Morte magis metuenda senectus.

taking the train was a routine you loathed greatly, as your legs protested at the mere idea of remaining seated in a cabin for hours, traversing the frozen wastelands back to civilization. it was a necessary evil, you thought. you had needed a getaway from the hustle and bustle of the metropolis, and your uncle was more than glad to host you in his estate. the elaborate mansion was tucked away in the country, far too close to the south-east where war raged. your uncle was never preoccupied by such events, on the contrary; he'd hosted many high ranking officers to boost morale and for the sake of their tales of the battlefield. needless to say, you'd been thoroughly entertained during the time you spent there, so much that the Capital's endless noise and glittering lights began to fade from your memory. as the scenery grew too monotonous, you got out of your cabin to walk, squeezing past the few passengers lingering in the corridor and making your way to a less stuffy compartment. a gust of icy wind almost sweeps you off your feet as you step outside between the compartments, and you barely have the time to hold onto your hat forsaking it to hold onto the railing.

having crossed to the other side, and before you can curse and lament your lost hat, you are met with the sight of a young officer holding it out to you; his expression betrayed nothing, schooled into a neutral set of his jaw. his uniform was crisp, not a single wrinkle on it. the stripes did not tell you much, but his armband did. the young man was clearly an army doctor, riding on this train possibly on his way back to the Capital from the southern front. you reach to take the hat from him, your words of gratitude coming to a halt as you await his introduction, and he does not make you wait.

"lieutenant daniil dmitrievich dankovsky, at your service," he nods once, one arm folded in front of him as he watches you freeze, as though recognizing him, "shall we?" he's impatient when he gestures for you to either return where you were, or continue on your little walk so he could pass to the next compartment as well. you hastily apologize, and let him pass but not without asking him whether he was the son of lieutenant colonel dmitry sergeyivich dankovsky, and the man stills before turning to face you in a singular motion.

"you are acquainted with father, then?" he walks like he expects you to fall in line with him, and you have no choice but to follow and explain that while you weren't acquainted with him personally, your uncle was friends with him and oftentimes had him over and spoke of him highly. daniil seems to piece things together the more you talk, and there is recognition in his gaze as he looks at you now, as well as an inkling of careful familiarity. he invites you to his cabin, since you were far from your own and he was willing to satisfy some of your curiosity.

lieutenant dankovsky's cabin was as regular as any, the only hint of his presence was the neat suitcase resting on the opposite bench where you sat across from him, and the papers next to him. letters, you thought. or reports; you did not care, it was the man you cared about. setting his service cap aside, he sat straight, regaling you with tales of the academy after you'd asked how he'd chosen military medicine. he only pauses to take out his flask, offering it to you first. when you decline, he nods and takes a swig before continuing.

"death is all that awaits us at the end of the day, do you not agree? and it is one's choice to either chase it or delay it," dankovsky looks at you as though he already knows that you agree, "i refused to chase death. i have instead dedicated my life to delaying it, but utter conquest is my true objective." there is a rare flame in his eyes when he speaks of this conquest, one that you hadn't seen in anyone in a long time. you find it admirable and you voice it, causing him to go silent for several minutes.

"thank you. i was never made to take a life," he says, his gaze forlorn, "which seems to be a strange thing to say these days. i am glad you do not think so, however." you could swear you saw fondness in his eyes, but it dissipates like a mirage as his usual expression returns.

lieutenant dankovsky is graceful enough to walk you back to your cabin and wish you a pleasant trip, although you are too reluctant to leave him. however, a little problem with the luggage upon disembarking lets you see him again, and you are as delighted as you were the first time.

"our paths cross at the most unfortunate of occurrences, it seems." he comments as he helps you find your other suitcase amidst the chaos of passengers looking for their own belongings. the uniform seems to disperse the crowd, and you are almost too giddy to wield him like a weapon.

"will this be all, then?" he carries it for you to where you were supposed to await your spouse, and before he could bid you farewell, he watches you kiss another in greeting and only now does the lieutenant notice the ring. the ring on your left wedding finger. the ring, and the kiss, and you, apologetic as you turn to him. dankovsky nods once, arm folded in front of him before bowing and leaving the both of you, not sparing a word. it wasn't his place to speak nor yours, but you could hardly focus on your spouse's words when all you thought about was that fire in the lieutenant's eyes, the one you secretly wished it would consume you.

the evening is full of noise and the usual atmosphere of a Capital dinner party hosted by your spouse, out of obligation. you had chosen not to indulge too much, opting out to read in a quiet corner and as you move across the main hall, the sight of a familiar uniform catches your eye and you freeze. lieutenant dankovsky, asking the butler to announce him and you dismiss the latter before he could.

you have to contain yourself before him, and you ask him what he came for in the most charming of tones. the lieutenant smiles, taking off his cap: "i followed you," he simply says, like it's the most normal statement ever uttered, "i had to see you. forgive me, i will leave. i just-" your spouse appears behind you, asking who this was and the lieutenant is sacrificial enough to lie for the both of you, say he came to return something you'd lost due to the luggage problem earlier and he leaves again, this time having made sure that the ring was real, and so was everything else. meanwhile you struggle to live with his words, wondering what you'd say if you saw him again. a sudden feeling of dread washes over you, but it's momentary as you snap out of it. you could sense finality looming ahead, but not without a fight and all you could do was silently brace yourself, retiring to your chambers early tonight.

daniil had a complicated relationship with spirits, much like everything else. he had a complicated relationship with eating, with sleeping, with romance, with the possibility of failure and with the concept of death which he sought to vanquish. but spirits were simultaneously the bane of his existence and a blessing he would consider thanking god for. the former was because daniil was, above all, a physician and a researcher whose job required lucidity at all times. spirits would only hinder his thinking, further erode his fraying nerves. but when thanatica's lights dimmed, and the chatter died down as all but the chief retired to their homes, he could finally quieten the thought of indulging in his most despicable vice. the bottle of vodka is always well hidden in the last drawer of his desk; untouched, still full and clear as ice. the first few shots are measured, he knows exactly how many ounces he's taking and the percentage of alcohol present in the clear liquid that goes down his throat like fire. for a man like him, vodka is a blessing; odorless, colorless, tasteless, and could serve as a disinfectant. it is a practical liquor for a man with countless anxieties and who is constantly plagued by a headache. when daniil drinks out of his own accord, it's always vodka. the good kind. when he drinks elsewhere, he pretends to like the sparkle of champagne, or the notes of the wine his host yammers on about. all of it is noise to him. as extensive as his palette can be, he finds comfort in what tastes like nothing but gets the job done.

by the fourth shot, daniil contemplates putting the bottle away. his notebook is open in front of him, and the sketches seem alive. his alcohol tolerance was "good enough", but he was never one for overindulgence. one more, he thinks, one more and then it's done. and then it's his third one more, and the floor seems like it's made of feathers and silk. the music doesn't make his head hurt, and the woman singing about "no such words" brings him to tears that refuse to fall, just as stubborn as he is. the floor beckons him and who is he to deny? his knees hit the floorboards until he's lying on his back, staring at the warm shadows cast upon his ceiling by the oil lamp on his desk.

daniil was a dashing man, it was an undisputed fact. even those who hated him could not deny his charm, and not even drunkenness, which often turned the most eloquent of speakers into fools, could strip him of his grace. if anything, daniil had far less control over his words and emotions, and poetry flowed out of him incessantly when provoked. or rather, when you were around. once, you were with him at the lab as he drank after a particularly disastrous meeting with a potential patron. you watched the frustration drain out of his eyes as it was replaced by an unprecedented fire; born not of mania, but of utter passion. his passion for research, for conquering death, and you. he was a dancer, a poet, an unstoppable force as he raved on about finding funding elsewhere, claiming victory over death and marrying you. he'd take you to france, trace the path of la seine on your spine and you shiver from mere words. he looked like dionysus himself, as he did not allow you a minute of rest between drunken daydreams and you had to summon all of your strength to restrain yourself from having him against that desk of his. he was drunk, and you weren't senseless. then, you had to deal with this vision of a man, a soft pink dusting his cheeks, his lips stained with liquor as he quoted ryleyev at you, eyes glazed and holding you in his gaze as though you had hung the moon in the sky. you remember laughing excessively, and digging your nails into your arms as you crossed them, silently praying to whatever power out there to grant you strength.

