Archive of Our Own

They’ve got a system. Every time the front-of-house workers admit Valeriy through the doors, one of them starts tapping their foot repetitively. The door staff, picking up on this signal, quietly slip into the theater. They alert the stage managers, who then alert the ushers, who then alert him via an inelegant, but highly effective, fake sneezing session. Then, sufficiently warned, he can flee to the theater lobby before Valeriy catches him watching the ballet again.

Unfortunately the sneeze comes too late, this time. Mitya scrambles to pack up his things, but Valeriy is already bursting through the theater doors. Light swirls in from the open doorway, casting its long reverse-shadow down the aisle.

Mitya sighs. He gets up and does his mid-ballet walk of shame up the aisle. And he didn’t even get to see the grand finale! Odette’s fans have been talking about it all week…

Valeriy fixes him with a stern look.

“Good afternoon, Sarge,” Mitya says, pulling on a polite smile. “How are you on this fine day? It’s—”

“You,” Valeriy interrupts, “should be at work.” And he very impolitely grabs Mitya by the arm and hauls him out to the lobby, step by excruciating step.

When he finally lets go, Mitya straightens out his cloak. “Must you do this every time? You’re ruining the show for the other patrons. The atmosphere is much better if the light from outside doesn’t get in.”

Valeriy looks entirely unamused. “Must you always make my job difficult?”

“Without me, you wouldn’t have a job.” This is factually untrue. It’s more that Valeriy would get to do actual Major duties if he didn’t have to spend half his day chasing wayward scientists. Mitya is just… redefining his job description.

Valeriy looks as though he desperately wants to say something rude. But what he ends up saying is: “Come with me. I’ll escort you back to your laboratory, and we can both get back to our real jobs.”

He moves to grab him again.

Mitya slides elegantly out of the way. (He likes to think it’s elegant, anyway.) “Hold on, hold on. I have business here!”

Valeriy pauses entirely. “You do?”

Wait, it worked? “Yes,” Mitya says slowly, stalling for time. “I… have to see Odette. The lead ballerina.”

Valeriy looks at him skeptically. “What business would you have with her?”

Seeing the rest of her show. But he can’t exactly say that, so… “I’m delivering a letter to her.”

“You are?”

Mitya nods. He rummages through his bag—there’s a lot of stuff in here, and he means a lot, and oh shit that’s where his flathead screwdriver went, who knew—aha! There! He pulls out a beautifully-embossed envelope triumphantly. “This letter. I have to deliver it to her.”

Valeriy squints at it. He examines the letter carefully.

It’s gorgeous. It features the words For my Loveliest Star, written on a cream envelope, stamped with a seafoam-green wax seal and a single lavender stem. The paper smells like expensive perfume. Vodyanitsa’s perfume, to be exact. This is the letter she writes to her most dedicated supporters every month. A fan club letter, basically. But Valeriy doesn’t need to know that. All he needs to know is that it looks beautiful enough to be deserving of a top performer of the Korolevskiy Theater.

“So?” says Mitya, taking the letter back. “Will you let me back in to see Miss Odette?” He’s not technically lying. He will see her. From his seat. While she performs.

Valeriy is still staring. His mouth is twisted oddly. Not that Mitya spends a lot of his time looking at his mouth, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t normally look like that.

Mitya takes pity on him. “What’s the matter?”

“…You don’t wear perfume.”

What does that have to do with anything? “Well, no. I’m fond of perfume, but artificial scents could disturb the laboratory environment.”

Valeriy’s eyebrows knit together. He glances at the letter again. “You wrote this?”

“Yes,” Mitya lies shamelessly. “Now may I go back in? The show is nearly over.”

A few seconds pass, in which Valeriy looks supremely conflicted. At last he releases Mitya’s wrist and, with a pained look, says, “I understand now. I can no longer contradict your desire to come here. It would go against the values of our grand city to prevent this."

Mitya says, “What?”

“Please, just—go. I will return to collect you thirty minutes after the show lets out.”

Collect him? What is he, a parcel? But Mitya hears the orchestra strike up the penultimate song of the show, and he knows Odette’s big number is coming up, so he retreats back into the theater.

Mitya waits five seconds after the door closes to start laughing.

No fucking way that worked! He’ll have to write Vodyanitsa personally to express his heartfelt gratitude. Thank you, fan club subscriptions…

He spares a moment to wonder what Valeriy meant about the values of the grand city. Snezhnograd doesn’t have any specific values, not unless he’s counting its title as the city of romance. But what does romance have to do with anything? It’s not like he’s delivering a love letter to Odette. That’d just be ridiculous. Besides, Valeriy talks nonsense more often than not. He doesn’t even understand the concept of needing inspiration! Yes, that’s it—he’s just being a fool again. A fool…

Mitya settles back into his seat. No time to worry about that. He’s got a ballet to watch.

