Work Text:
1.
Valeriy isn't quite certain of what to expect when he first meets his new charge.
He's told the man is a researcher of great value and renown, of intelligence incomparable. Someone of such high status must certainly be reasonable, he thinks.
But he's also been informed the man is a bit of a 'free spirit', so to speak—All too content to let himself be carried away from his duties by dalliances.
The day of their meeting finally arrives, and Valeriy approaches the man's chambers with a steady gait and steeled resolve.
Courtesy begets him to knock twice, thrice, politely on the door.
A three second wait.
"Coming!" Rings out a ruffled, youthful voice from inside. Another three second wait, and the door finally opens, revealing the identity of the man he will be guarding for the forseeable future.
The man—Dmitri Mendeleev—has tussled, messy hair and a sheepish smile. His coat artificially makes him look larger, though a look at the exposed collar segment makes it clear how small his frame really is.
Off his coat hangs a large… floating, perhaps, scarf, wrapping around his coat in a medium purple only to fade into a bright teal hand that waves at him.
"Hi!" He says. "Sorry for the wait. You must be… The man they assigned to look over me, correct?"
The teal end of his scarf droops, as if in disappointment. Perhaps it's sentient… Hmm. A sentient article of clothing is hardly the strangest thing to exist in Teyvat.
"Indeed." Valeriy nods. "I am Major Valeriy, assigned here to ensure your well-being. I hope the two of us will be able to establish an amicable working relationship, Mister Dmitri."
"Please, call me Mitya," says Dmitri, tugging lightly at his… angry, perhaps, scarf? Valeriy can't exactly say he's used to reading the expressions of a hand-shaped article of clothing. "I really hope I don't give you too much trouble, eheh…"
Though Dmitri— or rather, Mitya, speaks with friendliness, his scarf appears to have significantly less warm feelings on their new workplace relationship.
It is, in fact, so deeply perturbed by Valeriy's presence, that it takes it upon itself to make untowards him a rude gesture.
"H-Hey!" Mitya huffs in protest, grabbing at his scarf. "That isn't- Don't do that! You're making a terrible impression…"
He wrangles the hand under his control, before meeting Valeriy with yet another sheepish smile.
"Sorry about that," he says. "I keep trying to control it, but it seems like it's deadset on embarrassing me!"
"Not a problem," says Valeriy, pointedly ignoring how the scarf continues to attempt and re-form its rude gesture. "So long as you cooperate with me, your scarf's endeavors are none of my concern."
"Eheh, thanks for understanding!" Mitya says, turning to his scarf again to—unsuccessfully—whack it into submission. "Hope we can get along. Seeya!"
Seeya?
"As per my duties to ensure your well-being," Valeriy says. "I must reside with you in turn."
Mitya blinks rapidly.
"Aw, man… My place is a total mess. Seriously, can't the higher-ups let a guy have some privacy?" Mitya pauses to stop his scarf from once again forming its rude gesture. "Ah, whatever. See if you can find a room you like. And please… don't judge the mess."
Valeriy nods as Mitya steps steps aside, letting him enter his assigned quarters.
Though the man's scarf is evidently upset, Mitya himself seems to be relatively content with him.
Perhaps this job will be easy enough.
2.
As it turns out, this job is most certainly not that easy. Mitya is a chronic slacker, and his intelligence, rather than being a factor by which he is easily reasoned, simply makes him an expert at avoidance.
As such, Valeriy has found himself many a headache while attempting to track the man down.
Mitya enjoys the opera, the arts, fine dining experience, tangential science projects completely unrelated to his duties—And really, most anything other than his actual work.
Valeriy, of course, sees to it that he is caught and returned to his position every single time.
"You're no fun, Sarge!" Mitya whines petulantly, his scarf making a thumbs down in anger. Its ire remains, most certainly—But it has, at the very least, softened from inappropriate gestures to far tamer ones. "Working hours and non-working hours are just a social construct, anyways."
"If you are truly so upset with the job that you willingly undertook," says Valeriy, strongarming his charge back. "You could have simply resigned from your post long ago."
It's an open clearing far away from any signs of life—Valeriy wonders how exactly Mitya ended up here in the first place.
Mitya halts his movement abruptly, leading Valeriy to briefly stumble atop the ice.
