etraya | un: Bachelor

Entry tags:

un: Bachelor | text

Attention Fellow People of Etraya,

I am Doctor Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of Medicine. As I understand it, few of you have seen a doctor lately. That simply won’t do! Please, don’t wait to get sick to establish care. I am situated in the hospital, ready to take consent forms and make updated medical histories. At least a few of you have unaddressed concerns, I just know it. The average person comes to see the doctor when it’s too late! Though we cannot die here, there is no reason to suffer unduly.

And if you are otherwise healthy, perhaps think of it as helping me out. In the event of an outbreak, it is far more helpful to have complete clinical pictures of the inhabitants. Especially, as I understand it, there are many biological differences in this population.

Please come visit me during my clinic hours, every day from 10am to 6pm.

[What Daniil really wants is to meet more of the unusual inhabitants of Etraya more quickly as well as conduct casual interviews of the sort of people who are slated to save the universe. But he can’t just say that completely outright.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[they're too slow to answer the matter of pain, and perhaps that is for the best. right then and there, they're not sure how to unpack it; those complicated feelings have been carefully folded and stowed - a pin in place, as Ul'grimm would suggest.

(Ul'grimm has yet to follow up and mention that there comes a point when one must release the pin.)

their mouth twitches as they exhale a breathy sound of amusement, obscuring the expression partly behind a couple fingers before it withdraws and they nod.] I am alright, Daniil. [and maybe that answer can suffice for all the questions for now.] Though I will wonder if I am supposed to...feel one way or another about it. Properly.

Usually our parents tell us how to feel. Or society or our peers. I’m not so sure that conformity is useful or ideal. If you are alright, why bother with what you’re supposed to feel? Those sort of small-minded expectations keep us tethered to boring realities. Just feel how you’re going to feel.

[Daniil is honestly too disgusted and uncomfortable in his own clothes to hold off any longer.]

Why don’t you pull out some clean clothes for me? They’re in the drawers there. I asked the bots to bring some things. I’ve been busy.

[The chest of drawers is beside the bed. It gives Tristan an opportunity to turn away without needing to make a choice any which way. Danill removes his belt and his vest, hanging them to hopefully dry without too much absorbed odor before peeling and shucking everything off. He makes little disgusted noises at himself as he leaves it all on the floor.]

[He walks into the bathroom, lights still off, and turns on the shower. He clambers in and sits on the floor.]

[how strange...

Tristan's mildly amused smile lingers for a beat before they're put to a task - one that they quietly move to see to. movement helps; the space is still real, they haven't idled off in thought to baffle anyone. rather, they're the one being baffled.

Without armor, without clothes... I'm being...trusted so much. Even after...doing unintentional harm.

they pull the drawer open, startling gently at the sound of the water behind them before rifling through. they draw out a simple button-up shirt and set it on the drawer's surface.

Maybe...

socks join them.

Maybe he is mad, as Stanford was mad.

trousers, underclothes.

But madness isn't the only reason to trust someone who wishes to help. Even if...so many people have acted that way before.

they rest a hand over their heart and gauge its pace, expression distant and contemplative.

The speed, but without the pressure... Which one is this...?]

[Daniil sits and scrubs himself with impunity as water pours in from overhead like so much rain. He likes it, he likes it better than just the bathhouse and certainly mote than filling a tub and soaking in it, feeling like soup. He stands to scrub himself down twice, until that sour smell is finally out of his skin and hair and his finally feels properly clean.]

[Daniil turns off the water and crawls out of the shower. He feels refreshed, but still exhausted. His eyes are incredibly dry. He knows without looking at them that his eyes are bloodshot. He brushes his teeth three times before using a mouthwash. Daniil had really enjoyed the modern hygiene aisle.]

[He rubs his chin. A bit of stubble was coming in, but he wasn’t about to pick up a razor with the shake of his hands. He comes back into his room with his towel wrapped around his waist to find his helpful, stalwart, companion.]

Were you successful?

[well, mad or not, Tristan supposes it may be clearer with time and understanding. the novelty of folk here just...not minding aspects of Tristan that they'd grown to know as strange or downright ominous has yet to wear off, even after this month or so, and that surely is what drives some of this excitement.

much to think about.

for now, their ears are full of the sounds at their back, prompting their attention and reminding them of the task at hand. was this...fair enough? they think so, but they'll find out rather quickly, won't they.

at the call, they turn partway and step back from the dresser, gesturing to what they'd left atop it.]

Yes. I...believe so. You may tell me otherwise. [though it may not stick. for the moment, they tilt their head and survey this soggier state of Daniil, habitually surveying for harm before consideration that his is not a body that's been doing the hard labor they recognize (not a whole lot of doctors digging for ore underground, that's sensible) nor carrying the signatures of martial combat (probably for the best, unless he were a cleric as they were...in which case, a lack would mean he's a better cleric for avoiding the scars).]

[He has what he would consider an ordinary amount of scars for his time. The student riots, the mischief of young drunken men.

