Chapter Text
In celebration of that first exam going well, Daniil insists on treating them. Insists, too, that, “There’s no such thing as jinxing, don’t be absurd. You deserve to have all that hard work acknowledged. Choose anything you like, so long as it involves us going somewhere new,” he says, and then gives a performatively put-upon sigh. “I’m sick of haunting the same three or four places.”
What this is, Noukher’s pretty sure, is a way to make sure their study sessions and Wednesday gatherings aren’t all there is between them.
“What’re you asking us for? You’re the one who knows the Capital,” Artemy says, but now that he’s thinking about it, Noukher does have something in mind, actually. Some silly little whim that feels wildly indulgent, especially when he scarcely knows what it is he’s asking for. But there’s this one shop they used to pass on their way to the townhouse, and he’s heard mention of it here and there, and…would it be so bad? To be silly, indulgent? Especially when they have someone here willing to—more than willing, happy to, insisting on being able to—indulge them.
“Ice cream,” Noukher says.
Artemy turns to him, blinks. “What?”
And Noukher says again, with a nod, “Ice cream. We’ve never had any and I want to try it.”
“Since when do you care about eating?” Artemy says, meaning: what are you doing, this is embarrassing, since when do we have wants.
Eating, admittedly, Noukher doesn’t do very often. Nyur don’t need to eat and drink, nourished by their connection to their human halves and, Kin wisdom would say, nourishing their human halves in turn through their own connection to the earth. It feels wasteful, then, to consume something when another might need it to live.
But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t wanted to. He can smell when things are delicious as well, he can see enjoyment, he can want to have that for himself.
Noukher wants a lot of things. Since always, at least but especially since now.
Incidentally, he and Artemy haven’t actually spoken about…things yet. It never seems like the right time, or Artemy finds a way to shift the subject as soon as they get too close to it.
Daniil interrupts their stand-off with an airy, “A bull of taste, as ever. And, you know? I have just the place.”
*
They are, needless to say, wildly out of place in this shop, and the person behind the counter looks vaguely uneasy as he informs Artemy that ice cream involves dairy, as though they wouldn’t already know? Both Artemy and Noukher give him a blank look until Noukher, catching on, says, “I’m a bull.”
Asclepius chokes, while Daniil rolls his lips to make a valiant attempt at keeping his own amusement at bay. Artemy, even more confused now, says, “Even if he weren’t, that’s not…Why would that be an issue?”
When they find a table to settle at with their ice creams—three bowls, one for Daniil, one for Artemy, one for Noukher—Daniil, with laughter lacing his voice, says, “I suppose people here aren’t terribly used to seeing daemons in forms that they might be eating. Or, in this case, eating things…related to them?”
“Mm, I’ve had a few guilty looks sent my way in the dining hall, when someone orders something with beef in it. But milk?”
Noukher sits himself down on his haunches to the side of the table, tells himself he doesn’t need to care about the path he’s blocking. It isn’t his fault this shop is so narrow that there’s hardly any space between the tables and anyway, there’s other paths customers can take.
Asclepius, likewise, slithers down Daniil’s arm to coil himself in the corner of the table nearest to him, and says, “We have heard of people kicking a fuss over seeing someone wear the furs of their daemon’s form, to be fair.”
“Yeah, how dare anyone wear leather in front of me,” Noukher says flatly.
Daniil cracks a grin, obligingly tugging his, yes, leather gloves off, and Artemy snorts, leaning with his elbows against the table as he picks up his spoon, swirls it around in the ice cream. “Should try that back home, see how well it goes down with Boos Vlad,” he says, and lifts up a spoonful, gives it a dubious frown.
Noukher isn’t about to wait, though. He dips his head and takes a careful lick of his own ice cream, trying not to upend the dainty little bowl. Cold, creamy, rich, sweet but with a bright tartness from what Noukher has to assume is the strawberry, another thing he’s never tried before. His ears perk right up, and he can’t quite help the way he rocks on his front hooves.
“We’ll take that as approval from one of you, at least,” Daniil says, and gestures for Artemy to give his a try too, adding, “If you’re not as fond of strawberry, you can have mine.”
Artemy gives his honey-and-walnut bowl a glance, like he’s tempted, but finally eats that spoonful. He makes a surprised sound, his eyebrows rising, but says nothing else. He doesn’t need to. As Daniil and Asclepius have no doubt learned by now, Artemy isn’t much for talking while he’s eating, just hunkers down and focuses.
Daniil, in contrast, eats his ice cream at a more leisurely pace, and Noukher is determined to try and do the same. It’s a small bowl, he’s a large creature, he could finish it in one lick without even meaning to, so he’s going to take his time and enjoy this.
