Oh, the hands that will hold you home

    Burakh found himself face to face with the University of Medicine: its facade rose, like a fortress, from the road. It was pierced of an immeasurable number of windows like so many small, peering eyes and opened, in its middle, in a gigantic rounded arch: an open mouth that caught bystanders and students alike. Burakh found himself swallowed, stuck between two groups that converged through the massive door, and was led into the central court. Lost, he followed. 
The attendance, waiting by the stairs to the main building, had gathered in groups. Each dot of the crowd was haloed golden, sweeped by the oil lights sprouting out of the white brick like strange mushrooms. Burakh’s head spun with the number of people he could see. He saw students twenty, maybe twenty-two years of age, who had gathered. He could see how the boys, some wearing canotiers, some wearing felt hats, donned in large flowing capes and cinched black coats, tried to show through dress an educated and informed status despite their young age. He spotted one fiddling with his cigarette, tapping it rhythmically on his cigarette case. The girls, some of their youthful heads covered, some adorned with long, intricate braids, wore here long dark skirts with flowy blouses covered with a short cape, there vests and shirts similar to their male counterparts’. One was fidgeting with her pocket watch, another digging through her bag for a notebook and a pen. Burakh could also see men and women his age or barely a few years apart, likely doctors, surgeons, nurses and midwives who had come with pen, paper, and their suitcases. A few meters away, more men, older, graying beards and brows, stood in a tight pack and discussed back and forth. They were finely dressed, proper in stature, and all had a little suitcase as well. 
Burakh felt… underdressed, certainly, and underprepared even more. He approached the young student he had caught rummaging through her baggage for pen and paper, leaned in, poking his head between two friends she was surrounded by, and lied: 

    “I’m really sorry to bother… I came all the way here by train and I realized I forgot my things in the car. Could I borrow some paper from you? I would also be so grateful if you—if any of you had a pen or pencil too…”

She seemed to light up, overly excited at the idea of lending a hand.

    “Sure! How many sheets do you need? Five, six?” she asked, as she started to pull apart pages of her notebook.
    “Five—five will be fine. Thank you.”
    “Here, have my pen too. I have another one—never used it though so I sure hope it works, but even if it doesn’t you can keep that one.”
    “Thank you. I won’t forget to give it back to you.”

And with that, he slipped his new acquisitions in his messenger bag, wondering just how weird it would look to say he “forgot his things” and have this on him. No one around cared. The young ladies were sorting through books they had brought — medicine and surgery tomes that Burakh could see were annotated. Time felt like it had stretched since he arrived, and the wait started to make him feel uneasy.  

The crowd had stopped growing. Burakh had seen bigger in his student days, of course, but he still wondered if everyone would have a seat in the theatre. He was completely perplexed at how the contemptible, loathsome prick of a doctor whose bordering-on-unethical experiments had drawn the ire of overseers Burakh had once met could draw such a congregation. He had talked about being blacklisted, about his laboratory being burned down. It couldn’t… Or was it his book? Had it been that much of a success? Burakh hadn’t read it, of course he hadn’t. He guessed he could stop by a bookstore tomorrow morning…
A head erupted from the hall and called out firmly:

   “The lecture is happening in ten minutes. Please proceed to the theatre. Calmly, I kindly ask of you. Do not be too noisy, as some students here are still around, preparing for tests.”

At that, a murmur of acknowledgement ran through the crowd that spoke in a single voice. In a same motion, the amorphous cloud of the congregation made its way past the doors and into the hallway, following with an almost ceremonial obedience the hailer who led them all to the theatre. 

The theatre was, as expected, a half-moon that rose in row after row of tiers. On the opposite wall, an imposing blackboard overtopped the central point of a stage, upon which was a chair, a table — and upon that, a glass of water and a familiar bag, as well as an even more familiar coat.
Burakh weaved through the audience to find a seat in the tiers; he didn’t want to be too far, nor too close. In a brief second of almost-clarity, he thought he was over-scrutinizing his own self way too much for what he was doing. He was attending this lecture, like the rest. Like the three women who sat at his right, and the two young men who sat at his left. One of them adjusted his silver-framed glasses on his nose and busied himself putting down date and place in his notebook. Studious. Burakh half-heartedly scribbled the same in a corner of his paper. He found himself fidgeting with the pen he borrowed and had to hold himself back from accidentally breaking it in a nervous trance.
Then, Dankovsky was on stage. 
He walked with a piece of chalk in his hand and the theatre fell in a reverent silence. Burakh realized he was holding his breath trying to honor this quiet stillness. 

    “Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed colleagues and revered members of the Academy of Sciences, I would first like to thank you all for attending tonight’s lecture.” He took a deep, measured breath. He was searching for his words, Burakh could see it. “This talk wouldn’t have been possible without the work and dedication of… dearest colleagues and friends of mine. Without their incredible tenacity in the face of unprecedented adversity.” Another pause, prolonged. Burakh saw the way Dankovsky seemed to swallow back his tongue as he opened his mouth again to speak. “If… they are in attendance, they will recognize themselves. If they are not… please keep them in your thoughts, as neither this lecture nor the book upon which I was able to base myself to articulate it would exist without them. Thank you.”

A low, rumbling murmur of acknowledgement and acquiescence ran through the tiers. It washed over Burakh, crashing against his shoulder like wave against cliff as it tore through his row from one end to the other. He… thought the Bachelor found his fixated gaze for a second, but their eyes didn’t meet. Dankovsky was surveying the seats yet seeing no one. Burakh was lost in the sea — Burakh was the intended audience. Spoken directly to—never addressed. Tonight’s professor turned his back on his audience (a theatre faux-pas) and, of an elaborated and noble cursive, struck the blackboard of the words: “To heal in the face of the unknowledgeable, or when science fails us: what must be learned from folk medicine, traditional remedies, and old women’s tales”.
Burakh… saw how Dankovsky’s hand shook as he laid the chalk down. How Daniil closed and opened his fist as a self-soothing, nervous tic. He sat down, adjusted his papers in front of him. 

    “We are blessed,” he began, voice steady, climbing the tiers like growing storm clouds, “to live in an age of formidable medical advancement and constant breakthroughs. There’s never been a better time to be a doctor than now,” his voice rose, almost playful, “now that we can have a patient be knocked out with morphine before doing the smallest of stitches.”

This drew a wave of sophisticated, acquainted amusement from the rows. An older gentleman, who Burakh had spotted outside with his pack, barked out a laugh as his assumed colleagues chuckled heartily. Relatable to them, was this, then.

    “We’ve discarded folk medicine as unscientific, proofless methods of a bygone era. Undeserving of being carried in our doctor’s suitcases alongside our needles and stethoscopes.”

