Archive of Our Own

“A drink,” says the waitress, sliding the glass across the countertop to him. “This is our finest rosé in the house, blended in Mondstadt with a special infusion. Please enjoy.”

“Ah, you must be mistaken,” Mitya says, pushing the glass away politely. The wine does look delicious, but he didn’t order it, and besides, Valeriy’s going to be here any minute. “I didn’t order a glass.”

The waitress clears her throat. “From the gentleman in the corner.”

Mitya glances over. Right on cue, the gentleman at the corner table tips his hat. He’s wearing a suit and tie; probably a businessman who just got off work, looking to unwind after a long day. Mitya knows the type. He usually wouldn’t mess with businesspeople, but the wine does look really good, and he’s had one hell of a day. He gives the man a nod and takes the glass by the stem. “Please tell him thank you.”

The waitress nods. “I will,” she says, and disappears again.

Mitya swirls the wine—is he supposed to swirl rosé? He doesn’t actually know. He thinks swirling might be a red wine thing, but whatever, he’s already doing it, too late to back down now—and inhales deeply. It doesn’t smell like anything he’s had before. It must be a true delicacy, a superbly unique experience, a—

“Terrible idea,” says a familiar voice from behind him.

Before Mitya can even blink, Valeriy has snatched the wine glass from him. He holds it between his gloved fingers distastefully, the same way he might hold a particularly unappealing piece of rotted fruit.

“Sarge…” Mitya pouts up at him. “I was drinking that! Come on.”

“You had not yet consumed any of it, so you cannot claim to have been ‘drinking it.’ Now, if you’ll be so kind, we have to return to the Armory Palace for your meeting with Miss Odette.”

“That isn’t for an hour. I’ve got loads of time.” He reaches for the glass.

Valeriy pulls it further away. “Put on your coat, Mister Mitya. I’m only making sure you aren’t late for the fan meeting, which you spent two months trying to set up.”

“I wasn’t going to be late,” Mitya mutters, which is true. He’d rather eat his own tie than make a lady like Odette wait for him. “I was going to be fashionably—on time. Fashionably on time.”

Valeriy gives him a look.

“At least let me finish the drink,” Mitya bargains, because he knows a lost cause when he sees one. “The gentleman over there sent it to me, and I gave him the nod. I can hardly leave without drinking it.”

Valeriy looks perplexed. “The nod?”

“It’s a thing. You know, The Nod. It holds weight in these kinds of circles.”

Valeriy looks utterly unimpressed.

“Just let me drink it,” Mitya pleads. Then he pulls out his most lethal weapon: his wide-eyed pathetic look.

Valeriy brings the glass further away. “If it must be finished,” he says drily, “I will solve that problem for you.”

And he tips the glass back, downing the whole thing.

Mitya stares at him, half-offended and half-impressed. “Sarge! I thought you didn’t drink!”

Valeriy sets the glass back down and frowns heavily. “Not generally.” His voice sounds strange. “I—yes. I typically avoid alcohol. This is an extenuating circumstance. I felt that I had to make a point to you, and also, I felt that this was the fastest way to get you to cooperate.” He blinks, looking disoriented, but takes a deep breath and steadies himself again. “Let us return.”

Mitya, still baffled by that whole show, gets up. “I’ll, uh, go pay the bill. You stay here, okay?”

Valeriy nods. When he sits down, he plunks his whole weight down in one motion, graceless.

Mitya goes to the counter and pays his bill. He looks around the whole restaurant, but can’t find the waitress who served him anywhere. He was going to tip her—she was very attentive, and he likes to reward good service—but maybe she’s on her break?

No matter. Mitya leaves the tip with the front desk instead and goes back to the table. “Okay, let’s go to the meeting. You’re right. I don’t want to keep Miss Odette waiting any more than necessary!”

Valeriy’s eyes look strange, like he’s staring straight through Mitya’s face.

Mitya’s brow creases. “Hey, Sarge?” he says, gentler than usual. “Are you alright?”

It’s mostly a ceremonial question. Valeriy has never answered anything but Yes when he asks. On occasion he gets frustrated and says something more along the lines of I would be doing slightly better if you’d cooperate with me, Mister Mitya, but those occasions are rare, and even then, he’s being reassuring at heart.

But this time Valeriy looks at him strangely, and says, “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t think I am.”

This is the moment when Mitya knows something is truly, deeply wrong.

***

“Why are you so heavy?” Mitya complains, not for the first time. He hikes Valeriy’s arm higher on his shoulder and makes an exaggerated groan. “You’re like eighty thousand kilograms. I know you’re twice my size, but still.”

“I do not weigh eighty thousand kilograms,” says Valeriy, through his cloudy voice. He seems almost exhausted just to hear himself talking. “I weigh ninety-five.”

Because Mitya doesn’t think he could stop joking even if he was bleeding out in the goddamn snow like a tragic soldier in a movie, he grins and says, “Ninety-five thousand kilograms?”

Valeriy gives him a withering look. Usually he would stop there, but today for some reason he says, “No. Ninety-five.”

“Still too much for me,” Mitya mutters. “Sarge, we’re almost there, right? Please tell me we’re almost there.”

“You can leave me any time you wish,” Valeriy says, which isn’t quite a response. Then he frowns, and says, “Yes. We are about four blocks away.” He looks confused by the words as he says them, like he’s hearing them for the first time.

Mitya squints at him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I have already told you I am not.”

Mitya supposes that’s true. It’s weird, though, that Valeriy would admit it. Usually he keeps up the illusion of strength, pretending to be some impossible ideal of a perfect soldier. For the first six months of his assignment as Mitya’s head of security, he wouldn’t eat in front of him. Wouldn’t even drink water. Like he thought Mitya’s opinion of him would lower, somehow, if he showed that he was human—flawed—for even a second. “Don’t worry, Sarge,” Mitya says. “I’ll get you home so you can rest. You’re acting weird.”

