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Major Valeriy is, admittedly, a simple man. He does not begrudge this fact—If anything, he takes pride in it. The complex matters of the human psyche are of little importance to him. He will say what he believes, unless doing so will cause him more harm than good. He does not care to cloak his thoughts in grandiose phrasing, nor hide them due to the tendrils of shame. Valeriy does not have thoughts he believes are too shameful to be expressed in the first place.
He has lived his life as a soldier. Since childhood, he was well aware that his duty lie in serving the Fatui—A duty he had prepared for and thusly served rather well. There was nothing that could shock him out of his well-rehearsed routines. Or so he believed.
But then came a day where he was scheduled to meet with none other than the Jester himself, and then, with a greatly apologetic reluctance that had initially led him to believe he has being laid off, told that he was being given "…A promotion."
Promotion. The word, though great things it entailed, was spoken through gritted teeth, as though some uncomfortable fact of life, bad news that was being broken to him.
"A One-hundred and fifty percent salary boost," said the Jester, as though offering him a silver lining or consolation prize, with great remorse. His gaze flickered with pity as though eyeing someone cursed by the greatest misfortune.
Valeriy did not understand. He was being promoted, given a new position with both more prestige and pay than what he previously had. Unless his duty was of some grave threat to his own life, what could possibly be the cause of such pity?
"Do not fear for your life," the Jester had said, addressing the question Valeriy had not even bothered to ask—Ever the intelligent man. He would not be so concerned without good reason. "There will be no such threats posed to your well-being. In fact, unless extenuous circumstances occur, you may just find this to be safer than any work you have previously been assigned."
The words fell from his throat a little too fast, again like a slew of silver linings that attempted to brace him for inevitable bad news.
Valeriy had been thoroughly annoyed by the ordeal. He was, and still is, a Major of the army—Not some child struggling to grapple with Santa Claus not being real.
"What exactly will my duty entail?" Valeriy had questioned. The Jester had sighed with the long-winded exhaustion of a weary parent.
"I request only one thing of you," He had said. "You are to guard the lead researcher of Project Mistilteinn at all times. Ensure that he is safe, well, and most importantly, that he is at his post."
Those last words had been gritted out with extra emphasis and a certain level of exasperation that immediately elucidated to Valeriy his true duty. To keep Mistilteinn's lead researcher from slacking off.
Though he never cared much for idle gossip, Valeriy is most certainly not unaware of society around him. He heard the rumors about one Dmitri "Mitya" Ivanovich Mendeleev—A savant with the brainpower to perform a hundred calculations at the rate it would take a less gifted soul to perform even one. A genius unparalleled, who had singlehandedly reduced the Kresnik Torch's energy consumption by Thirty-percent.
A man with the power to revolutionize Snezhnaya's landscapes, so they say. If only he could ever show up to his post.
Mitya is a chronic slacker. He seems to have a deep-seated personal grudge against the very concept of working hours—One he displays by regularly escaping his post to watch shows at the Korolevskiy Theater. Even a dedicated squadron cannot stop him and his ever stragetic mind.
Valeriy had, at that moment, realized the cause of the Jester's trepidation.
"Understood," he'd said, ensuring his face remained utterly neutral. The Jester, stoic as he remained, let out a small exhale of relief.
"Thank you," said the Jester. "Please, inform me if there's anything else you require."
The rest of his time had been spent gathering information on the eccentric genius leading Project Mistilteinn. Dmitri was, and still is, a genius, with intellect so indispensible that the higher-ups treat him more like the son of a noble or royal from the bygone eras of aristocracy than the researcher he is. And he acts the part—With the naive charisma of a sheltered noble and a penchant for escaping his many bodyguards in order to explore the freezing outside world, you would be forgiven for presuming his true relevance stemmed from being the son of a Harbinger or something of the sort. But Dmitri has no noble bloodlines; only his brain.
Valeriy had come into his first day thoroughly prepared, or so he believed. He had researched everything he possibly could: Where Mitya generally went to shirk his duties, what times he usually selected to leave, strengths, weaknesses, favorite foods, friends, acquaintances, that sentient scarf of his, likes, dislikes, and anything and everything that could possibly be researched.
