notyourprince | And I can make it alone but we can do this so much better Together

Entry tags:

anya,
gleb vaganov

And I can make it alone but we can do this so much better Together

If asked, Dmitry would say he's not avoiding them. Or, at least, he's not avoiding them anymore than they're avoiding him. Anya has two jobs, Gleb has at least one, and Dmitry somehow stumbled into one of his own. Over the last few weeks at the bakery, he's learned more about bread and coffee than he'd ever thought there was to know. The owners like him because he knows how to smile and sell a loaf, a pastry, and a drink. Dmitry likes it because he gets to take anything that's deemed unsaleable for pennies.

It's at the end of one such shift that he comes home and looks up at the window of the Bramford he knows is his, only for his mouth to fall open. On the third floor, he can see a brown and white ball of fluff precariously leaning over from the balcony before jauntily ascending the exterior molding of the building, jumping from one gargoyle down to the next until she's down on the ground.

Catherine the Great is loose.

Swearing, Dmitry gives chase as his cat takes one look at him and then darts off toward the street.

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Discomfort seems to be her constant companion. Work has been a blessed relief, extra shifts acquired with desperate ease. Anya has no desire to be left alone with her thoughts. She has time enough already, spending lonely hours at night crying softly or fighting off the nightmares that still come. The sharp edges of those dreams have been worn away since she remembers, but they still come, her family calling her name.

She misses them so much. Even on the road she didn't feel as alone as she feels now in this city. It is foolish given that she knows people here, but heartbreak has a way of making her feel cutoff from the rest, like she doesn't deserve joy any more.

Pushkin had been sniffing around the sidewalk, nosing against pedestrians and street vendors as Anya walks behind him. Gleb is with her as they have fallen into an awkward overlap wherein they exchange custody of Pushkin. They walk with a clear distance between them, conversation shallow at best. She has a book to read for the class she's sitting in on and is about to start making excuses to leave when a brown and white blur comes bounding down the street. It's a cat, strikingly familiar, but before Anya can truly process the familiarity, Pushkin is barking eagerly as he slips from his collar and hurtles after the cat. Both pets are heading down the street heading right towards the Bramford building, oblivious to the dangers of city life.

Instinctively she reaches out and grabs Gleb's hand, tugging him along. "Hurry, we have to catch him."

Strangely, Gleb thinks this feels a little like the time after he first arrived and told her of what happened in Paris. There was a stilted quality to their conversation then, too, though Anya wound up stubbornly pushing past it, inviting herself to spend a holiday with him that he hadn't celebrated since he was a child, as she always seems to. Well, usually. That hasn't been the case now, and he can't say he blames her. For his part, being around her is physically painful, like the reopening of a wound that hasn't had a chance to properly heal, a reminder of what he had and lost and could have had. Even in grey, rainy weather, she's radiant, and he doesn't have the first idea what he's supposed to do with that now.

He quickly gets pulled from the conversation and his own thoughts, though, when Pushkin starts darting ahead, out of his collar, and Anya pulls him after her. There's no choice, then, but to try to follow, swearing under his breath as he sees the source of the trouble. Of course Pushkin is chasing after a cat. It's almost too cliché. As long as the dog keeps up that chase, though, he doesn't see what else they can do. They can't just let him go, after all, especially on a reasonably busy street. At least the dog runs towards a building rather than the street, where it will be easier to, hopefully, corner him and go on their way.

Nearing the building, though, even still on the move, he sees Dmitry and feels something in his stomach drop. He has to try not to wonder, then, if they were near here on purpose, if Pushkin ran to the building out of familiarity. Under the circumstances, there's no time to dwell on that. "He's inside," he says to Anya, relieved and exasperated both, everything seeming to happen too quickly.

Dmitry can barely process what he sees. First, Katyusha goes charging off and then another brown blur gives chase, sending her on a new trajectory back toward the building. He'd be relieved, except she then darts between his legs and back through the door. The other blur (Pushkin, he belatedly realizes) hurries after her with excited barks. Between the confusion of the two of them, Dmitry barely connects the fact that Pushkin means Anya must be near.

"Stop it!" he calls uselessly after them, turning around and becoming the third member of an already-farcical chase. He should never have gotten a cat, should never have let Anya convince him that the cat loved and would pine for him. Right now, he thinks that the cat is capable only of mischief and not love.

