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oretsov · 3 years

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22 because we know of drunk!malina but what about high!malina 👀

hi beloved!!! here you go. this was extremely fun.

tw for drugs (weed), and some micro-aggressions

22. I’m having a rough week so I show up to class stoned and you jokingly ask me if you can join me next time so I ask for your number

Yeah, she was pretty sure it was the worst fucking week of her life.

Okay. That could be a bit of an overstatement. It’s not like she was a stranger to bad weeks. When one was orphaned at the tender age of seven, placed into the foster care system not even a week later, one was not immune to the, ahem, bleakness of it all.

But she was turning it around, and things had been going pretty smoothly so far for the past few years. She’d grown out of foster care relatively unscathed, busted her ass to get into university, and was forever grateful for the sympathetic pockets of the grants she’d applied for, as they all but threw money at her to pursue higher education. It was her third year now, and she was starting to finally feel like she wasn’t just barely hanging on to get by anymore, but rather feeling pretty, well, good, about her circumstances, to the point where if ten-year-old Alina could see her now, she wouldn’t have believed her eyes.

If you’d asked her two weeks ago, she would’ve said her life was going great, and really meant it too. It was the first year she was living off-campus, and spent a better part of the days moving into her new tiny townhouse she shared with Genya and Zoya.

A month ago, they’d cracked open a celebratory bottle of wine (okay, fine, several bottles of wine) and cheers’d to their new home and their third year.

Two weeks ago, she ended her nights walking the still-not-entirely-familiar-but-definitely-getting-there path to her semi-regular hook-up/guy she was maybe seeing, guy she would maybe even call her boyfriend. He’d called her over that night and it made her giddy with anticipation, because he rarely was the first to reach out.

Two weeks ago, she didn’t realize that her night class would turn into the bane of her existence. Not that a night class on Tuesdays and Thursdays from the dreadful hours of 6 to 8:30 would be particularly fun, but she never would have anticipated it to be this excruciating.

It was a gen ed requirement, but she chose this class smugly, Introduction to the History of Ravkan Art, because after all, she spent several hours a week, or rather a day, in the studio, interned at the local art museum taking care of the collections, and volunteered as an art teacher at the group home around the corner. Her life was filled with art, because it brought her immense joy and freedom, and she thought she could find that same joy in this class.

Wrong. Perhaps in her brief lapse into cockiness she forgot all about the history of Ravka and its aggressive history with the neighboring Shu Han. That would teach her to ever be smug again. She’d lived in Ravka all her life, and though she was left alone at a young age, she still vividly remembered the wisps of her mother’s dark hair, falling long and straight down her back. Their kitchen always smelled like a blend of spices, ones that she could almost taste if she really concentrated, and Alina would stand by the doorway and watch her mother move around with easy expertise, listen as she explained to her what she was doing, which would descend into her own stories of growing up in Shu Han, coming to Ravka, eating cold noodles in a tiny apartment, meeting her father. Her mother would talk to her in Shu, and Alina would respond in a mix of languages, which always made the both of them laugh, and even to this day she couldn’t hear Shu without picking up a couple of words, and the thought always made her heart ache.

Recently, she’d realized she felt disconnected from being Shu. Which wasn’t surprising, but it was surprising to her, when she had the passing thought that she could learn the language, properly, and maybe even save some funds to visit the city her mother was from. She’d even begun to cautiously peruse online for home-style Shu recipes, and the first time she shoveled scrambled eggs and tomatoes and rice into her mouth, Three Ways to Make Everyone’s Favorite Comfort Dish, fan qie ji dan!, it was like she was transported back in time their old kitchen, a time when her mom and dad came back from work and she showed them her art, and they hugged her and pepped her with kisses, listened to her read her favorite books, and talked to her about the importance of bringing love into her life.

She clung to those memories, when kids made off-hand remarks to her in foster care, when she endured little passing comments, for years, when she came to university, went to a basement party and flirted with some boy, who doomed his fate of getting lucky when he smirked and said “I don’t typically go for Shu girls.” She was left speechless and could only muster up the strength to toss her drink in his face, then turn around and leave quickly. Zoya found her sitting on the steps of that house, tears silently streaking down her face. She was a stranger then, but still asked her what was wrong, and that was the moment they became friends.

So it wasn’t all bad. Some days were better than others, but overall, she marked her time at university as not about her being Shu, but just about her being Alina, and she would discover all the parts of herself, including, but not exclusive to, her heritage.

