#blvckenedsoul

[uigreyface]

@blvckenedsoul answered:

No.

Don’t! Scare me like that

[wireshumming]

@blvckenedsoul

So I heard an interesting rumor today.

[agoldenlight]

“Mm?”

He became aware first of his weight, pulled downward more insistently than he’d thought it should, for where he was. Where he had been? He was warmer, and no longer spread out. Under his ear was a steady, strong thump thump, thump thump, and the faintest whispers of airflow, maybe. One of his arms was slung across something more solid than the pillow he’d put his head down on, his other dangling away from him. (But the seat of the couch wasn’t that far from the ground, that he couldn’t stretch his fingers out and touch cold stone. Not the couch, then.)

And then the world slowed, pressure against him shifting, and he finally opened bleary eyes to figure out just where it was he was going. He didn’t need his vision in focus to recognize that stubbled jawline, or the quick grimace that crossed Nikolai’s face as blue eyes met his own. “I was trying not to wake you,” Nikolai murmured, nudging the door further open with his leg. “You fell asleep on the couch.”

Danny hummed faintly, tucking his face against Nikolai’s shoulder. He became aware again of moving, forward and then down, until his back was settling into the plush comforter of his own bed. He made a grumpy, grumbled noise as he felt Nikolai starting to draw away from him, digging the fingers of one hand into Nikolai’s shoulder as his other searched blindly for another handhold to keep Nikolai from leaving. “Resta.” His other hand finally just fisted in Nikolai’s shirt.

He could feel Nikolai still moving, and something tapped softly against his nightstand as it was set down.

The bed dipped on the other side, quiet jingling the only warning he got before a wet nose pressed against his face, and another at his elbow.

“The pups are here. Get some sleep, Danny.”

“Resta,” he urged, insistently pulling at Nikolai (trying to leverage what was, in essence, a brick wall onto his bed). Zitto settled into his usual place at the foot of the bed, though Orso continued to sniff around Danny’s face (and Nikolai’s, if the quiet noise of protest was any indicator). “Resta,” he said again, half the word lost to a yawn.

He must have drifted off after that. He didn’t remember letting go of Nikolai’s shirt, or Orso settling down for the night, or rolling onto his side. The covers were pulled up over him, his ceiling fan humming softly. Danny curled a little closer around Orso--the puppy pressed in close to his belly--and used one arm to pull his pillow closer.

The space in his bed behind him was cold.

[aborderlinenightmare-blog]

blvckenedsoul started following you

What’s up!!!???

[probationemvitae]

@blvckenedsoul

Mr. Avlov? I’ve got some good news regarding your puppies.

[uigreyface]

uigreyface asked:

Hey, new guy, are you all right?

@blvckenedsoul answered:

Excuse me.

Who is this?

Hello, this is Greyface!

[uigreyface]

@blvckenedsoul  answered:

Go away.

Hey! 

You ok?

[agoldenlight]

“You’re up early.”

Danny looked up from the neat stack of mail on the kitchen table and over to Nikolai, already dressed for the day, hair still damp from his shower. Despite his air of alertness, the short string of Russian was gently slurred with the remnants of sleep–probably because he hadn’t gotten his caffeine fix yet.

“I haven’t gone to bed yet,” Danny corrected. “Do you want coffee?”

“Danny.”

The Italian looked up with his best innocent expression–it wasn’t like he’d meant to stay up so late, after all, and he was going right to bed once he’d made sure Nikolai was all set for work. But Nikolai remained unswayed–and thus, unimpressed. “They were playing a music program,” he offered in explanation–not as specific as he wanted to be, but he was blanking on half of the words he needed to further elaborate–with a gesture in the direction of the television.

Nikolai sighed quietly, but nodded. “Staying up this late is a bad habit to form.” He shifted his attention to the espresso machine with a light frown.

“I didn’t have any,” Danny protested immediately, but that seemed to catch Nikolai by surprise.

