[ and just like that, he's broken the moment without entirely meaning to. nikolai lantsov, abject pillow talk failure is what goes through his mind when he feels the shift in the air. unbelievable, really, the speed with which he's managed to mangle this. at least that part can be considered impressive. ]
I don't want you to leave. [ he turns his back to her, sitting up as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his trousers. ] That's half the problem, I think. I never want you to leave.
[ because if every morning could be like this one, then the world would be all too perfect. some other disaster would have to overtake his life, because there's no way the saints would afford him such happiness without a cost. they love misery far too much for that.
his belt clinks as he buckles it, then he moves to the window, drawing it open to let the sunlight in in earnest, the rays filling his room. the thought that alina could say no passes through his head at least a hundred times a day, though now he's wondering if he'll ever be able to look at the sun again without thinking of her. he turns around, casually leaning against the rim of the window, his smile back in place like armor — even if it's somewhat softened by the genuine fondness he isn't completely successful in masking. ]
Would you do this again?
[ an honest question. an attempt to gauge the situation, to measure it against some unseen standard. there is nothing to even compare it to — nikolai the soldier was first too smitten with dominik and then too catastrophically plagued by his loss to engage in the usual pursuits of a man his age, and sturmhond had a roguish reputation to maintain that didn't lend itself to lasting encounters. alina is the first in a long while that he's been able to admire like this, watching the sunlight bathe her in its glow. ]
Perhaps even at night? [ he crosses one arm over his bare chest, resting his elbow on the back of his hand as he hovers his knuckles over his mouth, his eyes never leaving her. ] Although I should warn you: I am a notoriously poor sleeper.
[ and there it is — the sun's beams, burning away all traces of the moment. in the light of day, as if it has illuminated secrets shrouded in the dark, his sleeplessness is more pronounced — a sight that is strangely more intimate than the rays glittering over his bare skin. valiantly, she resists gawking at either with only partial success, though there is something to be said for the bullheaded boldness in her eyes when they lift from his chest to his.
merely another means she uses to confront him with the blunt truth of: ]
I can tell. You're mysterious, but not quite as mysterious as you think.
[ for a wishful second, she considers that perhaps she has learned him well enough to know to search him for that hauntedness. for that sincerity, shielded behind so much steel. it's illogical, really; she hadn't expected any blindsiding confession that he would rather she never leaves. in the end, she reminds herself of a far more reasonable and uncomfortable explanation: she has only recognized how alike they are. like calls to like. his fatigue is only a mirror of her own on those restless nights she is left with only her thoughts for company — and, sometimes, the dark whisper of a voice that is not her own.
it is a desperate want, to wish nikolai's presence alone could scorch it away. it's an attempt worth making. more than that, she has to admit to herself that yes, she would do this again. against her better judgment. despite the guilt that keeps building and building the longer she's forced to address her own tangled, complicated feelings.
she smooths down the hem of her gown, falling back over her knees as they're pulled to her chest. beside her, her fingers twine with the blanket to absently fiddle with it. ]
I would. [ she swallows, throat bobbing. somehow, it feels like spilling a secret, like wanting a taste of what she should forbid herself. ] Do this again. Even at night.
[ or whenever, she doesn't add, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her own eagerness. she still has some dignity — and sanity, perhaps — left to protect. ]
[ he grins at that despite the tiny spear of trepidation that sinks squarely into his chest. he thinks — not for the first time — that alina sees things all too well. she has an uncanny gift to cut straight to the heart of the matter, perhaps because there's so much of herself that she's hidden away just as he has. she knows too many of his tricks.
it's a comfort, in a way. but it also leaves him slightly off balance, because it makes it that much harder to control the situation. it makes his charm somewhat ineffective, at the very least, and he's come to rely on it quite a lot these days. ]
Perhaps that will change with you in my bed. [ but he notices the same things in her, the quiet weariness she carries, the way she seems worn down when she thinks he's not looking. a certain darkness haunts her gaze, as if she spends her time seeing ghosts. ] Perhaps it will benefit us both.
