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It had started off mildly, the day at the marketplace; a strange feeling not unlike euphoria when they were around him. It felt nice, really, maybe a little distracting, but he found that he still valued his time with his dear friends despite the strange rush it gave him.
But then, it started to get worse. Much, much worse. Mitya found that he was constantly being assaulted by strange, disturbing symptoms: heart palpitations, shakiness and sweatiness, nausea like crystalflies in his stomach, rising body temperature, and his throat closing off.
These symptoms were all, of course, akin to those of someone suffering a seasonal allergy. It was not a cause for concern that he might develop a new one; in fact, such a thing was common in young adulthood. The only thing left was to find out exactly what he was allergic to, so he could alleviate his symptoms.
Looking back, Mitya wishes, for once, that his curiosity could have let sleeping dogs lie, for his experimentation and epiphany led him down a path lined with isolation, suffering, and devastation.
The answer came to him the next time he visited the theatre, not only with the intention of catching the Korolevskiy Troupe’s show, but also of visiting his friends afterwards.
He noticed, oddly enough, that before visiting the theatre, the thought of seeing his friends excited him to the point where he began to notice those strange symptoms again. Surely, he couldn’t be allergic to something in the theatre?
But, of course, it wouldn’t stop him from seeing his friends. And so, with a little more pep in his step, he entered the theatre.
Things got stranger when Alyosha greeted him at the door.
It was a brief thing, the interaction; nothing more than the young man smiling at him and waving hello before rushing off to finish the preparations for the show.
And yet, as soon as he laid eyes on the hunter’s slight form, his heart felt like it might burst out of his chest. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
It was only after Alyosha darted off that Mitya’s throat loosened up again, leaving him with a steadily calming heart and a terrifying realisation.
He couldn’t…be allergic to Alyosha, could he?
But the more Mitya thought about it as he went to take his seat, the more it began to make sense. He had been thinking about him an abnormal amount since the marketplace. Over and over, he relived the moment that he woke up only to gaze upon his handsome, sleeping face.
And it wasn’t just Alyosha, either. Odette and Vodyanitsa, too, had been at the forefront of his mind since the incident. He’d initially chalked it off to his usual excitement over being their most devout fan and seeing yet another one of their performances.
But it was as if their visages had been imprinted into the foreground of his mind, and he couldn’t let them go. But surely…it couldn’t be…
To his horror, as soon as the show began and Odette stepped onto the stage into the view of the audience, the allergy symptoms hit him again, with the full force of a barreling Lawachurl.
Heart palpitations. Trouble breathing. Rising body temperature. He felt as if he were in a feverish trance, as if Odette had cast some sort of sick allergy-spell on him. He found himself fighting strange urges, on top of his physical symptoms, to scream her name at the top of his lungs, to reach out and trace the glittering blush dusted on her cheek.
The same thing happened with Vodyanitsa—of course, he was captivated by her voice, but there was something else there, too. For one, the allergy symptoms only seemed to get worse.
But strangely enough, he felt something uglier burning in his chest: jealousy. He felt bitter that she was performing for all these people. He wanted her in a room with just the four of them, singing a soft lullaby, twirling her hands through his hair.
Meeting them after the show had been even more damning. The strange malady must have affected his complexion, because after greeting him, Vodyanitsa pointed out, with mild concern, how very red his face was.
Odette must have thought he was sick, and so, without warning, she walked right up to him to place her hand on his forehead, presumably to check his temperature.
Of course, only after the ordeal, upon further reflection, did Mitya realise this was what must have been happening.
But as soon as she made contact, it was like Mitya couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he was so hot, he would combust into a wonderful bundle of pyro crystal flies, or melt like snow in the first rays of dawn, or simply float away to join the fragile wispy clouds that streaked the false sky above.
Maybe it was because of her delicate, soft hand, laid so gently against his forehead, so wonderfully cool and smooth against his burning skin.
Maybe it was her glittering lavender eyes, pinched with just the slightest bit of concentration as she felt around.
Or maybe, even, it was the thoughtful stares of Alyosha and Vodyanitsa further back, giving him their full attention.
But either way, the next thing he knew, he came to on a soft, plush couch, with only one thought ringing in his head. I just suffered a sudden memory lapse.
And the last time that happened, the implications had been dire.
Determined to get back to the lab to run experiments, he grabbed his coat and dashed out of the theatre without saying goodbye to any of his friends.
