Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Anya’s old shower had been about two feet by two feet, if she was being generous. The temperature controls were old and finicky, and if you nudged them more than a nanometer it was guaranteed you would get either scalded or drenched in indoor freezing rain. The apartment was located in a crumbling building that she was pretty sure had asbestos, black mold, or possibly both. There were definitely mice. There were very definitely cockroaches.

It had been home right up until the day Polina Varankina had dropped by her cubicle and said, “I had to kick my ex-boyfriend out this morning. You keep telling me horror stories about your landlord. You wanna move in?”

Anya packed her bags that night. On the salary of a reporter, you took your breaks where you could get them, and if Polya could afford it on the same salary, Anya figured it couldn’t be worse than where she was already living.

And it wasn’t. For a good seven months, she and Polya had cohabitated in bliss: a small but cozy apartment in a pre-war building that lacked asbestos, black mold, mice, cockroaches, and was located in an area that was served by both Caviar and Grubhub. They got along like a house on fire; binge-watching crap movies on Netflix, instituting “Fajita Fridays,” and methodically testing every single brand of prosecco the liquor store across the street had to offer.

Eight months in, the elderly couple in flat 17B moved out, and a pair of young men moved in.

“You know, I’m thinking of this as an opportunity,” Polya grinned, rolling up her sleeves.

“For dates? That’s a terrible idea and you know it,” Anya huffed.

“No, no,” Polya shook her head, giving Anya a sly smile. Anya was reminded that her coworker and roommate was an opportunist and a Slytherin to her core, and that line of thought was only proven when she spoke again.

“Look, the dryers in this building are shit, so they’ll probably dry their shirts on the balcony. It’s a perfect time to steal sweatshirts,” Polya reasoned.

“Or you could buy your own sweatshirt from the men’s section at the Gap,” Anya said, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, but I mean, where’s the fun in that?” Polya groused, “Anyways, are we making frozen pizza or tater tot nachos tonight?”

“Tot-chos, we need to use up the bell peppers in the fridge,” Anya replied, and considered the topic of their new neighbors closed.

Their new neighbors were nice, according to their landlady.

“They’re charming young men, you’re charming young ladies,” Lily said, when she dropped by to check on the repairs to Anya and Polya’s gas stove, “Something might work out.”

“I think I’m done with men for a little while, Mrs. Malevsky-Malevich,” Polya sighed, and Lily chuckled.

“Well, maybe Ms. Romanova would go for one of them,” Lily said sweetly, “That boy, that boy you were seeing, the one whose clothes I helped you throw out the window… You let me know if he comes around again, alright? "

Anya gave Polya a look that clearly read, you enlisted our landlady in helping you throw your ex's clothes out the window?! Polya very pointedly did not meet Anya's accusing gaze, not a hint of color reaching her cheeks.

"Or better yet, go ask Mr. Vaganov next door. I hear he’s intimidating, if you know what I mean…” Lily continued slyly, giving Anya a wink.

Anya smiled warily back. She wasn’t sure which one of her neighbors was Mr. Vaganov, but she didn’t care all that much about finding out.

Eight and a half months in, Anya found out that apartments 17A and 17B were mirrors of each other. She knew this dimly as she would occasionally hear the clattering of their old neighbors in the morning, but it was an entirely different thing to hear either the elusive Mr. Vaganov or his unnamed housemate absolutely nailing every bit of Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” as she shaved her legs one evening.

Whoever he was, he had a shower speaker.

And he was going all in on the “Where Did Our Love Go” part.

Anya closed her eyes as she let the water wash her facial scrub from her face, wondering if she’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was one of those dreams where she’d go through her routine before she was awakened by Polya, telling her her back wouldn’t forgive her if she slept on the futon again.

Instead, as Anya cracked open her shampoo, “Tainted Love” faded out into the opening synth of Whitney Houston’s, “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.”

The mysterious tenor kept at it, all the way through Anya’s shower routine, and she stepped out of the shower to his dulcet tones harmonizing with Diana Ross.

Anya brushed out her wet hair to, “I’m Coming Out,” wondering when she’d wake up. It was only when she opened the bathroom to let Polya in that it occurred to her it might not be a dream.

“...Wow,” Polya said, her blue eyes widening behind her smudged glasses, “Is 17B going for Broadway or something?”

“Fuck if I know,” Anya responded, cinching her ancient bathrobe around her waist, “Has he done this before?”

“I don’t usually take night showers,” Polya said consideringly, “But it certainly hasn’t happened while I’m doing a face mask or anything.

They both looked towards the shower. 17B and Diana Ross were still going strong.

“There’s a pint of that Karamel Sutra stuff in the freezer,” Polya offered into the surreal aura of their bathroom.

“You’re an angel of mercy,” Anya said, and exited the bathroom, thinking that was that.

That was not that.

For the rest of the week, Anya was treated to glamorous renditions of what seemed like the peak of Top 40 from 1985. As she stepped out of the shower on Friday evening, “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” still ringing in her ears, she was greeted by the door to the bathroom being thrown open.

