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nanasalt · 1 year

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the end

THE END – i’ll make up an ending, or post the ending if i’ve written it

(The end of the Holiday AU I truly intended to write.)

The streets of Leningrad are bitingly cold, worse than before, and normally Anya would skirt closer to the wall but Gleb had caught her hand when she nearly slipped on the curb and hadn’t let go, his fingers warm against hers. Maybe she doesn’t want him to let go. An officer should have better gloves - sturdy, leather ones like the soldiers Before wore, and she brushes the thought aside before it can consume her. She is simply Anya, now, and they both wear cheap, fingerless work-gloves in the new Russia.

“You were right, comrade,” she blurts into the cold air, as his fingertips stroke across her knuckles. His skin is warmer than the biting air. She glances up at him, and catches the flash of hurt. Ah. He had asked, hadn’t he? “Gleb,” she corrects.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says warmly, and she doesn’t deserve it but she’s glad for it when he smiles fondly at her. “Right about what?”

Anya glances at the street - quiet, empty, and though there are always eyes in Leningrad, they won’t care about her gossiping in this case. “Your friend Veronika told me all sorts of lies.”

She can’t meet his gaze, so she can see that there’s nothing for him to trip over when he stumbles and her hand slips from his with her inertia. A moment later he’s in step with her again, his fingers flexing in the cold, and neither one of them bridges the gap even as the warmth leaks from her hand.

“What sort of lies?”

He’ll force her to say it aloud, and he’ll laugh and reveal it was all a joke they play on street sweepers or other workers. The police aren’t kind, and they aren’t caring, and Anya knows it as well as anyone.

“She said that you’re in love with me.”

It drops from her mouth like lead, and Anya can feel the bitter poison of it. No matter what he says, she’ll be the one to suffer, either laughed at or - or - or -

What is she afraid of?

His throat jerks as he swallows hard, and his hair falls into his eyes as he nods in understanding. Anya can’t meet his gaze, but she can’t focus. Can’t think.

“It’s ridiculous,” she blurts out, and twists to the railing, leaning her elbows against it and staring at the Neva. It must be almost midnight now, and she will have to wake early for work, and the snow starts to melt through her coat. “You should tell your friends -” Her voice cracks on the word like a dropped teacup. “- that it’s cruel to play tricks like those.”

“Anya,” he says, and the gentle coaxing in his voice is enough to ensure she doesn’t turn around, her eyes fixed on the glitter of the ice. It’s oddly blurry.

“Lies,” she hisses again, and brushes snow from the railing onto the river. The vodka has loosened her tongue and without Gleb’s uniform between them, she feels words spilling out like she’s knocked a bottle over. “I thought you’d be kind enough to lie about work, comrade. Pretend you weren’t the bloody murderers you are. I didn’t think you’d lie about me.”

The crunch of snow under his boots indicates he’s stepped closer, and Anya twists her fingers together to hide the shaking. They’re numb from the cold, but she is used to that. She has to be. She is immune to the cold and the pain that it brings. It’s only that she’s been warm tonight, and that is why the snow feels like needles against her skin. It’s only that she had pretended, for a moment, that things from another woman’s life could be hers.

When had Anastasia become the truth, and Anya the lie?

“It’s not lies,” Gleb says softly, and Anya presses her eyes shut. It’s nearly cold enough to freeze the tears on her lashes, but not quite. Small mercies. “You know what we do, and now you know how I feel.” His voice is strained in the cold, and Anya’s hands shake harder for it.

“I said - it’s cruel,” she forces herself to snap, “to lie to me.”

“I would never lie to you,” he says and Anya hates the confirmation. She’s been telling herself he’s nothing but a liar for weeks now, that his honeyed words had been meant to manipulate. This could be another lie, but when she twists on her heel and glares up at him, she knows it isn’t. She barely knows him, and she knows it isn’t.

Gleb stands a pace back, his boots in the muddy snow and his hand half-outstretched, as though he’d thought better of the motion. She knows the vodka must still be in his veins because his eyes are wide and dark and she can see, even in the dim light, the pulse of his heart in his neck, too quick to be natural. He shoves his hair out of his face roughly, gesturing to himself a beat later.

