Archive of Our Own

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing around him but an endless expanse of darkness. He was no longer caught in the blizzard; what his eyes beheld was a strange dimension where time and space seemed to have ceased to coexist. Classical and arcane architecture stretched beneath his feet, while before him an endless staircase rose into the distance, its countless steps concealing the end of the ascent from view.

Mitya had never seen anything like it in his life. He had studied nothing that could possibly tell him what the hell kind of place he had found himself in. Not even the Realm of Shadows could boast such grandeur. And yet, the very air here seemed to crush his chest, making it painfully clear that his body would not withstand this dimension for much longer.

“Where the hell am I?” he wondered, looking around. “Is anyone there?”

His voice echoed back at him, distorted. He had never heard anything like that come from his own vocal cords; it was horrifying and chilling all at once. He examined his clothes. He was wearing nothing but trousers and a white shirt. He was barefoot, without his scarf to keep him company. How did I end up here?

Then... he felt something behind him.
A presence.
A sound reached his ears, sending shivers down his spine, shivers he had felt before.
More than once.

He turned toward it, drawn to a red beam descending from the sky.

His lilac eyes widened at once as the symbol of a curse reflected in them, a curse that had been branded onto his skin so deeply that it could never truly leave him.

The eye. That eye.

“Ronova...” he whispered, horror taking hold of him as his legs began to tremble, barely strong enough to support his weight.

The flower-patterned iris stared down at him, as though waiting for his reaction, waiting to see if he would attempt to defy it. But Mitya knew there was no way he could ever stand as its equal. This time, he did not have the Traveler watching his back. He did not even have his Linchpin within reach.

He was alone. Again. At the mercy of that cursed Shade.

Suddenly, the eye closed, and tendrils burst from beneath its lid, lashing toward him. Mitya flinched, but managed to avoid them by throwing himself to the ground. He rolled, regained his footing, and began running toward the staircase. Two steps at a time, the stairs slipped beneath his bare feet as he climbed at breakneck speed, struggling to keep his movements steady and controlled. His heart hammered violently in his chest, but his instinct to survive was strong enough that he could see nothing ahead of him except the top of that endless ascent.

A tendril coiled around his wrist, but Mitya fought it with all his strength, wrenching himself free. He steadied his breathing and kept moving, refusing to look back for any reason. That was where he would wake up, wasn't it? That was where he could escape that gaze once again. He did not want to look at it anymore.

He was tired. He would not give in to this torture.

He reached the top.
An enormous mirror stood before him, a pane of glass so vast that he could see Ronova's eye reflected within it, her gaze fixed upon him, while his own trembling irises stared back. And yet, what truly caught Mitya's terrified attention was the body waiting for him beyond the glass.

A figure he had never seen.
A figure he had never expected to see.
Himself.

Lay on his side, fully dressed, his Vision resting against his leg. Even his scarf had gone completely still. His eyes were closed, bearing silent witness to the consequence of that curse. The result of every failed attempt.

“W-What does this mean? That shouldn't...?” he murmured, raising his left hand.

He went pale.
It was gone.
Ronova's mark had disappeared.
Who... Who was he?

A tendril swept past him, stirring a gust of wind that tousled his hair.
A warning. Death was playing with him.
Using the reflection in the mirror, Mitya avoided another tendril, then another. But he could not keep up. He had always been more adept at wielding elemental power without ever having to move a muscle. A tendril closed around his wrist with an iron grip. Then another caught his leg, his waist, his other arm.

Mitya snarled and staggered toward the glass, toward his own body. His hands slammed against it, the impact producing nothing but a dull, muffled thud.

“Wake up!” he shouted, but this time his voice came out so muffled that he could feel it reverberating inside his own chest. He fought against Death as it dragged him away, striking the glass with another fist. “Wake up! Wake up, damn it!”

His body remained motionless, while he was dragged farther and farther away. He fell to the ground and clawed desperately at a crack between the bricks beneath him, a frightened groan escaping his throat.

“No...! Wake up...!” his fingers were beginning to slip. He clenched his jaw as the edges of his vision turned red, growing darker and thicker, dense as blood.

Amidst that crimson haze, he caught the faintest movement in the eyelids of his body. A wave of relief surged through his veins. But when those eyes opened, everything stopped.

They were yellow. Yellow, with that same flower-like pattern he had seen far too many times.
And when their gazes met, his grip gave way.
Mitya was dragged into the darkness, while a single scream was swallowed by the night.

“RONOVA!” Mitya screamed, jolting upright in his bed.

His wide eyes wandered through the darkness of his room, while his ragged breathing made it seem as though he had truly run across all those stairs, despite the fact that his body had not moved an inch from the mattress. His open mouth struggled to help his nostrils fill the emptiness that had settled in his lungs, while his fingers curled into the sheets, trying to release all the tension he had carried with him from that dimension, unable to simply shake it off.