And somehow, some way, it got even worse: Mitya began to suffer from the symptoms of his malady even when they weren’t in the immediate vicinity.
Vodyanitsa called him on his Prime Ice Communicator the following morning after he’d retired so abruptly from the theatre the day before. She was screaming at him, really; she’d worried that something awful had happened to him, and that she, Alyosha, and Odette had been sick with concern the whole day.
They’d searched the whole day, only retiring when Odette scaled the walls of his apartment to see him frantically scribbling out something in his notebook. She had considered breaking in to yell at him, but decided to leave him be.
Her voice went soft and gentle (saving his ears), saying how she was so glad that he was alright, though, because she would be devastated if one of her most favourite humans decided to die of fever one day.
But Mitya could barely hold on to the meaning of her words, for as soon as he’d heard her voice (albeit shrill and high enough to burst his eardrums), his heart tried to do a triple tiger sashay out of his chest.
Plus…
Her most favourite human…
Those words stuck with him for the rest of the morning.
Later that day, while enjoying a leisurely walk outside (he had calculated he had about an hour before Valeriy would think to search the nature trails), he stumbled across a patch of frostfairy flowers, which were Odette’s favourite. He thought idly to himself that he might pick a few to present them to the ballerina as a gift.
But even the mere thought of interacting with her made him feel like he might combust, and by the time he’d gotten a hold of himself, his scarf was waving frantically at him to run because it had already been an hour and Valeriy was closing in.
He’d had no choice but to hide in an alleyway in the city to wait out the patrol.
And there, a little mangy mutt, so small that Mitya could have picked it up in one hand, was pawing at his boots, begging for scraps.
And then, a memory, swathed in warmth and affection and something else even sweeter, rose to the surface of his mind unbidden.
Alyosha’s voice, recounting to him, Odette, and Vodyanitsa fondly how one day he dreamed of fostering dogs until they could find homes of their own. It hadn’t been a particularly special afternoon: simply one of many where they had curled up in Odette’s or Vodyanitsa’s room backstage and shared tea and honey and secrets.
But to him, those memories meant the world to him.
But the thing in front of him that triggered such an extraordinary thing was just. A puppy. A sad, dirty little thing that was so ordinary in the back alleys of any big city.
That was all it took for the virus (those wonderful people) to take hold of his mind to burrow its malicious (lovely) roots into his brain.
Needless to say, he never made it to the theatre that day, and ended up getting caught by Valeriy and dragged back to the Armoury Palace by the ear to attend some stupid meeting that he couldn’t even be bothered to pay attention to.
And even though he cared little for it at the time, when he’d arrived in his apartment that night and thought about it, he realised that this spelt trouble for him, and by extension, the entire nation.
What if he could never focus on his work again? What would happen to Project Mistilteinn, and the war against the Heavenly Principles?
Was this virus somehow putting Alyosha, Odette, and Vodyanitsa all in danger?
This was unfamiliar territory, and Mitya was a scientist; no, the head scientist of the Arnoury Palace. He had to keep everyone safe and lead his nation to victory, no matter what.
So Mitya did what he did best: research. Conduct experiments, controlling for variables, all locked in his private lab. If this strange malady turned out to be something dangerous, he couldn’t risk infecting the other brilliant minds residing in the Palace.
And all the while, time raced by that he did not know of.
~~~~~
When Mitya finally comes to with an answer that he is certain of, he realises somewhere in the fog that is clouding his brain that it has been quite a while since he has last eaten, slept, or showered.
But Mitya knows exactly what was happening, and what is causing it.
And the implications behind it all are terrifying.
He drags his body (ah, right, he has a body) to the pad beside the sealed door and his hand hovers over the screen as he deliberates over who should be notified, first and foremost.
This is a code red-level threat. Pierro himself needs to be notified of the problem right away.
But— ever since Ronova’s appearance in the Armoury Palace that day, the Jester had seemingly vanished off the face of Teyvat (as always), and of course Mitya is not privy to his whereabouts.
He resolves to leave a remote message, instead turning to another whom he knows he can trust; on top of being in charge of the security of the Armoury Palace, he, too, had been directly involved with the incident at the theatre.
He does not have to wait long until Fatui Major Valeriy is marching through the door.
The soldier’s face is impassive as he takes in his surroundings: the surface of Mitya’s large desk is barely visible underneath a messy pile of notebooks, diagrams, writing utensils, and coffee mugs. One corner of the room is entirely covered with papers, written on them more messily scrawled notes or printed photographs, all connected by a mess of tangled red thread.
