#((pasha))

The night was well underway. Drinking, feasting, amateur gambling. The tink of chips tossed into a pile. Cards being shuffled. The servants had been dismissed long ago. The revelry was not limited to just the members of Catherine's court.

The whole house felt like it could breathe openly, Pavel included.

The party was a given as soon as it became clear that Catherine would be away. Though thrown together quickly, it was not lacking. The kitchen labored hard to prepare a great feast. While the cat was away, everyone turned a blind eye.

"You look bored, Pavel," a friend commented, tossing a few shiny chips into the center of the small table. A low ante. This game would drag on all night at this rate.

Paul curled the cards he held in his palm, glancing down at them before tossing them into the pile, sighing. "Because this is boring."

Laughter. Mildly grating to the Tsesarevich. The shine on the mother of pearl-adorned chips swirled a bit as his head swam.

Paul lifted the small glass and finished off his drink before getting up from the table. "You can split my chips," he muttered before wandering out into the cool evening air.

A few of the ladies dashed past, offering small curtsies and giggles to the Tsesarevich before wandering deeper into the hedges. He recognized them as some of his mother's ladies in waiting.

So she did not bring them with her on this trip. Perhaps she would make her latest conquest unlace her corset and let her hair down—

No. It turned his stomach to think of it, even if in jest.

"My Lord Pavel, you look ill."

You.

"I am fine," he brushed off your concern.

Still, you approached, looking him over. "That is just what you would say if you were not fine."

"Ah, you know me so well," he teased.

He watched as your lips curved into a soft smile, the soft amber lights from inside casting you in a warm glow.

He should not. You were expressly off limits. His mother's pride and joy, her favorite member of court, even counting himself. How you got along with Catherine, he could never know.

He continued anyway, in defiance of his screaming brain. "Going for a stroll through the gardens?" You shrugged, and his eyes fell to your bare shoulders. "Are you not cold?"

"Are you worried about me, Pavel?"

He heard the mischief in your tone, was drawn to it, like a fly to honey.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" The easy grin he settled into promised much. "I do believe a walk would do me some good." He offered his arm.

With a smile, you slid your arm through his, immediately leaning into his side more than was customary, leeching his warmth.

"If I were a braver man, I might suggest you abandoned your shawl on purpose."

Despite the chill, Paul desperately wanted to free his neck from the stifling collar, as indecent as that might be.

"If I were braver, I would say you were right."

The silence that settled was anything but comfortable. Images ran through his mind. Situations he should not be in, especially not with you. This evening was meant to be fun, freeing, but still, his mother's severe expression overrode everything else.

"My mother, she—"

"Oh, enough of her. Can we spend one evening not speaking of her wants and rules?" you ranted. "'Don't entertain my Pasha', 'smile less, you do not want to appear desperate', I mean, I've had enough! I swear she keeps me close to ensure I am completely unhappy."

Paul's ears caught on you uttering the affectionate diminutive his mother frequently used. Half the time he was positive she used it ironically. And though you were merely mimicking her, he couldn't deny the way he yearned to hear you say it again, perhaps more favorably next time.

"I thought you got along well with her," Paul confessed.

Your scoff soothed him. "I am pressed under her thumb like an ant."

"You wear it better than I," he muttered.

"She is so unfair to you," you laid a hand on his arm. "It isn't how a mother should—"

A loud but cloying voice interrupted you. "Lord Pavel! Won't you please join us?"

The pair of you looked over. There was a long table, out of place in the middle of the garden, but home to many parties when weather permitted. The fabric tent shielded it from the elements, but also served to contain the warm glow inside.

He didn't usually spend much time here, his mother taking up residence on most nights with her sycophants and aspiring partners. He would always come up with some excuse, some task he needed to be in bed early for. Even though she knew he was lying, she dismissed him anyway.

There was already a gathering of lords and ladies under the tent. They were seated haphazardly, some in laps, some on the table itself. Sweet cakes had been stolen away and scattered here. The table was laden with glasses, a few empty, most still on their way there.

