[ yes. because the scratch of charcoal on paper is a haven she's created, a home she's lived in to make up for the cold, distant stares of caretakers that had seen her as another burden to watch over. because it has been her escape when the nightmares drag her under, an imaginary world that offers some illusion of peace. because so many people have entered and left her life, and when they inevitably decide to abandon her, at least she'll have a memory etched into a canvas so she can replay it for herself and remember that they had existed.
she doesn't mention that it's easy for her to sneak off with secrets and stash them away, little slivers she's carved out of people just by observing them. as an invisible orphan girl, no one had beyond mal ever cared enough to notice that watchful perceptiveness — and no one had ever cared enough to offer her the same treatment. maybe this is her way of making amends for it, of seeing herself in nikolai and offering a gift she had never been given. ]
Why wouldn't I? I can tell that you're special. I wouldn't torment just anyone for the chance to paint them. Do me a favor and try to be flattered instead of creeped out.
[ it's a simpler, less terrifying truth than i like you, and i want to know you. it's really embarrassing how much i like looking at you, too, especially when i'm the reason you're smiling. the brush balanced delicately between her fingers clacks quietly against the tile as she releases it to fumble with the button of his shirt. ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, like wings flitting between the gaps in her ribcage, takes a valiant amount of effort on her part.
if he had designs on distracting her, she supposes he's done the job well enough. her eyebrow arches as her eyes flicker back to his face to determine if that's sufficient, once the button pops free. ]
You're really determined to get naked, [ she says, flat, as if it might disguise the pounding in her pulse — or, better yet, dispel some of the remaining tension in his smile — when her fingers skim his collarbone in order to readjust his collar. ] I'm almost concerned.
Edited (why do i fail at grammar and html tonight) 2021-01-06 05:35 (UTC)
[ and — there. the last bit of his tension bleeds away as he huffs out a chuckle, watching the sunlight glimmer across the pale strands of her hair. from this close he can see the faint smattering of freckles across her nose and he could count her dark lashes if he had the time. special is hardly a word that means anything to him — he's heard it his entire life, mainly as an excuse for his family to avoid the consequences of their acti ons — but it sounds different when it comes from alina, likely because it isn't a word thrown about so carelessly with her. for the first time in a long time, the word means something again. ]
The only thing that has me concerned is that my handsome aura may not be properly captured. No offense meant, but my beauty can be quite daunting even to the most gifted of hands.
[ a tiny shiver runs over his skin when her fingertips lightly brush against his collarbone, but he keeps his eyes on her even when she focuses a bit too hard on his shirt. his smile blooms once again when their eyes meet, and he wonders — not for the first time — what, exactly, he's trying to do here. this flirtatious dance may not be in either of their best interests. ]
Please. I'm a gentleman. I require dinner before nudity. Why antlers and how far down do they go?
[ her mouth twitches with the effort to restrain a smile that breaks through, anyway, like sunlight cleaving through a storm. it's better than the alternative — which is to overthink her own process, to concede that he has a point. whatever moment she captures, it won't be enough. one painting can only tell a single story, a single viewpoint. now that she has him here, she's overwhelmed by the compulsion to sketch him a million different ways — rough with charcoal lines, celestial and dipped in watercolors — as if a collection might help her piece together nikolai lantsov and the shifting faces he wears.
her fingers fall away as she pushes herself to stand in order to retrieve her easel, lugging it over to plant in front of him, accompanied by a playful shake of her head. ]
That's not the kind of question a gentleman asks. [ bending to adjust its height doesn't conceal the impish, secretive glint to her eyes. ] I took inspiration from a children's story about a stag that grants wishes to its captor.
[ there's a theme to the artwork etched into her skin that she assumes nikolai can recognize: captivity, and the longing for freedom. its meaning hovers in the air between them as if she's waiting for him to grasp it, but — truthfully, she has to summon the spirit needed to be daring. smooth, mal had called her. she could laugh at the sheer absurdity if she wasn't feeling the very opposite. flirtation has never come naturally, or fluently, for a woman that has never felt desirable. ]
If you can sit still for me, I'll let you see how far down they go.
But I live for compliments. What if I forget how handsome I am? What if you forget?
[ he's more than pleased when she pulls the easel over and situates herself in a place that he can easily admire her from. she was pretty in the dingy fluorescent lights at the laundromat and even prettier in the pale glow of the moon, but she's positively radiant beneath the afternoon sun, so much that he wants to commit the sight to memory. his father's old polaroid camera, now sitting on a shelf in nikolai's study, would finally be of some use in this moment. currently only zoya uses it for bewitching selfies and malicious pictures of him after too many drinks.
the theme of her tattoos isn't lost on him, and he wonders yet again about morozova and the things that might have transpired between the two of them — though he wouldn't dare ask, not now and maybe not ever, despite how much he wants to. his want goes beyond the genuine interest he has in her into trickier territory that's hard to explain and even harder to justify. just looking for ways to take down your ex. so sorry for using you.
he never wants to have that conversation with her, and yet he knows eventually these truths will come to light if they continue down this path. their harmless flirtation already feels like something more, and still he's reluctant to put a stop to it. it feels nice. it feels like a bit of sunshine peeking through the clouds. for all of his wealth and privilege, there are so few things that have ever been able to make him feel like this — and after dominik, he swore he'd never feel it again.
and yet here it is, the gentle whirlwind of his heart. the smiles he can't help. the way he's sure he could spend the entire day lounging on the floor like this, watching the sun move and the shadows lengthen and admiring the way every hour of light looks on her. ]
Are you its captor? [ he isn't expecting that particular offer, and he has to chide himself to remain still. ] What do you wish for?
[ it's refreshing, this opportunity to observe him beneath the guise of artistic accuracy, and she seizes it with a piercing stare that lingers on the gold flecks splashed through the ring of his pupil like speckles of paint. the little details that might elude a stranger at a first glance, but seem to call to her the longer she looks. as if to say hello, i'm here as they wait to be discovered. not for the first time, she wonders if too many eyes have overlooked them in their efforts to shove him into a mold. in nikolai's determination to be what's needed.
it grants her a strange sense of comfort; no matter what mask he creates, it's an unchangeable part of him, something no one can take or alter. perhaps it's why she always finds her gaze drifting there to find the truth of his mood. but studying him is just as heart-wrenchingly painful, for the wistful ache it provides. in the soft glow of the afternoon, the amber tint illuminates nikolai in ways that make him appear mystical and alien. something far beyond her understanding. something she isn't allowed to have, much like the wishes that haunt her at night. ]
I don't want to own anyone but myself. [ maybe that's as much an answer as the forlorn smile that overtakes her when she dips her brush in water, layering it across the canvas with a diluted drip of heavenly blue and ethereal gold paints to create her foreground. so long as her connection to aleksander remains, that can never come true. in the short time she had known him, he had never been one to gracefully admit defeat.
some days, it feels like those unattainable wishes had made her an easy target for aleksander's machinations to begin with: that ingrained need to be wanted, to curl up in a pair of arms and know she belongs. ]
I want what everyone wishes for. Freedom. Happiness. For someone to love me for who I am. Impossible things.