***

True to his word, Valeriy is waiting to collect him half an hour after the conclusion. Mitya usually has to hurry back the minute the show ends, but today he gets to stay and mingle a bit. Instead of the typical rush back to work, he meanders around the theater talking to people and soaking in the lovely atmosphere. He’s so happy, in fact, that when he sees Valeriy in the lobby, standing with his perfect posture and his strange eyes, he doesn’t even struggle. He just walks right up to him and smiles.

“Are you ready to return?” Valeriy asks.

He’s never said this before. His usual modus operandi is to grab Mitya and drag him away kicking and screaming. But Mitya’s not complaining about this change, so. “Yes, quite ready.”

Valeriy inhales deeply and extends his arm. No manhandling. Not even a regular grab. Nothing at all. Just a polite arm extension.

Baffled, Mitya stares at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

“If you don’t want to take my arm, you can just say so,” Valeriy mutters. He quickly takes his hand back and starts adjusting his gauntlets, though Mitya is certain there’s no problem with them. “You look to be in high spirits.”

“I am, as a matter of fact.” Because someone didn’t drag him out of the show he was enjoying.

“So it went well?”

“Yes,” Mitya says, confused. What did he think would happen? It’s not as though the show crashes and burns on a regular basis.

“The letter, I mean.”

Mitya does his best not to look surprised. “That’s what I was talking about.” He clutches his bag, still containing the fan club letter from Vodyanitsa. Maybe Valeriy can smell the letter’s perfume on him. Does he have a crazy sense of smell or something? That sounds like something he might have. “The letter went perfectly well, thanks. Delivered safely.”

Valeriy gives him an odd look. “You’ll be returning to work, then? No further excursions?”

“You know me. I’m as obedient as they come. I’d never do something you didn’t permit.”

“First of all,” says Valeriy, but then he evidently thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. Damn. If only he weren’t so well-trained; Mitya sometimes wishes he’d get mad, really mad, maybe snap at him and finally unleash all that pent-up anger he surely has—but perhaps he saves all that for after work hours. “Well, the point is, I am permitting it.”

Mitya’s eyebrows fly into his hair. “What?”

“Not frequently,” Valeriy says hastily, but the damage is already done. “But if you must visit the theater for—for personal reasons, I’ll simply come pick you up after the show’s conclusion.”

Wow. He must have had a fabulous lay last night or something because he’s never this nice. Mitya should send a fruit basket to whoever managed to dislodge that stick from up his ass. “I won’t argue with that.”

Valeriy takes him loosely by the wrist, much more gently than usual, and begins the well-worn walk back.

“Thank you,” Mitya blurts, before he loses his nerve.

Valeriy says nothing. He walks slightly faster.

Maybe he didn’t hear him. But Mitya’s not going to say it again, so they return in silence.

***

Two days pass. Mitya, despite his best efforts, hasn’t managed to convince himself he hallucinated it all. He decides to put it to the test.

“I’m going to the ballet,” he tells the administrator. “If Valeriy comes by, tell him I’m there. In fact, if he doesn’t come within an hour or two, send someone to find him and make sure he knows.”

She looks at him skeptically. “You’ve got one hell of a masochistic streak.”

Mitya buttons his cloak and smiles. “Not at all. I’m testing a hypothesis.”

The administrator evidently gives up. “Have fun, I guess.”

So Mitya goes to Korolevskiy Theater, finds himself a good aisle seat in case he has to flee quickly, and waits.

He’s seen this ballet before, but Odette is dressed slightly differently this time. Although she’s performing the same part—a mysterious woman keeping two lovers at once—her character seems entirely different. The first time, Mitya was certain she was using them both for their money, fighting to gain some independence. This time he gets the feeling she actually cares for both lovers, and that she’s genuinely conflicted when she breaks both of their hearts.

This is why he keeps returning to the theater. The inspiration doesn’t come from the performance itself, but from the ways that the performance changes. Odette, like all of Snezhnaya, is supremely adaptable. Mitya, too, is chasing adaptability. Their energy crisis changes constantly, and the worse it gets, the more he’s certain that the only way they’ll weather this storm is to find a new energy source entirely.

But every time he tries to explain this to Valeriy, he seems lost. He always gets stuck on the part where watching the ballet is helpful to his work process. Says something about science and art being separate disciplines. Shows how little he knows—Mitya himself was actually studying literature before he became an engineer. And isn’t the school of mechanical engineering in Sumeru also responsible for architecture…?

Someone in the theater sneezes. The warning signal! Mitya practically jumps out of his seat, but realizes it wasn’t an usher at all. Just one of the patrons.

Huh. Maybe Valeriy really isn’t coming.

He enjoys the rest of the show without interruption. He even stays in the theater afterwards, watching the crowds thin out, listening to them praise the show. A tragic love story, this time, rather than a struggle for individuality. How interesting.

When he finally emerges into the lobby, Valeriy is waiting. He’s standing in a corner of the lobby, looking supremely awkward in his armor. In one hand, he’s clutching a small paperback, and he’s doing a very poor job of pretending to read it. It’s obvious that he’s scanning the crowd, his eyes restless.

Mitya walks right up to him. “Hello, Sarge,” he says, slightly on edge. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I assume you heard I was at the theater?”