“I will not be able to rest. I have a strict nighttime routine, which I don’t expect I’ll be able to complete tonight.”

Well, that doesn’t make sense at all. “I thought you could fall asleep anywhere?”

“I can fall into a light, half-alert sleep at a moment’s notice,” Valeriy corrects. “Thus, to signal to my body that I must rest for the full night, I must complete this nighttime routine, or else I will wake up at the slightest disturbance.”

Mitya’s chest feels strange. “I’ll help you, then,” he says, trying to sound enthusiastic instead of sad. “You really need to rest. How else are you gonna adequately guard me? I’m so fragile.”

He often says this just to piss Valeriy off, or make him exasperated. But instead Valeriy, looking slightly pained, says, “We are both well aware that you are anything but weak. However, it is not your strength that is in question, but your self-preservation. That is what I truly feel like I must do: care for you.”

Mitya’s face goes hot. He’s all out of words, suddenly.

“Anyway, I would appreciate your help.”

“Great,” Mitya says, feeling faint. “Uh—you live here, right? This building? The next one?”

“The second complex. Floor eight, with the other moderately-ranked combatants.”

“But you’re not a combatant.” Mitya hauls him up to the gate and fumbles for his own Fatui ID card, which probably has access to Valeriy’s building—he’s never actually tried using it, but it’s a Fatui apartment complex. Surely Mitya’s card will get him in.

“I am,” Valeriy says, completely serious. “If any harm were to befall you, I am under direct instructions to find the perpetrator and bring them to justice by any means necessary. And I do not need to return them alive.”

Mitya drops his card.

“Ah. The Director did not tell you this,” Valeriy infers. “A smart move on his part. Despite your high status in the Fatui, you do not deal very well with death.”

“Of course not!” Mitya hurriedly picks up his card and swipes it with his shaking hands. It fails. “I don’t think anyone does well with death. I doubt I’m a fringe case.” He swipes again. It fails. “What the hell is wrong with this card reader?”

“You don’t live here.”

“Yeah, but I should be able to get in,” Mitya says absently, trying again in vain. “Since you live here. I mean, you have the key to my apartment.”

Valeriy sighs. He takes out his own keycard and swipes it. The reader lights up green on the first try and opens the gate immediately.

Mitya glares at him. The bastard had to wait this long before pulling that out? “Whatever. Fuck you too.”

Valeriy coughs loudly. “Yes,” he says, which makes no sense at all. He coughs again. “Please come with me. I do not feel well, and I’d like nothing more than to lie down and let you assist with my routine.”

He’s being unexpectedly sweet. Mitya’s chest feels lighter all of a sudden, and he smiles, for real this time. He calls the elevator and holds the door for him. “You said you have to care for me, right? So I’ll take care of you too, Sarge.”

“I used to find that nickname quite frustrating,” Valeriy says, apropos of nothing. “But now I find that I rather enjoy it.”

Mitya stares at him. The elevator doors shut, and it trudges up to the eighth floor with a soft hum, filling the space between them.

As it turns out, Valeriy’s nighttime routine is intense. Mitya had been expecting something relatively simple. But Valeriy’s nighttime routine is, in order: brew tea, let the tea cool, wash his face, shave, wash his face again, drink the tea, wash his face a third time with only water, shower, shake his hair like a wet dog, put on his fluffy robe, shotgun a raw egg, stare at himself in the mirror for forty-five seconds exactly in complete silence, fix his partially-damp hair, take off the fluffy robe and replace it with an old man nightgown and slippers, walk to bed, sit down, recite the alphabet backwards, remove the slippers, and then lie down.

With the patience of a fucking angel, Mitya helps him through all of this. He brews the stupid tea. He tolerates the wet-dog-shake getting his shirt damp. He cracks the egg and gets the pieces of shell out of the shot glass. He reminds Valeriy that he swaps V and T in the backwards alphabet, and makes him do it correctly.

But the worst part is that this isn’t the end.

“What do you mean there’s more?” Mitya says, absolutely baffled.

“After lying down I must do my mental exercises,” Valeriy says, like this should be obvious. “The alphabet one must be done aloud, but the others can be done in the privacy of my own mind. Now I will lie here and think for a while, and then I will go to sleep.”

Mitya gives up. Whatever helps him sleep at night—literally. “Do you still need me to help out, or…?”

“I do not require your help.”

“So you want me to leave?”

Valeriy makes an odd noise in his throat, like he’s fighting something down. At last he says, “I think it would be best for our professional relationship if you returned home for the night.”

Mitya frowns at him. “Okay…?”

“Please do not ask me anything else,” Valeriy says, a little desperately. “I would not like to answer any more of your questions.”

Mitya actually thought they were getting along pretty well, but there’s no clearer dismissal than that. He sighs and gets up from the edge of the bed. “In that case, good night, Sarge,” he says, gentler than usual. “Try to get some rest.”

Then he goes home and completes his own bedtime routine, which consists of plunking down face-first in his pillow and immediately passing out.

***

Valeriy bursts through the lab doors at eight in the morning sharp with a wild look in his eyes. “I’ve figured it out,” he blurts, instead of his usual polite, reserved greeting.

Mitya glances up. “Sarge?” He didn’t expect Valeriy to get in for another hour at least, and he was planning to impress him with his good behavior today after whatever befell him last night. But now Valeriy’s here and he’s barely even hung up his coat. So much for that plan.