Dankovsky pinched the pad of his thumb with his other hand. Burakh couldn’t decipher if that was a way to compose himself and manage stress, or if — and this was funnier to think about! — it hurt the good Bachelor to push himself to say those things… Remnants, perhaps, of his seemingly bygone overt arrogance. He had to still have bits and pieces of that cockiness, even if… well… even if he spoke low, and slow, and Burakh could see he had lost some of that poise and that bold aplomb he had seen him have. He had to still have bits and pieces. Burakh found himself thinking how disheartening it was to see how exhaustion (and fear, and fear) had eaten at him, had dug through him like worm in apple flesh. He still stood, but Burakh could see he flinched. Maybe he’d been stared into so much that Death had bore wells through him too. 
Burakh promptly shook his head. No. No, the Bachelor twitched on his seat because it hurt him to admit he had been wrong — but not out of despair, not because of memories viciously coiling inside of him, but because he was cocky and not used to be wrong. Maybe stage fright too. Yeah. That was that. That must be that. 

    “I am not asking you to suddenly turn to witches’ brews and herbology,” Dankovsky spoke right through Burakh’s darkening thoughts, snatching him awake, “I will however, tonight with me, to… think about connections.”

Burakh’s spine straightened.

    “If a remedy works, or if the people who take it think it works, I will ask you to ask yourself… How. Why.”

Dankovsky stood up. Walked to the blackboard. 

    “What is there, in the mind, in the body, in the spiritual self — because all illnesses, all diseases deal with death and the fear of it, and everything that deals with death deals with the spiritual self — that binds health, or the belief of health, to these unscientific, unsubstantiated remedies?”

He was starting to pace. He was starting to be passionate. Moving around too suddenly, his cravat got a quirk — and Burakh couldn’t tear his eyes away. 
Again, he thought their gazes met. He had no idea if they did — still he felt seen, he felt seen, he felt seen right into. 
When Dankovsky had invited him to join the tiers, he had invited him to join the stage. He saw how the Bachelor pulled out the chair only to not sit on it; pulled it for someone else.
Dankovsky threw his arm across the blackboard and left a perfect circle of chalk. He turned to his audience and the shape haloed his head. 

    “I am going to start vague, I am going to start wide, dispersed, barely reachable. I am going to start—”

Dankovsky drew an herb. Drew its leaves and flowers. 

    “— with this plant here.”

He wrote beneath: active agents - toxins - pharmacopeia. Burakh couldn’t recognize the plant, he couldn’t recognize it for the life of him. This sent a thrill down his spine. His wrist tingled with the almost-forgotten but so intimately familiar desire to write. He almost sighed in relief as his body fell into its intricate mechanical memory.

    “... if there are no other questions, ladies, gentlemen, esteemed colleagues and revered members of the Academy of Sciences, this clotures tonight’s lecture. I thank you all for coming and for the attention you’ve given me tonight. Any questions you would like to ask privately, I will stay for a while to be able to answer. Thank you again. Goodnight.”
    “Goodnight!”

The audience got out of the seats as a single body, rising from the woods of the tiers and cascading down the stairs in a muffled, extracorporeal voice, and headed for the door. 

    “Your pen,” Burakh jumped out of his seat to reach his earlier benefactor. “Thank you.”
    “No problem!” She stilled for a singular second. She was looking at his hands. He almost sought to hide them when he noticed the ink stains. “I see you got some use out of it.”
    “I did,” Burakh replied as his interlocutor let out a light-hearted chuckle, “thank you again.”

The young woman pranced down the stairs and slipped through as the winter air slithered in despite the crowd in the doorway.
Artemy was in no hurry — no hurry to get down, and no hurry to leave. By the time he had reached the stage, the theatre had bled out its congregation; save for the few that stood in line by the desk. 
A girl was holding her books against her chest, trying to pry out of her pocket a piece of paper. A boy had a smaller tome under his arm, definitely not a schoolbook of any sort… Burakh struggled to read the author’s name. Another was flipping through his notes, the woman behind was rehearsing her question in a half-voice. Another student shifted nervously, anticipating his turn. The one at his side seemed confident and twirled her dress thoughtless as a distraction while she waited.
Burakh was offered to go. 

    “Do you…?”
    “Oh,” he promptly cut off, “no, no, go first. I’m afraid I’ll be long.”

That was a lie — both parts of it. He knew he wasn’t going to be long, and he wasn’t afraid.
Well… afraid wasn’t the right word. He was something, certainly. 

It was his turn.
They stood face to face. 
Artemy waited for the creak of the door on its hinges behind the last student as she left before he began to speak. The coat of silence and cold had wrapped the room.

    “Good evening,” he said.
    “I’m glad you could come. I’m glad you came at all.”
    
He nodded as if the words had hit him across the chest.

    "Big audience tonight," Burakh immediately added, as if he couldn't let himself think too much lest silence were to become heavy and thick.
    "It surprised even me. I'd have thought some people would have recognized my name from that time I did necromancy and refused to show up. Or show up with a weapon."

Burakh heard a single, sharp spark of laughter escape him. They fell silent again.

    “I hope I wasn’t too boring,” the Bachelor continued, and Burakh could hear he was sincere, with a hint of… shame? How peculiar.
    “You weren’t. I… didn’t know you had it in you to be this much of an orator, in fact.”
    “You think so?” Dankovsky asked, eager in ways that confounded Burakh for a thoughtless second. He collected his papers, his pens he had dispersed on the table, and started to sort out his bag. “I've been told I was too cold and distant, then too theatral... You could say I'm trying to find a balance.”
    “I think you’ve found it,” Burakh said.

Dankovsky fastened the buckles of his bag.

    “And I think you’re biased,” he replied. 

The quirk of a smile toyed with the corners of his mouth. It looked… yes, it looked like the tight-lipped, conceited, confident smirk Burakh had gotten used to — until Dankovsky’s lips parted, until his face lit up with a frank flash of teeth, with a hearty wrinkle at the corner of the eye. It almost didn’t take Burakh by surprise: he had felt it coming; and it was demented for him to think that. He had wanted it to come. The thought of this scratched an itch. He shifted, not quite nervous and not quite anything else, on his feet.

    “Would you walk me home?” Daniil asked.
    “Would you let me carry your bags?” Artemy asked in return. The words spilled out of him like water overflowing. He didn’t even try to swallow them back: he had felt those coming too.

With that, the Bachelor jovially handed him the suitcase, arm comically straight and stretched. The Haruspex took it, laughing once more, and they made their way out. Dankovsky carefully closed the heavy doors behind him and, slipping out of the courtyard and onto the street, they walked shoulder-to-shoulder against the cold wind.

_______

    He was not going to say it, but Burakh was growing a little tired of carrying the Bachelor’ bag — by Boddho, what did he carry in here that made it so heavy? He was not going to say it, a weird, perhaps misplaced sense of pride guiding his steps. 

    “Here,” Dankovsky said as he detached himself from Burakh’s shoulder. Burakh’s eyes followed him eagerly, impatient to put the baggage down. The Bachelor walked to the imposing door of a sizable building of pale stone, its windows framed in white, and let himself through, ushering Burakh after him. 