Valeriy doesn’t bother with small talk. “Are you ready to return?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

They walk for a minute. Valeriy keeps looking at him sideways, then looking away again. He’s still holding the book in one hand, so he doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t manhandle him, doesn’t even keep that loose hold.

Funny. He usually takes every measure to make sure Mitya doesn’t run away again.

“What’s on your mind?” Mitya asks. He contemplates kicking him, or bumping their shoulders together on-purpose-on-accident, but thinks better of it.

“Nothing,” Valeriy lies, quite badly.

He doesn’t even have the decency to tell the truth. This is where they stand, he supposes. Mitya sighs through his nose. Though he isn’t cold, he tugs his cloak closer to his shoulders.

“Isn’t it painful?” Valeriy says suddenly. “To—watch her dance, from so far away?”

“What?” Mitya nearly laughs. Is he talking about the ballet? “Of course not. It’s an honor to watch her perform. I’m a regular admirer, and I’m just happy to be part of the crowd.”

Valeriy looks at him for a long, long moment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mitya says. “I’ll start thinking you’re jealous.”

Valeriy stumbles in his heavy shoes. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But his eyes don’t stray from the horizon even a little, like he’s putting all his focus into not making eye contact.

“Hmm,” Mitya says, amused. “At least tell me what you were reading. I studied literature once upon a time, you know? Back when I was young and beautiful.”

Valeriy closes his eyes and inhales slowly. He says nothing.

“Where are your manners? You’re supposed to say that I’m beautiful now,” Mitya tells him. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

“You know very well that you are beautiful,” Valeriy says.

Mitya’s mind, usually racing ahead of itself, trips and stumbles and falls about eight steps behind. He’d been joking—well, mostly—he’d been mostly joking. Perhaps.

“Frostwind Prince.”

Mitya blinks several times. “What?”

In response, Valeriy shows him the paperback. It’s a small, mass-produced copy of Frostwind Prince, a classic Mondstadt novel. Mitya’s heard of it, but never read it. All he knows is that this novel in particular is very popular with women. Women who like to imagine becoming the Frostwind Princess, to put it delicately. “You’re reading this?”

“I’ve been told it’s a compelling political drama. It comes highly recommended by my subordinates.”

By the ones who are into men, probably. Mitya decides to push his luck. “Are you enjoying it so far? You seemed downright engrossed in the theater.”

Valeriy either doesn’t notice the sarcasm, or doesn’t care enough to acknowledge it. “It’s an engaging book. The prince is powerful, but restrained by both his emotional and political ties. I enjoy his approach to this dilemma.”

Of course he’s thinking about it like a military strategy class. Some things never change. “I hate to ruin your innocence, but most people read this novel for a different reason.”

Valeriy frowns. “You mean those who sympathize with the antagonist?”

“…” says Mitya.

“I find him disagreeable, but I can understand their perspective,” says Valeriy.

Mitya sighs. “Never mind… Hey, while we’re on the way back, do you mind if I stop by the Floating Bear?”

“That’s a bar.”

“I’m aware.”

“You want to drink alcohol,” Valeriy says. “On the clock.”

“They do call it liquid inspiration.”

Valeriy scrubs a hand over his face. “When I agreed to let you go to the theater, it was not blanket permission to do as you please. Come along.” He grabs Mitya’s wrist and hauls him faster in the direction of his laboratory.

“Fantastic,” Mitya says, mostly to himself. “So we’re back to manhandling. Would you mind being a bit gentler? These wrists keep the city warm, you know. It would be so terrible if the heating line to your apartment broke because my poor, delicate wrists were too weak to fix it.”

“You have lab assistants,” Valeriy points out. “Multiple of them, in fact. I’m sure their wrists would prove adequate in a time of crisis.” But he loosens his grip, and slides his hand up, so he’s not putting pressure on Mitya’s joints anymore.

Huh. Maybe he’s secretly a bit sweet, underneath it all. Mitya smiles.

“Don’t look so pleased,” Valeriy mutters. “I’m not taking you to the Floating Bear. You’re welcome to go out after work hours, once you’ve got free time.”

“You’re one to talk. Don’t the soldiers’ company drink on the clock like there’s no tomorrow?”

Valeriy’s brow furrows slightly. “I don’t drink.”

Mitya stares at him. “You don’t?”

“No.” Valeriy slightly on his feet. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

Wait. Why is he surprised? This explains so much about Valeriy’s personality. No wonder he’s always covered from head to toe—he never has firewater to warm him up. Mitya doesn’t drink much either; his face flushes the minute he gets alcohol in his system, which is basically a social death sentence in Snezhnograd. But at least he knows that the occasional indulgence never hurt anyone.

“You’re too quiet,” Valeriy says. “I don’t like it.”

Mitya snaps back to it. He puts on his most charming smile. “Don’t worry about me. I was only lost in thought.”

“Hmm,” says Valeriy suspiciously.

Yes. That settles it. He needs to loosen up, and Mitya has just the thing.

***

“Why on earth,” Valeriy says loudly, from the laboratory doorway.