“I know what you think of me, the uniform, the -- all of it. I know. But you must know that I’ve only ever told you the truth, Anya.” He sounds wounded, and swallows hard. “Believe that, at least.”

“And you -” She chokes on the words before they can slip out. Love me. He loves her. “You don’t know me.”

“I want to.” He steps closer, and Anya’s not afraid. She never has been, not really, but her heart speeds in her chest. His gaze is wide and earnest and honest, so painfully honest that she can almost taste it. “So badly, Anya. I want to know everything about you, not just what’s in a file or what I can guess at, not - not -”

He trails off with an embarrassed wince, not that it matters. Her heart is crashing through her ears like the ocean itself, and her hand is on his chest a moment later as if she could feel his heart through the layers of wool and linen to compare the two. It’s vodka-soaked impulse to slide her hand up to his neck; she feels him swallow hard against her thumb as his hand comes up to wrap around her wrist, holding her there with his pulse fluttering under her fingertips.

“Give me a chance to know more,” he says - begs - and Anya feels trapped. There’s nothing more of her to know beneath the stamps on her traveling papers, except the bits of Anastasia she’s unearthed and learned and knitted into one piece, but he believes there is. His hand is almost too tight around her wrist and Anya has tears frozen on her lashes that he’s no doubt noticed and misinterpreted, because his grip is gone in a moment and his hands are hovering strangely in front of him, as if to say he can’t hurt her. “Don’t run away this time.” He laughs, painfully, and tucks her hair behind her ear before his hands pull away for good. “I want to prove I’m more than an office and a uniform, if you’ll let me.”

He believes there’s more to her than a tragic story and an assumed name, and he wants her to have the same faith in him. Anya’s head is spinning with lack of sleep and a surfeit of vodka, and her eyes fall shut under the onslaught of cold night air and the warmth left against her cheek by his touch, and then there’s the ghost of a breath on her face with his sigh.

“I see,” he says quietly, and her eyes open in time to watch him take a step back. His eyes don’t leave hers until he half-bows a moment later. Anya shudders down to her thin boots, and wonder what he knows about her.

And he turns to go.

“Gleb,” tears from her throat without conscious thought, and he turns so quickly, so eagerly, that she digs her nails into her palm through her thin gloves to try and ground herself as she takes a step. He’ll go to tell his police friends about her, because she’s given herself away somehow. That must be the truth of it. “Where are you going?”

“You said as far as the bridge,” he replies, carefully neutral, and nods to the sparkling Neva below them, the stonework around them even as he takes a step towards her again. “I may have been a soldier, but I know when I’m dismissed.”

It knocks the wind from her sails. He’ll leave, just like that, and she knows this because he let her go twice before without protest and now he will let her slip away again a third time, and she almost wishes he wouldn’t.

Anya wishes, and it’s been a while since Anya has wanted anything.

“Veronika said,” she begins slowly, and Gleb laughs brittlely.

“Veronika says an awful lot of things.” He carefully folds his hands behind him, the old military posture holding him together. “Maybe we should both forget them.”

She stares up at him, and wonders for a moment if there is something to be found beneath Anya that isn’t Anastasia, because if there is, it’s protesting both the idea of staying and the idea of leaving in equal measure. She’s flirting with disaster but she’s never been one for half-measures, and she glances over his shoulder and finds a clock.

It’s late, but it’s not too late.

Anya takes a deep breath.

“She said it’s good luck to kiss someone at midnight,” she says, in a rush, and Gleb freezes entirely except for his eyes, which are raking her face like he’ll find answers there. Anya bites her lip and waits out his scrutiny, even when she sees hope spark in his eyes and aches with it.

Somewhere, a clock chimes, and somewhere between the first and second strokes he’s unfrozen and closed whatever gap is left when Anya’s already taken two steps forward. His fingertips find her jawline, tipping her head up, and Anya hates the disbelief in his eyes, because there’s nothing else except yearning.

She closes her eyes and waits a half-breath and by the fourth stroke he’s managed to press his lips to hers hesitantly, and Anya slides her fingers into his hair, dragging him closer. Gleb wraps an arm around her waist, helps her balance when she stands on her toes.

It’s not helpful because he nearly stumbles himself when she swipes her tongue over his lips, but whatever sound he makes is drowned out by another stroke of the clock and Anya tastes vodka on his teeth and twists her fingers through his hair because she only has a few seconds left to pretend to be someone who can have this.