“It’s a truth serum,” Valeriy says, uncharacteristically fast. “Well, not precisely. I assume this is the same drug the Fatui often uses to interrogate unfaithful agents. It compels them to speak their minds. They must have put it into your drink to get you talking about Project Mistilteinn.”

“Truth serum? That’s not a real thing. It can’t be. It would be international news.”

Valeriy suddenly looks uncomfortable. He paces by the lab door. “It is not precisely a truth serum. It only makes the victim more talkative, and more willing to say things they otherwise would not. But considering my disposition…”

Shit. They both know Valeriy can’t lie to save his life. “So you’re… forced to tell the truth? All the time? You can’t keep quiet?”

“This seems to be the case, yes. I found nothing else matching my symptoms in the Fatui operative poison handbook.”

Mitya stands from his desk. Valeriy doesn’t just look tired, he looks bone-deep exhausted, like he hasn’t rested well in about ten years. “Sarge, did you sleep?”

“No. After you left I got up again, despite my body’s protests, and started working. Also, you brewed the tea incorrectly.”

“What do you mean I brewed the tea incorrectly?” Mitya asks, offended, before he realizes that they have much, much bigger fish to fry. “Never mind.”

“It was not strong enough. Next time you should use hotter water and avoid straining the leaves. I prefer it as bitter as possible.” He inhales. “I did not mean to tell you that. I meant to tell you that the tea was fine. Do you see the problem?”

Mitya stares at him for a few long seconds. “You really can’t lie. Wow.”

“I would hardly have told you it was a truth serum if I was not being serious.”

Mitya supposes that comes with the territory. He’s still baffled at Valeriy’s whole speech, but mostly he’s thinking about Next time, about how easily Valeriy said it, like it was a given that Mitya would be taking him to bed again in the future. And what a concept: taking Valeriy to bed. Mitya valiantly avoids thinking about the other, less literal, meanings of that phrase.

“Our biggest priority should be maintaining confidentiality,” Valeriy says. He might have been talking the whole time. Mitya abruptly starts listening again. “I am a liability at the moment. As such, the most reasonable course of action is for me to return home immediately and lock my doors.”

Mitya frowns. “Wait. Confidentiality, as in information about Project Mistilteinn?”

“What else,” Valeriy says drily, but then he makes an odd sound in his throat and says, “Yes. Although I do not know as much as you do, your attempted assailants may come after me to obtain the information they sought from you.”

“Funny,” says Mitya, though it’s not very funny at all. “If they’d given it to me, it probably wouldn’t have done anything. You always say I’m allergic to shutting up.”

Valeriy’s quiet for a moment. Then, at last, he says, “I get the feeling sometimes that although you speak a lot, you seldom say what’s really on your mind.”

Mitya’s heart jumps into his throat. He laughs, though it sounds strange even to himself. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I lie to you?”

“I never accused you of being a liar. I only meant that you’re very good at answering the question you want to answer, rather than the question you were asked.”

His eyes are intense. Mitya gets the feeling he’s been thinking this for a long time, and that he never intended to speak it into existence. He’s right, at least to some extent. Mitya has spent a lot of time cultivating a reputation as a chatterbox, and that’s no accident. He may not be a combatant, but every Fatuus knows how to hide behind a mask.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Valeriy says. Mitya nearly jumps; he’s always the one who has to break their silence, under normal circumstances. “You would have dealt with this much better than I.”

He turns around to leave again. He stumbles over his feet when he walks, like he’s unused to his own body.

“Wait,” Mitya calls, his heart skipping in his ears. “You’re worried about revealing confidential information, right?”

Valeriy nods.

“So let’s go together. I mean, I’m the project lead. I already know everything there is to know about Project Mistilteinn.”

“…Yes,” says Valeriy. “You do.”

Why is he hesitating? It’s not like him to willingly let Mitya out of his sight, especially not after he’s just been the target of a failed attack. “You’re acting weird.”

“Naturally,” Valeriy says, sounding exasperated. “I’ve been poisoned. Forgive me if this extenuating circumstance causes me to deviate from my usual behavior.”

Mitya laughs. “Don’t be silly, Sarge! Why are you so scared? It’s not like you have anything to hide from me.”

Valeriy makes a face like he’s eaten a whole lemon, and says, “Hmm.”

“Come on,” Mitya says brightly. “It’s time to get to work!”

***

So they stay in the lab for a while. Mitya works in sporadic bursts, intense things that leave him exhausted and in desperate need of a recharge. Work hard, play hard, right? (Of course, Valeriy often reminds him that he enjoys playing hard while on the clock. Mitya has to admit he has a point.)

But today he sits down at his desk, starts tinkering with the miniature clock he’s been trying to power with his own stellar linchpin, and then he blinks and it’s been two hours and the clock in his hands ticks once, twice, threefourfive times, then falls still again.

Progress! He’s getting it to move! Now if only he could figure out how to sustain its energy, so it doesn’t burn out and crash…

Huh. Kind of like his own work pattern. Weirdly, he almost feels sympathy for the clock, ticking four times a second and then dying again. That’ll be him someday, he thinks—ticking too fast, too fast, too-fast-too-fast-too-fast, and then dying.

The train of thought is a little depressing, so he glances up at Valeriy in the corner of the room. “Bet you didn’t expect me to do this part, huh?” he teases.

Valeriy stands up so straight that his armor makes noise. “I did expect it, obviously,” he says, seeming almost offended. “I know you work exceptionally hard, and that your work is extraordinary. Of course I expect you to do your job. I always trust that you’ll do what you must, and do it well, at that. You’re a genius. I’ve always known it, and I’ve always greatly admired you for it.”

Mitya stares at him. His ears feel hot. Scratch that—his whole face feels hot. Maybe his whole body.