Mitya puts down his pencil and sits up straight. “Good afternoon, Sarge. What might I help you with today? As you’ll see, I’ve been perfectly well-behaved. I’m hard at work.” He motions to his desk, where he’s been reviewing one of his assistants’ ideas for a water-powered battery.

“Then why,” Valeriy snaps, “are there a dozen male strippers at my office?”

“Not just any male strippers,” Mitya says cheerfully. “The Waterbridge Troupe! They’re very well-known, you know. A bit classier than the usual type. The gentleman’s choice, I’d say.”

Valeriy breathes out heavily. He stalks over to Mitya’s desk. “So it was you.”

“Of course it wasn’t!” Mitya puts up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “You think I have the money to hire the Waterbridge Troupe? All dozen of them, too…”

Valeriy slams his hands down on the desk. “Don’t bullshit me. It was you.”

“It wasn’t. Check my bank statements.”

“You—!” Valeriy huffs in frustration. He ducks his head. “You insist on doing these ludicrous things. When you know that I—” Here he cuts himself off abruptly, and goes pale. Alarmingly pale.

Mitya leans forward, touching his forehead gently. “You’re looking a bit out of sorts there. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of sex workers. It’s not like they’ll bite. Well—let me amend that. The Waterbridge Troupe are classy, so they won’t bite. But if you want to be bitten, I’m sure there’s a market for that.”

Valeriy makes an anguished sound. He grabs Mitya’s hand from his forehead and slams it back down onto the desk.

Mitya’s pulse jumps. He tries to tug his hand back. No dice. Damn—the Army Major is stronger than the scientist. Who would have guessed? “So no biting,” he tries. “Um, Sarge?”

“God,” Valeriy mutters, and suddenly he looks ten-years-tired. He lets go of Mitya’s hand. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Mitya says, smiling up at him. “I’m well-behaved, well-spoken, intelligent, and beautiful. Did I mention well-behaved?”

Valeriy gives him a look. “You sent twelve male strippers to my office.”

Mitya throws up his hands. “I didn’t!” This is technically true. If they’re splitting hairs, Vodyanitsa did the ordering of the male strippers. Mitya simply asked her to do it. (He knew spending all his money on the special limited-edition Vodyanitsa mermaid collection merchandise would pay off! Connections, baby!)

Valeriy’s jaw visibly tenses.

Mitya puts on his most innocent eyes. “I live on a scientist’s salary. Don’t you know how expensive strippers are?”

“No,” says Valeriy pointedly. “I don’t. Because I have never purchased their services.”

Well, that makes one of them. Mitya’s bought himself a pole dance after a tough week quite a few times. Usually more to witness good dancing than for sexual gratification. His appreciation of the arts extends beyond the theater. “I suppose that makes sense.” Mitya waves vaguely at Valeriy’s whole tall-dark-handsome deal. “Looking like that, surely you can get laid without getting your wallet out.”

Out of nowhere, Valeriy goes statue-still.

“Yes, yes, it’s inappropriate work discussion,” Mitya fills in for him. “You came here asking about sex workers. Excuse me for assuming we’re past the need for decorum.”

“Decorum,” Valeriy repeats to himself. He sounds faint. In fact, he looks a little faint. He’s still pale, too.

Maybe he needs to lie down. Mitya’s not a jerk, so he offers a solution. “Should I escort you home?”

Valeriy’s eyes snap to him. “What?”

“Forget it. I’ve got a bed in the other office.” He holds out his hand. “I’ll take you there. You can get settled and—”

Valeriy inhales sharply. “Mitya,” he says coldly. “Stop.”

Mitya pauses. He’s never actually heard Valeriy use his name before, not like this. Not to him. Not so directly. It makes his face warm for some reason. “Stop what?”

For a long, torturous moment, Valeriy just looks at him. His gaze is piercing, unavoidable. It pins Mitya in place even more effectively than his hands do. At last he says, “All of this. The—the games you’re playing. Please.”

“Games?” Mitya says incredulously. “I’m not playing games with you. I’m always honest.”

“Are you?”

Suddenly Mitya’s voice dies in his throat. He’d been intending to deny, deny, deny; to keep Valeriy guessing, the same way he always does. But it’s hard, now, to find anything to say that won’t taste like a lie.

Valeriy’s eyes harden. “Good day, Mitya,” he says, and he walks out.

Mitya watches him go. When the door clicks shut behind him, the sound tolls like a clock tower bell. Five o’clock. Work’s over.

Funny: now Mitya could go to the theater as much as he wanted, could go out drinking and dancing and get up to as much mischief as he liked—and yet somehow, when he imagines it, all the fun seems to bleed away. He doesn’t want to run, if he can’t look back and know that Valeriy’s the one chasing him.

***

Games. Mitya will show him games.

***

“You’re getting predictable,” Valeriy’s voice says from behind him. He sounds disappointed.

Mitya turns around on his bar stool. “Oh! How nice to see you. Care for a drink?”

“No. Stop that.” He swipes the drink from Mitya’s hand and examines it, suspicious.

