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Niko doesn’t see Dymitr for days at a time, sometimes weeks. Such is the life of one tied to Baba Jaga, whose soul is not entirely his own. But better in Baba Jaga’s hands than gone for good. Niko can’t regret the decisions that were made, not when it means that Dymitr is still whole—or as whole as one can be with a split soul.
Perhaps Niko is selfish. No, he knows he is. He always wants more. One more day, one more visit, one more smile. If Dymitr had unmade himself, he would have unmade Niko too.
When Dymitr’s not off on some errand, he stays at Ala’s apartment, sleeping on her couch while she works at the bar. Niko comes round when he can. Sometimes he has his own errands to run, being what he is.
Tonight is different. Tonight Dymitr has appeared at Niko’s place, blood on his knuckles, dirt under his nails. Niko looks at those hands, thinks of his mother, and opens the door wider.
“Don’t worry, it’s my own blood,” Dymitr says, brushing past Niko on his way inside.
“Odd, that doesn’t seem to have assuaged my worry,” Niko says. He shuts the door behind him, turns to Dymitr with a hint of a smile. “As I’m sure you can tell.”
He still likes to tease Dymitr; he doesn’t think that will ever get old. If Dymitr gets annoyed, he never shows it. Calm and collected, that’s how he likes to be. Niko likes to try and break him of the habit, and he does so now by cupping Dymitr’s face in both hands, drawing him close. Dymitr moves toward him, unresisting.
“Tell me you’re free for now,” Niko whispers, thumbs brushing the delicate skin just below tired gray-brown eyes. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Dymitr’s mouth, mirroring Niko’s own, and Niko is struck by the sudden urge to kiss that spot.
“I’m free for now,” Dymitr confirms, lifting his hands to reach for Niko in return, but Niko ducks back, letting go of Dymitr’s face.
“Wash your hands,” he says, the picture of innocence. “I’ll make you coffee.”
Niko’s coffee is too strong, Dymitr has complained before, but he lets Niko make it anyway as he goes to clean up in the small bathroom. Niko drifts into the kitchen, measuring out coffee and water, trying not to think about bloody knuckles or dirtied nails. It’s too late in the day for coffee, but he doesn’t care and he doesn’t buy decaf.
Dymitr returns before the coffee finishes brewing. The smell of it lures him closer to the machine, and Niko watches as he sighs and leans against the counter, nose dangerously close to the coffee maker.
“You’re lucky I’m not easily jealous,” Niko says, another tease.
Dymitr glances back at him. “Not easily, no,” he remarks, and Niko has the grace to look embarrassed.
When the coffee finishes, Niko gently nudges Dymitr out of the way and makes up two mugs, handing one to his guest. Dymitr holds it between pale hands reddened by harsh scrubbing, lifting it close to his face as the warmth and scent of it waft upward.
Niko leans against the fridge and lets him bask in the coffee smell for a few moments. “Want to talk about it?” he eventually asks.
Dymitr’s head tilts, staring at nothing on the kitchen floor, until finally— “Not right now.”
They leave it at that. Niko has a natural inclination to pry, but he tamps it down. Dymitr will tell him at some point, or he won’t. Niko can only scrape at old wounds so much before Dymitr closes up on him completely.
“I see,” he says, casual, “so you only came to me for the coffee.”
“Something like that,” he replies, another smile threatening to break free. There’s a faint dusting of pink across Dymitr’s cheeks, only visible because Niko is specifically looking. Flirtation doesn’t come naturally to Dymitr, Niko thinks. He probably hasn’t had much practice in between missions killing Niko’s kin.
Niko sets aside that thought as he has so many thoughts before and sips at his coffee. They’re working on it. It’s fine.
“I’m glad,” he says instead. “Ala hates my coffee.”
Dymitr’s smile escapes in full this time and he hides it behind his mug, drinking slowly. Niko watches as the tension in his shoulders begins to ease, his grip on the mug loosening just a tad. His gaze becomes hooded, even Niko’s too-strong coffee not enough to stave off the weariness that settles over him.
Niko sets down his mug, going over and gently plucking the half-empty mug from Dymitr’s grasp.
“Bed,” he says, putting Dymitr’s mug next to his own, and he leads Dymitr out of the kitchen with a crook of his finger gesturing at him to follow.
Dymitr goes willingly through the tidy apartment, down the hall to Niko’s bedroom. Niko sits him down on the end of the bed and kneels on the floor in front of him, beginning to unlace one of Dymitr’s shoes.
Dymitr puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back. “I can do it.”
