notyourprince | Dmitry Tester

Memories of these festivals are half-covered in shadows. The more time that she spends around them, the more details fill in. None of these Christmas or New Years’ festivals match up to the grandiose nature of court. All of that show, silky fabrics and elaborate costumes, dancing into the small hours of the night stands at odds with the quiet of the close family holiday. With the silence of Christmases (or lack thereof) more recent in her mind, from when she didn’t know who she was. Anya still has a hard time thinking of herself as Anastasia. Anastasia is a girl who lives far away and long ago, who didn’t have roughened hands or know how to fight.

Walking through the closing down pieces of the festival, her gloved hands in her pockets she takes time to watch different scenes unfold. It’s as she’s watching these half-started, half-finished interactions that she catches sight of Dmitry, apparently doing something similar. Walking over to stand beside him, she’s still watching others as she takes. “Is it odd that this is what makes almost homesick?”

It still comes as a surprise whenever Anya approaches him. Dmitry's trying to keep his distance, both for Anya's sake and because she's acquired a Bolshevik shadow who doesn't like him much. He'd be lying if he weren't a little gratified every time though and he puts on his best conman smile.

"Only if it's odd that I am too," he says. "Looks like Petersburg."

He wonders if Anya sees the same things he does, takes strange comfort from the disarray, the faint threat of collapse. All of it reminds him of the Russia he's known since he was a child. Maybe Tsarevna Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov once knew grand palaces and wholeness but Dmitry Without a Father saw a nation that spun and wavered like a top even on the best days. He's curious which one Anya misses.

Edited 2017-12-29 05:00 (UTC)

"Petersburg is prettier," Anya says without hesitation. It is prettier, even without the bias that comes from it being her home. St. Petersburg has a history and grandeur to it that not even the years of the Bolsheviks trying to stamp out that color can strip away. Perhaps having their headquarters in the ruins of the old regime had added to their gravitas. She doesn't really know. Balancing on that knife's edge is something that Russia is particularly good at.

She smiles at him, soft and sure. "I'm glad it isn't so odd. We'll have to see what it looks like in the spring. If they have any odd festivals for that."

"I didn't say it was better than Petersburg," he agrees. This broken down Christmas village is the gray Petersburg he knows from the end, not the sparkling Fabergé egg that was the Tsars' Petersburg. Even then, of course, Dmitry had lived in the dirty parts and the cracks, but even he had known the beauty.

Dmitry nods. Already there's talk of what will happen on New Year's Eve, that there will be parties and decadence, which he's sure Gleb can barely countenance. Dmitry doesn't like to admit that, for a conman, it's easy to take him in with a little glamour. "Well, they probably have Easter here, some kind."

"Good. I'd think you'd lost your mind if you started saying that," Anya laughs with a shake of her head. He had described his version of Petersburg to her and she could picture it in her head, contrasting with the version she had known recently and from the confines of the palace walls as a child. It still catches her off-guard. How could she have been what feels like too many people and still be herself?

"Probably." She wrinkles her nose. "I don't know if that could be the same. I'm excited to find out there. It won't be Paris in the spring, but it will be something."

Dmitry doesn't mean to, but he can't help but pause. They've spent a lot of time together but in all of that, he doesn't think he's heard her laugh nearly enough. Not that there'd been much to laugh about in Petersburg but now that he's noticing it, he's realizing how little he's heard it.

God, he's got it bad. He's an idiot.

"Nothing will ever be Petersburg," he says. "And nothing will ever be Paris in the spring."

Without really noticing it, Anya had forgiven Dmitry. She'd even come to miss him, from his sarcasm and eye-rolling, the way that he insisted on his rightness when he was clearly wrong. His smile. She wasn't supposed to miss him. She was supposed to hate him for lying to her, for pulling her into his and Vlad's con. But in the end she couldn't fully. The anger didn't burn as long as she would've liked it to. Then Gleb showed up and told her that she was Anastasia, the lost princess she'd thought she'd been. Dmitry had still lied to her, but not at the end.

It's a mess. Her feelings make her head hurt from time to time, but right now near the market that is closing down on itself, it is easy to pretend that they don't have so much unsaid. "That's very true," she agrees looking at the stalls again. "I think it's more than okay to let Darrow be Darrow. Strange as it is."