Valeriy’s brow twitches infinitesimally, and he opens his mouth to ask, “What—”
But Mitya, already giddy at the prospect of sharing his findings with another human being (no matter how dire), cuts him off, blurting out,
“Sarge, this is a code red. Ronova put another curse on me that makes me sick/allergic to Alyosha, Odette, and Vodyanisa to distract me from working on Project Mistilteinn, and that’s to hinder the progress of our nation as a whole to prevent us from making any further progress on the Anti-Celestia Energy and the Tsaritsa’s war on the Heavenly Principles. As far as I know, it’s only affecting me; I would have gone out to conduct more experiments, but I was afraid of making contact with them again and retriggering the curse, or if it’s a sort of virus that can be spread to others, so I locked myself in here to conduct my research as a safety precaution.”
He says this all in a single breath, leaving him just a little winded, and Valeriy blinks, inhaling sharply as if to speak, but Mitya isn’t finished.
He proceeds to rattle off all of the evidence that he has accumulated over the past few days: his body’s strange response when in the immediate proximity of his friends, including but not limited to: heart palpitations, sweating, shakiness, mild nausea, hives, and his throat swelling to the point where he cannot speak.
Mitya includes all the details of the virus’s progression, including the various triggers and how he could not stop thinking about Alyosha, Odette, and Vodyanitsa, to the point where it was distracting him from quite literally everything, even keeping track of time to run away from Valeriy.
Valeriy tries to interject, “Mitya, slow down—”
Mitya rakes his hands through his hair and pulls until it hurts, because another memory surfaces that only solidifies his conclusion, “Sarge,” he gasps against the iron bands that are tightening around his lungs.
“Five days ago…or was it six days ago? I made contact with them…at the theatre, Alyosha was worried, Vodyanitsa was worried…Odette thought I was sick. They could probably see the curse affecting me too.”
The next words are hard to get out; Mitya feels his face flush as he recounts, “And Odette put her hand on my forehead, just to check my temperature—AND I DIED AGAIN, SARGE, AS SOON AS WE MADE PHYSICAL CONTACT, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?”
Valeriy is frozen, his eyes distant and unresponsive. Mitya hardly notices.
Something like embarrassment or another strange pink fluttery feeling is trying to worm its way out of his throat to paint his words, and he tries in vain to push it down, but it escapes as a giddy sort of laughter that leaves him teary-eyed and clutching at his sides, and he is sure that he is going insane.
Upon hearing the scientist’s strange gekkering, something in Valeriy seems to snap, and he walks slowly, as if in a zombie-like trance, to collapse into a nearby chair, slumping forward as if the man is suddenly bearing the weight of the sky on his shoulders.
And it’s as if someone dialled Mitya’s emotion meter up five thousand notches, because his brain sees this and makes a link to a time not too long ago where the Fatui Major was slumped into a chair and not moving or breathing and Mitya couldn’t—
He couldn’t—
“Sarge!” he cries as he stumbles forward, grabbing the soldier by the shoulders and shaking hard, a sudden surge of panic, and he is fighting the fog clouding his mind, and then he checks for a pulse—
Mitya nearly bursts into tears. Valeriy is okay. He’s alive.
And he is so busy being relieved at the fact that Ronova hadn’t gotten to another one of his friends again that he does not comprehend how Valeriy has his head in his hands and is having an existential crisis in his head in which he has lost all faith in the younger generation of humans (particularly this one) to ever get in any sort of relationship.
The reason why no one had walked in on Mitya while he was locked in his lab for three days was that everyone thought that the lead scientist had made a breakthrough regarding Project Mistilteinn and defeating Ronova. Evidently, Mitya himself did, too.
But no.
The past half-week of Valeriy getting his hopes up that the genius had finally abandoned the notion of ever trying to play hooky again, that the Fatui Major could finally stop chasing him and do things that majors were actually supposed to do, has been crushed this very moment.
All because the idiot finally got a life.
And of course it falls to him to explain this whole mess, not only to save the sanity of the nation’s greatest researcher, but also to the higher-ups who this may have already reached (how was it that Mitya’s proactiveness could be such an inconvenience at all times?)
This is going to be a long afternoon.
