[Fic] As Always
“I will kill you if you tell anyone about this.”
“Uhm...it’s good to see you too?”
She storms in with a flurry of snow, leaving the door open behind her obstinately. Toris hurries to close it before too much warmth escapes, looking at the slush churned in with her boots with something like domestic horror. “Natalya...you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“I have to,” she answers tersely, pushing past him and thankfully undoing the clasps to the boots before stepping with stockinged feet into the hallway. He can hear her flinging her coat onto his sofa in the living room and, after a brief inner debate, leaves the mess at the doorway with a sigh to see to his visitor. “Don’t make this any harder than it should be, mu’dak.”
Toris barely flinches at the insult as he comes into the room, picking up the uncharacteristically red cloak and hanging it carefully on the coat rack in the corner. Then he disappears and comes back with a towel, proffering it at her seat on the ottoman in front of the fireplace. There’s a sort of tension in the silence that makes her fidget as she snatches it without any thanks and presses it against her damp hair, but he’s as oblivious as always, of course. He thinks it’s comfortable, and musters up the courage to drag a stool beside her, plopping down on it somewhat nervously and glancing at her every now and then.
Glance. Look away. Clear throat. Make bad, awkward conversation. “...We’ve, um, been...friends for a long time, haven’t we?”
She snorts, shooting a cold glare in his direction that he doesn’t seem to notice. Psht. Friends. Natalya hates the word. She has her brother, she doesn’t need friends. Especially not ones like Toris. “Just get on with it, you useless, servantile creature.”
He gives a quick laugh and stands, holding a hand out. “You seem a lot drier now, Tali. Do you want to come into the kitchen?”
Natalya’s eye twitches. Tali. “Fine. You have everything set up, don’t you.” She firmly pushes away the urge to break the hand in front of her like she’s done so many times before - it’s surprising he still has a hand left after all the abuse it’s gone through, actually - she needs him, damn it, all of him, especially his freaking hand.
Derr’mo, why did she have to decide to make gingerbread men for her beloved brother? And why is Toris the only person who knows how to make them?
Discounting that disgusting Frenchman, anyway. She’d gladly take the puppy dog Lithuanian any day over him.
Toris beams as if she’s just made his day, which she probably has in a way that she will never understand, and says, “Of course. I even told Feliks to get out his ‘festive aprons’! They will be useful, no?”
Another twitch. Festive aprons. She stands, dumping the towel in his hand but otherwise ignoring it with great effort and striding towards the kitchen. God, if only Katyusha hadn’t confiscated her knife. It would be so much simpler in that case. Threaten and gag him at the door, make him do it as quick as possible, dispose of the evidence afterwards by pushing him into the oven and then burning the house down. Too bad she had used up all her matches last Christmas trying to start up a fire.
Natalya glances around at the clean-cut bench tops as she pushes the kitchen door open, noting the warm, homely feel of the room and grudgingly deciding that he is at least somewhat useful, if he managed to turn his Polish roommate’s terribly girly tastes into something she can appreciate. There’s a table near the window that she wanders towards, seeing as it has a couple of mixing bowls, an electric beater and a bunch of ingredient-like things on it. Oh, what’s this, now? She picks up a spatula and prods at the knobs of bread in a basket, peering inside with a slight frown.
“Oh, that’s -” Toris hurries to her side, pushing the basket away and gently easing the spatula out of her hand. She shoots him an irritable glance and moves away, wanting to be as far away from him as possible. “- that’s not for the recipe we’re using. I thought it might be best to start with something simple.” He smiles at her benignly, gesturing to a tray that glistens slightly under the light with grease. Damn. Why does he have such green eyes? Not that she wants to stare at them. Or admit that they’re attractive in any way whatsoever. God no.
“Oh, and I almost forgot!” Natalya looks and feels violated when Toris leaves the table and cheerfully unhooks the ‘festive aprons’ from the wall. Never mind that they don’t even celebrate their version of Christmas until January. And then he puts one on, red sparkles clashing horribly with his - ugh, overalls. She recoils as he holds out the other, eyeing the green, tinsel-decorated apron with - oh God, is that supposed to be a nutcracker? A smiling nutcracker? - horror and shakes her head mutely, feeling too drained to even attack him with the rolling pin. He looks slightly crestfallen. “It’s okay, I have some others here.” Toris opens a drawer and pulls out a thankfully normal apron with a yellow plaid pattern.