In many ways, he'd been honest, just not in the ways that counted. After Vlad, Anya probably knows the most about Dmitry now, about his father and his mother, his life on the streets. And the parade. That's something he'd never told Vlad, is something he used to cringe over, in fact. The rule of the Tsars had done nothing to improve Dmitry's life and he expects the Bolsheviks won't either. It's not the Romanovs he cares about. It's Anya. But what right has he to tell her any of that like a justification when the damage is already done? There's no smooth-talking his way out of that, not even for Petersburg's best conman.

"Well. This is probably the most Christmas I'm having, either way," he says. His strange little phone tells him there's an Orthodox church around but that doesn't mean much to him, especially since the calendars don't match up. Anya probably has plans with her charming Glebya.

"What do you mean?" Anya says frowning now as she reaches out to stop Dmitry putting her hand on his arm to turn him towards her. Her own thoughts of Christmas had been limited. She'd just been enjoying the lights, the noise, the music in the streets. The more commercialized components were largely lost on her. She'd rescued a small, almost pathetic tree from a lot, haggling down the cost to a fraction of what he'd wanted to sell it to her for. Decorating it with popcorn and cranberries, bits of shiny foil stars, she'd made it a little more like a tree from a long ago childhood.

Hearing that Dmitry doesn't have any plans to celebrate, not even in a small way bothers her. The Christmas here doesn't match the Orthodox one that she knows, but she doesn't see why she can't have two small Christmases. Besides, she'd just sort of assumed that he would spend one or both of them with her. Neither of them has any family here. She's going to cling to those that she knows from home, especially when she likes them. "No, I won't allow it," she continues with a resolute shaking her of her head. "You're spending Christmas with me. I just assumed you would." A pause before she haphazardly throws in when she hopes is an incentive. "I'm making blitz."

If Anya is startled, Dmitry is too. He sees her hand raise and thinks, absurdly, that he doesn't want to get slapped by another Romanov but a hit never comes. The look on Anya's face is bad enough, honestly. She really looks shocked and hurt by what he's said and Dmitry doesn't understand it, even after he replays what she says a few times.

"You want me around for Christmas?" he asks. Dmitry tries to sound smooth about it, nonchalant, but he doesn't think it works. Anya's always been like that. Half the time she drives him up the wall and the other half of the time she's so certain and forward that he can't help but be honest.

He does love blintzes...

Dmitry shrugs, still trying to look unconcerned. "I didn't figure you'd want me around your place."

Anya doesn't know why she's surprised that Dmitry's surprised. It is almost like he's missing a step, just out of synch with where she is at. Not entirely surprising as they manage to be in step with one another just as much as they're half a beat off. She can still hear the music, feel his hand on her waist as they practiced dancing. That was a long time ago. Before she knew who she was, saw the bigger picture of the game that he and Vlad were playing. Before she remembered that day with the sun shining and the dirty boy who smiled and bowed at her.

They were different people then, even if they are the same.

"Of course I want you around for Christmas," she says with a laugh and a roll of her eyes. "Honestly, Dima, sometimes I think you're being an idiot on purpose."

The use of the pet name happens without her thinking of it. She doesn't mean to use it, to call him what his father used to, but now that she has, Anya doesn't regret it. She's fond of him, even if she is still a little hurt by the role that he played. Time has done wonders to help soothe that pain.

"I am not–" he starts, because even now that she's royalty, she's still a street sweeper with a sharp tongue too. It's kind of funny how easy that is to reconcile with Anya, Romanov and ragamuffin. The look she gives him and the pet name soften his immediate outrage and he tries to grin at her sidelong.

"You sure you want to be stuck with this idiot on Christmas, Nastya?" If she's going to use diminutives at him, then he can too. Briefly, he thinks about the sillier, fluffier nicknames he could use, if they were closer. Nastyusha sounds particularly cute in how little its sweetness suits her.