“It’s ginger beer.”

Valeriy sniffs it.

“You can give it a taste,” Mitya says, motioning vaguely with his hand. “I’d like to prove my innocence as thoroughly as possible.”

Valeriy gives him a look. “Innocence,” he mutters distastefully. With a look of resignation, he takes a small sip.

“See?”

“Hmm.” Valeriy takes another sip. His expression doesn’t change. Then, just for good measure, he downs the whole glass and slams it down on the counter. “Let’s go.”

“How’d you like it? The ginger beer has a nice, strong flavor. You can’t even taste the double shot of firewater.”

Valeriy drops the glass. The ice spills everywhere on the counter.

Mitya grins. He tosses a twenty-thousand mora coin across the counter, calls, “Keep the change,” and then he runs.

Valeriy blinks. He’s probably surprised. Mitya hasn’t run from him in ages, not since they had just met and were still dancing around each other. Before they settled into their respective roles. These days there’s no running, no pretending. But tonight, Mitya’s just getting started.

“Hey!” Valeriy yells, pushing through the bar crowd. “Hey—Mitya!”

A thrill races down Mitya’s spine that has very little to do with the drinks he’s been downing. “Sarge,” he calls back, beaming. “Won’t you do your job and catch me?”

And he takes off.

The reason he usually doesn’t run is because Valeriy is, of course, faster. But there’s an important caveat to that—he’s faster in a fair contest. Here in the city’s party district, where there’s a thousand people drinking at any hour of the day, Valeriy is hopeless. He’s too much of a gentleman to shove people out of the way. And, Mitya’s guessing, too uptight to follow him here.

So Mitya ducks into the busiest nightclub—or afternoonclub, maybe, given that the sun’s still up—in town, and weaves his way through the crowd.

He’s not expecting Valeriy to come in. Or if he does, he’s expecting him to stand in the doorway ominously like a shitty bouncer.

What he isn’t expecting is for Valeriy to come barreling in so fast that he nearly knocks over four women in a row. He apologizes to them, of course, and they forgive him the minute they see his handsome face, of course, but—but he ran into them. Because he was that focused.

Mitya spares a moment to wonder if he’s in over his head.

Valeriy stalks up to him. “You,” he says, lower than usual.

“How rude,” Mitya says, instead of responding. He backs up, just slightly, keeping himself out of arms’ reach. “Those poor girls were just trying to enjoy their time together.”

Valeriy must recognize the poor attempt to change the subject, because he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Come back with me.”

“I’m not feeling very cooperative today, Sarge.”

“I’ve noticed,” Valeriy mutters. He inhales deeply. The heat of the club must be getting to him. “Nevertheless, we both must do our jobs. Come back.”

This is his moment. Heart pounding, Mitya holds out his hand.

Valeriy looks at it like it’s a foreign object. Slowly, he reaches out and takes it. Not like he’s trying to drag him away, but… with his palm. Like a dance partner.

Mitya takes a breath, and drags him forward through the mass of people.

Valeriy yelps as they weave between people. “I—excuse me—sorry—pardon—”

“You’re apologizing to the beat,” Mitya yells back, exhilarated. They’re close to the music now, and it’s loud and resounding and making him bolder than usual. “You’ve got a good sense of timing, hm?”

“As do all military men. It’s a necessary part of our training.”

“You dork,” Mitya says, and then he finally closes that arm’s-length distance between them and slides Valeriy’s hand down to his waist so they can dance like normal people, like normal god damn people, because they’re normal god damn people—

Valeriy’s grip tightens.

Mitya hisses. “Shit! You’re strong, you know that?”

Valeriy looks at him with dry amusement. “Military man.”

“I just want to dance,” Mitya says, looking at him with his big eyes. He tries to struggle free of his hold. It doesn’t work, because it never works.

Valeriy spares a moment to look sorry. Then he absolutely obliterates the tender moment they were sharing by physically picking him up and throwing him practically over his shoulder. And dragging him out of the club again, keeping that bruising grip.

At last he sets Mitya down outside the entrance, a fair distance away.

“Fuck,” Mitya complains, rubbing his sore side. He’s partially trying to dispel the pain, and partially trying to regain his balance after that criminally attractive display of strength. “That hurt.”

Valeriy sighs. “I wouldn’t have to resort to my extreme measures if you didn’t resort to yours.”

Mitya glares at him. But he’s not about to let an entirely valid point about equal and opposite reactions stop him. He’s got a game to play. So he pulls together the stellar swirl beacon on the corner of the block, and leaps onto the roof.

Valeriy stares up at him, looking baffled. He looks at the beacon, then at the edge of the tiles, and shakes his head faintly.

“Come on!” Mitya calls, already exhilarated. “Don’t you want to live a little?”

Valeriy’s mouth twists. He looks up, toward the light. Toward Mitya.

Mitya runs.

He knows it’s only a matter of time until Valeriy catches him, really. It’s always been that way. But this, he thinks, is the fun part. The part where he has a moment of victory, even when he knows it’ll all be shattered. The part where he thinks, Maybe this time will be the one.