Distantly behind him, Dmitry hears one shout and then an exasperated reply but he doesn't stop, watching as Katyusha runs in and then out of the elevator. Again, she darts around him but Pushkin barrels headlong right into his shins. "Ow," he says, so startled that it comes out flat and sarcastic.

Anya's attention is so fixated on Pushkin, on getting him back safe and sound and preferably without having stolen someone's lunch, that she almost fails to notice Dmitry. Who she does notice is who the cat. Katyusha dances merrily in and out of Pushkin's reach, the little dog excited by his feline friend as he runs into elevator.

"Sasha, nyet!" she scolds as she enters the building running right for the elevator just as Pushkin rams himself into Dmitry's shins. Gleb's hand is warm in her own as she pulls him along. No matter the commotion, she hasn't let him go. The little dog for his part, stumbles back, confused and wobbling by the barricade. Katyusha mewls against Anya's skirt before darting back towards the dog and into the lift, luring Anya to follow her inside, taking Gleb along with them both. "Both of you, stop it."

It takes a bit of coordination, simultaneously following after an insistent Anya and folding the umbrella he's been carrying as he steps into the building, but with some fumbling, Gleb manages it. As it turns out, however, that might well be the least of his concerns. The cat is running for the elevator, the dog has rammed square into Dmitry's legs — of course, he takes just a moment to think bitterly, even the dog runs right to him — and there isn't much time to stop and take stock of his surroundings. To an onlooker, it would probably be a humorous scene, three people and two frantic animals moving around each other. A neighbor comes out of the stairwell, arches a brow, and continues on their way. At least neither Katyusha nor Pushkin seems inclined to run back outside. These might be close quarters, but that's better for catching both animals and keeping them from coming to harm.

"Here," he says, a bit breathless as Anya tugs him into the lift, reaching to press the button that will close the doors. He can't imagine either animal will be pleased about that, but both are here now, finally in one place rather than running back and forth through the lobby, and they might be able to put an end to this whole farce that way. "Pushkin, sit."

Gleb and Anya come rushing after and the scene only gets more absurd from there. Pushkin shakes off his surprise in time to dart into the elevator after the cat and Dmitry gives chase, nearly tripping into Gleb on the way in and then barely stopping in time to not ram his shoulder into the back wall of the elevator. He leans down and tries to snatch up Katyusha in the same moment that Gleb commands Pushkin to sit. For a moment, she's placid in his arms but when the doors close, she launches out of his grasp, kicking off sharp back claws to red scratches to the steam burns on his forearms.

Embarrassingly, she jumps right onto Gleb's shoulder.

"For the love of..." He starts to reach for her when the elevator lurches upward.

Wonderful. The trip to the third floor has never felt so long.

The moment that the elevator door slides shut behind her, Anya breathes a sigh of relief. No matter what happens next, both the little dog and the cat are safe and sound. As the elevator begins its ascent, she remembers that Gleb's hand is still clasped in hers. It is unnecessary now with no crowds to wind through, no chance of him getting lost as well. Reluctantly, she slowly lets go, regretting that she can't keep holding on.

Keenly aware of how close Dmitry is, his body on the other side of her, she wonders if she could possibly disappear. Simply melt through the floor like some sort of specter, haunted only by her loss and regret, tempted by the two men next to her and all that she cannot have.

Unable to do that, she focuses on the small animals instead. Placing her hands on her hips, she looks up at Katyusha on Gleb's shoulders and then down at Pushkin who has obeyed Gleb and is sitting on Dmitry's foot. "What am I going to do with the both of you?"

She isn't so much ignoring both men and her feelings, but fixated on something easier.

At least the commotion has finally died down. Gleb has to bite back a wince when the cat, with her sharp nails, lands on his shoulder, another when Anya lets go of his hand, but everything is still, or close to it, and he can try to focus on that. It isn't as if he'd have expected anything else in the case of the latter, anyway. She grabbed his hand for convenience, to make it easier to chase after the dog who is still technically both of theirs, probably even without thinking, not out of any kind of sentiment. Glancing between the pair of them, now that he has a chance to do so, he feels tension settle in his shoulders as he draws in a breath, though he tries not to make it any more apparent than it would be in his usual stance of a soldier, a habit he's never been able to shake. He doesn't need to make any of this more difficult than it already is.