Only when the sound of books crashing onto the floor broke through the emptiness in his mind did he lift his head and look straight ahead. He saw a shadow moving in the darkness, darting across his room.
A wave of panic surged through his mind, and he reacted on instinct.
With his Linchpin resting on the nightstand, all it took was a movement of his finger to summon one of his Electro spheres and fire it toward the shadow, Mitya springing to his feet in a state of alarm.

The lightning struck the wall, casting a flash of light that allowed him to see better who, or, rather, what, the shadow actually was. His shoulders, still rising and falling with exhaustion, suddenly relaxed as his hand fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table. He switched it on, revealing the mess scattered throughout his room, the disheveled bed, and the scorch mark his attack had left across the wall.
Beside the fallen books lay his blue-handed scarf, waving frantically to tell him not to fire another shot, clearly frightened.

Mitya felt mortified.

“Damn... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...” he whispered, hoping he had not woken anyone with all the commotion. Snezhnograd was asleep; his clock showed that it was barely three in the morning. “It's still so early...”

He tried to take a step, but his legs could not support his weight. He was forced to grab onto the desk to keep himself from falling, his head dropping forward as a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him.
His scarf let out a small, high-pitched sound and immediately wrapped itself around him when it saw him trembling from the cold that the Kresnik Kristall could no longer dispel with their warmth.

“Hey...” Mitya gave a weak chuckle, placing a hand on his companion. “It's alright. Nothing happened.”

And yet the sweat beading across his forehead and chest, slightly dampening his nightshirt, said otherwise.
He fumbled his way into the chair before the desk and caught his breath. Resting his elbows on the surface, he covered his face with his hands and tried to draw deep breaths. He could feel his scarf's hand gently brushing through his hair, trying to comfort him.

“It was just a nightmare. The usual one,” he said, grateful that at least he was not alone in that moment.

He uncovered his face, unaware of just how sunken his eyes had become, the dark circles beneath them having nothing to do with the sleepless nights he had once spent absorbed in his ideas and research. They were far too deep now. Deep enough to reflect every nightmare he had suffered since the Curse of Death had taken him once again in Glupov.

He could no longer close his eyes without believing he had died again. But in those visions, the outcome was always the same:

He could never escape. He could never save himself.

He had died and risen again so many times that he was no longer capable of thinking about anything, not even coming up with a new idea for Project Stuzha. He opened his left palm. The mark he had acquired at the theater was still there. It had never gone away.

By now, he had become Death's favorite victim. The reason it had all begun.

He sighed, dejected. “Alright, my friend. I suppose we'll spend another night reading something, then. What do you say?”

The scarf swayed uncertainly, convinced that this was hardly the best choice.
But Mitya had to find something to do to kill the time. Otherwise, he would close his eyes again.
And he would die again.

**

Valeriy was unsettled by the new routine his charge had fallen into.

When he had been told that he would be the shadow of the most illustrious scientist in all of Snezhnaya, he had never imagined he would find himself looking after a little man with a sentient scarf, created by himself to handle manual tasks, a young man who spent more time sneaking off to the theater to attend Vodyanitsa’s operas than staying in his office to work on Project Stuzha. He had long since lost count of how many times he had grabbed him by the ear and dragged him back to Glupov before he could be caught by the Fatui and reprimanded for insubordination.

Valeriy had a reputation and a position to uphold, being the Head of the Special Assignments Battalion. Being reduced to the simple role of a bodyguard had already been more than enough for him, but over the years he had come to understand just how much courage that boy possessed, and how dangerously clever his mind was, at least for Valeriy’s tastes. Though every now and then, Mitya managed to get himself into trouble simply by talking too much.

Until the last time he had set foot in the theater, Valeriy had never experienced the Curse of Death himself. It was then that he finally understood what Mitya had gone through every time he claimed to have forgotten something important. There was no way someone like him could simply forget crucial aspects of his research. So when the truth had finally revealed itself before Valeriy’s eyes, and Death had branded the Mitya’s hand, he had fully understood what they had stumbled upon, and what he would have to fight.

Even though they had defeated Ronova, there was still something Valeriy could not read in Mitya’s eyes. Until their final battle, when they had remained dead for longer than ever before due to the clash between the Traveler, Pierro, and that other man, he had seen something almost troubled in the boy’s gaze; a quiet fear over whether or not that vicious cycle had truly come to an end.

And from that day onward, Valeriy had felt that nothing had returned to the normality he had hoped for.

He always kept a proper distance. His job was simply to make sure the people around Mitya believed he was alone, that there was no shadow watching him every moment of the day, waiting for him to get into trouble or for trouble to come looking for him first. There had been countless times when Valeriy had refrained from taking even one step too close, except when he had been forced to sit beside Mitya at the theater, making it perfectly clear that he would not be getting away.

But now, Mitya was beating him to the punch.

He showed up at Glupov so early that he was the first of all the other researchers to arrive. He walked at a brisk pace, carrying an avalanche of books and papers, and then shut himself inside his office for the entire day without stepping out even once.