And this had maintained an illusion of superiority for the first few weeks. Mitya was an open book, it seemed, all too easy to figure out. A tad bit of cursory research had left him thoroughly unravelled.
But then, on a cold autumn evening, Valeriy had confronted the man about his irresponsibility.
"Why exactly do you insist on shirking your duties so often, Mister Mitya?" Valeriy had questioned. Mitya had all but wrangled him into using the diminutive for Dmitri, overdramatically gasping "I don't know who you're talking about!" each and every time Valeriy used the proper form for his name. He was ever so insistent on being addressed by the diminutive, confusingly so.
So 'Mister Mitya' had become the compromise.
"I've told you before, haven't I, Sarge?" Mitya had said. "The Theater is where I find inspiration! Besides, working hours and non-working hours are such a social construct."
This had always been the end of the conversation—A cycle that had played out time and time again. Valeriy would ask, Mitya would quip, and Valeriy would grow frustrated and give up. But something didn't sit quite right with him, this time. Something urged him to question further.
"You could at least grace me with a proper answer, Mister Mitya," he'd said. "Need I remind you that Project Mistilteinn is currently stripping countless Snezhnayans of Kresnik Kristall? With the heavy tax our nation pays, I do believe the people deserve an explanation for why the project's head seems to place so little importance on actually doing his duty."
It was, admittedly, spoken out of emotion. Valeriy is a soldier like any other, and Mistilteinn had stripped him of his Kristall as well. Though patient he tried to be, seeing the lead researcher of the project be so flippant about his duty had left a knot of resentment eternally furled at the bottom of his throat.
Mitya's brows had furrowed in an almost polite expression of pity, as though offering Valeriy a courtesy.
"I'm well aware of the impact Mistilteinn has had on the people," he'd said. "Believe me, I would much rather we didn't do this as well. But—"
Suddenly, without so much as a prompt from his scarf, Mitya froze up.
"…Nevermind that," he'd said. "If you or your community doesn't have enough Kristall, I have plenty leftover from our experiments today! I could definitely talk to the Jester about having that sum redistributed to the populace at large."
Mitya had then gone on to deliver three unrelated tangents about various topics, ranging from Sub-Ocular Physics to the most nutritionally optimized recipe for Pelemini.
But one thing had not escaped Valeriy's notice: The way he'd closed himself off the moment he was about to deliver an answer of any meaningful substance.
And as Valeriy dwelled on that, it became all too apparent just how closed-off his charge truly was. Though he wore a friendly smile and asked that everyone address him by his diminutive, Mitya spoke little of his past, fears, or motivations. Valeriy realized that he could not tell you anything about what made the man tick, what made him snap, or cower. Mitya was a man who loved to offer surface-levels factoids about himself in spades, easily deflecting in response to any more meaningful questions.
And how he lied—Mitya lied as easily as he breathed. Lying about the importance of his position, about what he did and didn't know, and even about how many hours he slept in a night.
Once he noticed it, the realization became impossible to escape. Mitya's secrecy was ever-present, always there. Unravelling him had become a futile obsession.
Put simply, over time, Valeriy truly believes that he has come to learn more about Mitya than anyone else in the world. This isn't much, of course—Mitya is so secretive that even the simple act of recognizing that he is a secretive person is rare.
It means that, after the mass death at the theater, Valeriy notices all the little signs of something amiss.
Mitya does not express any upset with his predicament despite being at the center of the issue. He remains calm and collected in spite of all that he has been through, so much so that it becomes downright eerie when dwelled on too long.
But Valeriy notices how his gaze lingers on his own palm for far longer than it should, looking for something that isn't there.
And it doesn't escape him either that Mitya watches him in his sleep. Though the man is surprisingly discreet about it, Valeriy is trained in perception—When he wakes up and feels a gaze boring into his very soul, he knows full well the culprit.