Don't be silly, Alina. There is no such thing as an impossible scenario. Improbable, perhaps. But not impossible.
[ said with a wink, but it dampens his spirits just slightly to hear the things she believes to be impossible. freedom — difficult. happiness — even more so, and he can attest to this fact. but for someone to love her for who she is gives him a painful sort of insight in what morozova might have led her to believe. nikolai can hardly imagine the man as capable of an emotion like love. at least not for another human being. and he finds it even harder to believe that so many could look at alina and not see the things that he sees.
but she doesn't make it easy. there's an armor about her, one she keeps pulled close, and he catches the occasional glimpse inside only when she allows it, like in this moment — the doleful smile that pulls at her mouth as her brush tracks across the canvas betrays what she's feeling. nikolai feels as though morozova is suddenly in the room with them, an uncomfortable chill settling at the top of his spine. ]
But none of those wishes are improbable, though it might seem that way now. There are times I thought I'd never smile again either, but you've been making me do quite a lot of that lately.
[ it's equal parts glorious and catastrophic. he isn't quite sure what to do about it, either. ]
If Morozova told you those things were impossible, I'd say you should question the source. The man is quite the shady character, after all.
[ mindlessly, her brush drifts in gliding strokes, but the splotches of color blur in her vision. she has to blink in order to bring it back into sharp focus, motions stilling as tension winds around her spine. as well-meaning as nikolai's intentions are, naming a demon only grants it power, and aleksander is no exception to that rule.
she doesn't want to give him the pleasure of invoking his name here, in this moment with nikolai, when she's dedicated herself to living inside of it. it only feels like another freedom that morozova has stolen from her, another second of happiness that's slipped through her fingers. she scoffs as if it might summon some humor there, but it rings hollow to her own ears when she can still hear aleksander's poisonous whispers against her skin, as well-versed in targeting her insecurities as he had been in telling her hopeful, vulnerable heart what it longed to hear. ]
He was the first person who ever wanted me. Maybe the only person who ever has. [ on her weaker days, she wonders to herself if it means something — that only an entity as dark and corrupted could want her that desperately. the mere thought is a greater agony than the unrequited flame she had once held for mal for so long, pining in his peripherals and waiting for him to finally, truly see her as more than the little orphan girl clinging to his side. ] It's hard not to take that personally.
[ when she lifts her gaze from the canvas to find nikolai's, she determinedly tries not to think: maybe. maybe he could want her without ever trying to change her. maybe he could be the one to see her for all that she is. if she allows that hope to spark, it might scorch her to ash and bone like icarus. still, the side of her mouth tentatively pulls upward, refusing to be trapped in the shadows of her own memories. if nothing else, at least she's brought a flicker of light to his world. ]
Are you saying you reserve some of your smiles for my eyes only, Lantsov?
[ i want you, he wants to protest, but that would be neither wise nor helpful when he knows what comes out of wanting. nothing good for either of them. their names splashed across headlines, furtive pictures stolen on their way to class, his mother's judgment at the dinner table. alina comes from nothing, just as dominik had — and while nikolai finds that particular trait admirable, he's the only one in his family who does. none of these even touch on her connections to morozova, the most damning point of contention of all. ]
He's not the only person.
[ he shifts his eyes back to the dome, his chest rising around a breath. what if, he thinks, his mind despondently shuffling through all the ways this could go wrong. all the reasons he shouldn't act. there are some ways it could go right. he wants to show alina his home, to take her hand and walk her up the spiral staircase at the center of his house that has seen more than a few drunken mishaps. he wants to lie beneath the stars by the bonfire in his backyard and find constellations with her. he wants to take her sailing. he wants, suddenly, to not be a lantsov. not that he really even is.
but his name in her mouth doesn't sound as bad. ]
Just the ones that meet my eyes. [ when he looks at her he grins, levity in his tone. ] It's like exercising an old muscle. Somewhat painful but worth the effort. Are you still coming to my winter nonsense party? Should we coordinate our outfits? Will I be able to meet your friends?
[ he's not the only person. the words turn over in her head like an examination, as if she can dissect the very heart of them — just to see for herself that it isn't a little white lie, just to determine if she's only imagined what she wants to pry from his mouth. when that fails, she looks to him with curious eyes, probing for a solution to a riddle that isn't much of one at all. it feels more like nikolai dipping his toes into murky waters to test them. it feels like an invitation that dares her to cast aside her uncertainty and meet him in the hope that they float, rather than sink.
it feels like a question she doesn't quite have the answer to, yet. we'll see, her answering hum seems to express. the soft tilt to her grin turns knowing, as though she's been privy to a secret he hadn't realized he was sharing. ]
Careful. If you make me feel special, my ego might push yours out of the room.
[ it's a danger for another reason entirely, a tragedy waiting to unfold, if this is simply nikolai lantsov's effect on the world around him and his profound ability to make anyone in the room believe they're the sole center of his attention. it's as addicting as it is frustrating for the way he pins the attention back on her, skirting around his own hard truths. she taps the end of her brush against the corner of the canvas before she begins on the fuzzy edges of his silhouette, as if nothing had unnerved her into pausing. ]
I'm still coming, you're overestimating me if you think I know what I'll wear, and I don't think you want to meet all of them. [ behind the easel, she grimaces. ] I told them about you. Well, I told Mal about you, and I really don't need him repeating any part of that conversation.
Now that might actually be an impossible scenario. My ego is boundless. But I try only to converse with special people, so I'm afraid you already are.
[ she's special for a number of reasons, but just that she holds his interest is a miracle in itself. she makes him want to leave his study instead of holing up for hours or days at a time engineering nonsensical creations or obsessing over files he's read a hundred times already. zoya says he's in a rut, and nikolai is loathe to admit that there might be some truth to the statement, but the way he feels sitting on alina's floor beneath the sunshine makes him realize how long it's been since he's felt this — or much of anything.
he's not telling zoya she was right, though. the line must be drawn somewhere. ]
Mal? [ his brow crooks in thought. ] Mal. You can't mean Oretsev, can you?
[ but mal isn't exactly a common name, and in a rush he recalls why the picture had felt so familiar. he makes a valiant attempt to keep still, but his shoulders shake with sudden laughter. ]
Not the Mal that's kissed nearly every girl who's walked into my home? The Mal that got into a fight in the backyard and damaged my veranda? Good god. I once thought he died in the jacuzzi. That Mal is yours?