Asclepius, though, doesn’t join them, neither to share in Daniil’s dessert nor to—well, Noukher supposes it would be rude for him to sample Noukher’s ice cream uninvited, so he says, “Have some.”
“Oh, no, I’m alright. I can’t really taste sweetness in this form. Don’t mind me. ”
And it’s true that the sweetness is a large part of the appeal, but there are other factors at play here; how smooth the ice cream is, that pleasantly tangy flavour, the novelty of getting to share. Noukher wordlessly noses the bowl just that littlest bit closer to Asclepius and gives him an expectant look, so Asclepius, with a huff that he probably means to sound exasperated but just means he’s acquiescing, leans over. Tries to lick at the ice cream first, but seems to realise that narrow forked tongue of his isn’t suited for the job and, sighing this time, sticks the whole front of his snout in there.
Noukher barks a startled laugh that draws more than a few scandalised looks. Neither he nor the two humans pay them any attention, Daniil in fact looking almost smug as he takes out a handkerchief to offer to Asclepius.
“No point till he’s done,” Noukher says, but after a brief few…sips? He has to assume it’s sips, Asclepius lifts his head away.
“That was plenty, And very good, thank you, Noukher,” he says, presenting his ice cream-covered snout to Daniil for cleaning. Seems like a waste of ice cream, if you ask Noukher, but…there isn’t really a better way to clean the ice cream from his scales, short of Noukher just licking it off of him.
Which he can’t do.
Obviously.
That would be weird.
“Thank you,” Artemy says. “You’re the ones paying for it.”
Noukher won’t let this devolve into a who-owes-who-what, and asks, “Do you miss sweet things?”
“Mm, I suppose?” Asclepius says. “The way you might miss other perks of other forms. I think I miss how sweet things tasted when I was a butterfly, for the most part—it was a fascinating thing, being able to taste with my legs. And there was more…depth to it, more…I don’t know, just more. It’s hard to explain. Have you ever been a butterfly, Noukher?”
It’s almost funny to imagine, him as a butterfly. Where would he have fit all of himself in something so small and fragile? But that’s a silly thought, of course, nyur aren’t bound by such things, and in his unsettled youth he’d taken plenty of forms that would feel laughable now.
None that small, though, admittedly. Or that light, or that graceful.
“No. No insects at all, now that I think of it. I didn’t tend towards small forms.” Or pretty ones. “Or flying ones. The, uh, the Kin don’t prefer them. Flying forms, I mean.”
Both Asclepius and Daniil seem taken aback by that and it occurs to Noukher, too late, that he’s opened them up to scrutiny again, expects the next question to be a why not? or, at the very least, why should that have mattered?
Instead, brow furrowed, Daniil asks, “So you’ve never flown?”
The way he says it, it might have been a great tragedy. Interesting, for someone with a nyur that’s also earthbound. And a little heartbreaking. Asclepius has such a wonderful form, his scales glossy and handsome, with a deceptive strength beneath his coils. It suits them both so well.
This is neither the place nor the time, though. After a moment, Noukher confesses, “Used to like being a goldfinch, sometimes. To play with our friends. Racing and stuff. You know.”
“Goldfinch, good choice,” Asclepius says, clearly relieved. Daniil likewise relaxes. “I tended towards corvids, for my bird forms. Ravens especially.”
Noukher isn’t in the least surprised. Nor is he surprised to hear Asclepius’ other common childhood forms: very many insects, especially butterfly and beetle forms (that Asclepius gives the full scientific name of, because of course he does, and Noukher immediately forgets what they are), but also a fox, a snake (obviously) and, most common for roughhousing with their siblings, a sleek black housecat. Noukher can see him as all of them.
“Did you never try something that could have a good run? Something hoofed or large or…?”
“Large, no. We were…” Asclepius gives a quiet hiss of frustration, clearly trying to figure out how to word this. “Given Father’s expectations, we were rather adamant that we not show aptitude for unnecessarily threatening forms. As for hoofed forms, I’m…not sure it occurred to me as a possibility, truth be told. More’s the pity, I’m sure.”
“You’ve missed out,” Noukher says, and takes another careful lick of his ice cream. His mouth tingles pleasantly, the cold and the sugar and the strawberry and the all of it, all of it so delightful all over again. “But I guess you couldn’t have had a proper run here anyway.”
“No, probably not.” Then, after a moment, a smile in his voice, he asks, “What hoofed form do you think might’ve suited me? A stag, perhaps? Or a horse, one of those racing types?”
