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The circle of stones shoots up from the ground like fingers of a giant hand, and Daniil sits cupped in its palm, basking in the warm light of the late spring sunset like a reptile, or a cat curled up on a windowsill. From a distance, he seems to be sleeping, with a rolled-up jacket for a pillow, his limbs splayed loose and unmoving. But as Artemy approaches, dropping a bundle of freshly cut herbs onto the ground and sitting opposite Dankovsky, wiping off the sap-sticky knife and reaching to his bag for a half-loaf of bread -- he can feel those dark eyes rove over him, appraising him. There's a ghost of a smile, arch and flirtatious, on Daniil's lips. Artemy glances around him; they are alone here, as far as the eye can see, and could hide further in the tall grass, in the shadow of the rocks -- yeah, he’ll play along.
"Having pleasant dreams?" he asks.
"I wasn't asleep," Daniil replies, pushing himself up on his elbows, still staring at Artemy intently, like he's looking for something, assessing him for something. "You know," he continues, his gaze now fixed on Artemy's hands, "sometimes, when I look at you, even doing something as innocuous as gathering those herbs, or preparing food, I wonder…” he pauses, and cocks his head. “I wonder how it would feel, if you were to take that knife and --"
His hand flits up, perhaps without forethought, to the opening of his shirt; a fingernail dragged across the skin leaves a faint white trace that vanishes almost immediately. Burakh freezes.
"And what?"
His discomfort must be evident; or perhaps Daniil realises how his words must have sounded as soon as they leave his mouth, because the expression on his face suddenly changes, and his raised hand stops mid-gesture like a bird shot in flight, and similarly falls.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply --”
“Tell me what you meant, then. I'd like to hear,” Artemy insists, through clenched teeth. Unthinkingly, he has turned and leaned forward, the tip of the blade still clutched in his hand now pointing directly at Dankovsky, the very menacing picture his words seemed to invoke. He sheaths it quickly, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
“I'm sorry,” Daniil repeats, and it sounds like he really means it. He sounds regretful. “That was inconsiderate of me. Please, just forget it.”
Artemy studies him, thinking about the way he spoke there, just a moment ago; less an accusation, and more an invitation, the tease in his voice and a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he was daring Artemy to -- do something, for sure. Something he couldn’t possibly want, could he? When Burakh leans further in, his silhouette throws a shadow over Dankovsky, who doesn’t shrink back, because of course he doesn’t.
“That's what you've been daydreaming of?"
If Dankovsky hesitates, it is only a small courtesy towards Artemy, not wanting to upset him any more; but by nature, he isn’t coy. And, ultimately, a question posed with genuine curiosity always demands an explanation.
“I admire your skill,” he says. “What was it they called you... Yergachin.”
“Yargachin,” Artemy corrects him reflexively.
“Yargachin,” Daniil echoes, as if savouring the taste of the word on his tongue. “You use a knife as if it was an extension of your body, merely a finger of your hand. Like you were born to do this. Which, in a way, is true, isn't it?”
Artemy swallows; a quiet discomfort still weighs down in the pit of his stomach. But something in how Dankovsky looks at him pulls him in inexorably. He shuffles in closer; his palm pressed flat against Daniil's chest, Artemy pushes him back onto the ground, hovering over him. Button by button, he opens up Daniil's shirt, and runs a hand down his torso. His fingertips catch on the whorls of thick, dark hairs, their natural pattern broken by gnarled intrusions of scars; one or two much older, but most acquired in a mere week and a half in this town. A few of them, even, a product of Artemy's own needlework. He remembers it all too clearly. There is a chasm between the meaning of Daniil's words, and the way he speaks them. Too lightly. Could he really be that callous?
“Haven’t you had enough of violence?" he asks. "Or have you forgotten all about it already?”
