Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sonya likes bass. 

She likes being the background hum, the pulse. She likes that it’s less of an instrument and more of a feel. She likes the vibrations in her body, through the floor. She likes the weight of it. She likes that nobody looks at the bassist. She likes her precious battered Stingray, its rainbow strap and its beautiful colour, coppery-orange and glossy. She bought it secondhand, and Natasha convinced her it was the one, solely because she thought it would be cool if Sonya’s instrument matched her hair. 

(She was right, of course, but Sonya couldn’t help but be a little miffed when she found out.)

Natasha doesn’t really understand why Sonya would want to play such a subtle instrument, but that’s Natasha. Natasha on her old acoustic and pretty voice, now on her new pearlescent electric and pretty voice, comfortable in her starshine spotlight. 

Not Sonya. Sonya is not that kind of girl. Even their old band (if the Rostov kids sitting in their basement and making noise counts as a ‘band’) featured Natasha as their lead. Nikolai might have been mad about that, but he couldn’t have been too mad, because he remained the uncontested drummer of Tasha and the Kittens from ages nine to thirteen, when he decided he was too cool for it. 

Now, Sonya can drum, in a pinch, and she still plucks at her bass, but she misses that shitty band they had, the glorious fun of Nikolai closing every song by hitting the crash cymbal as hard as he could, of Natasha making up her own songs, of Sonya struggling with that huge bass in her tiny hands after she got bored of ukulele. 

All of this has brought her to Natasha’s usual lunch spot, the stairwell landing outside the English wing, and compelled her to blurt, very suddenly and unprompted, “You wanna start a band again?”  

“Sure,” Natasha says, putting down her Tupperware of leftover pizza. “What?”

“Okay,” Sonya says, sitting down, breathless from the stairs, “You know the thing, the stupid thing that they make us go to, right around spring break, the concert thing, and it’s usually super boring except for the Kuragins - whatever. We should make a band and do it. Perform in it. Whatever.”

“Just us?” Natasha asks, handing the jittery Sonya a half-empty bottle of neon orange Gatorade, which she sips from gratefully. 

“Thought we could recruit more people. I thought it would be cool if we had a, um, lady band. Just girls. You can do vocals and guitar, I got bass, know any drummers?” Sonya rushes out, barely able to breathe over her excitement. 

“I don’t know. Um, we could do posters? Or I could just text the music groupchat. Hélène plays guitar, right? Maybe she’d be down.” Natasha pulls out her phone, starts texting, almost furiously. 

“Do not invite a Kuragin into our band,” Sonya says. Of course Natasha would want Hélène to play, since Natasha thinks Hélène is super cool, but Sonya refuses to let her talk to either of the Kuragin twins, because they are generally horrible rich kids, and Anatole is a jerk. 

“Fine! Fine, okay. I don’t even have her number, so…” Natasha stretches out on the floor, like a cat in a sunbeam, and holds her phone above her face. 

“ Anyway, I was thinking we could do a statement. Of some kind. Like…” Sonya had not thought this far ahead. But Natasha always has something to be righteously angered over. 

“Ooh, we could do the dress code! You know how it’s, like, really stupid...we could break it! Ooh, that would be fun.”

“That would be fun,” Sonya says, and she grins, remembers the little wallpaper of violation slips hung proudly on Natasha’s wall, her own stack somewhere in her closet. 

She can already feel her bass under her fingers. 

-

music theory (academic)

nat!!!: heyyyyyy so we got a lady drummer somewhere who wants to join a sick band with me and my cousin?

Dolokhov: sorry, i’m taken

nat!!: and you’re a guy. so

Dolokhov: whatever  

anatoleee: kind of misogynistic to only let girls into the band

anatoleee: like what about guys you’re being so discriminatory rn

that’s your highness kuragina to you: lol

nat!!!: you wanna play guitar for us hélène?

that’s your highness kuragina to you: no i’m busy w my stupid fucking band with my stupid fucking brother and his stupid fucking boyfriend 

anatoleee: shut the fuck up helene

Dolokhov: I have standards 

that’s your highness kuragina to you: lmaooooooooo 

anatoleee: fuck you im telling dad you watered down his vodka

that’s your highness kuragina to you: fuck you too!

