anya

Springtime makes her think of Paris. This is her third spring in two years, a jarring happenstance brought on due to the suddenness of her arrival, the change of time and location messing with Anya’s sense of the seasons.

This year, she’s ready for it. The peel of the bells from the churches last Sunday coupled with all of the rabbit and pastel theme paraphernalia that had populated the shops of Darrow reminded her of what was coming – Paskha.

In keeping with tradition she had cleaned their already tidy flat on Thursday before preparing to dye the uncooked eggs. She had consulted with various old women who visited the Volga House on the best way to dye the eggs with onion peels and had done her best to make patterns with the rice paper. Her efforts weren’t spectacular, were faint in comparison to the Faberge eggs that her father had gifted her mother, but Anya was proud of her efforts.

Dressed in a sunny yellow dress to harken in the springtime despite the gray nature of the day, she is putting the finishing touches on their small Easter feast. It isn’t very Soviet to make a big deal of today but it is very Russian. Adjusting the placement of the Kulich, she smiles brightly as she hears the door open just as the kettle starts to sing.

“Your timing is perfect,” she greets brightly as she sticks her head out of the kitchen to confirm it really is Gleb. “The water is ready for tea.”

Katyusha is at her door.

Anya is confused when she opens her door, heart skipping a beat at the sight of the furred beastly queen of a cat. Pushkin has been whimpering, scratching at the door and couldn’t be coaxed away from it. No treats or promised walks as soon as she’d finished hemming the skirt she’d recently purchased secondhand could dissuade him. Finally she had given in, opening the door to show her dog that there was nothing there. The cat sitting there on the doorstep as if she owns it quickly proves her wrong.

Scooping up the feline, she gives her a scratch. “Did you escape Dima again? He ought to get his screen fixed,” she murmurs to the cat. Looking down at Pushkin, she bends down to give him a little scratch as well. Then she steps inside to scoop up her purse and keys. “I’ll be right back. I just have to take Katyusha home.”

Hastily Anya sets off to do just that, moving as fast as she can without running and with a large amount of cat in her arm. When she gets to Dmitry’s building she finds that his name is no longer on the buzzer or the mailbox. Confused she negotiates her way inside and up the lift to his down. Readjusting the cat in her arms, she knocks on the door, wondering if he’s inside before trying the handle. It gives easily and when it opens, Anya feels her heart stop.

Dmitry’s gone. The emptiness in the apartment isn’t that of someone who has just stepped out, gone to work and will be back. No, this emptiness feels heavier. It’s a weight she knows too well. Throat tightening, she takes a few cautious steps into the apartment, just enough to confirm her suspicions. He really is gone. Katyusha mews and nuzzles under her chin.

The idea of lingering turns her stomach. The apartment feels like a tomb. Making her way outside and down to the street, she hails a cab, no worrying about the expense for once. As the car winds its way back across the city to her apartment, Anya calls Gleb leaving a message for him to please come over as soon as he can. Her voice sounds hollow and oddly cracked.

Without quite processing it, she pays the driver and makes her way back inside her apartment. Pushkin is waiting eagerly on an armchair, wagging his tail as she sets the cat down. Absently she makes food and water for both animals, settling down on her couch to wait. She doesn’t know what to do or how to feel. She just knows that she can’t be fully alone, that she has to tell Gleb. That she wants him here.

When the knock at the door finally comes, Anya has her knees tucked half under her, one bent so she can rest her chin on it as she flips through a book but can’t fully manage to read the words.

“Come in,” she calls knowing already who it is. Her heart needs to see his face. She needs reminding that Gleb is still here.

Anya's heart feels heavy, weighed down and tired, confused and aching. A constricting, vice-like grip that holds firm in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She wishes that she could feign ignorance, claim to have no understanding as to what is causing it. But she does. The reasons are numerous, but they are very, very real.

The date, for one thing, hangs around her head. Her father's birthday is tomorrow. Even if he hadn't been killed that fateful night in Ekaterinburg, he would certainly be dead by now. This world might be one in which people live longer than ever before, but a hundred and fifty years without immortality would be a stretch. It's odd that she feels like she has lost him all over again.