Without even giving Valeriy the reassurance of knowing that he was actually working.

That morning, therefore, Valeriy decided to do things differently. He would not follow Mitya from his quarters, nor would he greet him at the laboratory. Instead, he positioned himself directly in front of the doors to his office, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture perfectly straight, waiting for that little head to appear from beyond the desks.

And so it did. Precisely at six, Mitya walked through the doors.
Yet the first thing Valeriy’s stoic, cold violet eyes noticed were the dark circles beneath his eyes, even deeper than before, far too prominent to be concealed by the unruly tufts of his hair.
For a moment, Valeriy’s expression shifted.
Concerned, his legs betrayed him, taking a single step forward before he restrained himself. Other guards were stationed around the perimeter, their eyes fixed upon the two of them.

“Waiting for me right here, Sarge? Gods, you really do care that much about making sure I show up for work.” Mitya teased him as he adjusted the books pressed against his chest under their considerable weight.

The smile that touched his lips, however, was not enough to put Valeriy at ease.

“I wanted to make sure that, if you come in this early every morning, you’re not simply pretending to lock yourself in your office while actually sneaking away.”

It was a convenient excuse. The same old, tedious line.

“Are you kidding? Now that Project Stuzha has resumed, there’s far too much work to do. Though going to the theater might help me clear my head, after all.”

Mitya stopped in front of his office door, waiting for his scarf to slip the key into the lock and undo it.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve caught you there. Has Vodyanitsa stopped performing?”

The lock clicked. Yet the scientist remained motionless, his gaze lowered.
Then, after a brief pause, he chuckled and shook his head.

“I already told you, there’s too much work to do. I’m sure Vodyanitsa is terribly angry with me by now. Better not to incur her wrath. You know how unbearable she can be when it comes to her singing...”

He opened the door, intending to step inside.
But a hand caught him by the arm and stopped him.

“Are you sleeping?”

The question came so suddenly that Mitya stiffened beneath his touch.

Not once since he had arrived had he looked Valeriy in the face, doing everything he could to hide the inevitable evidence of all those sleepless nights. And Valeriy knew him too well by now, after all the days they had spent together, to miss the moment when his words were not true.

In that moment of pure tension, only the scarf reacted. It waved frantically, shaking one finger as if telling Valeriy to leave Mitya alone, that this was not the right time.

And it was strange, because usually the scarf was the one keeping Mitya in line, scolding him, calling him out, and covering his mouth whenever he went too far. Not the other way around.

Their eyes met for only a moment.

Valeriy saw the dark circles beneath them, then the smile that followed, and finally those eyes looking away from him again, carrying a brief expression of guilt and distraction.

“We’ve... been held back for far too long because of... Ronova.” the word came out barely above a whisper. “So I absolutely have to catch up on everything I couldn’t do. Fortunately, I wrote down scattered, indecipherable notes throughout these past few weeks. Even a single word is enough to bring an idea back to me, so I have to pay closer attention to them.” Mitya proudly held up his notebook. “I’d like to give you the day off, but I’m not the one in charge. You can rest assured that I won’t be going anywhere from here, Sarge.”

Valeriy pressed his lips into a thin line and gently released his grip on Mitya’s arm. They exchanged no further words. Everyone’s eyes were already upon them, curious about their closeness. Curious about the troubled expression that had appeared on the face of the most unshakable man in the Battalion.

Valeriy cleared his throat as Mitya disappeared behind the door of his office and finally left his post.
His fists clenched tightly enough to make the metal of his armor tremble.

**

When he closed the door behind him, Mitya leaned his back against it, releasing an exceedingly long sigh of exasperation. Valeriy had come dangerously close to finding out. He really was far too persistent when it came to keeping an eye on him. Mitya had hoped Ronova’s disappearance would put an end to this kind of surveillance and give him more room for something else, yet here he was, practically laying all his cards on the table and digging his own grave. He had never been particularly good at manipulating situations, but he had always made sure no one else got the chance to take advantage of him.

Lately, though, he was no longer quite as... sharp and alert as he usually was.

He stifled a yawn, forcing himself upright as he made his way to his desk. He set all the books down, adding them to the mess he had left behind the day before, then sat down in front of the unfinished papers. He had to keep going. He had to catch up. Rubbing his eyes, he picked up his pen. In truth, going to the theater might have given him some inspiration to help him continue the project, but... he could no longer bring himself to set foot inside after the last time.

He had told Vodyanitsa about the nightmares that had plagued him ever since. She had died only twice, and she had never been alone when it happened, having all the support she needed.

He... had always been alone. He had watched his colleagues succumb to fear while he woke up and carried on as though nothing had happened.

“Perhaps it would have been better not to understand what was happening every time...” he murmured to himself, piquing his scarf’s curiosity. Mitya smiled and made a note on the paper. “Nothing. Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.”

