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It isn't a day he should ever have lived to see, of course. Even if it weren't for the fate that he knows perfectly well would await him if he'd managed to return to Russia rather than finding himself here, that would still be the case. Ten years after he remembers it having taken place, the gunshots still echoing in his memory even without the aid of reliving that night to amplify them, it's been a century since the death of the tsar and his family. A hundred years to the day, in a strange manner of speaking, since he sat at home and felt the last of his childhood slip away from him, a hundred years since Anastasia Romanov was meant to die with the rest of her family but was saved by a guard who, perhaps, developed too much of a conscience in precisely the right moment. In some world or some version of the story, a hundred years since a boy broke through a fence and took a bullet to the chest to try to save the girl he loved.
He doesn't often dream about the past, but when Gleb wakes with a start, one hand pressed to a nonexistent wound on his abdomen, he knows there won't be any escaping it at a time like this.
Unquestionably, he can't be the only one for whom that's the case. For all he knows, back home, this might have been a cause for celebration, like the Americans with their fireworks on the beach two weeks ago, commemorating their independence even in a foreign land. Briefly, he allows himself to wonder if, all of these years later, Russia finally reached the future he was once so certain they weren't far from. That's no longer his primary concern, though. For him, this date means something entirely different now, and he knows he isn't alone in that.
They haven't yet spoken of it, this anniversary that's been impending for some time. They've only barely made their way back to each other, cautiously finding their footing as he's tried to ignore the doubts prompted by all the time they spent apart and the reasons for it. She made her choice, and she's made that clear to him, but it's hard to shake the habit of waiting for the other shoe to drop, of expecting her to choose someone else. Perhaps they should have discussed this, though. If they had, he might have a better idea now of what to do.
Though he thinks at first that he shouldn't mention it unless she does first, it doesn't take very long for Gleb to change his mind on that front. He can't leave her alone with this, not today. If he's honest, he doesn't think he wants to be, either. Even if they don't talk, he should be with her, or at least give her the chance to turn him away.
Gleb doesn't stop to call ahead before he leaves his apartment, aware of grey clouds in the sky and a rumble of thunder off in the distance, but thinking little of it. The walk from his building to hers isn't so terribly long, and chances are, it won't result in anything anyway. He believes that for a few blocks, until rain starts to fall. Too late to reconsider this ill-formed plan, he has no real choice but to continue through it, arriving at Anya's just as it starts to really pick up, hair plastered to his forehead and temples, sleeves clinging to his shoulders.
Foolish as he might feel, he is here, and he still can't bear the notion of leaving her to deal with this on her own without knowing for certain that she wants to. Letting out a heavy exhale, he knocks gently but loud enough to be heard over the sound of falling rain. "Anya? It's me."
He doesn't often dream about the past, but when Gleb wakes with a start, one hand pressed to a nonexistent wound on his abdomen, he knows there won't be any escaping it at a time like this.
Unquestionably, he can't be the only one for whom that's the case. For all he knows, back home, this might have been a cause for celebration, like the Americans with their fireworks on the beach two weeks ago, commemorating their independence even in a foreign land. Briefly, he allows himself to wonder if, all of these years later, Russia finally reached the future he was once so certain they weren't far from. That's no longer his primary concern, though. For him, this date means something entirely different now, and he knows he isn't alone in that.
They haven't yet spoken of it, this anniversary that's been impending for some time. They've only barely made their way back to each other, cautiously finding their footing as he's tried to ignore the doubts prompted by all the time they spent apart and the reasons for it. She made her choice, and she's made that clear to him, but it's hard to shake the habit of waiting for the other shoe to drop, of expecting her to choose someone else. Perhaps they should have discussed this, though. If they had, he might have a better idea now of what to do.
Though he thinks at first that he shouldn't mention it unless she does first, it doesn't take very long for Gleb to change his mind on that front. He can't leave her alone with this, not today. If he's honest, he doesn't think he wants to be, either. Even if they don't talk, he should be with her, or at least give her the chance to turn him away.
Gleb doesn't stop to call ahead before he leaves his apartment, aware of grey clouds in the sky and a rumble of thunder off in the distance, but thinking little of it. The walk from his building to hers isn't so terribly long, and chances are, it won't result in anything anyway. He believes that for a few blocks, until rain starts to fall. Too late to reconsider this ill-formed plan, he has no real choice but to continue through it, arriving at Anya's just as it starts to really pick up, hair plastered to his forehead and temples, sleeves clinging to his shoulders.
Foolish as he might feel, he is here, and he still can't bear the notion of leaving her to deal with this on her own without knowing for certain that she wants to. Letting out a heavy exhale, he knocks gently but loud enough to be heard over the sound of falling rain. "Anya? It's me."