Marya Bolkonskaya: We need a cursing filter. 

anatoleee: wet blanket’s here everyone pack it up

nat!!!: oh shut it anatole

Marya Bolkonskaya: I don’t play drums. Sorry Natalya. 

nat!!!: cool okay

Marya Bolkonskaya: You know who does? The other Marya. 

nat!!!: OH SICK she’s the best

nat!!!: thank you marya you are also the best

Marya Bolkonskaya: Anytime. 

anatoleee: get a room

nat!!!: oh my god shut up

Marya Bolkonskaya: What?

Chapter Text

“Sonya?” comes a very small, polite voice to the right of her as she shoves her sweater and disintegrating binder into her backpack, always the last to go. Sonya looks over to see Marya (Bolkonskaya, not Dmitrievna), looking completely austere in her plaid skirt and ill-fitted button up and cardigan, clutching her notebook tightly. 

“Hey, Marya,” Sonya says, as warmly as she can. She knows the girl a little, Natasha’s boyfriend’s sister. Enough to know Marya doesn’t have any real friends, and that she’s too serious for sixteen. 

“I’m so sorry to ask for this, but I need someone to record my bit for the solo project and I just need five minutes, could you, maybe…?” Marya stumbles over her words. “I don’t have a phone…”

“Of course,” Sonya says, pulling her phone and its obnoxious kitten-patterned case out of her pocket. “I haven’t got anywhere to be.”

“If it’s trouble, please don’t bother, really…” Marya scratches her nails across her notebook. 

“It’s totally fine. Just tell me what to do.” Sonya gives her a little smile, and the tension in Marya’s shoulders eases as she sits herself at the piano and fixes her posture. 

“Um, just...record? I don’t know...uh, ready when you are,” Marya says, tapping a few keys. 

Sonya counts down, hits record. 

Marya plays. 

Objectively, Sonya knew Marya was good. Objectively, Sonya knew Marya was really good. 

That did not prepare her for this. Marya is maybe the best pianist in the school, possibly the world. She, like Sonya and her bass, is the piano, is the notes, is the sway. The idea that an instrument is the extension of a musician is utterly incorrect - the musician is the extension, and Sonya is sure of it now. Marya looks intense, floating, her fingers are fluid on the keys, her knuckles bend, her spine sways. She is not at peace. Sonya is a little bit in love with her now. (Platonically, of course, romance is not Sonya’s department.) Marya pushes and pulls the tempo, drags the notes, lets it breathe, bleed, taps quick, hums from the back of her throat. It’s magic. 

Marya finishes the song. Sonya shakes herself out of her haze and stops filming. 

“Wow,” Sonya says. 

“If you could just email me the file...um, just put my name in the school email, you know how to do that, and...yeah.” Marya gives her a weak smile, tucking the bench back against the piano. 

“On it,” Sonya says, already opening her email app, wondering if maybe they could use a little bit of classical training in their band.

“Thanks,” Marya says, hefting her satchel over her shoulder.

“Uh, me and Natasha started a band,” Sonya blurts.

“I saw.” Marya gives her a polite grimace. “I’m sorry, I’m not a drummer.”

“You should join. Natasha has a keyboard,” Sonya assures, and then winces. “I mean, I know it’s not the same, but...you’re good at this sort of stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Totally . Um, fair warning, Natasha’s definitely going to turn this into a protest, like for the dress code, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do! It’s cool,” Sonya rushes. “We can make sure you don’t get in trouble or anything.”

Marya chews the corner of her lip. “Oh.”

Sonya doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“It would be nice to...get out of the house. Have some time away from my father.” Marya smoothes the front of her skirt. “I’d like it. If you had room for me.”

“Of course we do. I’ll email you the address, the house has a blue door, it’s just, like, two blocks away. Four o’clock tomorrow. Sound good?” Sonya asks, typing furiously. 