Though Mitya has always been exceptionally skilled at keeping secrets, the recent developments have caused crack in even his ordinarily flawless facade.
Valeriy spots him leaving bed late in the hours of the night one day—That's when something within him snaps.
With lumbering footsteps, Valeriy follows. It's a testament to Mitya's own dazedness that he doesn't even notice.
"Mister Mitya?" He questions at last, commanding voice losing effect due to his own tiredness. "What exactly are you doing here?"
Mitya stares off into his notebook, not even noticing Valeriy's presence.
"Mister Mitya?"
Mitya finally notices him, letting out a choked out noise of startlement.
"Sarge." he says—The lack of lilt of otherwise playful affectation serves as another testament to his tiredness. "…Didn't think I'd see you up so late."
"Yes, well," Valeriy raises a brow. "A certain someone's escapades awakened me."
Mitya swallows.
"Ah," he says blankly. "My apologies."
"If you're really sorry, you could tell me what exactly prompted you to depart from your room at this hour," Valeriy says.
"You know," Mitya says. Valeriy doesn't know. "Inspiration struck. I'm afraid my mind abides by no schedule. Not even the Circadian Rhythm!"
What a paltry lie. Mitya is expressly forbidden from thinking about his work. He wouldn't entertain a possible breakthrough with the Curse of Death looming over him.
"Really?" Says Valeriy. "Considering you are completely disallowed from thinking about your work, could you please enlighten me on what exactly this inspiration entailed?"
Mitya swallows, the bob of his Adam's Apple hypervisible to Valeriy's honed in eyes. His gaze unfocused ever so slightly, giving away his true panic.
"I promise you, Sarge," he says with a failed attempt at lilting his voice to resemble its typical jovial countenance. "I'm not thinking about work. The last thing I want is to get us killed again!"
Valeriy nods.
"I have faith that you would not wish such misfortune on either of us," he says, electing to cut to the heart of the matter. "I do not, however, have faith that you were being entirely forthright in your reasoning for departing from your chambers in the middle of the night."
"Hmm? You think I'm lying?" Mitya says with an overdramatic gasp that, for most anyone else, would distract from the way his eyes flit briefly to the corner of the room worriedly. "I'm hurt! I'll have you know that I am an honest man. Too honest, actually!"
What a lie that is.
"Then you should be able to tell me exactly what it is that prompted you to depart from your room," says Valeriy. Mitya's fingers flit antsily atop the pages of the notebook.
"…I must've forgotten it while we were talking!" He says with a little nervous laugh. "How unfortunate. Well, I'll be going back to my room now—"
Mitya hurriedly attempts to flee the situation—His typical response to being cornered. Valeriy acts on impulse.
Just as Mitya steps past, Valeriy grabs his wrist. It isn't a particularly firm grip—Valeriy certainly doesn't want to risk bruising him, after all—but it makes the man freeze in his tracks.
"Sarge?" He questions, voice wavering. The mere hint of vulnerability draws Valeriy in like a shark to blood in the water.
But then, his reasonable impulses take over. This is deeply improper behavior. He should not act like this towards his charge.
"…Forgive my unprofessionalism," he says, releasing Mitya's wrist with something skin to disappointment weighing in his stomach. Mitya feels his wrist carefully in spite of the fact that Valeriy's grip was hardly tight enough to do much of anything. "I hope the rest of your night is more restful."
Mitya sucks in a sharp, shuddery inhalation.
"Thank you," he says, pale skin flushed with the slightest tinge of pink. "Take care, Sarge."
They don't talk about it the next morning. Nor for the next week or so. Mitya's eye-bags grow more and more deep-seated, but his resolve to remain absolutely prodigal about the matter remains unyielding. Every inquiry Valeriy makes is promply shut down.
"You worry too much, Mister Valeriy!" Mitya says to him, guzzling down what must be his third cup of coffee today. "I have an idea: Why don't you go out today? Take some time for yourself! Train with your conrades! Catch up with old friends! I think it'll help clear your mind."
Valeriy shakes his head.