"We were just about to play a game!" the lady attempted to entice.

"I love games," you grinned.

He heard the flirty lilt in your voice, knew it likely meant trouble for him. But he was unable to say no. He did not drag his feet as you pulled him over. Didn't put up a fight as he sat down beside you. And still you kept your hand on his arm, as if displaying some silent ownership.

He didn't mind one bit.

"So, the game," the lady leaned in from across the table, holding up a worn silver ruble. "When it's your turn, you pick someone. They flip the coin. If it is the crest side, you can ask that person a question, and they must tell the truth." She turned the coin in her palm. "If it is Catherine, they must complete a dare of your choosing." She grinned conspiratorially.

Paul's confidence wavered. "Perhaps I will observe a few rounds first."

"Here, Lord Pavel, a drink," a man announced, sliding a glass in front of him.

He lifted it in thanks and sipped at it as the game began.

He watched you as you paid all your attention to the game, very much leaning over him to watch the goings on at the other end of the table. Your excitement was adorable.

In another time, perhaps…

"Here," the lady reached for the coin. She set her eyes on him. On Paul. "Tsesarevich—"

Your grip on his arm tightened. "He said he's not playing," you interrupted.

He could sense the hackles rising on the pair of you, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to watch, or wanted to put a stop to it. The cutting look in your eyes spread warmth through to his fingers. You were staking your claim.

The lady balked for a moment before laughing slightly uncomfortably. "I would go easy on you," she explained, meeting Paul's wide eyes despite how you leaned protectively in front of him.

He almost considered relenting, but one sharp glance down over your shoulder at him dashed any thought of that away. "I appreciate your interest in—" A heel pressed onto his own foot. "Perhaps next round," he bit out.

"You can ask me," you spoke up, leaning in further to block Paul from her view.

The pressure on his foot increased until he felt compelled to reach down for your leg and lift it, his hand finding the back of your knee even among the thick skirts.

Almost a scoff. A slight eyeroll. But put on the spot, the lady gave in, tossing the coin into the air with a sigh. She watched it fall and spin for a moment before it settled onto its back, The Tsarina staring up at the woven ceiling.

The lady's lips settled into a satisfied smile. "A dare."

Paul had a feeling you would not enjoy whatever this was.

"The old mausoleum on the far side of the grounds, I want you to walk there, remain for five minutes, then you can return."

Paul knew where she meant. The remains of a great many of his ancestors could be found there. It was where he might one day reside as well.

"It will take me ten minutes just to get there!" you protested.

The lady raised her eyebrows. "If you would like to bow out, you are more than welcome to." She didn't bother to hide her disdain.

You rose to your feet and snatched up one of the lanterns from the table. It was large and unwieldy, but you cared not. "Fine."

Your gaze fell to him. You said nothing, but he could hear you in his head, asking him to go with you.

"We will take good care of the Tsesarevich," the lady smiled.

Suddenly your hand was clenched on his jacket and you were hauling him up to his feet.

"Right," he muttered, moving to follow you out of the confines of the tent.

After walking quietly for a couple of minutes, air dense around, the mood veering towards uncomfortable, a noise left you. You turned your head to the side, eyes still avoiding his.

"Sorry."

"No, it's—"

"I forgot myself," you admitted. "She just… gets under my skin so easily."

Paul smiled to himself. "You two have a history?"

"A rivalry, more like."

He let out a hum of acknowledgement.

More silence. Silence that felt stifling with such latent emotions on display, visible and begging to be dragged into the soft moonlight.

The soft thump of his heart beneath his ribs seemed stronger, like when he stood before his men, emboldened with pride for the banners they held. The power it gave him. Like he wasn't pinched between Catherine's fingers.

"It's okay, you know."

You slowed, meeting his eyes again finally. "What is?"

"The way you feel…" He watched your face, saw your eyes widen slightly. "Even if I shouldn't, I… well, I enjoy it."

