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The metal soles of Valeriy’s boots clank against the frozen stone steps. His steady breathing is familiar and a constant for Mitya so the slight hitch in Valeriy’s breath, just shy of a quick gasp, sounds like an alarm in Mitya’s mind.
“Is something the matter?” Mitya asks.
The rhythmic clanking comes to a stop. Valeriy turns crisply on his heels, leaving a perfect half-circle in the snow. Mitya couldn’t have drawn one more accurately with a compass.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Mitya scoffs. “I’m confused. And frustrated by a distinct lack of information. It’s really nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes experiments don’t go the way you want them to.”
“You’re not trying to run away.” Valeriy looks past the frosted hedges at valley below them. Steam from an arriving train whistles up from the tracks, dissipating in the increasingly-heavy snow. “Which means you’ve reached a conclusion that you don’t like.”
Mitya’s grip on his notebook tightens. He lifts his head from where he had been staring at the path leading towards the Armory Palace and follows Valeriy’s gaze into the storm. “I ran away this morning,” he says airily, waving his hand through the air for good measure.
A low sound of disagreement rumbles at the back of Valeriy’s throat and Mitya’s lips curl up into a triumphant smile. Any day he can crack Valeriy’s composure is a good day and it happens less lately, with Mitya’s increased workload around Project Mistilteinn. Sighing, Mitya pokes at the cloud of condensation lingering in the air around his mouth. His finger moves through it easily, picking up snowflakes that melt when they hit the fabric of his gloves.
“You’re not running away now,” Valeriy says.
Perhaps it’s that simple for Valeriy. The less Mitya resists, the easier it is for him to do his job. He collects Mitya from wherever Mitya has escaped to, escorts him to the Armory Palace, and waits outside, standing guard until Mitya is done.
Mitya lowers his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.
As long as Valeriy doesn’t enter, he won’t be afflicted by the amnesia affecting Mitya and his researchers.
Mitya isn’t looking forward to losing more of his memories and progress today. This cycle they’re trapped in is always at its worst when he’s on the cusp of a breakthrough, and he hasn’t been able to ascertain the cause. Notes he vaguely recalls taking during moments of inspiration disappear, wasting the precious resources and time. Discontented rumblings from the Snezhnograd Veche — never mind the bitter anger of the general populace — grow with every round of votes and Mitya knows that Pulcinella won’t be able to hold them off forever.
They have every right to be infuriated.
Briefly, he imagines explaining all of this to Valeriy: the fainting at moments of inspiration or success, missing gaps in his memory, their utter lack of progress.
Mitya’s utter failure.
“Do you believe in curses, Valera?” Mitya opens his mouth to ask when a gust of wind blows his scarf over his face. Choking on fabric and snow, he laughs to himself.
“Some other time then,” he says wryly. The chill, like cold fingers, grazes his neck between the shelter of his collar and his overgrown hair. He shivers. His scarf returns to blowing in the wind behind him with a quick affirmative gesture.
“Did you say something?”
Mitya looks up to see the wall of Valeriy’s back towering in front of him as if a threat to his life had suddenly appeared. Snow blows around the dark shape of Valeriy’s body without a single flake landing on Mitya’s coat. “I was going to ask if you believe in curses, Sarge.”
“No.” The misapplied rank falls away easily and unaddressed. Valeriy doesn’t even acknowledge it anymore, which means less fun for Mitya. He’s pinned by Valeriy’s indifference to his teasing, which came on much more quickly than Mitya would have liked.
“Not even one single fae tale?”
Valeriy’s cloak flutters behind him. With the snow tousling his dark hair, medals decorating his military sash, and purple irises burning through the swirling snow, he looks like a fae prince from Mitya’s childhood stories.
“No.”
***
The cold stone underneath his cheek welcomes him back to life. Groaning, Mitya scrapes himself off of the floor. Around him, the murmurs of his research team regaining consciousness fill the room. At the centre, Mistilteinn gleams, despite its lack of energy.
Another failure.
His cravat threatens to choke him and Mitya scrabbles at the fabric, tugging it away from his neck as the ends of his scarf, like fingers, join in. His pin slips out of its knot, clattering onto the floor. Without anything to hold it in place, his cravat unfurls into a dirty piece of fabric hanging around his neck.
Mitya exhales.
Soon he’s scribbling down the meagre results from his experiment.
—lost another 2.5 kg of Kresnik Kristall (renegotiate with Novokitezhgrad)
—similar interruption and loss of time to past three experiments
—Mistilteinn inoperable
—attempted power density formula is as follows:
V0I0
xyz
Tapping his pen against an empty page, Mitya glances at the output screen flickering next to him.
It’s completely blank.
***
“So prove it,” Mitya says. He leans over the table, taking care that the sleeves of his coat don’t fall into his plate of sweets or his tea. “Prove to me that you exist.”
Hand freezing mid-air, teacup in hand, Valeriy blinks. “What?” He sucks in his lips as if the tea he’s drinking tastes like the sour pastilles Mitya pawns off on him from time to time. When he grimaces, his mouth shines with saliva and tea.
