07-23-2013, 04:50 PM
“Alek’s not so bad.” She shrugged, but fondness tightened the words. It was not even that she knew him particularly well; their relationship had always been part play-act and part distance, which was why it had survived so long. They each had their prescribed roles and they didn’t stray far from them; his grudging pleasantries, like she was a pest, scored under by reluctant affection; her gentle teasing of his lack of social graces, underpinned by the same. She actually knew very little about him - like, was he married, did he have kids? But it was part of why she visited so often; the acceptance of a familiar face without all the baggage of friendship. His face had never ambushed her from her sketchbooks. She was grateful for that.
“The tree?” Surprise tinged her reaction, not because the image was in any way unpleasant, but because it had been borne from the parts of her mind that felt so out of her reach. And sometimes those images… well, she wouldn’t want it to mean anything. For Rune. Shit. She stared at the page a little longer, letting the emotions fade – forcing them to fade. It’s just a tree. “Yeah, sure.” Reticence clung to the words, but only for a moment; it streamed seamlessly to deliberation of composition. She probably just looked thoughtful.
Aylin had always said she’d have made a good therapist; she had the patience for it, the calm nature that rode storms without blinking. And it tugged at her, the little minutiae encapsulating the way Rune said violet, pulling her out from darkened thoughts about dead trees. Memory was wrapped tight about that word, suffocating it, and she had the instinctive urge to smooth it out. To untangle it. Somehow. The emotion flared and snuffed in a blink, but Thalia still watched Rune afterwards, pencil still. She didn’t say she was sorry, though her upbringing urged the empty platitude; she just nodded, and repeated the word firmly. “Violets.”
Thalia didn't hear the stranger approach at all, and it broke the stillness like a thousand pieces of shattering glass. She might have jumped slightly, not really through fear so much as being genuinely startled by the interruption, and stared up curiously. It took a moment to adjust to his rich Irish accent; the words blurred in her ears until she carefully picked them apart. Stalker? A bizarre thing to admit to, but he dazzled it with confident charm and a roguish grin. Only then he came to the proposition, and what had been a vaguely inquisitive expression now fell flat.
She spared a dry look at Rune, expecting some derisive gesture of camaraderie in return. But the other woman seemed… defensive was the wrong word, because there was no challenge to her, no anger, but there was definitely a displeased edge, and its sharp side was aimed right at the Irishman. Thalia, on the other hand, had barely moved but to frown slightly. Very little phased her, and this – though it was odd, granted – barely brushed the edges. She was amused, incredulous, and maybe a touch disturbed by the sheer forwardness of his manner, but not concerned. In that regard she was effortless, content to ride the waves no matter how strange the tide. Even when Rune turned to her, and asked if she was a prostitute.
Aside from their brief conversation she knew nothing of Rune, but once she had decided she liked someone it was her nature to extend a depth of friendship that either made others uncomfortable or simply clicked into place like it had existed years. Intense and transitory formed the basis of most of Thalia’s relationships, which was perhaps why she often fell into them head-first. Offense should have burned bright at the insinuation, followed on the heels by a snapped denial. She should care what strangers thought. Instead her head tilted, lips pursed, and the look she gave only said, really? As though Rune would know exactly how to interpret that.
And then the man began laughing; proper, raucous, mad laughter. It drew a few looks; more than a few, even on the stage that was Old Arbat. Behind them Alek had approached; she could hear his sharp footsteps, or maybe just anticipated the dark cloud of his presence. Of course he’d come to see if there was trouble; usually his flat stare and gruff attitude were enough to see it off. Usually he was right.
“You need a refill?” The question seemed aimed at neither of them in particular, and a quick glance up confirmed he was looking at the Irishman despite that he spoke to her and Rune. Glaring, actually – though to his credit, the guy seemed completely unaffected by the belligerent intimidation. Except - no matter her impression of this strange man - Thalia’s lips still pressed tighter together when it was Alek he gave the card to. When had this turned into male posturing? Geeze.
She watched his formal bow, then his retreating back, not quite sure what on earth kind of whirlwind had just passed. And ready to shrug it off. Behind them, Alek made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a displeased growl as he bent to collect Thalia's empty plate and mug. “You want this?”
Huh. Simple curiosity bid her to pluck the card from his hand and scan its contents as Alek grumbled and left. Because however odd, mystery was an undeniable allure; enough to entertain the address he had left, enough to try and fathom sense from the spectacle. He was a con artist, she would guess; a charming and self-assured one. Most men would have blushed or grown defensive at the accusation of propositioning two women in broad daylight. Manix. The name had gotten lost somewhere in his lilting accent, but she remembered him saying it now. Though what he hadn't said was what the work was, or why he felt they were qualified at a glance.
