#tusertiff

It’s been close to ten years but the high school is still the same. A massive red brick building, covered in spray paint from what the school board had deemed “vandalists''.  Zoya thinks the paint is nice, however, unlike the board, who believe it has marred the school’s exterior, when really it is really quite beautiful. There is a mural of a piano and notes flowing from its keys, and one of a locked heart seeped in darkness. It keeps the school alive, in her very respectable opinion. 

She hears a crackling of leaves behind her and turns to meet a very smug grin, one that she has not expected to meet, one she hasn’t seen in years. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Nazyalensky.”

Nikolai Lantsov.

She does not reply, instead glares at him, mustering all of her get-the-hell-out-of-here energy she has. Zoya has not seen her former next-door neighbor since she went to college and she would have very much liked to keep it that way. But Lantsov shows no notion of leaving, instead he leans against the giant oak tree in the courtyard. “I’m hurt, Nazyalensky,” he continues, mock-wounded. The hurt in his voice is so exaggerated it is comical, fitting to his personality. “You come all the way out here and don’t even visit?” 

“And why on Earth would I do that, Lantsov?” She lifts an eyebrow. She hates that she has to look up to him, given that he was very, very tall and Zoya was, well, not short per se, but tiny by comparison.

His hand very dramatically flies to his heart, and she remembers their high school production of Hamlet, starring none other than the blonde-headed idiot in front of her. It is a pity that the death scene had only been an act. “I’m wounded, tsaritsa.”

And there it is- his childhood nickname for her, a name that she has been called over swing sets and over family dinners pretending to be civil. Zoya suppresses the urge to laugh, but Nikolai picks up on it anyway and gives her a grin that would have melted the heart of any other person. It does not melt hers (she has to deny that there was a corner of her heart that twinges in something akin to endearment seeing the look upon his face). She rolls her eyes, and he picks himself off the ground, brushing dirt that has gotten on his trousers. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asks wryly, finally taking note of his gray suit. 

His all-too-familiar smirk reappears. “Why, only for you, Nazyalensky.”

·☾·

Zoya rummages through her suitcase, silently cursing Genya for telling her to wear something “pretty”. The redhead herself is lounging on Zoya’s bed, red-varnished nails glinting in the afternoon sunlight and her large wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop her playfully messy curls. To anyone who didn’t know her, the look would be casual but Zoya knows that every aspect has been carefully done, though the glasses were likely going to go before they met Genya’s fiance David. 

“Why don’t you pick something yourself?” she asks drily. Genya lifts her head to look at her with appraised eyebrows. 

She adjusts her glasses so they are now framing her deep amber eyes perfectly and joins Zoya to look at her suitcase in distaste. “Well, clearly it seems you are unable to function without my help. How ever do you live without me?” Genya huffs playfully. Zoya resists the urge to make a face at her.

“Luckily, that is a circumstance I will never meet,” she says primly instead. 

“You should be grateful for it, my darling Zoya.” Zoya will never admit it, hell, she’ll deny it a thousand times, but she silently agrees. 

·☾·

Zoya has nearly forgotten the taste of good food, food that is not merely edible but food that is enjoying to eat. It is one of the (now that she thinks about it, many) downsides of living in a large city. Perhaps it is the homesickness she has always denied herself, mixed with a little bit of nostalgia, but it feels like the best dinner she has ever eaten. 

They are sitting in the dining room of Lantsov’s house (though it really can’t be called a house, it is so large that Zoya, despite having visited it countless times, still gets lost. She, Genya, and David have dubbed it “The Little Palace”), and the affair is a mix of casual and formal. It serves as an early high school reunion of sorts, although most of the people present have kept in touch. They mingle regardless, and Zoya can hear laughter and the voices blend all into each other until they are nothing but white noise, fading away...away…

And then they are back again, blaring at full volume and it is too loud, too, too loud and her pulse is racing even though she hasn’t exerted herself. The transition is jarring. Her head suddenly feels like it is splitting apart, cracked down the middle and she is having one of the worst headaches of her life. She fumbles for her purse before realizing that she has borrowed one of Genyas’ for tonight, and none of her medication is in it. 

She curses vehemently. 

A part of her manages to pull together, however, and she is able to make it to the porch and sit on the swing hanging from it. A dry part of her notices that even the swing is fancy. Quite expectant of the Lantsovs, having everything in top quality. It was what they were known for, after all, being the richest people in the town. Though perhaps money didn’t buy everything, considering their relationship with Lantsov. 

Her headache, which had previously dulled a bit, is back in full force and distracts her from her thoughts of the Lantsovs. The pain is splitting, and once again the world feels like too much to handle. Voices from the front yard are rattling in her head like pennies in a glass jar, and quite unfortunately, Zoya’s head is the glass jar. She buries her head in her hands to try and dim the sheer volume of it all but it only helps so much.

