#a lot of the language around maria is a little vague. she 'must have' felt this way

[pochapal]

i'm Normal about this aspect now (promise) but it is interesting to track the points where we depart from battler's pov/narrative voice and what that could mean even just on a stylistic/thematic level.

[truthofherdreams]

people can surprise you (or not)

Wednesday (2)

also on ao3

“They know your English isn’t so good, but they don’t mind at all,” Lily is in the middle of explaining him, before she takes another sip of champagne. “It’s a French publication anyway, so you will be fine.”

“My English is nonexistent,” he can’t help but state. As thrilling as this job opportunity in London is, especially offered on such a silver platter, anxiety still gnaws at his stomach. All his life, he has only known Russia and France, and the idea of moving to a new country, even to escape the nightmare that is BuzzClick, makes him nervous. But if Lily believes in him, enough to recommend him for the job, it must be before he’s qualified for it, right?

“No better way to learn the language then.”

He’s about to tell her it’s not that easy, when someone drapes themselves all over the older woman. It takes a long second for Dmitry to recognise the light brown hair as belonging to Maria and, by that time, she kisses Lily soundly on the cheek.

“Well hello, my darling,” Lily cooes. Actually cooes, instead of the usual sarcastic tinge to her voice. That’s new. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Maria answers as she steps away, only to wrap both her arms around Lily’s. She spares Dmitry a quick, polite smile, before she adds, “Lucie and I are planning on sneaking out in five minutes but don’t tell anyone.”

Lily’s grin is nothing short of mischievous. “Oh, to be young and in love…” She stops, before she adds, “Which reminds me! How is that little bet of yours going?”

Maria visibly tenses, her body going stiff for half a second, before she throws Dmitry a worried glance. He frowns at her, but she’s already looking back at Lily, bottom lip caught between her teeth. When she replies, it’s in such a flat tone that dread immediately rises up Dmitry’s throat. “Nastya won, actually.”

“Really?” Lily replies, a little too loud. “Our Nastya? Still dating someone a week later?”

Another glance from Maria, but Dmitry barely registers it. Something is ringing in his ears, loud, painful. Something…

Lily perks up as she looks above his shoulder. “Nastya, darling! We we just talking about…”

“You sick son of a bitch!”

The slap echoes even above the sound of music and chatter. Maria gasps loudly, and Lily is rendered speechless, but Dmitry doesn’t notice them. All he sees is the fire, and pain, and fury in Anya’s blue eyes, all he feels is the pain in his cheeks and his own heart in his throat. He chokes on whichever words are trying to escape his lips, speechless, brainless.

All around them, people are staring. Whispering. Guessing.

He doesn’t care; he can only stare at her, can only witness the tears pooling in her eyes, her body so tense she starts trembling. He did that too her. He’s doing that to her. This is all his fault. He knew from the first day, he knew this would happen, and this is all his fault and still he did nothing to prevent it.

“Nastya…” he starts in a broken whisper.

She raises her hand again; he flinches.

That is when Olga jumps in, seemingly from nowhere. She grabs Anya’s elbow, and whispers “Not here,” into her ear, with a pointed look at the curious crowd around them. Even Maria is left speechless, or she would surely be helping her little sister to destroy Dmitry.

“I don’t give a fuck about…”

“Nana does. I do. You’re making a scene. Do it outside.” She pushes Anya toward the entrance doors, with an insistent nod. Anya protest a little, so Olga repeats a little more firmly, “Outside. Now.”

Anya finally obeys, gathering the skirt of her dress to make a quick exit. Dmitry makes for following her when a sharp finger against his chest stops him. His eyes are wide and panicky when he looks up into Olga’s, stern and serious. “Whatever it is, you fix it,” she tells him.

“Gosh, yeah. Fuck.”

“Indeed.” He’s already running outside when he vaguely hears Olga says, “No, Maria, you stay here.”

Perhaps it is indeed better to suffer the wrath of only one Romanov woman for now. He will barely survive it as it is, he doesn’t need her sister to gang up and finish him in a matter of minutes.

He finds Anya outside, struggling to walk down the stairs leading from the hotel to the street. Her heels are slowing her down, the only reason why Dmitry manages to catch up with her before she has time to hail a cab and disappear into the night.

“Anya,” he calls after her, and grabs her elbow.

She snatches it away from him and turns around. The intensity of her glare makes him flinch, but not as much as the tears freely rolling down her cheeks now. How can he comfort her, when he is the one bringing her pain? When he shouldn’t even be allowed in her presence, after what he’s done?

“You used me,” she seethes. “You used me and you lied about it, and I was stupid enough to fall for it.”

“Oh, because you entered this relationship without any motives, did you?” he can’t help but shot back. She opens her mouth in a wordless expression of surprise, and he takes it as his opportunity to climb down the last two steps that still separate them, and to move into her personal space. “Tell me, Anastasia, how much did you earn, parading me around tonight?”

