( it's still an odd sight to behold — flame born from nothing but power, putting an inferni's flint to shame. alina's eyes fall to raptly watch it flicker to life, sparking the small wick, with a subtle smile and all the enjoyment of an audience watching a magic trick, without understanding the secrets behind it. )
Mm. It just so happens to be a perfect way to show off, too.
( if there's anything she can clock, it's a man with an impressive set of skills, and an even more impressive need to showcase it. teasingly, alina strikes her hands together in a soft, encouraging clap — then leaves forward without a further need for invitation, ignoring the chocolate that blends into the ends of her already paint-streaked hair.
none of her wishes have ever come true, whether they've been spent on pretty candles or shining stars or soaring comets — but even cosmic intervention can't bring alina starkov impossible miracles, it seems. it's more for nick's sake, and the ever-living childish, naive hope that they may come to fruition this time, that alina closes her lips and blows, letting the flame putter out.
her eyes flick up to his as she hovers, smearing her thumb through frosting to pop it into her mouth. )
nick doesn't look terribly embarrassed at being so shamelessly called out — he's never been able to manage to figure out how to be subtle in his clawing for attention and he likely isn't going to start now. he'd gotten her tiny suggestion of a smile, and that's enough for nick to give a pleased little shrug to the rest.
at any rate, it's all secondary to the moment in question. alina blows out the candle and nick grins, even calls out a quiet little 'woo' in time with the moment, half an impression of a real birthday party. it's still a celebration, even if nick doesn't want to call the attention of anyone inside the shop. ]
No, you have to keep it a secret, or else it won't come true.
[ parrotted like a fact and not superstition--though honestly, nick is quite a superstitious person. why else would he keep all of his own wishes so close to his chest? but with the birthday ritual complete, he's quick to swipe some frosting for himself, sticking his finger quickly in his mouth before he asks— ]
Am I allowed to ask you how old you are now or is that rude?
( faux, unoffended surprise as her eyes flicker to the bounty of the cake, its edges smeared by nick's (and alina's) sticky fingers. an orphan's life in keramzin is too dictated by sharing — the same assigned birthday, worn hand-me-down donations, lumpy cots — for alina to resort back to the instincts she'd had as a child, rusted away by time. or — not time, but maybe the uselessness of trying to protect what's hers with a snap of her teeth, when nothing has ever truly belonged to her to begin with.
she shakes her head, instead, settling for a more attainable form of retribution: the swipe of her fingers to nick's cheekbone, streaking frosting down his cheek like a trail of mud. not quite an excessive waste of food to make her stomach curdle and clench, when it serves a higher (childish) purpose. )
Twenty, I think. ( difficult to say — before saltburn, she's had to count the past year in battles and betrayals and everything in-between, more likely to tally the days without death knocking at her door than the days in a month. her lips roll, banishing the thought. ) But you wouldn't be able to see any difference. Grisha don't age the same as a normal person might.
( alina even less so, but that's the other half of that secret, a burden of immortality she doesn't care to acknowledge — like the weight of it on her chest will ease, if she doesn't have to consider the vast, barren wasteland of eternity. emphatically, she tugs on a strand of hair — streaked a bone-white where the color intertwines through her hair, like sparse snow on damp earth, like light invading shadows. )
It's only the stress that's graying me. ( — she jokes, like a liar. )
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Mm. It just so happens to be a perfect way to show off, too.
( if there's anything she can clock, it's a man with an impressive set of skills, and an even more impressive need to showcase it. teasingly, alina strikes her hands together in a soft, encouraging clap — then leaves forward without a further need for invitation, ignoring the chocolate that blends into the ends of her already paint-streaked hair.
none of her wishes have ever come true, whether they've been spent on pretty candles or shining stars or soaring comets — but even cosmic intervention can't bring alina starkov impossible miracles, it seems. it's more for nick's sake, and the ever-living childish, naive hope that they may come to fruition this time, that alina closes her lips and blows, letting the flame putter out.
her eyes flick up to his as she hovers, smearing her thumb through frosting to pop it into her mouth. )
I don't have to tell you what I wished for, do I?
no subject
nick doesn't look terribly embarrassed at being so shamelessly called out — he's never been able to manage to figure out how to be subtle in his clawing for attention and he likely isn't going to start now. he'd gotten her tiny suggestion of a smile, and that's enough for nick to give a pleased little shrug to the rest.
at any rate, it's all secondary to the moment in question. alina blows out the candle and nick grins, even calls out a quiet little 'woo' in time with the moment, half an impression of a real birthday party. it's still a celebration, even if nick doesn't want to call the attention of anyone inside the shop. ]
No, you have to keep it a secret, or else it won't come true.
[ parrotted like a fact and not superstition--though honestly, nick is quite a superstitious person. why else would he keep all of his own wishes so close to his chest? but with the birthday ritual complete, he's quick to swipe some frosting for himself, sticking his finger quickly in his mouth before he asks— ]
Am I allowed to ask you how old you are now or is that rude?
no subject
( faux, unoffended surprise as her eyes flicker to the bounty of the cake, its edges smeared by nick's (and alina's) sticky fingers. an orphan's life in keramzin is too dictated by sharing — the same assigned birthday, worn hand-me-down donations, lumpy cots — for alina to resort back to the instincts she'd had as a child, rusted away by time. or — not time, but maybe the uselessness of trying to protect what's hers with a snap of her teeth, when nothing has ever truly belonged to her to begin with.
she shakes her head, instead, settling for a more attainable form of retribution: the swipe of her fingers to nick's cheekbone, streaking frosting down his cheek like a trail of mud. not quite an excessive waste of food to make her stomach curdle and clench, when it serves a higher (childish) purpose. )
Twenty, I think. ( difficult to say — before saltburn, she's had to count the past year in battles and betrayals and everything in-between, more likely to tally the days without death knocking at her door than the days in a month. her lips roll, banishing the thought. ) But you wouldn't be able to see any difference. Grisha don't age the same as a normal person might.
( alina even less so, but that's the other half of that secret, a burden of immortality she doesn't care to acknowledge — like the weight of it on her chest will ease, if she doesn't have to consider the vast, barren wasteland of eternity. emphatically, she tugs on a strand of hair — streaked a bone-white where the color intertwines through her hair, like sparse snow on damp earth, like light invading shadows. )
It's only the stress that's graying me. ( — she jokes, like a liar. )