Then there is a gentle tapping on her shoulder, and she believes the person is also attempting to speak to her but her head is such a mess she does not register the words. Zoya lifts her head and she is met with a pair of wide hazel eyes reflecting a lit chandelier. “Lantsov,” she attempts to grumble but the words are lost in the noise. He seems to understand what she is attempting to say, however, as he grins at her, that same grin she has seen a thousand times before, but it is somewhat charming in the moonlight. She blames it on her state of mind and not in any part on Lantsov himself. 

He sits what is an awkward distance away from her, clearly attempting to give her space while still being able to be there to check up on her. Zoya grudgingly gives him points for the matter. She looks at him, too tired to speak. Lantsov must be feeling exceptionally perceptive today because he understands her once more and gestures towards the Mercedes parked in the exceptionally large driveway. She nods, and he helps her up, albeit a little awkwardly. 

Her head is still fairly hazy but she seems to have recovered most of her senses. Lantsov lets her choose the music (which wins him more points though Zoya refuses to admit it) and his lips quirk up into an amused smile when he hears the heavy metal. “I didn’t think you’d be into this kind of stuff, tsaritsa.” It is the first thing he has said to her tonight and it is lighthearted, teasing. 

She studies him quizzically. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugs, and Zoya arches her eyebrows. 

Lantsov very suddenly starts laughing. His hazel eyes are alight with mirth, and his laughter turns into very high-pitched wheezing. Zoya mutters a very colorful curse. 

“Lantsov for saints’ sake stop laughing, you're going to get us killed! What on Earth is so funny-”

“I just realized….I don’t…..know…..where to….drop you off……” is what he manages to get out in between bursts of laughter. At this, her lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, and she is holding back inane laughter of her own. 

“Why didn’t you just ask, idiot?” Zoya’s voice is shaky, amusement and a hint of endearment evident in her tone. Lantsov gives her no answer, but a sheepish grin spreads across his face. She shakes her head mock-exasperatedly. “I’m staying at Genya’s.” It is an address familiar to both of them, so many high school days have been spent there. 

With the heavy metal blaring in the background, she lets her mind wander to other things, but her thoughts seem to always circle back to the idiot driving next to her. It is strange, she has not seen him in years yet he remains unchanged, the same irritating person she has grown up with. Though perhaps he has lost a little bit of what made him so irritating because looking at him now, she is feeling a little fond. Zoya can remember when they were children, he could always be found at her aunt’s house because he hated staying at home. She’d barely given him the time of day back then, but most of her childhood had been spent with him nonetheless. 

Reminiscing sends a pang of homesickness through heart even though she is here. Zoya is reminded of how much she loves this town. She wishes she had visited more often, and promises herself that she will visit whenever she can. 

The car stops in the driveway of Genya’s house. The headlights illuminate the door in stark contrast to the pitch-black darkness of the night. Zoya steps out of the car, and before she has the time to really think the invitation to come inside tumbles from her mouth in a breathless rush. “Would you like to come inside for coffee?” 

He grins. “Why, of course I’ll join you, Nazyalensky.” 

Genya, of course, is still at the Lantsov manor so it is just the two of them in the house. The first thing Zoya reaches for after slipping off her jacket is the coffee machine, which she shouldn’t considering that it is so late but it has become habit for her. “I see your caffeine addiction hasn’t left you,” Lantsov remarks, a smile in his voice though she doesn’t look up to check.

She doesn’t reply, being too busy with her coffee so he continues. “You know, I think you single-handedly kept the coffee shop running for two years. Half of what I was paid came from your orders.” To this, Zoya huffs, mock-offended, but she is smiling. 

She brings a cup for him too. It is red, with a small fox painted in gold. He takes it from her gingerly and winces slightly when his fingers come in contact with the surface of the hot mug. Lantsov takes a whiff and his nose wrinkles in distaste. “How on Earth do you drink this stuff?”

Zoya gives him a scathing look, and he recoils in mock fear. “Don’t you dare disrespect the coffee.”

Lantsov sighs dramatically. “Only for you, tsaritsa, only for you.” He takes a deep breath, plugs his nose (a gesture which Zoya does not appreciate and she glares daggers at him but he only winks in response) and drains it all in one gulp. Which is a mistake since the coffee is burning hot. 

“Idiot,” Zoya mutters but makes no move to help him. He has dragged himself into this situation after all, and she does not clean up the messes of irritating blonde imbeciles. 

His face does, eventually, return to a color that is not as red as the plastic cherries that the bakeries in the city place on their cakes. She has since then finished her own cup, but unlike him, through careful sips that she somehow does not choke on despite the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. 

He stays longer than he should but neither he nor Zoya entertain the fact that it is very, very late. Hours have slipped away, spent reminiscing. It is nice to just sit here and talk and listen. There are an endless number of things that they talk about, ranging from old memories to their respective jobs. 

Zoya will deny it to her grave but she realizes she has missed him. 

She eventually tires, and when she wakes up, she is met with a Genya’s appraised eyebrows. She realizes that she has been sleeping on Lantsov’s shoulder. He has fallen asleep as well but she makes no motion to wake him.