“You look embarrassed. Are you so unaware of your own brilliance?”

Mitya makes a sound that he will later pretend isn’t a squeak. “You know what,” he says, about three octaves higher than usual. “Let’s do something else!”

Valeriy looks perplexed, but like always, where Mitya goes, he follows.

***

‘Something else’ turns out to be going out for lunch.

Mitya wants to insist on going somewhere expensive and billing it to Lady Marionette, like he often does with his work lunches, but given Valeriy’s situation they wordlessly agree that discretion takes priority. They end up at a hole-in-the-wall diner in Zolnyy. Mitya finds them an isolated table and glances over the menu. He knows Valeriy’s food preferences well enough, so he says, “Ox bone and pork sausage soup, right? With spinach?”

Valeriy nods. “And—“

“And two pieces of rye bread,” Mitya adds, grinning. The information he’s managed to glean about Valeriy’s preferences is sparse, despite his best efforts, so he likes to relish the few things he knows. “What do you want to drink?”

Valeriy suddenly looks profoundly uncomfortable. He makes an odd, twisted expression.

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me…” Mitya snaps his fingers. “Hot black coffee!”

“…That is what I usually order, yes.”

“Okay, great.” Mitya heads off toward the counter to place their order.

“I do not actually like it,” Valeriy blurts.

Mitya’s scarf yanks him back to the table, and he yelps. It’s not like he was going to order it anyway! He would have turned around on his own! “You don’t?”

“My preferred beverage is barley coffee, which is not coffee at all,” Valeriy says, looking firmly at the table. “However, it’s rare that restaurants carry this beverage, and if they do, I often find it disagreeable. I prefer a certain blend and roast, which is not always available. I generally order black coffee instead because—hm. You like to have two coffees. But you will not order yourself two coffees.”

Mitya blinks. “What? I don’t drink two coffees in a sitting. That’s—no. I don’t do that.”

“I leave mine on your desk. I suppose you assume it is the first, miraculously refilled when you discover it.”

On second thought, this does happen suspiciously often. Mitya usually blames it on his own poor memory, but perhaps it was something else this whole time. He’s still holding his wallet like an idiot. It’s not fair, he thinks, that Valeriy knows everything about him, and yet Mitya doesn’t know a thing in return. Valeriy somehow figured out all of this through observation, and here’s Mitya, taking advantage of his poisoned state to even have a fighting chance. He has the brief but absurd thought that he should have noticed, somehow; should have noticed everything Valeriy ever does, just in case it meant something.

“I didn’t know you did that for me,” Mitya says weakly, because he can’t find anything else to say.

Valeriy looks at him strangely. “I did not want you to know.”

Mitya’s stomach twists with a fresh burst of guilt. “Yeah,” he says, missing all his usual bravado. “Um—sorry.”

Valeriy stares at the table again.

Mitya orders one black coffee for himself, but hesitates on the second drink. In the end he buys Valeriy a hot star ginger tea, feeling guilty about it. He sets it down like a sacrificial offering before a divine altar.

Valeriy drinks a long sip in silence. “Thank you,” he says.

Mitya’s almost afraid to ask, but he has to know. “What would you have ordered? If you could have any drink on the menu?”

Valeriy pauses thoughtfully. At last he says, “Tap water.”

Mitya laughs so hard that he almost inhales Valeriy’s soup. Though they don’t speak much for the rest of their lunch, Mitya swears he catches Valeriy smiling at nothing.

***

“Training,” Mitya suggests.

Valeriy shakes his head. “Too many soldiers. If any of them asks an inopportune question, I’d be in danger.”

“Reading?”

“I’m having difficulty with my focus. I expect this is a side effect of the poison, and due in no small part to the stress I’m under.”

“Oh. Good point… Shopping?”

“I don’t have enough disposable income for that. I send most of my salary home to my sister.”

“Oh, right!” Valeriy doesn’t like to talk about himself, but he’ll go on about his sister for ages if he gets the chance, so Mitya knows this much, at least. “Didn’t you say she just had a son? You’re an uncle! What I wouldn’t give to see that kid pinch your cheeks and smile at you…”

“I wasn’t under the impression that you particularly liked children.”

“Well,” says Mitya, because that’s mostly true. He wasn’t thinking about the kid. He was thinking about how cute Valeriy would look with his face all soft for his nephew. “Um. I like them once they have the capacity to form their own opinions. And can hold an intelligent conversation.”

Valeriy gives him the driest look known to mankind.

“Okay, okay! Don’t respond to that,” Mitya says hurriedly. “Where were we? Let’s think of something to do. What would you do if I weren’t here?”

“Go home,” Valeriy says tonelessly. “Take medication to knock myself out. Wake up, and if my condition hasn’t improved, do it again.”

“Really? Purposely make yourself comatose?”

“Yes.”

Mitya’s stomach twists. The thought of Valeriy taking too many pills with that same unchanging expression as always is making him feel strange. “Let’s not do that,” he says firmly. “I’m sure we can think of something else.”

Valeriy looks at him in stony silence.

“…The theater?” says Mitya hopefully.

***

So: the theater it is.

Vodyanitsa is performing today, but Odette isn’t. Vodyanitsa has a different dancer doing her pre-show, a tap-dancing duo who create their own rhythm from the pattern of their shoes. Mitya finds it absolutely entrancing. Self-sufficiency, and all that! Innovation! He could use something like this for the stellar linchpin energy generation system—maybe the rhythm of energy pulses could come from the linchpin itself, and the system of energy could work using its natural rhythm, rather than the energy demands of the machine! Mitya reaches for his pen eagerly. Perhaps there could be some sort of regulator between the two—

Valeriy’s hand lands on top of his.

