#lebedevya

[laperlina]

*⁑. 𝒲𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝒦𝑖𝑛𝑑 ℛ𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠… 🪞｡˚ * 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ➷ 𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒑𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓. 💌. ❪  @lebedevya ❫

𝓘𝒏𝒏𝒂,

𝑵𝒆𝒘𝒍𝒚𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆. Not that I would know much about the emotion, anyway, but I suspect that it is far and fathoms better than whatever mutilation this is. 𝑶𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒄 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, you should know that I would like to chew my tongue off most days, so that it cannot be kissed anymore, but we then enter into the evil, very evil, conundrum that, if this happens, no one will ever again be sugared with the sweetness that is my singing! I need some time to deliberate on the matter, so please await my next letter patiently; it will contain my decision on whether or not I should carry out the act, and all the tiny thinkings that brought me there.

On the topic of mutilations and singing, do you remember that opera girl-- the siren, blue hair and brown eyes and glittering teeth-- who sang for Şule the last time you came for a visit? Well!, as it turns out, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒍 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕-𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒉-𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎. And, just last night!, (this is why I am writing this letter so urgently, by the way, and not waiting for the ink to dry, and if you can't make some of my sentences out because of all the smudging inks, then that is your grave loss), during the Countess' own ball, the girl arrived unannounced, shattered a glass on the chocolates table, clutched it firmly, just the way I clutch my very last will to live whenever my husband comes near, brought herself right up to the Earl himself!, and screamed for everyone from the Amethyst Beds to the Witching Moon to hear that if he did not reenter their attachment soon, she would drag herself to the foot of his bed, cut her wrists on that very same glass, and die there promptly after. She carried out this plan a bit earlier than expected, though, as the Earl, right then, rejected her on the spot! Insulting her, too! You can imagine what came next, but I will tell you anyway: 𝒂 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅.

She is alive for now, I am told, though I think not for long. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔. I am well on the way to finding this out myself; like I mentioned before, await my next letter patiently!

Ayka is just fine, also. 𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒅𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓? She isn't very interesting. She has been looking into the Nymphine Moon the whole day long, lately, and Elki is preening her up for suitors as we speak, with lots of paints and potions Father had especially imported from the Arafura... though not much can be done about the corners of her eyes. Such droopy things they are.

𝓡𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝒩𝑜𝑡 𝒴𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠,

𝒵ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑎

[norholy]

the rink breathes the same way lungs do, fog curling up from the ice where skates have worn it raw, and ilya feels it in his teeth before he feels it in his legs. he has just peeled off a defender with a lazy shoulder feint, puck stitched to his blade as if beckoned by his pulse, when he clocks her in the stands — inna, all stillness and line, a dark note written cleanly against the glass. of course she would come here, to this fluorescent terrarium of boys and bruises. of course she would watch. the thought tugs the corner of his mouth into a near-smile before the lines of his face harden again. he coasts to the boards on a change, breath burning, helmet tipped back, eyes darting up to her with the same precision he uses to thread passes through traffic. she always did like the mess. he recalls the frozen mornings in russia, of her braids pinned tight while he bled into snowbanks. he knocks his knuckles against the glass once, a brief and private signal, then leans in close enough that his voice won’t carry too far. “of all places to sit, inna,” he criticizes, though not unkindly, it is low and rather dry, russian rounding the edges of his vowels. “first row for the worst habits.”

when he’s back out there, it’s like skating inside a memory sharpened to a blade. he takes the puck on the half-wall, sells a pass that never exists, then cuts hard toward the slot, hips snapping, edges biting; a body checks him and he welcomes it, absorbs the impact gratefully. the play dies in a whistle. he glides toward her again during the pause, sweat cooling down his spine, the crowd’s noise flattening into a dull roar. he does not ask how long she’s been in broadwater or why she didn’t warn him; he catalogs those questions and stores them away. some conversations require their own space. “you still watch feet first,” he says, eyes flickering pointedly to her shoes as if she might be evaluating his turns the way she probably critiques pliés. there’s an ache under his sternum that feels old and patient, the weight of all the unplayed variations between them.

“stay after,” he adds, a touch quieter now, the words slipping out more earnestly than he typically allows. his gaze snaps back to the ice, jaw setting. “i want to know if you still think i rush turns — or if i finally learn patience.” even the king of the ice needs some humbling. @lebedevya, ♡