Anya shrieked, clutching the shower curtain.

“Calm down, calm down, it’s me,” Polya huffed, “Chill, I don’t care about seeing you naked.”

Mr. Cyndi Lauper sang on, oblivious. Polya rolled her eyes, handing Anya her ancient, ratty brown robe, averting her eyes while Anya stepped out of the shower and into the robe.

“I’ve been doing some digging,” she said, “And by digging, I mean I willingly went down to talk to Mrs. Malevsky-Malevich.”

“Okay?” Anya blinked, reaching for her comb. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” melded into “Time After Time.” There was apparently a Lauper marathon going on tonight.

“The surnames are Dmitry and Vaganov,” Polya revealed, “I figured that out between Lily and the mailbox label. Which is kind of crazy for a couple reasons. One, Dmitry is like, not a surname? And two, my college roommate’s best friend was a Vaganov who moved to Queens after they finished college, and now works in Midtown as a paralegal, so it’s like eminently plausible that he moved to Williamsburg and lives next door.”

Anya stared at her reflection in the mirror like she was staring into a camera on The Office.

“This is Crown Heights, Polya, not Williamsburg,” was all Anya could manage.

“Whatever, semantics,” Polya sighed, “Anyways, now all I need to do is figure out whether Veronika’s Gleb Vaganov is like, the Vaganov next door. I’m going to have to ask her when it’s morning in Moscow.”

Anya thought of Veronika, who she was ninety-nine percent sure was a spy that had been posted to Moscow by the CIA, and whether she would tolerate a best friend who really, really liked Cyndi Lauper.

“If our Vaganov is Veronika’s college best friend, I highly doubt he’s the one singing,” Anya began, but an unholy gleam entered Polya’s eyes.

“You say that now, but Gleb was in Glee Club his freshman year of college,” Polya whispered, “And according to Veronika, he was good. ”

Anya remained silent. “Time After Time” had segued into “True Colors.”

“Would you call Mr. Cyndi Lauper over here good?”

Polya shrugged.

“I’m not a huge fan of Cyndi Lauper myself, but you have to admit,” she grinned, “He can carry a tune.”

“Oh, well as long as it’s not Cyndi Lauper ,” Anya groaned, but Polya had already let herself out of the bathroom.

It took two weeks for Anya to break.

“Hey, are you taking your shower?” Polya asked, “Because if you aren’t, I’m just going to--”

“--deal with Mr. Five Hundred Miles yourself?” Anya huffed, “I took showers at night so I could relax. Hearing ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’ is not exactly relaxing me.”

“Harsh,” Polya snorted, “I’m going to jump in, then. I happen to like The Buggles.”

Anya shook her head and turned back to her book, and at ten, took a melatonin to help ready herself for waking up half an hour earlier than usual. When morning dawned, she grimly stepped into the bathroom only to hear the noise of the shower starting in 17B.

“Please, God, if you have any mercy,” she muttered under her breath, stripping off her sweatpants and t-shirt, “Don’t let him sing any fucking shit from the 80s.”

She turned on her own shower, waiting grimly for the noise.

When the singing began, she admitted to dropping the shampoo.

“ Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars ,” sang the man on the other side of the wall, pausing briefly as though he heard the clatter of Anya’s bottle of Garnier hitting the plastic tub. His voice was a rich baritone, one better suited to Sinatra than his housemate’s tenor had been to the Buggles. Or Cyndi Lauper. Or the Proclaimers.

His songs were also somewhat quieter, and it took Anya a good three morning showers before she realized that it was because he didn’t have orchestration. His housemate, the absolute bastard, had a shower speaker that the baritone definitely did not take advantage of.

Bless him.

He would usually only sing one song per shower, maybe two by the same artist, which led Anya to wonder whether he was shy, whether he knew that he could be overheard by the next apartment, or whether he just took shorter showers than his 1980s-loving roommate. The artists in question were usually of a very specific vintage, as well. She got the impression that the baritone wasn’t a fan of anything past the 1960s.

Anya found herself referring to the pair as “the baritone” and “the tenor,” rather than “Maybe Dmitry” or “Maybe Vaganov.”

In a way, it seemed simpler.

“You’re not going to believe it, Anya,” Polya interjected one night, “The tenor can do every single rap of ‘Super Bass’ perfectly. ”

Although, in hindsight, nothing was simple when it came to 17B.

Chapter Text

After a few weeks, Anya had almost gotten used to the baritone’s singing. He wasn’t Broadway material, not by a long shot, and there was the reality of hearing songs written for tenors get what she called “corrected” and Polya called “run through a woodchipper" to contend with; the baritone had tried for higher notes a few times and always broken off with a laugh, which Anya had snorted at. It was charming to hear him fumble his way through, especially when contrasted with the late-night concerts the tenor favored; Anya never had to fight down the urge to clap after, which was a strangely uncomfortable urge when you were naked and covered in soap. And even if the mystery baritone was mistreating the songs - and Anya had to admit that a few sounded rough - after reverberating through through two tile walls, no one was Broadway material.