Mitya glances up at him. “I’m trying to work,” he whispers. “You love it when I work.”

“I do not,” Valeriy says in an undertone. “I find your work very impressive, but I know we’ve both had a stressful day. You deserve the time off. Your work can wait.”

Mitya stares at him, the dancers entirely forgotten. “Is this what you really think? And yet you drag me back to work every day! You hypocrite!”

Someone next to them shushes them. Valeriy looks extremely apologetic. Mitya stops talking and kicks him in the shins instead.

Valeriy grimaces in pain. Which—yeah, Mitya forgot he was wearing his nicest heeled boots today, with the steel toes and everything. He leans in extra close, putting his mouth almost next to Valeriy’s ear. “Sorry,” he whispers. “You can kick me back if you want! Just be gentle, please?”

Valeriy’s whole face flushes from his neck to his forehead.

Mitya pulls back. He looks at him quizzically.

Valeriy clears his throat. He raises his hand to his mouth and makes a sound like he’s coughing and muttering something. Maybe he’s saying something from the curse, but he’s too polite to talk in the theater? That must be it.

Anyway, Mitya’s hardly going to complain about getting more time to enjoy the show. And Valeriy’s right. Vodyanitsa would kill him if he didn’t pay attention! He even paid extra for last-minute premium tickets, so she’ll probably want to meet with him afterwards to thank him for his generous patronage. If there was ever a performance to pay attention to, it’s this one.

So Mitya puts his pen and notebook away, and watches.

It’s a great show. Vodoyanitsa is performing alone, wearing an enormous purple dress that cascades from her shoulders like a waterfall. She even has a swing on stage, which she sits on for one of her numbers while it carries her high above the audience. Her voice is rich and emotional, and her body language is more exaggerated than usual, especially with the purple gown amplifying every movement. Mitya watches, entranced, and when the curtain falls, he’s the first person in the audience to stand up and applaud.

Their tickets do, in fact, include backstage access. Mitya takes Valeriy by the hand and drags him down the hallway to the greenroom, waiting for Vodyanitsa to come off stage.

“I haven’t sat through a whole show in months! What a performance,” Mitya says, exhilarated. “Hey, thanks, Sarge. I really needed that!”

“I’m glad I could help.”

His voice is a little too soft. Mitya’s heart skips a beat. “Uh, so did you enjoy the show too?”

“Truthfully, I did not spend much time looking at it,” Valeriy says. “I spent a considerable amount of time watching you instead. You seemed to enjoy it very much. Your expressions were vivid throughout the performance. I especially enjoyed the way the light reflected on your eyes when Miss Vodyanitsa performed her aerial number. Everything was purple. I particularly enjoy purple.”

Mitya stares at him. His whole face goes hot. Really hot. Holy shit. “You—uh, like purple?” he says, because he’s a goddamn idiot.

“Yes.” Then, inexplicably, he says, “Your eyes are purple.”

“Great…?” His face has, somehow, gotten even hotter. It’s probably the temperature of the fucking sun or something. “Uh, I’m glad you had fun?”

“Very much,” Valeriy says, sounding earnest. “I enjoy looking at you.”

Mitya squeaks.

Of course, Vodyanitsa chooses this moment to emerge from her greenroom. “Helloooo, my dearest darlingest high-roller!” she sings, draping herself dramatically across the couch. Then she blinks upside down. “Oh. It’s you.”

Mitya buries his flaming face in his hands.

Vodyanitsa frowns up at him. “You could have told me you were coming,” she says, pointing an accusatory finger at his face. “I did the whole routine! I even made my stage makeup less freaky! I thought there was a new high spender in town! But no. It’s the usual neighborhood idiot.” She rolls her eyes at him.

“Mitya is not an idiot,” Valeriy says, out of absolutely nowhere. “He designed the vast majority of the current Kristall infrastructure in Snezhnograd. Without him, the energy systems of our great city would be practically guaranteed to fail. He is quite possibly as far from an idiot as it is possible to be.”

Mitya makes a faint noise. This might be it for him. Goodbye, cruel world. Death by flattery.

Vodyanitsa’s eyes go almost comically wide. “Major Valeriy? You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you defend him so staunchly.” She squints at him. “What’s up with you today?”

“I am under the influence,” says Valeriy immediately, with no hesitation.

“You’re what?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Mitya says quickly. “Haha. He, uh. Drank something. Alcohol. He drank my wine.”

“I did,” Valeriy says, because this, at least, is true. “Please excuse me.”

“Fuck,” says Vodyanitsa appreciatively. She nods. “Get him a little drunk and he starts singing your praises, huh? Sweet deal. I get Odette a little drunk and she starts cursing in Fontainian. You’d think she would try to learn something nice in Fontainian, right? Like, how to say I’m beautiful and wonderful? But no. She’s cursing like a sailor.”

“Okay, great,” says Mitya, before Valeriy can open his mouth again. “I am so sorry, but I have to run. I mean, really have to run. Before Sarge starts saying things that people shouldn’t hear.”

“Ohhhh,” Vodyanitsa says, with a wink. “Yeah. Uh huh. I’ll leave you to it. Have fun! Be safe! Use protection!”

And with that, she runs off to her greenroom again.

Mitya blinks. Yep—his face is right back to the temperature of the sun again.

“Evidently, she thought that you were referring to inappropriate speech of a sexual nature,” Valeriy says. “This is good. She does not suspect the true nature of my predicament. She thinks that—”

“I know what she thinks,” Mitya whisper-hisses, slapping a hand over Valeriy’s mouth. He also knows why she’s thinking it—because he’s complained to her about ten thousand times that he’d very much like Valeriy to put his tongue in Mitya’s mouth already and get it over with—but he tactfully avoids saying this. “Let’s go back, yeah? Back home.”

