Chapter 15: Midnight Oil and Maslenitsa Dreams

The two weeks leading up to the Seiwa International Cultural Festival blurred into a collage of paint-stained fingers, half-drunk cups of tea, and whispered laughter shared over paper scraps and fairy-tale sketches. For Alex and Katya, their corner of the art room had become more than just a workspace—it was a world unto itself, cluttered with the echoes of Russian myths and the quiet rhythm of two people falling into something deeper than friendship.

They worked late most days, and even longer on weekends, tucked away among vibrant Khokhloma motifs, swirling firebird feathers, and Baba Yaga's enigmatic gaze watching from every second storyboard. Their fairy-tale booth wasn't just a class project anymore—it had become a shared dream, something they were shaping together, detail by detail.

And behind it all, gently buoyed by each brushstroke and line of text, lingered the unspoken promise of their post-festival celebration: the "blini date," as Alex had started calling it in the privacy of his thoughts. He didn't know if Katya remembered suggesting it, but he caught her sometimes pausing mid-sketch, a faraway look softening her usually focused expression.

Once, while painting a golden cockerel, she murmured under her breath, not realizing he could hear:"Интересно, какие блины ему нравятся? Сладкие или солёные? Нужно будет спросить… или это будет слишком навязчиво?"(I wonder what kind of blini he likes. Sweet or savory? I should ask... or would that be too much?)

A blush crept up her neck as she refocused on her work, unaware that Alex had both heard her and understood every word. And though he didn't say anything, he smiled. Because he had been wondering the same thing about her.

Their rhythm was nearly effortless now. Alex could hand Katya the perfect Gzhel blue before she reached for it; she seemed to know exactly when he needed a refill of jasmine tea or a second opinion on layout spacing. These quiet acts of attunement formed the delicate threads of something unspoken but unmistakably intimate.

One particularly late evening, the art room was nearly deserted. The air was thick with the scent of acrylic and the comforting scratch of brushes on canvas. They were finishing the storyboard for Ivan Tsarevich and the Grey Wolf, one of their most elaborate pieces. Katya was bent over the panel, adding gold to the wolf's fur in thin, painstaking strokes. Alex, nearby, was adjusting text placement on his laptop, lost in the world they were building.

For a while, neither spoke. Only the brush moved, the mouse clicked, and the clock ticked somewhere out of sight.

Then, Katya straightened with a soft sigh, stepping back to admire her work."Эта работа… она выматывает, но в то же время… приносит такое удовлетворение," she said quietly. "Особенно когда знаешь, что делаешь это не одна."(This work... it's exhausting, but at the same time... so satisfying. Especially when you know you're not doing it alone.)

Alex looked up, warmed by the honesty in her voice. "It looks amazing, Katya. That gold—it really makes the wolf shimmer. Like he's caught mid-transformation."

She turned to him, smiling, her eyes reflecting the lamplight. "Thank you, Alexey-kun. I wouldn't have been able to pull this off without your help. Your design work… your patience with my many mini-crises…" Her smile turned self-conscious. "You've been incredible."

"There weren't any crises," he replied, meeting her gaze. "Just creativity taking the scenic route. And your art… it brings the stories to life."

She looked away, but not before he saw the flicker of emotion cross her face.

They worked another hour, driven less by deadlines and more by the satisfaction of seeing their vision come together. When they finally began to pack up, Katya stretched with a soft groan.

"Кажется, я чувствую каждую мышцу в своей спине," she mumbled, rubbing her shoulder. "Но это того стоило. Наш уголок будет самым красивым на всём фестивале, я уверена."(Feels like I can feel every muscle in my back. But it was worth it. Our booth will be the most beautiful one at the festival—I'm sure of it.)

Alex hoisted his bag and noticed her wince as she lifted hers.

"Let me," he said, gently taking it from her before she could protest.

"Oh, Alexey-kun, you really don't have to—"

"I want to," he said, not letting her finish. "Power Duo, remember? Comes with full perks."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Power Duo… Кендзи-кун и его прозвища. Но… в этот раз, может быть, он не так уж и неправ."(Kenji-kun and his nicknames… But this time, maybe he's not completely wrong.)

They walked into the cool night air together. The campus was hushed, painted silver by moonlight. Their footsteps echoed faintly across the courtyard, punctuated by the distant hum of city life. The moment felt suspended—still and almost sacred.

"All this time we've been talking about Russian stories," Katya said softly as they neared the bus stop, "and it made me think of Maslenitsa."

Alex glanced at her. "That's the pancake week, right? Your spring festival?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yes! A whole week of blini with every imaginable filling—sweet ones with jam or honey, savory ones with mushrooms or salmon… My Babushka Natasha used to make them for the whole family. It's like a farewell to winter. There's dancing, games, singing… and at the end, they burn an effigy of Lady Maslenitsa to welcome spring."

She paused, then added wistfully, "Целая неделя блинов… это же рай."(A whole week of blini… that's paradise.)

Alex chuckled. "I can't argue with that. Honestly? That sounds kind of magical."

"It is," she said. "And the best part isn't even the food—it's the feeling. Like something old is ending, and something hopeful is just beginning."

She hesitated then, a slight tremble in her voice. "Может быть… когда-нибудь… если ты захочешь… я могла бы рассказать тебе больше. И… может быть, даже попробовать испечь настоящие русские блины. Не такие, как в кафе, а… как делала бабушка."(Maybe… someday… if you'd like… I could tell you more. And maybe even try making real Russian blini. Not like in cafes, but… like my grandmother used to.)

Alex stopped walking for half a second, struck by the quiet vulnerability in her offer. This wasn't just about pancakes. This was an invitation—into her traditions, her memories, her heart.

"Katya," he said gently, "I'd love that. More than anything."

She looked at him then, really looked, and smiled in a way that seemed to thaw the night air around them. Her smile stayed with him even as the bus pulled up and they climbed aboard. They found seats near the back, where the soft hum of the engine masked the silence.

At some point during the ride, her head found his shoulder—not suddenly, but slowly, like a leaf settling onto still water. He didn't move. He barely breathed. He just sat there, holding that moment, letting it etch itself into memory.

The festival was days away. Their booth was almost finished. But as the city passed by in streaks of light beyond the window, Alex realized something quietly profound:

The most beautiful thing they had built wasn't the display of Russian fairy tales or the intricate illustrations of firebirds and talking wolves.

It was this.

This closeness, this shared dream, this blooming bond made of whispered Russian phrases and promises of pancakes and spring.

A fairy tale, not written in books—but painted in midnight oil and Maslenitsa dreams.