She cautiously puts it on, feeling more hopelessly out of her depth than usual. What happened to confident, deadly Natalya? How could she have been killed so easily by some aprons that looked like a Christmas tree had thrown up on them? Just…how?
“I’ve already preheated the oven and done up the baking trays. Here’s the butter and sugar - you use the electric beater to mix them together, and then you add syrup and egg yolk in. And ginger, of course.”
Maybe he shouldn’t trust her with something that could easily be used to maim or seriously injure him. Oh well. She watches him dump what seems like a limitless amount of butter and sugar in before switching on the beater and just about attacking the bowl, quite aware of the fact that he is backing away slightly. Good. He should be scared of her. Natalya’s a scary woman, and no silly infatuation that started when they were kids and she still retained some semblance of human decency should change that.
“I, um…I think that’s enough now…we’re supposed to add the egg-whites in…” Toris taps her arm lightly and she jerks back, unintentionally showering the both of them with blobs of half-mixed dough. Geh. Not that she’s bothered about him touching her at all. Not at all. “Sorry,” she mutters, clicking the beater off and heading towards the sink to grab a towel.
Toris gets there first, laughing as he wipes the worst off his face and offers her the tea towel. “It’s alright, that’s what the aprons are for, heh?”
A silent glare. Okay, then. He goes back to the table, and she unwillingly follows after leaving the tea towel on the bench by the sink. “Here, keep mixing and I’ll pour the rest of the ingredients in.”
Ah, to the electric beater again. The quiet monotony gets to her, after all - the whirring, steadily rotating her arms around the mixing bowl as he pours syrup and ginger and bicarb soda in - until finally he stops and says, “Almost done; you can turn that off for now. I want to add one final thing.”
He goes back towards the sink area to open some cupboards, humming something that sounds suspiciously like a Christmas carol as he goes. Natalya puts the beater down and leans back against the table, observing him with a kind of reluctant curiosity. He’s gotten a lot more interesting since the last time she saw him, she’ll give him that. If only it isn’t a product of his bumbling obliviousness, as always.
“Look, Tali!” Toris turns with a hesitant smile and she can’t help but gape because he’s holding a bottle of vodka, and oh, she hasn’t seen him with the stuff since they made him move out. It’s been so long, and she’s so surprised that he’d - that he can still stand to look at it, after what happened. “Thought we could add it in. For - for Vanechka, I mean.”
Heavens, this is the last thing she expected. She can hardly get the words to come out. “How did you know?”
He shrugs, smiles in that way of his that sometimes makes her like him and mostly makes her hate him. “I know how much you love your brother, Natalya.”
And that’s all he needs to say. She swallows as he comes back to the table, setting the bottle down next to the mixing bowl. Ugh. It’s hard, so hard, even when you’re Natalya Braginskaya to not realise how much he cares for you. No, especially if you’re Natalya Braginskaya.
“Just a few drops, we don’t want to overpower the taste of ginger. It’s not even supposed to be in the recipe, really.” Toris laughs and gives her the bottle. It’s not really the most informed decision he’s ever made, but that tends to happen a lot when he’s around her. The electric beater hadn’t been a good idea either, but at least she controlled herself with it. Just barely. The vodka is an entirely different story.
“Wait, Tali, what are you - ?” Because ha ha, what is it exactly that makes her unstopper the bottle so callously and take a fiery swig? He doesn’t know. She’d like to think she does, but really, it’s all in the shock and spur of the moment and she’s much too preoccupied with the terrifying burn of the liquid as it swirls down her throat to care.
Toris watches her with anxious surprise as she slams the bottle down, flushed from the bite of the alcohol. It’s really strong, the vodka. Good quality. She doesn’t stop to ask herself why he even bothered to find a good brand as she takes a second, more careful sip.
And then spits it into the mixing bowl.
“I am so sick of his bullshit,” she chokes out, an unexpected giggle rising in her chest at his aghast expression. “You should know.”
He stares at her for a long second, and she wonders if she should just revert back to being cold, homicidal Natalya. It doesn’t seem like a bad option, really. The vodka’s what made her so strange - she refuses to believe the warming in her heart has something to do with him - it must be magical or something. Magical, geez, that’s what it is. He’s still staring, looking at her with something unreadable and hesitant (but not exactly the shocked, “oh my god hygiene issues” look she’d expected), and the two of them are frozen in something - something quite different from their usual ‘fawning vs. murderous’ atmosphere, something that is making it quite difficult for her to breathe.