“Goat,” Noukher says immediately, and has the pleasure of seeing Asclepius and his human both grasp for words, even as they quickly try to comport themselves in a way that doesn’t look like they’re trying to figure out if that’s a good thing or not.
They fail miserably, of course, Daniil especially isn’t half as subtle as he thinks he is.
Noukher lets them stew a few beats, Artemy blessedly not giving him away, but then finally decides to have mercy.
“Joking. I’m joking,” he says.
Daniil rolls his eyes, Asclepius gives a relieved little laugh. Artemy, though, says, “I don’t know, sounds perfect to me. Goats are stubborn, clever in that idiot way that has them escaping and throwing themselves into danger no matter what you do, fearless, would definitely headbutt death if they could.”
“That does sound fun, admittedly,” Asclepius says. “Pity I can’t shapeshift anymore. There’s plenty of people I’d like to headbutt.”
“Luckily there’s still biting,” Daniil says, but he sounds distracted as he pulls a notebook out of his inner pocket and flips it open to scribble something quick. “You know, I wonder…Is there a way to return the ability to shapeshift to adult daemons after they settle? It can’t merely be that you stopped wanting to.”
Asclepius climbs back onto his human’s shoulders in barely a blink, peering down at what he’s written to offer his own suggestions, and Noukher meets Artemy’s gaze as they’re both momentarily forgotten. The look they share says that neither of them mind, though. Noukher might even venture to say that Artemy’s looking just the littlest bit fond.
*
They’re soon caught in the tide of their exams, which eats up even their study sessions, but Daniil insists on making up for it when they can with other outings.
“I’m about to lose the advantage of cut-rate student tickets and I’m intent on making the most of it,” he says, which feels odd, to hear Daniil talking about prices like they’re something he thinks about.
Then Asclepius adds, “And we’re sick of looking at those bloody books,” which makes more sense.
Noukher finds he enjoys what he can experience of museums, although after the first one he asks Artemy to tie cloths around his hooves so he isn’t clacking up a storm on those intimidatingly-polished floors. The theatre seems less important, what with the theatre they have at home.
“Really? Odd, for a town of the size you’ve described,” Asclepius says when he expresses that, and Noukher supposes so. Especially when they don’t have the more necessary structures like, say, a school. Or a hospital that isn’t just one of the rooms in their house.
“The Town’s rulers are a bit weird,” Artemy shrugs, and Noukher adds, “One of the families, the Kains, they remind us of your lot, actually. The Wednesday folk.”
“I like to think at least some of the Wednesday folk, as you put them, would be a bit more practical, but am forced to concede that yes, a fair few of them would prioritise a theatre before anything else,” Daniil says and rolls his eyes.
“Where would you even get actors, that far away?” Asclepius wonders.
“From the community, one would assume,” Daniil says, and Noukher and Artemy nod, though…now that Noukher thinks of it, has he ever met or even known about someone who’s taken part in those plays? He’s not sure he has. Couldn’t even pinpoint the nyur forms of any of the actors they’ve seen.
Weird.
He’s pulled from the thought by Asclepius insisting, “Then you’ve scarcely seen proper theatre, no, that won’t do,” and then, when Noukher shoots him a look, gentles that into, “…We would enjoy your company. If you’d care to join us?”
“Better,” Noukher allows.
The claim of wanting to take advantage of cheaper tickets is quickly moot, as of course Noukher can’t head up to the upper galleries where seats are cheapest, but Daniil and Asclepius insist, and they can at least manage to find tickets at the ground level.
Getting to enjoy those tickets is another matter.
Noukher has gotten used to the startled reactions when people first see him here in the Capital, as they come to terms both with the fact that, yes, bulls are in fact this big, and yes, nyur can in fact be this big too. Bigger, even. And long, long before that, he was used to that guarded way he’s sometimes watched, as though he’s liable to go on a rampage otherwise.
Usually, he lets neither bother him. But usually he isn’t seeing those effects ripple across so many at once, with the occasional addition of disgust, even, as he moves through the aisles to get to their seats. His hooves have been conscientiously muffled. He still feels like an imposition, especially as he has to sit in the aisle beside Artemy’s seat given, of course, that the designated daemon space is nowhere near large enough for him. But they’d known that would be the case beforehand, Daniil had warned them, had already thought to ask at the theatre how best to handle a larger daemon and been told to do just this.
Clearly he’d either failed to adequately explain just how much larger he was talking about, or they hadn’t believed him, because before the play can even start, an usher with a vaguely apologetic-looking dog nyur taps Artemy on the shoulder to ask them to move.
