Chapter Text
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟
"So, what's that?"
You ask this strangely fascinating man sitting parralell. Keeps blabbering about something you wish you never knew about.
You're an artist? A writer? One who dabbles within humanities, high in creativity and gives birth to their own feelings in a physical form. You create for yourself to enjoy, as should the artist, and others—suchh as this weirdo—can tag along if they wish.
Now, however, you wish you were never an artist. Never one who made music, brushed along paintings, scultped marble, or even snow sometimes. Never picked up a fucking pencil or fountain pen in your life.
All because of him.
He's a fascinating creature—one that talks too much. Not that you mind. Well, normally you wouldn't. But he saw you meandering the streets of Snezhnograd and asked for your time.
He'd recognised you for your work. "How sweet." You thought. That is the highest praise for any artist. At least, ones that want to be known for their work.
You, on the other hand, work under an alias. Your face never fully shown in the press. To create intrigue and mystery.
Sweet my ass, how does he know who you are?
"Haha, oh this?" The charismatic man points at his electric blue scarf? third arm? shoulder thingy. "It's a—" This is the sixth time he got silenced. You've only been together for the past ten minutes. TEN.
You sigh. Glancing at the clock. Ten more to go.
You chuckle, trying to ease off the anxiety. "Who needs a PR team when you have that." The man before you laughed heartily. It'a a melody you could get used to.
Since the two of you have sat down, he's been spearheading this coffeee meet up. His endless blabberings were all vital information none the less. Much about his own job as the lead energy researcher who's been working on Project Stuzha. He alludes to some second energy power and a stunt in his fellow researcher's memories and health.
He's told you all this after all you asked was 'How's your day been?' Quite the yapper. Always being monitered on his speech by that thing. That was your first question, among the few.
He's overtly happy to speak. Like some middle child that was never heard but is in their head too much and needs a friend to dump on.
In all honesty, you wouldn't have given him the time of day if he wasn't as beautiful as he was. It irked you so much. Pretty people get away with a lot. Especially when they're a handsome young fellow with great manners and a whole bucket load of charisma.
As you're sipping on your drink. Still ruminating on how he knew you by name. He began talking. "One of my favourite performers, Vodyanitsa, was talking to me about you and how much she loves your work! She introduced me to your world, you could say, and I've been infatuated since." He smiles. It annoys you. Why? Because he's handsome. Because he knows it. Because it makes you want to clarify 'My artwork or me?'
You perk up from your seat. Coughing, because you swallowed wrong. It's as if he read your mind. Unsettling.
"I love her too! Her singing brings me so much inspiration, I love her voice." You quip, before it gets too awkard. "I've actually met her and Odette backstage many times before." To which his jaw drops to the floor. Mouth pushed closed by that blue hand shaped thing. At least it preserves some dignity for this goober.
He's cute. So, you ask. "What? Jealous I got to meet them?" You wanted to guage just how much of a fan this guy was. Did you even have a chance with him at all? What if he's already in a relationship?
He gasps as if you've spilles some scandelous tea. "Oh, no! nonono, not at all—well." He looks away, then briefly glances back at you, to guage your reaction.
"Huh?"
"I am jealous. Just not of you." He smirks, as he leans forward to slice a piece of cake off the plate and stretch it out towards you.
He's reeling at the cogs turning so visibally in your head. Too busied with his labyrinth way of flirting that you accept his cake without much hesitaion. Lips on his fork as he feeds you that demure slice of cake. Making sure to spread some cream onto the sides.
Your cheeks dusted with a faint coat of blushing sugar. Lips fighting a smile as thy averted gaze decides to glance around the insides of this coffee shop.
He knows you come here often. You're not actually looking around for new designs, now are you? He knows a lot more about you. Giving you just enough to lay him under the eyes of suspicioun, not that he minds. As long as its you.
"Because... they're with me?" A minute passed since his flirtatious comment. You're still looking at him, all bashful and wide eyed, chewing on a piece of cake.
"Well, of course, silly!" He chuckles. "Well, anyways, I loved chatting with you and I want to get to know you more, is that alright? Yeah? Ah, my name? Right, right my name is Mitya—but! you can call me yours—how about we meet, hmm, same time tomorrow?" He stands up from his chair, still there, just glancing at the entrance.
You blink hard, slowly nodding. "Very well then. Since that's settled, one more question." He's already opened Pandora's box, so why the fuck not ask?
He comes to your side and leans a little closer. "Yes?"
"Do you do this with all your muses?"
Mitya reaches for a napkin and wipes the edge of your lips. His gaze lingering a little too long.
"No. You're—" He pauses, walking towards the open window. "You're special, to me." And jumps out.
Right after a purple man with a bunch of guards scour the shop. Leaving just as quickly as the came.
What the fuck was happening today????
Regardless, you sit there with your thoughts. And after you're done processing everything—from the oversharing to the flirting, the cake wiping and lip staring—you go to pay the bill.
Only for Mitya to have paid everything in advance.
How fucking sweet.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