"You know my duty lies in guarding you," he says. "I understand that you may be upset with the arrangement—"
"Now where'd you get that from, Sarge?" Mitya questions. "I for one think you're by far the most pleasant out of everyone I deal with."
How flattering. Indeed, Valeriy must be exceedingly pleasant, if Mitya cannot even go a single day without throwing some lie or another at him. So truly pleasant.
"Don't believe me?" Mitya says. "But it's true! In fact…"
Again, without so much as a nudge from his scarf, Mitya freezes.
"—I'd even call you my favorite!" He finishes. It's rushed out, an obvious substitute for some other phrase that died down in his throat.
Valeriy raises a brow.
"You were going to say something else, Mister Mitya," he responds dryly. He has little patience for senseless secrecy. A lie should not be told unless it offers some greater benefit that outweighs the cost of dishonesty.
Mitya startles.
"Where'd you get that from, Sarge?" He questions, eyes glinting with curiosity.
Valeriy considers telling some lie to cover up his close observation of Mitya's mannerisms, but that would not only be antithetical to his beliefs, but deeply hypocritical, as well.
"You froze up with no particular rhyme or reason," he explains. "Almost as if attempting to re-formulate your sentence into something more acceptable."
Mitya inhales sharply, staring at Valeriy with utmost neutrality in his eyes before at last letting out a long, sheepish sigh, the kind signalling that Valeriy has one a little 'game' of theirs.
"You've gotten too good at figuring me out, Sarge!" He says with a theatrical disappointment that masks his internal panic—Perhaps he is correct. Valeriy has gotten too good at reading him. This borders on obsession. "I'll have to step up my game."
"So," says Valeriy, refusing to indulge Mitya's attempt at redirecting the conversation. "What exactly were you going to say?"
Mitya's gaze frays with nervousness.
"Sorry," he says, with a muted sincerity that sounds downright unnatural from someone so ordinarily animated. "That'll have to stay secret."
Valeriy, for his part, can only sigh in acceptance. There's no point in attempting to pry right now.
He has always had little patience for dishonesty. But for Mitya, it would seem, he will have to learn to wait.
It all comes to a head one night. Valeriy finds himself startled by the sound of an anguished groan from Mitya's chambers. For a second, he fears his charge may just be grievously injured, unlikely as the scenario may be.
That slim chance alone prompts him to rush over, observing, at last, what appears to be bout of night terrors. Mitya's expression, ever so honest in the face of sleep, contorts with despair and terrors. After a few, incoherent murmurs of despair, Mitya shoots up with a start.
"Tch," he grits out, resigned, as though this has become a common occurrence for him. It likely has, if the trips outside his room are anything to go by.
Mitya stretches out his limbs with a long sigh. He steps from his bed with great irritation, skulking towards the door with a highly uncomposed irritation that Valeriy can't say he's ever seen before.
Admittedly, Mitya does not look particularly fearsome when annoying. The most accurate comparison would be an angry kitten. But that takes second place to the sincerity of the emotion, that Mitya is earnest and entirely truthful in the expression. He performs for no one as he groans and sighs miserably.
Perhaps Valeriy is a terrible person for it, but he rather likes the sight. Honesty is a good look on his charge.
"Are you alright, Mister Mitya?" Valeriy says just as Mitya approached the threshold of his chambers, on the verge of bumping into him without even noticing. "I heard a groan coming from your room. As your bodyguard, I felt it necessary to investigate."
Mitya lets out a panicked "Ugh—!", eyes widening like a caught child.
"Oh, uh—" He stumbles over himself. "I am, uh, fine! Peachy! I just found myself craving some sweets and I had to slip out and indulge my cravings. Hope you didn't mind the noise!"
It is a remarkably well-sold lie. But Valeriy is well-past the point of falling for such cheap tricks.
"Really, now?" Says Valeriy. Mitya nods.
"Really!"
"Because it seemed to me as though you were suffering from a bout of night terrors."
Mitya lets slip a frustrated grunt.
"Watching me sleep, Sarge?" He questions almost teasingly.
"Don't dodge the question."
