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Bad Grief has hot hands. They seem scalding; Daniil wriggles under them, struggling to catch his breath. He thought he was used to it, to Grief and the way he was taking his body and mind apart. But every time Daniil is in his bed, his senses are heightened, and every touch feels like a flame igniting his nerves.
His cloak is lying on the floor, in a disorderly heap with the rest of their clothes.
Daniil remembers how it started. At the beginning of the Sand Plague, he was lost in the Warehouses and tried to hide in a house. He thought no one lived there until a familiar sly face appeared from behind one of the doors. That was weeks ago, but it seems like another, past life to Daniil.
Grief's mouth is always biting with words. His lips touch Daniil's neck. Daniil's body stiffens as he feels Grief's breath against his skin; a shiver runs up his spine. His mind is a haze, torn between the sensation of being on the brink and the desire for more. Sitting on Grief's lap is ecstasy; his head is spinning from the touch. He can barely think straight.
Grief grins and pulls at his hair, forcing Daniil to arch his head back. He bites his neck and Daniil gasps. The space between them feels too wide. Daniil moans and moves closer. Grief knows how to make him lose all thoughts, but today Daniil's mind is filled with memories he can't shake. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Daniil never liked the Cathedral. But things only got worse: first, Eva Yan died; then Aglaya Lilich moved into it. It became even more unbearable when Grief moved there. Then Daniil couldn't even bring himself to look at the building.
He had always considered himself skilled at concealing his emotions. But then Stakh warned him about choosing his friends and lovers more carefully. Artemy followed, bearing news and reports on Grief's treatment. Grief was ill again and again. During that time, Daniil lost all hope—
“I can see you're thinking,” Grief's voice is raspy next to his ear. He pushes Daniil onto his back, pinning him against the sheets, trapping him beneath his weight. “So, I need to try a bit harder tonight to distract you, don't I?”
Daniil can't find his voice to respond, his legs tighten around Grief's back as he bites his lip to stay quiet. It's a useless reflex, especially at this moment, but he's lost in his sensations. He clings to Grief's shoulders, drowning in the intensity of the touch. The anticipation sends shivers through his body.
Grief used to smell of gunpowder. Then he had the scent of the Cathedral. Now all that remains is his own unique scent.
It is hard for Daniil to remember when things got so intense between them. But he remembers that he never has nightmares when he spends the night with Grief.
Grief feels so good inside him that Daniil's mind finally goes blank. He can no longer control himself, his moans now loud. His fingers dig into Grief's shoulders as Daniil hears his ragged, uneven breathing and surrenders completely to the sensations crashing over him.
Grief always says a lot, but not when he's in bed. Daniil has learned to read him differently, by his actions. By his touches, always hungry and burning. By his gaze, switching from anger to surprise to greediness when he sees Daniil, and then back to desire. By his shoulders, forever tense, which relax when he sees Daniil. By the way he peels off Daniil's clothes, as if they offend Daniil's body. By the way he holds him. By his kisses that are far too varied to be fake.
Daniil loses himself in it all, what he might call thirst, hunger, and adoration if they actually talked when they were together.
As their pace quickens, Daniil buries his face against Grief's neck, pressing himself closer and shutting his eyes tight. His body trembles with pleasure, falling over the edge.
When Daniil comes to his senses, he blinks repeatedly. Grief, with dishevelled hair and flushed skin, lies beside him. His freckles, generously scattered over his body, are clearly visible in the dim evening light.
They are lying on Grief's bed in his small apartment on the edge of the Warehouses. Grief used to stay here rarely, just for the night. But after the Sand Plague and the dissolution of his gang, this place is now more alive. Daniil notices all these small changes but says nothing. He understands firsthand what it's like to lose everything, and he knows it's better not to ask about it. He looks at Grief, studying him intently while he has the chance.
Grief slowly opens his eyes, catches Daniil's gaze and smirks.
“I hear you're no longer in a hurry to catch your train,” he says quietly. His voice is rough, but full of satisfaction.
Daniil has decided to stay in this town. Just today he accepted Artemy's offer to stay on as a doctor, but he knows that gossip spreads fast here. Word has probably already reached Grief, most likely through Notkin or one of the Soul-and-a-Halves who still live in the Warehouses.
“The trains aren't running yet,” Daniil says, not wanting to confirm the rumours right now.
Grief's smile grows wider. “But you're not waiting for a train now, are you?”
Daniil looks at him curiously, meeting his direct, studying gaze. “What are you going to do next?” he asks.
“Go back to my old job as a clocksmith.” Grief shrugs. “I was good at it before.”
It sounds simple. But Daniil knows there's more to it than that.
“I'm staying here,” he says finally, still studying Grief's face, which now bears a smile. “There's no reason for me to go back.”
“But you have a reason to stay, yes?”
Daniil thinks he has more than one reason, many more. But he doesn't want to discuss it.
He reaches up to kiss Grief, thinking that maybe this decision is the stupidest thing he's ever done.
But he's willing to try.
Bad Grief kisses him back.