They walked by the concierge, a short old lady who peeked out from her lodge when she heard footsteps. Elated to see her usually lonesome tenant bring a friend, she inquired about his line of work. She seemed delighted to learn he was a rural doctor, retelling her youth working alongside her village’s babki, before the two men promptly excused themselves and the Bachelor led his guest to the elevator that stood, all black iron and solemn decorative arabesques, further down the hall. 

    “What a… massive thing,” Burakh spoke, voice drowned in the noise of its steam-powered force sending them climbing. “Massive building, too…”
    “Yes. Pretty old as well.” He seemed struck by a pang of embarrassment, his voice suddenly rough and low, as he added: “Don’t expect anything fancy of my apartment. I’m… lucky to have it. Couldn’t really… find anything else after I became infamous.”
    “I understand.”

Burakh did. In the slow ascension, overpowered by the sound of iron and gears, his thoughts wandered the place. He tried to picture the Bachelor’s apartment, to capture it by piecing him together. How was the light? How were the windows? Did he live beneath the beams of the roof frame, cold and wet in the winters as the wind slithered through holes in the roof? Had he made it cosy? Well… did he know how to make cosy? Would he be cold? Would he accept Burakh’s coat if he was?

The elevator stalled and Burakh was promptly pulled out of his speculations — thank god, he thought, he was starting to envision strange things.

    “There is one flight of stairs before my floor,” Dankovsky said as he led Burakh out and up a few steps, and his guest could find in his voice, were he to listen well, a muffled apology. “This level is… too small to accomodate the elevator.”
    “I’m following you.”

Burakh brought a hand, fingers curled, to his mouth, and blew hotly on it. His nails were turning purple from the biting February air. He heard the characteristic rattle of keys in a lock, and had he barely seen Dankovsky push the door open before him that a curtain of heat struck him across the face and chest, knocking him between the lungs, making him stumble on his feet. The warmth rose to his face, embraced him sweetly. 

    “I can see that you’re cold,” Burakh heard his host’s voice over the sound of him shedding his coat. “Come in. Come near the stove, it’s always on. You can pull a chair. You can leave my bag wherever you find some room.”

It took him barely a step into the apartment that the Haruspex mouthed “I’m fine, I don’t need to sit”. And fine he was. He thoughtlessly put down the bag on a chair that flanked the entryway and closed the door behind him. He watched the Bachelor pull on the ends of his scarf and shed that too, revealing pale neck above the red tie Burakh had gotten accustomed to. Daniil’s home wrapped itself around him, surrounded him with velvet and wood. Suddenly, his head was full, dense. Filled with the smell of sap from wood piled roughly by the stove, with the sweet, almost tart, sylvan odor of tea leaves he could tell were somewhere, with the persistent trace of honey, berries and cardamom from a sbiten the Bachelor hadn’t fully drank; with the scent of varnish and veneer that caught humbly the low, golden light of a tall lamp Dankovsky had just turned on. Burakh’s head spun as he took in every detail of the abode.
Facing the small kitchen, tucked in a nook left of the entrance, a wallpaper of big, bold, abstract patterns met his eyes; in the main part of the room, a more subtle, more delicate motif of interlaced branches, flowers and birds; on the floor, a once-luxurious Kazakh rug, heavily worn but still loved, overflowing with details; on one of the two armchairs facing each other in the middle of the room (one a humble blue and the other an unpretentious green), an embroidered throw blanket bearing flowers and fruits. The hardwood floors, damaged in places but kept almost obsessively clean, squeaked under his heavy step. All noises seemed to be swallowed by the curtains that stretched, floor to ceiling, adorned with abundant designs of flowers and vines, at the two windows that pierced the one main room of Dankovsky’s dwelling. 
Burakh could spot, everywhere his eyes landed, a little something that betrayed the apparent luxury: the sofa, third piece to the conversation ensemble of the two armchairs, was missing a leg — and supported by a book. Wallpaper was peeling behind the imposing — and full to topple over — bookcase that flanked a messy desk in an unlit corner of the room. Books that hadn’t fit behind the glass lined the walls in sturdy piles. Furniture was obviously second-, third-, maybe fourth-hand, the wood scarred, the cushions not as young as they once were. Everything had been curated with interest, with warmth, with a shocking affection for the fine things just out of reach. Burakh felt so damn at home that Dankovsky didn’t even have to ask him to make himself. The room was so incredibly warm.

    “A tea?”
    “Huh?”
    “To warm yourself up.”
    “Oh. That would be nice. Thank you.”
    “You can take a seat.”
    “I’m fine. Thank you.”

And Burakh continued his tour. In the precarious shelves of the small kitchen, he spotted kettles, lovingly used; silverware that had obviously had a life before him; tins and cans and herbs… his herbs in fact, dried and shriveled like dates, crushed thinly in a little ornate bowl. He could see, from what was left, that the Bachelor had made quite a few infusions with them. A twinge of pride and a twinge of pain fought for ground in his chest as he imagined the Bachelor turning to the precious stems and leaves for some rest at last — the stems and leaves he had picked, with his own two scarred hands.
Slipping between Dankovsky, who had sat by his stove to put a kettle on, and the kitchen wall, he brought eyes to the wallpaper. Above eye level, a part of the Polyhedron’s blueprints. He recognized the tower, all angles like knives, haloed by the frantic writing of the Architect. The sheet had been folded to fit a rectangular, dusty gold frame. Below, a round portrait in a square frame of… he was sure it was the Bachelor. The Bachelor, not older than six years of age, with two black pits for huge, curious eyes, in the arms of a woman who shared his smirk — and his eyebrows. She held him with tenderness and Burakh’s heart felt a pinch. Below again, a photograph, half of the people on it blurry to some degree. He recognized his host, maybe eight years younger, who had interrupted his studying to pose for the camera. On his right side, a familiar face.

    “Hey, that’s…”
    “Andrey. Yes. Andrey Stamatin.”
    “You two went to uni together? He never… struck me as a man of medicine.”
    “That is because he isn’t.”

The Bachelor rummaged through a small set of cabinets to pull two teacups and saucers that he carefully set aside. 

    “He left… first or second year? He was always more interested in the post-exam soirées and the liquors some of our classmates hoarded than learning about health science.”
    “Color me absolutely not surprised,” Burakh felt emboldened enough to reply, and he followed the Bachelor’s lead when he barked out a laugh.

His host insisted, firmly this time, that he sat, which he did. Turning his back to the window that pierced the right-side wall of the room upon entrance, Burakh made sure his seat was far enough from the piles of books lining the wall behind. From where he was, he could see throning on a console table the skeleton of a snake preserved under a glass dome — it seemed to be missing ribs, had a coil in its spine, and Burakh assumed this is why its previous owners discarded it; a cello leaning precariously by the settee, and the single bed, buried under—of course!—a patterned quilt, by which stood the decorated nightstand that served as a rest for the flank of the instrument.
Dankovsky sat; he had an air of restraint and decorum that Burakh barely had gotten to grasp before he—before they both slowly unraveled under pressure and fear. He sat with legs parted his shoulders’ width, an arm cocked on the armrest, hand closed in a perfectly placid fist. His head was tilted to the side, barely enough to be noticeable. His eyes bore an ineffable grief.