Curse those damn eyes. If - if she could cut them out, she would, she definitely -
And then he laughs. It’s a far too carefree sound, and she thinks that she hates it like his smile but knows that she doesn’t. Toris picks up the bottle himself, lifts it to his lips where it rests against the quirk like a question mark, and drinks, promptly spitting it into the mixing bowl as she had done. Then he looks at her, as if for approval, stating “I do know,” quite simply.
They take turns after that, drinking and spitting, but more like just drinking until it gets too hard to aim. They collapse into the wooden chairs around the table, warmth coursing through their veins, and Natalya finds that she does not even mind that disgusting red apron he is wearing anymore, or his laugh, or his smile. In fact, it’s rather - dare she say it - charming, and even though she knows she will regret this so, so hard when she’s puked the alcohol out of her, she leans forward and manages to plant a rather sloppy kiss on his lips. It’s just curiosity, she tells herself firmly - well, as firmly as her spinning head can manage - as he lets out a clumsily surprised noise and flails until finally settling his hands nervously on her shoulders. Curiosity and nothing else.
He tastes, rather predictably, of vodka, and it rather reminds her of her brother when he’s depressed and much too sodden with the stuff to care if she kisses him on the cheek. It disgusts her just slightly because he shouldn’t taste like this, he’s much too innocent (the word makes her want to laugh so hard) and different to be associated with Ivan. Her Vanechka.
Psht. Right. No excuse for why she’s wondering what he’ll taste like without the overpowering stink of vodka.
…How do two people get drunk on a single bottle, anyway?
She doesn’t look at him when she pulls away. Embarrassment, maybe. Well. More like utter mortification. The surface of the table, flecked with bits of dried dough from her previous mishap with the beater, swims before her eyes. Isn’t she supposed to hate him? She does. She does. That’s why she kissed him, you know; to lead him on. Because Natalya is just that pointlessly cruel and cold-hearted.
Warmth blooms suddenly on her hand. She glances at it, lying in her aproned lap, glances at the slightly darker one lying on top of it. Toris is fair-skinned, of course, but compared to her milky-pale complexion he looks rather pink. For some reason, this is unbearably funny and she finds herself unable to resist the giggles that threatened with the first sip of alcohol. They come tumbling out like some pathetic excuse - yeah, I’m sorry I’ve trodden on your feelings for so long, sorry that I’ve been trying to kill you since I found out about them, sorry that my brother almost did kill you, ha ha, sorry that we’ve never had a chance and never will have a chance even though I just kissed you, sorry, sorry, giggle snort giggle, sorry - and it comes as a surprise when he joins in with his carefree laugh, hand tightening over her own gladly. She looks at him, at his green eyes and his terrible apron and his smile, and it’s all she can do not to kiss him again.
Ugh. She’s never been able to handle her alcohol well.
And it is funny, because Toris didn’t do anything. He didn’t have to do anything, did he. It’s just her and her bloody confusing emotions, the way she’s so deadly and cold and angry with him, just her. Just her untouchable, snow white skin and his damningly green eyes, just everything they are. He isn’t the prince to her story, no way - he’s just the oblivious, nothing little dwarf that got dragged into it. Nothing. Nothing.
The silence is dead. His face is slightly flushed, as is hers, and she knows that he is too much of an idealist to react even if she does kiss him again. Too in love with the idea of loving her to love her.
“We should finish it, hmm?” Toris drags the bowl towards them, tipping out the dough and swivelling his gaze to hers like a rabbit. Her answer is to pound a fist into the sticky stuff, sitting up slightly. He laughs. The moment is over.
In his drunken state, he finally seems to have realised that no, she should not be trusted with anything that could potentially be used to bludgeon his head in, and takes the rolling pin himself, smoothing the dough out after she has kneaded the spit-mixed-with-vodka into the floury substance. It’s all crumbly-like, the resulting layer of gingerbread, and the metal men-shaped moulds melt easily into the dusty brown surface. After that she sits back in her chair, feeling the alcohol-induced drowsiness flutter at the edges of her consciousness as he stumbles to the oven and slides the baking trays lined with raw gingerbread men inside. He starts cleaning after that, gently rolling up the extra cut-offs that never quite equated into a full man (kind of like him, hmm? Oh wait, now, that’s a tad mean. But that’s Natalya for you) and putting them into the mixing bowl to be “used later”, she hears him muttering vaguely, though her head is spinning much too hard for her to care. Through half-lidded eyes she watches as he moves the dishes that carried the ingredients to the sink with a clatter, throws away the empty vodka bottle, washes the items in the sink (out of sight, but she can hear the soft whooshing of water behind her), wipes the table and finally sinks into the chair next to her with a sort of sigh.