Sometimes, being too intelligent and too aware of everything around him offered no advantage whatsoever. He certainly had never imagined that he would become so easily affected by his own thoughts. And the anomalies scattered throughout Teyvat had done nothing but increase the amount of work required for the battle against the Heavenly Principles. He looked at the palm of his hand once again.

He exhaled through his nose and returned to his research, trying to decipher everything he had written down so that Death would never realize he had always been one step ahead of her. Perhaps he could go to Podvorye Restaurant for lunch. It might take his mind off everything, and, with a little luck, he might even run into the others. The mere thought made his brows soften ever so slightly, bringing a small measure of peace to the writing before him.

Yet the more time passed, the heavier his eyelids became, and the harder it was for his head to remain upright as he stared at page after page. The clock read ten. He had not even made it to lunchtime this time before exhaustion had already caught up with him. He lowered his pen and propped his forehead up with one hand, letting out a weak groan. His scarf noticed and moved in front of him, tapping the top of his head in an attempt to bring his attention back to the work.

The first time, Mitya brushed it away with his free hand.
The scarf tried again, and he did the same.
On the next attempt, he brought both hands to his hair.

“Stop. Leave me alone,” he muttered.

His lilac eyes remained fixed on the words before him, but he was no longer truly reading them. They were distorted, blurred, as though someone else had written them. It did not even feel as though he were in his office anymore. His body was so heavy that he could no longer feel as though he were in control of it. Had he somehow ended up back in that oppressive dimension? He tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy, so it fell forward again. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.

He wanted to sleep. He could feel it.

He needed to sleep.
A little nap wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? His head drooped forward once more. His scarf tried to keep his torso upright, but even it could not bear his weight. It happened in an instant. A matter of seconds, at most. Mitya closed his eyes, and his head came crashing down onto the desk.

That single blackout was enough to throw him back into the blizzard.
Ronova’s eyes appeared in the sky, looming closer and closer over him.

Mitya jolted awake the moment his forehead struck the books.
He straightened his back, suppressing a silent scream that escaped only as a breathless whimper. He shot to his feet, knocking the chair over behind him, and stumbled several steps backward. The panic left him gasping. One hand flew to his chest, feeling his heart pounding hard enough to reassure him that he was alive, that he was still inside his own body. And yet he still looked around, convinced that he was trapped in that place, unable to escape.

Ignoring his scarf, which continued waving frantically at him, he stumbled out of his office with an unmistakable look of panic on his face, drawing the attention of the researchers nearby.

“Mr. Mitya, are you alright?” asked a woman standing closest to his door.

Mitya struggled to hear her, but he managed a small smile anyway.

“Well... I forgot something downstairs and only just remembered. It’s very important.”

“If you want, I can get it for you.”

“No. No! I’ll do it!” he hurried backward, continuing to face her as he scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t remember exactly where I left it, so it might take me a while. You-Ow!” he struck his hip against a desk he had failed to notice. He quickly straightened it and continued toward the exit. “Just carry on without me!”

Ignoring the puzzled looks of the other researchers, he fled, taking the elevator down into the private areas of the laboratory, to which only he and a handful of others had access. He leaned against the terminal during the descent and caught his breath. That was close, he thought. His scarf moved in front of him, demanding an explanation, clearly ready to give him a little smack on the forehead if necessary. It had never been particularly lenient with him.

“I just want to take a walk, that's all,” Mitya explained, wiping the cold sweat from his temple. “I need to stretch my legs. I want to be alone for a little while.”

The elevator arrived, and he stepped out, making his way down one of the laboratory’s most secluded corridors. He knew that wing was rarely used. Sometimes, it was even used as storage; that was why he often came here to clear his mind, or to make sure Valeriy could not find him. That day, however, felt heavier than all the others. The sleep he had been deprived of was finally taking its toll, and his mind was becoming clouded far more often than he cared for.

Another shiver ran through him, and he wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to generate some warmth. With his back hunched and his steps uncertain, even those sudden bursts of adrenaline were no longer enough to keep him awake. The only thing he needed was a bed. His comfortable bed. The soft sheets and pillows. He wanted the warmth of a nourishing meal, the calm and quiet of a peaceful mind, the freedom to move wherever he pleased without constantly fearing that he would collapse at any moment.

When Death had enveloped him, he had never realized he was dying. He would blink, and then everything would return to the way it had been before. Waking had been like emerging from a deep sleep.
But now, everything was reversed.
Slowly, he could feel his own footsteps betraying him. The floor seemed to warp beneath his feet, and his eyes could no longer bring even a single torch into focus.

He had to stop before his next step sent him stumbling. His breathing was more labored than before, and his hands were trembling dangerously.

“W-What...” he breathed, trying to look at his fingers. “What... is happening to me?”

Was he about to go back there again? Was this what awaited him?

His scarf noticed the pallor spreading across his face and tried to shake him back to his senses, moving in front of his eyes to make sure he could see it. The agitation was almost comical. Mitya had never seen it behave like this before. He could barely manage to lift one corner of his mouth.