The elevator seems to rise excruciatingly slowly, as if resistant to doing so at all. If he remembers correctly, the Bramford is an old building by Darrow standards, which would probably explain it, as well as the slight chill in the air. It feels only frustrating, though, when the last thing he wants is to have to be in such close quarters with the woman who broke his heart and the man she loves. The sooner the doors open again, the more likely it is he'll be able to walk away with his dignity intact.

"Well, they're in one place now," he says dryly, still clearly less than thrilled. "That's something."

"I left the window open by mistake," Dmitry says. He doesn't care how obvious it is that he's jamming himself as far into one corner as he can go without upsetting Pushkin from his position on his foot. Staring down at the little dog gives him an excuse not to look at Gleb and Anya or their joined hands. Looking at the dog, at his scratched and scalded arms, is so much easier than looking at them and not knowing what to do with the ache in his heart.

Sometimes, he misses the times when he didn't care about anything beyond his own survival, when there was no Anya to matter, to make him want to be deserving of her.

"We can trade hostages when we get to my floor," he offers, a weak joke in an unsalvageable situation.

"They both have minds of their own. It couldn't be helped."

Anya feels a little defensive of the two creatures. It isn't either of their faults that things have gone so far astray. She wishes she could explain it to both of them, knew where to start, but every time she opens her mouth to say something to someone about it, she feels foolish. Her heart is broken and it is all her fault. That is all there is to it.

A shiver runs down her spine, cool through the fabric of her dress. Folding her arms against her chest, she tries to look calm and keep the frown off her face. She is just about to comment how it won't be long, how they will all be able to go their separate ways shortly. How she will leave them both relatively be. None of those words get a chance to be said when the aged elevator shudders and shakes, grinding to a jolting halt. The lights briefly flicker overhead.

"What was that?" she says before turning to press the button. Nothing happens. "Are we stuck?"

Gleb feels his stomach lurch when the elevator does, something like dread seeming to settle in the air when he realizes they aren't moving and the doors aren't opening. If all of them with their respective pets in an elevator together seemed like the last thing he needed before, that's become doubly the case in the span of the last few seconds. At least the flickering of the lights seems to startle the cat enough that she jumps off his shoulders, leaving him not so worried about dislodging her, rolling his shoulders back as he heaves a heavy sigh.

"I think we are," he says, keeping his voice as flat as he can to try to stop any overt displeasure from seeping into it. It makes sense. It was raining outside when the animals ran in here, and the building is an old one. He can't be sure if the power is out everywhere or if it's only the elevator that's been affected, but either way, hopefully someone will be aware of the possibility of something like this happening and it won't take long to fix. "Well, with any luck, it won't be for long."

He nearly leaves it at that, but he'd meant to speak up anyway, before the elevator came to a stop. Glancing sidelong at Anya, not quite able to meet her gaze, he adds, "When it lets us off, I can take Pushkin so you can stay."

Katyusha finally comes loose and Dmitry bends to scoop her up, relieved when she settles in his arms this time. She rests her considerable fluff and bulk against his chest and he's grateful to hide behind her like a shield in addition to his post in the corner. The relief doesn't last long, though, when he hears Anya's question and Gleb's answer.

For a second, Dmitry doesn't say anything, just listens. Listens for them to say something, for Gleb to explain what he's just said, for the telltale grinding and grumbling of the elevator. Nothing except for the little dog panting at his feet and the massive cat purring into his neck.

"Stay?" he asks finally, glancing between Anya and Gleb. "Why would she stay here, when–" When they don't know what to say to each other. When she has Gleb.

Both Pushkin and Anya watch the cat extract herself from Gleb, returning to Dmitry. Pushkin barks, the sound sharp against the walls of the silent elevator. The space is too cramped already without the little dog adding his commentary to the awkward air. Her attention is pulled from the dog, from their predicament by Gleb's statement. Eyes snapping back towards him she wonders why he said that.

He must assume I'm with Dmitry drifts through her mind, vice tightening around her heart. Setting her mouth in a flat, imperial line she shakes her head slightly as she draws herself up to her limited height, pulling her feelings within her. It is like trying to shut the door on an overfull wardrobe. Nothing fits like it ought to.

