( well, that's unintentional salt sprinkled directly into the wound, then rubbed in for good measure. for the sake of her own sanity, she deliberately ignores that it stings at all — not that it's anything new, when her whole heart feels like a bruise, lately. )
Why would I have food laying around?
( says the girl who definitely always has food laying around. )
You don't get to be fickle with your food in Ravka. You eat whatever slop you're given, or you go hungry. Sometimes you eat it and go hungry, anyway.
I can't sleep and talk to you at the same time, can I? Ask Paul to do that for you instead, then. It's a little like art, just for your nails.
( what she doesn't say yet: that it might be a comfort for him to be helpful, to redirect his care to someone who deserves it, and not — not her. not the reason he had been brought back changed, wrong, different — poor repayment for the life he had given at the altar of alina starkov, the blood he had spilled so that her own water might be spared, made her sacrificial lamb. )
Ravka befuddles me. It seems all edges and yet you are from it, and you're warm. Arrakis laces all food with spice, so it hardly matters how it tastes. A bit like sand, all round. I prefer the food here. Have you eaten?
I meant in general. Away from your bed. [Where Alia has curled herself on cold sheets, mouse-small, night after night.] I'll tell him. I think I want blue, but all I have is the wrong shades. You can't use regular paint on nails, can you?
( i have edges, she thinks, in the quiet gloom. you and paul can't stop cutting yourself open on them. not like briars on a plucked rose, soft and beautiful, but glass shards scattered on a wooden floor, disassembled and broken by someone else. a irreparable mess, and not their own to clean, despite how often they try to pick her up and cradle her in a palm. despite the fact they must know, by now, it will always hurt them.
[The beat of time, like a drip of water into a lake, like the soft shushing sound of the ribbon in Alia's hair, stroked over her thumb, slow, careful circlings.]
I know. I do things because I want to, and no other reason. You know that.
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text; un: coan_tean
Do you have any macaroni?
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Why would I have food laying around?
( says the girl who definitely always has food laying around. )
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Artwork for people who don't have to worry where their next meal is coming from?
( typical of this mansion. rest in piece, alina starkov, you would have hated modern art. )
I don't have any just sitting around. Ask Paul or Sanji to get some from the kitchen for you.
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No, it's not the same. I'll paint my toenails instead, I think.
Are you sleeping?
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You eat whatever slop you're given, or you go hungry.
Sometimes you eat it and go hungry, anyway.
I can't sleep and talk to you at the same time, can I?
Ask Paul to do that for you instead, then. It's a little like art, just for your nails.
( what she doesn't say yet: that it might be a comfort for him to be helpful, to redirect his care to someone who deserves it, and not — not her. not the reason he had been brought back changed, wrong, different — poor repayment for the life he had given at the altar of alina starkov, the blood he had spilled so that her own water might be spared, made her sacrificial lamb. )
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Arrakis laces all food with spice, so it hardly matters how it tastes. A bit like sand, all round.
I prefer the food here.
Have you eaten?
I meant in general. Away from your bed. [Where Alia has curled herself on cold sheets, mouse-small, night after night.]
I'll tell him. I think I want blue, but all I have is the wrong shades. You can't use regular paint on nails, can you?
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after a stagnant pause: )
You don't have to make yourself my keeper, Alia.
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I know. I do things because I want to, and no other reason. You know that.