( maksym starts to erase whatever distance exists between them in this nebulous place. is he without his possessiveness? no. he would hate to think of her mouth on anyone else's. he would hate and loathe to think of her hands upon anyone else's body, but that is not the thought that set his denial alight inside of him with such a fierceness that it strikes through his core.
it's the thought that she could think of him as she thought of all those scientists, investigators, horror stories that she likely heard about growing up among her family. )
Did I ask you that? Did I say anywhere in that conversation that I thought your fear wasn't real? That I didn't understand why you ran especially with a dead body in your wake.
( his grandmother is a terrifying woman, and she would come relentlessly for her - no matter how much that would destroy him. maksym. it wouldn't matter to her. it wouldn't make her stop. )
[ elisaveta wants to protest that she did answer the question, albeit haphazardly, but the space between them both figuratively and literally shrinks to nothing, and it's different to confront him like this — when he's right in front of her and the sight of him is a welt to her gut.
she swallows, regroups. thinks of his question even with the tightness in her chest that grows. ]
No, that's not why I ran. But I — I thought you would hate me for what I did.
[ and if he does hate her, why would she think that he would help her? that he would want to?
so she may not have feared what he would do with her secret, even if she very much does fear what his grandmother will, but she did fear what his anger might lead to, because she's never been under any delusion he doesn't have a host of reasons to be angry. ]
Don't you? [ she asks this so much quieter. doesn't he hate her? ]
( elisaveta asks the question so quietly that it's difficult to continue the escalation that he'd been on - the sharpness of the anger, the intensity of his denial that she might fear him. it's the quietness of her question followed with his own utter relief that that is not why she ran, she did not think he would use her like a science experiment against her will. that he might try to utilize that power for his own gain regardless of harm to her.
so he deflates some even as he stands in the aftermath of that question. all of this anger that he does have, all the traveling he was prepared to do far from the house that he's stayed in to protect himself for as- for as long as he can remember. he wouldn't leave it for hate alone. he wouldn't leave it out of anger alone.
it was far more than that, which would drive him away. )
I hate a great deal many of the things you did, Elisaveta. I hate that you left even if I understand it. I hate the reason you married me to begin with. I hate I was left with a body to clean up on my own. ( he hates that he was left alone in that big house, prison of his own making.
his hand lifts - fingertips brush across her cheekbone for the first time since she left so abruptly, but they're here in this raw and vulnerable place when all of that is left splayed out in the open one way or another. )
[ moisture gathers in her eyes the very moment that his fingertips brush against her skin, disarmed so entirely by it. her expression becomes so bare in return that she isn't able to hide the wince that follows at the reminder he was left with the body.
she wasn't thinking about that, about the mess she would leave in her wake for him to fix. she didn't think. the panic was so visceral, so immediate, that her legs were already making the choice for her. magic soon followed, magic that she has never properly understood, and resented for the vulnerability it brings her. but in that moment it aided her, and she was gone.
and she has hated every awful moment that has followed. the uncertainty, the hiding. his absence. she had not anticipated it, how much she would love their life, tucked away from the rest of the world. how much she would love being his wife.
him. how much she would love him.
she shakes her head like she doesn't understand — she doesn't, not truly. she would hate herself in his place. she hasn't asked for the forgiveness she desperately wishes for because... because how can she? after everything. ] I don't ... what does that mean, Maksym?
( no one has ever made him feel the way she manages to do with the touch of his fingertips against her skin alone, with the way she looks at him like some part of her may have been unleashed with only his touch too. to have it back in the moment that he touches her again, it cracks something open inside of him that he fears revealing. it wasn't only his house that became a prison of his own making, but himself too. he learned better than to be too revealing especially around his grandmother who was so discerning, so sharp and sudden. her love is nearly as brutal as her hatred.
what he experienced with her, what they experienced together, he'd never had before. to have it ripped away in the middle of the night along with a shattering realization that it may have all been a lie- an illusion, and then the crashing reality of how much he might prefer the illusion to a reality that him bearing the brunt of her absence for the remainder of his life, a terrible thing for a scholar like him to feel. all the dark nights he spent thinking- ♪
he swallows thick, meets her gaze as he traces along the edge of her face across her cheekbone along her jawline. his thumb dares to trace the path of her bottom lip, and it draws a tremble through the rest of his body. )
I don't know. ( he releases a shudder of a breath as his gaze drops ) I believe that's why we must see. Together.
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no subject
it's the thought that she could think of him as she thought of all those scientists, investigators, horror stories that she likely heard about growing up among her family. )
Did I ask you that? Did I say anywhere in that conversation that I thought your fear wasn't real? That I didn't understand why you ran especially with a dead body in your wake.
( his grandmother is a terrifying woman, and she would come relentlessly for her - no matter how much that would destroy him. maksym. it wouldn't matter to her. it wouldn't make her stop. )
That wasn't the question I asked.
no subject
she swallows, regroups. thinks of his question even with the tightness in her chest that grows. ]
No, that's not why I ran. But I — I thought you would hate me for what I did.
[ and if he does hate her, why would she think that he would help her? that he would want to?
so she may not have feared what he would do with her secret, even if she very much does fear what his grandmother will, but she did fear what his anger might lead to, because she's never been under any delusion he doesn't have a host of reasons to be angry. ]
Don't you? [ she asks this so much quieter. doesn't he hate her? ]
no subject
so he deflates some even as he stands in the aftermath of that question. all of this anger that he does have, all the traveling he was prepared to do far from the house that he's stayed in to protect himself for as- for as long as he can remember. he wouldn't leave it for hate alone. he wouldn't leave it out of anger alone.
it was far more than that, which would drive him away. )
I hate a great deal many of the things you did, Elisaveta. I hate that you left even if I understand it. I hate the reason you married me to begin with. I hate I was left with a body to clean up on my own. ( he hates that he was left alone in that big house, prison of his own making.
his hand lifts - fingertips brush across her cheekbone for the first time since she left so abruptly, but they're here in this raw and vulnerable place when all of that is left splayed out in the open one way or another. )
But no. I don't hate you.
no subject
she wasn't thinking about that, about the mess she would leave in her wake for him to fix. she didn't think. the panic was so visceral, so immediate, that her legs were already making the choice for her. magic soon followed, magic that she has never properly understood, and resented for the vulnerability it brings her. but in that moment it aided her, and she was gone.
and she has hated every awful moment that has followed. the uncertainty, the hiding. his absence. she had not anticipated it, how much she would love their life, tucked away from the rest of the world. how much she would love being his wife.
him. how much she would love him.
she shakes her head like she doesn't understand — she doesn't, not truly. she would hate herself in his place. she hasn't asked for the forgiveness she desperately wishes for because... because how can she? after everything. ] I don't ... what does that mean, Maksym?
[ for them. ]
no subject
what he experienced with her, what they experienced together, he'd never had before. to have it ripped away in the middle of the night along with a shattering realization that it may have all been a lie- an illusion, and then the crashing reality of how much he might prefer the illusion to a reality that him bearing the brunt of her absence for the remainder of his life, a terrible thing for a scholar like him to feel. all the dark nights he spent thinking- ♪
he swallows thick, meets her gaze as he traces along the edge of her face across her cheekbone along her jawline. his thumb dares to trace the path of her bottom lip, and it draws a tremble through the rest of his body. )
I don't know. ( he releases a shudder of a breath as his gaze drops ) I believe that's why we must see. Together.