A L I N A

date: december 16th, 1961 — 10:31pm location: restroom b with: @matushkanympha

if it were to be analyzed, it would stand to reason that even the pendants and academics of the world would relent to the conclusion that the strange, modest ritual that pervaded womanhood across all continents was a rite provided to them logically. from birth, girls were taught to find quiet places to reveal their truths — so restrooms, silent and smoke-filled and lined with lipstick shells, could only be a natural place for the moments between moments to be had between women.  and that is likely why two women, at once intricately and simply connected, found themselves pulled into the same quiet room. “alina,” zinaida spots her figure against the far wall immediately upon entry, dark-haired and reclined as gracefully as the curls of smoke that waft from her cigarette towards the open window. “have i found you hiding from a suitor?”

the tour will be much like this: filled with celebration, filled with anxiety over the performance and well-being of every dancer— those belonging to the bolshoi at the forefront of her mind. yet between the drinks and camaraderie of a night off, respite is still necessary. she’s curled comfortably on a chaise lounge, upright and back against a cushion when the other enters, lost in thought as she absentmindedly flicks ash from the end of her cigarette. 

“if you keep them waiting a while it keeps them guessing,” she teases with thinly veiled amusement. the leap from ballet master to former prima is smaller tonight, a rare smile finding its beginnings at the corner of her mouth.

Viktor takes the offering in silence, deft fingers managing to pluck a single cigarette from the case despite their stiffness and the cold. It is likely unwise for Viktor to be out without gloves, but he’d left them in his coat pocket at the start of the evening and is in no mood to argue with attendant on paying twice to retrieve them. Besides, the swift chill is a small blessing; there’s warmth high on Viktor’s cheeks and down to his neck, mostly from drink, partly from dance – in the ballroom or otherwise. 

“Have a light to go with it?” Viktor’s tone is light, but his eyes cast over Alina in a slow sweep. He’s not entirely a stranger to who she is outside of the rehearsal studio, nor she him, but the evening has been so wholly strange and disarming that he finds himself waiting – though for what he couldn’t quite say. 

—

It would have been poor manners to not offer, had it been dancer, diplomat, or peer. However, she was unlikely to have made the offer had it been a journalist or photographer covering the evening’s festivities. As the company beside her turns out to be Viktor, though, she’s happy to supply the cigarette, even if such supposed happiness is slow to make itself known on her expression. It’s the higher curve of her lips first, then the loosening of her shoulders— perhaps it’s closer to a calm contentedness rather than elation that could be compared to joy. She’s comfortable. 

“Of course. I never lose mine.” Deft fingers shut the cigarette case and produce a lighter next, the familiar clink and rasping hiss of metal introducing light in form of a flame between them as she steadily holds it up to him in offering. Sometimes, the quiet camaraderie in sharing a smoke is preferable. But, as she stows the lighter back into her pocket, her mouth opens— and though cool and critical observance has become her thanks to her appointment, there’s no mistaking the amusement in her tone. “Everyone’s had much to drink tonight. I’ve seen two already stumble in the garden. Both American, by the sound of their squawking.” Smoke fills her lungs one moment, heady and warm, then it curls into the air: “I hope you haven’t been dragged to the piano at the bar. Have you?”

“No one should be subjected to such torture,” He takes a bite of the cake and only briefly thinks of falling over in jest. “And yourself? I would think as a former prima ballerina you would be somewhat adept at handling yourself with the grace needed for ballroom dance — but then again, I have been wrong, unlikely as that may seem.”

Prima ballerina. That word means nothing to him, but from what he has gathered it means everything to those who hold it. 

“I would like to know, what is the allure of ballet? It is beautiful, I will admit, but I do not understand those who obsess over it.”

“I might dance.” It’s with this admission that Alina keeps her gaze solidly on her plate of honey cake. If she looks at Eugene, he might take her response in the wrong way, if she meets the gaze of their table-mates she might be goaded into dancing sooner than she would like. “Although I prefer to sit and enjoy the evening with drinks instead. Ballroom dance and ballet require the same things: for the dancers to be light on their feet and partners to be in tune. Not too different.”

Prompted to explain the ‘allure’ of the art she so devotedly lives for, she says nothing for a moment, another bite of honey cake into her mouth and a sip of wine to cut against the sweetness. “Why does an artist paint?” She’s calm as she returns his question with one of her own, thoughtful as she poses her response. “Or, a singer perform? Why does a soccer player spend so much time training, or a writer nearly always carry a pen and notebook on them? The allure is whatever ignites within each dancer. Or, for a balletomane, much like a patron of any art or fan of a sports team, there is a love and appreciation for it. People ‘obsess’ for different reasons. It depends on who you are, and there’s not always a need to explain oneself.” She glances around the table to meet the amused yet approving looks of her peers, still easily slipping into the interviewee’s seat after leaving the spotlight, before looking towards Eugene. 