The most recent, and unusual, is a gunshot scar in the shoulder where Tristan is too short to see while Daniil faces him, exiting next to his bony hip]

I’m sure they’re just fine. As long as they’re clean and they fit, I don’t mind.

[Daniil cannot really see in the dark. Whatever is there he will see in the morning. For now, he identifies clothes by touch. In his exhaustion, he forgets himself. Could Tristan see in the dark? No matter. He’s getting cold like this.]

[He lets the towel drop to pull on the clean underwear, a remarkable comfort in comparison to what he had on before. He sits on the bed to put on the socks, and before long he’s dressed again. But he’s still cold. He shivers. He remembers the way he sweated on Tristan.]

Would you like something clean to wear?

Me-? [there's a tilt to the voice that's unusual to their ears - almost a squeak. it is jarring enough to give cause to blink their eyes a few times (yep. darkvision.,) and recalibrate, patting at themself for a sense of their own attire.]

No, I... I am alright, thank you. And I am much smaller, besides. [not that looking silly is much to be concerned about, but...they'd look silly, no?] The offer is...is kind, all the same.

[Daniil Dankovsky gets called beanpole. And though it offends him, it is true.]

You are much shorter. You are not significantly smaller. Is it not still damp?

[Daniil, who is becoming audibly more stressed.]

[It's animal hide, it will be alright. And besides--

they halt the thought, exhaling quietly through their nose as if to evict it.]

If it will put you at ease, I will accept a spare change. I can assure that I am not troubled as I am. [but they may become troubled under this particular microscope, even with the lights off.]

It really will. I don’t want my own sour sweat stinking up the clean linen.

[The idea of his own body being filthy clearly bothers him.]

[As Danill casually tips his hand to what he wanted from this. To lay in bed, and to have Tristan with him.]

I won’t look. I can’t even see in the dark. But I’ll close my eyes and cover them with my hands, alright? There should be undershirts that will fit you like a tunic, some shorts that will be narrow in the hips.

[But it's...leather...

woosh.

in any case, Tristan has accepted this strange new fate, turning and opening up the drawer once more to another person's clothes. it does make them realize...

Even at Badger Hill...we always readied separately. And when I offered to assist, they all would wave me away, as though it weren't important enough to help. Maybe it wasn't.

it still felt better to be of use than to be brushed off to...what? what else was there to do but try to help them?

But maybe this feeling...is what they felt. When I tried to insist. a glimpse on the other side of that glass. it's always mirrors and windows with them, somehow...

they quietly remove the leathers, causing the dresser to creak a bit when they lean upon it so they can peel long boots off (great for avoiding ticks or animal bites, difficult to remove in a hurry), gloves, and a belt. the buckle gently clinks on the surface, and the sound grounds Tristan further in the place before they can imagine other places. the hill, the bathhouse, the labyrinth forced into their waking thoughts. changing clothes can be a kind of meditation, turns out.

still. their skin glows in the dark. it feels more apparent and appalling there in company than it does alone - one more oddity that separated them from people they'd want to connect with, no? but Daniil's still in the room. interesting contradiction.

I haven't had to borrow someone's clothing since Traint, they realize. That must be why I feel this way. It's like...going backward.

they dutifully pull on a pair of slacks from the drawer - they hang loose, but if they do not need to wander far, it should be well enough - and an undershirt as suggested, trying to close the near-empty drawer slower so it does not slam.]

Did you often...share clothing with your peers? Where you lived and worked.

No. No, but I also was never in this sort of situation. This is unusual for me, but I adapt quickly to a situation. Quick thinker, and all.

[Daniil sits on the edge of the bed, hands still clasped over his eyes.]

[Having a sitter will help. I know where we keep the morphine. And I feel well enough to go find it.]

[they turn around, blinking. he looks a bit comical, perched like that. like some kid counting while others go hide.]

Ah, you can...you don't need to shield your eyes anymore. Thank you.

Right. [His hands fall into his lap and he looks up at them, really looking properly for the first time since entering the room.]

[ How could I ever forget about that crackpot thing a Platon did, mixing radium into the embalming solution that he pushed into a cadaver? I’d asked about depths of the systems, and he had a little idea. He turned off the lights and it lit up. The paper indicating the danger of that amount of radioactive material was published years later, but neither of us seemed to have had any ill effects...]

[But while that glow was eerie, sickly. The one beneath Tristan’s veins were more like a little tea candle in a paper lantern, perhaps.]

[Daniil brings his legs up onto the small bed, making room.]

Would you object to staying here? I feel ease and comfort with you nearby.

[He shivers.]

[Tristan's head tilts a little.] I did mean to keep you company. So you may perhaps better rest, yes?