however, tonight he was alone and silent. his only companion was the sweet voice of a woman singing of a planet of love and stars that never go out, coming from the gramophone that would otherwise be collecting dust. the wooden floor feels like water, and he lets himself float. he wades into the thought of you as easy as breathing, because that's exactly how it was, once upon a time. like breathing, and he recalls it now because it's oh so predictable of the alcohol to do this. and what was he to do but let it? let it remind him of the way your hand carded through his hair or tied his cravat. your gentle smile that greeted him every morning, your endless wit that made him fall in love with you over and over again when you'd wield it against him, and your mercy. oh, how you'd forgive him every time. daniil was never brave, and he knows. his father had known from the very beginning, he thinks. had he been half the man you thought him to be, he wouldn't have driven you out of the capital and he wouldn't be drowning in the thought of you. daniil lets the floor swallow him, or so it seems, until his headache wakes him up before the sun can. for now, it was another day where he could pretend all of this was going somewhere.

this young physician with a reputation that hangs in the balance, making such claims in front of fellow doctors and socialites alike, unafraid. his gaze is defiant, voice steady as he speaks and you are utterly enraptured by him. you find him alone after dinner, sitting by one of the windows in contemplation and he stands up out of courtesy when you approach, but you can clearly tell that he is tired of the pleasantries. he'd been ridiculed enough for one night, yet he remains graceful (in spite of the faint cracks you notice on his carefully constructed surface). you are sympathetic, but not out of pity. you express your wish to know more about his academic endeavors with reserved interest as to not scare him, and he is almost manic when you ask him to elaborate, as you mingle away from the crowd that looked uneasy around the both of you. dankovsky regales you with tales of his experiments; multiple subjects, multiple samples, he shows you his hasty scribbles on his notebook, explaining the formula for cell preservation and how it could be his breakthrough and you are almost as crazed as he is. it'd been years since the season had borne such fruit, so much that he sounds like a prophet to you. you do not let any of this show as you walk with him around the estate, laying out your proposal to him and the man stands still. he suddenly looks very young, even younger than he is. he fumbles your title when he attempts to speak, eventually closing his mouth and you reassure him that there is no need for such formality, not when he was struggling to process at least.

"you are either completely insane or the only socialite worth their salt," daniil finally says, straightening himself as he glances around, "do you not care for your reputation? what could you possibly gain from funding a pariah?" he whispers this last part, the distance between you far too little to be deemed socially appropriate and you calmly tell him not to exaggerate. he is far from a pariah, as most people dismiss him as a madman or as an inexperienced doctor. you say that he could benefit from your funding, and that you wouldn't expect anything but his craft from him and he is even more unconvinced. who on earth were you? what did you want from him? the bachelor steps away from you as if the mere closeness of you burned, and he faces a dark window with his hands behind his back.

"a faustian bargain," he mutters, taking a deep breath in, "caveat emptor." daniil says nothing else, and you break the silence by telling him that you do not require an answer now, nor do you require an answer at all. you say that he is free to ponder your offer and answer you whenever he wishes to and he stops you as he turns in a singular movement.

you make him sick. mad, completely beyond reason. this was the fifth quarrel of the day, and you were very much gone. not forever, of course. he hoped. but gone nonetheless, and he was barely keeping it together.

the first hour, he is pacing the lab. he mutters to himself about theories he'd thought up and somehow it all leads to you; your mouth, your hands, your eyes, the way you take breath, your heartbeat, every blemish on your skin. he could name every bone in your body, you loved when he did that. you'd say his name so breathlessly, like it could be the last thing you say and you're happy with that. the way you say his name, the way he'd make you say his name, your voice, your voice, your voice. even when you're cross with him, daniil would not admit to you the way his blood burns when your voice raises. the way his breath shudders when it's not "danya", nor "daniil" but "daniil dmitrievich". his breath catches at the memory, and his fingers dig into his own wrist. curse you, curse you and your beautiful mouth. he paces like he wants to break through the floorboards, a cold sweat forming on his brow that he convinces himself is normal. it's normal, so are the tremors. all is normal. he is normal.

