Privacy. Freedom. Whatever you want to call it.
[ whatever this is, he'd said. it's a sentiment echoed — whatever you want to call it, given that they are hardly free. nikolai's shackles lead to a heavy crown, and alina's own chains her to the weight of a war-torn country.
but in that privacy, in short-lived moments of freedom, maybe there's a chance to come together as something more than birds with clipped wings. as something more than alliances and survivors brought together by unfortunate circumstances.
(if ravka can sustain itself on impossible hopes, so can she.) ]
I thought it was obvious. That I care about you.
I wouldn't be considering any of this, including your insane proposal, if I didn't.
Not that I understand why you would want to do this, anyway.
You're royalty. You've seen more of the world than most people. You could have anyone you wanted.
I'm not so special, in the grand scheme of things. Or any good with politics.
[ in the grand scheme of strategies and battles ahead of them, she is. but in this? he is not the only one riddled with uncertainty. ]
i would call it those things.
i think the guards would call it unnecessary hijinks with the sole purpose of making their jobs harder.
however, important people must go missing sometime. otherwise people might forget that they're important.
[ it might be selfish to admit how much he likes those fleeting, private moments they're able to steal away. there are more important things to do in the eyes of others, certainly, but nikolai weighs his own desires and makes his own choices. if sitting by a lake with alina doing absolutely nothing is what he wants to do, then he'll find a way to do it. ]
it is insane, isn't it?
to accept a proposal of marriage from someone you've known for such a short time without the guarantee of love. and when i asked i didn't even think you liked me very much.
it's how i prefer to do things. why take the easy route when there's a much harder one you could struggle through?
i asked you because no matter what transpires between us, i believe we will always find a way to remain friends.
i'll be very honest with you, alina. this won't be the fairy tale life most people envision for themselves, but i'll always do my best to try to make you happy.
and i happen to find you very special.
i, too, am very special, so i'm something of an authority on these things.
i think the guards would call it unnecessary hijinks with the sole purpose of making their jobs harder.
however, important people must go missing sometime. otherwise people might forget that they're important.
[ it might be selfish to admit how much he likes those fleeting, private moments they're able to steal away. there are more important things to do in the eyes of others, certainly, but nikolai weighs his own desires and makes his own choices. if sitting by a lake with alina doing absolutely nothing is what he wants to do, then he'll find a way to do it. ]
it is insane, isn't it?
to accept a proposal of marriage from someone you've known for such a short time without the guarantee of love. and when i asked i didn't even think you liked me very much.
it's how i prefer to do things. why take the easy route when there's a much harder one you could struggle through?
i asked you because no matter what transpires between us, i believe we will always find a way to remain friends.
i'll be very honest with you, alina. this won't be the fairy tale life most people envision for themselves, but i'll always do my best to try to make you happy.
and i happen to find you very special.
i, too, am very special, so i'm something of an authority on these things.
this tag brought to u by a moment of "my finger slipped into tl;dr mode"...... forgive me
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peasant
- 2020-10-19 06:34 (UTC) - Expand( cont. )
i don't want you to make a choice to spare my feelings.
that would be worse than an outright rejection.
malyen is his own man. he makes his own choices.
i don't think telling him to stop being loyal to you would quite take.
we can't always choose who we care about, anyway.
i solemnly swear that i will not run off with him.
he would be safe, but i think you might try to kill me.
I didn't exactly mean it like that.
Have you ever known me to happily agree to something I didn't want to do?
Maybe so. That doesn't make what I've said less true.
According to you, you're permanently in danger of being killed by me.
I think the exact words were something like "crushed beneath the Sun Summoner's heel."
Have you ever known me to happily agree to something I didn't want to do?
Maybe so. That doesn't make what I've said less true.
According to you, you're permanently in danger of being killed by me.
I think the exact words were something like "crushed beneath the Sun Summoner's heel."
[ he doesn't sleep as well as someone supposedly in a drunken stupor should, which he blames on the quality of the alcohol served last night. his dreams are full of scattering darkness and gunshots, the acrid scent of smoke and the slick feeling of blood on his hands, and he wakes several times during the night, a headache pulsing between his temples that has only marginally subsided by the time the barest hint of dawn begins coloring the sky.
more often that not his nights have been plagued with hazy nightmares, sometimes about the darkling, sometimes about the war, sometimes about failing ravka altogether. the nights he manages a dead sleep are the only ones that feel restful, but sometimes he dreams of more pleasant things, like flying aboard the hummingbird with alina by his side, the wind in her hair and the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears. there are no kings or queens or palaces. just them, traveling wherever the skies can take them.
those are his favorite ones. he thinks on them now, his arm slung over his eyes while he imagines the balmy ocean air and a steady rocking beneath his feet, alina's smile as she slips on sturmhond's teal coat and runs across the deck.
it's almost enough to distract from the ache in his head, his appetite thoroughly shot but wishing for a hot cup of tea. ]
more often that not his nights have been plagued with hazy nightmares, sometimes about the darkling, sometimes about the war, sometimes about failing ravka altogether. the nights he manages a dead sleep are the only ones that feel restful, but sometimes he dreams of more pleasant things, like flying aboard the hummingbird with alina by his side, the wind in her hair and the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears. there are no kings or queens or palaces. just them, traveling wherever the skies can take them.
those are his favorite ones. he thinks on them now, his arm slung over his eyes while he imagines the balmy ocean air and a steady rocking beneath his feet, alina's smile as she slips on sturmhond's teal coat and runs across the deck.
it's almost enough to distract from the ache in his head, his appetite thoroughly shot but wishing for a hot cup of tea. ]
[ Most days, she rises with the sun's ascent, an irony that isn't lost on her — the Sun Summoner, beckoned by the first glow of light beyond the window. Other days, she wearily waits for its first appearance to cut through the shroud of darkness in her chambers. It's a habit learned from the road, impossible to shake, as though her body still waits, taut and tense, for the next sign of danger. The next threat on their lives. The next obstacle to overcome.
It would be an easier enemy to face than the difficulties of her own heart. It thumps in her chest as soon as her bare feet sweep across the floor, like a beat that leads her through the palace's twists and turns, and toward the promise she has sworn. If the waking servants and guards worn into exhaustion from their nightly shifts notice her bedraggled appearance or the route she has taken, tray in hand, they say nothing of it — though she has no doubt that whispers will circulate, as they always do.
At least there is a Ravka left for them to gossip about. It's a wry thought that distracts from the anticipation that tightens her throat as she slips into Nikolai's quarters without a knock, the stare of a knight heavy on her back. There are still disheveled wisps of thick hair gathering in her eyes, nightgown rumpled from sleep; they are seeing too much of each other like this lately, she thinks, human and unguarded — but it's too late to think better of it and make her exit when she sets the assortment of toasts and jams and juices at his bedside table.
Or perhaps it isn't. Closely, she watches the rise and fall of his chest, uncertain if he's even awake at all when she mutters, ] Nikolai?
It would be an easier enemy to face than the difficulties of her own heart. It thumps in her chest as soon as her bare feet sweep across the floor, like a beat that leads her through the palace's twists and turns, and toward the promise she has sworn. If the waking servants and guards worn into exhaustion from their nightly shifts notice her bedraggled appearance or the route she has taken, tray in hand, they say nothing of it — though she has no doubt that whispers will circulate, as they always do.
At least there is a Ravka left for them to gossip about. It's a wry thought that distracts from the anticipation that tightens her throat as she slips into Nikolai's quarters without a knock, the stare of a knight heavy on her back. There are still disheveled wisps of thick hair gathering in her eyes, nightgown rumpled from sleep; they are seeing too much of each other like this lately, she thinks, human and unguarded — but it's too late to think better of it and make her exit when she sets the assortment of toasts and jams and juices at his bedside table.
Or perhaps it isn't. Closely, she watches the rise and fall of his chest, uncertain if he's even awake at all when she mutters, ] Nikolai?
[ he's lost track of the days. he's lost track of himself.
nikolai has always felt like the palace was something like a gilded cage, something beautiful to behold but a place more like a prison than any of his other homes. he loves the gleaming halls, the statues, the paintings, but in the end it's simply a pretty prison attached to an extremely needy nation. his chains might be invisible, but nonetheless, they're there, a constant and heavy shackle he carries from one expansive room to the next, always with a smile.
this cage is nothing like that. it's like nothing he's ever experienced before, because the cage is his own body. his own head. his own self. whatever cursed magic the darkling employed sent a monster to devour him from the inside out, to leave him immobilized, to take control of his senses, to make him a prisoner inside a sinister cage of roiling black and fresh blood.
it takes an extraordinary amount of effort to finally grasp a thread of his own self, holding on tight enough to see the world through the monster's eyes. it's different. nonsensical. places he knows he's been but can't name now. the signs by the roads and in shop windows are nothing but scribbled symbols. the people — his people no longer look human. they look like prey, and they spark a hunger in him that makes him want to go under again. he can taste blood, rank and metallic, and he's gripped with the fear that he's already killed. not knowing whether it's animal or human blood makes him think that cognizance is just another punishment in the nightmare he's found himself in.
time passes in a haze. it could be days or it could be weeks. nikolai can only stay above water for a few minutes at a time before the darkness sinks its claws in and pulls him under once more.
but a few minutes gradually turns into longer. he's learning the monster now, trying to study it, trying to find a way that they might coexist, and from there, a way to seize control of himself again.
it comes when he recognizes a fountain with roses growing along the edges, the same fountain that stuck him with thorns as a child when he tried to touch the water. dominik ended up pulling them out so his mother wouldn't find out about his behavior. the sudden realization that he's in os alta causes something to shift somehow, his eyes sharper, his mind more alert. the monster is weakening, and nikolai doesn't stop to reason out why. he seizes the opportunity when it presents itself, his wings cutting through the air as he pivots, heading directly to the palace and — not entirely purposely — crashing directly into one of the windows.
it should have been his window leading to his own chambers, but his calculations are simply wrong this time. he skids into the room and hits a heavy trunk, cracking the wood before he falls to the floor in a heap. then everything changes. for a moment he can't see. there's only the agonizing sensation of what he suspects might be his bones grinding against one another. something falls from the ruined wood, blanketing him in fabric, and when he pulls it away he realizes two things: first that he's holding his own coat, one of the teal ones he gave to alina, and second that his hand is no longer clawed. it's human. badly scarred, but human nonetheless.
he rolls over and dry heaves before collapsing onto his side, his head spinning. the room is barely in focus, his vision nauseatingly fragmented, so he shuts his eyes and tries to find it in him to just breathe. ]
nikolai has always felt like the palace was something like a gilded cage, something beautiful to behold but a place more like a prison than any of his other homes. he loves the gleaming halls, the statues, the paintings, but in the end it's simply a pretty prison attached to an extremely needy nation. his chains might be invisible, but nonetheless, they're there, a constant and heavy shackle he carries from one expansive room to the next, always with a smile.
this cage is nothing like that. it's like nothing he's ever experienced before, because the cage is his own body. his own head. his own self. whatever cursed magic the darkling employed sent a monster to devour him from the inside out, to leave him immobilized, to take control of his senses, to make him a prisoner inside a sinister cage of roiling black and fresh blood.
it takes an extraordinary amount of effort to finally grasp a thread of his own self, holding on tight enough to see the world through the monster's eyes. it's different. nonsensical. places he knows he's been but can't name now. the signs by the roads and in shop windows are nothing but scribbled symbols. the people — his people no longer look human. they look like prey, and they spark a hunger in him that makes him want to go under again. he can taste blood, rank and metallic, and he's gripped with the fear that he's already killed. not knowing whether it's animal or human blood makes him think that cognizance is just another punishment in the nightmare he's found himself in.
time passes in a haze. it could be days or it could be weeks. nikolai can only stay above water for a few minutes at a time before the darkness sinks its claws in and pulls him under once more.
but a few minutes gradually turns into longer. he's learning the monster now, trying to study it, trying to find a way that they might coexist, and from there, a way to seize control of himself again.
it comes when he recognizes a fountain with roses growing along the edges, the same fountain that stuck him with thorns as a child when he tried to touch the water. dominik ended up pulling them out so his mother wouldn't find out about his behavior. the sudden realization that he's in os alta causes something to shift somehow, his eyes sharper, his mind more alert. the monster is weakening, and nikolai doesn't stop to reason out why. he seizes the opportunity when it presents itself, his wings cutting through the air as he pivots, heading directly to the palace and — not entirely purposely — crashing directly into one of the windows.
it should have been his window leading to his own chambers, but his calculations are simply wrong this time. he skids into the room and hits a heavy trunk, cracking the wood before he falls to the floor in a heap. then everything changes. for a moment he can't see. there's only the agonizing sensation of what he suspects might be his bones grinding against one another. something falls from the ruined wood, blanketing him in fabric, and when he pulls it away he realizes two things: first that he's holding his own coat, one of the teal ones he gave to alina, and second that his hand is no longer clawed. it's human. badly scarred, but human nonetheless.
he rolls over and dry heaves before collapsing onto his side, his head spinning. the room is barely in focus, his vision nauseatingly fragmented, so he shuts his eyes and tries to find it in him to just breathe. ]
[ in a matter of only months, the world has crumbled around them.
os alta has lost its shine. a reflection, maybe, of ravka's dying light. whatever hope remains is a fragile thing, an ember close to burning itself out. no matter how alina strives to keep it alight, to pretend and perform and make promises she knows she cannot keep, the darkness continues to seep into their country like an infection she cannot purge. it slips into the cracks of the walls, a shadow that dances across her quarters at night. it fills the empty halls she walks, its stones nearly collapsed, the carpeting tarnished and its gilded paint burnished from battle.
she can still see the fading life in glazed over eyes and mangled corpses when she closes her eyes. it's poetic, really — that she is a ghost among the spirits that haunt these halls, simply repeating what she had done in life. meetings to secure themselves allies they cannot pay, where she strains herself with insincere smiles and rallies men to causes that will certainly spell their doom. securing those straggling soldiers they have left, looking into faces of terrified grisha that are barely more than children. grasping at straws as she plans their next move, as though she isn't sick of hiding behind these walls and vainly hoping the darkling won't think to return to the very haven he had destroyed.
all to make a point. all to punish her. i will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no shelter but mine, he had once warned her. when she thinks of the monster shifting beneath nikolai's skin, the scars etched into genya, the horrified sky-blue of mal's eyes once he had finally stumbled across the truth (that the darkling resides within her mind, a poison she can't bleed out) —
she knows it to be true. a threat he intends on keeping.
some days, she wonders if nikolai would be proud that she has stepped forward to fill the gap he has left in their leadership. on other nights, she tells herself it doesn't matter. she has little right to wonder anything about nikolai when she is the source of his suffering, but when has the heart been anything but selfish and cruel and fickle? she has little right, but she waits and wonders all the same, and wakes the next morning as though her chest doesn't feel like it will collapse under the weight of her guilt.
it's different, on that particular morning. that aching void still threatens to unhinge its jaw and swallow her whole, but her skin is too tight around her bones. it's a restlessness that festers in her scar, the creeping shadows the nichevo'ya embedded in her flesh, like an omen.
her first thought is that they've run out of time. that the darkling has returned to spill fresh blood onto the still-stained stones of the palace, where even her dedicated scrubbing couldn't erase the traces of violence. she follows the pull in her gut as though she's tied to a tether, lured in, and barges into her own quarters with all of the feral bristling of a woman expecting a war at a doorstep.
it isn't what she finds on the other side. or maybe it is, another twisted game the darkling begs her to play, another consequence of defying him by forcing her hand to put nikolai out of her misery. the door rattles on its hinges when it slams shut behind her with the force of a swift kick behind her. against her sternum, the lantsov emerald pulses and sears her — or perhaps that's merely alina, the temperature of the room heating with the sudden defensive impulse of power that flows to her fingertips, readying herself for —
what, exactly? a trap? a scheme? for nikolai's bones to reshape him into that same ravenous, senseless beast? her throat burns, barely trusting her voice. barely trusting her eyes as they take him in, so small and sprawled out on her floor. it would be the perfect strategy for lowering her defenses.
there is no tool at the darkling's disposal that he would not use. despite her body's demand to rush to his side, she stays where she is, tension winding along her spine as she flattens her back against the door. ]
Nikolai.