It felt good to say it, to put it out there. Now he waited to see what you would do with it.

"I never got that impression from you." A little stony, a little cautious.

He understood. Perhaps he had gotten a bit too good at hiding his emotions. Especially when his mother was within view. And as you spent nearly all of your time at her side, well…

"I didn't think you cared for me very much. I honestly thought you'd brush me off tonight."

"Well, you avoid me most of the time. It is… confusing to me, this behavior," he admitted. "Not that I would dare complain."

You frowned, but did not contest it.

He worried for a moment that he had upset you, but then you spoke.

"I am not meant to so much as look at you, Pavel. Your mother, she…"

He felt a little hopeful at that. "Me either. Can't look, can't even glance. At you, I mean."

The conversation paused as the large mausoleum came into view. The burial site of a whole host of his family members, and quite a few of those that came before. Though, not his father.

"We made it," you sighed, walking on ahead. He watched you, dress shining in the glow of the moon, looking like some conjured dream among the statues and stonework.

You turned and looked over your shoulder at him. "Scared, Pavel?"

He bit back a smile, walking over slowly until he reached you. "Are you?"

You placed the lantern on a pillar of stone and approached him. A soft touch smoothed out his lapel, easing the wrinkle there from when you pulled him to his feet. A moment that sent a jolt down his spine even as he was loath to admit it.

Before he could think twice, his hands gripped your sides, pushing you back into the soft bed of leaves along the wall of the mausoleum.

"We cannot," you insisted, even as you lifted your head back against the viridescent wall, body language very much inviting him in.

He studied you, all pressed up against the vine-covered stonework, bosom heaving. He knew he shouldn't, but the soft lace framed it all so nicely. Why else was it there if he wasn't meant to look?

A gentle pressure at his chin lifted his face so his eyes met yours again. He let out a hum at being caught staring. Not that he was attempting to hide it. "Is it my mother?"

You let out an exasperated sigh.

Yes.

"We could keep it secret," you suggested. "Just between us."

His hands climbed the bodice, that gentle pressure still there, keeping you pressed into the ivy. He could feel the heat of you even through the many layers.

"No."

"No?" You breathed, affected by his touch, but fearing his meaning more. You covered his hands with yours.

He leaned in close, closer than he ever had before. He fought to keep his breathing steady. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you a secret," he whispered softly against your lips.

"She will not allow it, Pasha," you breathed, your lips pulling at his. It nearly drove him mad.

"I will no longer let her deprive me of this," he muttered, pressing his lips to yours urgently.

He felt you give in to him and it emboldened him. He was sure now that he made the right choice. The consequence did not matter, not anymore. Nothing did, just the softness of you, the way your chilled skin warmed rapidly beneath his palms.

The pulse at your neck hammered on ever faster, his thumb lingering there just to see if you felt anything close to how he did in this moment. Even as he grew more insistent, his touch firmer, a bit desperate, you didn't let up.

As he finally pulled back, fighting for every breath, he immortalized the way you looked before him. Chest heaving, kiss-swollen lips parted. A look in your eye that screamed 'more,' and he very much wanted to give in to that wish.

"Well," you sighed, righting his jacket, "I guess we must return now."

Your eyes fluttered closed as he swiped a finger along the line of your bottom lip. Just because he wanted to. He did not want this night to end. Not yet. Not when it was going this well.

"Do we have to? The palace is just there," he nodded off to the side, his eyes darting over briefly before falling to yours.

"I have to make sure she knows I didn't weasel out of the dare," you explained, trying and failing to keep a determined look out of your eyes.

"Surely she will doubt nothing tomorrow when you join me for breakfast." A dare of his own. He ran a knuckle along your cheek, his touch gentle and full of yearning. He was warm despite the chill in the air.

Relief washed over him as you nodded. You reached up for his hand, wrapping it in yours. "Lead the way."

An impish grin. "Of course, my lady."