Which she was defensive of. Which brought her to her burning antagonization of Intro to the History of Ravkan Art, and it’s ass-sucking teacher. Ravkan art was beautiful, it really was, but for some reason her professor insisted on showing slide after slide of anti-Shu propaganda used throughout history, looking pointedly at her and a few other Shu kids in class each time he spoke, like the propaganda was true and they were all enemy spies infiltrating the extremely classified ranks of an intro art history class.

Not even that, he glossed over the history between the two countries, the bloodshed and impacts of imperialism on both sides, the dangerous consequences of racial superiority that lingered in the undercurrent of history. Not that this was a history class about the war, but she thought bitterly that if he was going to keep bringing it up, he might as well provide some insightful analytical thought from a present-day perspective, or just shut his mouth and go back to looking at non-propaganda art.

The only thing that made this class worth her while was, and two weeks ago she would have never, ever, dared to say this, the stranger who sat next to her. It was a relatively small class, small enough where you could get by without having a seat neighbor, and in a lecture room, so the chairs were plush and many, but he’d slipped into class on the first day a few minutes late. She doubted he even realized he slid in next to her, on the edge of the row but towards the back, until it was too late. At first she’d rolled her eyes, because first of all what idiot showed up to the first class late, and second of all what idiot actively sought out a seat on the edge that was next to a person, but all those thoughts flew out of her brain as soon as she snuck a glance at him as he was rifling through his backpack.

He wore a dark blue t-shirt, and it hugged his arms snugly, deliciously, she thought. His hair was cut short, but growing out in soft tufts, and the smell, oh god the smell of him, like a forest after the first cleansing rain of spring, dewy and fresh and clean, which was what she was thinking of like an idiot when he’d turned towards her and assaulted her with those dark brown honey-colored eyes of his.

“Sorry, do you have a pencil I could borrow?” His voice was a whisper and deep, so deep, and it sent tingles up and down her spine. His lips were so full, and she inadvertently licked her own at the sight of them. She nodded, or rather spasmed her head in what she hoped was a nod, and fished a pencil out of her pencil case. When she handed it to him, she looked down at his fingers, which was a mistake, because they were long and slender and gorgeous and made her mouth water, so she looked at his face instead, which was also a mistake, because the corner of his mouth was quirked up in a small smile, and christ he was handsome, especially when he whispered, “Thank you.”

They’d been in this class for a few weeks now, and that was about the extent of their relationship. She would deny that she sat in the same seat as the first class in hopes that he would sit next to her again, but curiously enough he did, even when he showed up on time. They always exchanged small smiles with each other, but she was a prize idiot, and would fidget around with her phone until class began, because the thought of talking to him, learning more about him, sent an explosion of butterflies to her stomach. She already knew too much about him, every factoid better than the last. He played football (she’d seen him on the campus rec field with a few other boys, and Genya had asked why she had suddenly started sweating). He looked illegally fit in a jersey (it was why she’d started sweating). Sometimes he wore earrings, small gold hoops that caught the light (this fact kept her up. Late). And she was pretty sure he volunteered at the same group home as her, but wasn’t too sure about that last one (her art classes with the kids didn’t tend to overlap with the outdoor activities, but she’d heard a few other teachers mention the new guy, who had a way with kids and made them all love the outdoors. A new guy who was attending the same university as her, and was called Mal. How many Mal’s were there in the world? She was too scared to find out).

But two weeks ago, she wouldn’t have allowed herself to entertain thoughts of him outside of class (and him, in his jersey, or out of his jersey, and his earrings and - actually she should stop there). But that was then, and this was now, the worst week of her life. She deserved some good thoughts, and if they were of her seat partner, Mal, whose name she only knew because she perked up everytime he spoke in class, so be it.

It was Thursday afternoon at 3, and she trudged home from the art studio, lugging her supplies and cursing the day she decided art was her life’s calling. She wasn’t even looking forward to going home. It’d been downpouring nonstop for the past week, and because of course, their basement had flooded, and because of course, the basement was also where her room was. It was a hit or miss how much water would be covering her floor, but even if it was dry for a few hours, the entire floor smelled like wet rot, a scent no amount of candles would be able to cover up. She didn’t even want to think about the possibility of mold, because it gave her a headache, one that should be reserved for their landlord and only their landlord.

That, and she couldn’t even escape to what was the bed she previously shared, because two weeks ago she stood in Aleksander’s living room and caught him doing shady shit with some shady people, one of which was the boy she’d dumped her drink on freshman year. She walked out, because she wanted no part of that, and when Aleks ran after her and begged her to stay, she felt icky, and saw through his weak attempts at lies, and promises of how she was “the one”. She’d just plucked her hand out of his grasp and headed home, and in all honesty, it wasn’t much of a loss, except now she would prefer the option of a bed that wasn’t in a damp smelling room, and a bed that wasn’t the couch, because her neck was really starting to hurt.