Her lips move of their own, silently, before she finds hers words again. “Nothing.” It startles him as much as the slap did. Her voice is small and broken, her eyes red, her cheeks soaked with tears. “It was just a silly game. It didn’t mean anything.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is low, dangerous. He has no right acting the way he does, when his actions were so much worse than hers, when he hurt her so much more. But he is angry, mostly at himself, and he has never been known to be level-headed. He needs to snap, if only to let go of all the emotions boiling under his skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were using me?” she argues back. “Because that was the big thing you couldn’t explain, right? So what, Dmitry? You were going to explain everything once your stupid article was published and hope for the best? That was your plan?”

She’s working herself up, red in the face and her voice grows louder. Dmitry’s hands rise to cup her face and calm her down, but she only slaps them away and glares at him some more. He wonders if this feeling in his chest, this tightening grip around his heart that almost leaves him breathless and panting and light-headed… Is that what it feels like, when you break your own heart?

“Anya…” he tries again, uselessly. He deserves her anger, her scorn. “Anya, please…”

“You’re such an asshole!” The sentence starts angry but ends with her voice cracking into a sob, before she bites down on her bottom lip and looks away. Tears are falling down her face again, and she shakes her head with a small, pathetic laugh. “I can’t believe I fell for it.”

He moves closer to her once more, in a pitiful attempt at grabbing her hand again, but of course she pushes him away once more. The motion of her arm, jerking and stiff, barely conceals the fact that her entire body is trembling, from her limbs to the bottom lip still caught between her teeth. Dmitry has never felt more like the kind of guy who reads his articles before going back to Reddit.

“Anya, listen…”

“Listen what?” she snaps against, and moves back into his space so she can slap his chest and push him away. “That I was a pawn in that scheme of yours? That you made me feel I matter to you just for some bullshit article? I was stupid and naive when I met you, but I never was that dishonest!”

He looks away as he takes a deep breath, finger carding through his hair, but the fire under his skin doesn’t fizzle out. Quite the contrary, and he offers her such a murderous glare in return that she can only take a step back in shock. “Don’t talk to me about honesty when you only were interested in me for a fucking bet with your sister! How old are you, six?”

“You think I’d introduce you to my entire family if it was only a bet?”

“I don’t know, Anya. Seems like we both need to reevaluate a lot of things, don’t we?”

It doesn’t leave her speechless as much as it creates a much needed pause in their fight. Or, well, a pause, at least. Because the more silence stretches between them, seconds ticking by without one of them speaking up, the more Dmitry accepts the only conclusion to this story. The one he has been dreading for days now, looming over his head like his own, fucked-up sword of Damocles.

Anya’s hand rises up to grab her elbow, all of her fury and will to fight gone. She looks small and vulnerable, shielding herself away from him, still shivering. She looks so delicate, breakable, lost. All because of him. All his fault.

“You used me,” she says again, in a whisper so low he wouldn’t have heard her were they not so close to each other. “Your big talks about how much you hate your job, but you’re not any better. You’re just like them. You used me, and I hate you for it. I wish we’d never met.”

He opens his mouth, but his heart is in his throat, blocking the words. It’s only when he tries to breathe, and chokes on a sob, that he notices the fat, warm tears on his cheeks, the shiver of his lips, how taut the muscles in his fingers are, to the point of hurting. Still, when she takes a few step backward and away from him, he contracts his entire body to force himself not to move. It’s better that way, he reminds himself. She’s better off without him anyway. He shouldn’t have even tried in the first place; girls like her, they’re not supposed to date losers like him. She deserves better. She deserves the world.

Maybe it would make it easier, if she’d told him it was over. Oh, it’s obvious enough, but hearing it out loud would have made it permanent, immutable. A finality, the foregone conclusion to a week of heaven and hell. But she doesn’t say anything, and turns around, before she disappears around a corner.

And him, the damn fool, stays rooted on the spot. Even when Maria, who must have been spying on them from inside, calls her name and runs after her, Alexei at her heels. Even when Olga is soon to follow, slowed down by her high heels. Even when Tatiana stops in front of him. He stays rooted on the spot, staring at the emptiness where Anya was, only a minute before. In front of him. At his side. But no more.

Tatiana’s eyes are as cold as the winters of Siberia when they land on him. Dmitry’s mind is too dumb for him to flinch away, to cower and protect himself. “Don’t ever come near her again,” she tells him, the threaning edge to her voice just enough for Dmitry not to want to fight back.

Why, anyway? It’s not as if he could fix anything at this point, anyway. Better go home to lick his wounds, and hope Anya will one day find her happiness away from him. She deserves it, even if he doesn’t. She deserves to be happy; he deserves what he got.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies.

Better go home to lick his wounds.

So he does.