[ his name, and only that. a test to gauge what he has come to her as: monster, or man. ]
os alta has lost its shine. a reflection, maybe, of ravka's dying light. whatever hope remains is a fragile thing, an ember close to burning itself out. no matter how alina strives to keep it alight, to pretend and perform and make promises she knows she cannot keep, the darkness continues to seep into their country like an infection she cannot purge. it slips into the cracks of the walls, a shadow that dances across her quarters at night. it fills the empty halls she walks, its stones nearly collapsed, the carpeting tarnished and its gilded paint burnished from battle.
she can still see the fading life in glazed over eyes and mangled corpses when she closes her eyes. it's poetic, really — that she is a ghost among the spirits that haunt these halls, simply repeating what she had done in life. meetings to secure themselves allies they cannot pay, where she strains herself with insincere smiles and rallies men to causes that will certainly spell their doom. securing those straggling soldiers they have left, looking into faces of terrified grisha that are barely more than children. grasping at straws as she plans their next move, as though she isn't sick of hiding behind these walls and vainly hoping the darkling won't think to return to the very haven he had destroyed.
all to make a point. all to punish her. i will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no shelter but mine, he had once warned her. when she thinks of the monster shifting beneath nikolai's skin, the scars etched into genya, the horrified sky-blue of mal's eyes once he had finally stumbled across the truth (that the darkling resides within her mind, a poison she can't bleed out) —
she knows it to be true. a threat he intends on keeping.
some days, she wonders if nikolai would be proud that she has stepped forward to fill the gap he has left in their leadership. on other nights, she tells herself it doesn't matter. she has little right to wonder anything about nikolai when she is the source of his suffering, but when has the heart been anything but selfish and cruel and fickle? she has little right, but she waits and wonders all the same, and wakes the next morning as though her chest doesn't feel like it will collapse under the weight of her guilt.
it's different, on that particular morning. that aching void still threatens to unhinge its jaw and swallow her whole, but her skin is too tight around her bones. it's a restlessness that festers in her scar, the creeping shadows the nichevo'ya embedded in her flesh, like an omen.
her first thought is that they've run out of time. that the darkling has returned to spill fresh blood onto the still-stained stones of the palace, where even her dedicated scrubbing couldn't erase the traces of violence. she follows the pull in her gut as though she's tied to a tether, lured in, and barges into her own quarters with all of the feral bristling of a woman expecting a war at a doorstep.
it isn't what she finds on the other side. or maybe it is, another twisted game the darkling begs her to play, another consequence of defying him by forcing her hand to put nikolai out of her misery. the door rattles on its hinges when it slams shut behind her with the force of a swift kick behind her. against her sternum, the lantsov emerald pulses and sears her — or perhaps that's merely alina, the temperature of the room heating with the sudden defensive impulse of power that flows to her fingertips, readying herself for —
what, exactly? a trap? a scheme? for nikolai's bones to reshape him into that same ravenous, senseless beast? her throat burns, barely trusting her voice. barely trusting her eyes as they take him in, so small and sprawled out on her floor. it would be the perfect strategy for lowering her defenses.
there is no tool at the darkling's disposal that he would not use. despite her body's demand to rush to his side, she stays where she is, tension winding along her spine as she flattens her back against the door. ]
Nikolai.
[ his name, and only that. a test to gauge what he has come to her as: monster, or man. ]
Edited (my grammar app corrected the darkling to 'the darling'...... it's simping for the darkling) 2020-11-27 03:30 (UTC)
is it really rp if you're not torturing characters a little
peasant
- 2020-12-03 04:50 (UTC) - Expand[ she doesn't rest easily these days.
most nights, she awakens from what few hours of sleep she's stolen to loneliness making a chasm out of her chest. most nights, it pulls her to his chambers, lingering with no intention to wake him. most nights, she can lie to herself convincingly, can pretend it's enough to sense his pulse on the other side of the door that separates them — strong and steady and alive.
most nights, she takes the secrets and apologies and confessions she used to give nikolai and carries the suffocating weight of them into the palace's grand library, until she can forget them between the pages of a book. it becomes an obsession — the way she sequesters herself away with tome after tome, day after day, night after night, and wakes with words smudged beneath her cheek. the solution she had promised him won't be found in the ancient ramblings of dead men, and yet she can't help but to end her days wandering its aisles, desperately searching for an answer she might have missed.
genya only comments on the dark circles beneath her eyes in passing, softening it with a joke alina acknowledges with a strained smile. they're hidden easily with a swipe of genya's fingers, the first step to creating a queen alina doesn't recognize when she studies herself in the vanity. it crafts the facade she needs, nevertheless, in order to face ravka in the face of nikolai's announcement of their engagement. she flits among nobles and diplomats and everything in-between, offers her forced smiles and lies through her teeth about their happiness, slips into the role she needs to play even as chafes beneath the mask — and when the celebrations threaten to strangle her, made claustrophobic by the cage she's created for herself, no one seems to notice her disappearance from nikolai's side.
her fingers still ache from every brush of their hands, from the curl of them in his elbow, but the pain is a pale shadow next to the dull throb at the base of her spine. like a war drum, warning her of an incoming battalion. the echo of that possessive anger is a familiar toxin she recognizes instantly. aleksander. knowing she had predicted his reaction, the inevitability their nuptials would draw him out like a child enraged by the thought of sharing his favorite toy — it should be satisfying, to some degree, if not for the horrific realization that there is only one person who has answers for her. only one person that might hold the key to reversing the damage he's wrought to nikolai's system.
wanting makes us weak, he had told her, and aleksander's weakness is clear — and easy to exploit, if she plays her cards right. she digs her fingertips into her temple as if it might ward away his incessant whispering in her head, a hissing threat in the darkness that nearly drowns out the thudding approach of footsteps. she doesn't look up from where she's hunched over one of the library's tables, but then she doesn't need to to recognize who has come searching for her. nikolai's presence is a flame that burns in her peripherals, no matter where she travels. ]
I'm leaving with the Second Army tomorrow. The people need to see the Sun Summoner among them, not hiding in a palace.
[ he likely won't agree with her — admittedly reckless, possibly stupid — plan, and so she says nothing of her true intentions. more than anything, it gives her an excuse not to discuss why she had retreated from the very party intended to celebrate their engagement to seal herself away, or the days she has been impossible to find anywhere in the palace, or even the pain splitting her skull. nothing but business. that, at least, has been an easier topic to broach lately.
at the base of her neck, her fingers struggle to unpin genya's handiwork with a grimace, as though loosening her hair will ease the pounding in her head. ]
You should stay to hold down things here. You're better at playing at politics, anyway, and everyone likes you better.
most nights, she awakens from what few hours of sleep she's stolen to loneliness making a chasm out of her chest. most nights, it pulls her to his chambers, lingering with no intention to wake him. most nights, she can lie to herself convincingly, can pretend it's enough to sense his pulse on the other side of the door that separates them — strong and steady and alive.
most nights, she takes the secrets and apologies and confessions she used to give nikolai and carries the suffocating weight of them into the palace's grand library, until she can forget them between the pages of a book. it becomes an obsession — the way she sequesters herself away with tome after tome, day after day, night after night, and wakes with words smudged beneath her cheek. the solution she had promised him won't be found in the ancient ramblings of dead men, and yet she can't help but to end her days wandering its aisles, desperately searching for an answer she might have missed.
genya only comments on the dark circles beneath her eyes in passing, softening it with a joke alina acknowledges with a strained smile. they're hidden easily with a swipe of genya's fingers, the first step to creating a queen alina doesn't recognize when she studies herself in the vanity. it crafts the facade she needs, nevertheless, in order to face ravka in the face of nikolai's announcement of their engagement. she flits among nobles and diplomats and everything in-between, offers her forced smiles and lies through her teeth about their happiness, slips into the role she needs to play even as chafes beneath the mask — and when the celebrations threaten to strangle her, made claustrophobic by the cage she's created for herself, no one seems to notice her disappearance from nikolai's side.
her fingers still ache from every brush of their hands, from the curl of them in his elbow, but the pain is a pale shadow next to the dull throb at the base of her spine. like a war drum, warning her of an incoming battalion. the echo of that possessive anger is a familiar toxin she recognizes instantly. aleksander. knowing she had predicted his reaction, the inevitability their nuptials would draw him out like a child enraged by the thought of sharing his favorite toy — it should be satisfying, to some degree, if not for the horrific realization that there is only one person who has answers for her. only one person that might hold the key to reversing the damage he's wrought to nikolai's system.
wanting makes us weak, he had told her, and aleksander's weakness is clear — and easy to exploit, if she plays her cards right. she digs her fingertips into her temple as if it might ward away his incessant whispering in her head, a hissing threat in the darkness that nearly drowns out the thudding approach of footsteps. she doesn't look up from where she's hunched over one of the library's tables, but then she doesn't need to to recognize who has come searching for her. nikolai's presence is a flame that burns in her peripherals, no matter where she travels. ]
I'm leaving with the Second Army tomorrow. The people need to see the Sun Summoner among them, not hiding in a palace.
[ he likely won't agree with her — admittedly reckless, possibly stupid — plan, and so she says nothing of her true intentions. more than anything, it gives her an excuse not to discuss why she had retreated from the very party intended to celebrate their engagement to seal herself away, or the days she has been impossible to find anywhere in the palace, or even the pain splitting her skull. nothing but business. that, at least, has been an easier topic to broach lately.
at the base of her neck, her fingers struggle to unpin genya's handiwork with a grimace, as though loosening her hair will ease the pounding in her head. ]
You should stay to hold down things here. You're better at playing at politics, anyway, and everyone likes you better.
[ he's no stranger to nightmares, but they've never been this bad. if it's not something from his past, it's something from the monster. nameless faces and the taste of blood. sounds he doesn't remember hearing — screams, human ones, panicked voices begging to be spared. most nights he wakes in a cold sweat, his sheets ragged from his claws, and some nights he wakes for seemingly no reason at all, an ache in his chest as he thinks to open the door, that he might find alina there.
he asks genya for a tonic to help him sleep after she comments on his haggard appearance, and offers the mild suggestion that perhaps alina could also benefit from it. they don't spend much time together, at least not the kind that matters, but nikolai notices each tired sigh and hollow smile. they're practically mirror images of each other, two larger than life figures dangerously close to failing to live up to the stories crafted around them.
ravka reacts predictably to the news of their engagement — there's both moaning and rejoicing about a grisha queen, the opinions split, but nikolai places his faith in the adoration of the public, that his words and promises and the repertoire he's built with the people will be enough to weather the announcement. in any case, the party he throws is grand enough to drown out the naysayers, though clearly it does not have the same charming effect on alina, who disappears partway through the night. he lets her go. at this point, everyone is too drunk to notice the absence of the happy couple anyway.
he finds her in the library, a place largely empty these days. nikolai hasn't visited since his return, too busy attempting to wrangle order back to the capital, but he knows alina has been spending a worrying amount of time here, poring through his family's impressive collection in search of some kind of answer that nikolai knows can't possibly exist within the pages of a book.
she speaks first, and lately all of her words have sounded like armor. he can hardly blame her. ]
You, volunteering for a glorified parade with the Second Army? [ highly suspect. he considers her for a long moment, watching her fumble with her hair while his brow inches higher. ] If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to get away from me.
[ he steps forward then, coming up behind her to gently extract the meticulously placed golden pins in her hair. her strands glitter in the dim flames of the few still-burning lamps, dusted with something that looks like pure starlight. ]
People like you. [ it's a vast oversimplification. many people in fact do not like her, and many others go far beyond just like and into wildly obsessive territories. her hair tumbles down the back of her neck. nikolai runs his gloved fingers through it before he places both hands at her shoulders, kneading gently at the tension evident there. something stirs in his chest that he pointedly ignores. ] It's true that they like me more, but I've been working on my public image for far longer than you have. It's hardly a fair competition. Will you be performing party tricks on the tour or just sneaking off to do things you'd rather not tell me?
he asks genya for a tonic to help him sleep after she comments on his haggard appearance, and offers the mild suggestion that perhaps alina could also benefit from it. they don't spend much time together, at least not the kind that matters, but nikolai notices each tired sigh and hollow smile. they're practically mirror images of each other, two larger than life figures dangerously close to failing to live up to the stories crafted around them.
ravka reacts predictably to the news of their engagement — there's both moaning and rejoicing about a grisha queen, the opinions split, but nikolai places his faith in the adoration of the public, that his words and promises and the repertoire he's built with the people will be enough to weather the announcement. in any case, the party he throws is grand enough to drown out the naysayers, though clearly it does not have the same charming effect on alina, who disappears partway through the night. he lets her go. at this point, everyone is too drunk to notice the absence of the happy couple anyway.
he finds her in the library, a place largely empty these days. nikolai hasn't visited since his return, too busy attempting to wrangle order back to the capital, but he knows alina has been spending a worrying amount of time here, poring through his family's impressive collection in search of some kind of answer that nikolai knows can't possibly exist within the pages of a book.
she speaks first, and lately all of her words have sounded like armor. he can hardly blame her. ]
You, volunteering for a glorified parade with the Second Army? [ highly suspect. he considers her for a long moment, watching her fumble with her hair while his brow inches higher. ] If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to get away from me.
[ he steps forward then, coming up behind her to gently extract the meticulously placed golden pins in her hair. her strands glitter in the dim flames of the few still-burning lamps, dusted with something that looks like pure starlight. ]
People like you. [ it's a vast oversimplification. many people in fact do not like her, and many others go far beyond just like and into wildly obsessive territories. her hair tumbles down the back of her neck. nikolai runs his gloved fingers through it before he places both hands at her shoulders, kneading gently at the tension evident there. something stirs in his chest that he pointedly ignores. ] It's true that they like me more, but I've been working on my public image for far longer than you have. It's hardly a fair competition. Will you be performing party tricks on the tour or just sneaking off to do things you'd rather not tell me?