But he makes it to the end of the block’s rooftops, and Valeriy doesn’t follow.

Huh. Maybe he’s taking a different approach? But there’s no one on the horizon. It’s just him up here. Him and the setting sun, falling below the rooftops.

Delicately, he makes his way back to the end of the block. Valeriy is still standing there, staring at the ground like he owes it money. “Hey, Sarge?” When there’s no response, he tries again: “Valeriy?”

“You may run,” he says, toneless. “Run as far as you like.”

“But—you’re supposed to follow me,” Mitya says, a little pathetically.

Valeriy looks up at him, finally. “Work hours are over. You may do as you please. I have no control over you anymore.”

“What if I’d like you to follow me anyway?”

Valeriy sighs so heavily that Mitya can hear it even from the rooftop. He uses the same stellar swirl beacon and rises to the roof’s level. His shoes scuff the edge of the tiles, but Mitya reaches out and holds him steady. He climbs up easily.

For a moment they just stand there, staring at each other, or perhaps through each other. The setting sun makes Valeriy’s already-strange eyes look even darker, like they should belong to a fighting animal and not a man.

“I apologize,” says Valeriy at last. He turns to the sky, not looking at him. “I feel ill. Perhaps this is the effect of the alcohol.”

Mitya laughs. “It really was just ginger beer. I’d never get you drunk like that—I’m not an asshole.”

“Oh,” says Valeriy. He must not have a proper response to that, because he closes his eyes.

They’re not looking at each other, then. Mitya gives up and turns toward the sunset too, so they’re side-by-side instead of facing each other. “I drank quite a bit before you arrived, though,” he admits. “I thought you’d only take half an hour. My drinking pace was not designed for your slow pace.”

Valeriy opens his eyes to glare at him.

“Aha! There you are,” Mitya says, amused. “I knew you were in there somewhere.”

But just as quickly as it had appeared, the spark in Valeriy’s eyes vanishes again. His posture, normally so perfect, has tilted into something uneven. “Ah. You’re quite drunk, then?”

“I’m not not drunk.” Come to think of it, he’s sure that his face is flushed red from the earlier drinking. Maybe it has been this whole time. “What does that have to do with anything? Like you said, it’s after work hours. You don’t have to chase me down anymore.”

The reminder makes Valeriy look inexplicably depressed.

“Never mind,” Mitya says, gentler than usual. He tries something easier, something closer to their well-worn usual. “Why don’t you take me home? I’m sure I’d be safer with an escort like you.”

“I can’t,” Valeriy says stiffly.

“Of course you can. You hauled me out of the club, no problem.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“Because I—” Valeriy inhales. “I’m always escorting you to work. Not to your home. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes.”

Mitya frowns up at him. He examines Valeriy’s face closely, looking for something. Anything.

Valeriy looks back at him with his fighting-beast eyes, and Mitya makes up his mind. He leans closer, close enough that he can almost smell the leather-oil on Valeriy’s gauntlets. He tilts his head and looks up with his sweetest eyes. And then he waits.

And waits.

Valeriy lets go of him.

Mitya’s footing seems unsteady all of a sudden. “Sarge?”

“I have to go,” Valeriy says abruptly, and then he really does just—leap off the roof. And leave.

If this were a movie, Mitya would be able to watch him run away, watch his unsteady feet as he stumbles back home, disoriented. But in real life the setting sun blinds him too strongly to see much of anything. Even if he could see, he’s sure Valeriy would disappear into the crowds sooner or later. The only way to see him again would be to chase him, and they both know Mitya’s not the one who does the chasing.

Mitya sits on the edge of the roof, his feet dangling. He huffs, and his breath comes out as a cloud before his face. He wishes he’d brought his cloak. Now he’s sitting here in the cold night, all by himself, with only the vast city for company.

Their relationship’s always been fragile. Mitya, like any scientist, figured that pushing it would temper it. Now he walks home, drunk and alone, and wonders where it all went wrong.

***

Mitya wakes to the smell of something burning, which is absolutely terrifying given that he lives alone and also that he went to sleep nude, so if he leaves the apartment the neighbors are going to get a grand view of his full frontal. He yelps, leaps out of bed, cringes at the light because he’s still the vaguest bit hungover, and yelps again upon noticing his own nudity.

“Okay,” he says aloud, just to hype himself up. “This is fine.” At least the burning smell hasn’t gotten worse. That has to be a good sign, right? That it’s not worsening?

He throws on a satin nightgown and a lined housecoat, and prepares to face the world.

“Hello,” says The World, who is apparently Valeriy.

Mitya blinks. He blinks again. Then, for good measure, he rubs his eyes. It doesn’t change the image he’s seeing: Valeriy, standing in his kitchen, awkward and tall and fully-dressed except for his shoes, which he has politely replaced with guest slippers. “What,” he says blearily, “the fuck?”

Valeriy actually drops everything. He bows his head. “I came to apologize. My behavior last night was entirely unacceptable.”

“Okay…?” says Mitya.