But alright, it’s no problem, they’re willing to switch out their seats with ones in the back so that Noukher can be behind the seats instead. And that’s probably better, really, so he doesn’t have people brushing past him to and fro.
Except that apparently someone in their vicinity “feels uneasy” at having a nyur loom behind them, no matter how Noukher is very much behind his own human and Daniil, thank you, but sure, okay, if he’s that intimidating (is it the horns?) he can move again to another spot. Makes a point to duck as low as he can while still being able to see the stage from over Daniil’s shoulder and decides, you know, even if this isn’t the most comfortable, he’s still glad to have come, still gets a quiet sense of awe as the curtains rise to reveal the stage and two actors.
Only one of the actors has his actual nyur, a little grey dove, Noukher thinks, perched on his shoulder. The other is carrying what is plainly a stuffed toy in the shape of an ermine, or maybe it’s a puppet? Hard to tell from here. Noukher has to wonder where that second actor’s own nyur is, whether backstage or just hidden in the stage furniture somewhere. Do actors have to stretch themselves too?
His musing is interrupted by a quiet, “Fuck’s sake,” from Daniil and Noukher glances up to find, ah, their new friend the usher again, for the third time. Even his apologetic smile is starting to get stretched thin, and the small dog at his heels just looks tired. Before he can begin to explain whatever new way Noukher has offended people’s sensibilities, Asclepius hisses, “We are not moving again. Anyone who has a complaint can feel free to make it to our faces or, better yet, move their own damn selves.”
The usher recoils, eyes wide and round as he stares at Asclepius before he snaps his gaze away, clearing his throat. There’s nothing apologetic about the way he whispers, “Gentlemen. Your frustration is understandable, but that is no excuse to—”
Asclepius scoffs, but Daniil quiets him down. “Of course. My apologies. My daemon…forgot himself,” he says, tightly. “Now then, may we continue to enjoy the play, or are there a few more rounds of musical chairs we need to go through first?”
The usher is silent for several seconds. Then, rallying that smile back on, gestures to the upper galleries, where they can hear laughter at presumably something that happened on stage, not like they’ve been able to watch it. “Perhaps you would be better suited upstairs, with your fellow students?”
“Why?” Daniil asks. “What difference does it make? Do you think the people upstairs are less likely to complain, or are you just trying to get us out of your hair and hoping we end up as someone else’s problem?”
More strained silence. Finally, Artemy sighs. “Sure, yeah. We can go upstairs.”
“Wonderful, if you would just—”
“Soon as you build some ramps.”
“—follow…” The usher trails off, blinks at him. “Pardon?”
“Or a pulley, I guess?” Artemy continues, looking to Daniil as though for his opinion. Daniil is valiantly holding back a smile. “That might work too, so long as you have a couple of strong people. I mean, really strong.”
The usher gives him a blank look. Artemy jerks a thumb over his shoulder to gesture back at Noukher.
“I want you to take a real good look at him, and then tell me how you think you’re going to get a bull up those twisty stairs. Or, for that matter, down those twisty stairs. Do you want him to fall and crush other people? Because I guarantee you that’s what’s going to happen.”
The scrutiny feels mortifying, especially given how many people have turned, some to shush them, some to just watch. Noukher starts to push himself up to his hooves again, partly as illustration, partly just because…with so many eyes on him, he feels like he shouldn’t be lying down.
Except the usher, or the usher’s nyur, must take it as a threat, because they both back away a half-step, even as the usher says, “Ah. I see. Well, that…I’m afraid that puts me into a somewhat difficult position, gentlemen.”
Well. Noukher wouldn’t want that. Opens his mouth, then gives the usher a sidelong look and leans close to Artemy, so he’s not ruining this place’s respectability or whatever. Whispers, “It’s fine. I can wait outside.”
“Noukher, no,” Asclepius protests. “You deserve to get to enjoy this as much as anyone else.”
“We can just leave,” Artemy says, but Noukher shakes his head.
“We already paid for the tickets. And I have pretty good hearing. I’d probably still be able to catch some of it, if I stay close to the door.”
Anyway, he isn’t asking permission, here. He’s saying what he’s going to do. Turning from them, he gives the usher and his nyur a sedate nod, then heads for the doors, which thankfully push outward, so he can probably handle them himself. Hopefully. Would be pretty embarrassing if he had to come back and ask for help, after all that. Behind him, he hears, “Where…Where’s he going?”
“Out,” Artemy says flatly. “That was the problem, right? So now he’s fixing it.”
“But you’re still…How can you…?”
“He just can. Does it matter?” says Daniil. “Or is this a problem too? What, are we going to have to move again for being too unsettling this time?”
