[ 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
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.