And the strange thing is, he doesn’t even look that drunk anymore. Just a little tired. She feels the same, as if she’s still waking from a long, deep sleep. “What the hell is up with that vodka you bought,” she hissed dully, unable to muster up the will to glare at him. “Seriously, what. Alcohol doesn’t just wear off like that. What happened to splitting headaches? And throwing up in the trash can?”
He blinks slowly. “I don’t know. It feels strange, doesn’t it?” Toris shakes his head and frowns at her. “It seemed…normal. Feliks has had it around for ages and I asked him about it last night, he said it was just vodka…”
A moan escapes from her lips as she sits up properly, annoyance ripe in her tone. “You know, that could have been poisoned! Poisoned, mu’dak!”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” he pleads. “Feliks wouldn’t do - er, well he wouldn’t have poison! Why would he need it?”
She rolls her eyes and grimaces as pain jolts through her skull. Ugh. There’s that headache. “Fine, whatever. If I ‘m dying, you’re dying first anyway.”
“What?” He looks perfectly spry and cheerful again. It’s like the bottle of vodka was nothing but a - dare she say the ever so clichéd explanation - dream. She considers slapping herself, it’s so weird. Seriously, what the hell happened? What the hell happened?!
Maybe they just weren’t really drunk to begin with. Again, how do two people get properly smashed with just one bottle? It wasn’t even a very big bottle, geez.
“Oh, ten minutes is up,” Toris says brightly, popping up as the oven chimes something far too shrill and cheerful for her now thoroughly pounding head. “Let’s go see how they’ve turned out, shall we?”
Natalya slides off the chair reluctantly and trudges to the kitchen area where he has already donned oven mitts and is holding out a pair for her. She takes it without thanks, as usual, and he doesn’t notice it, as usual, and they open the oven door together in silence. He thinks it’s comfortable, of course, as always. It’s a matter or routine for them. The baking trays come out with the toasted gingerbread men, plastered against the black steel like question marks. What question, she thinks. There is no question. This is how things are and how they will always be.
Except maybe not. Somehow, as he disappears behind the huge fridge door in search of icing-sugar and chocolate buttons, she finds something in her relenting. Maybe the vodka was really poisoned. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He’s an idealist, but so is she - look at her relationship with her brother. Look at these gingerbread men she’s been making for him. That spit-mixed-with-vodka dough. And as he appears again, bag of chocolate in one hand and bag of icing sugar in the other, she realises that the corners of her lips have turned up in a long overdue smile, a smile for him that he notices and oh, she wonders if her smile is just as infuriating as his, because oh, that suddenly seems like something she wants so much, so much. And he smiles back at her and she hates it but it’s a wonderful hate and his eyes are so green and so lovely, and he hands her the piping bag and she even feels like laughing when she accidently blots out the first gingerbread man’s eye even though she’s glaring at it.
He’s laughing, and it’s carefree as usual except now she’s finally managed to decorate a full person even though the lines are slightly wobbly. So he hands her the chocolate and she gives it eyes and wonders secretly if she should name it Toris - but that’s a little mean, isn’t it, but she’s Natalya and she thinks it’s morbidly funny that her Vanechka will end up eating her little Toris the gingerbread man - and they look at each other.
It’s definitely the vodka’s fault that she kisses him again. Poisoned. It must have been poisoned, she refuses to think otherwise. But oh well, it’s like some magical twist of fate that he doesn’t stink like spirits, he tastes like peaches, newborn peaches and it’s so strange, but somehow it fits, and somehow she doesn’t mind kissing him. She doesn’t even think about how she could use the still hot baking trays as some sort of weapon, doesn’t think about her brother, because Toris is meek and oblivious and has been infatuated with her since they were little -
Friends? Psht. She doesn’t need friends. She has her brother. And she has Toris.
But really. It must have been the vodka. If it wasn’t poisoned, then it’s definitely at least enchanted, because why else would they suddenly be sober, and why else would she have kissed him, and why the hell else would that gingerbread man she secretly named Toris start moving?
