She hasn't let go of his hand. More than anything else, Gleb is aware of that when they stop, waiting for the moment she'll do so only for it never to come. They're all such simple things, really, his coat over her shoulders, her fingers around his, but they're striking even so, and not just because the very sight of her is still enough to make his chest constrict. That day in his office, when they'd first met properly, one of just a few brief times their paths crossed, she'd been reluctant to take his hand when he offered it to her, and he couldn't have blamed her for that even then. He knows how daunting the uniform and the office and all of that could seem; had she been anyone else, he likely would have made the most of that, delivering a far more brusque warning than he gave her, as he'd started to before he realized who she was. Now, he thinks she probably has less of a reason to want anything to do with him than she had then. Had she decided that she wanted nothing more to do with him after the evening he arrived here, when he told her what happened in Paris, he wouldn't have blamed her for that in the slightest.
Instead, here she is, clasping his hand and smiling up at him as the crowd counts down, making it hard not to wonder about things he told himself he wouldn't so much as consider. It isn't fair to, not after what he's done to her, what he almost did. It just also isn't entirely possible not to. Before, watching her at the ballet in Paris, already trying to convince himself to follow his orders — in retrospect, what probably ought to have been a sign that he wouldn't be able to — he'd tried thinking that there's no place for love in a revolution, certainly not enough to give up the cause over. There is no cause here now, though, that revolution a century behind them, and he knows with an odd sort of surety that he loves her. He's already chosen his side, anyway, by choosing her, putting her life before his own and everything he's fought for.
Maybe he ought to stop pretending that he'll ever be able to shake the way he feels for her.
"Happy new year, Anya," he says quietly, his own smile soft in turn, even as the cheers of the crowd around them grow louder and the countdown reaches zero. In the distance, he thinks he can smell smoke; the effigy must have gone up in flames, but despite what he's heard about the view, he can't bring himself to look away from her. She's impossibly beautiful, and standing this close, there's no shutting off the thoughts that filter through his head about how easy it would be to lower his head and kiss her. In a moment of rare boldness, he just about starts to do so, the slight movement more of a question than anything else and easily enough ignored but the look on his face, still conflicted but not about how he actually feels, likely speaking for itself.
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Instead, here she is, clasping his hand and smiling up at him as the crowd counts down, making it hard not to wonder about things he told himself he wouldn't so much as consider. It isn't fair to, not after what he's done to her, what he almost did. It just also isn't entirely possible not to. Before, watching her at the ballet in Paris, already trying to convince himself to follow his orders — in retrospect, what probably ought to have been a sign that he wouldn't be able to — he'd tried thinking that there's no place for love in a revolution, certainly not enough to give up the cause over. There is no cause here now, though, that revolution a century behind them, and he knows with an odd sort of surety that he loves her. He's already chosen his side, anyway, by choosing her, putting her life before his own and everything he's fought for.
Maybe he ought to stop pretending that he'll ever be able to shake the way he feels for her.
"Happy new year, Anya," he says quietly, his own smile soft in turn, even as the cheers of the crowd around them grow louder and the countdown reaches zero. In the distance, he thinks he can smell smoke; the effigy must have gone up in flames, but despite what he's heard about the view, he can't bring himself to look away from her. She's impossibly beautiful, and standing this close, there's no shutting off the thoughts that filter through his head about how easy it would be to lower his head and kiss her. In a moment of rare boldness, he just about starts to do so, the slight movement more of a question than anything else and easily enough ignored but the look on his face, still conflicted but not about how he actually feels, likely speaking for itself.