#anotherdayblue

…

 Anastasia startles. Looks away. Only the crowd of people, minding their own business, chatting, whispering, plotting. Nobody to look back at her with wide eyes, nobody to call after her, nobody at all. She ignores the disappointment falling like a brick in her stomach, when her heart had been in her throat only a second ago. She looks around her once more, just for a moment, just in case. But still nothing.

Tatiana must notice her crestfallen face, for she is next to her a heartbeat later, her cold fingers against Anastasia’s elbow. “What is it, Malenkaya?”

“I thought…” she starts, before choking on the words. She shakes her head. “My mind is playing tricks on me.”

She grabs a cup from a nearby waiter and downs it in two large gulp, much to her older sister’s disapproval. But Anastasia is nineteen now, old enough for champagne and wine, old enough to ignore Tatiana’s scolding – it looks too much like their mother’s, a fact that Tatiana uses to her advance more often than not.

When Anastasia turns around, it is to see Maria dancing around, changing partner every ten steps. She turns and dances and laughs, hand brushing against that of every suitor coming close to her. Anastasia knows her game – Maria’s way of assessing a crowd of would-be husbands, touching their hands and finding them cold. She is yet to find her soulmate, but it doesn’t stop her from looking – and from enjoying herself as she does so, if the way she moves into one Duke’s personal space is anything to go by. Maria doesn’t mind a bit of fun with other men until she finds the one. Anastasia envies her this carefree spirit.

There isn’t much Anastasia takes seriously in life, but that she does. It must be Olga’s romantic inclinations rubbing on her, or those novels she stole from Aunt Xena – the ones where warmth is not just something shared by soulmate, but also sets your body on fire for reasons that have Anastasia blushing like the innocent maiden she is.

“Nastya…” Tatiana tries again.

“I need some air,” she replies, hastily. “I will be in the garden, if anyone is looking for me.”

Tatiana offers her one last worrying glance as Anastasia grabs the pans of her skirts and walks toward the back of the ballroom. Thankfully for her, everyone else is too busy with the ball to stop her, and the guards know better than to try. The cold air against her cheeks when she steps outside is a relief. For a moment, she fancies herself walking around the park and make her way back to the Alexander Palace, but she knows her mother will be upset at her if she finds her way to her bed before the evening is over. So instead she walks toward the Greek Gallery, walks up the stairs to admire the ancient statues lining up inside.

Despite the moon hanging high in the sky and the soft wind, Anastasia isn’t cold. No shiver wrecks her body, no goosebump raises on her bare arms. It is, actually and surprisingly, quite warm for a spring night. Especially to Russian standards. It makes for a nice change, after the stuffiness of inside, bodies close to each other until you can barely move.

Anastasia moves around slowly, admiring the statues she’s known since she was a little girl. Maître Pierre would sometimes bring her here for a lesson, talking of tales older than life itself, of gods and sirens and centaurs. Those were her favourite lessons – myths are so much more interesting than French grammar, or stuffy, boring philosophers.

So lost in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice she is not alone, until she turns on her heels and lets out a yelp of surprise at the dark shadow in the corner. She presses a hand to her own heart with a heavy sigh when the man turns around, his face lit by the burning end of his cigarette, red shadows dancing mysteriously against his handsome features.

 …

 Dmitry startles at the unexpected scream.

He didn’t expect to be found here – ran off to take his one and only break the moment he could find an empty table where to put his tray. He knows he is a coward, running away. But what else is there to be done? The entire palace is full of members of the royal family, people who will never look twice at him – people who didn’t even notice he exists when he was walking around them and doing his job. What does he really would happen, once he finds his soulmate? That she will welcome him into her life with open arms, him the street rat, him the anarchist’s son?

No, Dmitry know better than to believe in fairy tales.

The Zorya are not looking over him from the stars.