“I haven't forgotten anything," Daniil replies. "Perhaps I wish to make some more pleasant memories. Or perhaps it’s not that complex.” He reaches around the back of Burakh's head, drawing him nearer, while his other hand slides down between his legs, groping through the fabric of his pants, fingernails digging into soft flesh, ripping a stifled gasp out of his throat. Daniil's teeth, bared, scrape sharp across his skin, over a pulsating artery, and close around the beating pulse point under his jaw. It feels, for a moment, like he’s going to bite down, tearing meat from bone, and Artemy knows that surge of instinctual panic hasn’t escaped Daniil’s notice, who pulls himself up, his hot breath tickling Artemy's ear as he speaks. “Doesn’t a little danger just get the blood going?”
“There’s a difference between a hickey and a slit throat,” Artemy huffs, touching the sore spot on his neck; it will certainly bruise.
“I’m not asking you to murder me."
“Then what exactly are you asking for?”
Daniil smiles again, that self-satisfied smirk of his, as he clearly concludes that he is going to get whatever he wants.
“Next time you fuck me, I want to feel that blade on my skin. I want you to draw blood,” he whispers, he coaxes. “I’ll leave the details to you, as an expert.”
Artemy chooses to ignore that last remark as he pulls away, and looks Daniil up and down carefully.
“You are serious.”
“Absolutely.”
"Why?"
"I told you -- because I want to know how it feels. And there's no one else I would trust more to do it."
Burakh’s eyes, and fingers, are drawn again to Dankovsky’s scarred chest. Pick a mark and trace it. Who was it that time -- a mugger, a looter, a butcher, a soldier? The wound has missed any major organs, but it ran dangerously close; must’ve been painful, too. Artemy is all too familiar, having been welcomed back to his home town with a knife to the gut; and he, for one, doesn’t long to experience it again.
“You know how it feels,” he says.
"That’s different."
“How so?”
“Entirely. The intent, the skill… the person.”
The suggestion is insane. He is a surgeon, damn it, he wants to say -- he doesn't cut people up for fun, despite what ugly rumours might’ve once said. Daniil knows that. Artemy imagines holding him down, etching clean lines into his skin. Further -- he would never, except in this moment, he imagines peeling back the skin the way he would peel off Daniil’s clothes, parting the layers. Reaching deeper, through warm, trembling flesh; the way each part of it would feel, in turn slick, spongy, stringy, soft. Nothing hurts in this vision; there is only impossible pleasure. He recoils in horror and stumbles backwards into desire; the way Daniil looks at him, observing his reaction and waiting for an answer, is hungry, expectant, yes, but also, almost reverent. Under his hands, he can feel the rapid beating of Dankovsky’s heart. Artemy would give him a goddamn spiritual experience, if he wants one.
“Fine,” he says eventually. “I’ll do it."
"Are you sure? I don't want you to have any regrets, or… resentments afterwards."
"No resentments." Artemy leans down to kiss him. "You don't think I'm too squeamish, do you?"
Daniil laughs. "Didn't think so, no."
*
It is cold as always there, deep in the bowels of the old factory building, with its thick brick walls and damp earth for a floor, and gooseflesh has crept up Daniil's arms. His shirt, pants and underwear lie in a heap on top of a crate in the corner; Artemy has undressed too by now. It makes sense; easier to scrub oneself down than to get stains out of clothing.
He hears Daniil sigh deeply, contentedly, as he pours hot water from a pitcher, letting it trickle down Daniil’s chest, and with a scrap of soft cloth washes the sweat and dust of the day off his body; feels him shiver at the chill of disinfecting alcohol evaporating off of his skin. He is sitting on the edge of the operating table that looks like an altar, with its rough stone surface, marked with both shallower scrapes of a knife or saw, and deeply carved grooves, the rusty residue pooled at the bottom impossible to fully wash away. The overhead light, shining bright, picks him out in harsh detail, every hair, every mole and freckle, the precise outline of each prominent muscle and bone. Nothing remains hidden -- at least, nothing that’s on the outside.
“Give me your hands,” Artemy says, taking a spool of braided rope from the workbench behind him. Daniil makes no comment; only raises an eyebrow, and tilts his head slightly.
