[ she doesn't have the stomach for the first drop of wine on her tongue, full-bodied and fizzling and flooding her with memories of a moonlit porch and the heat of his fingers chasing away the chill on her skin. it's for the better to leave well enough alone, anyway; the shots mal had tipped to her mouth still burn in her throt, fueling her with just enough liquor courage to stand here in front of nikolai without flinching, without dissecting every weary line and chipper grin and wondering which belongs to his true face.
there's no need to worsen the pleasant buzz in her head, or lend nikolai the ammunition he needs to blame the wine for loosening her tongue into a jumbled mess of terrifying truths. wine sploshes dangerously when she sets aside her glass, a little more frazzled than she intended as she narrowly avoids spilling it across the dark, elegant wood of his desk. it would be just her luck to throw his study into chaos, a safe sanctuary she's ruined just by entering it, when she had only come to clean up the wreckage of what she's already destroyed.
the smile she shoots him is apologetic — for the unsteadiness of her fingers, for everything that's been left unsaid, for every wrong word that had tumbled out of her mouth. for finding some comfort in the fact he looks like death warmed over, most of all. the satisfied pang in her chest feels her feel like an abomination that needs to be put down, but — she can't look away from the evidence that maybe she had mattered, after all. that maybe she isn't entirely alone in her misery.
that maybe she has a chance to set this right. ]
I wouldn't have blamed you if you didn't want to see me again. [ her fingers smooth over the dark circles bruising beneath his eyes, brushing over the weary creasing in his forehead, though it does little to ease those tired lines away. it's no longer her place to ask if he's sleeping, to pull him down into the soft sheets of his bed when he wears himself into thin, fraying threads of a man — but the impulse is there, coming as naturally as the beating in her chest. ] But I missed you too much not to come.
[ her smile is flimsy, delicate and easy to break. she would deserve it, she thinks, if he decided to smash it against the floor. she can hear the icy rejection already: you're hard to miss, alina. not nikolai's voice, but the whisper of her own fear poisoning her ear. her hand falls away, the chilled points of her fingers curling around his own where they grip his keys. ]
You can have them back. I'll trade them to you if you tell me what happened with Zoya.
[ she suspects he won't like the price she's asking for in return, when it requires slipping off the mask he wears, comfortable in his chosen armor — but she isn't selfish enough to burden him with her own news so soon, much as she wants to question if it's her own steps forward that have torn open a rift between him and his best friend. ]
That might count as blackmail, but at least I'm being generous about it.
no subject
there's no need to worsen the pleasant buzz in her head, or lend nikolai the ammunition he needs to blame the wine for loosening her tongue into a jumbled mess of terrifying truths. wine sploshes dangerously when she sets aside her glass, a little more frazzled than she intended as she narrowly avoids spilling it across the dark, elegant wood of his desk. it would be just her luck to throw his study into chaos, a safe sanctuary she's ruined just by entering it, when she had only come to clean up the wreckage of what she's already destroyed.
the smile she shoots him is apologetic — for the unsteadiness of her fingers, for everything that's been left unsaid, for every wrong word that had tumbled out of her mouth. for finding some comfort in the fact he looks like death warmed over, most of all. the satisfied pang in her chest feels her feel like an abomination that needs to be put down, but — she can't look away from the evidence that maybe she had mattered, after all. that maybe she isn't entirely alone in her misery.
that maybe she has a chance to set this right. ]
I wouldn't have blamed you if you didn't want to see me again. [ her fingers smooth over the dark circles bruising beneath his eyes, brushing over the weary creasing in his forehead, though it does little to ease those tired lines away. it's no longer her place to ask if he's sleeping, to pull him down into the soft sheets of his bed when he wears himself into thin, fraying threads of a man — but the impulse is there, coming as naturally as the beating in her chest. ] But I missed you too much not to come.
[ her smile is flimsy, delicate and easy to break. she would deserve it, she thinks, if he decided to smash it against the floor. she can hear the icy rejection already: you're hard to miss, alina. not nikolai's voice, but the whisper of her own fear poisoning her ear. her hand falls away, the chilled points of her fingers curling around his own where they grip his keys. ]
You can have them back. I'll trade them to you if you tell me what happened with Zoya.
[ she suspects he won't like the price she's asking for in return, when it requires slipping off the mask he wears, comfortable in his chosen armor — but she isn't selfish enough to burden him with her own news so soon, much as she wants to question if it's her own steps forward that have torn open a rift between him and his best friend. ]
That might count as blackmail, but at least I'm being generous about it.