“Your place or mine?”

Mitya pointedly ignores the other, much more evocative context that this question could be asked in. “Mine,” he decides. “Just follow me, okay?”

“I’m good at that,” Valeriy agrees, and then he follows.

***

“I’ve been thinking,” Valeriy says, as Mitya unlocks the door to his apartment. “The poison was administered before your fan meeting with Miss Odette. The only person who would have had access to ask you invasive questions after the fact is Miss Odette herself. So…”

Mitya fumbles with his keys. “You can’t be saying Odette tried to poison me. Why would she do that? She’s Fatui. She already knows everything she needs to know.”

“What alternatives do you suggest, then?”

“Maybe someone who wanted to frame her? One of La Signora’s old subordinates? I know Odette made a lot of enemies when she was selected as the next Fair Lady. Even if she hasn’t accepted the position, that kind of thing makes people jealous.”

Valeriy’s expression grows pensive. “They could have been counting on my exact thought process, particularly if it was an inside job. So…”

“We can’t be sure,” Mitya finishes for him. He sighs and leans against the door. “This stuff’s so complicated. I wish it was simpler, you know? I wish all I had to do was run my experiments.”

“Taking over a Harbinger position cannot be an easy thing.”

Mitya glances over at him, and his chest hurts. “This can’t be easy, either,” he says softly. “Taking that poison for me, I mean. I would have drank it.”

“I know,” Valeriy says, without hesitation. “That’s why I didn’t let that happen.”

The words die in Mitya’s throat.

“I would never let harm come to you.” Valeriy’s eyes look strange, darker than usual, like he’s letting himself get carried away. “I knew what this position entailed when I signed up for it. You are a genius, and I am—replaceable. I…” He inhales deeply. “I will spend my life trying to achieve even a fraction of the change that you already have imparted. Your name will be written in history books; mine will be engraved on a war memorial. We are different. My job is to protect you, and I’ve always been willing to give my life for it.”

And then silence falls. In the wake of his words the quiet is heavy, oppressive. Mitya stares at him, trying to find something to say.

“Is that why you did it?” Mitya says at last. “Your job? Your oath? Some kind of—of twisted guilt, or a soldier’s self-sacrificial fantasy?”

“No,” Valeriy says. “I did it because I wish to avoid putting you in harm’s way. That’s all.”

Mitya’s composure slips through his fingers like water. He clears his throat. That’s the Fatui standard answer. That’s what bodyguards are meant to say. But Valeriy says it with such earnestness, such rich conviction, that it sounds entirely different than usual. “I’m lucky to have you around, huh?” he says, with a weak smile. “No one else would be this dedicated. I bet it’s a struggle.”

“I do not find it difficult to care for you.”

Mitya’s face feels warm again. He turns around quickly and hangs up his coat. “That’s—uh. Wow.”

Valeriy makes an embarrassed coughing sound behind him. They stand there in silence and shuffle out of their warm clothes. When Mitya turns around again, Valeriy’s blushing too, color high on his cheeks and dripping down his neck.

Mitya turns around again and tries to think of something normal to say. He finds the housecoats in front of him and grasps at straws. “Sarge, do you have a favorite?” He pulls out the purple robe. “Maybe this one? Probably this one.”

“I have no preference for the color of your housecoat,” Valeriy says. “I think you look equally nice in all of them. However, I sometimes imagine that I would prefer to see you without one.” His face goes spectacularly red after this admission, like he’s said something unforgivable, and he turns away.

Mitya blinks, confused. “Without a housecoat, I’d get cold. I don’t wear a whole lot underneath them, Sarge.”

Valeriy looks like he’s going to be sick. “I know that,” he says, like it’s a death sentence. “I—yes. I am aware.”

Mitya stares at him, and then—oh. Oh. He means that he knows Mitya doesn’t wear much underneath them, and that he’d like to see him without—Mitya coughs repeatedly through his burning face. “Are you hungry?” he says, scrambling for literally anything that even remotely resembles normal conversation. “I can cook us something.”

“No, you cannot,” Valeriy says, exasperated. He sounds almost relieved, though his face is still faintly flushed. “I’ve seen the results of your cooking. We will order something.”

“I can cook!”

“No, you cannot.”

“I mean, maybe if I’d studied chemistry I’d be better at it. Physics mostly teaches you how to set stuff on fire.”

“Don’t I know it,” Valeriy mutters. He’s probably thinking about the times he’s caught Mitya burning his own hands in the forge, or doing paperwork after forgetting that he’s got engine grease all over his hands. “I would offer to order the food, but I don’t think I should speak to anyone in my current condition. Perhaps it’d be best if you did the honors.”

“You just tell me what you want, Sarge,” Mitya says, a little fond despite the circumstances. “Let me take care of it for once.”

Valeriy gives him a tiny smile. “Of course, Mitya.”

***

Mitya’s in the middle of trying to prepare their evening tea—the right way, this time, with the too-hot water and the oversteeping and the other bullshit that Valeriy likes—when Valeriy falls asleep.

He abandons the tea and goes over to the couch to check on him. Valeriy’s not sitting up. Instead, he’s collapsed over the armrest and the back of the couch, his long legs curled up beneath him and his head pillowed on his own arms. His eyes look peaceful, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. This isn’t how he looks when he falls into a light sleep. He appears really, truly knocked out.

Only then does Mitya remember that he didn’t sleep the previous night. He’d forgotten about that, because of how normally Valeriy seemed to be operating during the day. Is Valeriy’s soldier mindset so ingrained that he wouldn’t even admit his own exhaustion?

Just in case, Mitya leans closer over him and tries whispering. “Hey, Sarge?”

