vasily
Vasily was a man of many qualities and self-awareness was one of them. However, it could not be considered a quality when his self-awareness was overshadowed with recklessness. Was it recklessness, though? Was that what made him push on and poke the beast even as he knew there were severe consequences to his actions? Was that what made twisted satisfaction rise within him upon hearing the cold yet subtly aggravated laughter which flowed from Rhea’s mouth? No, Vasily supposed it was something else entirely. For all his qualities and the way he appeared to be a flawless man, he had flaws. The biggest of which was rebelliousness. It was a flaw so deeply ingrained within him that for all his attempts at bettering himself and being the best version of it that he could be, he could never wash it away. He hadn’t been able to learn how to erase it or how to conceal it behind masks and pretenses like he did so easily with all his other flaws. Even though it was the one which had to be eliminated, if only for the fact that his rebellious nature was the only thing that got him in trouble, however rare of an occurrence that was.
His relationship with his father had been a complex one; Vasily had spent his life with the horrible man struggling to satisfy him and prove himself to him in equal parts to defying him and standing up to him. Whenever he had stood before his father, during the rare moments where he allowed his true loathing of the man to break through his desire to make him proud, calm as ever and yet spitting venom, whether it was through confronting the proud man with his weaknesses to his face or outright declining something that his father demanded of him, it never mattered what happened. Each single display of rebelliousness left Vasily with the same sense of satisfaction and strength even though he was aware of the consequences every single time and was also aware of every single thing that he allowed himself to do or say. Even though he always ended up bitter and self-loathing afterwards. He never regretted any of those moments; he occasionally pondered over how he could have expressed himself a bit more carefully, how he could have made the situation a bit less damning for himself, but he never regretted it. As twisted as it was, those were moments that grounded him amidst his emptiness and his loneliness. They were rare moments but they were among the few where he allowed his true self to shine through; even though it shone in a very ugly manner which only brought hell atop Vasily’s head. When he thought of all the moments he rebelled against something or someone, he couldn’t help but revel in the fact that, yes, he was capable of allowing his true nature–his flaws, his harbored wickedness, all the things that shattered his image of perfection–to come to light, even if it only happened rarely and temporarily.
It was coming to light right now but he was faced with a very dangerous, volatile companion.
( Enemy, adversary, companion, partner; he never knew how to categorize her position in his life. )
The voice of reason willed him to step back; he did not want Rhea as his enemy. However complicated their relationship was, there was benefit in having her by his side. Maybe allowing her to think of him as her possession was not such a bad thing, as long as it was advantageous for him. Another voice responded. The voice which represented his pride and stubbornness. He was not a possession. And however strong and intelligent Rhea was, she had no right to toy with him or manipulate him. No one had that right. “I do not wish to injure you,” He responded, dismissing the voice of reason from his mind. “I only wish to make it known that you do not force me to play our games, you never have and you never will. I always participate out of my own free will. You do not control me.”
With every word he spoke, he only furthered the growing divide between them and doubled the number of knives hanging above his back, awaiting the command of their mistress to be released and stabbed into it mercilessly. He knew. He did not particularly care.
Bring ruin. I dare you to, his intense eyes said.
Vasily chuckled at her counter-attack, and the sound was so genuine to his ears that he doubted anyone catching it would doubt he was feeling anything but joy. Yet he was seething. “Being curled up in a corner never prevented you from seeking me out, did it, you prideful woman?” The way he spoke was in gigantic contrast to Rhea’s; his voice was soft, almost soothing despite the intensity with which he carried his words while Rhea’s voice was bullet-like, as he always thought of it, and she was aiming her words with such accuracy that Vasily almost gave in to his sense of offence, but he didn’t. She said he had forgotten his place? Oh, he hadn’t. If he had, he would not be putting himself in this position in the first place. “Why do you seek me out, hm? If I am a weak man who succumbs before his desire as you always imply then what are you? What is your purpose?”
If a hint of confusion seeped into his words then, he hoped it would be lost among his anger.
