Rot ━ Mal Oretsev ✓

𝟬𝟭𝟯 doctor oretsev

When she wakes the next day, Thalia feels as though fatigue has taken over her.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, neither her or Zoya (though Thalia is sure she has never looked tired in her life) harnessing enough energy to try and make conversation. She drowsily eats her cereal, milk dripping down her chin, not bothering to wipe it off. Her orange juice does not have its usual delectable flavour, but Thalia isn't entirely sure she cares. Anything to get rid of that horrible, scratchy feeling in her throat.

Afterward, Zoya informs her that she and Thalia were expected to help out with the repairing of the Ultralight. The damage was not irreversible, and could be repaired by hand. A sort of punishment, Thalia supposed, but it could be worse. They could be made to, like, work out. Perish the thought.

She does exactly as instructed. It takes the better part of six hours and twenty people for the skiff to be deemed A-OK, and Thalia leaves it with bruised legs and heavily cut hands. She'll need to find a Healer before dinner, because so much as brushing them against her Kefta has her in intolerable pain.

Zoya tramples alongside her, mouth set in a scowl. "Brutal work. I'm a Squaller, for Saints sake, not a bloody architect. I was made to rule the wind and look pretty, not get myself all dirtied up doing the work of another."

She laughs lightly, before wincing, answering Zoya's confused look, "Some prick hit me in the gut with a bucket. Hurts like a bitch."

Zoya laughs, too, and they make their way to the Grisha tent once more. Thalia feels like going for a nap, if she's honest. Maybe for twenty minutes, maybe for twenty years. She's just about to slip in through the makeshift, curtain door, when she hears her name being called.

She recognises the voice immediately, unable to combat the smile that comes naturally upon hearing it. Mal is approaching with gusto, bearing his teeth in a grin as he waves like somewhat of a madman. Thalia thinks she must look like his counterpart, what with the smile on her face.

There is something indescribable about the joy that comes with seeing him again. They've only known each other for a few days, not really friends but not really strangers either. Undeniably something more than strangers.

Zoya gives her a knowing look before making her way into the tent, alone.

She walks to meet him halfway, both of them stopping with only a few centimetre gap between. He seems taller, and Thalia has to tilt her head up slightly to meet his eyes. For a moment, Thalia cannot seem to summon the sense to speak, so they are simply staring at one another like utter idiots.

   "Hi?" she chokes, somewhat breathlessly. "Oh my Saints, hi! I didn't think you'd still be here!"

   "Well, I haven't been sent on any assignments yet, so I've no place better to be," Mal explains. "What in the name of Sankt Valentin are you doing here? I was under the impression that you Grisha spent your time at that swanky palace of yours eating diamonds and wearing grapes."

An embarrassingly high laugh bursts from Thalia's throat before she can stop it, and she has officially decided that death sounds pretty appeasing right now. Look at her: giggling like a Saintsforsaken school girl. This is mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.

But Mal is unperturbed, smiling as he speaks once more, "I know I saw you like, two days ago, but look really well."

"Flatterer," she replies, like a reflex. "There is other ways to get into my pants, you know. I'm partial to being serenaded with melancholy music and cheese boards."

This time, it is Mal's turn to laugh. An unexpected sound, lined with childlike glee and Thalia gets the feeling he doesn't do it often. She wishes he would.