That's worrisome. If it stays like that, the tip of it is sure to fall off. I've seen gruesome cases of frostbitten noses from girls who refuse to wear a coat.
( fashion may as well be wind to alina, for all that she barely takes note of it. that had been genya's secret language, spoken to by textures and fabrics and creams with the same eye as a painterly artist. even so, alina has the brains to recognize admitting to not noticing or remembering what your girlfriend was wearing is likely in bad form, so: )
Oh, I'm sorry. My mistake. I didn't know SLEEVES qualified as a coat.
Seeing snow for me is how you must feel seeing sand.
( alina isn't uninspired by it — the nostalgic pang in her chest is a symptom of homesickness she can't quite shake, with no definitive cure. but it's still expected, still as ordinary as peering up at a blue sky, still familiarly ravkan. )
How are we meant to enjoy it if your toes and fingers are falling off? We can't build snow people or take the horses for sleigh rides if you're turning into an icicle.
[Sand in every crevice (coarse, rough, irritating, etc) is as much a part of Alia's life as breathing. She still shakes out her clothes when entering the house, expecting glittering gold and spice to trail from her clothes.
But there is no sand, no desert, no spice. Instead Alina promises things that have only existed in Alia's other-memory, flickers of planets caked in ice, of figures made of snow and hot drinks to thaw chilled fingers and the eerie stillness of a snowy night. And Alia wants, of course she does, her whole self is made of wanting.]
Will you help me? Choose proper things, so I don't turn into an icicle? I don't want to miss anything because I went out barefoot in the snow and caught pneumonia.
( genya would be delighted, if she were here — to have alia as a doll to dress up, whipping out a flurry of colors to examine alia's palette, an artist examining the best way to approach its canvas. genya isn't here, so alia gets ... not the next best thing, or even the third best thing: alina, whose knowledge on fashion is limited to practicality, grisha uniforms, and wearing whatever genya has thrown on her bed.
may the saints bless her for the amount of trust she's placing in her hands, alina thinks, only a smidge self-conscious. )
And you promise you'll wear it? I've seen what passes for clothing, for you. They look as protective as a bedsheet. In fact, I'm fairly sure I did see you wear a bedsheet as a dress, once.
[What a strange, lovely, sad thought -- that Alina is from a place so unlike Alia's home that snow is a nuisance, a comfort, a frustration and a familiarity all at once. Alia thinks she'll never get tired of it, of the shock of cold against her palms and the luxurious waste of so much water, melted and slipping between her fingers. She wonders (not for the first time, nor for the last) what she would've been like had she grown in Ravka instead of Arrakis. Would she fit easily into the snow and the fur-lined coats and the bones and the shadow?
Maybe. Maybe.]
I promise! I will wear it all, all at once if that is the custom. I did no such thing. I wore it as a cloak with nothing underneath. Dresses have sleeves. What did you get Paul? For the holiday?
( and alina will not be there to warm them, she decided, like a lying liar. the question makes that good humor fluster — feeling, against all logic, like a child stuck with her hand in the cookie jar. which hardly makes sense, when she's the one who overstuffed the cookie jar in the first place, but —
her cheery holiday excitement has been ... perky, to say the least. it's only in hindsight, stuck with a bulging stock room in the back of her shop, that alina has the sense to be embarrassed over just how overzealous she'd gotten. )
Well, it's It's customary to celebrate the season for twelve days. So I've gotten him something for each day.
They will NOT. You'll pick out something fuzzy and furry and I'll wear it as a bustier like in the movies.
[There's a pause, while Alia turns this over in her mind, tries to resist the urge to ask -- both what all the gifts are and whether there are any for her as well. She's already decided her own gift, holds it close to her heart, thrilled and afraid of her own daring. Besides which is her and Paul's joint gift.
Finally, though:] That's hardly fair. We can't celebrate Ravkan Christmas if Paul's too busy ravishing you on the table, to show his gratitude.
He's not going to be THAT grateful. And no one is ravishing anyone on the TABLE. Our guests are going to eat there. Alicent is going to eat there. It's a non-ravishing spot. Completely off-limits.
( says local woman who speaks of her husband like he's a puppy, entirely oblivious to the fact that he is, indeed, a lovesick puppy. )
There's this very rare invention. Have you heard of it? I hear they call it a 'bed'. Built for the sole purpose of sleeping and ravishing. Fascinating.
No, not at all, that's perfectly normal behavior for this house. Celebratory Christmas sex lasts for twelve days and involves candy canes and holly wreaths, I think.
Maybe snow. Maybe one of those funny red and white hats.
I don't want to know where you're imagining putting those candy canes, and I'm not sure I want to ask.
( only someone who hasn't fucked in the snow would want to fuck in the snow, alina nearly adds, before she remembers — it's not as though she has, either. )
I think I'll let you have the honor of celebrating that Christmas tradition yourself. I'm not the ravishing kind.
It's a feast. Do five different recipes sound like a feast to you? There's the kutya, and the kotlei. Obviously. Pryaniki. Varenyky. And the drinks. Paulican might be able to brew most of those.
( ..................... )
We need more desserts. A cake? We should make a cake.
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If it stays like that, the tip of it is sure to fall off.
I've seen gruesome cases of frostbitten noses from girls who refuse to wear a coat.