The scarf, for its part, seems amused by this.
"What about you, Sarge?" he questions.
Valeriy stills at the inquiry.
"…And what of me?"
"You're hardly the happiest with your post," says Mitya. "Humans live short lives: You've only got a couple of decades left to die with no regrets. Are you really planning on spending half of that time working a job you don't like?"
In stark contrast to Mitya's usual animatedness, his expression is left blank, void of any emotion. Even his scarf stills, as if in anticipation of what Valeriy will say.
"I have a duty to fulfill," says Valeriy, after a long period of contempation. "A duty to my nation, to my god—To you."
"To me?" Mitya's lips curl into something of an incredulous smile, amusement glinting behind his eyes.
"To you, yes," he affirms. "You must help her majesty with her plans. And so that you may do that, I must ensure that you do not falter in this objective; that you are cared for and well."
For a moment, Mitya freezes, scarf coming up to cover his face. That snaps him out of his trance, as he smacks it away with an annoyed huff.
"For such an uptight guy, you can be a pretty good sweet-talker, y'know that, Sarge?" Mitya says. But blaśe as the declaration appears to leave him, his scarf seems… contemplative.
It's surprising how easy reading the expressions of this garment has become—Almost second nature. Easier than reading Mitya's own.
A comfortable silence falls between them. Valeriy considers, briefly, breaking it, but he decides against it in the end. Seeing Mitya so pensive is… unusual, but most certainly not unwelcome.
After a while, his scarf extends out its hand. Valeriy scrutinizes it.
An offering.
Tentatively, Valeriy shakes it, feeling it shake his own hand in turn.
It's a strange feeling—Intertwining his fingers with sections of cloth that possess such human qualities. But he does not question it.
He's won over his charge's scarf. It leaves him feeling surprisingly victorious.
The thrill of the chase, he thinks dismissively. That's all. Humans cherish more that with they have had to earn. It's why tropes of digging past an unpleasant exterior to see a rich and loving inner world are so popular in fiction despite how insufferable they would prove in real life.
That is all. Nothing more.
"…Huh," Mitya says, also surprised by his scarf's sudden change in heart. "Never thought I'd see the day."
With that, he dusts his hands casually, and steps forth.
"Well," he says. "I… should probably stop taking up too much of your time. I'll get back to work now, eheh."
"Good," says Valeriy.
"Maybe next time, you should come watch the theater troupe's performance with me," says Mitya.
"There won't be a next time."
"Of course." A laugh. "I'll pay for your tickets. Front row and everything!"
Silence.
"Seeya, Sarge!" Mitya says, walking off. Valeriy, of course, takes that as cue to follow. He won't take the chance of Mitya running off some other place to shirk his duties.
As he follows, though—He can't shirk the part of him that looks forward to that show.
3.
As he would soon come to learn, Valeriy had underestimated just how fond Mitya's scarf had grown of him.
"I trust that today, at the very least, you will refrain from running away from your work?" There's a conference scheduled—Harbingers will be in attendance. Surely, even someone as easygoing as Mitya recognizes the severity of this.
"Yeah, yeah," Mitya says. "You got it, Sarge!"
A pause. Mitya attempts to move away, but his scarf seems to have other plans. It clings on tightly to Valeriy's arm, as though seeking out alifeline.
"Ghhk— Hey, let- ugh, go!" Mitya attempts to pull his scarf away, but to no avail. It seems all too content to remain residing with Valeriy.
At last, Mitya sighs in resignation, stamping a foot in irritation.
"Looks like I'm sticking with you today, Major," he says. Valeriy cannot help the amused chuckle that escapes him at the sight.
"Perhaps it too has realizes you will simply wander off unsupervised," he says.
A pause.
Mitya freezes.
Then, he flushes.
Ever so slight, hard to notice even on a face as pale as his own, just a tinge of pinkishness dusts the man's cheeks, spread thin across the ridge of his nose.
"Hmm," he says, swallowing. "…Maybe it's something like that."
Valeriy considers inquiring further—What exactly does that mean? But ultimately, restraint wins out—a fear of inducing discomfort within his charge—and he keeps his mouth shut.
So, the two of them simply walk onwards in silence, Mitya's scarf clinging onto him the entire way.
4.