Eyebrows lifting as she looks at him expectantly, Anya waits for the familiar rebuttal. When he starts to argue, she laughs lightly and easily at how familiar it is. She might never admit it, but one of the things she missed about Dmitry was the clash, the conman who maintained that he didn't care about anything and could rise above it all. The night she'd arrived here she thought that any depth she'd seen in him had been an elaborate lie. Now, she isn't so certain, the heat from her pain having faded.

Rolling her eyes at the nickname, she's still smiling as she nods. "Yes, I do." It's been years since anyone referred to her as Nastya, the echo of her father's voice laughing as he scolds her flickers through her memories. "That is exactly what I want for Christmas. Being stuck with you, some blintz, and the bottle of terrible champagne that I picked up. What do you say?"

She laughs and Dmitry tries not to look pleased about that. He's not pleased that she's laughing when he's trying to be serious, really. It makes him think he could get away with asking if he's forgiven but he fears the full answer almost as much as he burns to give her a full explanation. It's no excuse. He'd still roped her in but maybe some truth will make things right.

Maybe over a bottle of cheap champagne and some blintzes.

"I say you have a lot of expectations of me if you think I know the difference between good and terrible champagne," he says. It's a yes, in his own way, trying to be sly and smooth about it like he doesn't know Anya will see right through it.

"I thought that some of Vlad might have rubbed off on you over the years," Anya quips both surprised and not at the news that somehow this particular detail has slipped by him. Vodka was the most easily accessible alcohol in Russia. Champagne — good and bad — was likely only available to those who could pay to have it smuggled in. Just another way the Bolsheviks talked out of both sides of their mouths.

"Don't worry, this time I'll teach you." There's an easiness to how she makes plans, as if he hadn't caused her so much pain. In the months that have passed, Anya has come to wonder if she was made him or simply mad at herself. It was likely a bit of both.

Dmitry laughs. "Vlad also didn't know the difference. He was just good at pretending." It's true of most parts of Vlad Popov's history, blistering and shameless confidence to the point of believability.

"You will, will you?" He can easily picture it. Anya, bossy and brash, but with the authority of royalty on her side. A few months ago, it'd be enough to start an argument between them. Now, he takes it in stride and tries not to look a little eager.

"I probably deserve some schooling."

That makes Anya laugh, light and open. That would seem exactly like Vlad, always a conman playing pretend. He'd invented an entire history, walked the walk, talked the talk, and almost no one questioned it. Even in Paris he had slipped so easily back into the role, that she'd marveled at his confidence and hoped that some of it would rub off on her. Through their months of teaching, she'd absorbed so much information that it frequently felt like it was leaking out her ears, but in the end it worked. It shined away something that had in fact always been there for her. "He was. He's one of the best," she agrees.

Nodding authoritatively, she reaches out and loops her arm around his as she starts to walk. "I will. I can be an excellent teacher. Probably," she amends after a moment's consideration. "There's a lot I can school you on, besides the obvious like manners. Art, maybe, or how people here are obsessed with their tiny phones. What passes for dancing." She tosses off a casual shrug. "I won't take all your time though, if you don't want."

It's a good sound and Dmitry doesn't bother trying to play it cool. He's pleased to have made Anya laugh; it almost feels like some of the better times they'd had before he'd gone and screwed it all up. "There's a reason I saw that blowhard seconds away from execution and decided, 'yes, that one will make a good conman.'"

Actually what he'd thought, somehow still a little naïve, even then, was that one might make a good father but it's a notion that Dmitry has long ago dismissed. Vlad is a good many things but parental is not one of them.

"I have nothing but time," he reminds her, gesturing to the empty winter village around them. "And I probably owe you for all those months of driving you crazy."

Another laugh escapes her. Imagining Dmitry rescuing Gleb is an interesting image. The way he tells it pleases her, even if the idea of a firing squad inherently makes her skin crawl. The Bolsheviks were always too quick with their guns. "And years later, the two of you pulled off the biggest con of them all."

It's her story. She's allowed to make light of it, even if her face momentarily falls after. The fact that it wasn't a con, not at the end, doesn't escape her nor does it lessen the pain of being a pawn. She knows she agreed to help them in order to get out of Paris, that it wasn't all them. But she'd felt like a liar and hated it.

"You were a good pair. You worked together well," she complements before nodding in agreement. "And you do, both have time and owe me. Don't worry, I won't make you want to jump into the ocean."