[ herding genya out of their home is simpler than alina could have ever predicted. it isn't her intention to hide nikolai like a skeleton in her closet, a dirty secret relegated to the shadows; genya's curiosity is a never-ending abyss alina isn't quite ready to dive into. and won't be, for quite some time, if the sly, knowing glances and teasing remarks genya confronts alina with whenever she grins like a fool at her phone are any indication.
waiting for a bombardment of his late-night thoughts has become a habit she's fallen into — with an ease that terrifies her, but not quite so much as how eager she is to watch those three dots flash across her screen. not quite as much as how effortless it is to pry herself open and share snippets of her life as she burns away the midnight hours — and her loneliness with it. it's less daunting to her, now — the inevitability of ending her day only to be alone with her thoughts, only to question herself, only to delve into nightmares that never seem to end.
knowing he'll be waiting for her when the sun falls, with an obnoxious message that charms a laugh from her until she's breathless, makes it that much more bearable.
still, it's nothing compared to waiting to see him again, or the shock of her nerves fluttering in her stomach — nerves she, in all of her glorious denial, can blame on the intimacy of showing her art to a new set of eyes. already, she's distracted herself with readying her studio, rearranging her paints three times until she's forced herself away. a white tarp drapes over the floor as a precaution, an easel set beneath the glass dome of the ceiling, spilling sunlight into the room. but the rest of it looks too much like a date — a spread of blankets and pillows as a makeshift table in the corner, steaming takeout containers propped nearby — no matter how fervently she insists to herself that it is not, in fact, meant to be a date.
if genya stumbles across them, she'll never hear the end of it. she blows out an anxious breath once more, fingers fiddling with a paintbrush, just in time for the doorbell to sound. when she cracks it open to eye nikolai on the other side, she doesn't appear as flustered as she feels — but there's a slight strawberry-pink glow to her cheeks, nevertheless, that only brightens with her smile upon greeting him. a curtain of silver spills over an eye as she tilts her head to regard him, messily cascading from the haphazard, partial updo she's pinned together with paintbrushes at the back of her head.
just the sight of him compels her to pick up a canvas. it would be a lie to claim she hasn't tried to sketch his portrait from memory, that her mind hasn't wandered until she's scribbling dark outlines of bounding foxes into the lines of her notebooks, but none of it has done him justice. she steps aside to allow him room to enter. ]
If you took any longer, I was going to eat your share and mine.
[ he's not late by any definition of the word, but — patience is hardly a virtue she possesses. especially when she's been looking forward to this. ]
waiting for a bombardment of his late-night thoughts has become a habit she's fallen into — with an ease that terrifies her, but not quite so much as how eager she is to watch those three dots flash across her screen. not quite as much as how effortless it is to pry herself open and share snippets of her life as she burns away the midnight hours — and her loneliness with it. it's less daunting to her, now — the inevitability of ending her day only to be alone with her thoughts, only to question herself, only to delve into nightmares that never seem to end.
knowing he'll be waiting for her when the sun falls, with an obnoxious message that charms a laugh from her until she's breathless, makes it that much more bearable.
still, it's nothing compared to waiting to see him again, or the shock of her nerves fluttering in her stomach — nerves she, in all of her glorious denial, can blame on the intimacy of showing her art to a new set of eyes. already, she's distracted herself with readying her studio, rearranging her paints three times until she's forced herself away. a white tarp drapes over the floor as a precaution, an easel set beneath the glass dome of the ceiling, spilling sunlight into the room. but the rest of it looks too much like a date — a spread of blankets and pillows as a makeshift table in the corner, steaming takeout containers propped nearby — no matter how fervently she insists to herself that it is not, in fact, meant to be a date.
if genya stumbles across them, she'll never hear the end of it. she blows out an anxious breath once more, fingers fiddling with a paintbrush, just in time for the doorbell to sound. when she cracks it open to eye nikolai on the other side, she doesn't appear as flustered as she feels — but there's a slight strawberry-pink glow to her cheeks, nevertheless, that only brightens with her smile upon greeting him. a curtain of silver spills over an eye as she tilts her head to regard him, messily cascading from the haphazard, partial updo she's pinned together with paintbrushes at the back of her head.
just the sight of him compels her to pick up a canvas. it would be a lie to claim she hasn't tried to sketch his portrait from memory, that her mind hasn't wandered until she's scribbling dark outlines of bounding foxes into the lines of her notebooks, but none of it has done him justice. she steps aside to allow him room to enter. ]
If you took any longer, I was going to eat your share and mine.
[ he's not late by any definition of the word, but — patience is hardly a virtue she possesses. especially when she's been looking forward to this. ]
[ if there's one thing he's most grateful to alina for, it's that his nights are bearable now. he's always attempted to find ways to keep himself occupied when sleeplessness grips him hardest, staying up late in his study to read or pace or talk himself through ideas he's revisited hundreds of times, and even when he's absorbed in projects for school or just for his own curiosity, there's nothing like having another person to talk to while he does it — and alina, oddly enough, seems to share this distinct sort of loneliness once darkness falls. he can't say he's entirely sorry that she does, especially not when her messages bring a smile to his face as often as they do.
the week passes and their texting history grows obscenely long, but he finds himself wanting to see her face more and more as each day goes by — an odd sensation that doesn't hit him often. he likes to be around people, easily starting conversations with strangers that go well into the night and sometimes delve into other activities that generally only happen once or twice once they realize what a handful nikolai can be and his staunch disinterest in any sort of meaningful label to a relationship. private is best, though he finds not many people agree with him there. but alina isn't just people. she isn't an idea. she's a very real girl with a sarcastic tongue that nikolai has grown quite fond of, and he's not sure yet if he should be concerned about this or not.
in any case, he shows up promptly at the agreed upon time, and bearing gifts — a mason jar full of handpicked winter wildflowers dotted with white and yellow and blue, a gesture he hopes comes across as just right instead of too much. ]
I would've left if I didn't immediately smell food.
[ the smile on his face is genuine, happy to see her — positively glowing — face and bowing slightly before he steps inside. he's wondered for exactly a week now how her home looks like on the inside, and when he spots the studio with the glass domed ceiling he realizes exactly why she chose a place with such a hellish driveway. the sunlight streaming in from the windows warms the room, and he slips off his wool coat and casts it onto a nearby chair, clasping his hands together. ]
This place is charming. [ he looks more the part of a privileged son today than he did during the early hours of the morning at the laundromat, dressed neatly in a pale blue shirt that he now cuffs the sleeves on, a gray sweater vest, and black jeans. his blond hair is pushed to one side, stray locks trailing down to brush his left brow. he reaches out and grasps her hand, beaming brightly. ] Tour! Please.
the week passes and their texting history grows obscenely long, but he finds himself wanting to see her face more and more as each day goes by — an odd sensation that doesn't hit him often. he likes to be around people, easily starting conversations with strangers that go well into the night and sometimes delve into other activities that generally only happen once or twice once they realize what a handful nikolai can be and his staunch disinterest in any sort of meaningful label to a relationship. private is best, though he finds not many people agree with him there. but alina isn't just people. she isn't an idea. she's a very real girl with a sarcastic tongue that nikolai has grown quite fond of, and he's not sure yet if he should be concerned about this or not.
in any case, he shows up promptly at the agreed upon time, and bearing gifts — a mason jar full of handpicked winter wildflowers dotted with white and yellow and blue, a gesture he hopes comes across as just right instead of too much. ]
I would've left if I didn't immediately smell food.
[ the smile on his face is genuine, happy to see her — positively glowing — face and bowing slightly before he steps inside. he's wondered for exactly a week now how her home looks like on the inside, and when he spots the studio with the glass domed ceiling he realizes exactly why she chose a place with such a hellish driveway. the sunlight streaming in from the windows warms the room, and he slips off his wool coat and casts it onto a nearby chair, clasping his hands together. ]
This place is charming. [ he looks more the part of a privileged son today than he did during the early hours of the morning at the laundromat, dressed neatly in a pale blue shirt that he now cuffs the sleeves on, a gray sweater vest, and black jeans. his blond hair is pushed to one side, stray locks trailing down to brush his left brow. he reaches out and grasps her hand, beaming brightly. ] Tour! Please.
only on weekdays, and only with people who deserve it.
like a happy accident. or zoya knows exactly what she's doing.
[ she's very nearly on the verge of a defensive what does that mean, until — oh. his mother. her skin manages to, miraculously, pale and warm all at once. ]
and you say you can't write poetry. that was a lie.
i wiped away all evidence of ink marks on my face before i sent that. it would have been more exciting if they were in other places.
then again, i make it a habit not to randomly send pictures of my tits to people when they're with their mother, so there's that.
i wouldn't want her to die from how low-brow that is.
[ holding a grudge against a woman she's never met for classist opinions? absolutely. ]
stop sounding so bourgeoise for two seconds or i'll throw you off of a yacht.
well, zoya has throwing things. you have imaginary rants that are going to erupt out of you like a volcano at some point.
what happened to scribbling on pictures? bring your brother's. i'll make it into a masterpiece.
Edited (i'm dying at how late i'm noticing my embarrassing brainfart typos) 2021-01-10 03:59 (UTC)
[ he covers his face with one hand both to stifle a laugh and to get the image of alina's tits out of his brain. not while his mother is still standing in the doorway, telling him to get his feet off the throw pillows. ]
thank you for thinking of my mother's stony heart.
that's the mark of a true friend.
what is your criteria for sending those types of pictures, may i ask?
for curiosity's sake.
it wouldn't accomplish much. i'm an excellent swimmer and a lover of all things nautical.
with zoya and i covered, it's only fair if you share your methods as well. and mal's, i suppose. i should collect some intel on that front, shouldn't i? for the sake of being an excellent friend.
i'm still interested in scribbling. i'll just take one of vasily's portraits off the wall. would you prefer a photograph or a painting? we have both. and yes, i'm aware of how bourgeoise that also sounds.
i'll find some way to make amends for who i am.
thank you for thinking of my mother's stony heart.
that's the mark of a true friend.
what is your criteria for sending those types of pictures, may i ask?
for curiosity's sake.
it wouldn't accomplish much. i'm an excellent swimmer and a lover of all things nautical.
with zoya and i covered, it's only fair if you share your methods as well. and mal's, i suppose. i should collect some intel on that front, shouldn't i? for the sake of being an excellent friend.
i'm still interested in scribbling. i'll just take one of vasily's portraits off the wall. would you prefer a photograph or a painting? we have both. and yes, i'm aware of how bourgeoise that also sounds.
i'll find some way to make amends for who i am.
( cont. )
every time you call one of my brilliant ideas astoundingly stupid it just serves to fuel me even more.
you happen to be wonderful motivation, nazyalensky.
besides, even my failures are glorious to behold. always onward and upward.
is zoya with you?
[ maybe. maybe not. it's likely she's already warned him that mal had stumbled across her, but if she hasn't, alina isn't keen to give away any secrets just yet. ]
i have something you're both going to want to hear, and i don't want to have to repeat it
[ maybe. maybe not. it's likely she's already warned him that mal had stumbled across her, but if she hasn't, alina isn't keen to give away any secrets just yet. ]
i have something you're both going to want to hear, and i don't want to have to repeat it
Edited (i forgot the subject line like i always do, that is my curse) 2021-02-07 04:22 (UTC)
[ strange. the question makes him pause momentarily from reading a dense legal document about his father's private facility. ]
am i zoya's keeper?
i believe she's out tonight. maybe even wearing that bodysuit you saved.
how are you, starlight? i'm sorry i've been somewhat absent lately.
i tend to have a bit of tunnel vision when i'm in the middle of a project.
must she be present? i can pass along the message in the morning.
is everything all right?
am i zoya's keeper?
i believe she's out tonight. maybe even wearing that bodysuit you saved.
how are you, starlight? i'm sorry i've been somewhat absent lately.
i tend to have a bit of tunnel vision when i'm in the middle of a project.
must she be present? i can pass along the message in the morning.
is everything all right?
( cont. )
if anyone asks, i gave you that one on purpose.
have some brandy. brandy helps with the headaches.
mal and i agree on one thing, and that's your safety.
i think he's quite relieved you're getting away from my sharp teeth.
frankly, so am i, despite how much i'll miss watching the enlargement of your head.
and that one doesn't apply to us.
i, for one, have an extra entity that's also obsessed with you, so it's quite literally impossible for you to be out of mind.
absolutely not. i won my bragging rights, and i intend to use them at every opportunity.
did i win them fairly? no, but you shouldn't engage in fair fights with a pirate king.
that's your answer to everything. king nikolai the drunkard doesn't have the right ring to it.
nikolai. i can name at least ten reasons why i'm more of a danger than you.
i don't like leaving you behind when you're suffering, but i know i would be powerless to fix it if i stayed.
we should also consider the possibility that it's relieved that i've vanished.
did i win them fairly? no, but you shouldn't engage in fair fights with a pirate king.
that's your answer to everything. king nikolai the drunkard doesn't have the right ring to it.
nikolai. i can name at least ten reasons why i'm more of a danger than you.
i don't like leaving you behind when you're suffering, but i know i would be powerless to fix it if i stayed.
we should also consider the possibility that it's relieved that i've vanished.
[ the lantsovs are every bit the walking chaos she had expected, despite his mother's attempts to uphold the illusion of a picture-perfect family portrait. only a handful of days at sea, and the sun has already illuminated its cracks and crevices, its chipping corners worn away by criticism and barbs they've wrapped in layers of civil conversation. most nights, every family meal ends in tension so thick that it wouldn't be so shocking if it capsized them all — but alina is beginning to believe it would be a blessing in disguise.
surviving shark-infested waters seems less deadly than his mother's penchant for scenting blood in the water, with her tight smiles that rarely reach those sharp eyes. alina immediately knows what those disappointed, maternal stares are saying from across the table: you'll never have my approval. but today, at the very least, she's forgotten her to radiate displeasure — but alina can't claim it's any better to be on the receiving end of her preening about the original boticelli in her cabin.
asking about it at all is another mistake to add to alina starkov's unending list of blunders, now that his mother has temporarily decided her interest in fine art makes them best friends. it's with a fumbling excuse she slips out of that cabin and into the afternoon air, the heat of the sun casting a glare across the deck, as she darts by vasily and his second slimy offer to help with her sunscreen, like a spoiled child that simply wants to steal what he thinks of as his brother's toys.
it's a wonder how he managed to get even one girl to agree to this vacation. alina wrinkles her nose, bounding down to the lower deck without inviting another lantsov-shaped headache, and flops down on the first lounge chair she can find in the shade. nikolai will undoubtedly come looking for her eventually, in search of his suspiciously missing phone — stashed away, without care for any secrecy, in the cups of her bikini beneath the gauzy-blue fabric of a beach cover-up — but it would be a lie to claim she wasn't planning for him to track her down.
the sheer obviousness of that strategy betrays the facade of casual innocence when she does spot a glimmer of gold hair in her peripherals, barely glancing up from scrolling through her work inbox. if nikolai can't separate himself from his own, it feels only fair to keep an eye on her own efforts, refreshing as it is to have just a taste of full freedom from aleksander. ]
If you leave me alone with them one more time, I'm going to throw your phone into the ocean. [ as if in deep thought, her lips purse. ] Or myself. I haven't decided yet.
surviving shark-infested waters seems less deadly than his mother's penchant for scenting blood in the water, with her tight smiles that rarely reach those sharp eyes. alina immediately knows what those disappointed, maternal stares are saying from across the table: you'll never have my approval. but today, at the very least, she's forgotten her to radiate displeasure — but alina can't claim it's any better to be on the receiving end of her preening about the original boticelli in her cabin.
asking about it at all is another mistake to add to alina starkov's unending list of blunders, now that his mother has temporarily decided her interest in fine art makes them best friends. it's with a fumbling excuse she slips out of that cabin and into the afternoon air, the heat of the sun casting a glare across the deck, as she darts by vasily and his second slimy offer to help with her sunscreen, like a spoiled child that simply wants to steal what he thinks of as his brother's toys.
it's a wonder how he managed to get even one girl to agree to this vacation. alina wrinkles her nose, bounding down to the lower deck without inviting another lantsov-shaped headache, and flops down on the first lounge chair she can find in the shade. nikolai will undoubtedly come looking for her eventually, in search of his suspiciously missing phone — stashed away, without care for any secrecy, in the cups of her bikini beneath the gauzy-blue fabric of a beach cover-up — but it would be a lie to claim she wasn't planning for him to track her down.
the sheer obviousness of that strategy betrays the facade of casual innocence when she does spot a glimmer of gold hair in her peripherals, barely glancing up from scrolling through her work inbox. if nikolai can't separate himself from his own, it feels only fair to keep an eye on her own efforts, refreshing as it is to have just a taste of full freedom from aleksander. ]
If you leave me alone with them one more time, I'm going to throw your phone into the ocean. [ as if in deep thought, her lips purse. ] Or myself. I haven't decided yet.