“Not what I was thinking.” But then he waved his hand through the air–a dismissive gesture Danny recognized as one of his own–and stepped closer so he could read over Danny’s shoulder. “News?”

“Nothing good. Another rejection.” The company seemed very adamant about keeping him out of their exclusive musician circles, and wary of sending him to any kind of vocational school. At the rate he was getting no’s, Danny was starting to consider that maybe he ought to start looking for work in hospitality. (Making coffee didn’t seem to pay terribly well, but he was good at it. Or he could try his hand at waiting tables–maybe he could find his way into a position at one of the fancier restaurants, have a chance at better tips.)

Nikolai offered a low hum–which really could have meant anything–before leaning past him to pull a crisp, embossed envelope from the pile. It had his name printed on it in some hybrid of cursive and a curled script, and below that, in simple, bold print, something written in Russian. (After a beat, Danny realized it was probably Nikolai’s name.) Nikolai tsked. “I just got one of these yesterday at my office.”

“What is it?” Danny almost wanted to reach back and take the envelope from Nikolai to open himself, for no other reason than because he was worried the sound of tearing paper was Nikolai ripping it open with no regard for the integrity of the envelope or its contents. A moment later, the envelope–mostly intact, save for a sad, poorly torn chunk at one corner–was set before him.

(He was pretty sure he’d only ever seen Nikolai write his name once, when they were first coming over from Moscow, and there was a sense of shame that rose up to meet the fact that he didn’t recognize any of the letters on their own as part of Nikolai’s name.)

“Invitation to another gala.” There was even more contempt for the word in Nikolai’s tone than the last time he’d gotten an invitation in the mail.

“You don’t have to go,” Danny murmured. As Nikolai shifted to stand by the open chair to Danny’s right, the Italian reached out to touch the other man’s arm, only to miss as Nikolai drifted further away.

“Apparently I actually do.” He dropped the invitation onto the counter with a sharp flick of his wrist, then pulled open the fridge to start pulling out ingredients for breakfast. “There was a passive aggressive letter that came along with the invitation sent to my office. And I spoke to a-” Danny recognized neither of the words that he assumed described the profession of whoever Nikolai had spoken to, but the Russian had picked up enough steam that there wasn’t a smooth way to ask for a translation, “who said…” Nikolai trailed off, frown deepening in what looked like strong distaste.

“Everyone who holds a title has to go, apparently,” he began again. “And I’ve exhausted the ‘still settling in’ excuse.”

Oh. On the one hand, he felt bad, because Nikolai was very against public gatherings, especially ones of that size. But on the other… Danny really wanted to go to a gala.

“So I’ll have to mark the date down. And I can make a run to the store and get you something special, if you want, or make a reservation at one of those restaurants you’ve been wanting to try,” Nikolai continued as he started putting together what looked like pancake batter.

Wait, what? “Huh?” Weren’t they going together?

“The night of the gala. I don’t want you to just sit at home and eat leftovers while you watch that shit television they’re broadcasting.” Nikolai glanced over his shoulder, brows knitted together in an expression Danny was pretty sure meant he was about to ask if he needed to explain with different words. And then he must have seen something in Danny’s demeanor–hurt, because he thought they were going together–because his face softened.

“I don’t know what to expect from an event like this, yet. I want to go to one myself, first, figure out how people are expected to interact, who generally goes, how safe it is. And then we can talk about you coming along to a different one.”

Oh.

“Okay,” Danny said, trying to sound like he understood when he really didn’t.

Not the next one. And not for sure. They’d talk about him going to a different one.

He waited for Nikolai to turn around and change his mind, say he’d rather guarantee a familiar, friendly face there. Or for the Russian to at least correct himself, say he’d misspoken. But the silence stretched on until, “How many pancakes do you want?”

“I’m not very hungry,” Danny lied, sliding out of his seat. “I’m just going to go to bed.”