the second hour, he returns to work and has to brace himself against your handwriting on your joint notes, and the casual intimacy of seeing his name produced by your pen, in your hand. daniil feels like he is spiraling, and he says it out loud to acknowledge it. the papers are tempting. what an absurd thing to think. he is not tempted by your notes. he would like not to be anyway, as all he wants to do is press close to where your hand was on the paper and breathe you in. it's an itch, a very real one that makes him shed his waist coat and walk to the window as he loosens the cravat around his neck. the cold air does nothing, neither does the view. he thinks he has two choices here; jump out of the window, or chase whatever is left of you in your notes. he almost stumbles on himself as he prostrates before you, sweet you in the form of cursive and he feels like he can finally breathe. the smell of ink and parchment, but you are there. unmistakably.

the third hour, daniil is still. you had left a scarf behind that he found and set over his pillow. the smell of your hair is so within reach, yet so far away. he gets up in one motion, driven by nothing but instinct. mad beyond reason, he looks for you again amidst his belongings, for the twentieth time that evening hoping to find something to hold him back from finding you.

the fourth hour, daniil is still. the desperation wears off, and he sits eerily still as he works. to anyone he looks composed, but had you been here you would've immediately pulled him out of whatever he was doing until he regained lucidity. he tends to go quiet like this when dealing with a great blow. you would've known. you always know. what will he do?

the fifth hour, daniil reminisces over the way you met. he remembers asking every living being who'd encountered you on that day about you. the receptionist at the hotel you were staying at, the bellboys, the barkeeper, the random noble lady you briefly chatted with in the lobby, anyone. every trace of you, he followed until you were his. but he would never say it. every time you'd asked him what drew him to you, his answer was the same "you were the only person with sense in that godforsaken congress, my dearest. i tire of old hermits and their ceaseless babble during such events." you had listened to his ceaseless babble with great interest however, as you were open to the unorthodox when it came to medicine. daniil was enraptured with you at first glance, the way you were just as unafraid to express yourself as he was, just as eccentric. he lies down on his bed, the thought of you like a boulder on his chest, making him sink further and further down into the mattress until it seems like he's in the netherworld. daniil thinks he is, to a certain degree. how unbearable.

the way he does it is so smooth, yet straightforward: at dinner he follows his usual script, a comment about the meal, then your radiance as he calls it, and says that such luster requires proper care and maintenance, which he's "afraid you've been neglecting lately," and he doesn't give you the chance to overthink his words when he says, "life has drained you, my dear. a little recuperation is in order, do you not think so?" and while yes, you agree with the fact you'd been so exhausted lately that just being here with him was a miracle, you can't help but think it's ironic that it's him of all people saying that. is it so bad that the resident weary man is now asking you to take a break? and so, you drag him along too.

it takes a little convincing to pull the bachelor out of his relentless routine of conferences, lectures, lab visits... etc. when you first suggest a spa day, he tries to be nice about saying no. he'd much prefer just having you take a day off to relax, he was far too busy, and besides: "bathing shouldn't require more than an hour. two, if one is feeling indulgent. why would i bathe for a day?" you explain the concept then, and how much it'd please you to have him with you, your hands taking away his tension, his hands taking away yours... the whole song and dance, and he agrees. for you, or your hands? you were unsure. however, it mattered very little what he agreed for, since you now have him behind you in your bathtub, skin flush with warmth and dewy as the heat fogs up the ceramic tiles, the mirror and the glass of your window. it's so apparent that daniil is not used to taking his time bathing, but not in a bad way, of course. he was simply efficient, quick to get to his job but still hygienic. he's done in twenty minutes, sitting there watching you as you comb your hair carefully with the suds falling down to your shoulders, and he sees that as fragrant and relaxing this warm bath is, it merely lessens the tension in your shoulders, not eradicate it. and so, he reaches out with gentle hands and: "darling, let me."