Besides, she was getting used to quiet morning serenades, and used to the earlier hours. Polya teased that Anya was becoming a grandmother, but acknowledged that Anya's new hours were more convenient for her as well. Polya seemed less annoyed by the '80s Top Hits at night, and had joined in on a duet of "Under Pressure" at least once, but Anya found the calm, quiet humming more soothing. Sometimes he was almost too quiet to hear, and Anya was left with the pleasant sense of companionship and the stillness of early mornings, which vastly outranked hearing the tenor trying to falsetto his way through "Stayin' Alive". Perhaps the quiet calmness was why Anya was halfway through conditioning her hair and washing her face when she realized that unsettling feeling was that it was completely silent. She was washing her hair in total silence and at some point she’d gotten used to hearing someone trying to remember the lyrics to “You Make Me Feel So Young” next door.

It was eerie to feel alone in the mornings, which was new, and discomforting. Anya had been a loner as long as she could remember, which was admittedly less than most people - the scars at her hairline bore witness to that - and that made it all the odder to be used to her neighbor’s voice. She hadn't even met the man, but she felt alone with him gone. Like all of her problems, she resolved to ignore it, and rinsed the conditioner from her hair with a frown. The silence lingered under her skin as she rushed the rest of her shower and went to work, though her groove was completely thrown.

Polya watched her with a raised eyebrow as they wolfed down instant noodles and egg that evening. The last Thursday before payday was noodle night by tradition, even if they didn't necessarily have to anymore, and the routine was comforting, except for when Polya got that look in her eye.

"So, Anya," she ventured, setting her mug of water and salinity aside, "what's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Anya didn't choke on her noodles through sheer force of will, swallowing and buying herself enough time to think of a distraction. She certainly wasn't going to admit to missing Mr. 17B: Baritone Edition, not when Polya would certainly take it the wrong way, so --

"You sent me the same email three times today, and you've been picking at your noodles." Polya grinned and Anya cursed her job and her tendency to pick reporters for friends. "Out with it, Anya; what's wrong?"

Distraction time.

"I ran into Mrs. Malevsky-Malevich's new boyfriend today," she admitted, and Polya laughed, leaning back.

"Vlad, right? Did he try and kiss you?"

"No, just wondered where my lovely roommate was --" Anya blinked a few times as the words settled in. "He tried to kiss you?"

"It could be worse," Polya said solemnly. "I could have no men trying to kiss me."

"I'm not sure that's worse," Anya argued, and the conversation shifted away from the dangerous territory of Anya's odd mood and towards Polya's lack of kisses from people who weren't their landlady's new maybe-foreign boyfriend, and it was forgotten.

Three days of early-morning silence went by before Anya started humming the old lullabies that floated through her dreams. Russian lullabies weren’t difficult, even if Anya was no more Broadway material than the MIA baritone, but they were hauntingly lonely. She'd forgotten so many, and clung fiercely to the ones that hadn't slipped away with her head wound, even when singing them felt like ripping her heart out and inviting her ghosts into her waking life, leaving the rest of her day stained tattered shades of grey.

Maybe lullabies weren't better, even if they followed her semi-frequent nightmares well. The early morning silence was chilling when it was accompanied by her memories, and Anya cast about for distractions that weren't too difficult, landed on the drinking songs she'd learned as a child. They reminded her of her lost family too, of warmth and jokes and something out of reach, but it was hard to be sad when the lyrics were, honestly, ridiculous.

The shower next door spluttered on and Anya froze, voice cracking into silence. Apparently Mr. 17B was back from his trip, and he was going to know how thin the walls were, was going to hear her shitty attempts at singing. She would’ve run for it, but there was still shampoo in her hair, and so she quietly tried to rinse it out. She would go back to evening showers, because Mr. Shower Speaker was too loud for Anya to embarrass herself in front of, and if she was quick, she wouldn’t have to think about this ever again, wouldn’t have to admit she’d gotten used to the baritone’s voice keeping her company in the morning. Polya could take morning showers again and Anya could try and love whatever the tenor's obsession of the week was, and it would be fine.

Which, yes, he was singing again. That was fine. Maybe he didn’t mind the audience, but she was still going to go back to evening showers until the weirdness wore off, and why was this familiar, when --

Oh.

Anya mouthed the next words along with him, because she knew them, even if she couldn’t guess how he did.

“-- the leaves unfold,” she whispered in time with her mystery neighbor, and fell silent as he continued, “the tsar lies cold.”

Shampoo dripped into her eyes, and Anya gasped in surprise and managed to get shampoo into her mouth, and by the time that was dealt with, her neighbor had fallen silent.

She had been humming the same song earlier, and he had heard, and he had sang it back. That left him stained by the same oddness as anything connected to her past, but the sense of familiarity ran deeper. She was glad to have company again, even if the company knew more lyrics than she did. She was comforted, and it was on that note that she switched the shower off with a frown.

It wouldn't do to dwell on her neighbor's odd taste in music, and it certainly wouldn't do to start getting attached.