“I don’t trust you to keep still," Artemy explains. “You make any sudden movements and I might do some real damage. This is for your safety.”
“How very considerate of you,” Daniil replies. The amusement in his voice suggests he takes it more for an excuse than a genuine concern, but he holds out his hands nonetheless.
He lets Artemy tie a knot around his wrists, and push him gently onto his back. Working slowly, methodically, Artemy lifts Daniil’s bound arms above his head, and threads the ropes through the drainage hole in the slab, securing them to the spot. Then legs, tied together over the knees and around the ankles, the rope anchored to the table's support. The last length of it, cinched around Daniil's narrow hips, and attached under the table as well. All the while, he seems perfectly at ease; perhaps this isn't the first time a lover tied him down like that. It might be the first time a lover is about to take him on an autopsy table, though Artemy wouldn't bet on it; he's heard all sorts of anecdotes back in medical school, and though he usually took them for embellished gossip, he wouldn't put it past younger Dankovsky to do something like that, for the thrill of breaking a taboo.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks.
"Yes," Daniil says simply, shifting slightly -- as much as he can -- and flexing his fingers. Artemy's hands run along his sides, and come to rest braced around his arched ribcage.
“Good. Now, I want you to struggle.”
Something like a look of pleasant surprise flits across Dankovsky's face, then a nod of appreciation. Every muscle in his body tenses as he strains against both his bindings and Artemy’s grasp, unable to break free of either. Clearly playing it up, he glares and breathes heavily through gritted teeth, every aborted movement coming with a grunt and a scowl. It would be amusing if it didn't work so well; if it didn't make Artemy lean in with all his weight, just to see Daniil squirm underneath it. He can almost hear the thrumming of blood under Daniil’s skin; he can see it in his flushed face, and his swelling cock. He lets go, stepping back and savouring the sight of the body spread before him, invitingly exposed, defenceless despite its best efforts.
“I just wanted to make sure you won't thrash around, but you’re enjoying yourself so much, I might just leave you to it."
Daniil shakes his head slowly, and grins.
"You bastard."
Artemy picks a scalpel from his workbench, freshly cleaned and sharpened, and turns it around in his fingers.
“So, what is it about?" he asks. "Is it the pain? The danger? The helplessness?”
“My, my…” Daniil hums. “A butcher, a doctor, a warden, and a psychoanalyst as well? A menkhu can truly do it all.”
“I’m just curious.”
“Read it from my guts, haruspex.”
Artemy rolls his eyes.
"You know, a learned man as you are, you sure seem to have skipped some of the most basic life lessons. Don't spit into the wind. Don't annoy a man holding you at knifepoint. Things like that."
The look on Dankovsky's face, as the tip of the blade hovers over his chest, is all goading and no shame, nor hesitation.
“You will tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Of course.”
He says it quickly, almost nonchalantly; enough formalities and just get to it, and Artemy feels not quite reassured. He's seen Daniil fight for his life, stubbornly, ferociously, refusing to surrender; and yet, at this moment, it seems possible that he would let Artemy do just about anything to him. But perhaps this is merely an act, too. In the end, the trust goes both ways.
He presses his palm flat against Daniil’s torso, pinning him fully in place, and makes a short, experimental incision, just deep enough to squeeze out small beads of blood as he pinches the skin around the cut. He bends down to suck on it, and Daniil twitches and hisses.
"Alright?"
"Keep going," Daniil mutters, exhaling, relaxing; but still with that deep crease between his brows, a familiar expression of intense concentration. He didn't want to take painkillers, saying it would defeat the point; and so Artemy supposes he will just have to be gentle. He keeps his hand steady as he makes the second, longer cut, a half-moon, inward curve over Daniil’s left pectoral. If it went deeper, and further, he could carve out Daniil’s heart, hammering fast under his fingers.
"Easy, now," he whispers soothingly, as Dankovsky's breath stutters and hitches.
