artemiy has spent the past half hour tossing and turning on the little cot in his lair with heat pooling in the pit of his stomach and swimming around in his chest with his pounding heart. exhaustion is no match for this obsession, or this desire, or whatever this is. glassy lips, warm brown eyes, three perfect moles against weathered porcelain skin. artemiy draws his knees into a bend and wraps his arms around a pillow. he tries not to think too hard about how it feels to hold it against his chest, how the scruff of his chin itches against the edge of it. a sigh parts chapped lips.
of course, he’s a full-grown man. it’s not like he doesn’t know what this is. he certainly wasn’t sheltered as a child, he always knew, but…
but it’s not really that simple, is it? of course he’s always known what this feeling was, but it was always from the outside, it was always a hypothetical, it was always mild envy for the people who could feel it so openly, for the people who knew they could feel it at all. he was fourteen when he first realized that, if it were to happen to him at all, it could never be with a woman. he never dared to tell anybody.
dankovsky’s coy smile greets him when he closes his eyes. he wonders if his hands are soft beneath those gloves of his. he wonders what his lips would feel like, if they were to graze against his. he wonders if he has more beauty marks under his shirt.
shame had always been enough of a barrier that he never even felt the need to hide anything—there was nothing to hide. every passing thought of a boy was enough to make him back off, every rush of blood beneath the sheets at night was matched with its requisite guilt. as time went on, he learned to blame his absent interest on his responsibilities; he had no room for those kinds of distractions while studying to become a menkhu, or trying to get his degree, or tending to the sick and wounded in the war. a whole decade passed, and he was uncertain if he was even capable of love.
but then, there he was. artemiy buries more of his face into the pillow. there he was, all smarts and ego and altruism, jet black hair and airy baritone, and suddenly that taunting pull beneath the sheets was back. suddenly, artemiy was acutely aware of exactly how capable he was. a groan is muffled by old, beaten feathers. it’s humiliating to be so thoroughly undone like some stupid teenager while he’s well into his twenties. his heart feels like it’s about to float right out of his chest, like the only thing holding it inside his ribs is this stupid pillow he’s hugging the way lara used to when she’d lament a wilted flame at their sleepovers, the ones that were just between the two of them. his cheeks burn red. his legs shift, and he rolls onto his side.
the embarrassment of being too old for this kind of pitiful pining isn’t enough to stop his thighs from rubbing idly against each other. it’s an old habit—he thinks with his hands. the thought of debasing himself with one of them has always been a line he’s been too scared to cross, lest it make it all feel too real. usually, this restless squirming has been enough to get him through the worst of any urges until they died down enough to ignore.
it has not once been enough since dankovsky came into the equation. when his heart drags him under into the endless sea of thoughts to think about that man from the capital, he’s totally helpless against the butterflies in his core, the same ones he always thought were some metaphorical exaggeration borne from lovestruck poets. he closes his eyes against the downy fabric. some of the warmth in his chest bleeds into his cheeks. he can feel it.
but how is he supposed to help it? how else can he feel when daniil treats him the way he does? how is he supposed to feel when daniil sits so close their thighs touch, when he brushes his gloved hand over artemiy’s, when he rests a hand briefly on the small of his back, when he makes it so clear how much he appreciates him every time they speak, when he plays coy with double-entendre, when he says that he likes being with him and means it? how is he supposed to not fall in love with that?
guilt has been enough to stave off the worst of the temptation up until now, but what other conclusion is he supposed to reach? he crosses his ankles and flexes his feet. the buzzing in his fingertips is spreading to his belly, sinking lower beneath his beltless waistband. artemiy lets out a short huff into the pillow. what would daniil think if he knew?
FILL 2: implied burakovsky, internalized homophobia, and first love (1/2)
he doesn’t understand what dankovsky does to him.
artemiy has spent the past half hour tossing and turning on the little cot in his lair with heat pooling in the pit of his stomach and swimming around in his chest with his pounding heart. exhaustion is no match for this obsession, or this desire, or whatever this is. glassy lips, warm brown eyes, three perfect moles against weathered porcelain skin. artemiy draws his knees into a bend and wraps his arms around a pillow. he tries not to think too hard about how it feels to hold it against his chest, how the scruff of his chin itches against the edge of it. a sigh parts chapped lips.
of course, he’s a full-grown man. it’s not like he doesn’t know what this is. he certainly wasn’t sheltered as a child, he always knew, but…
but it’s not really that simple, is it? of course he’s always known what this feeling was, but it was always from the outside, it was always a hypothetical, it was always mild envy for the people who could feel it so openly, for the people who knew they could feel it at all. he was fourteen when he first realized that, if it were to happen to him at all, it could never be with a woman. he never dared to tell anybody.
dankovsky’s coy smile greets him when he closes his eyes. he wonders if his hands are soft beneath those gloves of his. he wonders what his lips would feel like, if they were to graze against his. he wonders if he has more beauty marks under his shirt.
shame had always been enough of a barrier that he never even felt the need to hide anything—there was nothing to hide. every passing thought of a boy was enough to make him back off, every rush of blood beneath the sheets at night was matched with its requisite guilt. as time went on, he learned to blame his absent interest on his responsibilities; he had no room for those kinds of distractions while studying to become a menkhu, or trying to get his degree, or tending to the sick and wounded in the war. a whole decade passed, and he was uncertain if he was even capable of love.
but then, there he was. artemiy buries more of his face into the pillow. there he was, all smarts and ego and altruism, jet black hair and airy baritone, and suddenly that taunting pull beneath the sheets was back. suddenly, artemiy was acutely aware of exactly how capable he was. a groan is muffled by old, beaten feathers. it’s humiliating to be so thoroughly undone like some stupid teenager while he’s well into his twenties. his heart feels like it’s about to float right out of his chest, like the only thing holding it inside his ribs is this stupid pillow he’s hugging the way lara used to when she’d lament a wilted flame at their sleepovers, the ones that were just between the two of them. his cheeks burn red. his legs shift, and he rolls onto his side.
the embarrassment of being too old for this kind of pitiful pining isn’t enough to stop his thighs from rubbing idly against each other. it’s an old habit—he thinks with his hands. the thought of debasing himself with one of them has always been a line he’s been too scared to cross, lest it make it all feel too real. usually, this restless squirming has been enough to get him through the worst of any urges until they died down enough to ignore.
it has not once been enough since dankovsky came into the equation. when his heart drags him under into the endless sea of thoughts to think about that man from the capital, he’s totally helpless against the butterflies in his core, the same ones he always thought were some metaphorical exaggeration borne from lovestruck poets. he closes his eyes against the downy fabric. some of the warmth in his chest bleeds into his cheeks. he can feel it.
but how is he supposed to help it? how else can he feel when daniil treats him the way he does? how is he supposed to feel when daniil sits so close their thighs touch, when he brushes his gloved hand over artemiy’s, when he rests a hand briefly on the small of his back, when he makes it so clear how much he appreciates him every time they speak, when he plays coy with double-entendre, when he says that he likes being with him and means it? how is he supposed to not fall in love with that?
guilt has been enough to stave off the worst of the temptation up until now, but what other conclusion is he supposed to reach? he crosses his ankles and flexes his feet. the buzzing in his fingertips is spreading to his belly, sinking lower beneath his beltless waistband. artemiy lets out a short huff into the pillow. what would daniil think if he knew?
what if daniil would like it?