--
End.
“Uhm...it’s good to see you too?”
She storms in with a flurry of snow, leaving the door open behind her obstinately. Toris hurries to close it before too much warmth escapes, looking at the slush churned in with her boots with something like domestic horror. “Natalya...you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“I have to,” she answers tersely, pushing past him and thankfully undoing the clasps to the boots before stepping with stockinged feet into the hallway. He can hear her flinging her coat onto his sofa in the living room and, after a brief inner debate, leaves the mess at the doorway with a sigh to see to his visitor. “Don’t make this any harder than it should be, mu’dak.”
Toris barely flinches at the insult as he comes into the room, picking up the uncharacteristically red cloak and hanging it carefully on the coat rack in the corner. Then he disappears and comes back with a towel, proffering it at her seat on the ottoman in front of the fireplace. There’s a sort of tension in the silence that makes her fidget as she snatches it without any thanks and presses it against her damp hair, but he’s as oblivious as always, of course. He thinks it’s comfortable, and musters up the courage to drag a stool beside her, plopping down on it somewhat nervously and glancing at her every now and then.
Glance. Look away. Clear throat. Make bad, awkward conversation. “...We’ve, um, been...friends for a long time, haven’t we?”
She snorts, shooting a cold glare in his direction that he doesn’t seem to notice. Psht. Friends. Natalya hates the word. She has her brother, she doesn’t need friends. Especially not ones like Toris. “Just get on with it, you useless, servantile creature.”
He gives a quick laugh and stands, holding a hand out. “You seem a lot drier now, Tali. Do you want to come into the kitchen?”
Natalya’s eye twitches. Tali. “Fine. You have everything set up, don’t you.” She firmly pushes away the urge to break the hand in front of her like she’s done so many times before - it’s surprising he still has a hand left after all the abuse it’s gone through, actually - she needs him, damn it, all of him, especially his freaking hand.
Derr’mo, why did she have to decide to make gingerbread men for her beloved brother? And why is Toris the only person who knows how to make them?
Discounting that disgusting Frenchman, anyway. She’d gladly take the puppy dog Lithuanian any day over him.
Toris beams as if she’s just made his day, which she probably has in a way that she will never understand, and says, “Of course. I even told Feliks to get out his ‘festive aprons’! They will be useful, no?”
Another twitch. Festive aprons. She stands, dumping the towel in his hand but otherwise ignoring it with great effort and striding towards the kitchen. God, if only Katyusha hadn’t confiscated her knife. It would be so much simpler in that case. Threaten and gag him at the door, make him do it as quick as possible, dispose of the evidence afterwards by pushing him into the oven and then burning the house down. Too bad she had used up all her matches last Christmas trying to start up a fire.
Natalya glances around at the clean-cut bench tops as she pushes the kitchen door open, noting the warm, homely feel of the room and grudgingly deciding that he is at least somewhat useful, if he managed to turn his Polish roommate’s terribly girly tastes into something she can appreciate. There’s a table near the window that she wanders towards, seeing as it has a couple of mixing bowls, an electric beater and a bunch of ingredient-like things on it. Oh, what’s this, now? She picks up a spatula and prods at the knobs of bread in a basket, peering inside with a slight frown.
“Oh, that’s -” Toris hurries to her side, pushing the basket away and gently easing the spatula out of her hand. She shoots him an irritable glance and moves away, wanting to be as far away from him as possible. “- that’s not for the recipe we’re using. I thought it might be best to start with something simple.” He smiles at her benignly, gesturing to a tray that glistens slightly under the light with grease. Damn. Why does he have such green eyes? Not that she wants to stare at them. Or admit that they’re attractive in any way whatsoever. God no.
“Oh, and I almost forgot!” Natalya looks and feels violated when Toris leaves the table and cheerfully unhooks the ‘festive aprons’ from the wall. Never mind that they don’t even celebrate their version of Christmas until January. And then he puts one on, red sparkles clashing horribly with his - ugh, overalls. She recoils as he holds out the other, eyeing the green, tinsel-decorated apron with - oh God, is that supposed to be a nutcracker? A smiling nutcracker? - horror and shakes her head mutely, feeling too drained to even attack him with the rolling pin. He looks slightly crestfallen. “It’s okay, I have some others here.” Toris opens a drawer and pulls out a thankfully normal apron with a yellow plaid pattern.
