knowing is half the battle — mitya
— content. 1.1k words, fluff, kind of just my early take on mitya, he's a yearner here i fear, mitya wishes his scarf would choke him at one point NOT IN A WEIRD WAY I PROMISE, technical 7.0 spoilers? there isn't really spoilery content but this does include a snezhnaya character obviously, not beta read
note: this was written and posted before Mitya's in-game release
Mitya has always had an insatiable curiosity.
From the moment he could speak, he was asking questions— a repeated series of "why, why, why?" spilling from his mouth every time he opened it. From the moment he could read, he was poring through every book he could get his tiny hands on to feed his ever-growing hunger to know more. From the moment he could write, he was jotting down his every thought and idea onto whatever he could get his hands on— from the margins of the books he read to the desks he sat at in school, even going as far as to write on the lining on his clothing when he ran out of space on his skin, just to make sure he'd never forget an idea or a question that he needed to know the answer to.
The same way that people needed water and food and oxygen to survive, Mitya needed to learn.
And that unfettered curiosity towards the world was precisely what landed him in such a situation— sitting in the grand Korolevskiy Theater, the lovely song of Snezhnaya's Prima Donna echoing sweetly off the walls, and completely unable to pay attention to any of it.
Instead, Mitya sits quietly, unable to tear his eyes away to focus on anything that isn't you.
The gentle twinkling lights of the stage cast a brilliant glow upon your features where you sit beside him, carefully cupping your face and caressing the gentle slope of your cheekbones. The way it reflects on your eyes and brushes against your lashes is vaguely reminiscent of the snow that flurries down just outside the theater doors, gentle and serene even as you're swirled up in the performance on-stage.
His eyes eventually travel down to your lips, just slightly chapped from the cold.
The sweet taste of the desserts he had eaten before the show lingers on his tongue as he traces it across his own lips. Mitya, as usual, can't help his own curiosity. If he were to kiss you, would it taste as sweet? Or would it taste more similar to the lip balm you had applied upon entering? When it came to picking your lip balm, did you prefer something more traditionally medicinal, or did you prefer something more pleasantly scented, like honey or fruit? If that was the case, did you like it because of the scent alone, or because it left a sugary flavor on your skin? If he were to use the same balm, would he know what it was like to taste you, or would you taste of something far more uniquely you? If he were to lean in and kiss you, would those lips curl up in the way they always do when you're pleased, or would they twitch into a nervous little grin the way they do when you're feeling rather shy? If he—
The ever-running train of thought in Mitya's mind crashes and breaks apart like a flimsy snowball the moment you turn to look at him, your gaze sparkling with joy. For only a moment, in the splendor of your attention, the questions in his head go silent and the world opens up around him again. It is only then that he notices the raucous applause echoing around the theater in place of sweet music, and is hit with the realization that he had spent the entire show observing you instead of the performance.
"Mitya," You gasp out, and his mind restarts. Somehow, the melody of your voice brings him more inspiration than any opera ever could. Perhaps it is the way you lilt your voice up on the vowels, or the way you drag out the 'y' a little in your excitement— part of him wants to ask you to repeat yourself, to place his name upon your lips again just so he can test his theories. "Wasn't that wonderful?"
"Ah— Yes!" Quick as ever, Mitya is nodding along with you in your excitement as if he had actually been present the whole time, stammering out an answer. He can feel his scarf snake up along his back to smack him behind the head a couple times, but he waves it off as if it were only a minor nuisance. "The Mountain Sparrow is always such a pleasure to hear, right?"
You go quiet for a moment, your brows furrowing just slightly.
"…But she didn't sing The Mountain Sparrow today?"
Mitya wishes, just for a moment, that his scarf would grab him around the throat and choke him out to end his embarrassment. Unfortunately, it now lay limp against his back, uncaring of his current plight.
"You weren't listening, were you?"
Mitya deflates like a punctured balloon, his lilac eyes flitting towards the stage as the performers take their final bows. "I… I'm sorry. My mind was… elsewhere."
Your lips curl at the edges— not quite in the way that they do when you're pleased, but not a full grin either. It's as if you're holding in a laugh, bottom lip trembling just slightly as you restrain yourself. It's an expression he's never seen on you before, and suddenly, his embarrassment is being swept away by the sheer glee of knowing you even a little bit more.
Mitya thinks he could love you for a lifetime, and it still wouldn't be enough to learn you in your entirety. The very thought sends a thrilled shiver down his spine.
Without another thought, Mitya is leaning forward to take your hands in his own. The ends of your fingers are cold— and as naturally as he breathes, Mitya wonders. Were you cold because of a slight draft in the theater, or was this a more normal sensation for you? Did you often wear gloves, or did you keep your fingers from freezing by burying them in your pockets? Would you mind if Mitya held your hands to warm them instead?
"I'll make it up to you— Let me take you to dinner! What's your favorite restaurant?"
You seem at a loss for words for a moment, and Mitya recognizes the shift in your expression from amusement to shyness based on the way your cheeks flush and your smile thins ever so slightly.
Yet somehow, even in the familiarity, there's something new. A slight flutter of your lashes as your eyes dart anywhere other than Mitya's enthusiastic gaze.
Is a lifetime long enough to learn you? All of your habits and quirks and expressions? Your likes and dislikes, the things that make you smile, laugh, or cry? The question burns in his mind, but as a bashful little laugh spills from your lips, it quiets for just a moment.
Perhaps a lifetime isn't enough to soothe a curiosity as insatiable as Mitya's— but perhaps the thrill of always learning more about someone you love is worth spending a lifetime on anyway.