    “... You are sad. About the Tower, I mean.”
    “Inconsolable.”

Burakh heard the whistling, bitter chuckle Dankovsky let out. He mocked himself, worrying thoughtlessly the inside of his cheek.

    “But I see now why you did it. Why it had to be done.”

And those two were the same things, weren’t they? It had to be done because Burakh did it, because he willed it; and he did it because he willed it, as it had to be done. Actions bit the tail of thoughts, and thoughts bit the tail of actions; just like this, venom was spilled. Burakh stayed silent as he observed thoughts brew in the pits of the Bachelor’s eyes. 

    “The Library of Alexandria burned down. The Gardens of Babylon are no more. The Colossus of Rhodes fell. And it fell so I could stand there. So we could all stand here, as it is.” He pondered his next few words. “... So you could come into my home and we could sit face to face on a Friday evening of February.” He laughed, and his voice was tense and torn at the seams, but he still pushed through. For a second, he almost sounded truly joyful. “It is an incredible loss that they are no more, but… The world spins on. The world has spun on so far. I… expect it will spin for a while.”

In that instant, Burakh truly thought that it didn’t. That they stood taut and tall on the tightrope of time, unmoving, restlessly still. That Daniil’s home stood atop the tower of the world like the head on a pin, frozen, so far from the sun.

    “I understand why you destroyed it, Burakh. It brings me grief, but I understand. I will not say ‘were I at your place, I would have done the same thing’ because that’d be a lie. I... had my chance to be at your place. To will the choice. And I failed! You pulled that from under me.” He took a second before correcting himself: “you pulled that out of me.” He tapped his heel nervously, as if suddenly keenly aware of how… horrifically honest he was being, Burakh thought he could read on him. “But I will say… Had I been you, I may have done the same.”

His lips were thin like threads—not that Burakh was looking—and wove sorrow in stitches of a smile. God, did he look tired. Burakh saw him roll his head from one side to the other, sending a few thoughts running before his guest could see in his eyes that he wanted him to talk for once.  That he had told enough (too much) and wanted this silence to be shared. 
Burakh didn’t think he needed that implicit permission, but his mouth took it and ran, and leaped, and spat out words that burned his throat with a hurried relief: 

    “I’m afraid I’ve killed the magic, erdem.” The sentence wrecked everything from his chest up before its weight fell on him. “I’ve killed the magic. I was warned that the Tower kept alive all the miracles of the Earth, the illness merely proof that the Earth was alive. The illness was a shelter. A testament. Where it could thrive, so could all miracles. I’ve made the Heart bleed. I was supposed to protect them, and I doomed them, I doomed them all.” 

He leaned forward, the knife of guilt hitting him in the spleen from between the shoulder blades. He almost toppled over, held himself back simply because Dankovsky was looking. Oh, shit, he was really looking.
He was looking for something, too, on Burakh’s face. He was pensive. His mouth quirked to one side, then the other, as if he was tasting his next sentence.

    “I’m not a spiritual man, Burakh, but I do not believe magic—”true” magic, the one that outlives childhood fantasies—if it exists, can be so easily killed. Can it?”

Burakh sought his answer. In the frown of Dankovsky’s brows, he could see he did as well.

    “I do not know how right it would be to compare it to the divine,” he continued, “but I would assume…” He interrupted himself, grimaced: “I consider myself an atheist, whether my mother likes this or not, but—” and continued, unabated: “— I would imagine it’d be… lost and found. Perhaps lost again… Found once more.” 

Burakh kept silent. He waited. He listened. Dankovsky smiled—a real smile!—as he found his next words, amusement chipping the stone mask of his sorrow to unearth the lines at the corners of his mouth, at the corners of his eyes. Burakh felt hit across the chest, right below the throat.

    “Far from me… to call myself a man of mystical inclinations, but I do believe… Magic could live on. Magic would live on. If only through faith… if only through will.”

Burakh took his own hand, pulled on his fingers without making a sound, fidgeted with his knuckles like he tried to keep them from coming loose. He saw Dankovsky look at his hands, then his face, before looking away, as if to give him privacy.

    “... I hadn’t thought about it that much.”
    “You just wanted to save your town.”
    “To save the kids…”

They both nodded, one after the other. 
Then, Dankovsky said the unthinkable: “I understand.” Then, even more inconceivable to Burakh, whose words failed him: “The grief for this Tower is what I have to put in the… great cosmic balance, or whatever holds us; the other side evening out with the lives that will be saved… thanks to you.”

The Bachelor’s eyes grew grey (which Burakh saw, because this time, he was looking). He was sincere and, more than anything, he was thankful. His smile still bittered, the wrinkle between his brows soured as he let his thoughts steep in the silence that followed. Burakh opened his mouth to say thank you, Dankovsky opened his mouth to say sorry, and the whistle of the kettle interrupted them both.

    “A tea, Burakh?”
    “Yes. Thank you, erdem,” Burakh said, and he meant for the tea and for the words.
    “It’s only natural,” Dankovsky replied, and he meant it for both too.

    “The…” Burakh pointed at the cello with a finger, others holding firmly the saucer in his hands. He had to look for his words even though he knew them; they seemed to run from him, almost playful. It’s the warmth, he thought, it’s the warmth of the stove, of the steam that rose from his teacup and kissed his chin fervently. “Cello. I’ve seen you play some at Yulia’s… Do you still play?”
    “Sometimes. I’ve gotten back into it. It’s not as much as I used to, but… sometimes. Busies me in the evenings when I need to clear my head.”

Burakh said something he never thought he would: 

    “Could you… play now?”

And Dankovsky replied something Burakh never believed he could: 

    “For you?”

He was jovial, playful, his smile was frank, crooked to the side, and he flashed a cuspid. Burakh felt his teacup rock worryingly in the saucer. He didn’t have the time to say “nevermind, forget it” that Dankovsky had already put down his cup on the side table flanking his armchair and walked to the instrument, sitting back down and balancing it between his knees. 
He took off his left glove swiftly and brought fingers to the strings. Burakh observed how he pulled his hand back a few times, letting it disappear between his body and the cello’s. His guest didn’t quite know what this was about, but he looked away. He tried to land eyes on the Bachelor’s face, they took off again as quickly. Dankovsky brought the bow to the strings, and the hair curved subtly, like lips meeting in a kiss (Burakh tried to not think about it that way; he really, really did). Daniil started to play. 
Artemy wasn’t musically-inclined beyond what he thought sounded beautiful, which was enough. Still, he held his breath. He once heard you were supposed to feel music with your core, your lungs, with all that’s close to your heart, and he was, no denying it—but his eyes and his cheeks and his jaw felt alight by the vibrating voice that rose from the wood. His eyes couldn’t tear themselves from the hands: surgically precise on the strings, fast—he could barely get glimpses of what he realized his host was trying to hide earlier: a few nervous, red scratches, obviously self-inflicted—otherwordingly delicate. More delicate, perhaps, than Artemy’s “gentle hands of a surgeon” (he tried to not think about it), lost in an art that Artemy could understand, but not grasp. The wrists balanced suppleness and strength, sometimes grew taut with a hint of stage fright. Burakh’s cheeks were warm. His jaw was tense. His head felt full to overflow.