It’s messy and heartrending and Anya feels warmth down to her toes when his arms have both fallen to wrap around her waist, and the chiming of the clock has ended and her hand is still clutching his hair, the other against his chest, and one of them finally pauses to breathe, their foreheads still touching.

“For luck,” he says faintly, and she lets both her hands fall to his shoulders as he steals another kiss, though she tips her chin up and doesn’t protest, wouldn’t protest if he did it again and saved her from making choices on the subject.

“We need all we can get, in Russia,” she manages, and Gleb laughs, his breath warm against her cheek.

“You’re a cynic,” he accuses, but there’s a note of wonder in it. He enjoys the discovery, wants to know her as well as he can, and Anya abruptly remembers how much she has to hide.

“I have to go,” she blurts, and he hesitates as she bites her lip. “I have work tomorrow morning.”

“Of course,” he says with a laugh, and for a moment she thinks he might kiss her again, and she will let him. Then he’s taken a polite step back and smiled.

It’s genuine, for a change.

“I can’t distract such a hard worker,” he says, then adds in a confessional rush, “no matter how much I’d like to.”

The brief temptation of it - of running back to the warm bar and drinking more, kissing and being kissed and being just Anya for once - is dizzy, or maybe that’s the remnants of vodka.

“You should go back to your friends.” She wraps her arms around herself, remembers how cold it is without the warmth of the bar, of another person. “It’s late.”

“Hardly past midnight,” he says, but it’s not an argument; his smile says it’s almost a joke between them. Just past midnight, and just past kissing for luck.

Just past realizing she enjoyed his kisses too much, so she smiles gently and nods to the clock. “Happy New Year, Gleb.”

He laughs and reaches out to brush her cheek again, his fingers cool but warmer than the night around them. “Happy New Year, Anya. I hope this isn’t goodbye.”

There’s another half-moment where she thinks he’ll kiss her - he wants to, it shows - and then he’s pulled himself away and left her standing on the bridge, looking down at the Neva’s ice and wishing for once that the seasons would slow their change and stay winter just a little longer.

#glenya #Gleb Vaganov #Anya Romanov #Kat Answers #onestepatatime32 #Kat Writes #Spring Cleaning the Askbox #This might be one of the better fics I've ever written for the record!#Someday you might even see the rest of it!

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dustoftheancients · 6 months

Text

I did indeed say there would be more. Does it have a wider story than “Anya is about to leave for Paris and is going to miss Gleb?” Not really. Hope you enjoy, it’s from this prompt list.

—

33. Tearful kisses.

—

It would be soon.

She didn’t know when, exactly, because neither Dmitry nor Vlad would tell her. But it would be soon.

They would leave for Paris.

There was anticipation. Finally, finally she would have a chance at finding her family. Maybe it was the Dowager Empress. And even if it wasn’t, she would be in Paris. There was still hope as long as she could get there.

And yet — it wasn’t only the anticipation. There was also fear. Fear that they wouldn’t make it, or that they would be caught and put in front of a firing squad.

Fear that she would never see her only friend again.

Gleb.

Why had she let herself be pulled into friendship with him? The Deputy Commissioner. He could have had her killed in an instant. And more than that, he believed in what he did. Essential work, he had called it. Important work.

And, even knowing that, she had smiled at him. Talked to him about the weather, or her day, or — anything, really. Almost anything.

He was her one and only friend.

He was her enemy.

She was about to leave him either way.

The nod he gave her each morning did nothing to hide the smile growing on his lips. She always smiled in return, maybe a little smaller than his, but no less fond.

Fond. It didn’t seem strong enough a word. Something twisted in her gut when she saw him pass by her on the street with a deep frown. It was the same as all other mornings, except that he seemed deep in thought. He hadn’t seen her. It was a good opportunity, maybe she could start pulling away, get him used to not seeing her every day.

No one else was out and about yet, but if she stood still she knew that he would not notice her.

“Good morning, Gleb.” The words came out before she could stop herself. It was that weight in her chest; what if it was the last time they would see each other?

His face snapped up at the sound of her voice. A grin instantly broke out across his face, wrinkling his eyes in a way that made him seem so much more warm than an officer had any right to be.