[ the impulse to leap to mal's defense is so deeply ingrained that she has to bite down on her tongue to suppress a snide reply. old habits die hard, and though mal possesses an (unnecessary, she would say, now that she's no longer that fragile, sickly girl who might blow away with a well-placed breeze) protective streak as violent as any loyal guard dog she's ever encountered, they've rarely been able to trust anyone else to shield their backs from a knife in it.
her lungs expand with a deep breath to quell that immediate, illogical defensiveness — and then expel a long-suffering groan, like a disappointed mother. perhaps she should regret denying all of his invitations to lantsov's parties, after all. pointedly, she sweeps aside her disappointment that rejecting those opportunities in favor of suffering in her studio had prevented her from finding nikolai until now.
she's even less inclined to examine how she feels about the words your mal. that's the thing about moving on: the residual imprint of that love is always there like a bittersweet memory. maybe it's for the better that she hadn't met nikolai before. before, when she might have ignored nikolai's smiles, too wrapped up in watching mal stick his tongue down someone else's throat. ]
That's the one. He's always known how to make an impression on people. Mostly for the better, sometimes for the worst. [ politely, she keeps herself from rolling her eyes and remarking that nikolai can afford to repair a veranda. no normal person owns a veranda, anyway. she arches a pointed eyebrow, though she immediately regrets the first thing that spills out of her mouth. ] I hear you're not that innocent at your own parties, either.
[ an impression is a bit of an understatement, though mal is hardly the most misbehaved guest he's entertained. the range of expressions that cross alina's face at the mention of him is quite interesting, however. it's difficult to imagine that mal of all people is the best friend she's mentioned, only because the two of them seem so different, but it only serves as a reminder that he doesn't know alina. not yet. not in the way he wants to. there's so much still to uncover — and he intends to uncover all of it. ]
Truthfully, we've only spoken a handful of times. He doesn't seem to like me very much, but he does love a party. Quite the social butterfly, that one. I have my suspicions that something is brewing between him and Zoya. Well, something has brewed, if you get what I'm saying, but it may not be a one-off... which is rather odd for Zoya, to be quite honest. She enjoys the thrill of the hunt. Not so much the carcass she leaves behind.
[ he pauses at the mild but sudden accusation, wondering is this is something mal has planted in her head. they are close, after all, and he'd look out for zoya the same way — although it usually ends up being the other way around. he purses his lips. ]
I suppose that's one way to put it. [ another beat, an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation as he thinks about how to word this. it matters what alina thinks. eventually, he clears his throat and continues, his tone earnest. ] I don't like to be alone. I despise it, actually. That's not to say I'm not good at it — I do some of my best work in solitude — but I find things much more bearable when there's someone there to talk to. So, even at my own parties... I have a tendency to latch onto someone. Usually a different someone each time, because by then the previous someone has likely gotten bored of me and moved on, but — I can see how it would look like I'm as bold of a flirt as Mal.
[ he sighs, lifting his gaze ruefully, a small smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. ] I'm not. And please trust me when I say it pains me to admit to not being good at something, but I do want to be honest with you. There are a lot of people interested in me, but their interest lies in my name, my wealth, the notoriety that comes with being seen with me. I can usually tell early in the conversation whether their interest is genuine or not. So when I find someone that I believe might really just be interested in building an automaton that can play the twelve major scales on a piano, then we tend to be attached at the hip for the entire night. Sometimes we'll sneak off my study to begin some insane, drunken project — and I certainly know how that looks to everyone else.
I won't lie and say I don't indulge in intimacy now and again — I do — but not as often as everyone likely thinks. Sometimes I just like to fall asleep to the sound of someone else's breathing. Sometimes I just can't bear to be alone.
[ it's a lot to say at once, and he wonders if perhaps it's too much to say at all, but it's already out and he can't pull his words back. his eyes drift to the back of the easel, trying to imagine the strokes on the other side. it occupies his mind, now too full of nerves. ]
I'm looking forward to the winter nonsense party because of you. Because I know you'll be there, and I'll have someone to talk to the entire night. Someone I enjoy being around. Someone I don't think cares at all about my name or my wealth.
[ shame colors her in the aftermath, a splotchy shade of pink that spirals up the length of her neck. he doesn't deserve an interrogation that's been instigated by her own doubts, her own nagging insecurities that have reared their ugly head, as she questions whether mal's concern has any merit to it. sometimes, she wishes he had never warned her to be careful; most times, she knows mal is only sniffing out potential threats, that he wouldn't be able to stand it if someone tore her to shreds after she's spent so long piecing herself back together into something stronger, more durable.
guiltily, her eyes dart away in their unwillingness to meet nikolai's. his outline peers back at her, a golden shadow half-marred by shadow. like a fallen angel, she thinks, right before her mouth twitches at a smile at what she imagines mal might say: yeah, just like lucifer. ]
The carcass she leaves behind. That's a terrible way to speak about your best friend. [ the quiet spill of her laughter says otherwise. ] She sounds like a perfect match for him.
[ it hardly helps to hear about zoya and mal, if only for the pang of envy in her chest, how it muddles with her own hope for mal's happiness. he's fortunate, she thinks, to have found what alina has been searching for all this time: someone that, from the sound of it, suits him perfectly. ]
You don't owe me an explanation. I know what it's like to want to escape your own loneliness. If it brought you some peace, why would I ever judge you for it? It's just — it was stupid. Mal mentioned it to me, and I started doubting myself, and — just let me pretend I never said anything about it.
[ it doesn't matter, she wants to say. and it doesn't, truthfully; nikolai's past could contain a string of flings that have shared his bed, and her only worry would be that she might be a brief distraction he tosses aside when his interest dwindles. but he's given her an explanation, anyway, marked by open honesty — and that has to mean something, if he isn't hiding it from her. if he's so determined to clear up that misunderstanding.
she huffs out a breath and purses her lips to interrupt her own nervous rambling. ]
I can't see how anyone could ever get tired of you, puppy. I'd call that an improbable scenario. Highly improbable, in fact, but their loss is my gain. You can drone on about building an automaton to me all night, if it makes you happy.
Edited (how do i proofread two times and still end up with typos....... how) 2021-01-08 07:11 (UTC)
[ briefly, he finds himself holding his breath as he waits for her to reply, schooling his features back to something more neutral and relaxing his shoulders without ruining his pose too much. he's blinking back the sunlight spilling over his face when she speaks again, his gaze gravitating back to her. it sounds like an apology, but as far as he's concerned, it's an unnecessary one. ]
Mal was looking out for you. Who am I to fault him for filling your head with tales of me? I imagine I occupy quite a bit of space in most people's minds. [ he grins again at the nickname, suddenly feeling like a child once more. ] Honestly, Alina, you'd be surprised. The type of novelty I am can only be fully handled by a select group of remarkable people. I choose to take that as a compliment to my exquisite and unique personality, but trust me when I say there have been many a despairing day in the Lantsov household over my particular brand of difficult.
[ it made for a frustrating and lonely boyhood — until dominik. and he feels that same sense of companionship here, with alina, where he dares to believe that she can not only understand him, but perhaps even enjoys the particular oddities of his friendship. ]
Sobachka. That was my nickname growing up. It means puppy. I dare say you have me entirely figured out. [ his grin widens around a chuckle. ] My mother hated it. Said it made me sound like a mongrel. I hope you're noticing the trend of things my family hates but I enjoy. When can I see this painting? I think I deserve a peek.