"Was there a question? It seemed more like you were making an observation to me," says Mitya.
Valeriy's patience snaps.
"Mitya." Valeriy leaves no room for pushback in his tone. "Am I correct in saying that the cause of your recent bouts of insomnia would be night terrors like the one I just witnessed?"
Mitya's eyes dart around the room in search of an escape. Unsurprisingly, he finds none—Valeriy had possessed the foresight to anticipate his charge immediately attempting to flee upon confrontation.
After a few seconds of deliberation, Mitya realizes his lack of available options, and deflates. All remaining fight leaves his body, and with it, escapes a certain tension.
"…You'd be correct," he admits reluctantly.
"And what, exactly, are the contents of these nightmares?"
Mitya clams up once more. Valeriy isn't having it.
"Mister Mitya."
Mitya yelps at the stern addressal.
"Ah, alright, I'll talk! Point taken, Sarge," unease lingers in the half-heartedly jovial quip. "Jeez, what's with the interrogation? Shouldn't you be trying to comfort me or something?"
Though lighthearted, the remark makes Valeriy soften ever so slightly. He seeks to help. Not interrogate.
"I want nothing more than to aid you, Mister Mitya," he says, gentler this time. "But I can only do so much when you give me no information on what ails you. And you must understand—Witnessing you wear yourself down has been… rather difficult to watch. Not only as your bodyguard, but as a concerned…"
Friend, he could say. Or something else entirely. But that feels improper.
"—Onlooker," he finishes at last with reluctance. He is being entirely hypocritical right now. All this talk of sharing the truth unless there lie some great benefit to dishonesty, and here he is, concealing his true feelings out of nothing but shame and some half-hearted belief in decorum.
This time, as Mitya pauses, it seems contemplative more than anything—As though genuinely considering the validity of Valeriy's point rather than simply checking for escape routes.
"It's a bit of a long story," he says at last. "…Since I've probably already ruined your sleep for tonight, mind following me to the kitchen? I'll make us some tea."
Valeriy, after a few seconds of consideration, nods. It is as Mitya said: Any chance of getting a good night's sleep he once had has long since gone down the drain.
Mitya does not say anything in response—Perhaps he lacks the energy. Instead, he nods in acknowledgement, waiting for Valeriy to step aside so that he may leave the room.
After all this time, it would seem Valeriy is on the cusp of getting some answers out of this man.
Mitya sets down two cups of steaming hot black tea on the guest table.
"Careful, it's hot," he offers in loose pleasantry. Valeriy nods absently.
Mitya always likes to have some form of hot beverage on hand during difficult conversations, so Valeriy's noticed—A way of forcing himself to sit down and finish what he started without fleeing midway. He can't leave in good conscience until his cup is empty, after all, and the boiling hot beverages Mitya prepares always take quite a while to cool down enough to finish.
Sometimes, he offers these excessively warm beverages even when the conversation at hand is of no excessive difficulty or tediousness. On those occasions, Valeriy has come to presumptuously conclude that the scalding hot drinks are a way of keeping Valeriy seated rather than himself.
A few seconds of awkward silence fill the room. Mitya's legs sway antsily, hands reaching out to feel the cup of tea only for him to hiss and recoil at the sheer heat emanating from it.
"Are you alright, Mister Mitya?" Valeriy questions politely. Of course Mitya's alright—It would take far more than a mere cup of tea to truly injure the man.
"Peachy." He practically throws the word from his mouth. "…But enough of me stalling. That wouldn't be fair to you, Mister Valeriy."
Mitya clears his throat despite there being no blockage in need of clearing—A way of preparing himself psychologically.
"What do you remember from our time at the theater?" he starts.
…Ah.
"Not much," admits Valeriy. "Merely bits and pieces from what you and the traveller told me."
"I see," says Mitya, features schooled, though a dark shadow seems to loom over his face. "I suppose I should tell you about what happened after you died, then."
After you died. The thought is novel in the worst sense—To think that there was a time where Valeriy was dead, incapacitated, and utterly unable to fulfill his duties.