When she unlocked the front door, Genya and Zoya sat on the couch, waiting for her, which was weird. She was pretty sure they both had some variation of class or work at this time.

“Hi?”

Genya crossed over to her and helped take her art supplies from her hands, and Zoya looked up from her phone.

“Alina, beloved, we know you’ve been very stressed out lately, with Aleksander -”

“Who we hate,” Zoya called dutifully.

“ - yes who we hate, and with your room, and with your night class -”

“That we also hate.”

“ - yes that can also die -”

“Is this an intervention?” Alina interrupted. Genya looked at her with a crazed look in her eyes. Zoya snorted.

“It’s not an intervention you idiot. We have drugs.” At this she swung her legs off the armrest, disappearing into the kitchen, and returning with a small plastic gift bag with flowers on it.

“Nikolai heard you complaining about,” she gestured vaguely, “everything. Gifted us some brownies. Genya and I are done for the day, we thought we could hang out for a few hours and do this.”

Alina was touched. Getting high actually sounded pretty relaxing, and she rarely had the opportunity to. Her days were relatively booked, and even when they went out at night, she didn’t particularly enjoy partying while only high, or crossed.

“Wait but, I have class later.” The excuse felt flimsy on her lips. Could she show up at class high? She probably could. It would probably make it more bearable even, perhaps calm the urge to poke herself in the eyes when it seemed particularly fitting.

Genya patted her on the back, pushing her towards the brownies in Zoya’s hand.

“Oh Alina,” she sighed. “That is a weak excuse and we all know it.”

Zoya cackled at this, and the three of them settled into the couch, methodically dividing up the brownies, and Alina sank back into the cushions, letting her brain run wild and the drugs sweep her up.

And somehow, now she was here. She checked the time on her phone. 5:54. It took her maybe two full years to remember how she got into the classroom. Were these seats always so...bouncy? She bounced slightly in her chair, then violently looked around. Was that weird? It felt weird. She shouldn’t have bounced in her seat, because normal and not high people didn’t do that. She sat back slowly, and tried to sit as straight as possible, but no, she should slouch in her chair, because that was what she usually did. Well she didn’t normally slouch, because she didn’t have bad posture, but it wasn’t great either. She would do a hybrid slouching, she decided, and assumed the position. This felt right. Yes, she definitely looked extremely calm and cool and collected.

“Hey,” said a voice to her left. Oh crap. Mal. He would see right through her, and think her the most irresponsible person in the world. Who showed up to class high? Not her, that was who. What if they really volunteered at the same place, and he told their boss, that the art teacher who was helping to mold the young minds of tomorrow and provide some hope and sense of belonging was actually RUINING the young minds of tomorrow with her habits? She would probably get kicked out, and they would tell the university, and all her financial aid would disappear and she would be forced to actually be a starving artist, and even though she was an artist she still wanted to eat, so -

“Are you okay?” He asked, sliding into the seat next to her. God, what block of marble had his face been crafted from, seriously? And it was an earrings day, like he was purposely trying to kill her. He was way too attractive for his own good.

“Um. Thank you,” he chuckled, and smiled shyly. Oh shit, she’d totally said that out loud. She couldn’t even feel her mouth, much less control what was coming out of it. She gathered up every sober brain cell she had.

“Oh god. I’m sorry. I’m,” she gestured. Or she was pretty sure she was gesturing. Her limbs were stuck to the table, because the furniture in this room was magnetic, she was pretty sure.

Mal leaned into her, and peered at her face. He’d never been this close to her before. She didn’t think she was breathing. Except she was, because she could smell him, and he smelled. Well. Yummy.

“Are you high?” he whispered. Oh god, this was it. Pack your bags, she thought sadly to herself, you’ll never speak to your hot seat neighbor again and fall in love and get married and hold hands in a field and look at the stars. The thought made her sad. He really was so hot.

“Um.”

“Oh god you are,” he said, and leaned back. But then a rumbling laugh erupted from his mouth, and it was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.

“My basement flooded,” she said frantically, the words rushing out. A shit-eating grin sat on Mal’s face, cocky and confident. She’d never seen this side of him before. It was certainly doing something to her.

“Your basement flooded...with smoke? Because you’re high?” He reached into his backpack for his notebook, peering up at her.