his desk in its entirety was a marvel of discarded medical files, reports, letters, borrowed books and other unidentifiable documents you never dared to go through.

his notebook however, you'd only see when he was in.

when the chief was gone, so was his notebook with him. he never left it open, or even left it to begin with. the times he scribbled on it, he would have that focused expression on his face; brows etched in concentration, not a single breath out of pace, completely devoted to his work. from where you were standing, it didn't look like note taking. this was a sketch or something similar, you'd known of his skill when he never bothered buying anatomical diagrams for the lab, and just drew them on the board himself, saying he "enjoyed it" and that drawing was "very therapeutic".

and thus, it was quite strange to find chief dankovsky's notebook sitting on his desk, without him anywhere.

perhaps he'd left in a hurry and forgot it, that was the most plausible excuse. after all, the chief was a busy man who had multiple commitments to get to. but would a man with such a dedication to detail forget such an important personal item? would chief dankovsky, who slammed his notebook shut every time you'd walk by him, forget it now knowing you were in? this could be a mistake, just like it could be a deliberate trap. you had to tread carefully for the sake of your job, and integrity as a researcher.

but it hadn't even been a few minutes since you gave this whole fiasco some thought and your curiosity was already killing you. your hands itched to take it, flip through the pages, drink him in. or, his insight. that was what you were going to find, anyway. or so you thought.

the leather bound notebook had notes, diagrams, calculations, yes. naturally. the chief was the lead researcher of this institution, no wonder he'd always been thinking on the go, or refining already discussed concepts. the unexpected, however, was you. here, in his notebook. tucked between an autopsy report, and a draft of a research proposal. that is you; beyond a shadow of a doubt, the same look you get when you're frustrated at the result of an experiment, the same look you give him when he explains something from a different perspective.

it started innocent enough; scenes of you in the lab, he had captured your exhaustion masterfully. this one's colored, orange oil pastels illuminating your features, picturing you before a lamp, head in your hands as you study a book. the page is worn-out, he'd clearly taken his time with this one. then, your breath freezes.

he has been, for as long as you can remember. self-righteous, arrogant, and sharp-tongued; how could you ever forget the times he'd berate even your university professors?

your paths diverged in your respective careers, with you becoming disillusioned with academia and opting out for something far more stable and rigid, something that didn't require you begging for funding from rich airheads who couldn't understand the necessity of your research. now, the government made no exceptions, but given your numerous contributions and promising potential, as well as a few good words put in here and there, it was inevitable you would find yourself as an inquisitor for the state. the work was just as rigid as you had expected it to be; psychologically taxing, but not for you. you enjoyed the fear and power that came with the job. it made you feel respected, and that is all you had ever wanted.

as news of a plague spreading in Gorkhon reached the capital, you hoped you wouldn't be the one sent on a possible one way trip to that wretched town. but as fate would have it, you were sent nowhere other than Thanatica, your former classmate's illustrious lab. the bachelor welcomed you, leading you to his office as he spoke of his accomplishments since you two parted ways, but you had known of it all. you had read his file prior to this, with great interest. perhaps it was due to how long it had been since you saw him, perhaps it was because you were genuinely impressed by his feats; it mattered not why, but how you two would meet after such a long time.

you take a few minutes to humor the good mood in the room before you question him, and a few more moments to assess him standing before you; a few white strands amidst the evernight of his black hair, styled in a usual side part. the usual darkness under his eyes. prominent smile lines that you doubt came from smiling, and the only hint of color in the stillness of his character, his red silk cravat. dankovsky had never changed, it made you smile out of nostalgia. and of course, you made sure he didn't see it, as you stood facing the window overlooking the capital, conjuring up a memory of his near-expulsion due to his unrestrained mouth.