[ the challenging arch to her eyebrow distracts her from the sudden, skittish stutter of her pulse. she isn't quite ready to let nikolai's perceptive eyes analyze her work for fear of what he may find of her own secrets hidden away in every brushstroke, the raw truths it could expose — the complex emotions he stirs in her, and the way she sees him, chief among them.
it's a far cry from the demeaning words he uses to define himself, as though he's collected every insult given to him and kept it close. difficult. mongrel. bastard. it challenges what she thought she knew of him, of the overly confident aura he projects. the twinkle of humor drains from her eyes as her chest constricts with a pang of sympathy, left to wonder if so very few people have reminded him that he has value beyond his namesake. ]
That's a cruel thing for someone to say about their own child, by the way. You must be the only good thing that ever came out of the Lantsov household. [ it's impossible to miss the angry pinch to her mouth, the tightness in her jaw, as she stands and crosses the room in just a few strides. ] If you were wondering, you're the right kind of difficult for me.
[ a few stray strands of silver spill into her eyes when she bends to wrap her fingers around the nape of his neck. she won't admit to either of them that it's only an excuse to touch him under the guise of gauging his comfort after maintaining one pose for so long, kneading firm fingertips into the muscle there in search of knots. ]
Sobachka. Did they try to send you to obedience training? [ for his sake, she attempts a half-hearted, teasing smile. ] I hear that's what they do with puppies, especially the difficult ones.
[ it's a bad habit to dwell on all the ways he finds himself falling short, but dwell he does. making light of it helps, but alina has already proven to be a bit too perceptive, so perhaps he needs to temper that habit as well. he smiles up at her when she comes over, raising his brows at the obvious displeasure on her face. ]
I should stop leaving out the good parts before your opinion of us is irrevocably tarnished. [ he'll need time to think of the good parts first. ] She was just sensitive about the rumors of my birthright, is all. I don't think she enjoyed being reminded of my biological father. Whether it was because she loved him or hated him, I doubt I'll ever know.
[ her fingers curl around his neck while he pulls in a quiet breath of air, meeting her eyes as her figure blocks the sunlight, the sudden shade cool against his skin. he keeps still despite how his fingers itch to tuck the fallen strands of her hair back behind her ear, imagining his fingertips grazing the curve of her cheek down to the slope of her jaw. it occurs to him suddenly — as his heartbeat chases the feeling — that he wants to kiss her. or at least he's curious about the idea of kissing her.
it would be easy to move into this quickly like he does every now and again with the background noise of a too-loud party shut away behind his bedroom door, but this isn't like that. there's no expectation there, nothing beyond finding happiness in a bottle and a fleeting pair of lips. it's relieving, even, to know that it's nothing, because the hard part comes when it is something. something fragile and new, a rosebud easily crushed by a careless hand. something that needs protection from the swarming chaos that circles his life.
this is something. the sun is out of his eyes, instead illuminating the space behind alina to give her a halo, and for a moment he thinks maybe it doesn't have to be hard. she's within reach, her fingers pressing against the top of his spine. he could pull her close and meet her lips halfway there. he could close his eyes and happily drown himself in her. he could do any number of things if only he could stop being reminded of what happened the last time he allowed himself to fall hard for someone.
he blinks and feels a jab of panic that he quickly tamps down, knowing that if he entertains it and allows it to fester that he won't be able to get through the rest of this afternoon. leaning forward, he curls his lips into a self-assured grin, ignoring how quickly he remembers that alina inspects the authenticity of his smiles with the precision of a jeweler appraising a stone. ]
I deserve to see it because clearly I've mastered all of my obedience lessons. [ he pushes to his feet, swinging an arm around her shoulders as he steers her back to the easel, setting his knuckles against his mouth as he examines the canvas in silence for several long moments. his consideration is genuine, seemingly lost in thought, his eyes never leaving the easel. ]
How did you know? [ he breaks the quiet in a soft tone, his arm still resting easily around her as he tilts his head to regard the painting. ] Blue and gold are my favorite colors.
[ it's there and gone in the blink of nikolai's eye: that charged air that buzzes with possibility, as though they're standing on the precipice of something. she waits for the fall to come, that inevitable drop that sends them plummeting into something new without ever knowing where they'll land. the breath expels from her lungs in a rush when it never comes, uncertain if it's disappointment or relief that knots her stomach — or some tangle of both.
whatever it is, it reminds her of a shooting star too fleeting to pin her hopes on. she hates that their smiles are mirrors of each other as the moment shatters, never quite sparking in their eyes. if there's anything she dreads, it's that aspect of performance that reminds her of aleksander's cold eyes, the kindness he had worn as a veil to disguise the darkness beneath. her gaze is sharper, now, from having learned that agonizing lesson. watchful and cutting, like an animal capable of detecting a predator from sight and sound alone before it can come too close.
her own expression leaves nothing to the imagination as he leads her away, too much a reflection of her talent for blunt honesty as she wears her nerves openly in the violent flush that overtakes her. not for the first time, she envies nikolai's ability to compose himself, like a puppeteer pulling at his own strings, when she is so used to fumbling with the masks she wears in daily life — as if she isn't aware she's stumbling through the disaster she's made of it, as if there aren't days where she begins to fray and unravel at the seams while navigating the business and bullshit and backstabbing of a world she aches to escape.
momentarily, she digs in her heels despite knowing it won't spare her from his curious assessment — and when that fails, she hastily resorts to shielding her burning face in nikolai's chest. only mal has ever witnessed the half-finished splashes of paint across a canvas, the imperfect lines she spends hours refining, and he is rarely so silent. that's the worst part, she thinks — that void of quiet that she wants to fill, to bite out a demand for him to say something and put her out of her misery, so she no longer has to wish for the ability to read his mind. ]
It isn't done, [ she mumbles, his shirt absorbing that defensive protest. true to her word, it isn't; it needs the finer details, but the ideas are there. the light that spills around his outline with reverence and grace that's reserved for sprawling cathedrals. the golden, ethereal glow around his silhouette like the sunlight casting its glare off of the sea, and the murkiness of the shadow he casts. her head shifts and tilts, propping her chin onto his shoulder to peer at him in the hopes that his eyes speak a language she can translate. ]
I made an educated guess. Do you remember when I told you that you remind me of the sea? [ her fingers search his collarbone to find and indicate the sea glass he had worn that first night, how poetically he had reminded her of open seas — crystal-bright and beautiful on the surface, hiding loneliness and secrets in its depths. a world wonder, just waiting to be explored. ] Do you hate it? You can tell me if you do. I can handle it.
[ he remembers everything about their first encounter with startling clarity, perhaps because he's gone over it so many times in his head since then. the gold splatters of paint. the bound monster. the way she carelessly dismissed all of the stories coming out about vasily that night, likely not even realizing how much of a burden she'd lifted from his shoulders. the gilded bra, too, which he is not trying to dwell on.
her face is warm against his chest, the softness of her breath idly passing through the fabric of his shirt. he looks at her once she lifts her head, a shiver skittering across his skin when she fishes out his necklace. the sea glass catches the sunlight, casting a burst of refracted light that dances briefly across the wall.
the snort that sounds in his throat is also genuine. ] Do I hate it? Alina, it's a painting of me. No one could ever hate this.
