Sitting in the same row, sitting in the same seat.
He collected every single flier and advertisement he could get his hands on, and with him always came a fresh bouquet of roses of various shades of purple.
Vsevolod was completely enamored by the pianist. Even he would not deny such a thing.
Every time he sat in his seat, he imagined Lev sitting beside him, no doubt poking fun at the situation.
"Isn't it amazing Sevka that even you cannot resist the wiles and charms of artists! Oh I do not blame you. I cannot help myself either some days."
He snorted lightly as the lights dimmed again.
Malikov's style of music was so aggressive and unusual more than half of the times. But, inevitably, there was always a softer piece hidden away amidst the many, many symphonies he'd come to write.
The days where he would come and only play the piano were by far Vsevolod's favorite. The way he swayed as he went up and down the row of keys. Sometimes at a great speed, sometimes at a gentle pace.
He loved it all.
But more than anything, he longed to have a word with him.
To tell him how wonderful his music was, and how alive it made him feel.
Malikov simply had to know. And Vsevolod had the complete intention to tell him.
Only…
As the performance once again came to a close, he stood up and moved back out of the row and towards the aisle. He had seen and heard this particular piece a fair number of times over the years.
Quickly he moved into the hallway and followed it all the way to the end, where a door stood ajar.
He poked his head in, and upon seeing nobody around, silently slipped in and kept going. Eventually he stopped at a dressing room door, gazing up at the NO ENTRY sign hanging on it.
All the artists used this room to get ready for their performances. He knew that. He'd snuck into the back many times in an attempt to catch the pianist.
His heart began to pound the longer he thought about it.
What would he say? How would he say it? Would Malikov be angry that someone had the nerve- the audacity, to come back here? Would he even accept the flowers?? Maybe he didn't even like purple-
All that and more swirled around in his head.
It will be fine. It will be fine, he repeated to himself mentally.
His chest tightened, and the air squeezed out of his lungs. His hands trembled and were sweaty.
No...no...not today…
Next time. Next time.
Carefully he stooped down and set the rose bouquet in front of the door, backing away and leaving the way he'd come.
His gut hurt, and his face burned with embarrassment and shame.
How many times had next time been? About a hundred and twelve times now. And yet not once had he been able to stomach trying to get Malikov's attention.
It wasn't as if he were constantly surrounded by armed guards or something equally terribly.
With a heavy heart, he shoved his hands into his pockets and left the theater, dragging his feet along the pavement as he walked home.