But Daniil says nothing, so Artemy goes on, along an invisible pattern that simply feels right. The next cut runs down his side, twice crossing and parting the scars left by the inexpert slash of some thug’s knife, or the graze of a rifle bullet. Ugly, messy wounds, slipshod and brutal, hastily stitched and badly healed, marring the body and breaking its perfect lines. Unlike Artemy’s careful work, loving and delicate, that will leave only the faintest traces, like translucent letters spelling out the true shapes written into a man’s flesh. Careful, yes; not to cut too deep, not to cause any lasting damage. The wounds are only superficial; he wouldn’t dare to do it any other way, to truly open him up while he's alive and awake. This must suffice, and it will. And yet, instinct and practice leads him to unconsciously mirror the motions of an autopsy, or a sacrifice, and the realisation makes him shudder. Daniil takes no notice; he has slipped into a deeper trance, his breathing coming in fast and shallow now, and every exhale trembling with a choked-up moan; his eyes pressed shut and brows furrowed, fingers and toes curling as his whole body tenses and reverberates, overwhelmed with sensation. And God, he is hard; Artemy doesn’t touch him, not yet, but wonders how close could Daniil get, just from this.
“How do you feel?” he asks softly, and receives no response.
“Danya? Look at me,” he urges, touching a hand to Daniil’s cheek; with a moment’s delay, his eyes flutter open, glazed over, teary and unfocused. His lips move soundlessly, like he is struggling to form a coherent sentence, before he manages a quiet --
“Don’t stop. Not yet.”
Artemy strokes his face, leaving behind a streak of red. Bent over the table, he nuzzles into the crook of Daniil's neck, nipping lightly at the exposed skin; the trickle of blood that has pooled between Daniil's collarbones stains Artemy's chin, he comes up like an animal that just tore its prey’s throat open with its teeth. He licks his lips and he is back, inhaling the scent of Daniil's body, cold sweat, warm blood. Down, down, his mouth leaves a trail of delicate kisses, before closing around a nipple. He bites and teases it until it’s hard and reddened and sore, and then the other one, just to hear Daniil make those noises again. He runs his tongue along the wounds, tasting them, savouring them, drunk on them. Blood wells up as soon as he’s wiped it, and he dips a finger in it, smearing out these thin red lines, drawing them thicker, then branching out -- not into any particular shape or symbol, but an abstract pattern weaving around Daniil’s supine body, stark crimson against his pale complexion. He picks up the scalpel again; it’s enough to press it lightly, at the right angle, and new blood flows from a fresh cut across Daniil’s stomach, and Artemy gathers the liquid on his thumb and brings it to Daniil’s parted mouth, a mark like those daubed on the herb brides’ faces. From the next cut, the last one, he takes another drop and paints a line along Daniil’s cock, root to head, and Daniil shudders and whimpers.
Artemy steps back, cursing under his breath, crude words spoken with awe. For a brief, frightening flash, he involuntarily pictures this being for real, the cuts as deep and deadly as they would be; but the thought finds no purchase in his mind. The body spread before him is so unmistakably alive, the blood flowing freely with each beat of the heart, the chest rising and falling with each breath. There should be nothing alluring about this sight, only horrifying; and yet, it’s intoxicating. A man like Dankovsky, unyielding, proud, always seeking control -- now giving himself over so completely, a leap-of-faith gesture of absolute trust, flesh soft and pliant under Artemy's hands. It does something for him, clearly; in his half-lidded eyes, fixed on some point far beyond the workshop's walls, Artemy can see some private, inscrutable ecstasy, a dark, sinking depth underneath the surface haze of pain and blood loss. Artemy, too, feels as if moving in a dream, mesmerised; in theory, the one holding the reins, yet in a way only following his lover's lead. Even as Daniil lies there as he is, unable to move and too far gone for words, his body still speaks for him, still begging to be split open, and Artemy has merely been listening. But now he surfaces from this reverie with just enough clarity to decide to stop; though Daniil has offered no resistance and no indication to the effect, Artemy feels that perhaps in his dazed state he can't quite protest anymore, and makes the call for the both of them. On impulse, though, before putting it away, he presses the blade against Daniil’s neck -- the blunt edge, of course, but it still draws out a pitched noise from Daniil’s lips.