She's joking, must be joking, but Dmitry's face falls. Despite what she's said, Dmitry feels the sudden and overwhelming urge to hide facedown in the ocean from mortification. Sure, he's apologized for lying to her, hurting her, and been truly sorry for both, but the fact that she calls it the biggest con of all just reminds him of where he thinks they stand.

"We were a couple of scammers. You can find a good pair of those in every alley in Petersburg," he says, brushing away his discomfort with a smile, the first and best tool of any conman.

Catching the way that his face falls makes her suddenly regret what she said, or at least how she said it. Just because he hurt her, made her feel like a fool and a fraud, doesn't mean that she wants to hurt him in return. Of course she had wanted to that night, had shouted at them both, cursed them for what they'd done, who they had been. But for her that was months ago. She's had time to lick her wounds, to learn how to be Anya again. To find out that she really is Anastasia. Apologizing isn't something that she's good at. She's had enough of them anyways, from him, from her. So many words and not enough actions.

With a concerned expression on her face, she uses the arm linked with his to give him a little nudge. "Maybe, but I don't want any old scammers. I just want you." Her tone is matter-of-fact, but also gentle, an attempt to soften what she's said and what he's on. "That's it. Just you."

A moment later her brain catches up with exactly what she's said, with the silly sort of smile on her face to accomplish it. Quickly she laughs, trying to cover-up her misstep with over bright cheer. "After all, a princess deserves the best."

"I'm hardly the best," Dmitry says but, this time, he lets himself smile. Any more self-deprecation and he thinks Anya might tip him into the nearest body of water or whack him with a stick. Still, Anya does probably deserve better and Dmitry tries not to think, again, of the man whom he referred to as 'her charming Glebya.'

"I'm not sure that 'just me' is good enough for a princess but I suppose you've got me anyway. If you want me." Dmitry's own brain catches up to the impropriety of what he's said. "Around. I mean."

That warrants another roll of her eyes and she gives him another nudge. "Stop it or I am going to push you into an uncovered manhole the first chance I get," she warns still smiling as she says it. She knows what he's doing and knows just as well that he will keep on being self-deprecating like this unless she tells him off. There's a time and a place for it and now isn't it. It isn't her fault that she finds it to be annoying.

"I think that the best is a matter of perspective." What is best is just as frequently what is good enough. Anya's noticed that a lot of people spend too much time worrying about what they want rather than what they need. She's fairly certain that Dmitry is both of those things to her, no matter what he's doing. She is, at the end of the day, simply glad that he is. "I do want you," she with a cough. "Around. It's a new city. A new kind of home."

"I heard there are alligators down there," Dmitry says, committed to looking serious about it. It works because he's nine tenths convinced it's just a rumor but the lingering tenth of suspicion still remains. The little sliver of fear makes it natural. "Would you really feed me to alligators, Anya? That's a little medieval."

He hangs on to his serious expression just long enough before breaking into a grin.

"Well. If I'm going to your place for Christmas, what would you like for your present?"

"So have I." Anya finds that rumor to be highly suspect. There are too many questions that it makes her want to poke holes in that story. However, she knows enough about this place to know that the unexpected happens with alarming frequency. If there are alligators down there, they are like somehow worse than the typical reptiles. "No, I don't think I'd do that. Guess I'll just have to settle for pushing you into a fountain or pond."

The smile on her face matches his own grin, completely at odds with any threat might exist in her words. That smile falters a little bit when he mentions presents. She'd been thinking of little gifts to give him and Gleb, but hadn't made it as far as expecting what to get in return. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "I hadn't thought that far. I like good surprises."

"Alligators live in water," he reminds her, playing the game.

It's his turn to regret his words when he sees Anya's smile dim out a little. He wonders if she expects any at all. Neither of them have had presents, probably, for the last ten years even when Christmases were still allowed. That regret turns to nerves as he realizes that, behind the joking question, Dmitry has no idea what to get her for Christmas. What does he get Anya–no, what does anyone get a Russian Tsarevna for Christmas that's good enough?

"That's still a lot of options, Anya."

"Yes, but probably not that kind of water," she dismisses easily. It just wouldn't make sense. Maybe it is a little warmer down there, but not by much.

