Work Text:
The town on the Gorkhon river was hastily preparing for winter in the wake of the devastating plague that left them with even less resources than the meager provisions they were used to.
Artemy Burakh had been spending his days tending to late-autumn damp colds, checking the seals on the drafty windows in the kids' rooms. The town knew there would be snow soon. Snow brought wet and damp and freeze. Artemy chewed on the inside of his cheek as he counted each blanket, each little sock, even some small shirts and coats that he had collected during his rounds checking in on his patients with sore throats and coughs. Gifts, supplies for the Soul-and-a-Halves and the Kin. He worried it still might not be enough, even though Sticky assured him that any help from menkhu Artemy Burakh was help enough for them. The haruspex decided he needed something else to worry over for the time being, and his mind traveled easily down its list of worries until it rested on one Bachelor Dankovsky.
Dankovsky, in the wake of Everything, had holed himself up in his empty observatory. As far as Artemy was aware, no one had tried to contact him thus far besides maybe the twins, and maybe Victor Kain if he needed a favor. (Granted, Artemy was not up to speed on what happened on that side of town, nowadays. He figured at least someone would have told him. Information travels fast). Even Artemy had left him to himself, a choice that had been eating further and further into him each day he did not hear from Dankovsky. Dankovsky, who had at one point during the peak of the sickness, been Danya. Artemy had assumed he just wanted space. He understood having nothing, understood having your life's rug pulled out from under you while your back was turned. He found himself wondering if Daniil had had enough to eat, if he'd been keeping warm. Artemy began kicking himself for not visiting that big empty place more. He suddenly regretted not visiting to check the windows for cracks. Everything had happened so fast, and now the dirt in the morning glinted with frosty crystals. Artemy remembered sleepless nights and checking on Daniil, finding him hunched over and asleep next to the microscope. His coat draped over his chair. Had he brought pajamas to sleep in, Burakh wondered. Had he brought enough clean socks? Did he know the close warmth of a meticulously handmade pair of fur boots?
Artemy decided what he must accomplish before the first snow fell. He had to work quickly.
Burakh pulled just about every drawer he could find in his house, looking for any kind of fabric or material he could find that could be taken apart and reborn. There was not much left after he had already given most of his leftover teenager clothes to Sticky (or set the larger garments aside for him to try when he got bigger). Some of his father's things were still there, but Artemy felt somewhat strange thinking about pulling loose the strong threads from his father's old clothes. He left them folded in their drawers. He could deal with them later.
Eventually, Artemy managed to find a couple of old knitted blankets tucked away in one of the back room closets. It was a guest room at this point, it still held a mattress.
There wasn't much to be done with it, so Artemy hadn't thought about it. He wondered if he should decorate the place, it could use a little life. The possibility of guests somehow made Artemy feel a little warmer inside. Warm. He looked down at the knit blankets in his hands and smiled. He tucked away thoughts of the guest room, and headed downstairs.
After a visit to Lara for a short refresher on how to knit efficiently and tie off sleeves, Artemy set to work unraveling the years old blankets he only ever remembered being brought out for guests (rarely). The yarn was good, thick, woolen. Isidor had always insisted his guests had the nicest of things; he was nothing if not traditional in that way.
It was somewhat of a deep clay red-brown. An earthier tone than the one everyone was used to seeing Dankovsky in. Artemy thought the more earthen brown-red would look wonderful on him either way.
While he worked, Artemy thought about the tea cup Daniil often left on the windowsill absentmindedly, the empty teapot. He would have to go about making Daniil a packet of good, strong tea for when the night was the coldest and he was still restless. Perhaps one that would call forth sleep. He wondered if his father had had any dried yamaakhai petals hiding somewhere.
While he knitted at his kitchen table, through breaks to make sure the children had eaten and that no one was dying in the Sprawl, he burned his favorite incense. He hoped that the aroma of the transition from summer into autumn would find itself nestled between the soft threads of the yarn. The sweet smell of swevery and the spice of blood twyre. He hoped it would give Daniil something more pleasant to fall in love with.
Seeing as Artemy had not taken Daniil's measurements before starting, he had to do the best he could to find some middle ground between measurements he took of Sticky and Lara and himself. He figured he could always alter a sweater if need be. After a week of knitting punctuated by a visit to Shekkhen to check on everyone (Taya was warm, the Brides slept soundly in their homes), Artemy had found himself witness to the first snowflakes of winter. He had just left the Kin village. He had his old work boots tied to his pack, having been replaced by comfortable and strong new winter boots. They had been made for him by some of the older Brides (with help from Taya, who had embroidered a beautiful pattern around the collar in that clay-red thread).