[ a fervent wish and perhaps a foolish hope, but a theory he would nonetheless like to test. he runs one hand through his rumpled hair before he returns to the bed, reaching over to grasp both of her hands and pull her to the edge. he plants a warm kiss to her forehead, drawing his fingers gently through her long hair. ]
Then we shall. Do this again. [ he flashes a grin, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger and letting it fall as he brushes her chin. ] Whenever you want, Alina.
[ then he turns to the tray of forgotten food, scooping out a glop of jam for his toast. he takes a comically large bite, moaning out a noise of appreciation as he moves to his closet, picking out a teal coat emblazoned with the double eagle crest. he brings it over, brushing the crumbs from his hand before he drops it over her shoulders. ]
You'll have an audience. Might as well make a statement.
[ a quiet, pensive agreement. it's laughable, to believe that she might strip away his secrets with each piece of clothing that flutters to the floor. but in these more tender moments, when his lips brush against her forehead like a promise imprinted on her skin, she can believe it is more than the fantasy of a bastard prince and an orphan girl suffocating beneath their ambitions for ravka.
the easing tension in her spine speaks to a relief she doesn't give voice to. even as she narrows her eyes at the moan pouring out of his throat, quite aware that he has — deliberately or otherwise — only contributed to their audience with that particular performance. even as that puddle of teal drapes along her shoulders, drowning her in its lavish fabric.
he really does have the most terrible taste in clothing. the gaudiness is nearly offensive to her eyes, but it wouldn't be nikolai if he wasn't skilled at peacocking. she snorts, plucking it off of her shoulders with a wrinkle of her nose just so she can turn it over and inspect it, despite knowing what embroidery she will find.
if she were a fool, she could convince herself that it means nothing — that it's only to rile the servants into twittering — but it is, undoubtedly, a statement. a large declaration of his fondness, of the ties that bind them, but she is not deaf to what messages she will convey. it dares her to prove herself, challenges her to make a choice; if mal had been so rattled by a kefta — by what it had represented — she cannot imagine his anger to be anything less than a storm on a horizon, sending him into that dark whirlpool of self-destruction she has seen him spiral down into.
she swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment longer, before she pulls her arms into its sleeves. ]
If this turns out to be a way of marking your territory, I'm going to choke you with the rest of your toast.
[ it is, after all, what alina considers a fair warning. ]
[ there's a moment where he holds his breath and wonders if she'll actually take the coat or politely set it aside in favor of reason and peacekeeping — both of which have their merits but neither of which he's currently interested in. but after a few long seconds of consideration slip by, she slips her arms into the coat, and nikolai makes sure the relief that floods him doesn't show on his face. ]
Marking my territory isn't my style. I prefer my territory to come to me willingly, lured in by my matchless wit and unlimited reservoir of charm. And my good looks.
[ he gets dressed while he talks, slowly becoming less boyish and more kingly despite the fact that he's still eating the jam with his fingers, and inspects himself in the mirror, frowning a little as he examines the shadows beneath his eyes. ]
It looks almost as good on you as it does on me.
[ he turns, his frown disappearing and replaced with a bright smile. for all its gaudiness he loves the color — it reminds him of the vastness of the sky and the ocean, and how both can be traversed endlessly and still offer a new sight each time. ]
Bright colors rather suit you, I think. Blue and gold in particular. Do you think I should get a brooch fashioned with my face on it? Would you wear it? Would it be a good gift? Perhaps I should wear it instead as a statement of sorts.
[ she knows what she would say if she were nikolai, brimming with an overconfidence that is as infuriating as it is enviable: everything suits me. as it stands, she seems to shrink further into the fabric at the attention, before scolding herself. if she cannot endure nikolai's focus and flattery, there is very little chance of her withstanding a gossiping, scandalized servant.
then again, she is struck by how little their views on her matter, in comparison. perhaps it's simply the embarrassment of hoping his compliments are more than empty, hollow shells he is used to presenting to courtly companions. she covers her uncertainty with a scoff as she straightens her spine, as if she had never looked unsur of herself at all, and delicately rolls up the sleeves until she can cuff them at the elbow.
it would be a shame if she were to dirty what likely has more value than everything she has ever owned combined, even if it serves to remind her how different their worlds had once been. different, and somehow too painfully similar all at once. ]
You're only going to lure someone in with one of those.