“Misplaced? You dare presume that my anger is misplaced?” He asked, a hint of anger finally making itself known in his voice. Just barely, but it was there. “You stare at me like I am a precious jewel of yours to be put on display, like a possession to be owned, and you place yourself in such a high regard that you gave yourself the right to attempt to manipulate me and you think I will kiss your feet? You want me to recall my humility?” His fists were clenched at his sides now. He could barely keep his voice from rising above its usual serene baritone.
“I will not bow to you, Rhea. I bow to no one.”
He paused. “And I am sorry,” He emphasized the word, if only to emphasize the illusion that it was the apology she was demanding to hear. “That I ever gave you the impression that I was someone who bowed, either before their desire or the subject of their desire or anything or anyone.”
Molten fury shifts through her bones, a conspiratory hiss, and she can taste the blood in her mouth --- not his, but her own; it tastes of hunger, of rust. Her blood is alive with voices, telling her then that she was made of longing, a corrosive violence; the sound is thick in her ears, it is incessant. For all the violent insult rising in her throat, she swallows --- a taste of apprehension also fills her mouth, saltwater and black ice. He was wrong to think she did not force him, with caustic mouth and heavy hands --- they would force each other to ruination; whether by passion or hatred, it did not matter. She would force him, and he would force her. But in his indifference, she eases her bite --- slightly.
Rejection softens her for a fleeting moment, pausing the brutal advance and reining in the savagery hung by a crimson thread. She could be delicate, couldn’t she? For a moment, perhaps --- all ivory bird bones and gossamer wings; she could be, but she was not suited for it. She could be, but a breath of venom and brimstone rests on the back of her tongue where it slides down her throat, and it pushes forward. Rhea could be soft, but just as quick, she could be steel --- a knife poised to draw blood. Rejection may soften her, for a girl’s heart had occupied her once -- longing -- but there will always be the ache for something red, and something vital. No matter that she finds her mother’s scorn in his eyes, the loathing of her father in the bite of his tone.
It had been that, after all, which turned her to violence in the first place.
“Do you think I’d have even given you a second glance if you had the capacity to be so easily manipulated?” she echoes disinterestedly, if not a bit amusedly, a short-lived look of incredulity ghosting over her countenance: brows knitted and vermillion mouth pursed, as a blooming rose. And what contradiction she was capable of, because for all her argument, she did not shy from the foal lagging behind the herd --- naivety not unlike sickness, and making for the most vulnerable prey. Easily achieved conquest did not revolt her, though she enjoyed the sport of a challenge, and she did not shy from gullibility. Except, maybe, in a lover. A half truth makes for the most believable lie, doesn’t it?
“Is that what you’re attempting to discern, lover? My purpose,” she pauses, to laugh --- a rich, silken note elicited at his inquiry as she retakes the board; as though that were all space between them was: a board. Her lips curl upward, and for all the restraint in her reply ( from insult, which has proved itself incapable of serving her ), something sinister pools inevitably in her gaze as she looks up at him. “--- I thought I had made it clear to you.”
Another lie, or at least, in part. Her desire has been made abundantly obvious.
“But it is --- misplaced,” she soothes, though a contradiction rarely is so. Her fingers snake softly around his neck as her teeth had, and it is a familiar gesture between the pair of them: Rhea pulling in, Vasily pulling away. But for now, she refuses to be denied, palm sliding down over his cheek gently -- and it’s cold, as she is. “You are mine, Vasily. There is nothing between us but possession, don’t you know? You belong to me, I belong to you.” Her voice, deceptively soft though the menace cannot be mistaken; her veins still burn with anger, for his prior indifference.
“You can hold onto your pride, if you wish, but don’t delude yourself. Don’t seek to insult me for sake of your dignity, Vasily --- you embarrass yourself,” she advises him, and though the threat can be easily discerned from her words, her tone is absent of its abrasive edge. There is only softness --- as if she were the meek, fragile lamb which she had been often mistaken for, though she was not. Then, she supposed that Vasily knew this. Even if he was not yet aware that he would bow, in spite of his claims.