“I’m... so tired...”

His legs gave out. His body tipped sideways, and his scarf did everything it could to hold him up somehow. It grabbed onto the piece of furniture beside him, but it did little more than slow his fall. The objects resting on top toppled to the floor with a clatter loud enough to drown out the dull thud of his body hitting the ground.

Lying on his side, Mitya closed his eyes, his consciousness slipped away.

**

He could not stand guard outside the laboratory doors for another minute. Impatience had gotten the better of Valeriy, to the point that he had begun pacing back and forth along the corridor, utterly unable to settle down. Five hours had already passed, and there was no way that little brat had remained inside his damned office the entire time without slipping away somewhere. This change was driving him so mad that even his colleagues had begun staring at him in disbelief.

He had always been a man devoted to duty, someone who needed everything to be exactly where it belonged. But this time, the one variable preventing him from having everything under control, the very thing that should have required him to act in order to make that happen, was behaving exactly as he had always wanted it to. Still. Quiet. Without those antics that had once sent him ricocheting across Snezhnograd like a bolt of lightning. He had indulged every one of Mitya’s little games. He had allowed himself to be drawn into that difference between them, a difference that had almost made him feel... alive.

Even if he had always kept his distance, whenever danger came, he had moved closer to protect him. Just as he had when Ronova had struck them without warning during their final confrontation, supporting Mitya when the Curse of Death had enveloped them. He remembered waking with Mitya in his arms, relieved to find him whole.

But he also remembered the rage and trembling that had overtaken the scientist’s body, the violation Ronova had inflicted upon him, and how desperately he had needed to make sure that it was truly over.
Those had been the weeks when Mitya had changed.
The weeks when the dark circles beneath his eyes had grown deeper.

It was then that they had no longer had the chance to...

“Mr. Valeriy!”

A voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
He turned to see a female researcher hurrying toward him, visibly anxious. Valeriy immediately approached her, his expression hardening with authority.

“What happened?” he asked, already harboring a bad feeling about what, or who, might be responsible.

“It’s Mitya. An hour ago, he said he was going downstairs to retrieve something he had forgotten, but he never came back up. One of us went down to look for him, but we couldn’t find him. We’re afraid he might have... run off again, like he usually does.”

Those words were enough to send Valeriy toward the elevator at a hurried, alarmed pace.

“Where are you going?” the woman asked.

“Mitya didn’t run away,” the Major replied simply as the elevator doors closed.

He’s still here, the damned fool. The thought was accompanied by a surge of agitation that made him curse under his breath at the painfully slow elevator. If Mitya had gone down to the more secluded levels, which Valeriy was authorized to access as his bodyguard, it meant he had hidden himself away somewhere no one would be able to find him. Or perhaps something had happened that he did not want anyone to see.

It was obvious that Mitya had been avoiding everyone. Even him. And Valeriy knew everything Mitya did, or at least, he used to. If the scarf had been trying to tell him something this time, then the situation was more serious than he had expected. The elevator reached the desired floor, and Valeriy rushed out without sparing a thought for the few people still working on the project. He crossed the main wing and entered the most isolated section of the laboratory, the place where Mitya often retreated to test one of his experiments or simply search for some new source of inspiration.

He turned the corner.
And froze.

For the first time, Valeriy’s eyes widened in horror.
Mitya lay motionless on the floor, while his scarf frantically shook him, apparently having no idea how long it had been doing so, waiting desperately for some kind of response.

“Mitya!”

He immediately rushed toward him. The scarf seemed to come to its senses and pointed at him, relieved not to be alone anymore. Valeriy dropped to his knees beside Mitya and noticed his closed eyes and the devastation etched across his face. A sudden collapse? Sleep? Or had Death come for him again? But they had defeated Ronova, hadn’t they? To be certain, he pressed his fingers to Mitya’s wrist, then to his neck. A rapid heartbeat, but present. He gently tilted Mitya’s head, bringing his ear close to his parted lips and nostrils. A faint breath.

He was alive.
He was alive, thank the gods.

Valeriy’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he gently caressed Mitya’s cheeks.

“Mitya-”

He never finished.
Mitya’s eyes flew open, his mouth suddenly drawing in such a violent breath that his chest heaved. In an instinctive act of self-preservation, he struggled and pushed himself upright, scrambling backward to get away from him.

Such raw terror filled his eyes that Valeriy was left with his hands suspended in midair, completely unprepared for such a reaction. It was nothing like the playful attitude he had always known from him.

And Mitya seemed to realize it, because recognition slowly dawned in his eyes as he recognized him. He tried to regain control, though his lungs struggled to take in as much air as they could.
Because there was only one thought repeating itself inside his head:

Why am I on the floor?

“What...what are you doing here?” he stammered, overwhelmed by his own breathlessness.

“What am I doing here? You collapsed from exhaustion, Mitya. I found you unconscious on the floor,” Valeriy explained, his nervousness plain in his voice.