[ but even if it wasn't of him, he doesn't see how anyone could miss the beauty in her elegant brushstrokes, the juxtaposition of shadow and light, the delicate lines of his own silhouette. there's no pretense in his admiration, for once no mask in place, his eyes glittering brightly. ]
I've never seen anyone render light like this. [ he slides his arm from her shoulders to draw his hand to her cheek, smiling. ] You are remarkably talented. Finished or not, I already like this better than any family portrait I've ever sat for. Don't doubt yourself, Alina. When you feel it creeping up, do what I do. Tell it to fuck off and say exactly the opposite of what it was trying to make you believe. I'm honored you asked me to be your subject.
[ the laughter that bubbles out of her is effervescent in its relief. she's never known mal to sweeten his words for the sake of sparing her feelings, but time has given them a degree of comfort with one another she doesn't share with nikolai. still an unfamiliar outsider to her in so many ways, still hovering on the outskirts of the life she's built for herself, and allowing him to enter it —
it's a lengthy, laborious process to struggle with — that desire to be seen, while simultaneously dreading what he may discover. it hands him the same power she had offered aleksander, the very choice that had nearly unmade her in some ways. perhaps it's another betrayal to resent, the gift he's left her with: stripping her of what trust she had left in the world around her. rattling her faith to ensure she would never find comfort in another soul, too afraid of being measured and given the verdict of not good enough.
it's a show of trust, however small, that she instinctively leans into the warm press of nikolai's palm and the faint callouses that slide across her skin — still vividly bright, despite the dampening of her anxiety — and gives herself permission to believe him. her eyes drift closed, crinkling from the bright wattage of the smile dimpling the corners of her mouth. ]
I'm good at telling most things to fuck off, but ... [ but.but this is a piece of herself she's nurtured since childhood, sentimental and precious to her. ] It's not just a painting of you. I've put part of myself into every piece of artwork I've ever made. Maybe I'm just afraid people will see me for who I am and decide they can't stand what they've found.
[ idly, her fingers wrap around the chain dangling from his neck, fiddling with the pendant attached, before she finally meets his eyes. it's a dangerous decision; they seem to gleam, a glow cast across a forest of green, and if she dwells on defying her doubt — she might make the mistake of throwing caution to the wind. ]
Will you keep it once it's finished? You'll have an Alina Starkov original, and hopefully something that reminds you of me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
she doesn't mention that it's easy for her to sneak off with secrets and stash them away, little slivers she's carved out of people just by observing them. as an invisible orphan girl, no one had beyond mal ever cared enough to notice that watchful perceptiveness — and no one had ever cared enough to offer her the same treatment. maybe this is her way of making amends for it, of seeing herself in nikolai and offering a gift she had never been given. ]
Why wouldn't I? I can tell that you're special. I wouldn't torment just anyone for the chance to paint them. Do me a favor and try to be flattered instead of creeped out.
[ it's a simpler, less terrifying truth than i like you, and i want to know you. it's really embarrassing how much i like looking at you, too, especially when i'm the reason you're smiling. the brush balanced delicately between her fingers clacks quietly against the tile as she releases it to fumble with the button of his shirt. ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, like wings flitting between the gaps in her ribcage, takes a valiant amount of effort on her part.
if he had designs on distracting her, she supposes he's done the job well enough. her eyebrow arches as her eyes flicker back to his face to determine if that's sufficient, once the button pops free. ]
You're really determined to get naked, [ she says, flat, as if it might disguise the pounding in her pulse — or, better yet, dispel some of the remaining tension in his smile — when her fingers skim his collarbone in order to readjust his collar. ] I'm almost concerned.
no subject
The only thing that has me concerned is that my handsome aura may not be properly captured. No offense meant, but my beauty can be quite daunting even to the most gifted of hands.
[ a tiny shiver runs over his skin when her fingertips lightly brush against his collarbone, but he keeps his eyes on her even when she focuses a bit too hard on his shirt. his smile blooms once again when their eyes meet, and he wonders — not for the first time — what, exactly, he's trying to do here. this flirtatious dance may not be in either of their best interests. ]
Please. I'm a gentleman. I require dinner before nudity. Why antlers and how far down do they go?
no subject
[ her mouth twitches with the effort to restrain a smile that breaks through, anyway, like sunlight cleaving through a storm. it's better than the alternative — which is to overthink her own process, to concede that he has a point. whatever moment she captures, it won't be enough. one painting can only tell a single story, a single viewpoint. now that she has him here, she's overwhelmed by the compulsion to sketch him a million different ways — rough with charcoal lines, celestial and dipped in watercolors — as if a collection might help her piece together nikolai lantsov and the shifting faces he wears.
her fingers fall away as she pushes herself to stand in order to retrieve her easel, lugging it over to plant in front of him, accompanied by a playful shake of her head. ]
That's not the kind of question a gentleman asks. [ bending to adjust its height doesn't conceal the impish, secretive glint to her eyes. ] I took inspiration from a children's story about a stag that grants wishes to its captor.
[ there's a theme to the artwork etched into her skin that she assumes nikolai can recognize: captivity, and the longing for freedom. its meaning hovers in the air between them as if she's waiting for him to grasp it, but — truthfully, she has to summon the spirit needed to be daring. smooth, mal had called her. she could laugh at the sheer absurdity if she wasn't feeling the very opposite. flirtation has never come naturally, or fluently, for a woman that has never felt desirable. ]
If you can sit still for me, I'll let you see how far down they go.
no subject
[ he's more than pleased when she pulls the easel over and situates herself in a place that he can easily admire her from. she was pretty in the dingy fluorescent lights at the laundromat and even prettier in the pale glow of the moon, but she's positively radiant beneath the afternoon sun, so much that he wants to commit the sight to memory. his father's old polaroid camera, now sitting on a shelf in nikolai's study, would finally be of some use in this moment. currently only zoya uses it for bewitching selfies and malicious pictures of him after too many drinks.
the theme of her tattoos isn't lost on him, and he wonders yet again about morozova and the things that might have transpired between the two of them — though he wouldn't dare ask, not now and maybe not ever, despite how much he wants to. his want goes beyond the genuine interest he has in her into trickier territory that's hard to explain and even harder to justify. just looking for ways to take down your ex. so sorry for using you.
he never wants to have that conversation with her, and yet he knows eventually these truths will come to light if they continue down this path. their harmless flirtation already feels like something more, and still he's reluctant to put a stop to it. it feels nice. it feels like a bit of sunshine peeking through the clouds. for all of his wealth and privilege, there are so few things that have ever been able to make him feel like this — and after dominik, he swore he'd never feel it again.
and yet here it is, the gentle whirlwind of his heart. the smiles he can't help. the way he's sure he could spend the entire day lounging on the floor like this, watching the sun move and the shadows lengthen and admiring the way every hour of light looks on her. ]
Are you its captor? [ he isn't expecting that particular offer, and he has to chide himself to remain still. ] What do you wish for?