She cautiously puts it on, feeling more hopelessly out of her depth than usual. What happened to confident, deadly Natalya? How could she have been killed so easily by some aprons that looked like a Christmas tree had thrown up on them? Just…how?
“I’ve already preheated the oven and done up the baking trays. Here’s the butter and sugar - you use the electric beater to mix them together, and then you add syrup and egg yolk in. And ginger, of course.”
Maybe he shouldn’t trust her with something that could easily be used to maim or seriously injure him. Oh well. She watches him dump what seems like a limitless amount of butter and sugar in before switching on the beater and just about attacking the bowl, quite aware of the fact that he is backing away slightly. Good. He should be scared of her. Natalya’s a scary woman, and no silly infatuation that started when they were kids and she still retained some semblance of human decency should change that.
“I, um…I think that’s enough now…we’re supposed to add the egg-whites in…” Toris taps her arm lightly and she jerks back, unintentionally showering the both of them with blobs of half-mixed dough. Geh. Not that she’s bothered about him touching her at all. Not at all. “Sorry,” she mutters, clicking the beater off and heading towards the sink to grab a towel.
Toris gets there first, laughing as he wipes the worst off his face and offers her the tea towel. “It’s alright, that’s what the aprons are for, heh?”
A silent glare. Okay, then. He goes back to the table, and she unwillingly follows after leaving the tea towel on the bench by the sink. “Here, keep mixing and I’ll pour the rest of the ingredients in.”
Ah, to the electric beater again. The quiet monotony gets to her, after all - the whirring, steadily rotating her arms around the mixing bowl as he pours syrup and ginger and bicarb soda in - until finally he stops and says, “Almost done; you can turn that off for now. I want to add one final thing.”
He goes back towards the sink area to open some cupboards, humming something that sounds suspiciously like a Christmas carol as he goes. Natalya puts the beater down and leans back against the table, observing him with a kind of reluctant curiosity. He’s gotten a lot more interesting since the last time she saw him, she’ll give him that. If only it isn’t a product of his bumbling obliviousness, as always.
“Look, Tali!” Toris turns with a hesitant smile and she can’t help but gape because he’s holding a bottle of vodka, and oh, she hasn’t seen him with the stuff since they made him move out. It’s been so long, and she’s so surprised that he’d - that he can still stand to look at it, after what happened. “Thought we could add it in. For - for Vanechka, I mean.”
Heavens, this is the last thing she expected. She can hardly get the words to come out. “How did you know?”
He shrugs, smiles in that way of his that sometimes makes her like him and mostly makes her hate him. “I know how much you love your brother, Natalya.”
And that’s all he needs to say. She swallows as he comes back to the table, setting the bottle down next to the mixing bowl. Ugh. It’s hard, so hard, even when you’re Natalya Braginskaya to not realise how much he cares for you. No, especially if you’re Natalya Braginskaya.
“Just a few drops, we don’t want to overpower the taste of ginger. It’s not even supposed to be in the recipe, really.” Toris laughs and gives her the bottle. It’s not really the most informed decision he’s ever made, but that tends to happen a lot when he’s around her. The electric beater hadn’t been a good idea either, but at least she controlled herself with it. Just barely. The vodka is an entirely different story.
“Wait, Tali, what are you - ?” Because ha ha, what is it exactly that makes her unstopper the bottle so callously and take a fiery swig? He doesn’t know. She’d like to think she does, but really, it’s all in the shock and spur of the moment and she’s much too preoccupied with the terrifying burn of the liquid as it swirls down her throat to care.
Toris watches her with anxious surprise as she slams the bottle down, flushed from the bite of the alcohol. It’s really strong, the vodka. Good quality. She doesn’t stop to ask herself why he even bothered to find a good brand as she takes a second, more careful sip.
And then spits it into the mixing bowl.
“I am so sick of his bullshit,” she chokes out, an unexpected giggle rising in her chest at his aghast expression. “You should know.”
He stares at her for a long second, and she wonders if she should just revert back to being cold, homicidal Natalya. It doesn’t seem like a bad option, really. The vodka’s what made her so strange - she refuses to believe the warming in her heart has something to do with him - it must be magical or something. Magical, geez, that’s what it is. He’s still staring, looking at her with something unreadable and hesitant (but not exactly the shocked, “oh my god hygiene issues” look she’d expected), and the two of them are frozen in something - something quite different from their usual ‘fawning vs. murderous’ atmosphere, something that is making it quite difficult for her to breathe.