[ he knew this was a mistake from the moment alina arrived looking pretty as a picture in overalls that nearly gave his mother an aneurysm. he should've taken the yacht himself and invited zoya and mal to join them — that would have been a different sort of disaster, but a preferable one to this. vasily is on his worst behavior. he doesn't think his father has stopped drinking in three days. and his mother — saints, his mother. she requires someone's attention at every moment, and the brunt of that has fallen onto nikolai's shoulders as the good son, and, by extension, alina's as well.
it will be a miracle if their relationship lasts the weekend. this is the same sort of hellish behavior dominik had been subjected to, and when dominik had asked why he even continued fraternizing with his family, nikolai had no answer except that they were his. which, in hindsight, was not a satisfactory answer to his then-boyfriend.
he's wondering two things as he searches the ship — where his phone could've possibly gone, and when alina will ask that they never see his family again. he pops his head into his mother's cabin where she's draped across the sofa with a mimosa clutched precariously in one perfectly manicured hand, and she at least has the grace to point him in the correct direction. the lower deck is empty except for one alina-shaped figure that he approaches with equal parts enthusiasm and trepidation. ]
So you've seen my phone. [ he comes up behind her chair, his hands resting warmly on her shoulders as he leans down to press an upside-down peck to her lips. he's dressed like he stepped out of a seaside vacation brochure — white shorts, a crisp blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his golden hair uncombed after a swim but still somehow tousled flawlessly enough to be the perfect advertisement for privileged yacht-lovers everywhere.
his eyes wander lower to spot his missing phone tucked into her bikini, and he keeps his hands still, knowing that snatching it back might not go over so well. ] Look at what the sun has done to you. You look positively radiant. What did my phone ever do to you?
it will be a miracle if their relationship lasts the weekend. this is the same sort of hellish behavior dominik had been subjected to, and when dominik had asked why he even continued fraternizing with his family, nikolai had no answer except that they were his. which, in hindsight, was not a satisfactory answer to his then-boyfriend.
he's wondering two things as he searches the ship — where his phone could've possibly gone, and when alina will ask that they never see his family again. he pops his head into his mother's cabin where she's draped across the sofa with a mimosa clutched precariously in one perfectly manicured hand, and she at least has the grace to point him in the correct direction. the lower deck is empty except for one alina-shaped figure that he approaches with equal parts enthusiasm and trepidation. ]
So you've seen my phone. [ he comes up behind her chair, his hands resting warmly on her shoulders as he leans down to press an upside-down peck to her lips. he's dressed like he stepped out of a seaside vacation brochure — white shorts, a crisp blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his golden hair uncombed after a swim but still somehow tousled flawlessly enough to be the perfect advertisement for privileged yacht-lovers everywhere.
his eyes wander lower to spot his missing phone tucked into her bikini, and he keeps his hands still, knowing that snatching it back might not go over so well. ] Look at what the sun has done to you. You look positively radiant. What did my phone ever do to you?
( cont. )
it's absurd is what it is. that somehow you shouldn't wear certain things because they're too pretty or too expensive. what does it mean? that you're not pretty? that a piece of fabric is too good for you? shall we go to the party in potato sacks, then?
i understand if you feel as though i'm spending too much on you. if it makes you uncomfortable, i'll stop. but this idea that you're somehow not deserving of certain things because you're an orphan is the height of absurdity.
more than that, it breaks my heart to see you think so little of yourself. if i must make this all about me to get my point across, i will.
you are beautiful, alina. and you deserve beautiful things. any beautiful thing you want.
if you don't like this particular beautiful thing, then we'll find something else. but don't turn it down just because you think you don't deserve to have it.
it means i'm not anyone important, nikolai. that's all.
these stupid parties always make me feel like i'm pretending to be something i'm not.
[ and i'm not sure i want to be anyone important, anymore. but it's an impossible dream, now that she's come up with her brilliantly stupid plan of thrusting herself and the burden of her past into the light. it's childish, maybe, to focus on the one sentence in his speech that doesn't make her skin feel uncomfortably tight around her bones in her inability to find the words to appreciate or respond to them well — but: ]
you should have mentioned potato sacks were an option from the start.
can i cast in my vote for that option?
these stupid parties always make me feel like i'm pretending to be something i'm not.
[ and i'm not sure i want to be anyone important, anymore. but it's an impossible dream, now that she's come up with her brilliantly stupid plan of thrusting herself and the burden of her past into the light. it's childish, maybe, to focus on the one sentence in his speech that doesn't make her skin feel uncomfortably tight around her bones in her inability to find the words to appreciate or respond to them well — but: ]
you should have mentioned potato sacks were an option from the start.
can i cast in my vote for that option?
( cont. )
[ immediate concern springs up. there's no telling what he might've said whilst drunk and still struggling with how to grieve for a family that he never quite fit into — and to alina of all people, the girl he likes a bit too much, the girl he's still foolishly hoping might take him up on his proposal to be queen. the only person he has standing beside him right now. ]
i didn't promise you an island paradise complete with a herd of magical white ponies, did i?
that one might take me a bit of time to pull off.
[ he's always making references to his tragic lack of a queen all the time, but there's always a little bit of comfortable distance when he's sober. like they convince themselves it's a simple problem to be solved or a joke among friends. even his attempts at courting her seemed as much for anyone watching as them.
but it's difficult to package something as utilitarian or totally political when it's just them. just him in a vulnerable moment, clumsily brushing hair out of her face or reaching to thread their hands together as she helped him into bed.
but then it was buried in between some other nonsense so. she supposes it doesn't really matter. ]
i think they were flying and you didn't specify the color.
you also were very insistent that i get you some paper to sketch your idea for a horseless carriage.
but it's difficult to package something as utilitarian or totally political when it's just them. just him in a vulnerable moment, clumsily brushing hair out of her face or reaching to thread their hands together as she helped him into bed.
but then it was buried in between some other nonsense so. she supposes it doesn't really matter. ]
i think they were flying and you didn't specify the color.
you also were very insistent that i get you some paper to sketch your idea for a horseless carriage.
[ he considers not going to aleksander's party at all, but ambition wins out in the end.
the halo crown sits on his dresser while he gets ready, an uncomfortable reminder of the current state of his relationship. he hasn't made amends, and alina has responded with her silence, a prickly thing that he knows she knows will bother him more than petty insults or continued arguments. the dress was delivered to her house a day ago, but he's skeptical that she'll wear it. for all he knows she could show up in overalls just like she had on the yacht — and he'd still find her every bit as enchanting as always, but that's neither here nor there.
tonight is no longer about them, or so he keeps reminding himself even as he dons his suit in the rich, inky color of the night sky. these sorts of functions are nothing new to him, and yet the pull in his chest gets progressively tighter as the evening wears on, the weight of the emptiness beside him as pronounced as it used to be when he would turn and somehow forget that dominik wasn't there. he keeps a persistent eye on his phone while hoping to glimpse alina's name, but the chasm between them remains unfilled and widening with every passing moment.
it's intentionally late when he shows up to breeze through the crowd, armed with an easy smile and a glass of champagne. he spies zoya first, looking ravishing in a deep blue gown with an even deeper slit, and aleksander second, his gray eyes cutting across the room as if searching for someone. the odd tightness only worsens, his mood sour despite his expression remaining pleasant. is he looking for alina? nikolai feels an uncharacteristic pang of doubt, watching zoya take his arm and whisper something in his ear. aleksander's attention returns to her, and nikolai uses the moment to slip away, casually draining his glass and casting a flirty wink to the pair of girls giggling as he passes them on his way to the stairs.
the top floors are silent, his light footfalls the only sound as he picks his way to aleksander's pristine office, slipping on a pair of gloves before he quickly picks the lock and lets himself inside. his phone buzzes with a text from zoya, a tiny fox emoji that tells him he has time to snoop while she keeps aleksander preoccupied. kneeling by a gray filing cabinet, he begins leafing through folders of pages, skimming them quickly as he searches for any mention of his father's facility.
three minutes later he sends alina a text — a picture of a file with a. starkov written across the tab. ]
i didn't open it.
come upstairs if you want a look.
the halo crown sits on his dresser while he gets ready, an uncomfortable reminder of the current state of his relationship. he hasn't made amends, and alina has responded with her silence, a prickly thing that he knows she knows will bother him more than petty insults or continued arguments. the dress was delivered to her house a day ago, but he's skeptical that she'll wear it. for all he knows she could show up in overalls just like she had on the yacht — and he'd still find her every bit as enchanting as always, but that's neither here nor there.
tonight is no longer about them, or so he keeps reminding himself even as he dons his suit in the rich, inky color of the night sky. these sorts of functions are nothing new to him, and yet the pull in his chest gets progressively tighter as the evening wears on, the weight of the emptiness beside him as pronounced as it used to be when he would turn and somehow forget that dominik wasn't there. he keeps a persistent eye on his phone while hoping to glimpse alina's name, but the chasm between them remains unfilled and widening with every passing moment.
it's intentionally late when he shows up to breeze through the crowd, armed with an easy smile and a glass of champagne. he spies zoya first, looking ravishing in a deep blue gown with an even deeper slit, and aleksander second, his gray eyes cutting across the room as if searching for someone. the odd tightness only worsens, his mood sour despite his expression remaining pleasant. is he looking for alina? nikolai feels an uncharacteristic pang of doubt, watching zoya take his arm and whisper something in his ear. aleksander's attention returns to her, and nikolai uses the moment to slip away, casually draining his glass and casting a flirty wink to the pair of girls giggling as he passes them on his way to the stairs.
the top floors are silent, his light footfalls the only sound as he picks his way to aleksander's pristine office, slipping on a pair of gloves before he quickly picks the lock and lets himself inside. his phone buzzes with a text from zoya, a tiny fox emoji that tells him he has time to snoop while she keeps aleksander preoccupied. kneeling by a gray filing cabinet, he begins leafing through folders of pages, skimming them quickly as he searches for any mention of his father's facility.
three minutes later he sends alina a text — a picture of a file with a. starkov written across the tab. ]
i didn't open it.
come upstairs if you want a look.
[ the masterpiece aleksander calls home is an exquisite thing, inlaid with marble and swathed in dark drapery haunting each of its hallways, but it's never felt like such a lovely cage until tonight. maybe it's the greedy hands that pull her in every direction, eager to hold sway over someone who has aleksander's ear; maybe it's the steel gaze that follows her from person to person, room to room, like a captor ensuring she won't stray far from his reach. or maybe it's just the row of mirrors that mock her with her reflection, the shine of her dress glinting, as though mock that little flame of hope she's kept alive tonight by wearing it at all.
the same flame that dies a little more with every hour that ticks by without any sign of nikolai, and finally extinguishes itself the instant nikolai's text flickers to life on her screen. it's not unfamiliar — that sudden emptiness in her chest that leaves her feeling a little more like that stupid girl from her past, chasing after any scrap of attention that had made her feel worth something, made her feel destined for more than the walls of an orphanage, only to find that there was nothing that could ever fill it.
she occupies it with the heat of her anger, instead, to keep herself from facing that cold, stinging disappointment. if baghra makes note of the flint in her eyes, she doesn't mention it — only remarks on alina's poor behavior when she excuses herself in the middle of a hanging, unfinished sentence before aleksander's mother can bleat out any other reprimands. addressing her plans for the foster home aleksander had bought out from beneath ana kuya's nose, another piece of alina starkov he's purchased for himself, can wait. yet another problem for yet another day.
in her hurry, she has to clutch at the skirt of her gown to scamper past where zoya abruptly tucks herself into aleksander to obscure alina from view. the edge of her smile is tense, but not without its gratitude as she walks the memorable path to aleksander's office, ignoring the dread that seems to settle in her stomach whenever she drifts too close to its doors. they click gently shut behind her when she slinks in, quiet when the pounding in her veins feels anything but.
notably, she doesn't step any closer. he might have beckoned her here with what feels like a bargaining chip more than any attempt to make amends, but she doesn't have to be a willing participant in speaking to him. if it's business he's after, business is all he'll have from her. but even the shadows of the office's entrance can't hide how she's dripping in gold, a choker too extravagant to be suited to alina's tastes wrapped around the base of her throat.
a collar by any other name is still a collar. a symbol of ownership. it makes her skin crawl to appease aleksander, to watch his eyes sweep over it possessively — but nikolai isn't the only one who can't simply walk away and leave this behind. ]
I should've known you wouldn't be able to resist. [ not her — that, she finds, he can resist too easily. it's the call of his own ambition he can't ignore. the lure of the game he's entombed himself in, uncaring that it's the very sword that's wedged its way between them. it only reaffirms her paranoia, her shattered trust in him, sharpened at him like an accusation; he never would have come solely for her, never would have been able to resist using her to sneak his way into aleksander's home. ] Give it to me.
[ it's too harsh to be a request. she steps forward, holding a hand out expectantly. ]
the same flame that dies a little more with every hour that ticks by without any sign of nikolai, and finally extinguishes itself the instant nikolai's text flickers to life on her screen. it's not unfamiliar — that sudden emptiness in her chest that leaves her feeling a little more like that stupid girl from her past, chasing after any scrap of attention that had made her feel worth something, made her feel destined for more than the walls of an orphanage, only to find that there was nothing that could ever fill it.
she occupies it with the heat of her anger, instead, to keep herself from facing that cold, stinging disappointment. if baghra makes note of the flint in her eyes, she doesn't mention it — only remarks on alina's poor behavior when she excuses herself in the middle of a hanging, unfinished sentence before aleksander's mother can bleat out any other reprimands. addressing her plans for the foster home aleksander had bought out from beneath ana kuya's nose, another piece of alina starkov he's purchased for himself, can wait. yet another problem for yet another day.
in her hurry, she has to clutch at the skirt of her gown to scamper past where zoya abruptly tucks herself into aleksander to obscure alina from view. the edge of her smile is tense, but not without its gratitude as she walks the memorable path to aleksander's office, ignoring the dread that seems to settle in her stomach whenever she drifts too close to its doors. they click gently shut behind her when she slinks in, quiet when the pounding in her veins feels anything but.
notably, she doesn't step any closer. he might have beckoned her here with what feels like a bargaining chip more than any attempt to make amends, but she doesn't have to be a willing participant in speaking to him. if it's business he's after, business is all he'll have from her. but even the shadows of the office's entrance can't hide how she's dripping in gold, a choker too extravagant to be suited to alina's tastes wrapped around the base of her throat.
a collar by any other name is still a collar. a symbol of ownership. it makes her skin crawl to appease aleksander, to watch his eyes sweep over it possessively — but nikolai isn't the only one who can't simply walk away and leave this behind. ]
I should've known you wouldn't be able to resist. [ not her — that, she finds, he can resist too easily. it's the call of his own ambition he can't ignore. the lure of the game he's entombed himself in, uncaring that it's the very sword that's wedged its way between them. it only reaffirms her paranoia, her shattered trust in him, sharpened at him like an accusation; he never would have come solely for her, never would have been able to resist using her to sneak his way into aleksander's home. ] Give it to me.
