Chapter Text
In the thick of the night, bundled up in a blanket, Alina hugs her knees to her chest, and as the wind blows rain against her bedroom window, she finally — after weeks of trying to push her feelings aside — lets her tears fall free from her eyes and allows herself to miss him.
Letting someone go before inevitably losing them — that’s how she categorizes it. She had already started feeling him pull away from her for weeks, and so, deciding that she did not want him to leave her, she had decided to leave first. Regret had creeped up on her as his eyeline had watered, as his nose had scrunched — not in the adorable way it did when he smiled, but instead in some broken way — as if he had seen a kitten get run over by a car.
He’d asked her why, touching his hand to his chest as he did, but she hadn’t answered. Instead, she’d told him that it was for the best if he’d just left.
She has not seen him since.
And so, ever the over-thinker, Alina runs the weeks leading up to breaking up with him through her mind again, looking for what she’d seen before deciding to cut him loose. But all she sees is herself pulling away — running away, as she always does when something feels too good to be true.
—
Once, Aleksander had thought that he would marry her, so much so that he’d even purchased a ring. He’d carried in a neat little box in his suit pocket at all times should the perfect opportunity present itself.
In the low light of the restaurant, simply looking over at her, he’d reached for the box, his fingers scraping over the textured cardboard. A romantic setting — one of the nicest places in Ravka had seemed the ideal place to pop the question. But then, Alina had cleared her throat, and he’d been pulled from his reverie and had the displeasure of having the rug pulled out from beneath him as she’d proceeded to break up with him in a swift, single sentence.
A year down the drain. He hadn’t been able to understand why she would end their relationship when things between them were fine. More than fine, in fact. Fucking amazing. He’d tried to get an answer as to why, but when she had asked him to leave, that is all he could do.
A few months pass, and though he misses her, the least he can do is respect her decision.
That is, until he hears, through the grapevine, that she is seeing the Lantsovs’ son, Nikolai.
—
The day he moves is less hectic than he had thought it would be — even unpacks everything, save for a few decorations and some knick-knacks that he would rather keep in a box for now.
Deciding that enough is enough, and that he does not, in fact, need to work on ideas for his very unfinished — if you can even call it that, for something to be unfinished, there must be at least a word or two written out — novel. However, he has zero words on his opening page, and instead decides to take a walk around his new neighborhood. Grabs his brown chesterfield coat, one of his thinner scarves, and his beanie to shelter him from the early spring breeze.
He makes a few notable discoveries during his mid afternoon walk, the first being that he lives rather close to a cozy looking corner café; he’s certain that he’ll spend many hours typing away on his laptop. Though he doesn’t walk in, the view from looking through the large storefront window allows him to scan the inside.
As he walks down a few more buildings, he comes across a little park squeezed in between two townhouses with three benches, a small hill, and even a pond circled with stones. Thinks it’s rather strange for such a nice park to be placed in such an odd location.
He takes a mental note of the path he’d walked to get there — passing the café and walking past four buildings before turning right. From there, he’d passed a townhouse and then stumbled upon this hidden gem of a park.
Before leaving, he pulls out his phone from his coat pocket and takes a picture of the sun hitting the water.
On his way back, he walks past one of the neighboring apartments and hears the faint sound of music playing from inside.
—
He acts on impulse and rents the apartment across from her; perhaps being close to her again will soothe the ache of not having her in his arms.
Soon, he realizes that it doesn’t.
—
She feels bamboozled, exiting her apartment, as she scans the door across from her. The name A. Morozov is written out in a basic font; she proceeds to curse her heart for pounding at the sight of his name.
—
Each time he walks past A. Morozov’s door, he hears music blasting from inside. Even on a Wednesday night, as he’s taking out the trash, there is some strange jazz piece playing. At the very least, it is not loud enough to complain about.
—
Three weeks in is when the parties start.
As Alina peeks through her peephole to look at the people filing past, a text from Nikolai disturbs her in her snooping, asking them if they’re still on for tomorrow night.
The lengths she’ll go to for her friends, she thinks, as she replies with an of course and a smiley face with hearts.
—
There is a man staring at him as he sips at his tea and files through the daily mail, minding his own business at his favorite café just across from their — well, his — apartment complex.
Though he typically used to come here simply to chat with Alina as she’d manned the registry, he’s found that he quite likes the ambiance of the place. The mismatched chairs, the old bookshelves holding books that are free to read. Occasionally, he’s been known to grab one of the blankets every once in a while when he’s feeling extra cozy.
She must have quit after their break-up as she hasn’t worked a day since, and he’s been occupying the same table since he moved in across the hall.
Finally, the man in question is served his to-go cup and promptly leaves thereafter, leaving him to read his newspaper in peace.
—
In the end, it is A. Morozov who, more or less, introduces himself to Ivan. Simply asks him if he is a writer, stated in a way that indicates he already knows, and is simply looking for confirmation. After all, he’d spotted the man while grabbing his coffee a few weeks back.
It is unclear to him as to why Mr. Morozov sits down on the bench beside him and clears his throat to capture his attention, but his intentions are made clear when he is asked if he has ever been hired for biographical work.
He is honest in his reply — that he is an independent writer, simply trying to get his feet off the ground in trying to decide what story he should write next.
This is when Morozov stands, turns to walk away, but then, as if completely calculated, turns around once more to say that he might have a story that could, perhaps, be of interest, if he does not come up with something to write by himself.
And then, he’s gone.
—
When Nikolai kisses her, it takes her completely by surprise, especially since they’d agreed upon no physical intimacy. But, as the crowd goes mute and a few gasps are heard throughout, she quickly decides to allow it, even if it was the last thing she wanted.
—
Aleksander spits out some of his tea at the sight of his Alina — pictured at page seven — kissing the Lantsov pup.
He needs to think of something, something that will capture her attention.
Something to intrigue her, something — he shudders at the thought — that the Lantsov boy would do.
—
He tries his best — really, he does.
Sits at his typewriter for hours, pressing the keys down until his fingers pound. But as he scans the pages, all he reads is nonsense. A shallow story with no substance, no heart.
Ivan tries again, and again. His days are spent cooped up in his apartment, glued to his desk chair, typing away, until exhaustion finally hits. He barely makes it to his bed before he promptly, and quite literally, crashes.
When he wakes with a sigh, the past few days hanging heavy on his body and mind, he makes a decision.