Rot ━ Mal Oretsev ✓

𝟬𝟭𝟱 the moon and the stars

Mal Oretsev did not like being vulnerable.

Perhaps it was one of the many consequences that came with being an orphan. If he had grown up in a family that loved him unconditionally rather than under the hand of stern Ana Kuya at Duke Keramzov's estate then perhaps he would be different.

Ana Kuya had not been the surrogate mother Mal once dreamed her to be. She had been austere with the children, ingraining in their minds how lucky they were to be taken care of by the Duke and to keep him in their prayers every night. She drilled good manners and gratefulness into them so much that they now came to Mal as second nature.

But she had not been his mother, and Mal often forgot that.

He did not remember his mother. She had died when he was still a young boy, alongside his father and any other relatives he may have had. He was brought to the orphanage by a stranger, where he had met Alina. The small girl with tan skin and hollowed cheeks, who looked as though she had not ate a proper meal in weeks.

The only way Mal could remember feeling when they met was magnetised. It was as though there was an invisible string between them, tugging one another every which way. Unpredictably they became best friends, family, never one without the other.

And while Mal had opened his heart to Alina, he had struggled to do so since. Mikhael and Dubrov were a different story, because they were friends, and they had pushed their way into his heart and broken down his walls without a regard. He allowed himself to be vulnerable with those people, but had made a promise to himself that he would not do it with someone else.

Then came Thalia.

A curious girl, Mal must admit. In the short time they have known each other, he had picked up on several of her funny little tics; such as sneezing awfully loudly and then pretending it didn't happen, or deliberately walking on her toes to keep the heel of her boots sharp. She ate cereal with mounds of rationed sugar, much to the displeasure of those around her, who were so used to her having none that the sudden change left them with barely any for themselves. She smiled when he pointed out the stray milk dripping down her chin, then blushed when he moved to wipe it off.

Once upon a time, Mal had thought of Grisha as the enemy. Now, he realised that they were much more.

He knew that much when he woke on Thursday morning in a bed that most certainly was not his own, with an arm thrown hastily across his chest, shirtless. It wasn't that Mal had forgotten it happened, he just thought that something so wonderful could only have been a dream. A very graphic dream. A very intimate dream.

A very not a dream, dream.

As Thalia snored rather loudly from his side, Mal came to the realisation that for someone who hated feeling as such, vulnerable was the only way to describe it.

When he had volunteered to deliver the message of Yakovlev wishing to see Zoya, Mal had meant no more than to make sure that Thalia was okay. She had been quiet since the night that he had patched up her hands, and though she smiled brightly and waved like somewhat of a maniac when they crossed paths and talked animatedly when he approached, she was quiet.

Quiet in a way that reminded Mal eerily of himself the night after Alina left. Quiet in the way that one was only after losing the person they loved most in the world.