Then again, most of her knowledge of alligators is purely academic. It isn't like she has dealt with them frequently. Or at all.

Easily she shakes off any sort of sadness and remorse. There is nothing to be sad about at this moment. She knows who she is, has the warm memories of Christmases long ago. The simple fact that they came to an abrupt end sooner than they should have is no reason to fall apart. Dmitry is offering a new tradition. He's offering hope.

"I know. Maybe books? Or something practical. Practical is always good." She thinks of the last gift he gave her, of the music box that he returned without knowing. "I wish I still had the music box you gave me."

"Practical, huh?" he asks. The answer shouldn't come as a surprise but it disappoints him a little, which is probably silly. It's not as if he can afford to throw jewelry at her, even as the fantasy begins to wheel through his head of finding some kind of jewelry-maker-mechanic in Darrow (and a place with this much bizarre magic has to have one of those, right?) and commissioning a recreation. The impossibility of it strikes him pretty immediately. Not only does he lack the money, he's not exactly good at drawing, certainly not good enough to make sure the reproduction is faithful.

"I wish I did too, but I think that'd count as...what is it they call it here. Re-gifting? Seems a little cheap."

"I don't know. Like I said, I'm not great at getting gifts. Besides the music box, almost everything I was given as a child was practical."

There were small diamonds and pearls, gifts that were meant to make a necklace after a few years. The camera hadn't exactly been practical, but she remembers loving the ability to capture memories and feelings, to memorialize the good they had left. Anya thinks about it for a minute, nose scrunching in consideration. "On second thought, maybe something impractical is better."

The idea of having something that she wants rather than simply something she needs is nearly overwhelming. A surprise like that from Dmitry would thrill her to the tips of her toes, even if it is something simple. She smiles and shakes her head. "No, I don't think so. I didn't really know it was mine until you gave it to me. It was gifted twice by people who care. Once from Nana, once from you."

"No dolls? No teddy bears? Very practical," he agrees, faint irony in his eyes. He's sure, to Anya, they were very practical little things but for him, one of her practical gifts could have been enough to let him eat for a month. It's one of those strange, tiny things that makes him truly believe she's royal, if only because she doesn't notice it.

But he doesn't feel like teasing her, for once.

He wants to get her the most impractical gift he can afford.

"A few, but all secondhand. My sisters had them first," she admits, biting the inside of her cheek with just a hint of guilt. It's odd to feel guilty about something that is so long ago, about a world that she had no say or control over. Her mother had emphasized prayers. They'd slept on camp beds and darned their own socks. She'd practiced her stitches on mending the dresses of her dolls, worn away from years of care.

Still Anya can't deny that they had been very nice dolls to start with. As she'd walked across Russia she'd really seen what little was had by most, what was fought for. She hadn't remembered anything before, but the guilt of stealing at her. "I know it's silly, but that's what I remember. Also that I hate darning socks."

Dmitry cocks his head at that, surprised but not stupid enough to outright ask why she'd had to take hand-me-downs when she'd been a tsarevna. The stories on the streets of their extravagances, it seems, had been a little far off. The funny thing is, it's easy to imagine Anya playing with secondhand dolls and darning socks but Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov? That girl exists in photographs, dressed in formal splendor. The girl in those photographs has never suffered.

He doesn't say any of that out loud.

"I don't think there's anyone in Russia who likes darning socks."

"Oh there is probably someone. An old woman perhaps, or a soldier just glad to relax."

Anya gives a little shrug, thinking of the various lives that such a person or people could have existed. A small child happy to be helpful, an old woman glad to still be needed.

"It's not making something new, but you never know. We can't all just have holes in our socks." She laughs and wiggles her fingers, demonstrating a hole that isn't there.

Dmitry gives her a Look then, all gentle skepticism without any real argument behind it. It's true, someone probably likes it but Dmitry can't imagine ever being that kind of person anymore than he can imagine becoming a dancing bear.

"I happen to like the holes in my socks," he says in the tone of someone about to spin a yarn. "Between them and the holes in my boots, I can tell you how to get anywhere in St. Petersburg just by the feel of the cobblestones underneath my feet." It's an exaggeration but one based on a thin layer of truth and and even thinner one boot leather.