When Valeriy can find it in himself to raise his head again, he looks as if he has aged ten years, and he is dead serious as he looks Mitya straight in the eyes and says with the straightest face, in the most monotone voice, “ Mr Mitya, stop. I’m not issuing a code red for this nonsense, because no one is in imminent danger. I can explain this to you, but right now you’re in no state to take in more information.
“Meet me in the common room in two hours while I file a report.”
A pause.
“And please take a shower in the meantime.”
~~~~~
Mitya is sitting on a hard bench in the common room (because apparently Fatui do not believe in cushions), anxious energy rolling off him in waves.
Wet hair is plastered to his face and neck, which normally would have bothered Mitya to the point where he would simply tie it up until it dried, but he found now that the uncomfortable sensation was the only thing that was keeping his anxiety-ridden spirit grounded from soaring up and away from his body.
But he does feel just a little better after that shower.
Up until about two-hundred and seventeen seconds ago (yes, he is counting the seconds), Mitya had been pacing the length of the area, and he likely would have continued until there were grooves in the floor had his scarf not smacked him onto the couch.
But even with the imminent threat of asphyxiation wrapped snugly around his neck, he couldn’t stop his left leg from bouncing up and down while he awaited Valeriy’s entrance. Counting the seconds as they crawl by seems to be the only thing keeping him sane.
Another three hundred and fifty-two go by until the man in question finally marches into the room, a bottle of fire-water and a rather thick book in hand.
One thing that Mitya can properly appreciate about Valeriy now is how direct he is, for as soon as he sits down, opens the bottle and takes a swig, he leans forward, hands resting underneath his chin, and gives the scientist a much-needed scolding explanation.
“Mr Mitya, I’m going to be blunt with you. You are entirely wrong about this entire situation, and it now falls on my shoulders to clean up the mess you made. Again.”
He holds up his hand to silence Mitya’s protest (because Mitya is never wrong) and continues, “There is no curse. There is no virus, allergy, or sickness. You are currently harbouring romantic feelings for your friends. That’s all. Plain and simple.”
But it’s not plain and simple, and Mitya’s brain is still reeling from Valeriy’s words, and he needs to pause because what—
But Valeriy just continues like it’s nothing. “This is likely your first time experiencing such a thing, and it can be…jarring, as I’m sure is the reason why you have isolated yourself. But I assure you, it’s no curse—”
But Mitya is not paying attention to the Major’s droning words, because he only has one thought, and he blurts it out incredulously: “Romantic attraction is real?”
Valeriy freezes again. Mitya stares straight at him, waiting for his reply.
Ever so slowly, the Fatui Major opens his mouth, and Mitya swears that he hears a sound like stone grinding before the taller man asks, punctuating each syllable carefully, “Did you just ask me if romantic attraction is real?”
Mitya blinks, and now it’s his turn to be confused. “Uhm, yes?”
The soldier goes so still and quiet for so long that Mitya thinks that he died again somehow.
And then he hears an “Archons help me” and it’s so quiet that Mitya is pretty sure he isn’t meant to hear that one.
Did he say something wrong? The younger man wonders curiously. Wasn’t Valeriy supposed to be giving him answers? Why was he so confused?
A long, drawn-out sigh snaps Mitya back to the present, and Valeriy takes another long swig of fire water before asking, almost reluctantly, he thinks, “And how, pray tell, did the idea that romantic attraction is fake pop into your mind? Didn’t you hear about it from your peers? How do you think people get married?”
Mitya taps his chin, taking a moment to organise his thoughts before speaking thoughtfully to the floor, “Well, I guess since people around me were telling me that romantic attraction had to happen at a certain time, and it never happened to me, I sort of assumed that it was fictional, since it came up so often in books, plays, musicals, and the like. Or maybe that it was some sort of trope. Like a princess put under a spell in an epic, or a red herring in a murder mystery. That sort of thing.”
He sneaks a glance at Valeriy’s face, but the sergeant’s face isn’t taking on that distracted look that people often do when Mitya explains his thoughts to them so unfiltered, so he takes it as a sign to continue.
“As for stories from my peers…Again, I didn’t think that it was serious at all. I thought that they were exaggerating, or joking. Same with getting married. A lot of people, especially adults, were telling me that I would feel it eventually, and that as soon as I laid eyes on ‘the one,’ I would know.” Mitya shrugs, unbothered by the disconnect, for this sort of thing has happened throughout his life more times than he can count.
“But it never happened, and eventually I guess I forgot about it.”