He made his way quickly back to his home. He had Sticky help him check to make sure the sweater was proportionally correct. Asked the boy if it was soft enough. Asked him if he thought it was warm enough. Asked him if the neck was too high or too tight. Until Sticky shoved the thing into Artemy's hands and said "you'll know when he tells you. Don't worry about it now, it's done," before patting his father softly on the arm and walking away into the kitchen. Artemy supposed the kid was right. The worst that could happen was- well what was it? He hadn't spoken to Daniil in weeks. Would he accept the gift?
Artemy made his way across town (dropping off a few tinctures here and there) with Daniil's new sweater rolled neatly in his backpack, along with some tea he had made. He tried to settle his regrets about giving Daniil this space into the back of his mind.
Whatever happens, happens.
He hoped to the Mother carrying him across the steppe that he could make things right.
Bachelor Dankovsky was rearranging cupboards and shelves in the bottom floors of the Stillwater to make more room for the small crateful of foods and ingredients he'd managed to order from the last fall train. He'd woken up to the sight of thick frost on the tree branches outside his windows, and knew he should start on the work he'd been putting off for the last few weeks. He considered, for a moment, the children outside. The ones who hadn't been given homes or been adopted. The ones that ever wandered, some aimlessly around where the base of the Polyhedron had stood just a few weeks before. Daniil's thoughts came to one Burakh, and his own bands of misfits. He had assumed Burakh had been busy helping prepare the Warehouses and the Crude Sprawl, if Daniil's sources (afternoon tea with Lara and Anna) had been correct. Lara told Daniil that Burakh had been helping her organize her father's things and (reluctantly) get permission from Saburov to begin fully redistributing the resources left behind by the plague. A morbid task, one that Daniil bitterly and adamantly refused to participate in. For the last few weeks, Bachelor Dankovsky had been prepared to sit in his gloomy observatory alone, until Yulia and Peter all but dragged him into the fading autumn sunlight for tea. In truth, Daniil did not want to go outside. Cleaning up the Stillwater had satiated the resentment that bubbled between his veins when he saw the empty space in the sky where miracles had taken place.
Being with Peter had been a type of catharsis, and Yulia was such a thoughtful conversationalist that it had all begun to get better. The colder it may have been, the warmer Daniil's fingertips were with his hands wrapped around Yulia's fine teacups, here, with them. Or even between drinks with Andrey, between books with Stakh Rubin. He even went to see Lara before placing his last order for the train to see if she needed anything.
"Yarn," she'd said.
Yarn.
After everything, Daniil had not seen Artemy. He simply assumed the man was busy. Taking frequent trips between the town and the Kin village ate up a lot of one's time in travel. Daniil tried not to think anything of it. He tried to bury his feelings of defeat when he remembered Burakh's steady hands and voice so fondly. For a while, he was mad with rage that Burakh could so effortlessly love and destroy at the same time.
That isn't fair.
Daniil's anger faded quickly at the first sip of Yulia's fresh brewed tea. He could not bring himself to resent any of these people. Not when they took care of him in ways that he couldn't.
Daniil sighed while he placed a large bag of rice in the lower shelf of one of the cupboards. The Stillwater was empty. The Stillwater grew cold. Daniil did not want to be cold.
He was unsure of what was going to happen once winter actually came, but he hoped that he would have enough fuel for the Stillwater's fires. He thought of Notkin and his barrel fires, the warm lanterns and the stray kittens. Burakh and the ever warm smells of cooking that carried through his father's house with the children's voices.
Daniil thought he ought to write a letter. Or find out what Rubin was up to today. He found he was no longer in the mood for being alone.
Daniil's head whipped up to the sound of a firm knock at the door.
A messenger? Was something going on? Daniil hadn't been expecting anybody.
Daniil opened the door to one Artemy Burakh, evidently weighed down by the pain in the knee he was keeping weight off of, and the usual bag he wore with him around town now.
"Burakh. I wasn't expecting you," said Daniil. Artemy let out a breathless laugh.