[ it's too harsh to be a request. she steps forward, holding a hand out expectantly. ]
[ the one benefit in smashing her life to pieces is how little time it leaves for grief — too preoccupied with picking up the splinters and rearranging its shape into something better. a present she can bear to look at. a future that isn't decorated with exquisite collars and golden chains.
despite it, nikolai's absence aches like a hole carved into her chest, hollow and oozing — that one missing shard she hasn't found a way to repair, its edges pricking her whenever she scrolls through the countless posts her feud with aleksander has stirred into a frenzy. together, she and nikolai had promised, but it's baghra's sour glare at her side in nearly every photograph splashed across the page of those rabid, frothing tabloids. baghra's name attached to her own in every article that comes forward to share alina starkov's story. baghra's connection to aleksander that lends credible weight to the allegations littered throughout, baghra's money that has kept him from wiping them from existence in the press, baghra's presence that makes it impossible to sweep every accusation out of view and back into aleksander's closet of skeletons.
skimming through public reactions is an exercise in self-torment. the unflattering angles are expected — feud between bitter exes over morozova corporation ownership: simple lover's spat or something more? — but the endearments are worse. sankta alina. sol koroleva. it's a gamble between which outlets intend it as praise, and those that have twisted her motives into ugly materialism and mocked her with it, but — at least nikolai can't ever punish himself for inviting the circus into her private bubble when she's welcomed them herself, can't look at her and see only dominik's spirit hovering above her when her reputation is of her own making now.
she tries to take what small comfort she can in that, and in the break mal's forced upon her, seizing her phone the moment it had buzzed with its newest notifications to prevent her morbid curiosity from committing the worst atrocity: skimming through the latest whispers and rumors splashed across her screen while tucked away in the corner of nikolai's home. it doesn't fend off the squinting stares that try to place her identity in the crowd of party-goers, though they aren't so different from her own raking through the mass of writhing bodies in her futile effort to find nikolai among them.
stumbling across his study is mostly luck, if not instinct — the natural path her feet have always taken whenever he's vanished from her sight, knowing the door would swing open to reveal him inside and hunched over a new project. the room she's always disappeared into herself, sketchbook in hand, to curl up on the couch and find her peaceful haven in the scrape of charcoal across a page.
she has to blink once, twice, to assure herself he isn't a memory produced by a desperate mind. her steps are quiet as she slips inside, the door softly clicking closed behind her, as she kicks the flats off of her feet. ]
Hi. [ gently spoken, like she doesn't want to disturb the peace of this room or his nimble fingers pinning string across a board. more than anything, it's an awkward greeting — winded and struck dumb, grasping for the right words. in his absence, she had forgotten how handsome he was, struck by it again — as if it's only her first time seeing him in the flesh. she takes another stride forward, shifting her weight from foot to foot, still lingering uneasily near the door. just in case he does decide to toss her out. ] I hear it's bad etiquette for hosts not to join their own parties.
[ she could wince with how stupid it sounds, fumbling and overly casual. feeling woefully underprepared for this, she fiddles nervously with the edge of her sleeve — his, in actuality, as she drowns in the navy suit jacket she'd repurposed over black tights and a short slip dress beneath. ]
I've been looking for you. [ there. that's more painfully honest. ] Can I come in, or am I going to ruin your late night arts and crafts project?
despite it, nikolai's absence aches like a hole carved into her chest, hollow and oozing — that one missing shard she hasn't found a way to repair, its edges pricking her whenever she scrolls through the countless posts her feud with aleksander has stirred into a frenzy. together, she and nikolai had promised, but it's baghra's sour glare at her side in nearly every photograph splashed across the page of those rabid, frothing tabloids. baghra's name attached to her own in every article that comes forward to share alina starkov's story. baghra's connection to aleksander that lends credible weight to the allegations littered throughout, baghra's money that has kept him from wiping them from existence in the press, baghra's presence that makes it impossible to sweep every accusation out of view and back into aleksander's closet of skeletons.
skimming through public reactions is an exercise in self-torment. the unflattering angles are expected — feud between bitter exes over morozova corporation ownership: simple lover's spat or something more? — but the endearments are worse. sankta alina. sol koroleva. it's a gamble between which outlets intend it as praise, and those that have twisted her motives into ugly materialism and mocked her with it, but — at least nikolai can't ever punish himself for inviting the circus into her private bubble when she's welcomed them herself, can't look at her and see only dominik's spirit hovering above her when her reputation is of her own making now.
she tries to take what small comfort she can in that, and in the break mal's forced upon her, seizing her phone the moment it had buzzed with its newest notifications to prevent her morbid curiosity from committing the worst atrocity: skimming through the latest whispers and rumors splashed across her screen while tucked away in the corner of nikolai's home. it doesn't fend off the squinting stares that try to place her identity in the crowd of party-goers, though they aren't so different from her own raking through the mass of writhing bodies in her futile effort to find nikolai among them.
stumbling across his study is mostly luck, if not instinct — the natural path her feet have always taken whenever he's vanished from her sight, knowing the door would swing open to reveal him inside and hunched over a new project. the room she's always disappeared into herself, sketchbook in hand, to curl up on the couch and find her peaceful haven in the scrape of charcoal across a page.
she has to blink once, twice, to assure herself he isn't a memory produced by a desperate mind. her steps are quiet as she slips inside, the door softly clicking closed behind her, as she kicks the flats off of her feet. ]
Hi. [ gently spoken, like she doesn't want to disturb the peace of this room or his nimble fingers pinning string across a board. more than anything, it's an awkward greeting — winded and struck dumb, grasping for the right words. in his absence, she had forgotten how handsome he was, struck by it again — as if it's only her first time seeing him in the flesh. she takes another stride forward, shifting her weight from foot to foot, still lingering uneasily near the door. just in case he does decide to toss her out. ] I hear it's bad etiquette for hosts not to join their own parties.
[ she could wince with how stupid it sounds, fumbling and overly casual. feeling woefully underprepared for this, she fiddles nervously with the edge of her sleeve — his, in actuality, as she drowns in the navy suit jacket she'd repurposed over black tights and a short slip dress beneath. ]
I've been looking for you. [ there. that's more painfully honest. ] Can I come in, or am I going to ruin your late night arts and crafts project?
[ time shifts to an odd pace when she's gone, minutes stopping and starting with seemingly no discernible pattern. he doesn't know if he sleeps for hours or seconds, if he loses half a day or mere minutes to identifying every piece of inventory in his father's private facilities. his home feels empty without alina, all those little spaces he would find her tucked away in now abandoned and desolate, and when he can no longer take the sight of those hollow vacancies, he finds himself at dominik's grave in the middle of the night asking a headstone if he hates him, too. the urge to cry is unbearable, and yet his tears don't come, leaving him restless and brimming over with a pain that has nowhere to go.
he throws himself into work and yet he manages to send that sideways as well, a night of conversation with zoya ending in a quarrel by breakfast, his phone and a bottle of prosecco smashed to bits on the floor of his veranda. instead of cleaning it up, he uses his tablet to organize a friday-night party that he promptly forgets about until guests begin to arrive. even with the house packed with cheery bodies, it does little to fill the spaces he keeps looking towards, and eventually he exits altogether to focus on a physical representation of the jumble of thoughts in his head.
alina's quiet greeting startles him, at first thinking that his brain is finally turning on him to make him hallucinate the things he wants most, but she doesn't shimmer away the longer he looks at her, only becoming more clear as he takes in the little details he's missed — his coat around her narrow shoulders, her hair falling like strands of moonlight along her throat, her eyes devoid of the anger he's expecting for not speaking to her in days, for not telling her about this party, for not being present even when he hardly feels welcome or wanted. ]
Alina. [ it takes him a few moments to think beyond her name, and more moments after that to move, picking up the bottle of wine he was steadily demolishing on his own and snagging a fresh glass from the bar cart to pour and offer her a drink. ] You know I'm fond of bad etiquette. Here. This tastes much better than what's out there.
[ he tries not to think about the brush of her fingers — cold, and he could warm them in his own but shouldn't, so he pulls a hand through his hair instead, his blond locks uncombed and falling freely across his forehead. he swallows, setting the bottle down and taking a fortifying breath before he puts on a weary smile, somewhat dimmed but surprisingly genuine. ]
You're not ruining anything. I'm sorry I haven't reached out. [ he doesn't explain the crowded board but suspects it needs none anyway. ] I've been a bit disconnected lately. Zoya and I — well — we had an argument of which my phone was the main casualty. I haven't had it replaced. Honestly, I haven't spoken to anyone in days but — it's good to see you. Truly.
[ he pauses, pursing his lips as he listens to the muted strains of music beyond the secure walls of his study. his eyes flicker to hers, and then he crosses the distance once more to slip a hand into the pocket of his jacket, his smile growing sheepish when he pulls out his car keys. ]
I was hoping you'd bring these. Grand theft auto is painfully complicated.
he throws himself into work and yet he manages to send that sideways as well, a night of conversation with zoya ending in a quarrel by breakfast, his phone and a bottle of prosecco smashed to bits on the floor of his veranda. instead of cleaning it up, he uses his tablet to organize a friday-night party that he promptly forgets about until guests begin to arrive. even with the house packed with cheery bodies, it does little to fill the spaces he keeps looking towards, and eventually he exits altogether to focus on a physical representation of the jumble of thoughts in his head.
alina's quiet greeting startles him, at first thinking that his brain is finally turning on him to make him hallucinate the things he wants most, but she doesn't shimmer away the longer he looks at her, only becoming more clear as he takes in the little details he's missed — his coat around her narrow shoulders, her hair falling like strands of moonlight along her throat, her eyes devoid of the anger he's expecting for not speaking to her in days, for not telling her about this party, for not being present even when he hardly feels welcome or wanted. ]
Alina. [ it takes him a few moments to think beyond her name, and more moments after that to move, picking up the bottle of wine he was steadily demolishing on his own and snagging a fresh glass from the bar cart to pour and offer her a drink. ] You know I'm fond of bad etiquette. Here. This tastes much better than what's out there.
[ he tries not to think about the brush of her fingers — cold, and he could warm them in his own but shouldn't, so he pulls a hand through his hair instead, his blond locks uncombed and falling freely across his forehead. he swallows, setting the bottle down and taking a fortifying breath before he puts on a weary smile, somewhat dimmed but surprisingly genuine. ]
You're not ruining anything. I'm sorry I haven't reached out. [ he doesn't explain the crowded board but suspects it needs none anyway. ] I've been a bit disconnected lately. Zoya and I — well — we had an argument of which my phone was the main casualty. I haven't had it replaced. Honestly, I haven't spoken to anyone in days but — it's good to see you. Truly.
[ he pauses, pursing his lips as he listens to the muted strains of music beyond the secure walls of his study. his eyes flicker to hers, and then he crosses the distance once more to slip a hand into the pocket of his jacket, his smile growing sheepish when he pulls out his car keys. ]
I was hoping you'd bring these. Grand theft auto is painfully complicated.
( cont. )
he's pretending not to like me? i somehow find that even more disturbing.
we don't have to talk about it. it's in the past.
or not far enough in the past. one of the two.
he does have a point. i'm glad to hear it.
will you tell me if anything out of the ordinary happens?
anything aleksander-adjacent?
i'm worried for you. if you weren't already staying with mal, i would ask you to stay with me.
it's not like he's going to skin you and wear you. as far as i know, he doesn't have a nikolai lantsov shrine.
how badly you don't want to talk about it is part of the problem. i keep trying to tell you that.
but fine. i can't force you to talk to me or listen to anything i have to say.
don't admit he has a point. that's somehow even more disturbing, too.
what are you going to do if something out of the ordinary does happen? i don't want you to feel guilty.
[ the rest brings her to a stop, a pause of three dots appearing and disappearing. it could be charity, or just an empty offer to make himself feel better. i would ask you to stay with me. but if it isn't — ]
would you really? ask me to stay with you.
i didn't think my boyfriend would want me to stay with him when he isn't happy with me or himself right now.
how badly you don't want to talk about it is part of the problem. i keep trying to tell you that.
but fine. i can't force you to talk to me or listen to anything i have to say.
don't admit he has a point. that's somehow even more disturbing, too.
what are you going to do if something out of the ordinary does happen? i don't want you to feel guilty.
[ the rest brings her to a stop, a pause of three dots appearing and disappearing. it could be charity, or just an empty offer to make himself feel better. i would ask you to stay with me. but if it isn't — ]
would you really? ask me to stay with you.
i didn't think my boyfriend would want me to stay with him when he isn't happy with me or himself right now.
[ they do find mal, as he promised. they find his body, a sight nikolai was not prepared to see, and alina even less so. it's been three days since they returned to the wreckage, three days since they sifted through frozen limbs and debris, three days since nikolai realized his inability to shed a single tear for any of them. it tears through him on the inside, his body a cage of horrors he will never be able to scrub from memory, and yet on the outside, there is only numbness. his jaw feels tight. a persistent ache plagues the space behind his eyes. even while pulling his mother's body from the wreckage he tried to reason with himself to take the time break down, to allow a release of some of this spiraling pain, and still alina's sobs were the only ones heard that day. nikolai feels as though he will choke on this grief, and yet there is nowhere for it to go.
there is much to do when they finally make their way to os alta — a royal funeral to plan, though he would prefer something quieter, something without fanfare and most of all without guests. but there is still the crown to think of, still absurd things to take into account like image and relations and traditions. he gets swept up in it, and he doesn't remember the last time he was not weary.
mal's body has been kept intact while alina makes a decision on what to do with him. he's offered her a quiet, picaresque space on the sprawling palace grounds should she decide to bury him, or a pyre should she want to burn him and preserve his ashes. he's left her mostly alone since they've been back, not entirely by choice — he's barely had a moment to himself — but guilt still weighs on him when he finally does approach her close to dusk, finding her outside the little palace.
he's still dressed in uniform. the guests have gone, though the ceremony is still fresh in his mind. his entire body is gripped by a strange disquiet after having stood still for hours, shaking hands, accepting condolences, staring at the bodies of his family while people spun stories of them that nikolai knew were untrue. his own speech was carefully crafted in the late hours of the night before, both diplomatic and poignant, and he delivered it with a passion he did not feel. though he felt it would project the right image if alina was by his side during the event, he did not ask her to attend any of it. ]
I'm sorry I haven't seen you. [ he leads with that, touching a gentle hand to her arm, his first words spoken with any semblance of sincerity all day. he pauses awkwardly after that in an uncharacteristic falter, his next words quiet and careful. ] Have you thought of what you want to do with Mal? If there's somewhere you want to take him, we'll make the trip. It doesn't have to be here.