“Good morning, Anya.”

“Is something wrong?” She asked slowly, unsure if she wanted to ask, or wanted the answer. She couldn’t run the risk of asking too much, of being too curious — especially after that warning in his office — but he had seemed so lost in thought. So burdened.

His smile lessened a little, but it was still there. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. It’ll just ruin your morning.”

“You couldn’t ruin my morning,” she almost-lied. She found herself being sweeter than usual, with the knowledge that she would leave him pressing so heavily on her heart.

Her words seemed to please him. He stepped closer, and so did she. This was the one connection she had made on her own, with no shadows to darken it.

No shadows other than the uniform he wore.

“Are you alright?” He asked after a moment, a line forming between his brows. “You’re shaking again.” Gleb lifted his gloved hand as if to offer her comfort, but seemed to think better of it.

His face was kind. He was kind. Despite being the Deputy Commissioner, Gleb Vaganov had proven himself to be a gentle and sincere friend. And she—

Anya would miss him terribly.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, shaking her head a little and forcing a smile. Hot tears sprung in her eyes but she tried to blink them away. And she couldn’t look him in the eye without running the risk of making it worse.

Gleb only grew more worried. Her heart clenched to see it. He didn’t hesitate a second time to lay his hand on her shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeped through his glove and her jacket to touch her skin, like a ray of sun poking through the clouds.

“Anya, what’s wrong?” He asked, leaning down a bit to get a better look at her face.

She shook her head silently, keeping her eyes on the broom clutched in her hand. Why had she let herself become attached? She might have to leave any day, and there could never be any closure between them.

A frown pulled at his lips. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” Something hardened in his gaze and he straightened. “Has someone hurt you?”

“No,” she breathed.

He deflated a little. “Then what is it?”

She didn’t know why she did it. Or, rather — she did know. She just wasn’t ready to examine it. That would have only led to more pain later.

What she did do would cause her enough pain. She reached over and pressed her free hand to his hand on her shoulder, as if that would keep him there with her on that exact moment. And she she leaned up and kissed him.

His lips were cool, a little chapped. She could smell his aftershave. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she gave in. Just the once.

She held his hand to her shoulder, but he could have pulled away. She wouldn’t have done anything to stop him. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all, really. She seemed to have shocked him into silence.

Anya broke the kiss.

Perhaps she had misread his affection. Perhaps she should not have done that. And the tears were obvious, it was too late to hide that. Too late to hide her feelings.

She stared up at him with bated breath. Her heart pounded in her ears, a different kind of fear than before.

He stared down at her with wide eyes.

That kiss had been very stupid of her.

“I’m—”

He cut her off with his lips. His hands moved to her red cheeks and cradled her face as he pressed her to him. It was passionate but chaste; he was an officer and they were outside in the open, even if it was still too early for most people. Her arms wrapped around his torso in turn, pulling him as close as she dared. She didn’t even hear her broom clatter to the ground.

He pulled away for a breath, then pressed a second kiss to her lips. Then a soft third.

She exhaled against him, relief coursing through her. He rubbed his thumbs gently over her damp cheeks. The intimacy in the gesture made even more tears form.

Gleb studied her face, his eyes darting around her features like they held the answer to a question he hadn’t asked. His expression was torn between worry and something far too gentle for her to think about. A flush spread across his face that would’ve made her smile, if it had been any other time.

“What’s wrong?” His tone was firm but caring. She had to answer.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted quietly. It wasn’t a lie; not when it came to him.

Paris. Gleb. She didn’t want to leave him.

He watched her, waiting for more. He would never leave Russia, and yet, she wished—

She wished that he was not so good a Russian.

She swallowed, then covered his hands with her own. Told him what she would want to tell him once it was all over and she had left Russia forever. Left him forever.

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled and did not understand. “It’s alright. There’s no one here at this hour.”

Anya let out a weak, wet laugh. “Just us.”

#glenya #anya #anastasia romanov #gleb vaganov #anastasia musical #my writing #drabble #prompt fill #metaphorical pen to metaphorical paper #this is turning both into an exercise of writing new characters #and also trying to get myself to write something is definitely not my strong suit (kissing. it’s kissing.)#I love them your honor #I’m still trying to figure out how to write them

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