Curse those damn eyes. If - if she could cut them out, she would, she definitely -
And then he laughs. It’s a far too carefree sound, and she thinks that she hates it like his smile but knows that she doesn’t. Toris picks up the bottle himself, lifts it to his lips where it rests against the quirk like a question mark, and drinks, promptly spitting it into the mixing bowl as she had done. Then he looks at her, as if for approval, stating “I do know,” quite simply.
They take turns after that, drinking and spitting, but more like just drinking until it gets too hard to aim. They collapse into the wooden chairs around the table, warmth coursing through their veins, and Natalya finds that she does not even mind that disgusting red apron he is wearing anymore, or his laugh, or his smile. In fact, it’s rather - dare she say it - charming, and even though she knows she will regret this so, so hard when she’s puked the alcohol out of her, she leans forward and manages to plant a rather sloppy kiss on his lips. It’s just curiosity, she tells herself firmly - well, as firmly as her spinning head can manage - as he lets out a clumsily surprised noise and flails until finally settling his hands nervously on her shoulders. Curiosity and nothing else.
He tastes, rather predictably, of vodka, and it rather reminds her of her brother when he’s depressed and much too sodden with the stuff to care if she kisses him on the cheek. It disgusts her just slightly because he shouldn’t taste like this, he’s much too innocent (the word makes her want to laugh so hard) and different to be associated with Ivan. Her Vanechka.
Psht. Right. No excuse for why she’s wondering what he’ll taste like without the overpowering stink of vodka.
…How do two people get drunk on a single bottle, anyway?
She doesn’t look at him when she pulls away. Embarrassment, maybe. Well. More like utter mortification. The surface of the table, flecked with bits of dried dough from her previous mishap with the beater, swims before her eyes. Isn’t she supposed to hate him? She does. She does. That’s why she kissed him, you know; to lead him on. Because Natalya is just that pointlessly cruel and cold-hearted.
Warmth blooms suddenly on her hand. She glances at it, lying in her aproned lap, glances at the slightly darker one lying on top of it. Toris is fair-skinned, of course, but compared to her milky-pale complexion he looks rather pink. For some reason, this is unbearably funny and she finds herself unable to resist the giggles that threatened with the first sip of alcohol. They come tumbling out like some pathetic excuse - yeah, I’m sorry I’ve trodden on your feelings for so long, sorry that I’ve been trying to kill you since I found out about them, sorry that my brother almost did kill you, ha ha, sorry that we’ve never had a chance and never will have a chance even though I just kissed you, sorry, sorry, giggle snort giggle, sorry - and it comes as a surprise when he joins in with his carefree laugh, hand tightening over her own gladly. She looks at him, at his green eyes and his terrible apron and his smile, and it’s all she can do not to kiss him again.
Ugh. She’s never been able to handle her alcohol well.
And it is funny, because Toris didn’t do anything. He didn’t have to do anything, did he. It’s just her and her bloody confusing emotions, the way she’s so deadly and cold and angry with him, just her. Just her untouchable, snow white skin and his damningly green eyes, just everything they are. He isn’t the prince to her story, no way - he’s just the oblivious, nothing little dwarf that got dragged into it. Nothing. Nothing.
The silence is dead. His face is slightly flushed, as is hers, and she knows that he is too much of an idealist to react even if she does kiss him again. Too in love with the idea of loving her to love her.
“We should finish it, hmm?” Toris drags the bowl towards them, tipping out the dough and swivelling his gaze to hers like a rabbit. Her answer is to pound a fist into the sticky stuff, sitting up slightly. He laughs. The moment is over.
In his drunken state, he finally seems to have realised that no, she should not be trusted with anything that could potentially be used to bludgeon his head in, and takes the rolling pin himself, smoothing the dough out after she has kneaded the spit-mixed-with-vodka into the floury substance. It’s all crumbly-like, the resulting layer of gingerbread, and the metal men-shaped moulds melt easily into the dusty brown surface. After that she sits back in her chair, feeling the alcohol-induced drowsiness flutter at the edges of her consciousness as he stumbles to the oven and slides the baking trays lined with raw gingerbread men inside. He starts cleaning after that, gently rolling up the extra cut-offs that never quite equated into a full man (kind of like him, hmm? Oh wait, now, that’s a tad mean. But that’s Natalya for you) and putting them into the mixing bowl to be “used later”, she hears him muttering vaguely, though her head is spinning much too hard for her to care. Through half-lidded eyes she watches as he moves the dishes that carried the ingredients to the sink with a clatter, throws away the empty vodka bottle, washes the items in the sink (out of sight, but she can hear the soft whooshing of water behind her), wipes the table and finally sinks into the chair next to her with a sort of sigh.