"I am not with Dmitry," she says, voice calm and flat to Gleb before turning to look at Dmitry. "Nor am I with Gleb."

Swallowing hard, she lets that statement hang for a moment as she picks through what to say next. As if sensing his mistress' distress, Pushkin gets up and comes to lean against her shins. "I love you both. I will not — I cannot pick between you. Neither of you deserve that."

Instead she is alone in her own mess.

Gleb does look directly at her then, staring with his brow furrowed like she's just said something in a language he doesn't understand. She might as well have, for how little sense he can make of that statement. That day in his apartment a few weeks ago, she said that she didn't want to choose between them, but it was also clear enough to him that there wasn't really a choice to be made at all. He wouldn't have been in the picture in the first place if not for the simple fact that his arrival preceded Dmitry's, and she had no idea that he would ever show up at all. She might love him, too, and he has no reason to believe that she would lie about that, but that point is moot if she wants to be with someone else, as he's believed she does.

These past weeks, he can admit, if only to himself, have been hell. So, for that matter, is standing here now. And really, even if he's been mistaken in thinking that the two of them must have been together — though he can't imagine why they wouldn't have been — what she's said doesn't change anything. He still loves her. She still loves someone else. He still can't be with her. To hope for anything else would be naïve, foolish. Already, he's done too much of that as it is. Saying anything in the first place was probably ill-advised. That strange night from their childhoods, though, he hadn't known that they would wake up here, and he didn't want to let his last moments pass without telling her the truth. There's no way he could have known that she would show up at his door afterwards and kiss him, or that it would be hardly any time at all later that he would come across Dmitry in the train station.

The two of them, he and Anya, were never meant to be. He knew that once, walking away from her in Paris, knowing what would await him when he returned to Leningrad. Had he not let himself lose sight of that, none of this would be happening now.

"But I thought..." he starts, then trails off, frowning as he looks at the floor again. The elevator still hasn't begun to move, the small space feeling even smaller by the second. "I didn't think there was any choice left in it." He still doesn't. That much is clear simply from the sound of his voice.

Neither had Dmitry, if he's honest. He doesn't think he much likes having all these commonalities with Gleb; it only highlights where he lacks. He'd come too late and realized too late, just like before. Anya matters so much to him but Gleb was already there, gone this whole time. It makes Dmitry swallow tightly and then look down at the cat again instead of either of them. Silly, he thinks, to be acting so damn bashful. What happened to the suave and controlled conman he's supposed to be?

The answer is obvious of course. Anya. Anya and her spirit and temper and kindness happened to him and he'd been lost.

"So...what then?" He doesn't know what to do or say with this. Just because Anya loves them both doesn't change how the world works. Not even Russia is quite so equitable about that, no matter how much they insist that everything be shared. Even the Bolsheviks aren't interested in families outside of husband, wife, and good, obedient children.

A hysterical thought passes through him, so absurd that Dmitry has to say it out loud. "I won't be your mistress."

The only choice left to her had been to not choose at all. Perhaps it was cowardly, a weak way of avoiding a confrontation, but she had taken that path when it had narrowly opened. No part of her regrets loving either man, nor does she regret saying the words to them. It seems like the sort of thing that she should pray over, to look to icons for guidance, find a saint to give her a path. Her mother would have suggested penance and holy orders. Her father would have changed the subjects. Her sisters answers vary. None of them are helpful.

Looking from Dmitry to Gleb and back again, she folds her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. "There is always a choice," she says sounding more calm than she feels. She doesn't know what to say, what to do, just wants to get out of this elevator.

Her attention snaps to Dmitry at his words, her mouth falling open as she just gapes at him. "My mistress?" she repeats. "For that to happen, then Gleb and I would have to be married and I don't think he wants that."

Anya has never even dared to hope for a marriage. Not before, not during those breezy days before any of this came out, before Dmitry arrived. She looks at Gleb, confused. "Right?"

Stunned and somewhat affronted as he is, it takes Gleb just a moment to register that she's directed a question at him at all. Tense already from Dmitry's statement — an absurd one, from where he's standing — he only becomes further so, his back straightening and shoulders tight, jaw clenched. Perhaps Anya is right that there's always a choice. He made his, after all, standing in Paris, realizing he could never follow the orders he'd been given; he chose her over himself, her life over his and the beliefs he spent so long fighting for. Since then, he's only continued to do the same. None of that matters, though, if her choice is someone else, and he'd been under the impression that was already the case. If he wouldn't have stood a chance with her had Dmitry arrived sooner, then that ought to speak for itself. He was a second choice, even if that was unknowingly the case. He could live with that if it meant her being happy.