“It was wrong of me to leave you like that,” Valeriy continues, all in a rush. He’s talking louder than usual, like he wants the whole country to know that he was wrong. “I knew you were potentially unwell, and left you to fend for yourself, even after you specifically asked me to escort you safely home.”

“I get it,” Mitya says, though he doesn’t get it at all. “Would you mind walking me through the steps that led to you breaking into my house at—” He pauses to check the clock. “Eleven in the—eleven in the morning? Is it that late?”

“I didn’t break in. I have an emergency keycard to all the scientists’ apartments.”

That might actually be worse. “Why didn’t I know that? No—don’t answer that.” Better Valeriy than someone who might exploit that power. If he got into a scientist’s apartment, he’d probably just make their bed, tidy their kitchen, and leave. “Explain the burning part,” Mitya requests. “That seems more important.”

“Oh.” Valeriy has the grace to blush. “I’m… not very good at cooking.”

Mitya stares at him.

“I wanted to bring breakfast, to lend the apology some material weight. But I fear I left my wallet at work in my rush to find you yesterday, and my office is locked on the weekends. So I decided to make something instead. However, you have absolutely nothing edible in your apartment.”

“Excuse you. I’m very edible.”

Valeriy stares at him, perplexed. “What?”

This fucking guy. “Never mind,” Mitya mutters. Sometimes he forgets that Valeriy is a turbo prude. It’s so unfair that he’s this clueless when he walks around like sex on legs every god damn day. “Carry on.”

“In any case, I attempted to piece something together with the contents of your pantry. It did not go well.”

Mitya sighs. Despite his best efforts, a little bit of fondness creeps in. “I still don’t see why you have to apologize. I got home just fine, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I let you down,” Valeriy says. “That is unacceptable, no matter how compromising the situation.”

Mitya feels his face heat up. Letting him down makes it sound so serious. “We’ve established that I was perfectly alright.”

“Still—”

“Wait,” Mitya interrupts, squinting. “What do you mean, compromising? Compromising for whom?”

Valeriy looks at him like he’s the weird one. “For you.”

Mitya laughs. “Valeriy, I once had intimate relations with a Zapolyarny Palace guard in the palace gardens. And we got caught. If you think anything is compromising after that—”

“I do not mind your past,” Valeriy says loudly. Poor guy; he’s probably busy having an aneurysm at the thought that public sex is a real thing people do. “But I would not want to jeopardize your position with Miss Odette.”

Mitya’s laughter grinds to a halt. “With—huh?”

“Your relationship. Or… courtship, rather. With Miss Odette.”

His what? Oh, so Valeriy’s really lost it this time. He waves a hand in front of Valeriy’s face. “Hello?”

“Stop that,” Valeriy says, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “Don’t act as though this is news. I was there when you initiated the courtship. You even told me the letter was well-received.”

“The—oh my god,” Mitya says, incredulous. “The letter? You mean the—” He groans into his hands. “Listen, that was written by Vodyanitsa.”

This only increases Valeriy’s confusion. “Miss Vodyanitsa is courting Miss Odette?”

“Well, no,” says Mitya, because he doesn’t feel like explaining the concept of shippers and fan clubs and also the horde of people who draw Vodyanitsa and Odette kissing passionately and sell it at secret meetings for exorbitant sums. Meetings which he has not been to. He knows this for no particular reason. “Anyway,” he says, coughing awkwardly. “That was a letter from Vodyanitsa to me. It had nothing to do with Odette.”

“…Miss Vodyanitsa is courting you?”

Mitya looks at him flatly. “Valeriy, look at me. I’m in a housecoat and a satin nightgown. I just told you I had relations with a man. What about any of that suggests that I’d be courting a woman?”

“Technically, she’d be courting you,” says Valeriy, because he’s an incurable asshole.

“Semantics. No women will be courting me, and I’ll be courting no women. In fact—” Mitya inhales and gathers his meager courage. “I’ve been rather hoping that a certain man I know would do the honors, instead.”

Valeriy looks slightly ill. “I see. I wish you well with your—other courtship, then.”

Mitya heaves a world-weary sigh. He really has to do everything around here. “Fool. It’s you.”

“Oh,” says Valeriy, and then he says nothing else.

They stare at each other for a moment. The stove sputters and makes an ominous noise behind them. Valeriy clears his throat.

“This is the part where you ask to court me,” Mitya informs him.

Valeriy frowns. “I have yet to adequately establish myself to you. Also, I have no money with me to pay for the courtship dues. And no stationery. I must obtain stationery.”

He’s so weird. Mitya’s met a few gentlemen in his time, and a good number of romantics, but he’s never met someone quite like Valeriy. “This isn’t necessary.”

“You like stationery,” Valeriy says, ignoring him. “And you like perfume, but can’t ordinarily wear it because of laboratory restrictions.” He pauses thoughtfully for a moment. “Would you like me to start wearing perfume?”

Mitya snorts. “You? You work in the barracks. You’d get ripped apart.”

“I would not,” says Valeriy, with terrifying confidence, and—okay, yeah, he’s pretty big and he’s pretty strong and also that’s pretty sexy, the confidence part.

