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“Mr. Mitya!?”
She was expecting to see anyone but him.
It’s supposed to be the theater’s rest day, she’s supposed to have the whole place to herself for self-practice, and whoever’s knocking on the greenroom door at this kind of timing is supposed to be a colleague that left something behind.
Yet she opens the door to see Mitya of all people, swaying on his feet at the door frame and looking like death warmed over. His usually expressive scarf hangs limply from his coat behind him.
His eyebags are more prominent, his amethyst eyes are glassy, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Plus the fact that he’s remarkably paler than usual—which is saying something for a Snezhnayan.
She winces at his state and immediately drags him into the greenroom by the arm. Then she plants her hands on shoulders firmly, looking him straight in the eye. “Why are you here.”
“I… don’t really know, actually,” he answers, blinking slowly. “I thought you’d be here…”
“I—huh? And where's Mr. Valeriy?”
“He had more… important things to take care of. I didn’t tell him.”
“I’m quite sure your wellbeing is supposed to be his priority,” she mumbles to herself. “Forget about telling him. Why in the world would you come here to look for me?”
Mitya wobbles slightly as he shakes his head. “Dunno…”
Perhaps his body is so accustomed to walking to the theater that he somehow still finds himself here, even when delirious. He is a regular patron, after all.
Vodyanitsa lets out a long sigh before reaching up and placing a hand to his forehead. He’s staggeringly warm. “You clearly haven’t been paying attention to your health, Mr. Mitya.”
The scientist groans. “We’ve gone through enough to drop the formalities, Vodyanitsa.”
“Okay, but you’re coming with me.”
She guides him out of the stage area and towards the theater’s guest rooms —the ones usually reserved for staff during late-night rehearsals— and pushes him to lie down on the bed. There’s not a word of protest from him, which in of itself is concerning given how loud he can be.
The room is well-lit and quiet, with a window view of the snow and the morning sky outside.
She pulls the blanket over him. “Stay here,” she orders.
He looks up at her, two unfocused eyes peeking over the fabric. He’s so pathetic it’s almost adorable, she thinks. “...what am I? A dog?”
“Worse, because a dog knows how to take care of itself.”
“Wha—“
Vodyanitsa disappears out of the room before he can counter-argue. Then she soon returns with a small, water-filled bucket and a soft white cloth.
“Damn you. I was looking forward to practicing scales,” she says, feigning annoyance as she sets the bucket down on the bedside table. She adds quietly, “take better care of yourself.”
He looks away. “…I’ll try.”
She soaks the cool cloth, wrings it out, and places it on his forehead. His scarf moves from beneath the blanket and pats her hand lightly.
Her hand moves away. “What are you doing?”
The scarf gives her a thumbs up and helps her adjust the cloth on Mitya’s forehead. Speaking of which, his eyes are already closed and his breathing has finally evened out.
“At least the scarf knows what it’s doing,” she says as she clicks her tongue.
She leaves the room momentarily yet again and walks back with a mug of herbal tea from the theater pantry.
It’s a pre-made, untouched cup. Vodyanitsa had actually been planning to drink it after her singing practice, but some sick idiot came into her space like a stray cat and now she’s decided he’s getting it.
She freezes at the doorway.
Mitya is turned on his side, facing away from the wall. The blanket has slipped down to his waist level, and she can see that his hands have curled around the scarf tucked under his chin. Like a kid clutching a stuffed animal.
His face is slack, the usual lines of tension around his eyes having smoothened out completely. He looks younger. And softer. Something unnameable catches in her chest.
She has never seen him like this before.
He’s always moving, always scribbling in his notebook, always looking like the world’s collapse is his personal responsibility. Technically, it kind of is.
It pains her to see him reduced to such a state. He’s constantly a blur of motion and words. She’s used to that. But this weak and quiet version of him feels like someone she’s never met.
She stands in place, cup cooling in her hands, and watches him sleep.
Scientists don’t need to throw themselves at their work at the cost of their own health.
So why does it take this much for him to stop?
The tea is already cold by the time she snaps out of her trance.
She decides to forget about reheating it and instead moves back into the room, placing the cup down on the beside table.
Thankfully, Mitya doesn’t stir. She takes the opportunity to recool the cloth on his forehead. Then she settles down on a nearby chair in a corner, the thought of leaving his side never once crossing her mind.
She’s not really sure when her annoyance turned into this. This willingness to stay, she’d call it.
Out of pure habit that emerges whenever she has nothing to do, she begins humming a lullaby from Nod-Krai. Something about a dove being sung to sleep, she heard once. She doesn’t really know the details.
She hums the lullaby over and over until she succumbs to its soft melody and falls asleep herself, head resting on the desk on top of her arms.
Mitya’s eyes flutter open somewhere in the afternoon. The fever haze has broken, and he wakes up the way he does with everything else: reluctantly and with great confusion.
His voice feels like a wreck and he's still somewhat pale, but compared to his state before he came into the theater he could be a completely new person.
His scarf, if it even slept, wakes up and immediately decides to greet him by attacking him and poking at his face.
“Stop… why are you—hey—ack—”
Vodyanitsa slowly surfaces from her nap as well from all the rustling sounds. Still slightly groggy, she rubs her eyes and turns her head to see Mitya scuffling weakly with the scarf.
“…Mitya?”
“Dude—I said sto—huh?”
He freezes when he sees her and his scarf stops its assault. “Uh… hi?”
She straightens up in her chair. “How are you feeling?” she asks softly.
Mitya clears his throat, pushing himself to sit up on the bed. The scarf helps, surprisingly. “Better… a lot better.”
The damp cloth from his forehead falls onto his lap. He glances down at it before looking fully at Vodyanitsa, like he’s only now realizing it was her who took care of him. “Oh…”
The scarf slaps his hand. He yelps. “What do you want?!”
Vodyanitsa rises out of the chair and moves to sit on the side of the bed. He tenses up visibly, but the back of her hand is on his forehead again anyway.
“The fever’s gone,” she mutters, face carefully neutral. She moves her hand away. “At least you’re coherent. You should still continue resting, though.”
The scarf slaps Mitya again and he shoves it down into the blanket, eyes still on her as he smiles awkwardly. “I should thank you for staying. And for taking care of me.” His scarf relaxes the moment he thanks Vodyanitsa.
She raises an eyebrow. “What did you expect me to do? Throw you back outside?”
“I thought you’d find and delegate me to Mr. Valeriy or… something of that sort.”
“Oh, what a crude opinion.”
“Well, I’m sorry. My brain isn’t working properly right now.”
“Clearly,” she huffs.
“But I’m also sorry for showing up unannounced.” He looks genuinely apologetic now, brows furrowed and everything. “I had no business intruding on your rest day at the theater.”
The performer shakes her head, trying to reassure him. “No need for apologies.”
She shoots a quick glance at the cold cup of tea on the bedside table. “You know,” she says, reaching for the cup, “I was planning to have this for myself before you came in.”
She holds it out to him. He blinks as the scarf takes it for him. “Why would you tell me that? Now I feel guilty.”
“That’s the point.”
“I don’t think it’s a very nice one.”
“Shut up and drink your tea!”