#anigor

Their whirlwind romance was only really three weeks. But the Manhattan mansion, the Vegas penthouse... She didn't know him, not really. He didn't know her at all. His disjointed English, her loose grasp on Russian. She had naively thought she'd learn more about him in time. That they'd last. They were married after all. He wanted to stay in America just for her. Maybe those words meant nothing when Vanya never even said her real name. She was just Ani to him. Stripper. Convenient fun.

She's back in her real life now. Shitty mattress, cold air from no working AC. Igor checks in on her from time to time. Ani made a lot of cash from selling the ring, from what Ivan paid her in the first place. Enough to keep afloat for a couple years. But she went back to old habits, went back to working for HQ. It was easier to pretend Vanya didn't happen. Didn't exist. Didn't shake up her world then leave like it was nothing. 

"I fuckin' told you, I'm good," Ani growls, rolling her eyes at Igor's slew of questions. "Do you have to ask a million more times?"

The serious-looking Russian man frowns. Sorta. Ani kinda hates the blank expression he usually sports, unaffected by her attitude or even smiling at it. He takes a sip from his coffee, black with no cream or sugar just how he liked it, which of course she called him "fucking weird" for.

They're in some hole in the wall café in Ani's neighbourhood, now Igor's as well. He has settled in well to Brighton Beach this past month, after he insisted on staying here so he doesn't burden his grandmother too much. He didn't tell her, but Anora bets it was just to make sure she's alright. 

"Sometimes you say you are good when you are not good," he says. His English still isn't the best, but there's less of an accent now. Of course, he could get by in Brighton Beach purely in Russian but he knows what Ani prefers. So with her, it's English. "But alright. I will leave it alone."

"Thank you," she says, widening her eyes and rolling them a little. But it's genuine enough, and both of them know it. Thank you for giving her space when she needs it, thank you for never giving too much space that she feels alone again. Whatever. Ugh, mushy.

Igor slides a plate of blini with jam and cream across to her. "You have not touched your breakfast," he chides gently. "Eat. You need to keep your strength." Igor watches her with those intense grey eyes, his brow furrowed slightly.

Anora nods, sipping her own coffee. Caramel frap, even in the cold weather. Her foot taps an anxious rhythm against the floor, acrylic fingernails clicking on the tabletop. The routine check-up with Igor is just that - routine at this point. She's used to his gentle concern, the way his brows knit together as he studies her face for signs of fatigue or distress. Still, his words nag at her. Keep strength? For what, exactly? Her days are boring now. She doesn't need to prepare for anything like the harrowing 48 hours after they met.

"I'm fine, dude. Really." Ani forces a smile, attempting to push down the ache in her chest. Vanya's absence is a dull throb, constant and unrelenting. Some days are worse than others. The nights are the hardest, when the loneliness creeps in and memories of silk sheets and games she didn't fucking care about but gave him so much joy flood her mind. Russian sable coats, but also the shitty takeaway noodles she'd feed him. 

And it's annoying, when Igor just stares at her. Hell, she knows she's lying but did this dude always have to read her? 

Ani picks at the blini to procrastinate admitting any hard truths, spreading a thin layer of jam before taking a small bite. She flashes Igor a 'see, I'm eating, happy?' look. He seems to accept it, because he focuses on his own breakfast. The sweetness bursts on her tongue, cloying and artificial. Her stomach churns. Ani sets down her fork with a soft clink.

"Alright, fuck, you got me. I haven't been eating much." Truth slips out without warning, the admission bitter on her tongue.

What even was the last meal she had before this? The strawberry jam is foreign, too much almost. Maybe it was the pizza her sister had slid through her door after Ani didn't get out of bed. Maybe the stupid eggs she burned because she was too zoned out.

"Eat lots now."

"Yeah, dude, I got it."

Ani sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. "I don't know how to do this, Igor. How to just... move on. Pretend like a literal marriage never happened." Her hands twist in her lap, knuckles white. "I feel like I'm losing my mind sometimes."

She knows Ivan isn't worth it, and maybe that's the worst part. He was never gonna be the man she wanted, had hoped tirelessly, that he'd be. He wouldn't have fought, wouldn't have talked to his parents, wouldn't have defended her. In the end, Ivan never wanted her. Just fun. That's what she liked about him, but it was also the reason they never would have lasted. Laying awake at night, salt streaming from her eyes into her ears, about him? The boy never washed a plate or did his laundry in his life. Never knew how to show love if it wasn't buying it, or even worse, the empty words. She feels so stupid, playing it all back, in hindsight seeing all the moments she should've realised.

"Why would you lose your mind?" he asks.

"I'm right where I was before I met him. And I feel like screaming all the time," Ani says. "I feel like a fucking idiot for hoping. As if fairytales happen to people like us."

He hums, a low and rumbling sound. Igor always listens to her. Which was unnerving at first, and sort of unbelievable considering when they met he was yelling at her to shut up and literally gagged her. (Toros gagged her, Igor would correct).

He holds his hand out and for a second Anora thinks he's offering to hold hers. But what Igor actually does is hand her his coffee. "You're too cold." He makes her hands let go of each other, bring them to clasp over the cup. His larger hands cover hers, helping her focus on the heat, on the sensation of the here and now instead of her swirling, self-pitying thoughts.