Artemy didn’t hear himself ask: “How does it feel. The strings, how do they feel.”
And he felt more than heard, washing over him with the same softness as the warmth emanating from his cup, Daniil answering him: “Like nerves. Like thick hair strands, cleaved not-all-the-way in the middle. Like sewing threads.”

Burakh looked—looked at Dankovsky’s hands, fingers, wrists, at the skin that appeared in the open eye of the space between his sleeve and arm. At his face—Burakh looked away immediately. At his heel that rose from the floor so his leg gently nudged the cello from one thigh to the other, leading a waltz that Burakh could only sit there and watch. And god, did he watch. He thought he could almost feel the knees touch gently the sides of his thighs. When he brought his teacup to his lips, the amber drink tasted plummy, sylvan, distinctively woody with an aftertaste of honeyed sap. Tasted like the gorgeous, polished brown of the cello, only sweeter. 

Burakh stayed silent when the caress of the bow slowly died out in a deep, long note that stayed suspended in his throat like a word he couldn’t swallow nor say. Silent when Dankovsky flashed him a smile, satisfied, almost flattered of Burakh’s eyes on him; silent when he put the cello away and sat back. Burakh watched (and it felt almost insolent) as Dankovsky used his naked hand to bring fingertips to his teacup, checking the temperature on the outside of the porcelain, and put his glove back on. He adjusted his legs apart, put his elbows on the knees, and leaned forward. Sorrow still lingered somewhere on his face like morning fog clinging to the treetops sunkissed last, but something else was here, pulling back the curtain of clouds to reveal itself through a tilt of the head and a smile. Burakh mirrored his hands, putting his own on his lap after setting his cup down, mirrored his legs, leaned forward too. That something was inviting words in. Burakh didn’t know what that something was, or maybe he knew damn well and couldn’t name it, wouldn’t name it, didn’t have it in him to, lest it burn him so thoroughly. When the words leaped out of him, falling dumbly on his chest, he had seen them coming — he had tasted them on his tongue, so tart in their desire to escape him, to spill out and open themselves up, not unlike bodies to Dankovsky’s eyes for knives like he could do haruspicy. Artemy said:

    “Since you’ve kissed me, my face aches.”

The Bachelor lost his smile, but his eyes widened. They glistened strongly, catching a flick of gold. Artemy saw it and drank it in, heard the breath Daniil had to take before he spoke:

    “What type of ache?”
    “The type of ache that wants more.” was punched out of Artemy’s chest. He didn’t even try to hold it back: it’d have carved its way out of him anyway.

His words had pulled on the threads of time and it all unraveled. If one of them even exhaled, this moment, where they sat and stared, gazes holding each other firmly, locked like hands, would come crashing down. If they exhaled, their breaths would meet, feather-light, and the instant would be no more. The meter-and-half that separated them felt so thin that Artemy could cut through it like young green grass—but he didn’t. 
He didn’t, until Daniil leaned in some more — a hair’s width, an almost invisible bow, with a tilt of the head forward, and Artemy’s heart pulled him out of his chair with the strength of an uprooting storm. His living, beating heart leaped out of him, sent him forward, put his own legs in his path so he almost tripped, and threw itself onto Daniil’s lap. Artemy fell without grace on his knees and his body crashed against Daniil’s chest. His arms bent, slithered between waistcoat and back of chair until he felt Daniil’s warm skin lick the hollows of his palms as he closed his embrace. Artemy realized that arms were looped around his shoulders, holding him crushingly tight, when he was boldly pulled closer. He had no idea if his fall had pushed the armchair so it was balancing on two legs, it could have, he didn’t know, he couldn’t care; he was clung to as his face dug into the hollow of Daniil’s shoulder that oversaw his heart. He didn’t have the time to take a breath when an ugly, croaky gasp hit him in the ribs, right where his body fit against Daniil’s. His head was pulled away from the chest, held firmly by hands terrifyingly strong and yet not a hint violent, and a kiss was sealed in the hollow of his cheek — where it, oh, where it burned when he wasn’t careful to keep his mind off of it. He leaned against the lips with more force than he thought he had and felt how Daniil’s hands adjusted their hold on him. When he broke the kiss, Artemy opened his mouth to speak, and was shut up by another on the other cheek. He could feel Daniil’s nose pressing against him, his lips parting before he pulled away, as if to whisper something. 

The kiss broke abruptly. Burakh was sure Dankosvky was going to look away, to bashfully turn his head; but there was a heartbeat-second, loud as if two pulses collided (which they very much did) where their eyes met. Burakh saw the instant in the swallowing depths of Dankovsky’s stare and it unraveled as such: Artemy didn’t see Daniil close his eyes, didn’t realize he followed suit, and instead of a gaze he found Daniil’s lips — he dove right to them, they met him so warmly. Their ribs could entwine, not unlike fingers, were they to embrace any tighter. Daniil’s lips parted, his mouth giving way not unlike a fresh citrus under hungry fingers, deeply similar in taste when Artemy bit into it — perhaps a flavor in the tea that he hadn’t noticed before. Daniil held his head firmly, almost painfully so, as if afraid he would leave; and, as if to tell him he never could, Artemy pushed himself into the kiss deeper. He adjusted his arms around Daniil’s waist as he arched off the chair, into the hold, into Artemy’s chest like he wanted to bury himself right there, next to his loud, loud heart. The delicately wet sounds of the kisses filled Artemy’s head until he heard nothing but those and his own heart, knocking against his tongue. He was sure Daniil could taste the red of it, and if he did, he didn’t mind, he welcomed it, swallowed it whole, blissfully.
Burakh eventually realized his weight did push the chair to balance on two legs. He slowly pulled back on his knees. The kiss was broken — Artemy didn’t need one more second to bury his head against Daniil’s chest, in the hollow of his neck that his cravat kept so warm, against his chest again, holding tighter when he felt Dankovsky’s legs frame his flanks, then his thighs. Daniil’s heart wanted nothing but to be heard, and Artemy listened. He held his breath so two pulses could echo wildly in the silence left hanging from their lips. When he exhaled, Dankovsky tried to pull him closer again, smothering his face in his blonde hair. He pressed many kisses here, almost worried, his lips still wet. Burakh saw how Dankovsky took off a glove, then the other, before touching his neck, his cheeks, the topmost part of Burakh’s back that he could reach from the neckline of his sweater. His palms were very warm, fingertips still alight with musical mastery, touching Artemy with the very same skillful delicateness they had found on the strings, thrilling him just the same. 
Because he thought the moment was right, because it felt like the thing to do — and because he wanted it, more than anything, Burakh brought a hand to the front of Dankovsky’s waistcoat, and worried one of the red buttons with an almost-shy thumb. He sought permission, perhaps reassurance, and it was offered right away. 