Valeriy comes to learn what it looks like when Mitya's scarf truly dislikes an individual.
"You're a scientist, eh?" Says a man—Some drunkard businessman with an aggrandized sense of self-importance. "'Zat all you do? Stay cooped up in your little lab?"
"Well," Mitya says, smiling easily as always. "I think Major Valeriy could tell you exactly how much time I actually spend working in my lab, eh-heh…"
This man has spent the past half an hour or so hassling Mitya. Valeriy has considered intervening—repeatedly, in fact—but Mitya himself seems entirely unperturbed. And though ensuring the man's wellbeing is his priority, Valeriy most certainly does not want to hover like some overprotective Mother Hen.
"Yeah, yeah," says the business-man. "You ever been in a real fight before?"
Mitya puts a hand atop his hip.
"It's highly inappropriate to bring up physical violence in a civil environment, sir," he says, as though scolding an unruly child. "And I certainly don't appreciate the insinuations you've been making this past half an hour about fighting me."
Mitya speaks with utmost calm, chastisting incivility as though he himself is unmoved.
His scarf, however, is clenched into a fist, pulsing irately at the drunkard's taunts.
"Excuses, excuses," says the drunkard. "I've got half a mind to stand up right here and see if those scrawny little legs of yours're good for much more 'n runnin' with your tail tucked between your legs."
"Excuse me?" Mitya says. "That's it: I've been tolerating your behavior for quite some time now, but all you've been doing since the start of this night is pick fights and make rude, snide comments, and I really don't appreciate it. If you can't be civil for even a moment, I'm going to have to ask you to lea—"
And with sudden force, Mitya's scarf pummels into the man, slamming him across the room with force comedically absurd for a mere article of clothing to possess.
At once, the building up of the ongoing lecture deflates, and Mitya is left thoroughly sheepish.
"H-hey, seriously, you gotta stop embarrassing me out in public!" he scolds the scarf, before turning to the now beaten drunkard with an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry about that— I've been, eheh… Trying to control that for some time now, but— it never seems to work! Please, ahah, enjoy the rest of your evening!"
The scarf, however, does not second this, wriggling out of Mitya's grasp to try and punch the already knocked down drunkard once more. Valeriy is almost sympathetic.
Almost.
"H-Hey! He's already knocked down, isn't that enough?!" Mitya huffs, pouting. "Sorry, Sarge… This'll be a huge headache to deal with."
Valeriy makes a noncommital hum in lieu of any direct agreement.
"I'll go see if there's a doctor nearby," Mitya says to the man on the floor. "Please, just sit tightly in the meantime, alright?"
As Mitya walks off, Valeriy trails behind, spotting the rude gesture his scarf makes when Mitya's back is turned.
He'll admit—It's rather amusing to witness when it isn't being turned on him.
"Mister Mitya." Valeriy calls out once the two are well out of the man's sight. At once, Mitya turns around.
"Hmm?"
"I, for one, think your scarf was more than justified in its ire," he says. Mitya huffs out a sheepish laugh.
"Still… I really need to stop let it acting out all willy nilly."
Though Mitya says this, however—His scarf makes a thumbs-up motion behind his back.
5.
"Your scarf…" Valeriy questions, voice raised as to overpower the sounds of the snowstorm in the background. "May I ask what exactly it is?"
He's had this question for a while now—But now, trapped in the theater as they are, there's no better time to ask it. They have quite some time to kill.
"Hmm?" Mitya tilts his head, as if amused by the inquiry. "You wanna know about my scarf, Sarge?"
Valeriy nods.
"Indeed," he says. "I must admit, I have found myself rather curious as to its function for quite a while. It often acts in disagreement with you, does it not?"
"Oh, well, actually—" Mitya says. "A lot of people see it and think that, but despite what it may seem like, it actually— Mmph!"
His words are cut off by his scarf covering his mouth.
"H-Hey—" He smacks it away with a grunt of effort. "Fine, fine, I won't say it, I promise!"
Mollified, the scarf retreats, opting to wrap an arm around Valeriy'a back, instead.
"Sorry about that," Mitya says sheepishly. "One of these days, I'll get that thing to behave…"
"Somehow, I doubt that will ever happen," Valeriy says with a small chuckle.
"Don't laugh at me, Sarge!" Mitya huffs. "I'm suffering here."