“Oh...” Mitya wiped his forehead, trying to erase yet another scene his mind had conjured. He looked around. Was everything darker than usual, or was it just his imagination? Why was it so cold? Why was it so quiet? “I... I must have worked too much.”

“Mitya.” his name came from Valeriy’s lips like a reprimand, his expression just as severe. “Stop lying to me. You know you're terrible at it.”

“W-What?” Mitya wanted nothing to do with that accusation. He even managed a weak laugh through his breathlessness. “Come on, Sarge. You know this isn't the first time research has left me looking like a wreck.”

“A wreck? Have you looked in a mirror, or do I have to tell you?”

The mere mention of the word mirror sent a shiver through Mitya. The memory of his own lifeless reflection that haunted him every night. His breathing quickened, and he brought a hand to his chest, trying to force it back under control.

“You're exhausted. But this time, this isn’t work.” Valeriy lowered himself onto one knee, his expression serious. “Do you want to give me an explanation? You haven't spoken to me for almost a month unless it was to lie to me.”

“No. I... Don't exaggerate now.” Mitya continued to chuckle, though weakly. “We've had a lot to do these past few days. It's only natural.”

His scarf noticed the rapid pounding of his heart and the way his shoulders trembled with every breath, drawing in so much air that he could barely form a complete sentence. It began stroking him again, as though trying to tell him to calm down.

“Do you think I don't know about your constant nightmares?”

Mitya flinched.
Valeriy continued.

“Do you think I didn't go to Vodyanitsa for answers? I know you went to her. I know you told her about the nightmares you've been having about Ronova ever since the Curse of Death did nothing but strike you again and again. I know you asked her to sing for you again, hoping it would help you sleep.” his voice remained steady. “But it didn't work. I realized that the moment you stopped going to the theater and those dark circles beneath your eyes only grew worse.”

Silence.
Mitya remained completely still, petrified by the realization that he had been caught and could no longer hide.

“A person who is doing well, someone who is usually so full of energy and so enthusiastic about his research, doesn't shut himself away like this.” Valeriy looked at him, sincerity written plainly across his usually cold eyes. “And he doesn't try to avoid me.” A pause. “Not after what we've been through.”

“It was just a coincidence. I'm fine now!” Mitya answered so quickly that he did not even have time to think about what he was saying, desperate to make sure his pauses could never be mistaken for defeat. And yet his breathing and agitation, despite the smile on his face, told a very different story. “I don't go to the theater anymore because Vodyanitsa helped me.”

The scarf began tapping his shoulder, as though urging him to stop.

“You’re focusing too much on what happened in the past. Maybe you’re the one who hasn’t moved on,” Mitya laughed, one hand still pressed against his chest, tightening its grip when he found himself unable to draw a proper breath.

The scarf continued, growing more insistent.

“Today was just an accident.”

“Mitya.”

“It happens, Valeriy. I’m just tired.”

The scarf persisted, and Mitya squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m just tired.”

That touch continued to haunt him, just like Ronova’s filaments that had once held him prisoner in her dimension. And they would not let him go.

Because he had died. He had died again, and this was not reality.

“STOP TOUCHING ME!” he screamed in a panic.

With a violent movement, he shoved the scarf away and forced himself to his feet, stripping off his jacket and throwing it to the other side of the corridor, desperate to free himself from that grip that was driving him mad. He stumbled backward under Valeriy’s shocked gaze and pressed himself against the wall, using one hand to support his body as he turned his back to the soldier.
His breathing remained completely out of rhythm.

“Mitya, you need to breathe. You’re not breathing,” Valeriy told him, slowly rising to his feet, wounded by the way each breath tore from the scientist’s lips.

His gaze fell on the discarded jacket. The scarf was pointing toward Mitya, urgently demanding to do something.

“I-I... I’m breathing. I... I have to breathe,” Mitya replied. “I... I’m alive. I’m alive.”

If he were dead, he wouldn't be able to breathe, would he? He had to breathe. He had to force himself to breathe. And yet no air was getting in. Nothing was getting in at all. Everything was so blurred and hazy that he was once again being swallowed by that curse.

Or perhaps...Perhaps he had already lost his mind.

He had been the one to suggest it, after all, to consider such a possibility. How many researchers, after experiencing death and amnesia so many times, had suffered psychological breakdowns from which they had never truly recovered? He had never considered that something like this could happen to him. But apparently, his calculations had been wrong this time.

He removed his hand from his chest and stared at the mark. Was it already too late for him to save himself?

The same hand rose to his neck, unable to steady his breathing.

He had fought Ronova. He had succeeded. He had provoked her, defeated her, freed himself from her control at the theater. She was dead now. There was nothing left. And yet. And yet. And yet.

His eyes began to burn, and something else seemed to seep into the haze, making it impossible for him to understand where he was. He was tired. He wanted to close his eyes again, but this time, suffocating as he was, he did not know whether he would be able to wake up. Whether he would ever see sunlight again. He only wanted everything to end. He wanted those damned eyes to stop appearing before him.