you loom like a shadow over him when you question him; it does not pain you to do so. after all, you have always enjoyed this part, confining them to the rigidity of scientific language, demanding more precision, more jargon, more of what they thought you wouldn't understand. but dankovsky knew you did, and you did better than him, which he knew as well. so he indulged you, and you let him move along the room, pulling out samples, notes, diagrams, and whatever he had to show you to prove what you were told he couldn't. yet, as impressed as you were, that was not your job; to sing his praises. your job was to diminish him, render his findings null, regard his theories as mere heresy, and sow self doubt. in his case, it'd already been there. all you had to do was nurture it.

and so you do. everything he tells you is nothing, your gaze is critical but vaguely so. it was just enough to make him go silent for several minutes, which you so kindly interrupt with a "Venerable bachelor", as you go on about how ambitious his research was, bordering on "straight fantasy". you call it "so theatrical it becomes boring", "an elaborate joke founded on superstition" and "icarian in its ambition". and you top it off with pity, as you stand before him with feigned sympathy in your gaze: "Had I known you would become this... disgrace of a researcher, I would have persuaded you to join me. I could have..." you don't finish your sentence before a gloved hand reaches up your thigh, and you can hear the leather of the glove creak as he clutches onto you: "State inquisitor, please..." he whispers in a soft voice, unbecoming of the previous sharp tone he took in attempt to defend his research. he hides from your gaze, head bowed down as he prays you cannot see the tent in his trousers born from your harsh criticism alone. but you do, and it's no new sight. what is new however, is him being into this. you certainly did not expect it, but it's not unwelcome. on the contrary, you are thrilled as you watch him shift against the chair, his breath hitching with every move. your hand cards through his hair in a swift motion, yanking on it to make him look up and he so willingly does so; the exhaustion in his gaze is stubborn, but you can also see desire though shrouded in shame, and an inkling of trust. how endearing, you thought. he almost likes you. fair enough, you could be merciful for your first, and his last time.

you push him to his knees and he goes, again, so willingly. from this angle, you look like a single drop of ink. your face almost disappears in your black robes as your leg stands between his own; salvation, or eternal damnation? he cannot tell, nor does he want to make the difference. it matters very little to him, not as much as the way it feels at least. from the way he ruts against you, you can tell it'd been quite a long time since he got off and you don't let up on it. with every harsh word, you earn a pathetic sigh as he grinds against you in fast, stuttering thrusts. his hands clutch onto you, his face buried in the dark fabric of your cape. all that remained of him was a sliver of skin; the nape of his neck, reddening with warmth as he got closer and closer. before he could get off, you kick him off of you with a curse, shooting him an icy glare, and he gets off anyway. so predictable.

and you were none the wiser, but who could fault you? the moment he had arrived to this town, he had become the harbinger of death to some, and the antidote to all ailments to others. you were suspended between two factions, leaning a bit towards the latter due to personal preference; you found him to be quite charming. and you knew that he could tell, he just could. after all, his hand had reached deep enough to graze your heart. how could he not tell?

oddly enough, his usual look of utter and complete indifference had always put you at ease. you, on the other hand, usually avoided his gaze out of politeness. it was rude to stare your doctor in the eye for no reason during your examination, but you'd cast him a glance or two; noting focus, exhaustion, frustration and other emotions you could never hear him speak about. you wished you could, because you liked his voice, yes but also because he'd always done what he could for the people of this town in spite of losing it all. you wanted to reward that, or at least offer to shoulder some of the burden but you could never speak the words, for he was far too quick to dismiss you after your examination. even as you linger, in an attempt to make conversation, he's mutter about "tending to cases" and you were immediately too embarrassed to keep forcing yourself onto him.

you'd heard of the man, of course. who hasn't? every building in the capital has been branded with his name. lately, it seemed that all those around you had become enamoured with him; dankovsky, dankovsky, dankovsky is all you hear all day, every day from people who speak about him as one would about a forbidden lover, with a timid look in their eye and a tone reserved for times of flickering candlelight and close contact. it raised questions in you, but you never once dared to ask them. perhaps it wasn't what you thought of. perhaps the man was just quite good at his job, earning himself a saintlike air about him whenever he came up; revered, yet so intimately loved by many.