His scarf does not share his ire, instead electing to tighten its grip around Valeriy enough to force the two of them close together.
"…"
"Eheh… heh." Mitya tugs at the scarf until it finally pulls away, beet-faced. "Seriously, Stop embarrassing me!"
Valeriy says nothing.
"Don't laugh at me, Sarge," Mitya grits out, thoroughly unintimidating.
"I wasn't."
"You were thinking about it," he huffs, crossing his arms petulantly.
Once again, Valeriy says nothing. Mitya clears his throat.
"Ahem. Anyways," he says. voice still ever so slightly shaky from his earlier fluster. "Let's go back to our quarters."
"Indeed," says Valeriy. "Best not to linger outside for too long."
Unbenownst to Mitya—or perhaps he has realized, but had simply resigned himself to his fate—his scarf remains clasping Valeriy's arm throughout the walk.
+1
It's a short bit after the events of the theater that it dawns on Valeriy what exactly drives Mitya's scarf to act.
"You know," Mitya starts, sitting with him inside his chambers. The two of them are still together, despite Mitya's decision to place his duties on hold.
Valeriy had offered to leave him be—the last thing he wanted was to obstruct Mitya's freedom when duty did not call for it—but the man had protested, and his scarf had done so with even more fervor.
"—I didn't like you at first." The confession hangs in the air for a few seconds before Mitya elaborates. "When I found out I'd have to get a babysitter make sure I kept working, I was, eheh, I was really peeved."
Valeriy takes no offense. After all—
"I didn't exactly have the fondest of feelings for you, either," he says. Mitya's eyes widen, as though somehow surprised. It seems hypocritical considering his previous admission.
"Past tense?" Ah.
As quickly as the surprise comes, however, it fades, and Mitya returns to his typical, animated countenance.
"How you flatter me, Sarge!" He says.
A comfortable silence hangs in the air.
"…After a bit, though, I kind of got used to it," says Mitya. "Sure, I wasn't happy about it, but, well, you were just doing your job, right?"
Valeriy remains silent. Mitya takes that as a cue to continue.
"But then, when you told me about your duty," he says with a sheepish laugh. "—I really started to understand. I think… That was when I started to grow fond of you, too."
The second confession, though far more pleasant, hits like a punch, leaving him thoroughly assailed.
That day.
That was the day Mitya's scarf had started liking him as well, wasn't it?
The dots all connect rapidly in his mind. Valeriy may not be an intellectual of anywhere near Mitya's caliber, but he is more than capable of engaging in deductive reasoning.
The scarf… It expresses Mitya's thoughts, doesn't it? That conclusion explains it all perfectly.
But that would mean— Whenever it wrapped itself around him, or pushed the two of them together, then—
"What exactly prompted these confessions?" Questions Valeriy, in favor of addressing his own train of thought. Mitya laughs mirthlessly.
"What prompted this?" He echoes. "I saw you passed away before my very eyes, Sarge. I learned that I, myself, could pass at any moment. Doesn't it only make sense that I'd want to get it all off my chest in case something of the sort happens with permanence? To die with as few unresolved ends as possible?"
The reminder of their mortality—of their active conflict with Death itself—douses him like cold water.
"I must apologize," slips out before he can stifle it. Mitya tilts his head in confusion.
"Huh? What for?"
"I have failed at my duty," says Valeriy simply. Perhaps he should follow suit in his charge's footsteps—Confess that which has been left unsaid before it is too late.
"At keeping me safe?" Valeriy nods. Mitya simply laughs, mirthlessly, yet again. Over time, Valeriy's come to notice that his charge is someone who laughs out of awkwardness or tension. "Well—" A long, drawn-out sigh. "It's not your fault. At the end of the day… there's hardly much you can do against the Grim Reaper. After all, you're only human."
That much is true, no matter how Valeriy loathes to think of it. He is only a human, bound by his mortal limitations.
Mitya's scarf nods alongs grimly. Valeriy had already known the words had been entirely sincere, of course.
"…And so am I," says Mitya, walking off towards the fridge to procure some food for himself. "At the end of the day, we're both just… ordinary humans."
It's almost comforting. Almost.
But as Mitya walks away, Valeriy can't help but notice how his scarf has its fingers crossed behind his back.