“I’m sure you provide a more objective approach to your writing about it than someone who is charmed by the art of ballet, then?”

[ 🌊 ] — Would you prefer to be able to fly, or breathe underwater.

“Flying.” It’s an easy answer, one that rushes from her tongue the way that a silk ribbon glides effortlessly against skin. She blinks, tilting her head thoughtfully as she elaborates, leaning back comfortably into her seat as her fingers smooth over the page of a notepad. “Breathing underwater doesn’t matter much if you are not a strong swimmer. The force of a current, exhaustion, other creatures would be your end instead.”

[ 📿 ] — What’s a habit of yours that you do unconsciously.

“I unconsciously stand in fourth and fifth position, move from being flat on my feet into a relevé when I walk, and my hands...” Alina holds her right hand up, slim fingers decorated only by a modest signet ring on the third. The way her hand rests— dancer she is not. Yet, her body still unconsciously moves as though she is. When it has been her entire life, when it surrounds her still like a storm, like a blanket, like the comfort of a lover’s arms, how could one expect any differently from her? “Oh, and I grind my teeth. Terrible habit.”

[ 📰 ] — Name a The Onion headline for your character

Aphrodite

Laughter loving. Sweet smiles. Dressed in silk and satin. Flower in their hair. Sees the world as a runway. Unapologetically sexual. The sea washing their ankles. In love with love. Stirrer of passion. Cunning concealed by painted lips. Secret daggers. Doves. Revolution in their kiss. Delighting in the waves. Flirtatious winks. Strolling along the beach. Staring wistfully from a balcony. This is how to be a heartbreaker. Wants to be adored. Gets turned on by danger.

Apollo

Glitz and glamour. Art galleries. Turning the volume up. Being made of gold. Neatly organized music sheets. Notebooks filled with poetry. Bathing in the sunlight. The powerful urge to create. Collecting vinyl records. Beautiful cover of Wonderwall. Playing multiple instruments. Tasting like sunshine. Healing touch. Speaking in prophecies. Smile mingled with wrath. Shunning lies. Sporting shades. Hanging out at music festivals with their friends. Sleeps naked. Arrow to the heart. Paint brushes. Probably has a Tinder account.

Ares

Armed for battle. Wants to raise a dog with their significant other. Soft spot for children. Gives piggyback rides. Scarred body. Blood on their hands and face. Willing to fight the world for the ones they love. Fights against injustice. Warm hugs. Well worn combat boots. Boxing gloves. Bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles. Fist raised in protest. Ignites revolutions. Fear is a prison. More sensitive than what their tough shell would have you think. Exhausted. Damaged goods. Force to be reckoned with. Red roses. Curses under their breath.

Artemis

Keen sense of a hunter. Freckles like constellations on their skin. Piercing eyes. Disheveled braid. Moonlight peeking through the shadows. The calm of the forest at night. Lying on the grass and staring at the stars. Mother doe and her fawn. Protecting their kin. The moon shimmering on a still lake. Quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree. Running with wolves. Bonding while circled around a campfire. Not being much of a people person. Arrow hitting a target. Popping egos. Patience on 3%. touches heaven and returns howling.

Athena

Discerning gaze. Unreadable face. Quiet museums. Owl perched on their finger. Armour that intimidates. Eye for architecture. Plays the Sims for the sole purpose of building houses. Studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid. Big fan of logic. Loves brain teasers. Ancient buildings. Sweaters in neutrals and cool colours. Hair done up. Can kill you with their brain. Heads to the library often to research. Sharpened pencils. Abs that can cut steel. Stoic statues. Pottery classes.

Demeter

Soil covered hands. Smile that can bloom flowers. Skin loved by the sun. Being the mom friend. Can lift you and your friends. Flowers kept in the pockets of overalls. Takes pride in their beautiful garden. Speaks to their plants. Leaves rustling in the wind. Stalks of wheat. Picking fruit. Greenhouses. Heart as strong as a mountain. Values simplicity. Daisies dotted across a collarbone. Curls crowned with flowers. Folded pile of sweaters in warm hues. Pulling out fresh baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

Dionysus

Drunk shitposter. On their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second. Seductive smirks. Untamed curls. Rich fabrics on dark skin. Sleek furred panthers. Theatre masks. Stage productions. Receiving a standing ovation. Rose caught between their teeth. Being the baby of the bunch. Wild parties that last from sundown to sunup. Creeping vines. Inspiring loyalty. Grand opera houses. Masquerade balls. Rolls of film. Shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine spilled floor. Pouring champagne into flutes. Lives for the applause.