"No, I suppose not," he said. Artemy stared quietly at Daniil until he remembered to let him in. Daniil was too busy with his surprise to offer the hallway to him out of the wind and frost
"Oh, Artemy, please come in. Would you like some tea?" He said, stepping aside for Burakh, who entered and set down his bag.
"Sure, that sounds nice," said Artemy, undoing the ties on his backpack.
Daniil was almost surprised to find that the interaction felt as warm as it ever had. Artemy's comfortable warmth was just as right as it ever had been, if not more relaxed. Daniil set his water to boil and took in Artemy's large frame as he walked through the doorway and across the observatory to the other hall where Daniil stood. In just a few weeks, Daniil could tell that he'd been taking better care of himself. He seemed a bit softer around some of the edges, a bit stronger, a bit sturdier. He looked a little less tired, healthier and brighter eyes. They carried less stress; more the memory of stress now. Daniil wondered of one could say the same for him. He did not know.
Daniil noticed curiously that Burakh had his hands behind his back. He was holding something.
"Daniil," Artemy started, having realized that he hadn't come prepared with words.
"I thought, since no one told me you'd be leaving, you might be cold. I don't recall seeing any winter clothes with you, and I don't suppose you'd have had time to order any with that last train. So, I made this for you." Artemy stepped just into the edge of Daniil's space, as if to test the temperature of a hot spring. Daniil's face didn't know what to do with itself, Daniil didn't know what to do with himself. Artemy held the sweater in front of him, level with Daniil's chest. Daniil did not move, and Artemy kept talking.
"I kept asking if you'd left, and people told me no. I thought you'd have gone by now, I thought you wanted space. You were so upset. I didn't want to tell you how you should feel. I'm sorry if you have been alone. I hope that since you're staying, you won't have to be alone anymore. There's dinner waiting at my house. You are welcome to it."
Daniil took the sweater quietly, softly, as Burakh- no, Artemy's words rolled heavily around in his head.
The sweater was made very precisely with thick wool cord, dyed deep clay red. Daniil ran his hand over each of the tight, reinforced seams. He unfolded the garment and held it out in front of him. He was floored by the care and craftsmanship of the thing. The high neck looked warm, and Artemy had even sewn patches to reinforce the elbows. Artemy placed his hand on top of Daniil's, holding the sweater in front of himself.
"I'm giving you some of my time, and what I hope will be enough warmth whenever you find yourself without it." He said. "If you'll take it."
Daniil spoke then, barely a whisper.
"This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me."
He held the knit to his cheek to fully feel the material, sturdy, a little scratchy but still soft. And it smelled strongly of fragrant, warm herbs. Just like Burakh. He worried, for a moment, that he just might cry.
"Oh, Daniil," Daniil could hardly handle the way Artemy looked at him with all of that weighted concern. Whatever resentment he may have had for distance, or action, must have melted with his tears.
The kettle whistled behind them, and Daniil jumped, quickly disappearing into the kitchen.
Artemy followed him and watched as he poured the two chipped mugs and walked one shakily to Artemy.
"And with this I give you my deepest thanks, and time as well. Please stay a while?" Daniil asked. Artemy smiled, nodded, and took the mug.
"Bayarlaa, emshen," he said. "Of course I will stay."
And so, they stayed. Daniil tried on the sweater and found it fit wonderfully. If not a little tight at the arms, but he was quick to assure Artemy that it would settle and stretch to fit just fine. Daniil spoke of Anna and Peter's health, and Yulia's calculations for new things and a new year. Burakh's voice, with its heavy, rolling accent was like a treasured phonograph record Daniil hadn't listened to in a long time.
Artemy talked about his children and the pregnant heifers in the village, asking if Daniil would like to see the calves be born when the time came. About stocking up the clinic for winter colds, about Lara's preparations for the new school, the Dogheads by the ruins, the Soul-and-a-Halves, Grief and Victor, and dinner waiting for them at Artemy's home. With his brand new sweater like an embrace, Daniil let Artemy dress him in his coat and open the door for him. Artemy hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder, and they walked together into the fading evening light. Southeast, to the Burakh house. To where it was warm, and the noises of the fire and kids shuffling around upstairs drowned out the constant ringing in Daniil's ears. The warm light that brought color to his pale cheeks and cast comfortable shadows across his form instead of the sickly cold reflections of the empty observatory.
With a full stomach and equally full heart, Artemy asked him to stay the night. Said that the children would love to bother him about beetles and pathogens in the morning, if he'd let them.
And so he did.