no subject
[ it's refreshing, this opportunity to observe him beneath the guise of artistic accuracy, and she seizes it with a piercing stare that lingers on the gold flecks splashed through the ring of his pupil like speckles of paint. the little details that might elude a stranger at a first glance, but seem to call to her the longer she looks. as if to say hello, i'm here as they wait to be discovered. not for the first time, she wonders if too many eyes have overlooked them in their efforts to shove him into a mold. in nikolai's determination to be what's needed.
it grants her a strange sense of comfort; no matter what mask he creates, it's an unchangeable part of him, something no one can take or alter. perhaps it's why she always finds her gaze drifting there to find the truth of his mood. but studying him is just as heart-wrenchingly painful, for the wistful ache it provides. in the soft glow of the afternoon, the amber tint illuminates nikolai in ways that make him appear mystical and alien. something far beyond her understanding. something she isn't allowed to have, much like the wishes that haunt her at night. ]
I don't want to own anyone but myself. [ maybe that's as much an answer as the forlorn smile that overtakes her when she dips her brush in water, layering it across the canvas with a diluted drip of heavenly blue and ethereal gold paints to create her foreground. so long as her connection to aleksander remains, that can never come true. in the short time she had known him, he had never been one to gracefully admit defeat.
some days, it feels like those unattainable wishes had made her an easy target for aleksander's machinations to begin with: that ingrained need to be wanted, to curl up in a pair of arms and know she belongs. ]
I want what everyone wishes for. Freedom. Happiness. For someone to love me for who I am. Impossible things.
no subject
[ said with a wink, but it dampens his spirits just slightly to hear the things she believes to be impossible. freedom — difficult. happiness — even more so, and he can attest to this fact. but for someone to love her for who she is gives him a painful sort of insight in what morozova might have led her to believe. nikolai can hardly imagine the man as capable of an emotion like love. at least not for another human being. and he finds it even harder to believe that so many could look at alina and not see the things that he sees.
but she doesn't make it easy. there's an armor about her, one she keeps pulled close, and he catches the occasional glimpse inside only when she allows it, like in this moment — the doleful smile that pulls at her mouth as her brush tracks across the canvas betrays what she's feeling. nikolai feels as though morozova is suddenly in the room with them, an uncomfortable chill settling at the top of his spine. ]
But none of those wishes are improbable, though it might seem that way now. There are times I thought I'd never smile again either, but you've been making me do quite a lot of that lately.
[ it's equal parts glorious and catastrophic. he isn't quite sure what to do about it, either. ]
If Morozova told you those things were impossible, I'd say you should question the source. The man is quite the shady character, after all.
no subject
she doesn't want to give him the pleasure of invoking his name here, in this moment with nikolai, when she's dedicated herself to living inside of it. it only feels like another freedom that morozova has stolen from her, another second of happiness that's slipped through her fingers. she scoffs as if it might summon some humor there, but it rings hollow to her own ears when she can still hear aleksander's poisonous whispers against her skin, as well-versed in targeting her insecurities as he had been in telling her hopeful, vulnerable heart what it longed to hear. ]
He was the first person who ever wanted me. Maybe the only person who ever has. [ on her weaker days, she wonders to herself if it means something — that only an entity as dark and corrupted could want her that desperately. the mere thought is a greater agony than the unrequited flame she had once held for mal for so long, pining in his peripherals and waiting for him to finally, truly see her as more than the little orphan girl clinging to his side. ] It's hard not to take that personally.
[ when she lifts her gaze from the canvas to find nikolai's, she determinedly tries not to think: maybe. maybe he could want her without ever trying to change her. maybe he could be the one to see her for all that she is. if she allows that hope to spark, it might scorch her to ash and bone like icarus. still, the side of her mouth tentatively pulls upward, refusing to be trapped in the shadows of her own memories. if nothing else, at least she's brought a flicker of light to his world. ]
Are you saying you reserve some of your smiles for my eyes only, Lantsov?
no subject
He's not the only person.
[ he shifts his eyes back to the dome, his chest rising around a breath. what if, he thinks, his mind despondently shuffling through all the ways this could go wrong. all the reasons he shouldn't act. there are some ways it could go right. he wants to show alina his home, to take her hand and walk her up the spiral staircase at the center of his house that has seen more than a few drunken mishaps. he wants to lie beneath the stars by the bonfire in his backyard and find constellations with her. he wants to take her sailing. he wants, suddenly, to not be a lantsov. not that he really even is.
but his name in her mouth doesn't sound as bad. ]
Just the ones that meet my eyes. [ when he looks at her he grins, levity in his tone. ] It's like exercising an old muscle. Somewhat painful but worth the effort. Are you still coming to my winter nonsense party? Should we coordinate our outfits? Will I be able to meet your friends?
no subject
it feels like a question she doesn't quite have the answer to, yet. we'll see, her answering hum seems to express. the soft tilt to her grin turns knowing, as though she's been privy to a secret he hadn't realized he was sharing. ]
Careful. If you make me feel special, my ego might push yours out of the room.
[ it's a danger for another reason entirely, a tragedy waiting to unfold, if this is simply nikolai lantsov's effect on the world around him and his profound ability to make anyone in the room believe they're the sole center of his attention. it's as addicting as it is frustrating for the way he pins the attention back on her, skirting around his own hard truths. she taps the end of her brush against the corner of the canvas before she begins on the fuzzy edges of his silhouette, as if nothing had unnerved her into pausing. ]
I'm still coming, you're overestimating me if you think I know what I'll wear, and I don't think you want to meet all of them. [ behind the easel, she grimaces. ] I told them about you. Well, I told Mal about you, and I really don't need him repeating any part of that conversation.
no subject
[ she's special for a number of reasons, but just that she holds his interest is a miracle in itself. she makes him want to leave his study instead of holing up for hours or days at a time engineering nonsensical creations or obsessing over files he's read a hundred times already. zoya says he's in a rut, and nikolai is loathe to admit that there might be some truth to the statement, but the way he feels sitting on alina's floor beneath the sunshine makes him realize how long it's been since he's felt this — or much of anything.
he's not telling zoya she was right, though. the line must be drawn somewhere. ]
Mal? [ his brow crooks in thought. ] Mal. You can't mean Oretsev, can you?
[ but mal isn't exactly a common name, and in a rush he recalls why the picture had felt so familiar. he makes a valiant attempt to keep still, but his shoulders shake with sudden laughter. ]
Not the Mal that's kissed nearly every girl who's walked into my home? The Mal that got into a fight in the backyard and damaged my veranda? Good god. I once thought he died in the jacuzzi. That Mal is yours?
no subject
her lungs expand with a deep breath to quell that immediate, illogical defensiveness — and then expel a long-suffering groan, like a disappointed mother. perhaps she should regret denying all of his invitations to lantsov's parties, after all. pointedly, she sweeps aside her disappointment that rejecting those opportunities in favor of suffering in her studio had prevented her from finding nikolai until now.
she's even less inclined to examine how she feels about the words your mal. that's the thing about moving on: the residual imprint of that love is always there like a bittersweet memory. maybe it's for the better that she hadn't met nikolai before. before, when she might have ignored nikolai's smiles, too wrapped up in watching mal stick his tongue down someone else's throat. ]
That's the one. He's always known how to make an impression on people. Mostly for the better, sometimes for the worst. [ politely, she keeps herself from rolling her eyes and remarking that nikolai can afford to repair a veranda. no normal person owns a veranda, anyway. she arches a pointed eyebrow, though she immediately regrets the first thing that spills out of her mouth. ] I hear you're not that innocent at your own parties, either.
no subject
Truthfully, we've only spoken a handful of times. He doesn't seem to like me very much, but he does love a party. Quite the social butterfly, that one. I have my suspicions that something is brewing between him and Zoya. Well, something has brewed, if you get what I'm saying, but it may not be a one-off... which is rather odd for Zoya, to be quite honest. She enjoys the thrill of the hunt. Not so much the carcass she leaves behind.