Hephaestus

The calloused hands of someone who knows labour. Sweaty brow. Flame burning in their eyes. Inventive mind. Broad shoulders. Steampunk goggles. Nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes. Ashes. Striking a match. Blueprints for future projects. Fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades. Wrestles with bitterness. Work boots have seen better years. Wrinkled plaid shirts. Iron melted in blazing fire. Huge jackets. Crafting masterpieces. Greased stained overalls. Fascination with robotics. Pain is fuel. Stack of weaponry. Even their muscles have muscles.

Hera

Resting bitch face. Dressed to the nines. Cows grazing on a pasture. Cool rain. Loving and hating fiercely. Hand clutching a string of pearls. Large chandelier with glittering crystals. Plays the Sims for the sole purpose of killing off their Sims. Romance to realism. Pictures of the sky while flying on a plane. Files that under fuck it. Downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and Netflix. Like their selfie or you’re grounded. Knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man. Dark eyes that penetrate your soul. Marble and gold.

Hermes

Devil-may-care smile. Always up-to-date on the latest technology. Will steal your French fries. Does it for the vine. Shitposter. Puts googly eyes on everything. Meme hoarder. Long drives on the highway. Ma and pop diners. Spontaneous road trips. Folded maps. Fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop. Shooting hoops on the basketball court. Chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations. Goes jogging in the morning. Mixes Redbull with coffee. Menace on April Fool’s. Hoodies and sneakers.

Poseidon

Storm with skin. Colourful coral reefs. Waves crashing against the shore. Stroking the soft fur of a cat. Their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop. Tousled locks. Clothes smeared with paint. Owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns to own more. Leather jackets. Fondness for DIY projects. Handwriting that flows across the page. Nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin. Velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams. Mood as ever-changing as the sea. The roar of a motorcycle. Compass with a spinning arrow.

Zeus

Thunder in their heart. Running on coffee. Flash of lightning. Unnatural charisma. Eloquence. Badass in a nice suit. Aficionado of history. Force of nature. Lenny face. Nightmare-filled nights. Proud arm around their lover’s waist. High- rise buildings. Planes soaring through a cloudless sky. technician on the piano. Maintains order. Strong handshake. Juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease. Expensive watch.

“Of course, none of them compare to our own — correct?” There is a sharpness in his words. “I will be in attendance, however I will admit I know close to nothing about the art of ballet. I find it rather … . ” Dimitri does not finish his sentence rather he looks off to the fireplace, an unreadable expression on his face.

// Roll ‘dark’ to see if Alina can correctly read his inner thoughts.

—

She merely blinks at the sudden sharpness of his words, not unlike her own when she’s at the head of rehearsals nor when she had been a dancer and barked at. “He sent his finest, but, no. They decidedly do not compare to our own.” It is a simple truth. Those who had not been trained by their own would never compare, and the a prideful gleam in her eyes betrays the former prima ballerina’s bias. 

Not everyone is enthusiastic about the art of ballet. She knows this, can see it in the way he avoids her gaze. Alina takes a sip from her glass with a hum, nodding as she lowers it once more. “The show will make for a wonderful social occasion, although I’m sure that even during the show you’ll have politics on your mind. Regardless, we will be honoured to have you in the audience.” 

DESPITE THE FACT that they are roommates, they have hardly seen each other. Perhaps in the beginning, there might have been a rumour that Eva would become a favourite— or utterly despised. Yet, during rehearsals, there seems only to be the smooth indifference of a strict ballet master. Even if she’d seen something of Eva that would have embarrassed any other ballerina with what little amount of time she did spend in the space they shared.

As she approaches the bar, she nods in a small greeting, a polite acknowledgement of the other before uttering a smoothly collected: “I didn’t get to say earlier before I left: that colour looks pretty on you.”

HE WONDERS IF SOMEONE HAD been seated in his spot beforehand. Had Alina chased them away with her sour attitude, or had they had the unfortunate encounter of food gone bad. It was bitterness talking. To say Eugene was less than enthused about the food provided would be an understatement. He considered it a pity that it seemed as though they were trying to impress his foreign friends.

“Quite the opposite, I heard quite enough about Darya’s unnatural hair color. I sought you out as a reprise from such blabber.”

A waiter appeared before them, and suddenly a a crumbly multilayered cake appeared before him. It seemed to be covered in ground walnuts and smelled vaguely of honey. “Медовик” the man said before disappearing into the sea of waiters.