fate would put you in the same hands you'd only heard about at tea parties, funerals, events. the famed endowed hands of dr. dankovsky that start assessing you after you'd heeded his professional advice and taken your relaxant. you could say you were a bit nervous and you needed it, so he was not technically drugging you. besides, how could a doctor even drug someone? the mere notion is ridiculous, you're sure they study dosage extensively in school, and his hands are moving beyond the constraints of medical assessment as his voice remains close to you, tethering you to reality but you, for some reason, keep thinking about him potentially drugging you and how that ignites an intense warmth in you that you keep trying to ignore. it should be alarming how you seem so careless about what is essentially a major fear to you when sober. it should be even more alarming how attuned he is to how your body works, and doesn't even break a sweat as his hand finds you in an attempt to quell your ailment, ever the doctor.

the only thing that betrays his professionalism is the reddening on the tips of his ears, and the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead as he watches you succumb to his hands with the same unimpressed expression. it's routine to him at this point, most patients who come in usually just need one of these and he so willingly delivers. a healer is a healer, even if the predicament is carnal.

you on the other hand, you'd never felt so thoroughly dissected without the burden of emotional vulnerability. you keep chanting his name as he takes you apart like a rifle, and puts you back together again. whatever he gave you at first makes it all amplified, and you swear God had a face like his, a voice like his telling you to breathe, to let go. and you do, and he has to hold you down so you don't shake out of the chair. once you're coherent enough to speak, you don't bother. you cannot trust your voice, so he speaks for you when he explains the concept of repression and all you can focus on is the fact he was hard and unwilling to do anything about it. impressive. insane. commendable.

you had noticed it when it was as innocent and charming as him chasing your pulse points all over your body; his lips on your wrist in a soft peck, open-mouthed kisses on your neck as though he was trying to swallow your heartbeat, and the way he seemed to be completely in his element right over your heart, latching onto the left side of your chest. perhaps a great fondness and admiration for vital signs was the trait of every thanatologist, you mused. it was no wonder he'd be enraptured with your life when he was surrounded by death everywhere.

but now, as he lay buried between your thighs, you barely have half a wit to wonder if it really was life that captured him or just you. daniil is a precise man with words sharper than his scalpel; oftentimes too straightforward for his own good. however, the feverish pleas you hear coupled with his muffled whines speak of an uncharacteristic desperation. his hands hold you firmly, yet are never unkind: he holds you as though you were salvation itself. his mouth is ruthless in contrast, messy and appreciative. not a single drop of you escapes him, not a single inch of you is spared; whatever he cannot fit in his mouth goes on his chin, or cheek, or even the red silk cravat you tug on just to taunt him. he fixes you with this tortured look in his eyes, and you cannot even tell what on earth he could be begging for if you're laying there spread for none other than him. what more could he possibly want? you are wide open and all his.

hindsight is always 20/20 when you, about 5 orgasms later, realize that he was begging to absolutely numb you. and that is exactly what he does, leaving you slack and barely even able to open your eyes anymore. you have a feeling that you'd find him watching you if you were to open your eyes, with that stupid self-assured look. and you're right as always.

once he'd had enough of you, and that is usually when you're wrestling him off of you, he wipes his mouth with his fingertips to collect whatever aftertaste remained in spite of his dedication to devour you clean off. he looks pleased with himself every time, spending hours savouring you on his tongue, reminiscing over the stutter in your breath when his teeth grazed your skin, or the way you pulled his hair, thinking about more ways to melt you, becoming greedier... he sets a new standard for himself every time. today it stops at five, next time it'll be six or seven. he won't take any less, he is a scientist after all.

of course, he'll always say that the fast paced life of an academic such as himself is exactly what he bargained for. time doesn't stand still because he doesn't want it to. he wouldn't know what to do with himself if the time just never passed. or if it did and he was stagnant for most of it; unmotivated, slacking, lazy. if anything, daniil dankovsky thinks there's simply not enough time, not enough life to contain his ambitions. that is precisely why he seeks to conquer death; humanity simply doesn't have enough life.

time only stands still once, and he suddenly understands notions like nostalgia, the human desire to live in the moment, and greed, but it's the desperate kind. the kind that is tender rather than devastating.