She looked back at Rune, brows raised, and handed the card over so she could have a look if she wanted. A smile threatened the corners of her lips. It had been kind of funny. “Well. Welcome to Moscow.”
Edited by Thalia, Jul 23 2013, 04:52 PM.
“The tree?” Surprise tinged her reaction, not because the image was in any way unpleasant, but because it had been borne from the parts of her mind that felt so out of her reach. And sometimes those images… well, she wouldn’t want it to mean anything. For Rune. Shit. She stared at the page a little longer, letting the emotions fade – forcing them to fade. It’s just a tree. “Yeah, sure.” Reticence clung to the words, but only for a moment; it streamed seamlessly to deliberation of composition. She probably just looked thoughtful.
Aylin had always said she’d have made a good therapist; she had the patience for it, the calm nature that rode storms without blinking. And it tugged at her, the little minutiae encapsulating the way Rune said violet, pulling her out from darkened thoughts about dead trees. Memory was wrapped tight about that word, suffocating it, and she had the instinctive urge to smooth it out. To untangle it. Somehow. The emotion flared and snuffed in a blink, but Thalia still watched Rune afterwards, pencil still. She didn’t say she was sorry, though her upbringing urged the empty platitude; she just nodded, and repeated the word firmly. “Violets.”
Thalia didn't hear the stranger approach at all, and it broke the stillness like a thousand pieces of shattering glass. She might have jumped slightly, not really through fear so much as being genuinely startled by the interruption, and stared up curiously. It took a moment to adjust to his rich Irish accent; the words blurred in her ears until she carefully picked them apart. Stalker? A bizarre thing to admit to, but he dazzled it with confident charm and a roguish grin. Only then he came to the proposition, and what had been a vaguely inquisitive expression now fell flat.
She spared a dry look at Rune, expecting some derisive gesture of camaraderie in return. But the other woman seemed… defensive was the wrong word, because there was no challenge to her, no anger, but there was definitely a displeased edge, and its sharp side was aimed right at the Irishman. Thalia, on the other hand, had barely moved but to frown slightly. Very little phased her, and this – though it was odd, granted – barely brushed the edges. She was amused, incredulous, and maybe a touch disturbed by the sheer forwardness of his manner, but not concerned. In that regard she was effortless, content to ride the waves no matter how strange the tide. Even when Rune turned to her, and asked if she was a prostitute.
Aside from their brief conversation she knew nothing of Rune, but once she had decided she liked someone it was her nature to extend a depth of friendship that either made others uncomfortable or simply clicked into place like it had existed years. Intense and transitory formed the basis of most of Thalia’s relationships, which was perhaps why she often fell into them head-first. Offense should have burned bright at the insinuation, followed on the heels by a snapped denial. She should care what strangers thought. Instead her head tilted, lips pursed, and the look she gave only said, really? As though Rune would know exactly how to interpret that.
And then the man began laughing; proper, raucous, mad laughter. It drew a few looks; more than a few, even on the stage that was Old Arbat. Behind them Alek had approached; she could hear his sharp footsteps, or maybe just anticipated the dark cloud of his presence. Of course he’d come to see if there was trouble; usually his flat stare and gruff attitude were enough to see it off. Usually he was right.
“You need a refill?” The question seemed aimed at neither of them in particular, and a quick glance up confirmed he was looking at the Irishman despite that he spoke to her and Rune. Glaring, actually – though to his credit, the guy seemed completely unaffected by the belligerent intimidation. Except - no matter her impression of this strange man - Thalia’s lips still pressed tighter together when it was Alek he gave the card to. When had this turned into male posturing? Geeze.
She watched his formal bow, then his retreating back, not quite sure what on earth kind of whirlwind had just passed. And ready to shrug it off. Behind them, Alek made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a displeased growl as he bent to collect Thalia's empty plate and mug. “You want this?”
Huh. Simple curiosity bid her to pluck the card from his hand and scan its contents as Alek grumbled and left. Because however odd, mystery was an undeniable allure; enough to entertain the address he had left, enough to try and fathom sense from the spectacle. He was a con artist, she would guess; a charming and self-assured one. Most men would have blushed or grown defensive at the accusation of propositioning two women in broad daylight. Manix. The name had gotten lost somewhere in his lilting accent, but she remembered him saying it now. Though what he hadn't said was what the work was, or why he felt they were qualified at a glance.
She looked back at Rune, brows raised, and handed the card over so she could have a look if she wanted. A smile threatened the corners of her lips. It had been kind of funny. “Well. Welcome to Moscow.”
Edited by Thalia, Jul 23 2013, 04:52 PM.
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