The situation before them now is a different matter entirely, the elevator seeming so much smaller than it should. There's not much he wouldn't give, in that moment, for a way out. He'd sooner remove himself from this equation altogether than have to hear any more of this, unsure whose words cut deeper. Anya's, probably, as if the point she's making is that he doesn't love her enough for that. He isn't the one who walked away, who loves someone else. He never had time to consider that, having spent so much of his time around her certain that she would never return his feelings at all; he can't very well do so now, knowing that she's out of reach.

"Why would it matter if I did?" he bites out, the words coming out a little rougher than intended. It's hard to help that, though, with his building frustration, compounded by the fact that there's no way out of this conversation that he didn't want to have to have. "We aren't together at all. In case you missed that part." He adds the last to Dmitry, barely managing not to scoff. He can't bring himself, though, to look at Anya at all. After everything, with the feelings he still has for her and the implication in what she's said, it hurts too much to do so.

Dmitry knows that he has no right to be indignant on Anya's behalf. He knows that all of this is confusing and uncertain and unbearable as they stand in this absurdly small space and try not to feel so much. If anything, a nasty part of him thinks, he should be pleased at this apparent rejection, forfeit from Gleb.

But mostly, he finds himself angry that Gleb speaks to and for Anya that way. He's seen the way Gleb looks at her and she at him. There is no absence of love there, for everything else that's confusing and fraught around them. At first, when he realized what was happening, he'd done everything to be the gentleman Anya thought of him, to bow out gracefully, not use any of the bitter words and regrets on his tongue.

If he were in Gleb's shoes, Dmitry would want to marry her. Maybe not tomorrow but he would.

He clenches his fists in Katyusha's fur, his mouth an uncharacteristic thin line.

"If you weren't together, then we wouldn't be trapped in an elevator having this conversation," he says finally, as if the elevator is stuck because they are too. "If she didn't love you too, I wouldn't be trying to stay out of your way."

Anya flinches away from Gleb's words, reacting as if he had struck her. They are harsh, brutal things, something in his tone is colder than she's ever heard him use towards her. She knows that she has hurt him, that she was the first one to put a voice to that, but hearing them flung back at her hurts all the same. Part of her had still wanted to hope, that maybe he had wanted to be crowned under God like that, a union made whole.

She'd had been a fool. To think that his willingness to die for her, his love, any of that would beat the part where she is a Romanov and he was meant to hate them.

Hot angry tears sting her eyes as she bends down to scoop Pushkin up. Sensing her distress, the little dog licks her face, leaning into her. "You are right. We are not together. None of us are," she agrees, not telling Gleb that she hates him a little for saying that. "You needn't be cruel about it. You can ignore me just as Dmitry has been, Gleb. I'm sorry if I've been a burden." That last word comes out a bitter sneer, her anger in the word. " I'm the fool here, clearly."

Gleb winces at the way Anya sounds, wishing, suddenly, that they could at least be stuck alone so he could try to make things right without an audience. He may not know what he would say, but at least he would feel freer to speak without Dmitry here as well. As it is, it's hard to know what to say, to figure out what's gotten missed in translation and how, when he still feels so hurt by her assumption. Whether or not he would have wanted to marry her shouldn't be of any consequence now anyway. At least it isn't a surprise that Dmitry seems only to back her up. He didn't ask for any of this, and yet of course he's the one who's in the way. None of this would be happening if he weren't here, or if he'd just kept his mouth shut about loving her. If he'd had the good sense never to fall for her at all.

The last was never an option, though, from the moment he laid eyes on her, and he can't regret any of what's happened between them. If he could go back, he'd make the same decision all over again. Maybe he would even make it back to Russia this time. Somehow that seems like a kinder fate than being trapped here now, unable to avoid hurting her and yet being hurt himself.