And the strange thing is, he doesn’t even look that drunk anymore. Just a little tired. She feels the same, as if she’s still waking from a long, deep sleep. “What the hell is up with that vodka you bought,” she hissed dully, unable to muster up the will to glare at him. “Seriously, what. Alcohol doesn’t just wear off like that. What happened to splitting headaches? And throwing up in the trash can?”
He blinks slowly. “I don’t know. It feels strange, doesn’t it?” Toris shakes his head and frowns at her. “It seemed…normal. Feliks has had it around for ages and I asked him about it last night, he said it was just vodka…”
A moan escapes from her lips as she sits up properly, annoyance ripe in her tone. “You know, that could have been poisoned! Poisoned, mu’dak!”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” he pleads. “Feliks wouldn’t do - er, well he wouldn’t have poison! Why would he need it?”
She rolls her eyes and grimaces as pain jolts through her skull. Ugh. There’s that headache. “Fine, whatever. If I ‘m dying, you’re dying first anyway.”
“What?” He looks perfectly spry and cheerful again. It’s like the bottle of vodka was nothing but a - dare she say the ever so clichéd explanation - dream. She considers slapping herself, it’s so weird. Seriously, what the hell happened? What the hell happened?!
Maybe they just weren’t really drunk to begin with. Again, how do two people get properly smashed with just one bottle? It wasn’t even a very big bottle, geez.
“Oh, ten minutes is up,” Toris says brightly, popping up as the oven chimes something far too shrill and cheerful for her now thoroughly pounding head. “Let’s go see how they’ve turned out, shall we?”
Natalya slides off the chair reluctantly and trudges to the kitchen area where he has already donned oven mitts and is holding out a pair for her. She takes it without thanks, as usual, and he doesn’t notice it, as usual, and they open the oven door together in silence. He thinks it’s comfortable, of course, as always. It’s a matter or routine for them. The baking trays come out with the toasted gingerbread men, plastered against the black steel like question marks. What question, she thinks. There is no question. This is how things are and how they will always be.
Except maybe not. Somehow, as he disappears behind the huge fridge door in search of icing-sugar and chocolate buttons, she finds something in her relenting. Maybe the vodka was really poisoned. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He’s an idealist, but so is she - look at her relationship with her brother. Look at these gingerbread men she’s been making for him. That spit-mixed-with-vodka dough. And as he appears again, bag of chocolate in one hand and bag of icing sugar in the other, she realises that the corners of her lips have turned up in a long overdue smile, a smile for him that he notices and oh, she wonders if her smile is just as infuriating as his, because oh, that suddenly seems like something she wants so much, so much. And he smiles back at her and she hates it but it’s a wonderful hate and his eyes are so green and so lovely, and he hands her the piping bag and she even feels like laughing when she accidently blots out the first gingerbread man’s eye even though she’s glaring at it.
He’s laughing, and it’s carefree as usual except now she’s finally managed to decorate a full person even though the lines are slightly wobbly. So he hands her the chocolate and she gives it eyes and wonders secretly if she should name it Toris - but that’s a little mean, isn’t it, but she’s Natalya and she thinks it’s morbidly funny that her Vanechka will end up eating her little Toris the gingerbread man - and they look at each other.
It’s definitely the vodka’s fault that she kisses him again. Poisoned. It must have been poisoned, she refuses to think otherwise. But oh well, it’s like some magical twist of fate that he doesn’t stink like spirits, he tastes like peaches, newborn peaches and it’s so strange, but somehow it fits, and somehow she doesn’t mind kissing him. She doesn’t even think about how she could use the still hot baking trays as some sort of weapon, doesn’t think about her brother, because Toris is meek and oblivious and has been infatuated with her since they were little -
Friends? Psht. She doesn’t need friends. She has her brother. And she has Toris.
But really. It must have been the vodka. If it wasn’t poisoned, then it’s definitely at least enchanted, because why else would they suddenly be sober, and why else would she have kissed him, and why the hell else would that gingerbread man she secretly named Toris start moving?
--
End.