[au time]

Oct. 19th, 2019 11:57 pm
homelovefamily: (pic#12010372)
The train leaves at midnight.

There is still so much to do, so many things that need to be done. How does one say goodbye to the only world she’s ever known? To her homeland? Anya’s memories may be a collection of nightmares and ghosts, vivid experiences that ultimately add up to nothing before waking in that hospital covered in blankets and bandages. But all of it, the good, the bad, the endless walking. They’re her life and they happened here in Russia.

Scurrying through the streets of Leningrad, she silently bids farewell, hesitating every now and then. This is an awfully big gamble. She knows she has to get to Paris, that her future lies there, but her past is so precious. It’s a massive leap into the unknown, trusting that the details she’s learned, the manners and dancing that she somewhat remembered will be enough. That there are real memories under it.

That she has a family after all.

Her first and most important stop is to collect the wages she’s owed. It takes some bullying, a threatening hand on a paperweight and some comment about talking to one of the girls she’s seen on the street about speaking to her comrade’s wife that gets him to hand over the owed money. Anya doesn’t like that she had to use that tactic, isn’t certain if she would have followed through, but the money will help. They need it.

It’s tucked away deep inside her coat as she continues on her errands, adding one additional one that is certainly a terrible idea. But she can’t leave without doing it. Without saying good-bye.

She finds him on the Nevsky Prospekt, just like she saw him that first day months ago. A late season snow is starting to fall, wet from the sea. For a moment she hesitates, watching him as he looks around, done with hi speeches for the day. Now is her chance.

With a deep breath, she nimbly makes her way through the crowd, slipping beside him. “Comrade!” she says loud enough to be heard through the crowd, reaching out a gloved hand. “Gleb! Do you have a moment?”
homelovefamily: (pic#12538378)
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.”
homelovefamily: (this is my winter song)
Somehow an idea had become lodged in Anya’s head and gotten thoroughly stuck there.

She was going to have a Christmas tree. Very little could be done to talk her out of it and fortunately thus far no one had truly tried. Passing by the various stands and stalls that had popped up across the city as she had gone about her daily business had put her in the spirit of the holiday in a way she hadn’t been in years. The day that they were all counting down to might be wrong (it was January 7th not December 25th), but she was going by getting a tree later in the month it would last the entirety of Svyatki.

Last year she hadn’t quite been ready to celebrate the holiday, hadn’t known quite what to do. Christmas had gone away with the Bolsheviks and Gleb had arrived and she had been all over the place. This year would be different. This year she was making it count.

Dressed for the damp and cold weather, albeit in fewer layers than she would have back home, she’s carefully studying each of the trees in the small lot. Her breath is forming a gentle fog around her, her expression serious. Gleb is thoughtfully by her side. There had never been a question in her mind of whether or not he would join her. This celebration was just as much for him as it was for her.

Then she spots it.

Giving Gleb’s hand a gentle tug she scampers over to a tree that is a bit on the scrawnier side. “This is it,” Anya declares, letting go of his hand to run her hand over the branches. “It’s perfect, don’t you think so?”
homelovefamily: (pic#12010350)
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.
homelovefamily: (pic#12010353)
It's been over a week since Anya has seen Gleb. Pushkin has seen him though, evidence of Gleb's quiet coming and going from her apartment when she's not been there is able to be found if one really looks for it. And she has looked for it. She searched for notes, for some sort of sign that he wants to see her, even a little. That hope quickly faded as the days passed. Things in the elevator had been left too broken, too heavy. She doesn't blame him for avoiding her, but she doesn't want it to on for forever.

This past weekend had been illuminating, the bright colors, the variety of human relationships and people all on display. That had been freedom, that had been hope. Anya had felt twinges of awkwardness as she had inquired as to the various meanings of different colored flags. To say that what she had learned had been illuminating would be gravely misrepresenting it.

It had offered her hope.

A possibility, albeit a faint one, glimmered just in sight, and hopefully not out of reach. A flexibility that she had not previously known.