[ because this is not her home. he pauses again, wondering if she's eaten, if she's slept. he's done neither after spewing his coffee back up behind a well-placed bush this morning. ]
there is much to do when they finally make their way to os alta — a royal funeral to plan, though he would prefer something quieter, something without fanfare and most of all without guests. but there is still the crown to think of, still absurd things to take into account like image and relations and traditions. he gets swept up in it, and he doesn't remember the last time he was not weary.
mal's body has been kept intact while alina makes a decision on what to do with him. he's offered her a quiet, picaresque space on the sprawling palace grounds should she decide to bury him, or a pyre should she want to burn him and preserve his ashes. he's left her mostly alone since they've been back, not entirely by choice — he's barely had a moment to himself — but guilt still weighs on him when he finally does approach her close to dusk, finding her outside the little palace.
he's still dressed in uniform. the guests have gone, though the ceremony is still fresh in his mind. his entire body is gripped by a strange disquiet after having stood still for hours, shaking hands, accepting condolences, staring at the bodies of his family while people spun stories of them that nikolai knew were untrue. his own speech was carefully crafted in the late hours of the night before, both diplomatic and poignant, and he delivered it with a passion he did not feel. though he felt it would project the right image if alina was by his side during the event, he did not ask her to attend any of it. ]
I'm sorry I haven't seen you. [ he leads with that, touching a gentle hand to her arm, his first words spoken with any semblance of sincerity all day. he pauses awkwardly after that in an uncharacteristic falter, his next words quiet and careful. ] Have you thought of what you want to do with Mal? If there's somewhere you want to take him, we'll make the trip. It doesn't have to be here.
[ because this is not her home. he pauses again, wondering if she's eaten, if she's slept. he's done neither after spewing his coffee back up behind a well-placed bush this morning. ]
Edited (words) 2021-05-06 00:13 (UTC)
[ days pass in a daze. nikolai had never known her before had begun to shine brightly as the sun summoner, but the light in her has dulled into to a past version of herself. she had not cried in front of him since that initial discovery, some old rule about surviving the most difficult moments as a child surfacing to protect her like armor.
alina sits looking impossibly small from her perch on the over-sized sofa. she is thin and weak and pale. her fingers are curled into a blanket draped over her shoulders, but it does little to warm her. meals had been sent but uneaten, feeling like ash in her mouth.
she should have attended the royal funeral. she shouldn't have sent nikolai out to face them alone. she had started to dress, but apparently she had never even made it past a white slip and stays. the thought of wearing black made her want to vomit, but gold was too much. she couldn't stand the idea of so many eyes on her after she had failed to protect even nikolai's family and mal safe. if she cannot do it for them, how could she ever do it for ravka?
half of her is lost. more than that. it feels impossible to be whole ever again.
she can't quite meet his eyes, and at his question she stifles a shuddering, shallow breath. it's as if the weight of her sorrow was a literal stone on her chest restricting her breath. have you thought about what you want to do with Mal? like his a thing rather than a person. she wishes she could ignore it, pretend that their units were simply split up and that they might meet back at kribirsk again in a few weeks.
no more running, though. she had promised that. she swallows heavily, her voice hoarse, having not used it all day. maybe in days. ]
Keramzin.
[ it's stupid, but it's all she can think of. of course mal was the only thing that made it ever close to a home. true north, he had explained to her once. he was her true north. she is spinning, disoriented without him. but it feels right to lay him to rest there, in the place where they had hidden from the ugly realities of the orphanage and dreamed of lives they would never have. ]
You... you don't have to come with.
[ she can take a carriage. either tolya or tamar would come of course, while one stays here with nikolai. in her grief, she forgets what nikolai has lost and the burden he is having suddenly thrust upon him. she cannot keep all of ravka rudderless and kingless while she mourns. ]
alina sits looking impossibly small from her perch on the over-sized sofa. she is thin and weak and pale. her fingers are curled into a blanket draped over her shoulders, but it does little to warm her. meals had been sent but uneaten, feeling like ash in her mouth.
she should have attended the royal funeral. she shouldn't have sent nikolai out to face them alone. she had started to dress, but apparently she had never even made it past a white slip and stays. the thought of wearing black made her want to vomit, but gold was too much. she couldn't stand the idea of so many eyes on her after she had failed to protect even nikolai's family and mal safe. if she cannot do it for them, how could she ever do it for ravka?
half of her is lost. more than that. it feels impossible to be whole ever again.
she can't quite meet his eyes, and at his question she stifles a shuddering, shallow breath. it's as if the weight of her sorrow was a literal stone on her chest restricting her breath. have you thought about what you want to do with Mal? like his a thing rather than a person. she wishes she could ignore it, pretend that their units were simply split up and that they might meet back at kribirsk again in a few weeks.
no more running, though. she had promised that. she swallows heavily, her voice hoarse, having not used it all day. maybe in days. ]
Keramzin.
[ it's stupid, but it's all she can think of. of course mal was the only thing that made it ever close to a home. true north, he had explained to her once. he was her true north. she is spinning, disoriented without him. but it feels right to lay him to rest there, in the place where they had hidden from the ugly realities of the orphanage and dreamed of lives they would never have. ]
You... you don't have to come with.
[ she can take a carriage. either tolya or tamar would come of course, while one stays here with nikolai. in her grief, she forgets what nikolai has lost and the burden he is having suddenly thrust upon him. she cannot keep all of ravka rudderless and kingless while she mourns. ]
( cont. )
there was no other way. my father wouldn't sell once he found out who the bidder was.
i tried to convince him otherwise, but with vasily there as the easier option, i had no leverage to hold against them.
i thought... foolishly, i thought that we might still be able to find a way to be together.
i don't want to let you go but i can't ask you to stay to weather this storm with me.
it could be years before i turn all of this around. i can't ask you to hide this with me.
you don't have to go. you'll always have a place there.
there is always another way, nikolai. don't justify choosing the wrong and easy one.
it's like i said. i've always fought for you. you've never done the same for me.
honestly, it's my fault for being stupid enough to believe you when you promised it would be different.
why would i want to stay and weather this with you? you've shown me just how little i matter.
all of this talk about how much you love me, but when it came down to it, you decided to do exactly what aleksander did to me.
you knew how badly it hurt me the first time, and you did it anyway.
if you loved me even a little, you wouldn't have been so cruel. you don't know what love is, nikolai.
it certainly doesn't involve throwing away someone like they're worth nothing to you.
saints, like you'd ever ask me to stay or beg for anything in your life. let's not pretend.
i know why you thought we might still be able to find a way together. poor little alina, always willing to be your last choice.
surely she'll understand being last place again, and the millions of lies i've given her.
don't tell me how badly you don't want to let me go when you already have. it was obviously easy for you.
i do have to go, actually. there's no place for me here.
it's like i said. i've always fought for you. you've never done the same for me.
honestly, it's my fault for being stupid enough to believe you when you promised it would be different.
why would i want to stay and weather this with you? you've shown me just how little i matter.
all of this talk about how much you love me, but when it came down to it, you decided to do exactly what aleksander did to me.
you knew how badly it hurt me the first time, and you did it anyway.
if you loved me even a little, you wouldn't have been so cruel. you don't know what love is, nikolai.
it certainly doesn't involve throwing away someone like they're worth nothing to you.
saints, like you'd ever ask me to stay or beg for anything in your life. let's not pretend.
i know why you thought we might still be able to find a way together. poor little alina, always willing to be your last choice.
surely she'll understand being last place again, and the millions of lies i've given her.
don't tell me how badly you don't want to let me go when you already have. it was obviously easy for you.
i do have to go, actually. there's no place for me here.
Edited 2021-05-23 16:06 (UTC)
[ when morning comes, kaz finds solace in the familiar ritual of securing his many layers after a decidedly unfamiliar night. can’t remember the last time he felt someone’s breathing against his chest, though nikolai’s had been shallower than he liked. no time to dwell on it any more than he had upon returning to his room (when it, along with the seasalt, gunpowdered smell of nikolai in his bed, had kept him occupied for too long). he needs to reach nikolai’s cabin before the crew shifts from night to day watch, and there's plenty of work to be done in town after that.
cane scraping against the wood, he haunts the empty hall. his heart turns over in his chest, and he adjusts his grip, palm barely slick beneath leather. you're nervous, a terrifying thought. and not about any sensible thing, either, like how a demon may meet him at the door, which he cracks open to check — only to turn swiftly and block the gap with his broad, stiff frame, gloved hand still clasping the handle behind him. a hushed exchange in kerch ensues between kaz’s distinct rasp and a lighter voice. a tinkling laugh carries through into nikolai’s cabin. kaz waits until anika’s footsteps fade before slipping into the room and latching the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, cane tight in one hand.
his blue eyes alight on nikolai, chained to his own bed after a night spent near death. well, apart from the precarious half hour or so spent snuffling at kaz’s throat and being carried here, half-dressed but no less secure. both easier and harder to chain nikolai with him sleep-soft and pliant. even having cracked hundreds of intricate locks — including one rigged to an explosive failsafe — it had still felt like more delicate work than his hands have ever known, down to administering the tonic to his tongue. rather than leave the feigned casual chatter to nikolai, as usual, or brusquely explain the encounter at the door, kaz takes on the burden of making proper conversation. ]
[ lightly, ] You should know that my rooms at the Crow Club have a shade more personality than the one I keep aboard your ship. [ if nikolai was wondering, after he swanned around and picked through kaz’s limited personal effects. since their near-drowning, kaz has remained standing for the unchaining — a punishing distance. now, he deposits the hat and coat folded on his arm over the back of nikolai’s desk chair, keeping the cane in hand. best to stay armed, though nikolai always looks his weakest like this. and no less handsome for it. ridiculous. quick to activate the trick lock re-created by nikolai and his fabrikator from another’s designs, multiple and intricate bindings receding. ]
It’s just as tidy, mind. [ a flicker of his attention in the general direction of nikolai’s messy desk as he tilts his cane against the wall. ] And rather black. [ he perches on the edge of the bed, then, mouth faintly quirked at nikolai, as if he’s in on the joke. sometimes, sometimes. with his hair parted to frame his face instead of tidied back, he looks less jagged (which anika might have delighted in seconds earlier). it helps obscure the mark nikolai left high on his neck; that's all. ] With a touch of gold. [ the exterior and interior of the club are showier than his personal rooms, but there’s an element of drama to them nonetheless. he tugs off his gloves one at a time and sets them on the bolted-down sidetable. for the first time, anticipation rivals the fear in his chest.
there are few instances when kaz lacks the cards to guess the outcome of the game, but his loud, brilliant mind has informed him of infinite possibilities for this meeting. it might be that words said in the dark wither in the morning light, or that nikolai’s melancholy has only worsened overnight. with but a slight tremble, his bare fingers catch nikolai’s wrist, steadying, as his other hand unlocks the nearest shackle. he tells himself that whatever nikolai asks of him is what he needs to give. no more, no less. instead, his little finger strokes the inside of nikolai's palm. every touch lingers where it would have hurried weeks prior. ]
My predecessor picked the crystal chandeliers to celebrate the sparkling success his darling, terrifying new bird had brought him. [ tacky as the man himself. why hadn’t he changed it yet? he leans across nikolai to grasp his far wrist and repeat the unlocking, thumb deftly soothing over his reddened skin. ] But there’s a landscape above my desk that I chose. I’m told it bears a resemblance to a DeKappel oil once displayed in the Van Eck family gallery. Valued at over one-hundred thousand kruge, if you can imagine. [ amusement sparks in his eyes. perhaps it's just a good memory. might be that he hopes to cheer nikolai, too. ] Tragically, that one-of-a-kind piece was stolen and has yet to appear on the black market, so it’s impossible to be sure.
[ as impossible as it is to say why he bothers telling nikolai these ordinary details about his life and home. nikolai had folded small pieces of himself into every glittering proposal, each more romantic and wanting than the last. perhaps it's the start of a repayment. slowly tilting out of his space, kaz offers the key in his unguarded palm, so nikolai can unfasten his ankles himself. ]
cane scraping against the wood, he haunts the empty hall. his heart turns over in his chest, and he adjusts his grip, palm barely slick beneath leather. you're nervous, a terrifying thought. and not about any sensible thing, either, like how a demon may meet him at the door, which he cracks open to check — only to turn swiftly and block the gap with his broad, stiff frame, gloved hand still clasping the handle behind him. a hushed exchange in kerch ensues between kaz’s distinct rasp and a lighter voice. a tinkling laugh carries through into nikolai’s cabin. kaz waits until anika’s footsteps fade before slipping into the room and latching the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, cane tight in one hand.
his blue eyes alight on nikolai, chained to his own bed after a night spent near death. well, apart from the precarious half hour or so spent snuffling at kaz’s throat and being carried here, half-dressed but no less secure. both easier and harder to chain nikolai with him sleep-soft and pliant. even having cracked hundreds of intricate locks — including one rigged to an explosive failsafe — it had still felt like more delicate work than his hands have ever known, down to administering the tonic to his tongue. rather than leave the feigned casual chatter to nikolai, as usual, or brusquely explain the encounter at the door, kaz takes on the burden of making proper conversation. ]
[ lightly, ] You should know that my rooms at the Crow Club have a shade more personality than the one I keep aboard your ship. [ if nikolai was wondering, after he swanned around and picked through kaz’s limited personal effects. since their near-drowning, kaz has remained standing for the unchaining — a punishing distance. now, he deposits the hat and coat folded on his arm over the back of nikolai’s desk chair, keeping the cane in hand. best to stay armed, though nikolai always looks his weakest like this. and no less handsome for it. ridiculous. quick to activate the trick lock re-created by nikolai and his fabrikator from another’s designs, multiple and intricate bindings receding. ]
It’s just as tidy, mind. [ a flicker of his attention in the general direction of nikolai’s messy desk as he tilts his cane against the wall. ] And rather black. [ he perches on the edge of the bed, then, mouth faintly quirked at nikolai, as if he’s in on the joke. sometimes, sometimes. with his hair parted to frame his face instead of tidied back, he looks less jagged (which anika might have delighted in seconds earlier). it helps obscure the mark nikolai left high on his neck; that's all. ] With a touch of gold. [ the exterior and interior of the club are showier than his personal rooms, but there’s an element of drama to them nonetheless. he tugs off his gloves one at a time and sets them on the bolted-down sidetable. for the first time, anticipation rivals the fear in his chest.
there are few instances when kaz lacks the cards to guess the outcome of the game, but his loud, brilliant mind has informed him of infinite possibilities for this meeting. it might be that words said in the dark wither in the morning light, or that nikolai’s melancholy has only worsened overnight. with but a slight tremble, his bare fingers catch nikolai’s wrist, steadying, as his other hand unlocks the nearest shackle. he tells himself that whatever nikolai asks of him is what he needs to give. no more, no less. instead, his little finger strokes the inside of nikolai's palm. every touch lingers where it would have hurried weeks prior. ]
My predecessor picked the crystal chandeliers to celebrate the sparkling success his darling, terrifying new bird had brought him. [ tacky as the man himself. why hadn’t he changed it yet? he leans across nikolai to grasp his far wrist and repeat the unlocking, thumb deftly soothing over his reddened skin. ] But there’s a landscape above my desk that I chose. I’m told it bears a resemblance to a DeKappel oil once displayed in the Van Eck family gallery. Valued at over one-hundred thousand kruge, if you can imagine. [ amusement sparks in his eyes. perhaps it's just a good memory. might be that he hopes to cheer nikolai, too. ] Tragically, that one-of-a-kind piece was stolen and has yet to appear on the black market, so it’s impossible to be sure.