Then there are bigger things. Sweeter and more cruel things. Dmitry. His confession. He loves her. She didn't think it was possible, and she hates that she is only finding out right now. Like this. That she loves him too, but what can she do with that love? It's an awkward and ill-fitting thing. Especially when there is Gleb. Stoic, awkward Gleb, with his odd sense of humor and dedication. Gleb who loves her and who she loves in return.

Love shouldn't be a source of strife, yet it is. How can she love two people like this? What on earth is she meant to do?

She knows for one thing that she cannot keep Dmitry's confession a secret. It would be a deceit that Gleb doesn't deserve. That is why she is at his door now, hand on the buzzer, a bit out of sorts with her fingers worrying a bag full of pastries as she waits for him to open it.

She doesn't know what to say. But she knows she has to say it.

With a gasp, Anya sits bolt upright in her bed.

The sheets are tangled around her legs, her hair clings in sweaty curls to the back of her neck, tears on cheeks. Pressing her hand to her chest, she tries to steady her rapidly beating heart. Ghostly pain lances through her limbs, screams echo through her head.

Light streams through the window telling her that morning has finally come.

It had felt bone-crushingly real. A night that has haunted her in various forms for a decade, populated by ghosts who haunt her dreams. It had been brighter somehow. More real, each time a little different, each ending horrifyingly the same despite her pleading. Except that last time.

Her fingers clench, a shiver running down her spine at the memory of Gleb. They had both been so painfully young, so desperate as they fled for that wall. But it hadn't been enough. Her father's confusion, his father's horror. She can still feel his heart slowing under her hands, the warm slickness of blood, the last of his breath against her cheek.

Had it been real? Or had her mind been trying to tell her something? Giving her yet another set of ghosts?

There is only one way to know. Sliding from the bed, she glances at the clock to check the time. Hastily pulling a simple robin's egg blue shirt dress over her head, nearly forgetting to put on leggings and socks before she slides on her boots and coat. She has to turn around in the door to grab her purse, unbuttoned coat flapping in the wind. Urgency moves her, a frantic need to know if it was all made up in her head.

The walk to his flat is a blur, the elevator ride exchange with a neighbor is a complete blank. It isn't until she is standing in front of his door, hand raised to knock that she has a moment of pause. To wonder if she is doing the right thing.

Shoving it aside, she knocks twice before letting her hand fall back to her side.

The party had been different.

It certainly had more in common with the occasional ball that she remembers from her childhood with their bright lights and beautiful dresses and so much champagne than the few other parties she’s been too. Memories keep slipping in more and more each day, leaving her a little unsettled. How does she fit that life, those memories with their ups and downs against the last ten years? It feels like she is two people.

Still she had gone to the party and marveled at it, feeling both at home and strangely disconnected. The cocktail she’s had has done nothing to help those feelings. Deciding to not stay too late was for the best.

Her coat isn’t buttoned, the bright red standing out against the paleness of her dress. The curls in her hair have loosened to waves and she’s certain that she’s leaving a trail of glitter in her way as she walks home. It’s late, but it doesn’t feel far and the cool air feels good after the warmth of the crowd.

Valentine’s Day is a foreign holiday to her, dedicated to a saint that she can name and speak to, but feels no connection to. It’s supposed to be all love and romance, a day to cherish those you love and pursue those that you want to love you.

She doesn’t know much of that kind of love. Anya’s felt that quickening of her heart, the warm pleasant feeling that comes from the mere sight of someone special, especially when their attention is fixed on her.

Her mind might be full of tumbled up thoughts of love and the past and how far she’s come from where she started, but the years have taught her to always be hyper aware when she’s alone at night. Darrow might be safer than some places she’s been, but it is still a city. Movement coming from a cut through walkway catches her attention and she freezes under the light of a street lamp, body tensing for a fight.

The figure moves and is caught by the light from another streetlamp. Realizing who it is, she relaxes a bit. Not fully, but more than she was thirty seconds ago.

“Good evening Gleb,” she greets, trying to sound calmer than the adrenaline in her veins says that she is.

[generic voicemail greeting]

The person you are trying to reach [Anya’s voice, sounding awkward]Um, Anya?[generic voice returns] is not available. Please leave a message after the tone.