“So can I,” Niko says, not stopping. He knows why Dymitr is here instead of crashing at Ala’s place, even if Dymitr does not.
First one shoe, then the other. Niko sets them neatly aside, perfectly aligned at the foot of the bed. Then he stands so he can sit beside Dymitr and help him out of his long-sleeved shirt. Dymitr fusses enough that Niko lets him wriggle out of his belt and jeans on his own, gathering up the discarded clothes and laying them over the chair in the corner to be dealt with later.
It’s something, having an (ex-)Knight of the Holy Order sitting tiredly on his bed in a worn undershirt and wrinkled boxers. Niko is still in slight disbelief that it had ever happened, is happening now, will happen again—Baba Jaga permitting.
“Stay with me?” Dymitr asks, as if he even has to ask.
Niko strips down to nothing, tossing his clothes into the hamper before finding a pair of sleep pants to put on. He can practically feel Dymitr watching him, gaze as tangible as fingers trailing over his skin. He struggles not to grin, not shy, of course, but not wanting to scare Dymitr off from being bold enough to look.
He slips into a pair of black silk pants, then sits heavily back on the bed. Dymitr turns toward him, still watching, tentative as if they’ve never done anything like this before. This time Niko does smile, and he coaxes Dymitr to come lie down beside him. Dymitr does, curling toward him and pressing his face to Niko’s hip. Niko cards his fingers lightly through Dymitr’s hair, dusty-colored strands tickling his fingertips. As he pets him he can feel Dymitr’s breathing start to even out, relaxing even further.
“Look at you,” Niko murmurs to no one in particular, not expecting a response. He doubts very many people have ever gotten to see Dymitr so unguarded. “So beautiful.”
Dymitr surprises him by speaking.
“Still beautiful enough to fight for?” An echo of the conversation they had once, in that cramped bathroom, truths still hidden from one another.
Niko pauses in his ministrations, fingers brushing over the hair at Dymitr’s nape. “You don’t like being a zmór?”
Dymitr shakes his head. “It’s not that. That…that’s a gift. From you and Ala.” He’s not looking up at Niko, forehead resting against Niko’s side. “But being beautiful doesn’t erase what I’ve done.”
“You only know what I’ve showed you,” Dymitr had said to him back then. It feels like both something from long ago and only a blink of an eye past. Niko feels like Dymitr has shown him so much more than he meant to since then.
Niko reaches over and pushes Dymitr onto his back, rolling with him to straddle his waist, both hands bracing himself on either side of Dymitr’s head. He looks down at Dymitr in silence, past his tired eyes and pretty face, down and down until he can sense the layers beneath.
The well of rage he could feel—can still feel—is still there inside Dymitr, but it’s shallower than before. As if bit by bit Dymitr is scooping it from his chest with cupped hands like water from a real well, some of it spilling back out but some of it removed. Niko doesn’t know if the well will ever fully empty; if Dymitr will ever stop being angry at the Order, his family, himself. Maybe he shouldn’t stop. Niko can’t say.
“To me, you are beautiful inside and out,” he finally says, cupping Dymitr’s jaw with one hand, his dark nails a pointed contrast to Dymitr’s pale skin. “Perhaps I’m a fool for it. I don’t really care.”
Dymitr lets out a laugh, soft and shaky. He’s not meeting Niko’s eyes, staring at some point on the ceiling past Niko’s head. “Most people would probably say you are.”
“Let them,” Niko says simply. “I’ve been called worse.”
Dymitr looks at him then, tilts his head so that he can kiss Niko’s fingertips, and Niko traces over the line of the scar on Dymitr’s lip with his thumb. Dymitr’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, a flash of pink that catches the tip of Niko’s thumb in the process. It sends a frisson of heat through Niko, one he shakes off with some effort.
“Idź spać,” he insists, bending down to press a kiss goodnight to Dymitr’s forehead. “You will feel better in the morning.”
Dymitr hooks an arm around his neck before he can sit up and gives him a proper kiss, soft and comfortable rather than something heated. “You too. It’s late.”
Niko has always been more of a night owl (—ha! Ala would be rolling her eyes right now), but he can handle an early night. Tugging back the covers, he settles down beside Dymitr, wrapping an arm around him when Dymitr moves in close.
Maybe tomorrow Dymitr will be more willing to talk. Most likely not. Niko has contented himself with picking away at the shell surrounding him, reveling in every new thing he learns. He feels like he’s only just scratched the surface, but he’s certain that what he finds underneath will be just as beautiful as what’s outside—messy and dangerous and painful, but beautiful all the same.