They were on the floor. On the wall. On him.
They were everywhere.

“Close your eyes, Mitya. I’m here.”

A voice came from behind him.

Mitya pressed himself harder against the wall, refusing to turn around. “I... I can’t! If I do... she...!”

He bent forward, nearly collapsing onto the floor again. His legs were trembling, and his hand slipped away from his neck.

“Mitya.”

“Leave me alone! I don’t want to... I don’t want to relive it...!”

“Dmitry.”

Mitya’s eyes flew open, and he lifted his head. His breath caught as something covered his eyes, shielding them from view. Then his body was gently pushed backward, and warmth wrapped around his side, supporting him.

It was Valeriy.

His greater height had shielded Mitya from everything around them, enclosing him in a space where no one could hurt him. Only him. Only the two of them. Together.

“It’s alright, Dmitry. You’re alive. Ronova is dead. All of this is real,” he whispered, continuing to cover his eyes. “Close your eyes. I’ll protect you. No one will touch you.”

A tear escaped Mitya’s eyes and traced a path down his cheek, carrying with it all the fear he had kept buried throughout those endless days. One hand, the same one marked by the curse, came to rest on Valeriy’s wrist, the one covering his eyes. He did as he had been told, surrendering himself to the trust he placed in him. His legs finally gave out completely, and the two of them sank to the floor, the soldier remaining on his knees while the scientist collapsed against him, almost lying across his body.

“Valeriy...” Mitya whimpered, vulnerable.

“Shh... I’m right here.”

A few minutes passed.

Mitya’s breathing gradually slowed. His chest began to rise and fall more evenly, while his hand slowly slipped away from Valeriy’s wrist. Only when Valeriy uncovered his eyes, he realized that Mitya had fallen asleep, his face more relaxed and peaceful. He had never seen him overwhelmed by something so difficult, so completely consumed by something that went far beyond mathematics and science. That boy had always carried himself with the charisma and eccentricity of an absolute genius.

And Valeriy could not allow Ronova to destroy him.
Not even in death.

He caressed Mitya’s cheek, wiping away the tear that still clung damply to his skin with his thumb. Then he brushed a stray lock of hair away from his eyes and leaned down, bringing his lips to Mitya’s forehead.
He left a brief kiss there.
Soft.
The kind that would leave no mark, yet made clear what now existed between them, what Death was about to take away.

Valeriy closed his eyes. After weeks, he could finally touch Mitya again.

“Mr. Valeriy?”

The voice of the female researcher startled him, and he turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder. It was not only her. The guards and several other researchers had arrived as well, concerned that something had happened. It did not take long for astonishment to spread across their faces when they saw Mitya on the floor, cradled in Valeriy’s arms.

“Is Mr. Mitya alright?” one of his colleagues asked.

Valeriy looked back down at the scientist. Then he glanced toward the scarf, which immediately gestured for him to leave. He slid one hand beneath Mitya’s knees and the other behind his back, then rose, lifting him into his arms. He approached the jacket, and the scarf immediately anchored itself to his shoulder to be carried along.

“Mr. Mitya has been working too much and simply fell asleep here in the corner. I’m taking him home, and I’ll keep an eye on him,” Valeriy said simply. “Carry on with your work.”

“Yes, sir!”

Valeriy walked past them and headed toward the elevator, holding Mitya’s body securely against him.
Far from anyone who might dare lay a finger on him.

**

The first thing he felt was a warmth he was no longer accustomed to. It was a wonderful sensation, a gentle heat he would never have imagined himself experiencing after days spent staring at the ceiling and curling in on himself against the cold, hoping not to be devoured by it. His head rested against something soft, his body surrounded by warm fabrics. He could not hear the noise of the streets, the curses of passersby, or the distorted sounds of an endless dimension.

Everything was so mild and peaceful that he could have stayed that way forever.

His eyelids fluttered open, revealing two sleepy, disoriented lilac irises. He was lying on his side in what appeared to be a bed with white sheets. It was dark outside, for a small lamp on the bedside table cast a soft, comfortable glow across the room. He had forgotten what those words meant. And yet that was exactly what his mind felt when confronted with all that comfort, something that had never bothered him until recently. Mitya moistened his dry lips and shifted to wake his stiff muscles. Judging by how much they ached, he had slept for quite some time, and in the same position.

He rubbed a hand over his face, confused.
Had he slept? Without dreaming?
He lifted his head and saw something resting against the headboard of a bed that was not his, but that he knew very well. He barely had time to meet his scarf’s gaze before it smacked him directly on the forehead.

“Ow!” he cursed, letting his head fall back onto the mattress. “What a lovely way to wish me... good evening?”

“I see you're already full of energy, despite everything.”