[ as impossible as it is to say why he bothers telling nikolai these ordinary details about his life and home. nikolai had folded small pieces of himself into every glittering proposal, each more romantic and wanting than the last. perhaps it's the start of a repayment. slowly tilting out of his space, kaz offers the key in his unguarded palm, so nikolai can unfasten his ankles himself. ]
[ he usually wakes after a few short hours of deadened unconsciousness, dragged back to the surface of the living with all the grace of a drowning man where he bides the remaining time until sunrise trying to occupy his mind with brighter thoughts that inevitably deteriorate into dark and jagged fragments. sometimes he drifts back to sleep and wakes with blood slicking his shackles and an aching tremble in his bones. today, he doesn't remember what happens in the night. not enough time bound for him to cause much damage, no cuts into the mottled bruises ringing his aching wrists. he's barely lucid, watching kaz's mouth move far more than it normally does on any given morning and trying to follow his story through the pulse in his head. distracted by the dark fall of his hair, normally combed back but this time coming down around the sharp angles of his face. wanting to kiss him, if he didn't feel so sick.
saints, he feels sick. this isn't a hangover, he would need to drink far more for that. this is something else, something his body has been fighting and is finally succumbing to, made weak by his lack of proper rest. his skin prickles with heat, nausea tickling the back of his throat. burgos will deliver coffee soon — perhaps it will cure him. the little stroke of kaz's finger inside his palm pulls his attention back, sleep-tousled hair, clear hazel eyes, a light shiver across his skin he hopes kaz will attribute to his touch. ]
Is this your way of inviting me to the Crow Club? [ a tired rasp to his voice, rubbing gingerly at both wrists once they're free. when has kaz offered up so much useless information about himself so freely? this is the sort of thing he longs for, these painfully normal interactions that shine a light on the man behind the carefully crafted persona of kaz brekker, and he's disappointed he can't fully appreciate the moment when all he wants to do is curl back into his bed and wish for the bliss of unconsciousness. it's too much trouble, requiring his chains and the tonic again. he forces himself to stay upright, to focus on kaz's words. his mouth quirks. ] Brekker. It's terribly romantic of you to offer me a private showing of a valued piece of art you seem to have acquired through completely legal channels. I accept your proposal with enthusiasm.
[ the fetters click open when he twists the key at his ankles, falling away with a heavy thud against the floor. his vision swims, the key slipping from between his fingers, and he braces his shadow-stained hands at his knees — or tries to, his vision suddenly faltering. he blinks and finds his knees digging into the wooden floors, his breath ragged, chills plaguing him despite his too-hot skin. should he just ask kaz to dose him again? no, that's what got him here in the first place. his heart beats painfully fast, his hand lightly fisting in his shirt. ]
I'm fine. [ he expels a slow breath. most of his crew will be off the ship today, mapping out the maze of caves for kaz to look over tonight and detail his plans for tomorrow. he leans back against his bed. ] How many people have seen that DeKappel once it ended up above your desk? And what sort of landscape compels Kaz Brekker so?
saints, he feels sick. this isn't a hangover, he would need to drink far more for that. this is something else, something his body has been fighting and is finally succumbing to, made weak by his lack of proper rest. his skin prickles with heat, nausea tickling the back of his throat. burgos will deliver coffee soon — perhaps it will cure him. the little stroke of kaz's finger inside his palm pulls his attention back, sleep-tousled hair, clear hazel eyes, a light shiver across his skin he hopes kaz will attribute to his touch. ]
Is this your way of inviting me to the Crow Club? [ a tired rasp to his voice, rubbing gingerly at both wrists once they're free. when has kaz offered up so much useless information about himself so freely? this is the sort of thing he longs for, these painfully normal interactions that shine a light on the man behind the carefully crafted persona of kaz brekker, and he's disappointed he can't fully appreciate the moment when all he wants to do is curl back into his bed and wish for the bliss of unconsciousness. it's too much trouble, requiring his chains and the tonic again. he forces himself to stay upright, to focus on kaz's words. his mouth quirks. ] Brekker. It's terribly romantic of you to offer me a private showing of a valued piece of art you seem to have acquired through completely legal channels. I accept your proposal with enthusiasm.
[ the fetters click open when he twists the key at his ankles, falling away with a heavy thud against the floor. his vision swims, the key slipping from between his fingers, and he braces his shadow-stained hands at his knees — or tries to, his vision suddenly faltering. he blinks and finds his knees digging into the wooden floors, his breath ragged, chills plaguing him despite his too-hot skin. should he just ask kaz to dose him again? no, that's what got him here in the first place. his heart beats painfully fast, his hand lightly fisting in his shirt. ]
I'm fine. [ he expels a slow breath. most of his crew will be off the ship today, mapping out the maze of caves for kaz to look over tonight and detail his plans for tomorrow. he leans back against his bed. ] How many people have seen that DeKappel once it ended up above your desk? And what sort of landscape compels Kaz Brekker so?
[ this evening, maybe from boredom or agitation, nikolai breaks a number of his own rules. first, he's sitting at one of the mansion's many alcove windows alone, staring at his phone. as someone highly in tune with his appearance at all times, he's painfully aware of how this could be perceived. it makes him look like a loser. (false. he could never look like a loser.) it makes him look pensive or mournful. (both acceptable in small doses. the masses adore sensitivity.) it makes it look like something is wrong.
this is the outcome he doesn't want, the ill-timed rumors and speculation falling on a night when he should, by all accounts, be celebrating. this is the night his brother is launching his stupid disappearing screen protector, glassie, and nikolai is expected to more or less support his family through their more trivial endeavors. he doesn't mind showing up and flashing a smile with a piece of flimsy glass etched with an insipid inspirational quote. but anything to do with vasily sets him on edge, and he can't help but keep a sharp eye out for the sort of trouble his brother is known for.
he should've brought a date. no, he should go snort some coke in the bathroom. no, he should stick to sipping his mezcal in case vasily does something stupid. is his follower count dropping just from close proximity to his idiot brother? nikolai is by far the most beloved lantsov despite his questionable birthright, but sometimes the name lantsov is a burden altogether. he's well aware of the privilege that stems from it — privileges that he reaps in plenty — while also facing the reality of the negative press his parents receive for their shady business dealings and general old money greed. it's not good for his brand, deviating sharply from their unaffected avarice.
that's not to say he doesn't enjoy luxury and excess. he scrolls through his instagram feed, giving david a like for some dry post about metallurgy that he's genuinely interested in — if only david could improve his presentation — and then comes across a picture of a raven-haired beauty he'd seen earlier in this very (accursed) house, lingering by the table piled high with imported cheeses and artful piles of exotic nuts. (even after nikolai told vasily it was in poor taste to serve nuts anywhere when so many people suffer from allergies. the fool never listens.)
zoya nazyalensky, the only person here with a follower count that almost rivals his own. they've only ever met in passing, showing up at the same events but never properly introduced. he thinks once they might have danced together in an underground club while wasted. he has the oddest feeling that he remembers the soft touch of her thick hair slipping through his fingers, the sweet taste of amaretto on his tongue. and then nothing. she'd never even followed him back on instagram, so he'd unfollowed her shortly after. what kind of person just ignores him?
he takes another sip of his drink as his thumb moves across the screen, scrolling through zoya's profile. perfectly curated from the clothes to the color scheme. grudging respect. she gives just enough to feel known, but nikolai knows better than to fall for this easy scheme. this is a polished front, just like his own perfectly crafted facade. he opens her direct messages. ]
don't buy a screen protector from my brother. i've already broken three. i refuse to endorse these abominations and risk my brand influence, and neither should you. fair warning.
i saw you wandering by the cheeses. are you contractually obligated to be here and are you as bored as i am?
this is the outcome he doesn't want, the ill-timed rumors and speculation falling on a night when he should, by all accounts, be celebrating. this is the night his brother is launching his stupid disappearing screen protector, glassie, and nikolai is expected to more or less support his family through their more trivial endeavors. he doesn't mind showing up and flashing a smile with a piece of flimsy glass etched with an insipid inspirational quote. but anything to do with vasily sets him on edge, and he can't help but keep a sharp eye out for the sort of trouble his brother is known for.
he should've brought a date. no, he should go snort some coke in the bathroom. no, he should stick to sipping his mezcal in case vasily does something stupid. is his follower count dropping just from close proximity to his idiot brother? nikolai is by far the most beloved lantsov despite his questionable birthright, but sometimes the name lantsov is a burden altogether. he's well aware of the privilege that stems from it — privileges that he reaps in plenty — while also facing the reality of the negative press his parents receive for their shady business dealings and general old money greed. it's not good for his brand, deviating sharply from their unaffected avarice.
that's not to say he doesn't enjoy luxury and excess. he scrolls through his instagram feed, giving david a like for some dry post about metallurgy that he's genuinely interested in — if only david could improve his presentation — and then comes across a picture of a raven-haired beauty he'd seen earlier in this very (accursed) house, lingering by the table piled high with imported cheeses and artful piles of exotic nuts. (even after nikolai told vasily it was in poor taste to serve nuts anywhere when so many people suffer from allergies. the fool never listens.)
zoya nazyalensky, the only person here with a follower count that almost rivals his own. they've only ever met in passing, showing up at the same events but never properly introduced. he thinks once they might have danced together in an underground club while wasted. he has the oddest feeling that he remembers the soft touch of her thick hair slipping through his fingers, the sweet taste of amaretto on his tongue. and then nothing. she'd never even followed him back on instagram, so he'd unfollowed her shortly after. what kind of person just ignores him?
he takes another sip of his drink as his thumb moves across the screen, scrolling through zoya's profile. perfectly curated from the clothes to the color scheme. grudging respect. she gives just enough to feel known, but nikolai knows better than to fall for this easy scheme. this is a polished front, just like his own perfectly crafted facade. he opens her direct messages. ]
don't buy a screen protector from my brother. i've already broken three. i refuse to endorse these abominations and risk my brand influence, and neither should you. fair warning.
i saw you wandering by the cheeses. are you contractually obligated to be here and are you as bored as i am?
[ She usually doesn't even bother with the DMs on the public instagram. Brands worth their salt knew her business contact, typically this was a graveyard for overly earnest fan messages, brands paying in exposure and dick pics.
It is by chance alone that Zoya checks the little red badge as she posts the story, slowly batting the obscenely long magnetic fake lashes that are paying and even stupider amount of money to get exposure as part of her evening look. All she had to do was show up somewhere and look casually cruel, devastatingly gorgeous, and tag the brand. The Lantsov party could be two birds, one stone, and no one ever accused Zoya of not being ruthlessly efficient.
But with that done, it starts the clock until she can make a cool and mysterious exit, having no real interest in attending other than knowing everyone else would expect her to be there. Bored, she indulges that animal impulse to click on the notification, and an oddity sits at the top of the list before reactions start filling the space.
Nikolai Lantsov. She kissed him once at a club, drunk and, even if she'd vehemently deny it, bitter after seeing photos of Aleksander tangled up with the newest younger, stupid girl he'd caught in his trap.
She takes a contemplative draw from the champagne flute held delicately between her razor tipped fingers, tapping on the message to reply. ]
Seems fitting for a boy who has never needed to worry about the cost of replacing anything in his life.
[ Old money. The worst. They mind boggling amount of cash that changes hands for social capital isn't even a real bump to their fortunes. They just do it for the attention and somehow that's worse. ]
Are you going to time me and tattle on me to your brother if I don't spend the required amount of time pretending like anyone here actually eats?
It is by chance alone that Zoya checks the little red badge as she posts the story, slowly batting the obscenely long magnetic fake lashes that are paying and even stupider amount of money to get exposure as part of her evening look. All she had to do was show up somewhere and look casually cruel, devastatingly gorgeous, and tag the brand. The Lantsov party could be two birds, one stone, and no one ever accused Zoya of not being ruthlessly efficient.
But with that done, it starts the clock until she can make a cool and mysterious exit, having no real interest in attending other than knowing everyone else would expect her to be there. Bored, she indulges that animal impulse to click on the notification, and an oddity sits at the top of the list before reactions start filling the space.
Nikolai Lantsov. She kissed him once at a club, drunk and, even if she'd vehemently deny it, bitter after seeing photos of Aleksander tangled up with the newest younger, stupid girl he'd caught in his trap.
She takes a contemplative draw from the champagne flute held delicately between her razor tipped fingers, tapping on the message to reply. ]
Seems fitting for a boy who has never needed to worry about the cost of replacing anything in his life.
[ Old money. The worst. They mind boggling amount of cash that changes hands for social capital isn't even a real bump to their fortunes. They just do it for the attention and somehow that's worse. ]
Are you going to time me and tattle on me to your brother if I don't spend the required amount of time pretending like anyone here actually eats?
Edited 2021-11-10 04:12 (UTC)
[ the party is as guessed: a reception at the ketterdam opera house hosted by the de vries, a couple that's half-council and half-philanthropists. through a winding underground tunnel, similar to the one he led nikolai through in his last kerch expedition, and up, up, up a shaky ladder, they find their change clothes and rather miffed tailor (they’re late; she does have a life outside of work, you know) in one of the opera house’s private dressing rooms. the party itself, they enter through the front door.
even those who are visibly surprised that kaz brekker brings a plus one don’t dare ask, instead narrowing their eyes on nikolai, like he might be the key to unlocking whatever scheme is to come. brekker selects his crew carefully, doesn’t consort with anyone needlessly. for fun, kaz steals a watch from someone squinting at nikolai. too easy. not long after a toast to almhent starts the music and dancing, word ripples through the party that the de vries’ home gallery has been robbed. and if kaz brekker is here — well, he couldn’t be in two places at once — could he? it’s as solid as alibis come and seems to infuriate beatrix de vries, who makes a point of accusing brekker of thievery on her way out to assess the damage.
nikolai doesn’t slow his drinking for kaz’s business and that’s — to be expected, frankly. a little frustrating, charming despite that, and concerning, the way nikolai numbing himself has always been. at one point, he takes off and dimitri is the one who coaxes him back while kaz ends up in a hushed conversation with a man almost as decorated as sturmhond was earlier. he restrains himself from petty thievery this time, finishing the conversation with a gloved handshake as his eyes meet nikolai’s again. it’s unclear whether he had anything to do with tonight’s heist, but the rumour keeps the attention on him. dimitri slips out of the party unnoticed after that, only falling into step behind kaz as they leave. in the interim, kaz makes an effort to be decent company, fetching nikolai the promised brandy and hovering nearby.
it’s fine. messy, but that suits his aims for the night. he ignores the twinge in his gut at the thought of using nikolai, even passively. it would have worked without him, and he wanted to come. nevermind that the walk back through a haze of snow flurries seems like a dangerous combination with nikolai’s tipsy gait. doesn’t reach out to him or try to help, not out here, but he’s quick to hook an arm at his waist once they’re inside the slat. crossing the threshold shatters the dutiful silence from dimitri as well, when anika greets them in the entranceway: was she furious? incandescent with rage. did she know — she thinks she knows. hasn’t a proper clue. i’ll drink to that. ]
[ kaz strides past them, intentionally clacking his cane against the first wooden stair to his rooms before wedging it under his arm. he tosses a sharp look over his shoulder. ] Not until your watch is done.