"After I died," echoes Valeriy, wavering just a tad too much to make it sound like a curious inquiry.
Mitya nods.
"Indeed." His fingers ghost over the cup of tea again, testing to see if the drink had cooled down enough to simply guzzle down and be done with the already. Of course, Mitya has already prepared for his own hesitation. The teacup offers no escape.
"After you died, I was suspected of being the remaining dead person. Naturally, I decided to treat it as an experiment, of sorts—I stepped out into the snowstorm to see what would happen."
The declaration, casually dropped as nothing but preamble for something else that is apparently more severe, makes Valeriy freeze.
"You what?"
Mitya opens his mouth, as though to protest, but Valeriy's glare silences him.
"Mister Mitya." His voice trembles with incredulity and a poorly repressed anger at his charge's complete and utter lack of self-preservation. "Have you no regard for your own life?"
It is intended to be a rhetorical question, but Valeriy finds himself wanting an actual answer. Does Mitya care for his own life in the slightest?
Mitya sighs sheepishly.
"I'm sure you'd get it if you were in my shoes, Sarge," he says. "Seeing you… Nevermind that."
Before Valeriy can express his irritation at Mitya's refusal to be fully transparent even now, the explanation continues.
"I quickly lost consciousness. But shortly before that, I… saw an eye out there. I knew there was a high chance of me forgetting what I saw, so to account for that, I carved it into my palm."
What?
"You carved an image into your palm," Valeriy echoes brokenly, looking through each and every choice in his life that has led him here. "You saw a symbol and decided to carve it into your skin. With blood."
Mitya wilts, as if it has just now dawned upon him how that must sound to an outsider, at least, one with any real stake in his well-being.
"I mean, it was useful in the end, wasn't it?" he says. "If I hadn't carved that eye into my soul, we never would've been able to figure out the truth about our deaths. I can't even imagine how much worse things would've gotten in that case… I've seen others at the Energy Commission suffer severe psychological damage after repeated deaths."
Valeriy ignores everything else mentioned.
"Into your soul," he says. Mitya sucks in a sharp inhalation.
"…Right," he says. "That's the problem."
"The problem?"
"I bear the mark of the Ruler of Death," Mitya says. "For a lack of a better word, I'm basically cursed. I can't say I know the full extent of the side effects yet, but one thing I have been experiencing is recurring nightmares."
The admission seems to douse him in cold water.
"So your bouts of insomnia have been caused by nightmares." Mitya nods. "Nightmares brought about by a curse from the Ruler of Death."
"Pretty much," says Mitya solemnly. "I'm sure now you understand why I didn't want to tell you."
"And why exactly would that be?"
Mitya flounders.
"Well, ah, I mean—" Again, his hand reaches out for the reprieve of the cup, finding no solace in the scalding heat. "—Not exactly much you can do about it, is there?"
Valeriy knows he can't do much against the Ruler of Death herself. He is only human—No match for the whims of a God.
But helping his nightmare-addled charge is a separate matter entirely.
"I may not be able to fix the problem entirely," Valeriy says. "But I can alleviate some of the symptoms."
At that, Mitya snorts, disbelieving.
"Don't mean to doubt you, Sarge," he says. "But I don't think you can do that."
"Aren't scientists meant to keep an open mind and test all possibilities before jumping to conclusions?" Questions Valeriy. Mitya sighs.
"Fair point," he says. "Honestly, I just don't want you sticking your neck out here for me. I already got you killed once, you know?"
Ah. Finally, Mitya has expressed the truth of the matter. This has nothing to do with any lack of faith or some misguided sense of nihilism. His charge has simply elected to take on a meaningless role of martyr, to suffer on his lonesome out of some strange fear of being a burden.
Mitya dislikes burdening others. He does not dislike it enough to stop escaping his post every other day. How funnily the human mind works.
Perhaps if his charge instead decided to minimize the burden he causes by being forthright and cooperative rather than counterintuitively hiding all sorts of information Valeriy could use, they would both be better off.