Just as he reaches the doors and begins to lean his weight against them, Noukher feels the slide of scales against one of his forelegs and looks down to see Asclepius winding his way up determinedly.
“Come on,” Asclepius says. “Get this open so we can get out of here.”
Noukher feels like he knows what the answer will be, but nonetheless asks, “Is Daniil coming?”
“No. I refuse to let them chase us out entirely, but nor will I allow you to remain out there by yourself.” Settling at the top of his head, Asclepius then adds, “And I’m assuming you would rather not resolve this by fighting, but if I’m wrong, you should know Daniil’s done a fair bit of boxing in—”
“No fighting,” Noukher says, and much as he’d have liked to be firm about it, he mostly just sounds amused. Intrigued, even.
Boxing, hm? Noted.
“I suppose the usher fellow is only the messenger. It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on him,” Asclepius concedes, though he sounds very put out. “Still. The point remains. I’m not leaving you alone. Perhaps we could find someone higher up to resolve this.”
Just them? He doubts that.
As Noukher shoulders the doors open, he hears the usher nervously saying, “Gentlemen, there’s no need to go to such extremes,” and Daniil, bored almost, respond, “They just solved your problem, didn’t they? Why are you still bothering us?”
And then he’s through the doors, out into the theatre lobby, where they come face to face with a startled sweeper whose frog nyur gives a bewildered squeak as the doors close behind them and no humans follow.
Noukher would try to reassure him, if speaking wouldn’t make things worse. As it is, the sweeper hurries away, a hand protectively over the nyur in his front pocket, to go—ah. Talk to another of the theatre’s employees urgently. Pointing their way.
“Hm. Don’t like that,” Noukher murmurs. The university staff had likewise been unsettled when Artemy first left him behind, and there had been plenty of whispering and pointing, but this feels…different. “Asclepius, you should—”
“I’m not leaving you alone,” Asclepius insists.
“It might be easier if I just left the building, but you can’t stretch that far.” Truth be told, he’s already sounding out of breath. Noukher forgets what is and isn’t a normal stretch distance, since most nyur stick to their humans. Is this too far already?
Asclepius says nothing, but Noukher can feel the way he’s shifting atop Noukher’s head, tightening his coils around Noukher’s horns so Noukher can’t just shake him off again.
He sighs, is about to try anyway, when from the nearby staircase, they hear a call of, “Noukher! We thought that was you, old boy, what are you doing out here? And Asclepius too!”
“Platon, Glafira!” Asclepius replies, likewise far too loud. And as Platon appears, slowly descending the stairs, says, “We couldn’t stay inside. Some idiots kept finding excuses to complain about our seating arrangements, so we left. Are more of you up there?”
“Well, uh.” Platon pauses on the last step, looking suddenly sheepish as he glances toward Glafira on his shoulder. She fidgets with her tail. “You and Daniil were talking about this play so much, we thought—”
Asclepius hisses a sigh. “Of course you did, you utter assholes.”
Noukher gets the sense he’s missing something, here, but that’s less important than the fact they have several people approaching them, the foremost and clearly most important of them already red-faced, moustache quivering in rage and with an equally agitated cat nyur hissing in his arms. He shifts her in his hold so he has a hand free to point at Platon.
“Sir! This is a respectable establishment!”
“Yes? Obviously, or we wouldn’t frequent it,” Platon says, with a placid blink as he faces the newcomers. Noukher knows that tactic. Uses it plenty himself, and isn’t at all surprised by what follows, “Although we must have been mistaken, if you’ve been allowing upstanding daemons to be bullied out of your shows? Having them separate from their humans? For shame, sir.”
If not for the fact he’s intent on staying quiet so as not to make things even worse, Noukher would have protested that. Bullied? Does he look like someone that can be bullied? He only bites his tongue for now, watches how that possibility Platon floats—or, rather, the fact it might end up being the story he spreads—settles on the outraged theatre staff. The shared looks, the furrowed brows, the concern rippling through their nyur as they slow to a stop.
He thinks, for a second, that this might actually get resolved peacefully, is vaguely hopeful they might find him another solution or, hell, even just leave him the peace to sit here and listen, he’d be fine with that too.
Then the one with the moustache draws himself up, chin raised and haughty, and says, “Obviously they must have been disrupting the performance, much as they’re being a disruption now.” There’s a sharp inhale from Asclepius, suggesting he’s gearing himself up to protest, but Noukher shushes him. They’re spared not even a glance. “Since you seem to know the individuals in question, I must kindly request that you ask your companions here to leave and, should they wish to return, to make more suitable arrangements before inconveniencing our other patrons.“
“What more suitable?” Asclepius scoffs. “We specifically asked beforehand and were told—”
“I must also request that you ask them to restrain themselves from such shameless behaviour. Further such displays will see them forcibly removed.”