    “Hey,” Dankovsky said against his hair; then, when he looked up, against his lips. Burakh felt the wide smile that met his mouth, and almost wanted to pull away to see it whole. He offered the warm, wet tip of his tongue, and Dankovsky leaned into him to savor it better — and to shrug off the waistcoat that he had parted open. 

Artemy didn’t even have the time to start worrying that nervousness was knocked out of him with a gut-punch. With Daniil’s hands on his shoulders, fingers pulling at the knitted wool. With one that flew to his side, to his waist, that reached for the fabric tucked here. With Daniil’s eyes that guided his own hands. He reached for the cravat, undid it slowly. He didn’t expect for the cloth to be this soft — a silk, thinly woven of burgundy, pomegranate, copper threads. Daniil’s heart, worn right at his throat, that Artemy took slowly; and Daniil let him.
He kissed right where Daniil’s pulse called him the loudest; right where he felt like he could taste it, in the comfortable hollow of his neck and jaw. Daniil took his hands, palms warm. He guided them into his open collar — that Burakh didn’t remember any of them touching.
He undid buttons, and his fingers shook, and it was fine: Dankovsky’s eyes were on him, amused, not a hint mocking, soft, eager yet patient. This wasn’t surgery. He could be as unsure, as trembling as he wanted — not that he wanted it — and all Dankovsky did was make his job easier. Was help with a button, two, maybe. Was exhale strongly when Artemy’s hands caressed his sternum, then lower, his stomach. 

Burakh was not sure when they got up, or who got up first. He thought they likely stood in one motion, meeting halfway. There was a waltz — a bad one, truly, but god was it fun — to the side of the bed, and a few steps more until the back of the Bachelor’s knees hit the mattress, upon which they fell gracelessly. 
Dankovsky patted the quilt with the back of a hand. 

    “You’ll… have to excuse the dimensions of this bed,” he said, breathless, and the wink of shame he felt at his living arrangements was heavily eclipsed by something else entirely. He took a shoe off by levering one of the metal bedposts against his heel.
    “I’m sure we’ll find a way,” Burakh replied. Daniil kissed every finger he found near his face as Artemy’s arms framed his chest and head.  
    “I’m sure we will.”

Daniil’s smile was… something else. Not quite new, Burakh had seen him smile a bunch this evening, but different. Impish in such a genuine, unfiltered way. Digging so frankly into his cheeks, sharpening the deep lines that ran at the corners of his mouth. Artemy wanted to kiss those; not to kiss them off of him like he once wanted a smirk, just to kiss those. So he did. 
Daniil threw arms around his shoulders to pull him closer, asked for one more avid, craving kiss to be satiated. Artemy didn’t need to be asked twice. He fed him purses of his lips, offered his open mouth to unabashed hunger. 
At some point, Dankovsky managed to kick his other shoe off. His leg framed half of Burakh’s body. Burakh was shocked to find him — and himself — so ravenous still. A delightful, blissful hunger. Earthy in all manners of the divine.

_______

    Sometime in the night, Burakh was awake, and Dankovsky was too; and Dankovsky had draped himself in a robe of a red darker than what Burakh had seen him wear, paling some more his pearly skin. Head tilted frankly to one side, sitting by a pile of books, Dankovsky ran fingers down the spines.

    “I know it’s in there. I know my piles look messy but I assure you, I know exactly what’s in them.”
    “I believe you,” Burakh replied, a hearty laugh on the lips.

Dankovsky pulled a tome with dextrous, fast fingers. He just short of trotted back to the bed and hopped on in a ruffle of thick burgundy silk. He fawned over the book with a “here it is!” that Burakh welcomed in open arms, pulling him in an embrace. 
They settled back under the quilt, under the warm, heavy blanket. They intertwined legs so they could both fit on Dankovsky’s narrow bed, and they did. Burakh tucked his head in the hot hollow of his neck — that he kissed a few more times for good measure. He looped arms around Dankovsky’s waist and Dankovsky looped an arm around his shoulders. He read: his voice was low, soft, for Artemy’s ears only. Burakh mindlessly let his hands wander between skin and silk until he had denuded Daniil of half of his robe — hey, he was laughing about it. Then, Daniil’s fingers in his hair lulled him to sleep.

At some point, Burakh cracked an eye open. He found Dankovsky’s face very close.

    “‘Thought you were asleep,” Burakh slurred.
    “I’m not. I’m counting your freckles. I’ve been counting your freckles.”
    “Arduous task”, Burakh tried to laugh, mouth woolen.
    “But so rewarding.”

Dankovsky was awake enough to chuckle for real. They both at the same time sought a mindless kiss. They missed each other’s mouths by a sleepy margin.

    This, Burakh didn’t know, because he was asleep: sometime in the night, they were lying next to each other, having found a way to fit with Burakh sleeping on his flank. He had at some point managed to disrobe Dankovsky completely and thrown an arm over him. He slept soundly. 
Dankovsky’s book laid open on the blanket, held in place by a loose hand. His other one found Burakh’s shoulder from beneath the heavy limb on him, found his elbow, his arm, his wrist. Found the place where it fit perfectly right over the back of his hand, slipping fingers between Burakh’s like he had done between pages. 
This, Burakh didn’t know, because he was asleep: Daniil looked at him fondly. His chest rose and fell with deep, content breaths. He leaned in, and kissed Artemy on the forehead. On the forehead first, then on the tip of his nose, then on his chin. Then, he went back to his book.

(Oh, and — this, Dankovsky didn’t know, because he was asleep: Artemy woke up just to adjust the blanket on both of them, then to press soft kisses at his hairline, then between his brows right where they brushed against each other, then on his collarbone, where a beauty spot just called for gentle lips. He closed his eyes and drifted off immediately.)