[ he pauses at the mild but sudden accusation, wondering is this is something mal has planted in her head. they are close, after all, and he'd look out for zoya the same way — although it usually ends up being the other way around. he purses his lips. ]
I suppose that's one way to put it. [ another beat, an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation as he thinks about how to word this. it matters what alina thinks. eventually, he clears his throat and continues, his tone earnest. ] I don't like to be alone. I despise it, actually. That's not to say I'm not good at it — I do some of my best work in solitude — but I find things much more bearable when there's someone there to talk to. So, even at my own parties... I have a tendency to latch onto someone. Usually a different someone each time, because by then the previous someone has likely gotten bored of me and moved on, but — I can see how it would look like I'm as bold of a flirt as Mal.
[ he sighs, lifting his gaze ruefully, a small smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. ] I'm not. And please trust me when I say it pains me to admit to not being good at something, but I do want to be honest with you. There are a lot of people interested in me, but their interest lies in my name, my wealth, the notoriety that comes with being seen with me. I can usually tell early in the conversation whether their interest is genuine or not. So when I find someone that I believe might really just be interested in building an automaton that can play the twelve major scales on a piano, then we tend to be attached at the hip for the entire night. Sometimes we'll sneak off my study to begin some insane, drunken project — and I certainly know how that looks to everyone else.
I won't lie and say I don't indulge in intimacy now and again — I do — but not as often as everyone likely thinks. Sometimes I just like to fall asleep to the sound of someone else's breathing. Sometimes I just can't bear to be alone.
[ it's a lot to say at once, and he wonders if perhaps it's too much to say at all, but it's already out and he can't pull his words back. his eyes drift to the back of the easel, trying to imagine the strokes on the other side. it occupies his mind, now too full of nerves. ]
I'm looking forward to the winter nonsense party because of you. Because I know you'll be there, and I'll have someone to talk to the entire night. Someone I enjoy being around. Someone I don't think cares at all about my name or my wealth.
no subject
guiltily, her eyes dart away in their unwillingness to meet nikolai's. his outline peers back at her, a golden shadow half-marred by shadow. like a fallen angel, she thinks, right before her mouth twitches at a smile at what she imagines mal might say: yeah, just like lucifer. ]
The carcass she leaves behind. That's a terrible way to speak about your best friend. [ the quiet spill of her laughter says otherwise. ] She sounds like a perfect match for him.
[ it hardly helps to hear about zoya and mal, if only for the pang of envy in her chest, how it muddles with her own hope for mal's happiness. he's fortunate, she thinks, to have found what alina has been searching for all this time: someone that, from the sound of it, suits him perfectly. ]
You don't owe me an explanation. I know what it's like to want to escape your own loneliness. If it brought you some peace, why would I ever judge you for it? It's just — it was stupid. Mal mentioned it to me, and I started doubting myself, and — just let me pretend I never said anything about it.
[ it doesn't matter, she wants to say. and it doesn't, truthfully; nikolai's past could contain a string of flings that have shared his bed, and her only worry would be that she might be a brief distraction he tosses aside when his interest dwindles. but he's given her an explanation, anyway, marked by open honesty — and that has to mean something, if he isn't hiding it from her. if he's so determined to clear up that misunderstanding.
she huffs out a breath and purses her lips to interrupt her own nervous rambling. ]
I can't see how anyone could ever get tired of you, puppy. I'd call that an improbable scenario. Highly improbable, in fact, but their loss is my gain. You can drone on about building an automaton to me all night, if it makes you happy.
no subject
Mal was looking out for you. Who am I to fault him for filling your head with tales of me? I imagine I occupy quite a bit of space in most people's minds. [ he grins again at the nickname, suddenly feeling like a child once more. ] Honestly, Alina, you'd be surprised. The type of novelty I am can only be fully handled by a select group of remarkable people. I choose to take that as a compliment to my exquisite and unique personality, but trust me when I say there have been many a despairing day in the Lantsov household over my particular brand of difficult.
[ it made for a frustrating and lonely boyhood — until dominik. and he feels that same sense of companionship here, with alina, where he dares to believe that she can not only understand him, but perhaps even enjoys the particular oddities of his friendship. ]
Sobachka. That was my nickname growing up. It means puppy. I dare say you have me entirely figured out. [ his grin widens around a chuckle. ] My mother hated it. Said it made me sound like a mongrel. I hope you're noticing the trend of things my family hates but I enjoy. When can I see this painting? I think I deserve a peek.
no subject
[ the challenging arch to her eyebrow distracts her from the sudden, skittish stutter of her pulse. she isn't quite ready to let nikolai's perceptive eyes analyze her work for fear of what he may find of her own secrets hidden away in every brushstroke, the raw truths it could expose — the complex emotions he stirs in her, and the way she sees him, chief among them.
it's a far cry from the demeaning words he uses to define himself, as though he's collected every insult given to him and kept it close. difficult. mongrel. bastard. it challenges what she thought she knew of him, of the overly confident aura he projects. the twinkle of humor drains from her eyes as her chest constricts with a pang of sympathy, left to wonder if so very few people have reminded him that he has value beyond his namesake. ]
That's a cruel thing for someone to say about their own child, by the way. You must be the only good thing that ever came out of the Lantsov household. [ it's impossible to miss the angry pinch to her mouth, the tightness in her jaw, as she stands and crosses the room in just a few strides. ] If you were wondering, you're the right kind of difficult for me.
[ a few stray strands of silver spill into her eyes when she bends to wrap her fingers around the nape of his neck. she won't admit to either of them that it's only an excuse to touch him under the guise of gauging his comfort after maintaining one pose for so long, kneading firm fingertips into the muscle there in search of knots. ]
Sobachka. Did they try to send you to obedience training? [ for his sake, she attempts a half-hearted, teasing smile. ] I hear that's what they do with puppies, especially the difficult ones.
no subject
I should stop leaving out the good parts before your opinion of us is irrevocably tarnished. [ he'll need time to think of the good parts first. ] She was just sensitive about the rumors of my birthright, is all. I don't think she enjoyed being reminded of my biological father. Whether it was because she loved him or hated him, I doubt I'll ever know.