[they can do away with the follow-up of unless the sight of me is disturbing, because he just said 'ease and comfort,' and if that were a lie, surely Tristan would be quick enough to detect it from all sorts of cues spoken or not. and if there were other notions...they're not as naive about such things as they had been as an empty-headed shell. they've lived and learned a little.

after a beat, barring any last-second changes of heart, Tristan quietly pads over and sits on the edge of the bed next to him, hands resting on their lap.]

When you said...'never in this sort of situation'... No one's looked out for you when you were unwell?

Not since I was a helpless child with a fever. As a man, as an adult, I’ve been my own doctor. And it’s worked just fine until now.

But you have a keen sense of pain. And your healing is genuine. And I must sleep, or I think I might really die. I’m really cold.

[You’re babbling. This is pathetic, Dankovsky.]

[Daniil wrestles with the covers until he is beneath them, and he holds them open like a tent for Tristan to crawl inside.]

[Silence, it’s humiliation here or a worse one later, your hand in the morphine cabinet. This creature doesn’t know any better, doesn’t know how shameful this is.]

[after a beat to sift through those concerns, Tristan obliges, slipping under and letting Daniil fuss as he pleases, themself still as they can manage throughout.]

I won't let you die, Daniil. [Though apparently...neither will this place. But I don't like thinking of that.

they turn so they can rest on their side facing him, eyes glinting a bit in the dark.]

I don't...wholly understand why you trust me, though. [considering how that first revivify went. He might truly be mad.]

I can’t trust myself right now. I can’t think straight either. If you were going to hurt me, you already would have.

[The glint sends a chill down his spine, a primordial fear reminding him that people’s eyes don’t look like that.]

[Daniil’s heart pounds. He loops an arm around Tristan and pulls them in against his chest so that he can feel him without looking at him so much. He rests his chin atop those soft waves of fine hair. Daniil’s own was dense and straight, happy to stay the way it was cut, so the feeling is novel.]

Edited 2026-05-07 20:04 (UTC)

...

[well, they're always longing to be helpful, needed, and held. maybe it's the overwhelm of getting all of that at once without the anguish that precedes it that's making them feel so strange; they grow a touch warmer, the glow's pulsing quickening with their heartrate.

after a moment, they draw in a steadying breath, hold it, and exhale it against Daniil's skin.]

When it...is hard to rest. When I can't make my thoughts settle... [they fidget a little to get their hand on Daniil's waist.] I think about what I am as a body. Skin. Blood. Breath...

[Daniil inadvertently pictures himself on the slab, standing over himself with a scalpel.]

[He lets out a wheezing, mirthless chuckle.]

I picture myself in a cocoon. Turning to slush. Reforming as a butterfly. Flying away.

[Daniil shifts his legs, his hand. He presses firmly with his palm on Tristan’s back.]

[there was a shape in that red mass. the red womb. Tristan remembers it - seeing it through someone else's eyes.

they shiver, quietly laugh it off. it's fine.]

Would you rather be that? A butterfly. Instead of a doctor.

Right now I might. A butterfly doesn’t have concerns, just beats of its own wings.

[Daniil shifts himself, pressing a knee between Tristan’s, but no further. And then he settles, laying still as his heart slows.]

You’re warm. [Daniil’s thoughts begin to truly liquify as his own chilly limbs start to soak and multiply warmth from beneath the blanket. He puffs air against Tristan’s hair as he breathes in their scent.]

[Tristan's ears burn with that, with the sounds of steadying breath and a heart far slower than their own. there is the weight of an arm over them, the press of a knee between their own, and the gentle warmth of breath on their scalp and the subsequent chill in the intervals.

no wonder proximity is so addictive - there is so much to take in. they try to imagine they were someone holding and being held by someone they knew for a long time, who had woven a lifelong bond with them, the way people often do... it may be as bards say when they speak of the mad things people do for a bonded partner.

now and then, they do risk touching Daniil where their hands rest - a bit of pointed pressure, no more, no less, just enough to glean a sense of his body without disturbing him. they do startle and almost break free when they hear the heavy steps signaling the machines, but instead simply lift their head and watch them in the dark. they inquire quietly as to what they're doing and, mollified, let them see to it and settle back.

it cannot be all this self-fulfilling relishing, they remind themself: Daniil is expecting them to be taking care of him. so they refocus on him, less on marveling on his presence and more on monitoring it for the need to soothe, closing their eyes when they sense him closer to stirring.

naive in many things, Tristan still can imagine that being stared at upon waking would be disturbing.]

[The bots collect clothing, everything on the floor and carry it away to be delivered shortly before Daniil ordinarily wakes. Clean, pressed, and hung.]

[Daniil is completely out, and he stays that way until after the bots return at 9:30 in the morning.]

[Does Tristan dare wiggle free? ]

[a little; they want to sit up, but not jostle the man entirely in the process. they'll sit there, taking stock of the room in the light of morning, of themself, dressed in someone else's clothes.

they can catch up on some muted network things, text Junpei to assure they're alright, that sort of things.]

no subject

cw nonsexual(?) nudity probably

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw slight inference of sexual assault

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject