
“Thank you. But do call me Artemiy. We’re neighbours now, right?”
“Right. Of course. Artemiy. Guess you should call me Daniil, then.”
“I think I should, Daniil.” Artemiy takes a closer look at the roses. Red, large, flawless. “These are gorgeous. Thank you.”
They were. Daniil would never admit, but he took his time choosing them, making sure that only the most beautiful, perfect specimens went into the bouquet. Not that he was in the habit of selling poor quality flowers, but… He certainly paid more attention than necessary, this time.
“Speaking of flowers, how familiar are you with the local flora?”
“Purely on a theoretical level, I must admit. Why?”
“I’ve been meaning to go to the steppe, to get some herbs I use regularly. Wondered if you’d like to join me. You know, out of professional curiosity.”
“I would like that,” Daniil says, and after a brief consideration, adds: “It could be, indeed, professionally interesting.”
---
They meet near the edge of the town, next to the warehouse district Daniil almost got lost in the day he arrived. It feels distant, now. Artemiy guides him to the steppe, constantly pointing out the different plants and flowers around them, occasionally stopping to pick some. Daniil recognizes the expertise behind his words and is happy to just listen to him. Happy to share the passion towards the flora, while Artemiy’s interest was more in the medical properties of the plants, they certainly shared appreciation towards the plants.
As a gush of wind blows over them, Artemiy turns towards him. “You are going to need a better coat than that.”
Daniil glances down and wraps his snakeskin tighter around him. “Why? It is a nice coat. More stylish than anything you’re wearing, mind you.”
“Stylish, perhaps. I am not familiar enough with Capital fashion to comment on that. But you are going to freeze to death come winter. If not before.”
He is probably right, Daniil thinks, but hell if I’ll admit that, after insulting my sense of fashion. “And that would leave you heartbroken, I bet”, he says instead.
“It would”, Artemiy answers, with unexpected sincerity in his voice.
“All right, then. I’ll have to take a shopping trip to the Capital, then.”
“There are clothing stores here too, you know.”
“I am aware”, Daniil says, with a deadpan face.
Artemiy laughs. “Right. I see you take your fashion very seriously.”
“Extremely.” Daniil has to stop and admire his surroundings. The steppe really has unique beauty to it. At first glance, it looks a bit barren, but once he truly observes his surroundings, it could not be more bustling with life. Little jerboas running around, insects crawling around in the grass. And the flowers, all the flowers: unique in their endurance and rough beauty. Just like Artemiy, an uninvited thought pops into his mind. Am I falling for him?
As Artemiy hands him a branch of swevery, smiling brightly, his hair painted golden by the setting sun, Daniil’s fluttering heart gives him the answer to his question.
---
Daniil returns to his shop tired from the walk, but happier than in ages. Despite the fatigue, he has to get to work with the flowers Artemiy gave him. He weaves the swevery together with carnations and greenery, carefully placing each branch in a perfect spot. As he is done, he takes a step back, admiring his work quietly. And hopes that he has done justice to this inspiration.
He used to photograph his best creations. Snap a photo with a polaroid camera, write the name and date of his creation under the photo. Back when things like that mattered to him. But now, admiring his handiwork, watching the swevery curl around the roses, the thought of immortalizing the delicate flowers felt… Meaningful, again. Daniil fetches his camera, snaps the picture, and writes the name. Artemiy.
With a slight smile on his face, he falls asleep.
He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. He hears screams from the street, and smoke fills his apartment. He rushes outside, and a hopeless sight greets him. Artemiy’s parlour has been destroyed. There is no sign of him, nor his children, but surely, no one could have survived the havoc. Daniil walks through the ruins, desperate for a sign of life. He wants to scream, to cry, but the smoke smothers his face, barely letting him breathe. He finds nothing, no one. All that is left is one white lily, where Artemiy’s desk should have been, with its petals stained in ink. Daniil picks it up, and soon, it crumbles to ash as well.
Daniil wakes up screaming.
---
The nightmare had effectively wiped away Daniil’s good mood from yesterday. He serves his customers, with bare minimum effort. “Oh, he is insufferable and rude, but the flowers are of pristine quality”, one of his customers whispers to other. He does not find it in himself to care. Instead, he closes his shop early, and retreats to the backroom. He has attempted to dry flowers in his shop multiple times, but controlling the temperature and humidity without proper facilities turned out to be quite the challenge. To his delight, his latest attempt, Lavandula stoechas, had dried beautifully, the vibrant hue of purple intact.
Without thinking much, he grabs the flowers, and crosses the street to knock on Artemiy’s door. Artemiy opens the door, and his face lights up as he notices Daniil.“I…” Suddenly, a feeling of exhaustion fills Daniil. As if arriving home after a long, hard day. “I brought you these. As a thank you, for yesterday.”
Artemiy lets him in and accepts the flowers. “Thank you. It’s not needed, really – I enjoyed myself.”
Daniil looks around as Artemiy searches for a place for the flowers. “The children aren’t here?”
“No, they’re with Aunt Lara. Thought about opening a bottle of wine or something. I’d love you to join.”
“Sure”, Daniil mutters, and takes a seat on the sofa. He tries not to think of his nightmare, but it is as if the smell of smoke is ingrained in his nose.
Artemiy sets the flowers in a vase on his desk. “These are gorgeous, Daniil. Our town is lucky to have you here, bringing all this beauty.”
Daniil laughs joylessly. “Yeah. Luck.” He spits the word out as if it is poison.
Artemiy turns to him, with a puzzled look on his face. Then, a realization of sorts spreads to his face, and he asks: “Why did you really leave the Capital?”
He does not want to answer. Does not want to – cannot talk about it. But he wants Artemiy to know him, really know him. To let him in. So, he lets out a deep sigh, buries his face in his hands, and starts: “I will tell you, like I would to a close friend. Thanatica was my flower shop in the Capital. It was… More than a shop, though. My atelier, my laboratory. My creation.”
Artemiy makes his way to the sofa, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Was?” He sits down next to Daniil.
“One morning, I was walking to work, as I always did. A beautiful, sunny morning. I had an idea – something about preservation of lily petals – and could not wait to get there to test if it works.” He has to pause, gather himself, and draw a deep breath. “When I got there… There was nothing left of the building. Nothing left of my work. Just smoke and ashes and rubble. They told me it was a gas leak in one of the apartments above. An accident. But… My Thanatica was the proof that I could create something meaningful. That it was not insanity to leave my promising academic career behind for it. It was… It was my home. And it was gone. An accident. An accident, and it was all gone, in matter of minutes.”
“And that’s why you left the Capital?” Artemiy wraps his arm around Daniil’s shoulders, and he does not resist.
“Yes. And also, cheap real estate, really. After the fire, I could not have afforded anything like what I used to have, even if I would have wanted to. The insurance company refused to pay. Told me that something like this was an anticipatable risk, having my premises under housing units, that I should have invested in better fire alarms. As if it would have made a difference.” A tear rolls onto his cheek, and he doesn’t bother wiping it away. Instead, he continues: “Losing my work felt like losing my life. But somehow, my body remains, and now I have to do something with it. You know what the stupidest part is?”
“Tell me”, Artemiy’s voice is soft, almost a whisper.
“I think I would have preferred it not to be an accident. If there was an intent behind it, it could somehow give the loss meaning. Now, it was just an accident, and… It may sound stupid to you. It is, probably, stupid.”
“It… It does not sound stupid at all. And I understand. I relate. I… When my father died, I thought someone had killed him. Because he was still relatively young, and always healthy. I thought there was revenge to be had and closure to be achieved. But then… Then it was just a stroke. Nothing more.”
Finally, Daniil lifts his head, turning towards Artemiy. “How did you survive?”
“Did I? I don’t know. I adopted a couple of kids, that helped.”