[ the sarcasm drips from her as she saunters toward him, ignoring the twist in her gut at the concept of someone. someone else, drawn in by him. someone else, warming his bed. someone else, who would replace the space she had once occupied, if she were to leave. ]
I think I see enough of your face as it is. [ then, dryly: ] But sure. Wear it yourself. You can consider it your gift to the world every time you force them to look upon it.
[ the corner of her mouth twitches. it's barely-there, a suggestion that she likes this teasing banter a bit too much, at times. ]
They might think you're terribly starved for attention, though.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I don't want you to leave. [ he turns his back to her, sitting up as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his trousers. ] That's half the problem, I think. I never want you to leave.
[ because if every morning could be like this one, then the world would be all too perfect. some other disaster would have to overtake his life, because there's no way the saints would afford him such happiness without a cost. they love misery far too much for that.
his belt clinks as he buckles it, then he moves to the window, drawing it open to let the sunlight in in earnest, the rays filling his room. the thought that alina could say no passes through his head at least a hundred times a day, though now he's wondering if he'll ever be able to look at the sun again without thinking of her. he turns around, casually leaning against the rim of the window, his smile back in place like armor — even if it's somewhat softened by the genuine fondness he isn't completely successful in masking. ]
Would you do this again?
[ an honest question. an attempt to gauge the situation, to measure it against some unseen standard. there is nothing to even compare it to — nikolai the soldier was first too smitten with dominik and then too catastrophically plagued by his loss to engage in the usual pursuits of a man his age, and sturmhond had a roguish reputation to maintain that didn't lend itself to lasting encounters. alina is the first in a long while that he's been able to admire like this, watching the sunlight bathe her in its glow. ]
Perhaps even at night? [ he crosses one arm over his bare chest, resting his elbow on the back of his hand as he hovers his knuckles over his mouth, his eyes never leaving her. ] Although I should warn you: I am a notoriously poor sleeper.
no subject
merely another means she uses to confront him with the blunt truth of: ]
I can tell. You're mysterious, but not quite as mysterious as you think.
[ for a wishful second, she considers that perhaps she has learned him well enough to know to search him for that hauntedness. for that sincerity, shielded behind so much steel. it's illogical, really; she hadn't expected any blindsiding confession that he would rather she never leaves. in the end, she reminds herself of a far more reasonable and uncomfortable explanation: she has only recognized how alike they are. like calls to like. his fatigue is only a mirror of her own on those restless nights she is left with only her thoughts for company — and, sometimes, the dark whisper of a voice that is not her own.
it is a desperate want, to wish nikolai's presence alone could scorch it away. it's an attempt worth making. more than that, she has to admit to herself that yes, she would do this again. against her better judgment. despite the guilt that keeps building and building the longer she's forced to address her own tangled, complicated feelings.
she smooths down the hem of her gown, falling back over her knees as they're pulled to her chest. beside her, her fingers twine with the blanket to absently fiddle with it. ]
I would. [ she swallows, throat bobbing. somehow, it feels like spilling a secret, like wanting a taste of what she should forbid herself. ] Do this again. Even at night.
[ or whenever, she doesn't add, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her own eagerness. she still has some dignity — and sanity, perhaps — left to protect. ]
no subject
it's a comfort, in a way. but it also leaves him slightly off balance, because it makes it that much harder to control the situation. it makes his charm somewhat ineffective, at the very least, and he's come to rely on it quite a lot these days. ]
Perhaps that will change with you in my bed. [ but he notices the same things in her, the quiet weariness she carries, the way she seems worn down when she thinks he's not looking. a certain darkness haunts her gaze, as if she spends her time seeing ghosts. ] Perhaps it will benefit us both.