Noukher’s ear twitches, catching the mutter of one of the staff behind the one with the moustache. Something or the other about snake daemons, and what else can you expect from them? Noukher isn’t sure if Asclepius hears, he’s been hissing a slow-rising warning the whole time, but he seems to have come to a decision either way. Uncoiling himself from around Noukher’s horns, he drops to the floor, forcing them all to skitter back out of fear of touching him.
“Very well,” Asclepius says primly, and promptly starts slithering away.
“Asclepius?” Noukher asks, alarmed. He takes a step towards him. “Asclepius, you can’t—”
“He said to leave. So I’m leaving.”
As Noukher moves past them, he can see confusion start to give way to panic on the moustached man’s face, the way his cat nyur is kneading uneasily at his forearm, her fur all standing up. Neither he nor any of the staff with him seem to know what to do, none of them have nyur that can catch him or pick him up, but once Noukher tries to cut Asclepius off, they also seem to remember that’s a possibility and move quickly to join him.
He wishes they hadn’t. Soon it’s a mess of birds, a frog, a cat, and a bull trying to all cut off one snake’s path without getting in each other’s. More than once Noukher is worried he might step on one of them.
“Are you insane?” says the cat nyur. “What are you doing?”
Asclepius says nothing, only slithering past them again, again, again. He’s hissing with every exhale now, clearly more out of exertion, pain, than anything else. The Line between him and Daniil isn’t just whining, it’s screeching.
Beneath that screech, Noukher thinks he hears the moustached man saying something about finding their humans now, the thunder of very many descending footsteps and familiar Wednesday voices raised in protest—and then a yell, a call of, “Doctor! We need a doctor! Quickly, he’s—”
And then Asclepius abruptly drops. Falls still.
Noukher dips his head down to pick Asclepius up in his mouth before the stubborn idiot gets trampled.
At least, Noukher thinks, somewhere between exasperated and fond, this wasn’t technically just for his sake.
*
“So, let me get this straight,” Artemy says. He’s standing at his desk, his back to the rest of the room, jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up as he sifts through everything their father sent with them to the Capital, a menkhu’s blessing in tinctures, extracts, and dried herbs, left untouched since they arrived. “You did this on purpose. Not because you were forced to, or had to run, or anything else Platon was accusing them of back there when we left, you just…on purpose.”
With the Wednesday crowd caught up in protesting the theatre staff’s behaviour and intent on ruining their reputation, and with the other theatre-goers naturally panicking from either Daniil’s collapse or the resulting commotion, it fell to Noukher and Artemy to get Daniil and Asclepius out of there before they all got caught up in that mess.
Rather than take Daniil and Asclepius to a hospital, though, they headed to their place. Little as Artemy might have liked to show Daniil and Asclepius their dark, damp, cramped room, it’s private, at least. Couldn’t very well share a room as his fellow students do when there’s barely space in there for Noukher as it is. More importantly, however, they know that they’re likely better equipped for this than a Capital hospital would be. They’ve stretched themselves too far enough times, fallen flat unconscious enough times, to know exactly how to handle this.
First, get them somewhere safe and quiet to wake up from their idiocy. Done, and with a few slaps to Daniil’s cheek, some water sprinkled on them both, they’ve woken up without issue.
Second, get some Zurkh tincture down Daniil’s throat to strengthen the blood layer and, therefore, ease the strain on the Line between them. Also done, tipped into Daniil’s mouth almost as soon as he woke up, but before he was aware enough to do much more than splutter about it. Artemy’s letting it do its work now while he figures out the next bit.
Which is, third, to give them something that’ll help with the aftereffects of their stretching. Artemy couldn’t find the exact blend needed within their stock, but declared it shouldn’t be too hard to make with the materials they do have. He’s set some dried black twyre steeping already. It smells like home.
“Yes, I left on purpose,” Asclepius says again. “I never told Platon to spread that story, that was his own angle. Would serve them right if this ruined them, though.”
His voice is hoarse, his words somewhat laboured, and he hasn’t shifted from where they set him down on Daniil’s chest, Daniil himself stretched out on Artemy’s bed and staring at the ceiling.
He’s pretending he’s just still dazed, but Noukher knows better. For all the things they’ve seen at the Wednesday gatherings, and all the things they haven’t seen but heard implied, bare forearms are apparently enough to give Daniil Dankovsky the vapours. One glance was enough, he hasn’t risked another since.