[ her fingers curl around his neck while he pulls in a quiet breath of air, meeting her eyes as her figure blocks the sunlight, the sudden shade cool against his skin. he keeps still despite how his fingers itch to tuck the fallen strands of her hair back behind her ear, imagining his fingertips grazing the curve of her cheek down to the slope of her jaw. it occurs to him suddenly — as his heartbeat chases the feeling — that he wants to kiss her. or at least he's curious about the idea of kissing her.
it would be easy to move into this quickly like he does every now and again with the background noise of a too-loud party shut away behind his bedroom door, but this isn't like that. there's no expectation there, nothing beyond finding happiness in a bottle and a fleeting pair of lips. it's relieving, even, to know that it's nothing, because the hard part comes when it is something. something fragile and new, a rosebud easily crushed by a careless hand. something that needs protection from the swarming chaos that circles his life.
this is something. the sun is out of his eyes, instead illuminating the space behind alina to give her a halo, and for a moment he thinks maybe it doesn't have to be hard. she's within reach, her fingers pressing against the top of his spine. he could pull her close and meet her lips halfway there. he could close his eyes and happily drown himself in her. he could do any number of things if only he could stop being reminded of what happened the last time he allowed himself to fall hard for someone.
he blinks and feels a jab of panic that he quickly tamps down, knowing that if he entertains it and allows it to fester that he won't be able to get through the rest of this afternoon. leaning forward, he curls his lips into a self-assured grin, ignoring how quickly he remembers that alina inspects the authenticity of his smiles with the precision of a jeweler appraising a stone. ]
I deserve to see it because clearly I've mastered all of my obedience lessons. [ he pushes to his feet, swinging an arm around her shoulders as he steers her back to the easel, setting his knuckles against his mouth as he examines the canvas in silence for several long moments. his consideration is genuine, seemingly lost in thought, his eyes never leaving the easel. ]
How did you know? [ he breaks the quiet in a soft tone, his arm still resting easily around her as he tilts his head to regard the painting. ] Blue and gold are my favorite colors.
no subject
whatever it is, it reminds her of a shooting star too fleeting to pin her hopes on. she hates that their smiles are mirrors of each other as the moment shatters, never quite sparking in their eyes. if there's anything she dreads, it's that aspect of performance that reminds her of aleksander's cold eyes, the kindness he had worn as a veil to disguise the darkness beneath. her gaze is sharper, now, from having learned that agonizing lesson. watchful and cutting, like an animal capable of detecting a predator from sight and sound alone before it can come too close.
her own expression leaves nothing to the imagination as he leads her away, too much a reflection of her talent for blunt honesty as she wears her nerves openly in the violent flush that overtakes her. not for the first time, she envies nikolai's ability to compose himself, like a puppeteer pulling at his own strings, when she is so used to fumbling with the masks she wears in daily life — as if she isn't aware she's stumbling through the disaster she's made of it, as if there aren't days where she begins to fray and unravel at the seams while navigating the business and bullshit and backstabbing of a world she aches to escape.
momentarily, she digs in her heels despite knowing it won't spare her from his curious assessment — and when that fails, she hastily resorts to shielding her burning face in nikolai's chest. only mal has ever witnessed the half-finished splashes of paint across a canvas, the imperfect lines she spends hours refining, and he is rarely so silent. that's the worst part, she thinks — that void of quiet that she wants to fill, to bite out a demand for him to say something and put her out of her misery, so she no longer has to wish for the ability to read his mind. ]
It isn't done, [ she mumbles, his shirt absorbing that defensive protest. true to her word, it isn't; it needs the finer details, but the ideas are there. the light that spills around his outline with reverence and grace that's reserved for sprawling cathedrals. the golden, ethereal glow around his silhouette like the sunlight casting its glare off of the sea, and the murkiness of the shadow he casts. her head shifts and tilts, propping her chin onto his shoulder to peer at him in the hopes that his eyes speak a language she can translate. ]
I made an educated guess. Do you remember when I told you that you remind me of the sea? [ her fingers search his collarbone to find and indicate the sea glass he had worn that first night, how poetically he had reminded her of open seas — crystal-bright and beautiful on the surface, hiding loneliness and secrets in its depths. a world wonder, just waiting to be explored. ] Do you hate it? You can tell me if you do. I can handle it.
no subject
[ he remembers everything about their first encounter with startling clarity, perhaps because he's gone over it so many times in his head since then. the gold splatters of paint. the bound monster. the way she carelessly dismissed all of the stories coming out about vasily that night, likely not even realizing how much of a burden she'd lifted from his shoulders. the gilded bra, too, which he is not trying to dwell on.
her face is warm against his chest, the softness of her breath idly passing through the fabric of his shirt. he looks at her once she lifts her head, a shiver skittering across his skin when she fishes out his necklace. the sea glass catches the sunlight, casting a burst of refracted light that dances briefly across the wall.
the snort that sounds in his throat is also genuine. ] Do I hate it? Alina, it's a painting of me. No one could ever hate this.
[ but even if it wasn't of him, he doesn't see how anyone could miss the beauty in her elegant brushstrokes, the juxtaposition of shadow and light, the delicate lines of his own silhouette. there's no pretense in his admiration, for once no mask in place, his eyes glittering brightly. ]
I've never seen anyone render light like this. [ he slides his arm from her shoulders to draw his hand to her cheek, smiling. ] You are remarkably talented. Finished or not, I already like this better than any family portrait I've ever sat for. Don't doubt yourself, Alina. When you feel it creeping up, do what I do. Tell it to fuck off and say exactly the opposite of what it was trying to make you believe. I'm honored you asked me to be your subject.
no subject
[ the laughter that bubbles out of her is effervescent in its relief. she's never known mal to sweeten his words for the sake of sparing her feelings, but time has given them a degree of comfort with one another she doesn't share with nikolai. still an unfamiliar outsider to her in so many ways, still hovering on the outskirts of the life she's built for herself, and allowing him to enter it —
it's a lengthy, laborious process to struggle with — that desire to be seen, while simultaneously dreading what he may discover. it hands him the same power she had offered aleksander, the very choice that had nearly unmade her in some ways. perhaps it's another betrayal to resent, the gift he's left her with: stripping her of what trust she had left in the world around her. rattling her faith to ensure she would never find comfort in another soul, too afraid of being measured and given the verdict of not good enough.
it's a show of trust, however small, that she instinctively leans into the warm press of nikolai's palm and the faint callouses that slide across her skin — still vividly bright, despite the dampening of her anxiety — and gives herself permission to believe him. her eyes drift closed, crinkling from the bright wattage of the smile dimpling the corners of her mouth. ]
I'm good at telling most things to fuck off, but ... [ but. but this is a piece of herself she's nurtured since childhood, sentimental and precious to her. ] It's not just a painting of you. I've put part of myself into every piece of artwork I've ever made. Maybe I'm just afraid people will see me for who I am and decide they can't stand what they've found.
[ idly, her fingers wrap around the chain dangling from his neck, fiddling with the pendant attached, before she finally meets his eyes. it's a dangerous decision; they seem to gleam, a glow cast across a forest of green, and if she dwells on defying her doubt — she might make the mistake of throwing caution to the wind. ]
Will you keep it once it's finished? You'll have an Alina Starkov original, and hopefully something that reminds you of me.