No response. Valeriy’s face remains peaceful, undisturbed.

His face is beautiful, like this. From far away he always looks perfectly composed, but close up, Mitya can see the hint of five o’clock shadow across his jaw, the dark circles etched beneath his eyes, the thin scar running across his nose. All of the things that make him human. Mitya can’t help himself. He stands there watching, watching, watching.

In the quiet of his apartment, the sound of Valeriy’s even breath is reassuring. He’s steady. He’s a sure thing. Mitya feels almost bowled over by it, just then—how badly he needs stability, and how hard Valeriy tries to offer that.

For once, Mitya decides to try being stable for him in return.

He’s not strong enough to carry Valeriy’s ninety-five thousand kilograms to the bed, but his scarf is, so he whistles and snaps his fingers. The scarf comes to life and flashes him a peace sign. At his direction, it wraps underneath Valeriy’s head to support him, then below his shoulders, his back, his knees. Mitya clears the path and helps get him to bed. At least he’s already dressed down. Mitya would feel weird having to unbuckle his stupidly complicated military armor while he was asleep. He pulls back the blankets and carefully settles his head on a pillow, and then watches him.

Valeriy’s still asleep. He must be exhausted.

It’s strange, seeing Valeriy so undone. He tries so hard to keep up that image of invincibility, of strength, that he would go to any lengths to avoid showing weakness to Mitya. Now that he’s vulnerable at last, Mitya can’t look away.

It’s not that he forgets Valeriy is only human. But it’s nice, he thinks, to have the reminder. They’re not so different, once all is said and done.

Valeriy’s face softens, and his breathing grows deeper. He sleeps heavily, like he’s dead to the world.

He wouldn’t even notice, probably, if Mitya were to get into bed with him. And it’s not like Mitya has a second bed in the apartment. He has a couch, but who wants to sleep on a couch when they’ve got a perfectly good bed right there? Valeriy can hardly blame him for taking the practical approach to the situation.

No one needs to know, Mitya reasons to himself, even as his heart races in his chest. No one needs to know. He can linger in this moment for a little longer. He can indulge himself, just this once.

So Mitya changes into his sleepwear and lies down on the other side of the bed. He watches Valeriy’s peaceful face, squished against the pillow, and smiles to himself.

Valeriy’s the one who needs his protection, this time, so Mitya listens to Valeriy’s breath until his eyes droop and his body goes weightless.

***

Mitya wakes up warm and soft and also with his arm thrown over Valeriy’s waist and his face buried in Valeriy’s shoulder. He blinks, and his grip unconsciously tightens on Valeriy’s waist before he realizes what he’s doing and abruptly stops.

Valeriy stirs. “Mm?”

“Hi, Sarge,” Mitya says, though it comes out gravelly with sleep. He clears his throat. “No wonder they call you a bear. You’re so cuddly.”

Valeriy makes a disgruntled noise. “I expect that they call me a bear because I fight like one, not because of this.” He shuffles around again, lifting his face from the pillow slightly. “Most people don’t have the honor and privilege of cuddling with me.”

“Guess I’m not most people,” Mitya teases. He taps his nose against the top of Valeriy’s shoulder to annoy him.

Valeriy makes a vague noise and rolls over, further away from him. Notably, he doesn’t roll far enough to break their contact. Hmm. He also doesn’t respond right away. Doesn’t try to argue back, or humor him.

Wait. Wait.

Mitya shoots awake. “Sarge,” he says urgently. “Sarge! What’s your favorite color?”

Valeriy blinks up at him with his adorable confused face. “Purple,” he mutters, his face flushing. “I told you that already.”

Mitya waves his hand wildly. “No! No. I need you to lie to me.”

“Why would I do that?”

Mitya groans and bangs his head into the headboard. “Just try it, okay?!”

Valeriy raises his eyebrows, but says, “My favorite color is orange.”

Mitya beams. “FUCK YES!” He reaches out to high-five his scarf, but it’s not there, so he settles for high-fiving himself with his other hand instead. Whatever. No one’s here to see him but Valeriy, and Valeriy has peeled his drunk, liquid body off the floor of a bar. He’s seen it all, at this point. No reason to try to look cool in front of a guy who’s dragged his sorry ass back to work a thousand times.

Valeriy still looks confused. He props himself up on his elbows, looking slightly more awake. “Pardon, Mister Mitya. My favorite color isn’t orange. Please don’t celebrate.”

“I know. It’s purple, like my eyes,” Mitya says. “You told me yesterday, when you couldn't stop talking.”

Valeriy’s expression slowly melts into understanding. His eyes sharpen. “Ah. You were testing me. The poison’s effects have worn off, then?”

“Enough that you can say something other than your true thoughts, at least,” Mitya agrees. “And you can avoid answering me if you don’t want to. I noticed that earlier.”

“A true scientist,” Valeriy mutters, looking exasperated. “You start cataloguing your findings thirty seconds after you wake up.” He starts trying to sit up again, pushing one hand against the bed.

“Wait,” Mitya blurts. He reaches out pathetically, not even making contact.

Somehow this command halts Valeriy in his tracks the same way the word of a king might. “Yes?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Mitya says. His heart is doing double time in his chest, but he can’t back down now; it’s time to follow through. “Now I can finally get my answer. Valeriy, do you—are you—” He sighs. “You’re in love with me,” he says, and somehow it doesn’t come out as a question at all.

Valeriy’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t exactly look surprised. “The truth serum isn’t in effect anymore,” he says. “Why did you wait until now to ask me?”

“Because I wanted you to answer as yourself,” Mitya says. “You should be able to choose whether you want to tell me or not.”

“It sounds as though you already know.”