She let out a laugh, and tension leaked out of her. What was she thinking? Of course Mal wouldn’t care if she was high. They were uni students. People did drugs all the time, and weed was the tamest of them all, and it was totally acceptable to indulge in it. Mal took this class too, and he knew as well as she did just how painful it was. She felt her body relax, realizing delayedly that she was sitting like an idiot. The fear flowed out of her and she remembered how she normally sat. Like a normal person.

“My basement flooded with water,” she explained. “It’s where my bedroom is.” His lips turned down, and he gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, that sucks.”

She nodded. “And I stopped seeing this guy, so I’ve been sleeping on our couch.” She bobbed her head around. “My neck hurts.”

Mal was silent, but when she looked over at him, he was staring at her neck, which was exposed, her hair falling off it as she’d moved around. His eyes snapped up back to hers, and her head swam with the color of his eyes and the color of his lips and, well, him.

“That’s too bad,” he said. He didn’t sound like it was too bad. “But next time you get high before class, you’ll have to let me know,” he joked, and flashed her his teeth. “I don’t think I can sit through another lecture sober.”

He probably meant it as a joke, but she was doing all sorts of new things today. Maybe the furniture wasn’t the only magnetic thing in the room, because she was convinced that Mal was too.

“Well give me your number and I’ll invite you over.” The words were out of her mouth before she could think about them, not like her brain was doing any real favors for her right now. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she waited for him to say something, and she glanced at the front of the room.

Mal’s low chuckle brought her eyes back to him. His cheeks were tinted pink because - he was blushing. She’d made him blush, and fireworks exploded in her stomach. Or maybe that was because she was hungry. Or both.

“That was pretty smooth.” He grabbed a pen and wrote something down on the corner of her notebook page, like he wanted her to think about his hands and his fingers all up in her space, because she definitely did. He moved his hand back to his desk, and she looked down at the page, and saw his number scrawled out, accompanied by “Malyen Oretsev, art history :)”. It made her laugh, and she looked at the smiley face and it filled her with a giddy emotion. He was so cute.

“You’re cute,” she said.

He blushed again. She could definitely get used to this. “You’re cute too.”

Before she could say anything else, the professor flipped the lights off, bringing their attention to the projector at the front of the room. Her skin felt warm and the colors of the room shifted together, but she felt good. Excited, even. Mal probably had a bed. Maybe they could study art history on it, together, with their clothes off. Maybe she could make her neck sore in another more delicious and satisfying way.

“Mal,” she leaned over and whispered into his ear. He inclined his head towards her, his face questioning. Her breath felt hot going into his ear, and she felt him shiver. “Do you have a bed I could crash in for a few days?” ---

Want to add in a small author's note: I wrote about Alina's experience with her race based on my own experiences of being half-Chinese, but I also give credit to Xiran Zhao's youtube video about the racism in S&B and how it lacks the celebration of her heritage, instead focusing only on the negative racism she faces (I mean... that and there's a lot of other problems lbr, but that thought stuck with me), which made me think of adding in the little celebrations here, through things like language and food :) and I dedicate this to all the ABC's and halfies and folks feeling disconnected to where their family is from, and I give you all a big ol' hug. and as always, the Asian experience is not a monolith *<:) ty for reading!

#asaw21 #alinastarkovdaily #malina #mal x alina #alina x mal #fic #my writing #malina fanfic

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jomiddlemarch · 3 years

Text

wherever you are is my home

When her only choice seemed to be remaining at Keramzin Academy for Young Ladies as Headmistress Kuya’s most junior and ill-paid teacher for the rest of her days, Alina Starkova took her fate in her two small hands and placed an advertisement in the paper. Governess seeking a position, educated at Keramzin Academy for Young Ladies, expert in Ravkan, Zemeni, sewing and drawing. Her Zemeni was a bit old-fashioned, acquired from Yelena in the kitchens as Alina had shelled peas and churned butter, but it seemed the finest families liked their daughters to be taught a second language and what little Shu she recalled was not likely to improve her prospects. She wrote the advertisement in secret, her feelings a maelstrom of hope, anticipation, and dread, which she concealed beneath her usual prim expression. When she received no reply after several weeks, she began to resign herself to remaining at the school, a drab little person becoming more drab and dull with every passing year, fading away so subtly that none would miss her when she was called to her final home.

And then on a Thursday just before Sankt Grigori’s Nativity, a letter arrived in the post addressed to Miss Alina Starkova, Keramzin Academy for Young Ladies, in a firm, unadorned hand, the ink richly dark against the expensive paper.