"Please stop putting words in my mouth, Anya," he says, quiet this time, a little cold to try to mask any emotion in his voice. It doesn't quite work, though; he can't quite hide the desperation there, the ache behind the words. "Don't try to tell me what I do or don't feel. You don't know what I would have wanted. And it wouldn't change anything now." He shakes his head, huffing out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. "I was the fool to think I could ever stand a chance with you."

He feels a little sick, glancing up at the ceiling as if it might offer some previously unnoticed hope of escape. It's easier to focus on than leaving everything he feels on display for both of them. "There must be some way to get out of here."

The elevator is freezing but somehow the air feels closer than ever, thick with emotion and only made worse by the narrow space. There's no escape, short of doing something childish like turning around and plugging up his ears. Pushkin's doing an admirable job of hiding the evidence but he'd be a fool not to realize Anya's crying. Gleb's words have hurt her. His too, he's loathe to admit. Worse than his words are his actions.

"You're not a burden," he says, pausing for a moment in case she wants to tell him off or slap him. Better to get that out of the way. Nervously, he glances up at Gleb, searching the other man's face for the agreement he thinks he'll easily find. Anya is many things but she has never been their burden. Dmitry's burdens are all his own. His lies, his schemes, his mistakes.

Gleb says something about trying to get out but Dmitry can't think of any escape. The Bramford is apparently an old building, one which has escaped modern safety codes. "And I wasn't...I've been busy. I had work–I found a job!" It comes out defensive because he knows it's no excuse.

"I saw you with Gleb. I figured it was better to keep out of the way." It sounds good, an altruistic spin on what Dmitry really means. He's been keeping back to protect his own heart too.

All of Anya's efforts are being focused on trying to keep her tears at bay. It isn't working at all, so she buries her face further into Pushkin's gray fur, letting her eyes slide temporarily closed as she takes steadying breaths. Her mind keeps tracking back to what has just been said, what Dmitry started with, her response, Gleb's following after. So many words flying around, piercing the air like invisible bullets. The pain she hears in Gleb's voice wounds her, for she knows that she put it there. That her off-handed remark to Dmitry's flippant misinterpretation had done far more harm than she'd intended.

"Dmitry," she says shakily, taking another deep breath before lifting her head from Pushkin's neck. Pausing, she starts again, giving him a meaningful look. Some of the fight has leached from her, but not enough to let her stay quiet. "Dmitry, please stops talking for a moment. I'm glad you found a job, that's wonderful, but you're not helping."

There is a note that could almost be considered pleading in her voice, capable firmness in a way that she doesn't quite feel with her back against the elevator door. Silently she prays that the door will open, that they will be able to get off and she will be able to be alone once more. Looking heavenward, she begs for a relief.

It doesn't work. Her prayers are left unanswered and her gaze drops from the ceiling to Gleb this time, heart breaking a little more at the sight of him. There is so much she wants to tell him, to say that he isn't a fool, that she didn't mean it quite like that, that would he just listen to her he'd know that. None of that has any place in this too small space. "Gleb, I didn't mean to put words in your mouth. It just came out. I wouldn't, please believe me." She lets out an exasperated, panicked laugh. "This isn't where I wanted to have this conversation at all."

It takes a considerable amount of effort for Gleb not to reiterate that he and Anya aren't together, that they haven't been for weeks now, since she came to tell him about Dmitry being in love with her. The only things that stop him are the sound of Anya's voice and the knowledge that it almost certainly wouldn't make any difference when they've both pointed it out. Besides, were it not for Pushkin's sake, Gleb knows full well that he would probably be avoiding her as much as possible, that before all of this happened, he was trying to keep himself busy, distracted, waiting for the other shoe to drop even as he tried to convince himself that there was no cause for concern.

He'd been right all along, of course. He just never expected that things would end quite the way they did, or that weeks later, he would be stuck in an elevator with the both of them, wishing fervently that he could be anywhere else. This feels like a particularly cruel form of torture — perhaps not an undeserved one, with all that's happened, but no easier to deal with for the fact of that. Again, he thinks that all of this would be infinitely better if he'd had the good sense to keep his mouth shut about his feelings for her. He could have lived with loving her from a distance. It wouldn't have been comfortable or easy, certainly, but it would have been better than this, something to which he'd already resigned himself.