Mitya raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I am a scientist. It’s my job to make observations. And you’re not exactly the pinnacle of subtlety, Sarge.”

Valeriy has the grace to blush. “Given that you’ve put the pieces together yourself, it seems redundant to ask me. You know my answer.”

“But now you can choose to tell me,” Mitya says, smiling a little. He pulls the blankets up around Valeriy’s shoulders. “It’s special that way, isn’t it? I want you to want me to know.”

Valeriy looks at him strangely. “I never thought of it that way.”

Mitya breathes a laugh. “Mostly I want to watch you stumble through it,” he says, grinning. “I know you’d be bad at it. You probably wouldn’t know romance if it bit you in the ass.” He leans forward. “So? Hit me with it, Sarge. Give me your best confession.”

Valeriy inhales. He sits up straighter in Mitya’s bed. Then he says, “No.”

Mitya blinks. “No?”

“No.”

Mitya stares at him. “You can’t be serious. I mean, you said you care for me. You replace my coffee, apparently? And not to mention that yesterday you basically said you think about me naked all the time—”

“I did not say that.”

“And now you’re just lying,” Mitya says, louder. “Admit it, Sarge. I know we’re doing everything a little backwards, but you’re already in my bed.”

Valeriy ignores him. Instead he leans closer. “You said I’m not romantic.” Here he takes one of Mitya’s hands. “I’d like to prove you wrong.”

Mitya’s confidence evaporates. “You—what?”

“I don’t see any problem with taking my time,” Valeriy says. “If you’re already aware of the way I feel, I might as well do things properly. Would you like to be wined and dined?” He pauses. “Not wined. That didn’t end too well last time.”

Mitya, despite himself, laughs. “Yeah. Maybe no more wine.”

A small smile crosses Valeriy’s mouth. He takes Mitya’s hand and lifts it to his mouth. The barest brush of his lips sends Mitya’s pulse racing through his wrists.

“The dining part, though. I could go for that,” Mitya says. “How about we plan it for Tuesday?”

“You’re working on Tuesday.”

Mitya groans and yanks his hand back. “Sarge, you’re the actual worst. Can’t we have one day off to go on our big date where you tell me you’re in love with me? I think that’s a little bit special.”

“I’ll plan it for Saturday.”

“Maybe I’m all booked out on Saturday. Maybe I’ve got plans with the seventeen other men who are in love with me. You don’t know.”

Valeriy only smiles. Instead of responding, he leans closer, takes Mitya’s face in his hands, tucks his hair behind his ears, and kisses him thoroughly enough to leave his head spinning.

Somehow they end up against the headboard. Mitya bangs his head again and winces, and Valeriy places one hand behind his head so smoothly that he doesn’t even break the kiss. Mitya makes a noise of protest, but Valeriy eats it or something because it comes out more like a squeak. All Mitya can do is relax into it and let himself be kissed.

Eventually Valeriy breaks away again. It feels like it’s been eight years but it’s probably only been a minute or two, or maybe three hours. “I know,” Valeriy says. “I know you.”

Mitya looks up at him and feels starstruck. “Do you?” he asks, breathless.

There are a thousand things Valeriy could bring up as proof. He could talk about Mitya’s schedule, his theater outings; could talk about his food preferences, or his preferred styles of clothing; could talk about his dreams, his aspirations, his favorite methods to relax, all of which Valeriy knows almost better than Mitya himself does; even his coffee habits, which Mitya didn’t even know about until Valeriy told him. But all he says is, “Yes.”

And that’s enough.

“What’s my favorite color?” Mitya asks, just to test him.

Valeriy frowns slightly, but eventually he says, “…Blue.”

Mitya snaps his fingers. “Got you! I don’t have one. I’m equally partial towards every color, actually.”

“Your curtains are blue, your favorite pen uses dark blue ink, and you’re three times more likely to skip work when the sky is blue.”

“…Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Mitya pauses. He glances at his own blue curtains, where the morning light is starting to filter into the room, then back at Valeriy, whose face is starting to glimmer with blue light. “Maybe you are a romantic, after all.”

Valeriy smiles with his blue-purple eyes.

“But,” Mitya says, mischief creeping back into his tone. “If you were really a romantic, you’d let me have the day off work today.”

Valeriy’s mouth flattens out, and he looks disappointed.

“Come on,” Mitya bargains. “It’s not like I’d get anything done today anyway! I’ll be in the lab messing everything up because I’m so worried about the lingering effects of the poison in your system. Or thinking about you kissing me. I mean, that was really something. Where’d you learn to kiss like that? That’s not part of the military school curriculum, is it?”

“No,” Valeriy says drily. “That was more of an independent study.”

“Sarge!” He gasps, fake scandalized. “I thought gentlemen don't kiss and tell!”

Valeriy sighs. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I bother.”

“But you’re not leaving.”

Valeriy, tellingly, stays silent.

“Just one day,” Mitya pleads. Then he pulls out the final, most devastating weapon: “I could give you a strip tease with that housecoat you were eyeing yesterday.”

Valeriy’s whole face goes red. “Mitya.”

“What, you wouldn’t like it?”

“…”

Mitya laughs at him. “I’m only teasing, Sarge.” He sits up and grins. “Maybe I can talk you into another hour or two in bed, though? I mean, you didn’t sleep yesterday. You really do need a little more rest.”

Valeriy hesitates for that one fatal second.

“One hour,” Mitya says, looking up at him sweetly. “I’d feel so much safer if I knew that my head of security slept for a tiny bit longer…”

Valeriy sighs. “Of course, Mitya,” he says, ten times fonder than Mitya expects. “Whatever you want.”

(They don’t make it to work until past noon. Mitya considers this a resounding success.)