Mitya tilted his head to the left. Someone entered the room, and his eyes widened slightly with an expression of guilt that made him exhale through his nose in resignation. Valeriy was not wearing his uniform jacket. Instead, he had on a simple black shirt and trousers. But it was what he was carrying that caught Mitya’s attention. A steaming cup, its delicious scent filling the room. Mitya recognized it immediately: milk.

He was at Valeriy’s home. Now he remembered what had happened. The panic. His breathing. The prison his own body had become. The fear of closing his eyes. And Valeriy’s touch, isolating him from everything else.

“How long did I sleep?” he asked.

“Long enough. You practically slept through lunch and dinner,” Valeriy replied, sitting down beside him on the mattress before handing him the cup.

“Oh. Is that for me?”

“Don't start again.”

Mitya let out a restrained little laugh and shifted enough to sit against the headboard, accepting the cup. That single contact warmed his cold hands and gave him a comfort he had thought he had forgotten, or perhaps lost completely. He blew gently across the surface before taking a sip, letting the sweetness soothe his throat. And yet the darkness returned. His head lowered as he stared into the white liquid.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

Valeriy was absentmindedly studying a painting hanging on the wall.

“For what?”

“For everything. For lying to you. For avoiding you. For making you see me like that.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

Mitya tilted his head, pressing his lips into a thin line.
Perhaps it wasn't, but he had still been the one to let the Curse take control of him, unable to fight it even after everything was over. It should have been one less burden to carry. Instead, he had become chained to it, unable to break free. He, of all people. The person who had always done whatever he pleased, following no rules but his own.

“Thank you... for...”

A faint blush colored his cheeks.
He was looking at, or admiring, Valeriy’s profile: rigid, precise, slightly angular, yet somehow both imposing and delicate at once. His eyes, usually narrowed by the coldness that characterized him, were actually wide, their violet irises round and piercing.
A physical and psychological shield Mitya had never realized he needed.

“For... being there for me.” his fingers rubbed awkwardly against the cup. “When...” he hesitated. “In your arms, I felt truly safe. There was nothing else around me.”

Valeriy finally turned toward him.
Their eyes met and remained locked for a while. There was nothing but the soft crackle of snow falling slowly over Snezhnograd. The warmth of the house kept the cold at bay, and within that quiet refuge there were no prying eyes to question the bond between them. Because that was how it had always been between them.

A distance bridged only in moments like these. A relationship born of discipline, bringing chaos and order into stark relief.

Two elements that canceled each other out whenever they were willing to listen, to speak, and to lose themselves in each other’s gaze.

How a scientist like this had managed to shake him so deeply, Valeriy did not know. But over time, he had come to understand that this simple act of protection had long since ceased to have anything to do with the duty entrusted to him. Before him was a genius. But one so different from his own rigid way of life, so genuine in everything he did that he had broken through the rigidity Valeriy had carried throughout his entire life.

He was the only one who had ever managed to do it. And being allowed to see this more exposed, fragile side of Mitya was something Valeriy had never expected. Something he would welcome with open arms. Something he would hide from the world, allowing Mitya to be this way only with him.

He moved his arm, resting it beside Mitya’s head against the headboard, and leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them.

The scientist swallowed, setting the cup down on his lap, atop the sheets. He did not move away. Instead, he lifted his chin slightly. Their lips were barely an inch apart.

Mitya was the one to erase that distance, kissing him.

There was nothing passionate about it. Nothing frantic. It was gentle, hesitant at times, after days in which that boundary between them had remained untouched because of forces beyond their control. It was as though they had found each other again after a long storm. As though they had both gone to war and done nothing but send letters to one another, hoping that one day they might meet again.

They parted after a while, but remained close, their foreheads touching. When they opened their eyes again, they studied each other intently, relieved to find that nothing had changed.

“Tomorrow, you’re sleeping again,” Valeriy whispered against his lips.

Mitya grinned. “So that means I can skip the laboratory?”

“No.”

“But you said-”

“It’s an order.”

Mitya sighed with a pout, turning his gaze away with faint childishness.

“Could you at least stay close to me?” he muttered.

The faintest smile touched Valeriy’s lips.
His free hand took Mitya’s chin and turned his face back toward him. His thumb gently brushed across the scientist’s lower lip, making him blush once again.

“Whenever you want.”

He leaned in to kiss him again. But something suddenly tugged at his hair, pulling him away with surprising force. Mitya jolted, nearly spilling the milk onto the sheets, and turned around.
His scarf had wedged itself between them, shaking its fingers incessantly with an expression of unparalleled embarrassment and nervousness. Had its color gotten darker? Apparently, it had witnessed and heard everything. Which meant it had effectively become the third wheel.

“Oops... You're right. You probably shouldn't be here.” Mitya scratched the back of his neck, laughing.

Valeriy covered his face with one hand and groaned.

“We already talked about this. In situations like these, you're supposed to hide and leave.”

“Wait. Since when do you make deals with my scarf?!”

“From the beginning.”

“What?! And you're actually okay with this?”

The scarf gave what could only be described as a shrug.

“You traitors...!”