[ the chorus of yes, boss that follows is pointedly dour. curiosity lifts their features as they track nikolai’s ascent with kaz. a last minute addition, a foreign visitor, a bright presence alongside kaz’s black smudge of an existence — though jesper had been similar, they suppose. and had also been invited into the intimate places that they weren’t. probably with the wraith, though no one ever saw her comings and goings.
once they reach his rooms atop the slat, kaz locks the door behind them and tips his cane against the wall. from there, he gives up on wrangling nikolai at his side and sweeps him into his arms instead, dumping him rather ungracefully on his pristine bed after that. (sizeable for ketterdam’s standards, less so for a king) kaz joins him shortly, perched on the edge with his bad leg extended. compared to the club, his rooms here are understated, though the dark colour palette is the same (greens and blacks at odds with the white marble in the washroom). this high, the rounded window has a clear view of the harbour — and the crows across the way. it’s somehow less personal than his office, perhaps because he spends so little time here.
ungloving his hands, kaz lifts nikolai’s legs into his lap and starts unlacing his boots. a kindness repaid months later. his brow creases, a tell that tiredness lets slip through the mask. you guard your thoughts in a way that i don't. he has to, doesn’t he? with enemies everywhere. but with nikolai — ]
If nothing else, the brandy must have been up to your standards. [ a beat. ] Did I bore you? [ voice a soft scrape, half-teasing. hasn’t forgotten what nikolai agreed, what he asked for while shaking with want, but that seems like a fantasy for another day. impossible not to think of the nightly and morning rituals he participated on the job now, chaining and unchaining nikolai, administering the dreadful tonic. his shoulder pangs, a phantom injury from the demon, but a deeper ache sinks in his chest. so many days spent apart in the same space, cut short by nikolai sending him away. and your hasty compliance. easier not to linger in nikolai’s light, and yet he does now, thumb brushing over the knot of bone at nikolai’s ankle. ]
even those who are visibly surprised that kaz brekker brings a plus one don’t dare ask, instead narrowing their eyes on nikolai, like he might be the key to unlocking whatever scheme is to come. brekker selects his crew carefully, doesn’t consort with anyone needlessly. for fun, kaz steals a watch from someone squinting at nikolai. too easy. not long after a toast to almhent starts the music and dancing, word ripples through the party that the de vries’ home gallery has been robbed. and if kaz brekker is here — well, he couldn’t be in two places at once — could he? it’s as solid as alibis come and seems to infuriate beatrix de vries, who makes a point of accusing brekker of thievery on her way out to assess the damage.
nikolai doesn’t slow his drinking for kaz’s business and that’s — to be expected, frankly. a little frustrating, charming despite that, and concerning, the way nikolai numbing himself has always been. at one point, he takes off and dimitri is the one who coaxes him back while kaz ends up in a hushed conversation with a man almost as decorated as sturmhond was earlier. he restrains himself from petty thievery this time, finishing the conversation with a gloved handshake as his eyes meet nikolai’s again. it’s unclear whether he had anything to do with tonight’s heist, but the rumour keeps the attention on him. dimitri slips out of the party unnoticed after that, only falling into step behind kaz as they leave. in the interim, kaz makes an effort to be decent company, fetching nikolai the promised brandy and hovering nearby.
it’s fine. messy, but that suits his aims for the night. he ignores the twinge in his gut at the thought of using nikolai, even passively. it would have worked without him, and he wanted to come. nevermind that the walk back through a haze of snow flurries seems like a dangerous combination with nikolai’s tipsy gait. doesn’t reach out to him or try to help, not out here, but he’s quick to hook an arm at his waist once they’re inside the slat. crossing the threshold shatters the dutiful silence from dimitri as well, when anika greets them in the entranceway: was she furious? incandescent with rage. did she know — she thinks she knows. hasn’t a proper clue. i’ll drink to that. ]
[ kaz strides past them, intentionally clacking his cane against the first wooden stair to his rooms before wedging it under his arm. he tosses a sharp look over his shoulder. ] Not until your watch is done.
[ the chorus of yes, boss that follows is pointedly dour. curiosity lifts their features as they track nikolai’s ascent with kaz. a last minute addition, a foreign visitor, a bright presence alongside kaz’s black smudge of an existence — though jesper had been similar, they suppose. and had also been invited into the intimate places that they weren’t. probably with the wraith, though no one ever saw her comings and goings.
once they reach his rooms atop the slat, kaz locks the door behind them and tips his cane against the wall. from there, he gives up on wrangling nikolai at his side and sweeps him into his arms instead, dumping him rather ungracefully on his pristine bed after that. (sizeable for ketterdam’s standards, less so for a king) kaz joins him shortly, perched on the edge with his bad leg extended. compared to the club, his rooms here are understated, though the dark colour palette is the same (greens and blacks at odds with the white marble in the washroom). this high, the rounded window has a clear view of the harbour — and the crows across the way. it’s somehow less personal than his office, perhaps because he spends so little time here.
ungloving his hands, kaz lifts nikolai’s legs into his lap and starts unlacing his boots. a kindness repaid months later. his brow creases, a tell that tiredness lets slip through the mask. you guard your thoughts in a way that i don't. he has to, doesn’t he? with enemies everywhere. but with nikolai — ]
If nothing else, the brandy must have been up to your standards. [ a beat. ] Did I bore you? [ voice a soft scrape, half-teasing. hasn’t forgotten what nikolai agreed, what he asked for while shaking with want, but that seems like a fantasy for another day. impossible not to think of the nightly and morning rituals he participated on the job now, chaining and unchaining nikolai, administering the dreadful tonic. his shoulder pangs, a phantom injury from the demon, but a deeper ache sinks in his chest. so many days spent apart in the same space, cut short by nikolai sending him away. and your hasty compliance. easier not to linger in nikolai’s light, and yet he does now, thumb brushing over the knot of bone at nikolai’s ankle. ]
[ kaz brekker revealing his plans for the evening would likely cause a rupture in the very fabric of the universe, or at least a largely annoying headache. nikolai doesn't know why he expects to be included, why he's hurt that he's not. can't even resent him properly for it, since it's first class entertainment to watch the evening's activities unfold before his very inebriated eyes — the robbery, the accusations, the smug look on brekker's face that slips a little each time their eyes meet.
he means to tell him that the brandy reminds him of the grand palace but decides it's a daft thing to say, wandering outside instead and finding dimitri on his tail. the boy keeps staring at him if he knows him — he does, he should — and nikolai reminds himself to turn his face away from the light while wondering if he could learn a thing or two from him. he seems content away from the palace, making a life here beneath kaz's tutelage in a city that smells perpetually of honeyed vomit.
could that ever be him? unlikely. he'd never join kaz's gang. things would always be like tonight, an extraneous addition, perhaps helpful here and there for his exceptional set of skills, but overall unnecessary. the last thing he said to kaz in os alta was that he didn't need him anymore, and now sprawled out on kaz's (small) bed waiting for the room to stop spinning, he realizes it's an enduring truth that's followed him all the way across the sea.
he smiles, hair mussed as he shifts on the pillow to glance at him, two white gloved fingertips tapping thoughtfully against his bottom lip. ] On the contrary, Brekker, I find your criminal behavior quite entertaining. I can't tell you the last time I got to attend a function where no one cared that I was there and I had no responsibilities to speak of. I want to find the freedom in it, but I feel strangely... unmoored. Like I should blow something up to reassert my authority.
[ the room tilts again, so he shuts his eyes, letting kaz's deft hands wander along his ankle. a gentle touch. barely a touch. only when one boot slips to the floor does he remember that he can't stay here, that exhaustion is pushing down on him and with it the need to be restrained. he tries to sit up, blinking at kaz and watching his silhouette blur in the lamplight. ]
You haven't worn your gloves once with me yet. [ murmured softly, his words running together. the second boot falls, snapping him from his thoughts as he leans forward and unknots kaz's bowtie in a quick motion, snatching it from his neck and flopping back down onto the bed. he winds the length of fabric around one hand. ] Why did you leave when I asked you to stay? One day. I asked for one day and you fucked off into the night like a coward. Bet no one else here has the balls to say that to your face.
he means to tell him that the brandy reminds him of the grand palace but decides it's a daft thing to say, wandering outside instead and finding dimitri on his tail. the boy keeps staring at him if he knows him — he does, he should — and nikolai reminds himself to turn his face away from the light while wondering if he could learn a thing or two from him. he seems content away from the palace, making a life here beneath kaz's tutelage in a city that smells perpetually of honeyed vomit.
could that ever be him? unlikely. he'd never join kaz's gang. things would always be like tonight, an extraneous addition, perhaps helpful here and there for his exceptional set of skills, but overall unnecessary. the last thing he said to kaz in os alta was that he didn't need him anymore, and now sprawled out on kaz's (small) bed waiting for the room to stop spinning, he realizes it's an enduring truth that's followed him all the way across the sea.
he smiles, hair mussed as he shifts on the pillow to glance at him, two white gloved fingertips tapping thoughtfully against his bottom lip. ] On the contrary, Brekker, I find your criminal behavior quite entertaining. I can't tell you the last time I got to attend a function where no one cared that I was there and I had no responsibilities to speak of. I want to find the freedom in it, but I feel strangely... unmoored. Like I should blow something up to reassert my authority.
[ the room tilts again, so he shuts his eyes, letting kaz's deft hands wander along his ankle. a gentle touch. barely a touch. only when one boot slips to the floor does he remember that he can't stay here, that exhaustion is pushing down on him and with it the need to be restrained. he tries to sit up, blinking at kaz and watching his silhouette blur in the lamplight. ]
You haven't worn your gloves once with me yet. [ murmured softly, his words running together. the second boot falls, snapping him from his thoughts as he leans forward and unknots kaz's bowtie in a quick motion, snatching it from his neck and flopping back down onto the bed. he winds the length of fabric around one hand. ] Why did you leave when I asked you to stay? One day. I asked for one day and you fucked off into the night like a coward. Bet no one else here has the balls to say that to your face.
( cont. )
consider that the unsullied need neither goats nor man to instruct them and are capable of choosing to live without any assignments from you. i know it might be difficult to accept that your opinions are not necessary to all peoples in all places, but take heart in knowing that i will be here to lend an ear to your unending complaints.
i might also bring my search to a swift end by throwing myself into the sea. it would be a rather poetic end to a life colorfully lived, i would say, and i suspect it would feel very similar to choosing a bride.
if i were born a woman i would simply disguise myself as a man and gain twice the popularity due to the appeal of my mysteriously alluring eyelashes.
i am a rather devout man, though i kneel only for the most astute of causes.
on this remarkable day i've finally discovered the thing that cersei lannister holds most sacred. it's taking a moment to adjust my thoughts.
i will admit that thoughts of a family have always appealed to me, despite knowing any marriage i enter would be one of political gain rather than love, and i would wish for my children to feel the sort of acceptance i never did. but those thoughts feel more and more out of reach the longer i fail to conquer the beast inside of me. i cannot father children in this state any more than i can take a wife. it seems i will have to find some other anchor to which to tether my will to live. perhaps you would be willing to serve such a cause?
if i am a pox, why have you not placed my wildly attractive head on a pike to lovingly gaze at through your castle windows?
dare i ask your children's names, upon (further) threat of death?
Edited 2022-01-02 04:26 (UTC)
( cont. )
you and your dramatics. as if you haven't smiled with your cock in my mouth.
[ he knows better than that. nikolai smiles over his bait's shoulder — giselle, like the animal, he should at least refer to her by name if she's doing him such a grand favor, if unknowingly — giving mal a wink from across the room. his hand glides down her dress, a silken thing, backless, his fingers finding skin. then he whispers something in her ear to make her laugh, and she turns, a smile on her face as she leans back against his chest, closing her eyes as she sways to the music. ]
oh? is it that platter of hors d'oeuvres passing you right now? i'm famished.
[ he doesn't mean to be here, and he hadn't meant to drink quite this much, but seeing zoya in this state and knowing he caused that wounded look in her eyes is reason enough to wish to numb his guilt. it's a familiar scene — the two of them on the balcony of her high rise, nikolai admiring her profile awash in the glow of the lights strung above, a shared bottle between them. her acid tongue is dulled tonight, and all his cleverness feels outmatched in the face of his wrongdoings. he shouldn't be here. and yet he follows when they end up back in her darkened apartment, clumsily tucking back a stray lock of her hair with his gloved fingers. she makes a move to pry off the leather, and he freezes, clutching her wrist with an iron grip. ]
Don't. [ but it's a feeble protest, swallowed up by the moonlit darkness. he tips back onto her cloud-like bed, mulberry silk pillows knocked to the floor, allowing her onto his lap as if she belongs there. he feels her fingers slide past his wrists, into the center of his palms, touching the scars she doesn't know are there. more in other places he doesn't wish for her to see. the gloves slip off, falling silently onto the sheets. his mouth goes dry, his head spinning — just the tequila, nothing more — and before she can do anything so drastic as lift his hands to the light, he slides them along her bare legs instead, up her slip of a skirt to grip her waist. his mouth finds her throat, pressing a hard kiss to her pulse as he pulls her nearer to him, lips dragging higher to her jaw and then finally to her alcohol drenched mouth. ]
Don't. [ but it's a feeble protest, swallowed up by the moonlit darkness. he tips back onto her cloud-like bed, mulberry silk pillows knocked to the floor, allowing her onto his lap as if she belongs there. he feels her fingers slide past his wrists, into the center of his palms, touching the scars she doesn't know are there. more in other places he doesn't wish for her to see. the gloves slip off, falling silently onto the sheets. his mouth goes dry, his head spinning — just the tequila, nothing more — and before she can do anything so drastic as lift his hands to the light, he slides them along her bare legs instead, up her slip of a skirt to grip her waist. his mouth finds her throat, pressing a hard kiss to her pulse as he pulls her nearer to him, lips dragging higher to her jaw and then finally to her alcohol drenched mouth. ]
[ for a moment, she thinks he means to stop her from going further. that soft word laced with insecurities. even with her own flaring up mixed with alcohol and water drugs she'd partaken in earlier that still lingered in her system. she's not so trashed that she doesn't know exactly what they're doing even if she might try to pretend otherwise and might do the same in the morning (not she plans on facing him in the morning).
still she presses on, she's no fool. he hasn't taken those gloves off in her presence since he got back. and there's a reason for it. a serious reason. still, if she isn't allowed to hide in this moment, he's not either. she's already been more vulnerable with him than she's ever been with anyone else in her life. so she plucks the leather from his hands but lets him distract her with his mouth.
her curiosity about his hands dies, for now, into that kiss. she returns it, eager hands moving to his shirt, nimble fingers working deftly despite her level of intoxication to get it open. ]
still she presses on, she's no fool. he hasn't taken those gloves off in her presence since he got back. and there's a reason for it. a serious reason. still, if she isn't allowed to hide in this moment, he's not either. she's already been more vulnerable with him than she's ever been with anyone else in her life. so she plucks the leather from his hands but lets him distract her with his mouth.
her curiosity about his hands dies, for now, into that kiss. she returns it, eager hands moving to his shirt, nimble fingers working deftly despite her level of intoxication to get it open. ]
slides to the left, slides to the right, cross cross...
nazyalensky
- 2022-02-19 04:58 (UTC) - Expand
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