“Look at me. Tell me what you want. I won’t do anything until you tell me.”
Daniil lifts his head slightly, looking at Artemy standing over him, the knife digging into his throat.
“Touch me,” he says, his voice raspy and strangled. “Fuck. Anything.”
Seeing him so utterly undone, Artemy doesn't have the heart to keep him waiting; and with the spell partly broken, his own arousal surges up, and he doesn’t want to wait either. He sets the scalpel aside, not wanting to blunt it on the ropes, and takes a pair of scissors to free Daniil's legs. Without the tight pull of being stretched so taut, his body falls slack, a marionette with its strings cut; but the relief is short-lived. Wasting no time, his thighs are spread open, and from a bottle kept at hand, Artemy pours oil over his fingers, and begins to work them into Daniil's hole, one, then two, impatient now, having him tense and strain anew. With a groan escaping through gritted teeth, Dankovsky twitches, his skin glistening with congealing blood and sweat, the precum dripping from his half-hard cock pooling in the gutters carved into the slab. His own dick throbbing, Artemy takes them both into one palm, rubbing them together until they swell in full; and then, finally, grabs Daniil’s ass and thrusts into him, fucking him at a frantic pace. His hands are braced around Daniil's hips, squeezing down to the bone, like he wanted to break him in half, careless now, ruthless, in a mad race to the finish. He won’t last long, he knows, and he doesn't even try; he feels dizzy with it all, and Daniil might be on the verge of passing out. His fingers dig claw-like into Daniil’s flesh as he pushes in even faster and hears Daniil whine, hoarse and near breathless, choking on a sob as he jerks and sprays across Artemy's stomach. Buried inside him to the hilt, Artemy grabs Daniil's spent, oversensitive cock, swiping his thumb across the leaking tip, making him writhe and moan and kick his heels uselessly into the hard stone surface, and comes feeling Dankovsky damn near convulsing around him. Light-headed, he has to grab the edges of the table for support as he pulls out and bends over, panting heavily.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, before rushing to undo the last of Daniil's restraints, kissing softly the livid marks left around his wrists. He has promised no regrets, and there is no point in doubting whether they have gone too far, even as this feverish trance recedes. Resolving to take care of himself later, he warms up fresh water and brings clean bandages and antiseptics, and helps Daniil sit up; he leans limp against Artemy’s chest, his head lolling to his shoulder. Burakh has to hold him upright with one arm as he wipes the blood crusted on his skin, and dresses his wounds, as thorough as he can but still makeshift, with numb fingers. Red spots bloom through the gauze; he might think of stitching up the larger cuts, later, once he’s cleaned himself, once his hands feel less shaky. It'll have to suffice for now. Groggy, semi-conscious, but stubborn to the end, Daniil tries to stand, but his legs buckle under him, and Artemy immediately catches him, and despite mumbled assurances that he can make it, damn it, just give him a minute to gather his strength, carries him to the cot in the adjacent room. He shivers, and pulls the thin blanket tighter around himself as Artemy leaves his side, only to return carrying two bottles and a cup. Carefully, he measures out drops of a tincture into the water, then brings the cup to Daniil’s lips, holding his head up.
“Drink this,” he says, “it’ll make you feel better.”
Daniil, obediently, takes a swig, and grimaces.
“Has anyone ever told you these are absolutely vile?”
“Most of my patients are usually too grateful to complain,” Artemy counters. It is vile, though; sharp, bitter, with a metallic tang. He can tell, when he pulls Daniil in for a kiss, that strong aftertaste now on his tongue, too. His fingers tangle in Daniil's hair, damp with sweat. He still feels giddy; you are mad, he thinks, completely, utterly mad, and I think it's rubbing off on me.
“There," he says as he breaks away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "does that taste better?”
Daniil looks up at him, grinning. "It'll do."