They did say that “geniuses” like him lived in a different world, after all. Not that he has ever cared for labels at all. So Mitya can more or less accept that romance was something “real,” that he simply doesn’t understand. And he relays as much to Valeriy.
“Well, I was initially kinda shocked when you said that, but if it’s coming from you, Sarge, I’ll trust what you say.”
But Mitya frowns when he thinks back to Valeriy’s first declaration. That made much less sense.
The older man, meanwhile, has relaxed the more Mitya had explained, and after seeing that Mitya has stopped talking, begins to say, “I see. I understand now, Mitya. I believe that you might find solace in a label called a—”
Mitya unconsciously interrupts him again. “But wait, no, what I’m feeling has got to be different than having a crush.”
Valeriy’s jaw snaps shut, and he doesn’t even look annoyed at being interrupted by Mitya for the nth time today. He just looks tired as he reaches for the bottle of fire-water for the third time in the past few minutes.
The scientist, meanwhile, has spent a while thinking about how romantic attraction has been depicted in all the media that he’d consumed over the years, as well as what he had been told. There was a fair amount of discrepancy between the circumstances of his “feelings” and those of others.
- He is an adult. According to multiple sources (read: crappy romantic novels), romantic attraction often occurs first in someone’s adolescent years, or even experiencing crushes as early as primary school. He’s likely missed the “window” by now, if there was one.
- Mitya has only been haunted by the strange side effects that were associated with having a crush after a certain amount of time. He feels sure that there was no “love at first sight,” no way he could have fallen for a stranger. The onset of his crush had been gradual, and only after he, Alyosha, Vodyanitsa, and Odette had become friends.
- Which leads him to the final piece of evidence against the idea that he is experiencing any sort of romantic attraction. He isn’t harbouring feelings for just one person at a time. No, it was all of them, all at once. Alyosha, Odette, and Vodyanitsa. But unlike a love corner in a drama, he feels no obligation to “choose.” He wants to be with all of them. Together.
Mitya explains this all to Valeriy, including various examples, and by the time he is finished, Valeriy does have that glassy-eyed look to his expression that tells Mitya he just talked for way too long.
But Valeriy must have the patience of a saint, because he does not scream or yell or walk away.
Instead, he places one gloved hand on the thick tome that he’d walked into the room with and slides it over to Mitya’s side of the table (as well as finishing off the rest of the liquor).
Mitya leans over to inspect it. The cover is bright and covered with scribbly little stick figure images of children. In large block letters, the title reads: Sexuality for the Beginner: Everything you need to know about your changing body and the feelings that come with it!
Trying not to look a little miffed, Mitya glances up at Valeriy questioningly.
He seems to get a little kick out of his annoyance (that sicko) as he smirks a little and says, “It seems clear to me that you didn’t want to have a back-and-forth conversation, but that book should have all the answers to the questions you have.” He slams the empty bottle down on the table.
“...hmmph. I doubt it, but we’ll see…”
~~~~~
“WHAT?!?!? AROMANTIC ASEXUAL? DEMIROMANTIC? THERE’S A WORD FOR THAT!? HOW COME I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THIS BEFORE!?”
Frantic page flipping. A pause. And then:
“POLYAMOROUS RELATIONSHIPS? VALERIY, WHERE HAS THIS BOOK BEEN ALL MY LIFE????”
~~~~~
Dear Ms Vodyanitsa,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am happy to inform you that Mr Mitya is doing fine now. He is not sick (though he believed that he was, that being the reason he locked himself up in his private lab). I can also confirm your suspicions shared with me in your previous message; Mitya does, indeed, feel romantic attraction for you, Ms Odette, and Mr Alyosha. This caused him a great deal of confusion and distress, but I was able to explain everything to him before things got too out of hand.
Regarding the rest of the contents of your letter, I would like to voice some questions and concerns. I could not follow how Mr Mitya’s isolation might hinder your “agenda” or “evil plan” but I do hope that you keep the malicious scheming to a minimum, for my occupation would force me to take action against you if it were to get too out of hand, and as you are a dear friend whom I have shed blood with, I sincerely hope it does not come to that.
I would also appreciate some more clarification on my role as a “wingman” in this “plot” of yours. Though I have served the Tsaritsa for many years as a soldier, I am unfamiliar with this term. However, I still wish you all the best in courting Ms Odette, Mr Alyosha, and Mr Mitya. Please let me know how I can be of further assistance.
Sincerely,
Major Valeriy of the Fatui