"Need I remind you that ensuring your safety is my job?" Valeriy says. Mitya opens his mouth, undoubtedly to make some smart quip.
"Well, actually, you're supposed to make sure I stay at work—"
Valeriy raises an imperative brow. Mitya falls silent.
"Thank you," says Valeriy dryly. "As your guard, I must ensure your safety. But even beyond my duties as a guard… Surely you can view things from my position for just a moment. Would you too not grow restless seeing someone you care for gradually run themselves into the ground? Would the psychological toll of that not far outweigh the prospect of some distant, hypothetical harm brought to one's person?"
The admission slips out before Valeriy even realizes what he's saying—Someone he cares for. Saying the words aloud feels like cementing the fact in stone as an immutable truth: As the sun rises in the mornings and sets in the nights, he will care for the man in front of him.
It's a rather vague sentiment with a broad list of possible entailments—Caring for another could imply many things, from being marginally upset by their demise to fighting tooth and nail to ensure that not a hair on their head comes to harm.
But Mitya does not tease him about the admission as he had expected. Rather, a frustrated grunt slips from his closed mouth.
"I know exactly what you're talking about, Mister Valeriy," he says. "It feels horrible to see someone you care about get hurt. "
Valeriy's breath hitches in his throat as the realization dawns upon him regarding what exactly Mitya is going to say.
"…And that's why I can't risk repeating what happened back at the theater," he says. "Heh. I know, it's pretty selfish of me, but— I don't think I could handle seeing your dead body again."
Selfish. It would seem, to an outsider, counterintuitive. How, might someone ask, is acting to ensure another's safety selfish?
But Valeriy agrees: Mitya is being selfish, deeply so. He recognizes the selfishness of the sentiment because he too shares in it, the selfishness of hurting both yourself and those you care for out of a deep-seated need to avoid some abstract notion of causing them pain.
"I understand, Mister Mitya," he says. Mitya's shoulders slump in relief. "But you must understand that I, too, am only human. Just as you cannot help but be selfish, I cannot help my own selfishness, either."
As he says his piece, Valeriy's hand instinctively reaches out to clasp Mitya's wrist. Selfishness, as he had spoken into being, was acting wholly out of self-centered desires. No matter how Valeriy attempted to rationalize it, the action was rooted in nothing but his own want—The desire to feel his charge's soft skin, an aching need for the strange sort of spark that always flew through his nervous system whenever his hand brushed against Mitya's while dragging him back from some escapade.
More than anything, Mitya, pleasant as he behaved, has always put up something of a wall between them. Valeriy yearns to tear it apart with his bare hands. He wants to see what lies at the core of it all, so soft and fragile that Mitya has deemed it utterly unfit for public view.
But Valeriy himself has not offered the transparency he seeks from his charge. How terribly hypocritical it is—wanting for all that vulnerability and honesty just to offer nothing up in turn.
To think, he once saw himself as above the complex mishmash of socialization and the human psyche. Valeriy had once viewed his own simplicity as a point of pride. But here he sits now, just as filled with complexities and terribly selfish, terribly human flaws. All because of that pale, princely thing sitting in front of him.
How you've made a fool out of me, Mister Mitya.
Mitya startles, whether at the touch or the words, Valeriy does not know. A sudden moment of self-consciousness befalls him, and it feels as though Valeriy has a bird's-eye view of the scene unfolding in front of him.
It reminds him almost of that pulp novel he'd caught Mitya read a long while prior. Two lovers dancing around one another in endless circles. Aleksandra, the cold mercenary, had taken the object of her affection's hands, and pleaded desperately for honesty.
Mitya thought it was romantic. Valeriy had disagreed—There was nothing romantic about the average person's strange repulsion towards honesty. This was a display of a typical, troublesome social interaction; the flawed, human mind draped up in pretty prose and a candlelit dinner on the book cover.
"But Sarge," Mitya had said. "Don't you think that all these 'flaws of the human psyche' are exactly what make it so romantic when people connect in spite of them? A romance novel between two perfect people with perfect personalities would be a bore to read!"