However none of that mattered if he wouldn't even look at her. She had to speak to him, had to explain what she had said that day, what she felt. If he wasn't going to come to her, then she was going to come to him. So on Monday she had started hanging out in the lobby of his apartment building, loitering there in her free time on the hope to see him. By Tuesday she'd come to sit in a chair there, taking the elevator a few times on the hope that she would encounter him. Today she's done away with any of that pretense and is waiting outside his door, loudly conversing with his neighbors as they pass by.

She knows he can hear her.

Eventually she comes to stand against the door, pressing her ear against it as she knocks. "Gleb, please come out," she pleads with him through the door. "I'm not leaving until you let me explain."
homelovefamily: (pic#11691476)
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.
homelovefamily: (pic#11819708)
When the knock comes at the door, Anya doesn't expect it.

She has the day off of work and no real plans to speak of. There are chores to do, errands to run, a Pushkin to look after. But other than that, she hasn't settled on anything deliberate though she supposes all of those add up to plans enough. There is a lot of going on in her life. Spring has sprung in earnest, threatening summer. It had been winter in her life for far too long. Anya had only just gotten a taste of a Parisian spring when she arrived here in full autumn.

The world is full of possibility. It holds so much light.

She is puttering about her kitchen, putting together tea for herself, trying to decide if she is hungry enough to eat now or after she goes to the market. It would probably be better to do that now so that she does not end up giving into some sort of frivolous culinary temptation. Besides there are leftovers from when she ate dinner with Gleb in the fridge that she should consume before they go off.

Her mind get caught on Gleb and she smiles to herself at the thought of him. It isn't what she expected. It certainly isn't something she planned for. There is no word for what they are to each other and she has no idea where it will go. But she cares about him. Loves him even. Which makes Dmitry even more of an ache in her heart. She loves him too, but he seems to be avoiding her, irked by her existence in this city even if she has forgiven him.

It's annoying and she wishes she knew why. He didn't take the money. She's forgiven him for pulling him into the con with Vlad and not telling her. What more could be an issue?

This is where her mind is when she hears the knock. Immediately she stops drumming her fingers on the counter and makes to the door, confused as to who it could be. That confusion evaporates as soon she opens the door.

"Dmitry? What are you doing here? Is everything all right?"
homelovefamily: (pic#12010353)
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.
homelovefamily: (pic#11956846)
Founders Day had started so nicely.

Anya had enjoyed the music and merriment, the happiness that so many people seemed to be expressing. While she'd heard a few people express to her that the city wasn't as old as the native population claimed it was. A story that when the first people from the outside came here, there hadn't been any people, that none of this history seemed to match up with that reality. This doesn't surprise her even if it does unsettle, like she has misplaced a page or two.

None of that had lessened the nice start to the day. Cotton candy is a little too sweet, the Founders punch a bit too strong in its sweetness and alcohol for her to finish a cup so she has added a little water and is still carrying it with her as she meanders through the crowd. Darkness is falling and with it a crowd is gathering in the park, laying out blankets and getting ready for the fireworks show that she has heard is coming. There were supposedly fireworks at New Year's Eve, but she had missed them. A childish sort of excitement runs through her at the prospect of seeing fireworks. She hasn't had an occasion to see them since she was a child, the memory lighting up so brightly in her mind. It had been a party, one of the last, with so many beautiful clothes and such lovely music. The nannies had let them watch the fireworks, having been given permission by her father and mother.

She is still looking for a spot with a good view, close enough where she can hear the band when the first bang goes off. Her entire body goes rigid, then instinct takes over as she throws herself to the ground. Another bang, then another, followed by small pops. The scent of gun powder and fire is overwhelming. The crowds' noises of excitement melt into screams, begging, and prayers. Shaking she curls into a ball, hands over her head, tears wetting her cheeks. Everything feels heavy, the light too dim, the open air is confining.

She is back in that cellar. She cannot escape. She will not survive.

The cup that had been in her hand moments ago rolls across the pavement, punch pooling around her feet like blood.

Anya holds herself and prays for the banging to stop. It doesn't.
homelovefamily: (pic#12010326)
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.

Phone

Oct. 24th, 2017 08:52 am
homelovefamily: (Default)
[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.

Post box

Oct. 24th, 2017 08:50 am
homelovefamily: (Default)
Leave mail for Anya [last name scratched out] here.
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