"I believe you," he says quietly, because he can't not, because the thought of hurting her is as unbearable as it was that day in Paris. That fact is all that keeps him from adding that he didn't want to have this conversation in any form, certain that to do so would only make this whole situation worse. Besides, whether it was what she meant or not, it doesn't change the sentiment behind the words. He can't know if he would have wanted that from her or not, having barely had a chance to be with her before everything got turned on its head, but he would rather have had a chance to figure that out for himself. Thinking about it now won't do any good. He'd only be reminded of what he had so briefly and lost.

He still can't quite bring himself to look at her. He doesn't trust himself to hold onto any semblance of dignity or composure if he does, unable to help wondering if maybe things might have taken a different turn if she'd thought he would have wanted a commitment like that.

"I would rather not discuss it any more than that." Though he won't say that he can't, it would be more accurate. What she doesn't say seems to speak as loudly as what she does, and he doesn't need explicit confirmation that he was mad to think that anything would ever work out between them. "Please, Anya."

He almost wishes that Anya would go into a temper and yell at him, make loud and imperious declarations. Instead, she speaks quietly and firmly, but it's not an order. It isn't phrased as a request but he's seen Anya be autocratic and it'd be easier to handle than this. There's so much hurt in her eyes that she's holding back and Dmitry feels as though he's back at the Opera Garnier, waiting outside the door as the Dowager Empress rejects her granddaughter.

And then there's Gleb. It was so much easier when they stood on opposite sides, him at the podium and Dmitry in the streets. The worst part is that he'd started to respect the other man, maybe even like him a little. The other man's been cordial with him, even kind, even friendly at times. Any goodwill either of them has built up is evaporated now, though and the fact that it's both their faults does nothing to ease how horrible it feels.

"I don't think any of us wanted to have this conversation anywhere," he says ruefully. If he had a guess, he'd say that they're all used to keeping their thoughts and feelings close to the chest as a way of staying safe. Speaking to Anya at all, in her apartment, had cost him dearly but she'd deserved the truth.

And now?

"I'm sorry."

It costs nearly as much as the entire other confession, apologizing to both of them, but what else is there to say?

"I won't," she offers Gleb.

The moment to tell Gleb that he wasn't a fool has slipped past her. She cannot very well tell him now, walk back her words when she has already said both too much and too little. This isn't the time or the place for such conversations. An audience, especially an audience that consists of Dmitry, is too much.

Oh Dmitry. Her mind has gone skittering back to his assumption. His declaration that he wouldn't be her mistress. When it had first been said, she'd been struck by the logistics, the fact that she cannot very well have a mistress if she doesn't have a husband, not to mention that the word should really be paramour. There had been something possessive in the phrasing that she doesn't know quite what to do with. That she belongs to him, that he won't share her, won't settle to be anything less than her one and only. Anya thinks she understands the sentiment, but she doesn't know if that would make her a prize, a person to be won at someone else's loss.

It isn't very comforting to think that a person she loves might also view her as a possession. She prays that isn't the case at all.

"I know you are," she murmurs to him with a soft, sad smile in his direction. "This is the very worst place for this discussion."

She doesn't know where a good place would be. Doesn't know a better circumstance. All she knows is that she feels a cool breeze run down her spine, a shiver following after. Then there's a soft whirring of electricity flowing into the elevator once more, the light of the floor flickering back on.

In the quiet that follows, it's hard to know what to say. Gleb knows better than to point out that the only real way anywhere else would be better for this discussion is if it was one he was able to leave. There's no need to make things worse than they already are, though it's also difficult not to think that none of this would have happened if they hadn't gotten stuck. The elevator doors would have opened already and he would have gone his separate way, and nothing would be any better, but it probably wouldn't be any worse, either.

Then again, the past few minutes have been about as enlightening as they have been excruciating, between Anya's determining that he wouldn't have wanted to marry her and Dmitry's declaration of intent. Whatever has or hasn't been happening these last weeks, one thing has become clearer than ever: that there's no room for him here, and not just because of the size of the elevator.

Likewise, he doesn't know what to say to Dmitry's apology, one that seems aimed more at Anya for telling him he wasn't helping than anything else. Perhaps mercifully, before he gets a chance, the lights flicker back on, there's a rush of air, and the elevator jolts to life again. Gleb doesn't bother trying to hide his sigh of relief. "I'll go," he says quietly, "as soon as it lets us out."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And I can make it alone but we can do this so much better Together

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