The offer was to be the governess of one young girl, a Maria Alexandrovna, the ward of General Kirigan, whose dasha was located in the wilds of Tsibeya, a place called Dark Thorn, managed by a housekeeper named Baghra Ilynichna. The compensation was reasonable and the work sounded very manageable, one girl instead of the classes of twenty that Alina was expected to teach, though perhaps Maria Alexandrovna would be a spoiled, coddled miss accustomed to getting her own way. No other opportunities were forthcoming, other than remaining in her current situation, so Alina sat down the same day, wrote a note of acceptance and waited to be sent further instructions.

They came by the next post and were simple enough. She was told which coach to take on what date, informed she would be met at the crossroads nearest Dark Thorn and taken the rest of the way by the Kirigan carriage. She told the headmistress who reacted almost not at all, packed up her carpetbag, which took little enough time, and brushed her cloak. She did her best to tidy up her best bonnet, a cast-off she’d ornamented with a little rosette of blue ribbon Yelena had once given her after she’d noticed Alina gazing at a cluster of blue irises by the kitchen door. She left without any farewell other than a nod from Headmistress Kuya and Yelena squeezing her hand; she knew she could never return.

The journey was long but uneventful. She was crammed into a corner of the public coach when it was crowded and was able to look out the small window when it emptied out; the closer they got to Tsibeya, the less there was to see other than sere fields and dense forest but she still imagined how she might render the scene with her paint-box. She was met late in the evening and barely registered the change of carriage, except that the Kirigan carriage was far more elegant and didn’t smell of garlic or spilt kvas. She was quickly bundled into a bedchamber by Madame Ilynichna and fell fast asleep in the widest, downiest bed she’d ever seen.

She woke to the clear light of a northern morning and found the room was plainly but serviceably appointed, the furniture of an older vintage but well-made, the draperies embroidered simply, a chest and wardrobe and writing table all polished and smelling of beeswax. She hung her few dresses in the wardrobe and put the rest of her things into the chests, each drawer of which held a sachet of pine needles and chamomile. She brushed and braided her hair then dressed, adding her woolen shawl around her shoulders, crossed and belted at her waist and went downstairs to meet her charge.

Maria Alexandrovna was a slight girl of eight with glossy brown ringlets carefully arranged by her Osaltan maid Genya and a linen pinafore over her blue silk dress and lace-trimmed pantalets. She was eager to make the acquaintance of her new governess and prattled on merrily about her wish for a pair of matching gold bracelets, a white kitten with a blue ribbon, a cunning pair of kid boots until Madame Ilynichna told her to hush and let Alina Starkova finish her tea in peace. Alina saw Maria’s eyes fall and coaxed the child to come closer, explaining that they would begin the morning sketching and then read a fairy story together, which so transported the girl that she sat down and ate her bowl of mannya kasha and jam without making another peep. The housekeeper nodded at Alina, who felt the beginning of something that might have been happiness.

The days tripped along, one after another, as like as the pearl beads of Maria Alexandrovna’s favorite necklace, a gift from her guardian, the absent General Kirigan. His visits to Dark Thorn were infrequent, Alina learned, and she couldn’t find it in herself to mind; the world of Dark Thorn, the staff and the housekeeper, silly little Mashka and her doting maid, was a small one, but Alina was well-treated, admired for her abilities and looked after as she never had been at Keramzin. The meals were wholesome and ample and the fires burned in the stoves keeping everyone warm. There was a woman employed to do the laundry named Tamar Bataar, an odd woman who had a loud laugh and drank airag instead of tea, but she rarely answered questions and Alina learned to keep her curiosity to herself. When the simple conversation grew too tedious, Alina took herself out for a walk, on the grounds of Dark Thorn, and then down a lane that was noted for wild roses in summer, nuts and berries in the autumn.

It was a chill winter day when she went out at three o’clock, walking until she’d tired herself a little and found a stile to linger on as the day waned. The dusk was filled suddenly with the din of a great stallion on the causeway, making Alina think of the tales she’d heard at Keramzin of Psoglav. On the horse’s back was a rider, which broke the spell, and they rode on past Alina but after a few moments, she heard an exclamation Kurva, what am I to do? and a clattering tumble which caught her attention. Man and horse were down, they had slipped on a slick patch of the road, and Alina hurried to render what aid she might offer. The traveler, a tall, dark haired man in a voluminous black cape, was struggling vigorously to free himself, so she thought him not much hurt but she asked him the question—

“Are you injured, sir?”

#shadow and bone #alina starkov appreciation week #alinastarkovdaily #asaw21 #prompt: Otkazat’sya #jane eyre au #jane eyre crossover #jane!alina #darkling!rochester #genya #marie #baghra #some text direct from bronte #tamar yul bataar #grace poole #vignette #alina starkov

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