it was a particularly ordinary day for the bachelor going through the motions; the usual aches of research that the whole world deems as fruitless, lunch that went stale due to his attention being solely on the cultures he'd been studying for the entirety of the day, a thinly veiled threat to withdraw funding from Thanatica in a letter he grew too frustrated to read, and dinner with none other than you. he'd promised, and he showed up.

he lets you do most of the talking, but not to an extreme; he makes passing comments about the meal, about the waiter's bad etiquette, compliments your elegance that he "cannot help but be enraptured with"... his company is enjoyable, but not personal. but you give it time, you always do.

because once you get home, you notice the tension in his shoulders that hid beneath the layers of linen and silk alike as he undresses. the way he unbuttons his waistcoat is slightly uncoordinated, his eyebrows are knit together, and the clatter of his pin as he clumsily drops it tells you enough. all this while he's eerily silent, and both of you know that this, in itself, is talk. and he knows that there's no use keeping anything to himself, but he'll be damned if he hears himself say it.

you sit on the bed, and he almost looks offended that you didn't wait for him before he registers the beckoning look in your eyes, the call for him to make it all go away and he's immediately there, warm and so unbearably tense still, and you waste no time in wrapping your arms around him. daniil goes for your neck, face buried in the point that connects it with your shoulder and you count one, two, three in your head, before he completely deflates. your hand runs over his back in back and forth motions, as the other rests on the nape of his neck. that is enough to earn you a weary but content sigh into your neck, and your lips twitch in a small smile. his hands rest at your waist, just shy of your hips and you hold him like this until you feel his strength return gradually.

only then, does he look at you. he doesn't bother hiding the vulnerability in his eyes, but he is comfortable and content. he's still silent, but the need for words isn't something that you have. he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then his hand finds yours and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles then finally, your wrist. daniil seemed to chase your heartbeat wherever it was, kissing each pulse point that he could, every time. he puts his head on your chest, just above your heart, his hand still holding yours and time stands still, for once.

it's almost contradictory to the widespread myth that doctors write in runes, which he'll reject before giving explanations as to why that is sometimes the case.

but yes, the way he writes is in itself a pleasure to witness. precise yet elegant strokes on greeting cards, letters, prescriptions... even strongly-worded messages to those who love to oppose him seem like a love letter at first glance.

however, that is where his penmanship fails; love letters.

somehow, every language fails him when it comes to expressing what should come naturally to him as a human being; his hands fail him, his pens fail him, the paper fails him... all of which he considers a betrayal and an utter humiliation of his character. how can a mere love letter conquer him as such?

he presses the tip of his fountain pen to the paper a bit too hard on the word "Дорогой/я", leaving a large puddle of ink behind that almost seeps into the leather-bound blotting pad. he's too formal in his writing— when he manages to write anything, that is. most of the time he ends up discarding the letter, brows furrowed in frustration and ears scarlet.

then he gets up and paces, overthinking the stylistics of love letters, the methodology of expressing one's feelings. how much love is appropriate in a letter? how many lines should he dedicate to his lover? is "dear" too casual? it's just not precise enough for his liking, the whimsical nature of human emotion. this is a laboratory, for God's sake, he needs exact measurements! he's become too used to them.

after going through the agony of writing, signing and sending the letter, it reads like a classic of his. the usual structure is there and so is the flowery language. but upon further inspection, it's easy to notice the moments he had to pause and pull himself together. it's in the way the writing goes from raw, vulnerable confessions to self-chastisement: “[...] and i find myself ruminating over the shape of your mouth at the most inappropriate of times. while my benefactors await the news of a breakthrough, i am longing for a time you were all i could sense, everywhere. my dearest; this is, of course, no fault of your own. i ought to restrain this craving for you until i can deem myself a man of wit once more.”

and there's news of him and his research that read like a report, but with a pet name that he knows will catch the eye. despite his struggle to write a love letter, he does not lose his intelligence while doing so. he mostly loses his patience, and perhaps some of his pride. he wouldn't admit it, but he is gladly giving up his pride for this. there's only so much a lab can offer him, and none of it is warmth.