Daniil laughs through his tears. “Terrible advice. I would make a horrible father.”
Artemiy pulls him to a hug and buries his face into Daniil’s hair. “I doubt that. Nevertheless, I found somewhere to call home. I hope… I hope you will, too.”
Daniil does not answer. Cannot answer – as tears begin to flow even harder, and the sobs become uncontrollable. He cries, for a long time, and Artemiy holds him. As the tears finally run dry, he lifts his head, and looks Artemiy in the eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s all right.” Artemiy strokes his cheek gently. “I’m here for you.”
For a moment, they sit in silence. Then, Daniil sighs, and says quietly: “You know what I still regret the most?”
“Tell me.”
“Those lily petals. I never… I cannot even remember what my idea was. Those lilies are long gone, and I failed to preserve them.”
“I think I could help with that”, Artemiy says, and lets go of Daniil. He pulls a marker from his pocket and takes Daniil’s left arm in his hands. “May I?”
Daniil nods, confused. Artemiy starts to draw on his arm, illustrating pattern Daniil cannot quite see yet, but judging by the strokes of the marker, are quite complex. Daniil can’t help but notice how Artemiy’s eyes light up with intensity as he focuses. How attractive it makes him look. As Artemiy is done, he lets go, and Daniil gasps. On his arm are three lilies, wrapping around each other. Beautiful, delicate lilies – just like the ones burned to ashes.
“If you want to, I could give you a tattoo. Something like that – obviously, I would need to make a more refined sketch. That way, you could carry your lilies with you. You could, in a way, tie their essence to yourself. Would that not make them, by flower standards, near immortal?”
Daniil rarely finds himself speechless. Quite the contrary, usually. But now? He can only stare at his arm, and then Artemiy. A warm feeling grows in his chest, and it is not just his crush, his adoration towards Artemiy – it is the feeling of being understood.
He has no words. He has an answer, though. He grabs Artemiy’s sweater and pulls him to a kiss, one he enthusiastically answers.
---
Daniil considers Artemiy’s proposal carefully for weeks. He takes up the habit of visiting him daily, and finds himself enjoying observing Artemiy work. To the point, that townsfolk in need of flowers learn to look for the florist in the tattoo parlour, first. It generates rumours, sure, but what doesn’t, in this town?
Soon, he finds himself missing Artemiy’s sketch on his arm. In the end, the decision is not difficult; perhaps it was simply the change he was afraid of. Still, as he sits in the chair and Artemiy begins to shave is arm, his stomach flutters with both excitement and anxiety. The needle pierces his skin for the first time, and he tries not to flinch.
“That hurts”, Daniil mutters, more out of the joy of complaining than actual pain.
Artemiy shrugs and resumes his work. “I am poking your skin with a needle, kheerkhen. Of course it hurts.”
“That better not be a steppe word for a wimp. I will find out, you know.”
Artemiy chuckles. “It’s not. I promise.”
“You won’t elaborate?”
“No, kheerkhen.”
Now it’s Daniil’s turn to roll his eyes. But, despite his complaining, he cannot help but enjoy Artemiy’s closeness. To the point he is almost disappointed when Artemiy announces he is done. He takes a look at his arms and finds himself fighting back tears of joy. His skin is obviously irritated, but under the redness, the flowers are more beautiful than he had imagined. Somehow, simultaneously delicate and strong.
“It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s… Thank you, Artemiy.”
Artemiy smiles. “It was easy, really. With a canvas so well-crafted…”
“Flatterer”, Daniil snorts.
“Always.” Artemiy takes Daniil’s hand in his, and his voice turns soft. “But I mean it. I have… grown to adore you, Daniil. Deeply.”
Daniil presses a soft kiss on his lips. “The feeling is very much mutual. I… I never thought I could feel like this. But with you… With you, it feels as natural as breathing.” As Artemiy pulls Daniil into his arms, he finally understands what Artemiy meant by somewhere to call home.