    The night felt stretched thin, and Burakh’s sleep became rocky and shallow. Guilt and grief had galloped back into the silence left as Dankovsky slept, and trampled him, trampled him furiously. He crawled out of bed and limped to the bathroom where he bent over the sink, wrecked in half. He looked at his hands as they clung to the edges, looked at them meanly. The ligaments protruded like writhing snakes with the force, seemed to pulsate under his skin. He was alive with so much violence, with something callous and wicked that poisoned his touch. Skin alight with the images of his dream, he could only see those when he closed his eyes: all he was good for was pull and pluck and tear and shred. Was strangling the miracles right in the cradle, was burrow a dagger in the heart of wonders not unlike the knife-legs of the Tower were burrowed in the earth. All his dream was about, was guilt. He had regretted many murders, but this one hung over him like a blade at his throat. His spit turned bitter until he thought he could throw up — the miracles were alive enough to haunt him. The beating, living Heart pulsated erratically under the floorboards, loud with pleas and lamentations.
And what else? The dream had turned cold Dankovsky’s skin under his touch. Well, he had turned it cold himself. That’s all he could do. That’s all he did.
Fear tore at his stomach, trying to dig all of his guts out. In front of the mirror he didn’t give a glance to, he fell to his knees and whimpered; this woke Dankovsky up. 

    “Burakh? … Tyoma?”

His lips quivered, a bittersweet smile trying to claw its way out. 

    “Still here,” he managed to spit out. “Bathroom. The sink.”
    “Nightmare?”

Burakh stilled, as if stunned. 

    “... D’you read minds, now?” he tried to joke, and his playful tone died on his lips.
    “... Do you think I don’t know what it’s like?” Point taken. “Come back. Let me see you.”

And Burakh staggered back to the bed, head low, like a wounded dog. Dankovsky was trying to open his eyes and failing. Instead, he moved closer (a bit too close) to the edge of the bed, opening an arm for Burakh to settle under, which he did. Dankovsky let out a half-asleep sigh. 
Burakh joined his hands, thumbs pressed together, fingers and palms open like wings, on Dankovsky’s chest. He traced the concave path of his sternum down to the hollow of his diaphragm, then followed the coastal arch with careful, almost afraid fingertips. 

    “Dreamed of a lot,” he said, voice heavy with exhaustion and sorrow. “... Dreamed I cut you open.”

He expected a disgusted gulp, a hitch of breath, a putting-his-hands-away from Dankovsky. He didn’t get any of that. The chest he was touching rose and fell slowly, and took his words in with a hum.

    “Isn’t that what you do?” Daniil asked, and Artemy’s head lifted towards his face sharply. “Isn’t it, for you… an expression of love?” He continued, words growing fuzzy with sleep: “Of trying to understand. Of trying to heal. Of trying to soothe whoever stays.”
    “... It is. I just hate dreaming about you getting hurt.”
    “Oh, do you dream about me that often that this has become a concern of yours?” Dankovsky laughed faintly, and it almost drew a laugh out of Burakh too. He sobered right as he continued: “Did you seem to hurt me? Did I seem like I was in pain?”

Burakh weighed his words in his mouth, his nightmare behind his eyes, and his actions in his hands. They felt heavy, they felt wetly red. 

    “... I was very careful.” was all he could say.
    “Then I’m sure I didn’t feel a thing. You’re a good doctor, Artemy.”

Burakh’s eyes found his face and saw the smile that lingered here, brushing lightly against the highmost hills of his cheeks, weaving between his closed lids. The “... and an even better lover” was not said, but hung from Dankovsky’s lips between them like a ripe fruit from a tree. When Burakh laughed, he swallowed the words — they tasted sweet.  
He settled back on the pillow. He kissed Daniil’s shoulder, found it warm, found it shivering under his lips. Oh, he’s whole. They’re whole. The scent of tea leaves and dried berries idled on him. Burakh could almost taste it. He felt his body grow heavy, grow pulled, slowly, to the ground. He let sleep wash over him as Dankovsky ran the same, lingering hand up and down his arm. He caught him opening his eyes right as Burakh closed his. 

    “...Hmm?”

Dankovsky’s voice pulled his head right out of the waters of sleep as he started to drift off at sea.

    “... Huh?” came out of him.

He found the Bachelor’s eyes on him, inquisitive even through the thick veil of sleep, their sharpness peering through. He was brushing a firm, analytical thumb against the rounded part of Burakh’s shoulder, tracing... something. Burakh pushed himself on his arms and let his own eyes examine him. He stared at his chest — nothing. His hands, nothing. Wrists, forearms, arms… This was new. This was different. This scared the shit out of him. He bolted upwards, sitting down on his heels, pulling a startled gasp out of Dankovsky, who immediately called out to him: 

    “Hey! Wait, wait, let me see.”

Burakh let him, and discovered under his touch what had ended up pulling both of them awake. 
Lines. Over his shoulders, on his arms, his thighs where Daniil was careful to touch. Lines that appeared a faint reddish-brown, two-fingers thick, drawn seamlessly on his skin. He recognized, following the warmth of Dankovsky’s fingertips, nejel-wa here, right over his artery, right over the woven blood path that went straight to his heart — and here, right here, on the other side, mirroring it, samn—the sigil hugged the hollow of his elbow, its four legs framing the vein that ran below and pulsated with something akin to fear and awe. 
Burakh stayed so perfectly still. A breath, a hitch, a blink of his eye could break the moment, could make everything vanish. His mouth hung agape, his lungs were drained. He didn’t make a sound — well, just one: the thin, throaty thread of a broken croak that Dankovsky tried to reassure and hush. His back arched; the weight of the lines, the weight of the night on them, the weight of the sweetness of the touch on him bent him violently. 

    “Tyoma? Do you know what those are? I have seen them before...”

And so had he. 
On the wrists-arms-thighs of the Brides. On his father’s back, rising above his collar when he looked away, on his ankles when he took his boots off to step in the wetlands. Carved in the flesh, sometimes. Drawn with clay, with clay and blood, with clay and milk, often. 

    “I do,” he spoke, and his voice tore through him. “They’re words. They’re songs. They’re caresses of the Earth.”

His guts twisted fiercely, he felt as if cut open. A whimper escaped him. 
He was so scared. He was so mad. He was so incredibly sad. 
When he would wake up — because of course, he was going to wake up, this was a dream, this could only be a dream — everything would dawn on him like the pale sun over the dead steppe, everything bleak, real, everything strangled by his own hands. The lines would vanish with the rest. He’d have nothing but his skin to lay flat, flayed, bare and pale. He’d have just that to make into leather to keep warm the dying miracles still left in the cold. The dying miracles he left in the cold.

    “Can you come to the window? I’d like to see these by moonlight. I’d like to look at you.”

Dankovsky had gotten up, one of Burakh’s hands in his. He tugged gently. Burakh’s body unfolded painfully, his face rotten by anguish, his traits distorted by a marrow-deep malady. He held onto Dankovsky’s hand with force until he became afraid he’d hurt him  — held onto him like he held the dream together. Burakh walked into his strides, as if any misstep could cut the fabric of this fantasy in half and he’d be left stranded.
At the window, Dankovsky pulled the curtains open, and a faint, pink light washed over them, over their bodies as they stood, so close to each other. He continued his curious, stupefied inquiry. Burakh let him. 
In the glow, Burakh could see the lines better. They seemed to shine very soberly, which Dankovsky noted: 

    “I can see very, very small sparkles. Not unlike… dots of mica in a rock.”