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I wear a coat. I wear the coat I wore to the Faire. That's a coat.
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( fashion may as well be wind to alina, for all that she barely takes note of it. that had been genya's secret language, spoken to by textures and fabrics and creams with the same eye as a painterly artist. even so, alina has the brains to recognize admitting to not noticing or remembering what your girlfriend was wearing is likely in bad form, so: )
Oh, I'm sorry. My mistake. I didn't know SLEEVES qualified as a coat.
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And once to chase a bunch of little round birds.
[Granted, Alia's whims are fickle, fraught, flitting from one to another -- sometimes she cares about what she's wearing, more often she doesn't.]
It was more than enough up until now. I've never seen snow until now, remember.
It's pretty.
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( alina isn't uninspired by it — the nostalgic pang in her chest is a symptom of homesickness she can't quite shake, with no definitive cure. but it's still expected, still as ordinary as peering up at a blue sky, still familiarly ravkan. )
How are we meant to enjoy it if your toes and fingers are falling off?
We can't build snow people or take the horses for sleigh rides if you're turning into an icicle.
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[Sand in every crevice (coarse, rough, irritating, etc) is as much a part of Alia's life as breathing. She still shakes out her clothes when entering the house, expecting glittering gold and spice to trail from her clothes.
But there is no sand, no desert, no spice. Instead Alina promises things that have only existed in Alia's other-memory, flickers of planets caked in ice, of figures made of snow and hot drinks to thaw chilled fingers and the eerie stillness of a snowy night. And Alia wants, of course she does, her whole self is made of wanting.]
Will you help me? Choose proper things, so I don't turn into an icicle? I don't want to miss anything because I went out barefoot in the snow and caught pneumonia.
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( genya would be delighted, if she were here — to have alia as a doll to dress up, whipping out a flurry of colors to examine alia's palette, an artist examining the best way to approach its canvas. genya isn't here, so alia gets ... not the next best thing, or even the third best thing: alina, whose knowledge on fashion is limited to practicality, grisha uniforms, and wearing whatever genya has thrown on her bed.
may the saints bless her for the amount of trust she's placing in her hands, alina thinks, only a smidge self-conscious. )
And you promise you'll wear it?
I've seen what passes for clothing, for you. They look as protective as a bedsheet.
In fact, I'm fairly sure I did see you wear a bedsheet as a dress, once.
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Maybe. Maybe.]
I promise! I will wear it all, all at once if that is the custom.
I did no such thing. I wore it as a cloak with nothing underneath. Dresses have sleeves.
What did you get Paul? For the holiday?
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( and alina will not be there to warm them, she decided, like a lying liar. the question makes that good humor fluster — feeling, against all logic, like a child stuck with her hand in the cookie jar. which hardly makes sense, when she's the one who overstuffed the cookie jar in the first place, but —
her cheery holiday excitement has been ... perky, to say the least. it's only in hindsight, stuck with a bulging stock room in the back of her shop, that alina has the sense to be embarrassed over just how overzealous she'd gotten. )
Well, it's
It's customary to celebrate the season for twelve days.
So I've gotten him something for each day.
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[There's a pause, while Alia turns this over in her mind, tries to resist the urge to ask -- both what all the gifts are and whether there are any for her as well. She's already decided her own gift, holds it close to her heart, thrilled and afraid of her own daring. Besides which is her and Paul's joint gift.
Finally, though:] That's hardly fair. We can't celebrate Ravkan Christmas if Paul's too busy ravishing you on the table, to show his gratitude.
1/2
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And no one is ravishing anyone on the TABLE. Our guests are going to eat there.
Alicent is going to eat there. It's a non-ravishing spot. Completely off-limits.
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Well, where are the ravishing spots? Not on the floor, there'll be presents there. And not in the kitchen while I'm cooking, that's messy.
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( says local woman who speaks of her husband like he's a puppy, entirely oblivious to the fact that he is, indeed, a lovesick puppy. )
There's this very rare invention. Have you heard of it?
I hear they call it a 'bed'. Built for the sole purpose of sleeping and ravishing. Fascinating.
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[Alina, please, we're among friends here, you can say Paul's a sweet little puppydog.]
That's hardly celebratory. It's Christmas! Tis the season. [For what, exactly, she's unclear, but she feels like ravishing should be included.]
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( — in hindsight, she's almost terrified of whatever inventive scenario alia will imagine. )
What everyone is doing under the mistletoe? And blocking doorways I need to get through?
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Maybe snow. Maybe one of those funny red and white hats.
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( only someone who hasn't fucked in the snow would want to fuck in the snow, alina nearly adds, before she remembers — it's not as though she has, either. )
I think I'll let you have the honor of celebrating that Christmas tradition yourself. I'm not the ravishing kind.
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Though I feel Paul at least might enjoy it. I'll ask.
I can't celebrate all by myself :( that's so boring :(
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😮💨
You're meant to be on kitchen duty, not ravishing duty. Focus.
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There's the kutya, and the kotlei. Obviously. Pryaniki. Varenyky. And the drinks. Paulican might be able to brew most of those.
( ..................... )
We need more desserts. A cake? We should make a cake.
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If I make a cake we'll never eat, because I'll set the kitchen on fire.
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