So he didn’t expect to be found there, hiding from his soulmate; he didn’t expect to be found there, by Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova herself. She seems as surprised as he does, mouth slightly opened, delicate hand against her heart. Even now, with her parents dead and her brother made Tsar, she wears one of those white dresses the sisters are famous for. It falls all the way to the ground, and shows a tasteful amount of shoulder. Dmitry’s eyes linger, perhaps for too long, before he remembers his manners.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he starts, and hopes it’s the right title. He has no idea. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She blinks at him, once, twice, before she shakes her head a little bit and schools her features into a less startled expression. An easy smile blossoms on her lips, beautiful yet unexpected. “Don’t worry. My fault entirely, I didn’t look where I was going, let alone if anyone else was around.” She looks back at the statues behind her. “Those ones make for good company, don’t you think?”

It takes a moment for Dmitry to understand she is making a joke – she is joking with a stranger, and smiling at him, on a secret garden in the middle of the night, away from a ball. Dmitry’s cheeks set themselves on fire, and he looks down at his shoes.

Perhaps it his mistake.

Because he does not see her taking a step toward him, and so does not immediately understand why the air is suddenly so much hotter than it was only second ago. He frowns, and looks up; the Grand Duchess has a puzzled look on her face as she looks back at him. She takes a small, tentative step forward, and Dmitry’s body is on fire. She steps back; he breathes again. She moves closer, and his blood turns to molten lava, slow yet burning under his sky as the warm spreads from his heart, down his limbs, down down until all he can feel is the warmth of her into his own soul.

She stops, moves back a tiny bit, the temperature lowering just so. Despite his muddles brain, his heart beating so fast in his throat he feels like throwing up, Dmitry is the one to finally close the distance between them. Heat is not something he particularly likes – his Russian bloods longs for the cold of winter, after all – but the scorching warmth of her soul meeting his is something else, entirely. Like going inside after a day in the snow, warm air biting at your cheeks even when your skin is so numb you can’t feel it anymore. Like the first sip of green tea, burning down your throat until it settles comfortably in your stomach. Like warming yourself in the biggest blanket you own, cocooned away from the outside word.

Like coming home.

She is so close, he can see the green around the blue of her eyes, the soft freckles on her nose. So close her breath fans on his mouth, so close he just has to move his hand the slightest bit to brush his fingers against the fabric of her dress. So close, he would only need to lean forward and–

“What’s your name?” she asks in a whisper, as if afraid to break this moment between them.

For a moment, Dmitry’s mind is empty of any thoughts – her voice is as soft and delicate as her body, and he forgets everything, even his own name, stammering on the sounds like a young boy enamoured for the first time. Which he might as well be, at this point.

“Dmitry Konstantinovich Sudayev,” he manages to say, after way too long.

 …

 Oh what would her poor mother say, if she were here today, if she knew Anastasia’s soulmate is nothing but a waiter, nothing but the help. Olga’s was a soldier, met during the Great War. Middle class, yet a hero of war. Tanya’s is a handsome Greek Archduke, a good title, good family, and above all good fortune.

Nastya’s is a poor waiter with hollowed cheeks and broad shoulders, with pride in the angle of his jaw and gentleness in his eyes. Nastya’s soulmate is a prince of the gutters, handsome and tall and, oh, the things her heart does. She steps closer to him, tilting her chin up so she can look him in the eyes. There is red high on his cheeks, and it makes him look younger – innocent, almost. Kind.

“Hello, Dima,” she whispers into the wind. Nothing but the night around them, nothing but the echoes of music from inside and the loud beating of her heart. “I’m Nastya, nice to meet you.”

Her hand rises to play with the ridiculous white bowtie around his neck. She understands Maria all of a sudden, when her brain pictures nothing but her fingers pulling at the tie until it comes undone, ripping the buttons of his shirt to leave his collarbones bare. She’s never experienced such things before – pure want, unadultered lust. Dmitry’s eyes seem darker, and she dares think he shares her thoughts.