A snort of laughter escapes her. That is definitely not the answer that she was expecting. It sounds mostly made up, but also exactly like something that he would say. A story that he is making up as he's going along. Anya has forgotten how much she missed this and how glad she is that he is here. Not that she wasn't fine before, but it is better now.

"Oh can you?" she says, playing along with the tone of mock surprise. "Can you also predict the weather by those holes?"

He's pretty sure that snorting isn't something princesses (or grand duchesses or tsarevnas) are supposed to do, which only makes it more endearing. Except he's in the middle of a tall tale and he'd be a poor conman if he breaks character, lets Anya see just how much he likes it. How much he likes her.

"I could tell you if the pavement was wet or dry. Cold or frozen," he says, grinning.

Anya hadn't even realized that she had snorted until it was much too late. Faint pink starts to color her cheeks, but she ignores it hoping that the temperature and the wind are enough to serve as any excuse should Dmitry make a comment. Not that she would mind if he noticed, but she'd hate for him to hate it.

"Very useful," she says with faux seriousness, nodding as if this is a perfectly respectful thing to say. "Well, I'm sorry that you're going to have to come up with a new skill. You're moving up in the world, going to have whole socks and everything."

"Careful comrade," he says, teases really. They're a long way from Russia with all of its intently listening walls and its stubborn insistence that everyone is equal, even when there's always someone whose belly is emptier than another. "Can't move up in a world without classes, can I?"

He wonders, as ever, if he's gone too far over the line that divides sarcasm and seriousness and tries to shrug it off. "But I think even the reddest comrade likes warm socks."

Anya was never a very good comrade, not the in sense that everyone was equal as in equally miserable. She had taken a long tumble down the social and economic latter, about as far as one could fall and still be breathing. And she was breathing, against the best efforts of Lenin's comrades. She knows that Dmitry is only joking, but a small tense knot starts to form in the pit of her stomach.

"Excellent point, comrade," she says, tone nearly over bright. "However, this city is certainly more capitalistic than St. Petersburg."

By now, Dmitry knows a little about when Anya's acting and when she's overacting and why. He's made another misstep, which seems to only happen around her, otherwise he'd be a poor conman. How does she always do that?

"Good," he says, trying not to act overly bright either. "More ways I can make a few more kopecks. Dollars, actually."

"Does this mean that you are going to get a job?" Anya looks at him sideways, a bit skeptical at the notion. She can't really imagine Dmitry picking up shifts in a shop or a bar, but she is certain that she could if given time with it. He certainly hadn't planned on staying a conman for forever, especially not if his plan with her and the Dowager Empress had gone according to plan in Paris. There likely jobs that are less than honest here, but she hasn't exactly gone looking for them. "A proper job? Or something a little less forthright when it comes to making money?"

"You should know by now that all I'm good at is talking my way through a scheme." It's the kind of thing Anya's likely to see through him for, except for the kernel of truth right at the very center. He's gotten by for his whole life on cons and crimes, ready to steal and barter, but never beg. It's good for staying alive but doesn't leave him with all that many marketable skills.

"That's not true." Soft sincerity echoes through her voice. Anya knows that Dmitry is more than that, can do so much more. She isn't certain what that more is, but she is certain that he will find it. That he is enough just as he is. After all, she managed to get by and she came out of that cellar with no memory and scattered skills. "You can do lots of things."

"Yeah and most of those things are great, if you want to survive on the streets of Petersburg." But him? Going out into the shops of Darrow and trying to offer up some skill, some kind of ability. What's he going to do? Wait on tables and make coffees? He can't really believe any place will invest in training him up for that kind of thing.

But...he does want to give Anya a Christmas present...

"Surviving isn't quite the same as living." Anya knows that first hand. She's been surviving for years, but that hardly counts as living. Her life had been populated by hunting for answers, searching for memories and a family that she had known was out there, but couldn't quite grasp. The unsettled feeling hasn't fully gone away, but she has a bit more time to breathe.

"But I think we can do both for a change. We'll find something for you to do. I mean, if I can learn to do it, so can you."

Dmitry Tester

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