Eugene tries to repeat the word he had just heard to no avail. “What if I were allergic to nuts? Who would save me.” His tone is full of jest, but he wonders — who would?

—

“YOU’VE TRADED HAIR COLOUR FOR dancing,” She muses in response. The majority of the rest of the table is made up of ballet-repetiteurs and their spouses, with Ulyana directly to her right. Her husband hadn’t felt well enough to attend, but the blonde wouldn’t be deterred from an evening soirée any more than she could be kept from a makeup brush. 

“We were just just discussing whether or not we’d see any of the dancers gliding across the ballroom tonight, and betting which ones.” Though she isn’t any warmer than usual, the atmosphere of the dining hall, and in particular the amused grins around the table are enough to make her seem more relaxed. It’s the slice of honey cake that’s presented to her that brings a smile to materialise in Eugene’s company. 

“If you were allergic, I would simply make sure that slice wouldn’t be put to waste. Does that count as saving you?” She refrains from commenting on his fumbled attempt at Russian, everyone had heard it but she would not be the one to verbalise the shared sentiment she could tell ran through a few others’ minds. Instead, she delicately takes a bite of the dessert with a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Will you be dancing?”

HE KNOWS HER FACE, had been educated on her position in the Bolshoi Theater. 

“The evening has been pleasant,” he takes a sip of his drink. “I do hope the same can be said for you.” Dimitri holds the glass above his line of vision, watching her, waiting for her answer.

“I hear the Americans are quite talented.”

—

“Of course.” Her wrist turns once, swirls the liquid in her glass once as she continues. “It’s a welcome moment to pause and appreciate what we’re working on.” Then, a shrug. Noncommittal as she’s critical of each dancer and every centimeter they move. 

“One must be to qualify for this endeavour, and Balanchine has sent his finest.” Alina takes a sip from her glass. “Will you attend the premiere?”

When: 9:00

Where: Dining Hall

Who: @matushkanympha​

IT HADN’T BEEN HIS INTENTION TO inspire the wrath of one Matushka Nympha, or so he has been told she is called, but it was the side effect of his prolonged prodding regardless. 

( “What caused your hip injury, why are you here?” )

A tinge of embarrassment follows him followed by annoyance, of course she wouldn’t answer him directly — she’s a Soviet. Alina is as red as the blood which taints their history, and as cold as winter in Moscow. He’s not interested in thawing her heart, finding it a tedious and unfulfilling task, he only cares for her as much as it pays his rent. New York is expensive after all. 

Eugene finds her sitting at a plain clothed table, white and more expensive than anything the Soviet’s provided him in his apartment. She’s beautiful, he will admit that, but there is an unforgiving look in her face he cannot help but wish would would transform into something warmer. Kinder. Gentle. Still, as he approached her table and leaned down to ask for her permission to be seated, he could not shake off the feeling of wanting to elicit ire from her.

“Is this seat occupied for the night?”

—

IF AN AMERICAN REPORTER thought he’d be able to pull from her the answers that she’d kept within herself ( despite all rumours, despite what all else might have said ), he would have better luck pursuading her to take a bite of tangerine pie. 

Alina had preferred it, leaving them without answer even after she’d appeared at the head of the Bolshoi’s rehearsal room. There would be no fall from grace, no unexpected decline in performance. Eugene could write as he pleased. Wasn’t that what journalists wanted anyway? To tell the story they wanted?

“No.” She nearly claims that it is, sparing him but a glance, but as she is who she is, he is an American— a celebrated guest along with the rest of them, who is apparently without a seat. “Please,” Her hand raises, turned up and open as she gestures to the chair. “You shouldn’t miss the meal.” Curious that he seems to have missed the first half of it, though. 

“Have the dancers already exiled you from hearing their gossip?” It’s made in jest, yet she wonders all the same between a sip of wine. 

When:  9:40 PM

Where: Longue Room

Who: Open

“DRINK UNTIL YOU CAN DRINK NO MORE,” his father used to say. “Drink, drink, your sorrows away.” For as much as his father had been an alcoholic, and Dimitri a child back then, the words reply in his mind’s eye as he eyes the woman across the room with disdain.

Perhaps this is why when the seat next to him becomes occupied, Dimitri does the unthinkable and says, “Good evening, tovarisch.”

—

THE FIREPLACE IS WHAT DRAWS HER TO THE ROOM, a moth to a flame though she’s never been burnt— no, the flames that scald merely warm her, pressure like this soothes her. But, remaining on her feet is invites more conversation than not, so she seats herself, content for now to watch rather than dance. 

“Good evening, Minister.” Formal, yet the curve of her lips permits some degree of warmth as she half-turns in her seat towards him. “How are you enjoying the festivities?”