“Right. And, why?” Artemy asks, measuring out what must be Ashen Swish extract, judging by the spiciness of that scent. It permeates the room, making Asclepius cough.
He still perseveres in croaking, “They wanted us gone, wouldn’t listen to us, and were exceedingly rude when we’d scarcely done a thing to deserve it to boot. And while I could have bitten their faces off, would have rather liked to do that in fact, Noukher would not have liked it, so—”
“Hey, don’t blame this on me,” Noukher rumbles.
“I’m not!” Asclepius says. “Only saying that it could have been worse. I would absolutely have launched myself at that man and eaten the moustache right off of his face. As it is, I found another, less violent way to make them regret it.”
“By hurting yourself,” Artemy says.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“And Daniil. He would’ve cracked his skull open if I hadn’t caught him.”
“And thank you for catching him,” Asclepius says, utterly unrepentant. “See? It wasn’t that bad.”
Artemy shakes his head, and for a few moments, the only sounds are the clinking of metal against glass as he mixes the Ashen Swish extract into that black twyre infusion. Then Daniil says, “…Their faces were very funny, mind you. That usher, the other people.” His words are likewise laboured, breathless, uncharacteristically slow. It’s not a small thing, stretching their Line so far. It hurts. Feels like your lungs are being pulled out of your throat, and the happiness is being pulled out your marrow. Nonetheless, when Noukher glances his way, he finds Daniil’s mouth skewed in a smirk. “Well worth it, I’d say. They’re not likely to forget this anytime soon.”
“And we’re not likely to be welcomed back anytime soon either,” Noukher says.
Daniil waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, we weren’t going to be welcome back either way. We might as well get some satisfaction out of it.” When they don’t immediately reply, Daniil glances over, knowing. “You have to admit, it was satisfying.”
Noukher doesn’t have to admit a thing, thank you very much. Not that he’d appreciated not having to go out there alone, not that, alright, yes, now that it’s behind them, it had been a little funny seeing the panic that ensued as Artemy carried out an unconscious Daniil, and certainly not that he’d been touched by finding all of those Wednesday folks coming down the stairs, already up in arms for—well, for Daniil and Asclepius’ sake, no doubt, but also, he thinks, maybe, a little bit for him and Artemy? Maybe?
No, Noukher doesn’t have to say a word of that. Artemy, though, a cork between his teeth as he measures out some Swevery extract next, huffs a laugh that makes Daniil’s smirk widen into a proper grin.
“Thought so,” Daniil says, insufferably smug.
Noukher’s ears flick. “Terrible. Both of you. Terrible, spiteful idiots.”
“We’ll give you spiteful,” Daniil says, and then Asclepius adds, “We’ll even allow terrible, but idiots? Noukher, you wound us.”
“That was the point.”
This was not meant to be a joke, but the three of them—three! Even Artemy—laugh, and so all Noukher can do is huff and try to stomp down his own amusement. They shouldn’t be encouraging them!
Asclepius, very much encouraged, says, “Anyway, there are always other theaters. Knowing our friends, they’ll be awash with recommendations, and with their honour on the line, you’d best believe they’ll do their damndest to ensure those theatres behave themselves.”
“What, are we going to have a roving band of hooligans, campaigning for our sake?” Noukher asks.
“If necessary,” Asclepius says, but Daniil shakes his head, “But it won’t be necessary. Productions can live or die based on certain opinions, and if suddenly a whole swathe of a theatre’s most faithful attendees find it no longer suitable for their tastes, that’ll hurt, I promise you. Even at cut-rate tickets. That should be sufficient.”
Noukher doesn’t know about that. Doubts it would work, even if the Wednesday folk could be convinced to boycott certain theatres for their sake, and he doubts that too. But the thought of it is a warming one, nonetheless, and with it comes a sort of fizzly-bubbly-lightness that’s taken residence in his chest. He can’t tell if it originates from him or from his other half or from both of them, trading the feeling back and forth through their Line. Either way, he enjoys it.
Artemy clinks the spoon against the edge of the cup he’s been mixing in, pours a small measure of it into a second cup and takes a sip himself. Considers it. Then turns and holds it out to Noukher. “Here, try this, tell me if it tastes right to you.”
Pleasantly surprised, Noukher rises to his hooves and crosses the short distance to his other half, sits obligingly before him and lets Artemy tip the remainder of the second cup into his mouth. It blooms bitter and earthy on his tongue, as anything made from twyre inevitably does, but the particular subtleties of this bitter earthiness, with its undertones of peppery heat, is painfully nostalgic. He feels that pang of homesickness strong between them.