Perhaps. Not like Valeriy would know. he's never cared much for romance. He'd never read for leisure in general, in fact—there was always too much work to do. His primary exposure to novels consists of mandatory readings in school and the novels Mitya likes to ramble about.
Still, looking at the present before him, Valeriy can't help but think. Here they are, two selfish people, beholden to the fundamental human hypocrisy of desiring honesty from others while being all too hesitant to give it.
Is it an all too typical display of the psychological flaws ingrained into the human psyche? Or it is a moment of blossoming hope, the start of a new spring?
Perhaps it's both.
"I simply cannot stand by and watch you suffer any longer," Valeriy says, after a mere moment of silence that stretched on into aeons. "If intervening means invoking your ire, then I'm afraid that is a risk I am more than willing to take."
Mitya remains quiet as a mouse, eyes planted firmly on Valeriy's hand gripping his wrist. For a moment, Valeriy fears the touch may have been unwanted, but then, Mitya shifts around his arm so that his hand is able to clasp Valeriy's instead. The touch is a far cry from Mitya's otherwise soft skin—His fingers tremble from excess caffiene, and his palms are rough and clammy.
Valeriy squeezes, as if trying to soak up every bit of the contact he can get.
"Why don't I try sleeping with you?" Valeriy suggests, when Mitya remains quiet.
"…How forward, Sarge." So he speaks. And of all the things to make him do it.
"I meant—" Says Valeriy, cheeks dimly flushed. "That I should sleep in the same bed as you. Perhaps the presence of another person may help alleviate your nightmares. And even if it does not, I would rather be aware of each instance of this occurring so that I may best think of a course to aid you."
"Huh," says Mitya eloquently. Valeriy waits for elaboration. None comes.
"Of course, if the idea of such close proximity with me makes you uncomfortable—"
"It doesn't," interjects Mitya all too quickly. Something warm flutters in Valeriy's chest at the declaration.
"—Then I'm certain you will take no issue with my solution," he says. Quietude ensues once more.
There's a certain trepidation in Mitya's eyes—unwilling to refuse Valeriy's suggestion, but too embarrassed to accept.
His scarf is having none of it. A sudden teal hand strikes out and flicks Mitya on the forehead, flicking again when Mitya turns to it with a glare.
"A-Ah, hey!" Mitya grouses. "What was that for?"
The scarf points to Valeriy, then to Mitya. Mitya's face flushes.
"Tch… you—!" Mitya huffs, eyes narrowed with an indignant fluster. "Why do you always have to embarrass me in front of the Sarge?"
Turning back to Valeriy, Mitya clears his throat, attempting to ignore his scarf's motioning.
"It would, ah, seem as though the Scarf isn't going to let me refuse!" he says, attempting his typical, airy laugh. "I'll be taking you up on that offer, then. Would you rather, um… Your room, or mine?"
"You'll be most comfortable in your own room," says Valeriy simply. "And, if at any point, my presence makes you uncomfortable, I would much rather you be able to simply evict me from your quarters than we forced to leave in the middle of the night."
"Think a little about yourself, why don't you?" Mitya murmurs, almost fondly exasperated. "And what kind of person do you take me for?! I definitely wouldn't kick you out in the middle of the night…"
"I prefer accounting for all possibilities," says Valeriy simply. Mitya snickers, as though he's just told some hilarious joke.
"Of course you do," he says. "Well then, Sarge—Would you do the honor of escorting me back to my chambers?"
For the first time since that fateful day at the theater, Mitya's smile is sincere. And for possibly the first time since Valeriy met him, it is transparent. There is hope in his gaze, mixed with a certain trepidation and the hints of fading guilt.
Valeriy guides him by the arm towards his chambers.
The next day, even when preoccupied with the utterly novel feeling of waking up while entangled in another's limbs, Valeriy cannot help but notice that the bags under Mitya's eyes are considerably lessened. His face is utterly serene, free of the nightmares of weeks past.
A smile worms its way upon Valeriy's face.
Perhaps being selfish is not without its benefits.