[ a fervent wish and perhaps a foolish hope, but a theory he would nonetheless like to test. he runs one hand through his rumpled hair before he returns to the bed, reaching over to grasp both of her hands and pull her to the edge. he plants a warm kiss to her forehead, drawing his fingers gently through her long hair. ]
Then we shall. Do this again. [ he flashes a grin, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger and letting it fall as he brushes her chin. ] Whenever you want, Alina.
[ then he turns to the tray of forgotten food, scooping out a glop of jam for his toast. he takes a comically large bite, moaning out a noise of appreciation as he moves to his closet, picking out a teal coat emblazoned with the double eagle crest. he brings it over, brushing the crumbs from his hand before he drops it over her shoulders. ]
You'll have an audience. Might as well make a statement.
no subject
[ a quiet, pensive agreement. it's laughable, to believe that she might strip away his secrets with each piece of clothing that flutters to the floor. but in these more tender moments, when his lips brush against her forehead like a promise imprinted on her skin, she can believe it is more than the fantasy of a bastard prince and an orphan girl suffocating beneath their ambitions for ravka.
the easing tension in her spine speaks to a relief she doesn't give voice to. even as she narrows her eyes at the moan pouring out of his throat, quite aware that he has — deliberately or otherwise — only contributed to their audience with that particular performance. even as that puddle of teal drapes along her shoulders, drowning her in its lavish fabric.
he really does have the most terrible taste in clothing. the gaudiness is nearly offensive to her eyes, but it wouldn't be nikolai if he wasn't skilled at peacocking. she snorts, plucking it off of her shoulders with a wrinkle of her nose just so she can turn it over and inspect it, despite knowing what embroidery she will find.
if she were a fool, she could convince herself that it means nothing — that it's only to rile the servants into twittering — but it is, undoubtedly, a statement. a large declaration of his fondness, of the ties that bind them, but she is not deaf to what messages she will convey. it dares her to prove herself, challenges her to make a choice; if mal had been so rattled by a kefta — by what it had represented — she cannot imagine his anger to be anything less than a storm on a horizon, sending him into that dark whirlpool of self-destruction she has seen him spiral down into.
she swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment longer, before she pulls her arms into its sleeves. ]
If this turns out to be a way of marking your territory, I'm going to choke you with the rest of your toast.
[ it is, after all, what alina considers a fair warning. ]
no subject
Marking my territory isn't my style. I prefer my territory to come to me willingly, lured in by my matchless wit and unlimited reservoir of charm. And my good looks.
[ he gets dressed while he talks, slowly becoming less boyish and more kingly despite the fact that he's still eating the jam with his fingers, and inspects himself in the mirror, frowning a little as he examines the shadows beneath his eyes. ]
It looks almost as good on you as it does on me.
[ he turns, his frown disappearing and replaced with a bright smile. for all its gaudiness he loves the color — it reminds him of the vastness of the sky and the ocean, and how both can be traversed endlessly and still offer a new sight each time. ]
Bright colors rather suit you, I think. Blue and gold in particular. Do you think I should get a brooch fashioned with my face on it? Would you wear it? Would it be a good gift? Perhaps I should wear it instead as a statement of sorts.
no subject
then again, she is struck by how little their views on her matter, in comparison. perhaps it's simply the embarrassment of hoping his compliments are more than empty, hollow shells he is used to presenting to courtly companions. she covers her uncertainty with a scoff as she straightens her spine, as if she had never looked unsur of herself at all, and delicately rolls up the sleeves until she can cuff them at the elbow.
it would be a shame if she were to dirty what likely has more value than everything she has ever owned combined, even if it serves to remind her how different their worlds had once been. different, and somehow too painfully similar all at once. ]
You're only going to lure someone in with one of those.
[ the sarcasm drips from her as she saunters toward him, ignoring the twist in her gut at the concept of someone. someone else, drawn in by him. someone else, warming his bed. someone else, who would replace the space she had once occupied, if she were to leave. ]
I think I see enough of your face as it is. [ then, dryly: ] But sure. Wear it yourself. You can consider it your gift to the world every time you force them to look upon it.
[ the corner of her mouth twitches. it's barely-there, a suggestion that she likes this teasing banter a bit too much, at times. ]
They might think you're terribly starved for attention, though.