“Tastes like being sixteen and stupid,” Noukher confirms.
“A ringing endorsement,” Daniil says from his place on the bed.
Right, time for the fourth and probably hardest step: convincing Daniil to take this. He’s not in a fresh-woken muddle anymore, the trick Artemy did with the Zurkh tincture won’t work. Artemy frowns over at him for a long moment, presumably trying to figure out an angle or an argument—Noukher can just hear how Daniil will insist he’s fine, no need for more dubious liquids. Honestly, he’s already surprised Daniil hasn’t taken them to task for that tincture.
In the end, all Artemy does is step closer to the bed, holding the cup out to Daniil, and say, “Drink this.”
Asclepius slithers off of his human and onto the bed, allowing Daniil to push himself up onto his elbows. He takes the cup, peers into it, and says, “What’s in it?”
Which is expected, of course he’d want to know what they’re giving him. What Noukher doesn’t expect is that he wouldn’t wait for an answer and just gulps the whole thing down, fast as he can, without pause. Only when he’s finished it does he make a face and say, “Ugh, whatever it is, it’s disgustingly bitter.”
He holds the now-empty cup back out to Artemy, who just stares at him for several long moments. That light warm bubbly feeling has fizzled all the way up to the back of Noukher’s neck by now, and all the way down to the tip of his tail.
“…Thought you wanted to know what was in it,” Artemy says.
“Well, yes.”
And yet, didn’t wait to drink it until after? He trusts them that much?
Daniil gestures with the cup again, reminding him, and Artemy takes it. Holds it between both his hands. Considers it as a moment, then says, “Black twyre, Ashen Swish, and Swevery. You won’t have heard of them. They’re unique to our Town.”
“Fascinating. Noukher’s mentioned them, I think. The twyre, at least.” And whether because the concoction is already doing its job or because of his excitement, Daniil speaks with more ease now, faster, as he says, “And was this particular combination meant to target the, ah, the blood layer? That was it, wasn’t it? The one that governs daemons? Or is it…Hm, which layer would you target for—”
The cup quickly forgotten by his pillow, Artemy curls his hand in the front of Daniil’s shirt, pulling him upwards even as Artemy braces his knee against the bed and leans down. Noukher doubts he thought about the action for even a second because the position is awkward, the way they meet in the middle graceless. But eager, still, and neither the strain of their necks nor the clack of their teeth together do anything to dissuade either of them from this kiss.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Daniil finally takes hold of Artemy’s chin, angles his face just the way he wants him, and Asclepius comes slithering down to the foot of the bed. He coils himself there politely, almost, no expectation, only a bright-eyed hope. As though Noukher hasn’t been doused in warmth as well, the quiet relief. A laugh froths up from him and Noukher gives into it, stepping closer.
“It’s a sweet idea, Noukher,” he quotes, and yes his impression of Asclepius is terrible. Who’s going to call him out on it? “Doesn’t often go that way, Noukher. What did I tell you?”
He dips his head, allowing Asclepius to climb back onto him if he likes, but Asclepius presses his snout to Noukher’s instead, a gesture that feels surprisingly intimate, considering the—considering. His scales feel especially smooth against Noukher’s sensitive nose.
“Yes, yes, we’ve established you’re the smart one,” Asclepius says. A beat, the cheeky flick of his forked tongue. “In this matter, at least.”
“What?” Artemy says, as he comes up for air.
When Noukher glances over, he has to laugh again at that flush high in his cheeks. Oh, Boddho, had Artemy actually not caught on after all? Not realised these have been dates? Surely not. Or else this was, what? Pure impulse?
“I’ll tell you later. Why are you paying attention to us, anyway?” Noukher says.
And following that cue, while Asclepius winds around Noukher, Daniil turns Artemy’s face back towards him. “Couldn’t have done this back when I took you out for ice cream? All I can taste is that monstrous concoction.”
“I, uh…”
The moment’s decisiveness seems to have left him. Artemy blinks, apparently tongue-tied, so Noukher decides to help out. Just this once!
“Guess you’ll just have to take us out for ice cream again,” Noukher says.
And Daniil’s answering smirk says that was just what he’d hoped to hear, but more from the man half on top of him. He waits, looking up at Artemy with his head tilted to the side. A little expectant, a little unsure. A lot patient. Until Artemy finally nods, says, “Yeah. There’s…uh, lots more flavours to try, after all. Right?”
“There we go,” Asclepius says in an undertone. Noukher shushes him, barely containing his own laughter.
Daniil’s smile is brilliant as he says, “As many as you like.”