Mitya shifts in his chair and crosses his legs. He hears the soft rustling of his scarf making some sort of motion through the air but resists the urge to look away from Valeriy. “Often, scientific discovery requires working backwards by calculating known properties to prove the comparatively unknown as known.”
Valeriy’s expression doesn’t change. The only indication that he’s heard Mitya at all is an imperceptible twitch above his left eyebrow, half-hidden by his hair.
“You can calculate the absence of something by tracking what does exist around it, thereby proving its measurement in relief,” Mitya continues. These are the simplest terms he can use to explain himself, and while he doesn’t think Valeriy is unintelligent, the Fatui Major is hardly someone who Mitya can see doing even the most rudimentary proof.
Valeriy’s shoulders raise closer to his ears, causing his greatcoat to rustle as it brushes the grey metal pauldron protecting his left arm. Suddenly, the tension ebbs and he stands, placing his hands behind him at attention. Mitya watches, all of his attention focused on solving the problem of Valeriy. He opens his mouth to tease Valeriy more, but Valeriy speaks first.
“I exist, Mitya,” he says, weariness colouring in the edges of his tone. Turning on his heels — another perfectly-executed one-hundred-and-eighty-degree measurement — Valeriy stares ahead at the door. “And so do you. You can always take ire with my continued existence as long as you do your job. You have five minutes to gather yourself before I escort you to the armory.”
The sounds of Podvorye Restaurant roar in Mitya’s ears. Gromov yells something to Smirnov, which vanishes into the general chatter and scraping of forks against plates, teacups against saucers. Mitya swallows. “I don’t take ire from your continued existence,” he whispers, once Valeriy is out of earshot and standing in front of the double doors so Mitya doesn’t escape.
***
Kamera flash still lingering as green spots swimming across his vision, Mitya grins at the familiar steps of Valeriy’s boots. He looks up to see Valeriy — stern and wholly out-of-place at a ballet rehearsal — blocking off the way up the stairs and out of the theatre. Happiness washes over Mitya unexpectedly. In this moment, it hardly matters if his breakthrough while watching Odette’s performance has somehow disappeared, or that Valeriy is here to accompany him to the armory.
The most reliable part of Mitya’s life is Valeriy’s existence.
“Are you quite satisfied, Mister Energy Scientist?” Valeriy says, always following the script they’ve been writing for themselves since his first day on assignment. “I rather hope you don't have any other escape plans to add to my workload today.”
Laughter bubbles up from inside Mitya. The comfort of the exchange grounds him. “What are you talking about, Sarge?” He gestures towards the stage, where the rest of the audience are mingling with the Korolevskiy Troupe. “This was simply my way of inviting you to watch Miss Odette's new show with me.”
It’s their routine. Mitya escapes, forcing Valeriy to accompany him to whatever strikes his fancy in the moment. Weeks ago, over ice cream, Valeriy had stopped protesting and had simply accepted Mitya’s requests, with the understanding that he would always return Mitya to the armory and his work afterwards. “You don’t complain anymore,” Mitya had joked.
Taking a shockingly large bite out of his ice cream that had made Mitya shiver automatically, Valeriy had swallowed and stared at him, stony-faced and still. “If complaining would ensure your compliance, I would complain.” His mouth had stayed open as if he was about to add something to this, but he shook his head instead, biting off half of his cone while waiting for Mitya’s retort.
“And wasn't the performance spectacular,” Mitya says, banishing the memory to the back of his mind. “In the future, I heartily encourage you to take a leaf out of my book. Find some soul-nourishing pastimes to enrich your time outside of work.”
“It was indeed a fine performance. But I must correct you on one point. This is not ‘time outside of work.’ These are working hours.”
Mitya waves off Valeriy’s concern easily with a beaming smile. “Working hours and non-working hours are just a social construct. Human technology can never advance if we're too rigid in our thinking, Sarge.”
“That doesn’t sound like something a scientist should say.”
Eagerly awaiting Valeriy’s repartee, Mitya tilts his head to the side in confusion when Valeriy doesn’t reply immediately as expected.
“May we leave now?”
The curtness of Valeriy’s response nearly has Mitya taking a step towards the stage in shock. He hides his surprise with a sheepish grin as he scratches his neck.
“Already? I mean, I was kinda hoping to soak up the atmosphere for a little longer, but... No?”
He feels the phantom chill of the armory floor caress his cheek. Mitya can’t remember what he wrote down during Odette’s performance, but he recalls the sense of completeness and understanding that flooded him while he scribbled it down. “Okay, guess I'm pushing my luck,” he says, looking up at Valeriy from underneath his eyelashes. It only makes Valeriy grip the sides of his crossed arms more firmly.
“Didn't seem like too much to ask,” Mitya mumbles, “but fair enough. Off we go then, Sarge—”
Valeriy turns sharply and walks up the stairs before Mitya can finish his quip.