“Alright,” Mitya says. “That way I could smell you coming, and the poor ushers wouldn’t have to sneeze every time they notice you coming down the aisle.”

“What?”

Shit. “Nothing,” Mitya says, too sweetly. “As long as you continue allowing me blanket access to the theater, I don’t see this becoming a problem.”

Valeriy suddenly looks embarrassed. “Ah. The theater access was… hm. It was because I assumed you were courting Miss Odette. Given that we live in the city of romance, I would be a hypocrite to prevent you from seeing her. But since we have established that you are not, in fact, courting her…”

Mitya puts on his widest, most pathetic eyes. “Please?”

Valeriy does not budge at all.

“You don’t understand,” Mitya tells him, sighing dramatically. He puts his elbows on the kitchen counter and leans forward. “The theater is my place of inspiration, Valeriy.”

Valeriy’s eyes slip down. He visibly swallows. “Your—coat,” he says, a little hoarse.

Mitya grins. He’s pulled this trick before, with an extremely high success rate. It’s a coy trick he picked up from old Fontainian noir movies. There’s always some gorgeous woman who lets her robe slip, revealing a scandalous sliver of shoulder, and then the film’s actual plot goes on pause in favor of an intense but tasteful sex scene involving a lot of artistically vague shots.

But of course it doesn’t work on Valeriy. He just reaches out and fixes the housecoat, buttoning it at his collarbones. When he finishes, he nods appropriately, looking satisfied. It’s almost disheartening.

“Really,” says Mitya. “You’re making me feel like I’ve lost all my charm. Don’t you have any desire to see me without my clothes?”

He’s expecting Valeriy to blush and splutter here, like the inexperienced fool he is. Instead Valeriy looks right at him and says, “Of course I do.”

All out of words, Mitya flushes.

“But I’d like it to be meaningful, so I’m inclined to wait. For now, you’ll do well to keep your coat buttoned. It’s cold.”

Weirdly, this feels ten times sweeter than the responses Mitya had imagined he might give. “Alright. I can do that.”

They stand in his kitchen in silence for another minute. Valeriy stares at him, but it’s a nice sort of staring, like he’s studying a sculpture in a museum. Mitya’s afraid to breathe, afraid to let the statue come to life. He sits there and lets himself be studied, and it’s not so bad, not so bad at all.

At last Valeriy inhales and looks away. “How would you like to get breakfast? Without me burning anything.”

Mitya raises his eyebrows. “I thought you left your wallet?”

“Oh. That I did.” Valeriy looks embarrassed. He shifts on his feet.

“Never mind,” Mitya says, shaking his head. “I’ll pay. Come on—I know a place.”

“You said your scientist’s salary was meager.”

Mitya makes a vague shrug-adjacent motion with his hands. “It’s meager for a man who likes to wear jeweled capes and drink imported Sumerian coffee.”

“Which is to say, not meager at all.”

Mitya smiles. He taps Valeriy’s shoulder fondly. “I can afford breakfast, at least. Would you like to watch while I change into my day clothes?”

The squeak Valeriy makes is totally worth the shit he’s going to get later. Mitya grins at his door long after it’s closed.

The day’s ahead of him, and he’s ready to chase it.

***

Sunday’s matinee is sold out. Mitya gets them tickets anyway, because he knows people. (Definitely not people from the underground Vodyanitsa-and-Odette-kissing-passionately art markets. Why would he know them?) He brings Valeriy into the theater proudly. The ushers look at him like he’s crazy and start frantically fake-sneezing. Mitya signals them for about five minutes before they finally get the memo and stop it.

The show is fantastic. It’s the same show about the young woman with two lovers, but somehow Odette plays it differently yet again. This time it’s not a tragedy at all. Instead, she chooses herself above both lovers, and when she breaks their hearts, she earns her freedom. She dances like she’s learning how to swim, after treading water for so long.

The curtain falls, and Mitya claps so hard his hands hurt. Funny, how the same words can mean a thousand different things.

The show is their first real date. Sort of. Breakfast on Saturday spiraled into lunch spiraled into a museum trip spiraled into dinner at street carts, which meant he crashed at Valeriy’s place, which meant they woke up and got brunch together, and they had mimosas—as in, Valeriy drank the orange juice and Mitya drank the champagne—and then they went to the matinee. So it is, technically, hour thirty-something of their first date.

“What did you think?” Mitya says, his hand on Valeriy’s arm. “Do you understand why I like it so much?”

“I am beginning to see the appeal,” Valeriy says, which is practically a glowing review coming from him. “Miss Odette is very talented.”

Mitya does a victorious mental dance. “She truly is,” he agrees. Now to get Valeriy to come to another show, then another, and then he’ll be hooked before he knows it…

“I was already well aware of this, of course,” Valeriy continues. “But I did not know her cover as a ballet dancer was so legitimate. I thought she only used this ballet position as a cover for her assassination work. I’m delighted to be proven wrong.”

Mitya’s mouth falls open. “Wait a moment. Her what?”