He was slow, almost meticulous as he traced the marks on Burakh. Whatever they were, they didn’t distort or rub out under his fingers. They were anchored, as if inked. He caressed what Burakh could read as nejel-wa, as samn, as snippets and smatterings of stories and songs over his ribs and on the undersides of his arms. He didn’t look. He didn’t dare to look. Time was suspended sideways in his throat and he was scared, so scared to swallow. Outside, the day was not even an hour old, timid and cautious over the horizon in the ways Daniil’s fingers were on his skin. 
Slowly, he leaned in. Daniil stopped his investigation and brought his hands to the back of his head, embracing him back as he embraced first. 

    “Let’s get back to bed,” he said. “You still have time before the train. Let’s get back to sleep.”

He walked in his steps again, holding his hand. In the bed, Burakh looked at his wrists, his arms, his thighs and flanks. He read the lines, the runes, he read himself one more time. One last time. He saw in Dankovsky’s eyes that he was still intrigued, and that he wanted to kiss them, but didn’t, showing a characteristic restraint. Burakh wanted to ask him to allow himself, to press his lips to the sigils before they disappeared — because they were going to disappear. But he didn’t ask. They were his problem. Instead, Daniil kissed his cheek. They embraced. Daniil kissed his hair. He felt himself sink through the bedframe and was asleep before his body hit the ground.

They were still there when they woke up. 
They were still there, and Daniil had pulled himself awake with an eagerness that surprised even Artemy. He saw how Dankovsky took his hand as if to give him a baisemain, kissing the rune that marked the hollow of his wrist instead. Then, he slipped his robe back on and trotted to the stove. 

    “A tea, Artemy?”

_____________________

    The day was clear, very bright, very cold. They walked to the train station shoulder to shoulder. They both had their hands buried in their pockets, but kept bumping elbows.
Stepping on the platform, ticket in hand, Burakh could see the travelers Dankovsky had mentioned in his letters: children of the town, excited to go home; some townspeople whose faces he recognized, eagerly showing each other boxes of chocolates or new clothes they were bringing home. No one in the crowd that hurried to the tracks had eyes for him, had eyes on him — no one, except the Bachelor. He had his chin buried in a scarf — a red scarf wrapped over his red cravat, thank you very much — but Burakh could see the thin lines of his lips digging into his cheeks. The corners of his mouth rose subtly in the smirk Burakh knew well, but which bore a new, breathtaking fondness. Burakh stared shamelessly, which Dankovsky didn’t seem to mind. 

The onyx-black iron ox of the locomotive pulled all of its wagons alongside the platform. As the rain halted, the two men slipped away. They walked to the alcove between a column and a wall, hidden enough from the travelers who raced for warmth and boarded the train to talk privately, yet not hidden enough to look suspicious.

    “You can come back whenever,” Dankovsky said, muffled into his scarf. “There’ll always be room for you at my place,” he added, and the mischievousness in his voice — a day-old discovery for Burakh, who had doubted this man could do as much as chuckle the first time they met — was nothing short of thrilling. 
    “Aah… I’ll have to find an excuse to shirk my doctor’s duties,” Burakh replied, as playful.
    “I’ll make sure to put together many more lectures to invite you to. Surely, they won’t mind you attending medical lessons of such importance!”
    “I’m sure they’ll be delighted to know I dedicate myself to my work so thoroughly.”

They shared a laugh that embraced them in clouds of warm breath steam. Burakh balanced on one leg, then the other, as if his mind was already going for the stride that would bring them together — but Dankovsky took it first. He pulled his scarf down and made the step that brought his lips to Artemy’s, cold nose against cold, red cheek. He kept his gloved hands soberly on Burakh’s chest, sparing him the touch of frigid leather. Artemy looped arms around him, midway between his waist and shoulders, closer to a clumsy hug than a goodbye kiss. But it was fine, it was quite fine. A few people hurried to the train, almost bumping into them without a look thrown in their direction, tossing about their luggage as they jumped on. Daniil put his scarf back right as they parted, and they both walked to the train tracks.  
Burakh, last one to hop on, lingered by the door. Dankovsky took a glove off and offered his hand to shake. Burakh took it, feeling how hot his palm was.

    “Goodbye, Burakh,” he spoke. The Haruspex could hear how his lips toyed with words already said, enveloping them in a new, fond, almost silly tongue. Their own private joke. “Live well.”
    “Goodbye, oynon. I will.”

Not breaking the handshake, Dankovsky pulled out of his coat, his face betraying the fact that he had almost forgotten about it, a cloth-cover book, and offered it to Burakh. When he took it, Dankovsky let go of his hand to cover the other of his warm palm. 
As the station agent announced departure, travelers at the windows waved their goodbyes to those staying on the platform, blew kisses and waved some more. 
“Write me,” mouthed Daniil. 
“I will,” mouthed Artemy back.  
With that done, he stepped into the train car, and the Bachelor stepped away. They threw each other one last glance through the round window of the door, where Burakh could see the corners of Dankovsky’s mouth pulled in that familiar, everlasting grin. They both raised one last hand to wave goodbye, and the train moved onward. 

Burakh took a seat. He finally looked at the book: the cloth cover was a deep, rich burgundy, the lettering burned black into the fabric. He chuckled when he saw the author’s name: of course the Bachelor would have gone with this red. He could read on it “Our dear friends the Orderlies”. Then, smaller, as subtitle: “Chronicles of a Twelve-Days Epidemic”. He could, but didn’t: his eyes started skirting around, his heartbeat growing loud in his throat. He started to sweat. Seeing the words threatened to pull everything out of the depths like a carcass dragged out of peat — he promptly opened the book and flipped through until he was a few pages in. Here, he could read:

    “Acknowledgements, thanks and dedication:
All of my most sincere words of gratitude go to the dedicated people of this town who have done their best, following my word perhaps against their better judgement, to slow or stop the illness this book is about. To the dedicated volunteers who tended to the sick alongside us. To the actors who accepted to separate from their costumes so they could be used as protection. Finally, to my colleagues — one, in particular, who will recognize himself if he ever has this publication between his hands; who has worked alongside, and with me, and allowed me to do the same. Despite our many differences and the multiple disagreements we’ve found ourselves in, I like to think I have grown as a doctor and learned from him. While I cannot say if the inverse is true,” (Burakh laughed to himself) “my survival, and the survival of many people you will encounter in his book, hinged on his knowledge and aptitudes.

Thank you to those, alive and dead, who have allowed us to walk home.”

Burakh worried the corner of the page with a restless thumb. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read yet, if he could. His eyes ran over and over upon the lines. He could imagine Dankovsky writing them, slanted, frantic, before even his first page. Or maybe he wrote them last, drained, relieved, his wrist painful to an unbearable degree. Well, mostly, he could imagine Dankovsky. 
He put the book on his thigh, hand covering the cover, and settled in his seat. He slept for the whole trip. He had nice dreams.