Igor looks at her like... God, Ani can't explain it. Can't bring herself to focus on it, to really think about and analyse the deepness of it, or why. What she can feel is that he doesn't have the answers either. That's comforting in its own way. He never leaves her alone, which has slowly gotten less creepy and more relieving. The heat seeps into her palms, grounding her. Igor's never failed to surprise her. He's always so in tune with her needs, even when she doesn't voice them herself. Especially when she doesn't voice them.

"You are Anora Mikheeva," he tells her, and she bites back the instinctive correction of 'Ani', "Have been a lot longer than Anora Zakharova."

The name sounds foreign and she supposes that's Igor's point. It stings, just like when he told her that he was glad that she wasn't in the family. Proves that she never really was, even if somehow Ivan wasn't a coward and hadn't run. His parents wouldn't have approved. Ani would eternally be the outsider, decked out in lavish clothes but still internally herself. Eventually made to be some trophy wife, little more than a pretty accessory to be paraded around and bragged about, but unable to fly on her own terms. Unable to be proud of her achievements, her dreams before meeting him. Only supporting Vanya as he worked in his father's company.

"I never changed my name, asshat," she retorts instead. Because it's always been easier to rebuff Igor's attempts than let him chisel away at her walls. They haven't exactly addressed what happened between them either. How Anora had ridden Igor until she melted in his embrace, finally breaking down into tears. She'd cried for an hour, then. He let her. She quickly looks away and sips his coffee, wincing at the bitter taste.

"You will live. Find normal. You are doing good."

"I'm trying," Ani murmurs. Find normal. What does normal even mean at this point? Her life has been anything but normal for as long as she can remember. Relying on her wits and her body, only making it work because she was fucking good at it. "I'm trying," she repeats, more firmly this time.

His hand goes to her knee, patting it.  It's embarrassing since men touch her pretty much every night, but it makes Anora jolt slightly. The casual touch sends a shiver down her spine, a reminder of... whatever that car tryst could be called. Almost intimacy? A shallow attempt to go back to her old life. She'd been desperate, lost, seeking solace and warmth and distraction in any form she could find it. And Igor had been there, steady and silent, letting her use him however she needed. It was alright until he tried to kiss her.

Ani swallows thickly, setting the mug down with a quiet clink. She doesn't like leaving words unsaid. Knows Igor's probably been worrying his stupid bald head over how hard she sobbed and broke down on him. 

"About, you know..." she starts hesitantly, words stumbling over themselves. "What we did. In the car. It was-"

Needful. Cathartic. A moment of weakness. None of those sound right.

"Unplanned," she settles on finally, meeting his gaze. "I didn't- I'm not-" Fluent in this, in the complicated tangle of feelings and expectations that come with intimacy. Sex for sex's sake? Sure. Beyond the transactional, beyond the professional? There's no place for that. Not in her life. "God, I dunno. Thanks for the ring, basically. Thanks for everything else."

And he says something so ridiculous it actually makes Ani un-tense her shoulders. "It's OK."

"OK? I fucking beat up your chest and crashed out on you."

Igor's mouth purses into a thin line. He chucks an ungodly amount of pancake into his mouth and her face screws up in judgement about how he just crams food in like he won't have it again. "What, you regret it?"

"No," Ani says quickly, the denial tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop it. "I don't regret it." She meets Igor's gaze head on, willing him to see the truth of her words. There's a flicker of something in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or cautious hope.

Ani shifts in her seat, suddenly restless. The memory of that afternoon burns bright in her mind. The weight of Igor's body beneath her, the drag of his skin against hers, the way he'd let her take control. Set the pace. Use him however she needed. It had been freeing, in a way. Empowering. To know that even in her lowest point, she still held some semblance of power. That she could take what she wanted, when she wanted it. What she couldn't take was that he wanted more. Pulled her face in.

"I'm not ready for anything," she says.

"I know."

Igor hadn't judged her for her tears, or the ragged edges of her emotions. He'd simply been there, solid and unwavering. A port in the storm of her... what? Grief? Loss?

"I'm a fucking terrible person."

Igor smiles for the first time during this whole routine meet-up. "I do not think so," he says.

"Even if I'm 'too fucking crazy'? Run my mouth?"

The memory is vivid in her mind—the shock of seeing Ivan's father's goons in the mansion, the panic that had risen in her chest. She'd lashed out, all claws and teeth and fury. Igor had taken it like a champ, never fighting back despite her best efforts to hurt him. Then he tied her up, that asshole.

He shrugs. "Makes things interesting." In a move Ani can't counter, he grabs her coffee instead, sipping the too-sweet caramel frap that doesn't suit him at all. "I like not handling you."

Even now, Anora feels a thrill of pride at how badly she'd mauled him. He's such a stand-up guy and she knows that now, but she'll never feel bad about defending herself. She can see the scar of that deep-ass bite on his neck still. "Is it alright if my new normal has you in it?" Ani asks. "You won't win any fights, I'll never admit when you're right."

"Done and done."

"I'm never gonna calm down, you know?" she tells him, like she almost wants him to turn this down. "What you see is what you get."

He fixes those eyes on her. "You are always wild. Why would I expect different?"

And it's funny. With Ivan, she was silently glued to him, whatever he wanted. Igor got her actual self, the one that talks shit with her friends and cusses out any small inconvenience.