She really is like a little star, Gleb thinks, the sparkles of her dress catching the dull, warm glow of the street lamp, making her look even brighter than she otherwise might. To him, though, it would have made little difference anyway. No one would draw his attention as easily, hold his eye so well. He never really even bothered to look — to see past his job, the party, the cause — until the day he met her by chance. Even now, all this time later, it's hard to believe that one instant could change so much. Had he been standing a few more meters away, had the truck not backfired, had someone else reached her first, nothing else might have happened the same way. He might, when the time came, have actually been able to follow his orders, since she wouldn't have been anything more to him than a previously believed dead daughter of the tsar. That isn't a line of thought worth entertaining, though, least of all at a time like this. It won't accomplish anything, and she's deeply embedded in his head now as it is, taking up too much space and time.
"You are," he says, a slight fondness in the slant of his smile. A quiet agreement doesn't seem like going too far, not when she's the one who said it in the first place. It buys him a moment's time, anyway, to try to process the rest of what she's said. She sounds like she means it, that she would have invited him to go, and he can't fathom why. They're friends, he thinks, or something like it, but she can also be impossible to read; every time he thinks he has a handle on her, on the situation, he loses it entirely. This statement is as surprising as anything else has been. Oh, it can't mean anything serious, of course, but it's unexpected all the same.
And yet, if she'd asked, he thinks he would have gone. He may not have liked it much, but he wouldn't have turned her down, no matter how awkward or impossible to make sense of it might have been. It would have been worth it.
"It might be a little late," he adds, shrugging with the concession. "But I think I'll manage." For just a moment, he looks at her, no less struck by how beautiful she looks and how conflicted he feels about it. Then he adds, nodding towards her, "I could walk you home, if you'd like. You shouldn't be out walking alone at this hour, not like this."
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"You are," he says, a slight fondness in the slant of his smile. A quiet agreement doesn't seem like going too far, not when she's the one who said it in the first place. It buys him a moment's time, anyway, to try to process the rest of what she's said. She sounds like she means it, that she would have invited him to go, and he can't fathom why. They're friends, he thinks, or something like it, but she can also be impossible to read; every time he thinks he has a handle on her, on the situation, he loses it entirely. This statement is as surprising as anything else has been. Oh, it can't mean anything serious, of course, but it's unexpected all the same.
And yet, if she'd asked, he thinks he would have gone. He may not have liked it much, but he wouldn't have turned her down, no matter how awkward or impossible to make sense of it might have been. It would have been worth it.
"It might be a little late," he adds, shrugging with the concession. "But I think I'll manage." For just a moment, he looks at her, no less struck by how beautiful she looks and how conflicted he feels about it. Then he adds, nodding towards her, "I could walk you home, if you'd like. You shouldn't be out walking alone at this hour, not like this."