***
Fading memories of waking up on the floor of the Armory Palace laboratory flicker through Mitya’s brain. They blend together until he can’t tell whether they’re all a dream, or something that has actually happened to him while developing Mistilteinn, fighting one failure after another.
The more he thinks about his conclusion, the more plausible it becomes, which is a dangerous line of thinking for any discovery, especially if left unchecked.
Fortunately, he has Valeriy.
“Maybe I’m the one who is already dead,” Mitya jokes, staring up at the sealed-off theatre doors, protecting them from the raging snowstorm outside.
His dry laugh cuts off as Valeriy grabs him by the shoulders. Breath hot on Mitya’s cheeks, Valeriy glowers down at Mitya. His fingers tighten underneath the wide blue collar of Mitya’s coat until Mitya gasps from the pain.
He had suspected that Valeriy could kill a man in seconds if the situation called for it, but experiencing the empirical proof of his hypothesis stuns Mitya.
“Major…”
“Stop talking.”
Valeriy often looks stern or disapproving, but rarely furious. Even while threatening Chugunov, his cool demeanour had remained in place.
Currently, he looks like he wants to tear Mitya apart.
Mitya swallows.
This is a Valeriy that Mitya has heard of from his subordinates but, despite his best efforts to annoy and provoke Valeriy while running from him, hasn’t met until now.
“His politeness is something you don’t notice when it’s present, but you’ll definitely notice it when it’s gone,” Stepanyan had told Mitya while Mitya was overseeing a shipment of Kresnik Kristall to the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau in Nod Krai. Mitya had written this off as a subtle dig to how overly-formal Valeriy can be. Despite knowing each other for a while, Valeriy still addresses Mitya properly.
It’s infuriating.
The anger that now flashes through Valeriy’s indigo eyes crackles with electro. “Don’t you ever say that again,” he hisses, the threat somehow more intimidating for how quietly he says it. “You’re the most alive person I know.” Valeriy’s chin juts out, daring Mitya to disagree.
The wind howls, shaking the walls of the theatre. Snowflakes batter the large window beyond the stage.
“My apologies,” Valeriy says, clearing his throat. He ducks his head with a surprising amount of embarrassment as he releases Mitya and steps backwards. His feet remain perfectly parallel to each other, boots shining even in the low light. The tips of his ears, almost entirely concealed by his shaggy dark hair, turn pink. “My temper got the better of me.”
“I…shouldn’t have taken it that far.” Mitya scuffs the toe of his boot against the stage.
“Your apologies leave a lot to be desired, Mister Energy Scientist.”
“However, my hypothesis is still sound,” Mitya replies. “If we take all this together, it’s not impossible. Is it? If anything, it’s the natural conclusion.”
“I beg to differ.” Now on familiar and firm ground, Valeriy looms above him. The corners of his lips curl into a half smile. “This sounds to me like the product of a researcher’s vivid imagination.”
The next morning, Valeriy is dead.
***
“This is my fault,” Mitya says. He keeps his genial smile, beaming around the full Podvorye dining room. His spoon tinkles loudly as it crashes into the sides of his teacup as honey dissolves into his tea. “I should have realized sooner.”
Valeriy raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see how you could have done anything differently,” he says. “You acted as soon as you could.”
Exhaling slowly, Mitya shakes his head. “You of all people would be the first to admit that you lack imagination.”
“I stand by what I said.”
“If I somehow could have verified it sooner…” Mitya trails off, stirring his tea listlessly. “Project Stuzha…”
“You reached an answer as quickly as you could,” Valeriy says. “There’s little point in thinking about what you could have done. It happened and now you move forward. The Tsaritsa is counting on you.”
Mitya sighs. “You make it sound so easy. I can’t come close to a breakthrough without the Ruler of Death cursing everyone in my vicinity.”
“It’s not easy.”
Valeriy’s fingers wrap around the handle of his teacup. A laugh tickles Mitya’s tongue as he takes in the awkwardness of Valeriy’s giant hands holding something so delicate. “But it is simple. I thought scientists appreciated simple, straightforward conclusions over curses and ghost stories.”
Mitya’s loud laugh startles both of them. Tea sloshes out of Valeriy’s cup, staining the white tablecloth. “Was that a joke, Valeriy? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“If you want it to be a joke,” Valeriy replies. His left eyebrow twitches, signalling his usual annoyance. “I was thinking of it more as good advice.” He stands, dusting off his trousers. “You have five minutes to finish your tea. Then we leave for the armory.”
The plane of Valeriy’s back, trimmed by black fur and intricately-woven gold cords, forms a wall in front of Mitya, the picture of vigilance. Mitya raises his hand, tracing the line of Valeriy’s shoulder with his fingertip. He imagines reaching up to cup Valeriy’s chin with his hand, turning Valeriy’s head in his direction. Closing his eyes, he sees Valeriy’s purple irises soften with want and Valeriy’s head bowing so Mitya can reach his lips.
Hands falling into his lap, Mitya blinks and gathers his notebook from the table. “I’m right behind you, sarge.”