butstill | (no subject)

It isn't at all what Gleb would have expected from a New Year's celebration, even down to the date, but then, the past week and a half has made the fact of that itself easily predictable. Nearly everything about Darrow seems to be as far from the Russia he left behind as it's possible to get, and this is no exception. At least it's not quite as unpleasant or as unusual as it could be, as other things have been. Practically the entire city has turned out for this, it seems, bundled up more so than dressed up, waiting in line for food from street vendors. He's heard talk of other New Year's Eves spent up the mountain at the ski lodge, and between the two options, this one is infinitely preferable.

For all the people here, though, there's really only one whose presence he cares about. Despite seeing her, at her insistence, on the Christmas they celebrate here, he barely has the first idea what to do around Anya, no more than he did when he first caught sight of her here outside her building, having thought that he would never see her again. What he does know is that she's as beautiful as he's ever seen her, so much that it nearly hurts to look at her. She's not dressed for the ballet or a press conference this time, and mercifully so, but she's still a world away from the street sweeper he first noticed, what feels like so much longer ago now than it must actually have been. He never could have guessed then where they would wind up, either in this place or before it.

Of course, it makes sense that she would seem to fit in here, far better than he does or could imagine to himself. Wearing the suit that he'd worn in Paris, the nicest thing he owns and likely to stay that way, for how far from comfortable he is in it, he straightens his jacket before he makes his way over to her, mostly for something to do with his hands. "Anya," he says. "You look — well."

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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.

Letting go of his hand had not occurred to her. It's an innocent enough gesture. Holding someone's hand is an excellent way to not lose them in a crowd. Even though they've stopped, there isn't time to think things through beyond that with the countdown having begun. She will let go after midnight once the moment has passed. For now it is nice to simply be reminded that someone is there, someone as equally if not more baffled by this entire city. Someone who knows and remembers both the Russias she left behind.

Watching him, Anya thinks she knows what he is about to do. A kiss at midnight is a tradition, a way to welcome love into the new year. He is likely going to kiss her cheek, another innocent yet awkward gesture. Or maybe he want to kiss her on the mouth, something she is less certain of. It wouldn't be how she imagined her first kiss at all. Despite the thoughts in her head, she finds herself leaning up towards him just a little.

None of this matters. The countdown ends and there is a bright flash of light as the effigy bursts into flames. This is immediately followed by another bright flash, this one of pain running through her. It feels like every bone in her body is breaking all at once. It is worse than any pain she has ever experience or every imagined.

Anya screams.

It doesn't help.

Somewhere in the pain she's released Gleb's hand, reaching to wrap her hands to her body, to make it stop. None of it does any good as her teeth elongate, fur sprouting, her body reforming into that of a wolf. Her dress, her shoes, her coat and his, are all ruined. Something wild grabs a-hold of her, a fierce primitive thing. The wolf that once was Anya lashes out, eager to escape, to howl at the full moon over head.

Any small reason that is left in her head doesn't question the feel of her paws lashing out, claws digging into and scratching into flesh, a fierce snap of teeth as she licks at human flesh. The warmth of something on her paws and fur. A howl escapes her and then just as quickly, she has jumped away, running off into the night and wild crowd.

It seems, for an instant, like maybe it's not just him, like any step he'd have taken, if he wound up taking it, might be returned. That instant passes too quickly, though, and Gleb never gets a chance to find out if he'd even have worked up the will to go through with it. The effigy lights, the crowd cheers with excitement — and Anya, so close in front of him, her hand still in his, starts to scream in apparent pain, though what's wrong, he doesn't know. He inhales sharply, sets his hands on her shoulders, eyes wide and frantic with fear, saying her name without thinking in some sort of bid to get through to her, though she doesn't seem to hear him. That isn't much of a surprise, between the crowd and the sickening sound of snapping bones. She's changing, somehow, but he doesn't know what's happening or why, only that he seems to be powerless to do anything about it and that whatever this is shouldn't be possible.

Any lack of logic, though, isn't enough for him to keep a distance, as if there's still some chance that this could be stopped somehow, that she might come back to herself. The only thing that sends him, finally, staggering back is when the wolf in front of him — because it's an animal now, and not Anya at all, all happening too quickly for him to even try to process — lunges up at him, claws digging through his shirt and into his chest. He's the one who cries out, then, hands lifting to press to the wounds left behind, already red and wet with his own blood.

Oh, he thinks, pain radiating through his chest, his breath shaky. On an instinct, he leans over, wincing as he does, to grab the tattered shreds of Anya's coat, watching the wolf disappear into the crowd as he does. The fabric barely visibly stains as he presses it to the gashes. Already, though, his mind is elsewhere. Anya had been hurt, screaming, and now she's gone. That seems far more important than anything that's happened to him, and means that he has to find her. Logic and injuries be damned, there isn't a chance he'll be alright until he knows that she is, too.