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

Marya smiles, and Sonya smiles back. 

-

nat!!! & dmitrievna 

nat!!!: heyyyyy!!!

dmitrievna: Hey Natasha. What’s up?

nat!!!: you’re a drummer right?

dmitrievna: Yep

nat!!!: u wanna join me n sonya’s band for the spring festival? 

dmitrievna: You’re playing at the spring festival?

nat!!!: we’re protesting the dress cooodeee. gonna be all ladiesssss

dmitrievna: I’m in

nat!!!: hell YES thank YOU this’ll be so much fuuuunnnnn. my garage at 4 tomorrow 

Chapter Text

“Okay,” Natasha declares, dropping her open notebook between the four of them on the cement floor of her garage. “Orders of business: We need a name, we need a school-approved set list, we need our actual set list, we need to figure out what to wear - open parentheses, later? close parentheses, and we need to practice, like, a lot. So. Names?”

“Tasha and the Kittens revival,” Sonya says, jostling Natasha’s shoulder, who cringes deeply, remembering all her horrible concerts and terrible songs. 

“Not in a million years.”

“What’s that?” Marya Dmitrievna says, with a terrible grin. Natasha rubs her forehead. 

“Oh, our old family band,” Sonya says, smiling equally devilishly. “Natasha insisted on being our lead singer, ergo, Tasha and the Kittens.”

“We are not going to be Tasha and the Kittens,” Natasha says, flushing. Sonya giggles. Both Maryas giggle. “Anyway. Real suggestions?”

“I want a cat theme. Natasha and the Cats. Girl Meower. Like girl power,” Sonya says. 

“Really?” Natasha raises her eyebrow. Sonya had insisted on the kittens part of their former name, so this is no surprise, but she’d expected a better pun, at least. 

“If no one else will say it, I’ll throw it out there: the Dress Codes,” Marya Dmitrievna suggests. 

“It’s passable,” Natasha shrugs, writing it down with a little flourish. “Marya B, got anything?”

“Sorry. I’m not very good at thinking on the spot,” Marya Bolkonskaya mumbles, playing with the hem of her sweater, biting her lip.

“We’re all queer, right? Queer revolution or something,” Marya Dmitrievna cuts in. 

“Oh, I’m not...” Marya Bolkonskaya says, with very little conviction, blushing. 

Natasha and Sonya share a raised-eyebrow glance. 

“Uh...we’re all Russian, are we? Just...the names…” the same Marya mumbles. 

A chorus of uh-huh s answers her question. 

“We could be the, uh, Russian Blues. Like the cat…but also...blues, sad? I don’t know...” She rubs her knee and looks away. It’s perfect. 

“You are a genius! ” Natasha declares, slapping her notebook, making her jump. “That’s so clever. All in favour, raise your hand.”

Four hands go up. 

“That’s settled. The Russian Blues we shall be,” Natasha says, scrawling down the name at the top of the page and circling it. “Right. We’ve got that. Now, set list. We have, like, fifteen minutes, ish, so...we can all just pick a song. Dmitrievna, I know you’ve got one.”

“Rebel Girl,” she says, with concealed elation. 

“Of course. Okay,” Natasha says, scrawling that down. “Sonya?”

“Hm.” Sonya blows air into her cheeks and thinks for a moment. “Uh, maybe The Salt. Is that too sad?”

“Nope. Honestly, I doubt they’ll let us get through the whole set. Anything you want. We’ll do it.” Natasha grins. Sonya grins too. “Besides, it’s good to have a range. It's, like, look at us! We have the range in our dress code violating clothing. Uh, Marya B, got anything?”

“I...don’t know,” Marya says. 

“What about that song from class yesterday?” Sonya suggests. 

“Uh...it hasn’t really got arrangements for drums or bass or guitar or anything...I could make some? But it’s just a song I wrote with my brother ages ago for his ex...supposed to be a piano duet actually but my brother’s not here to help…”

“You wrote it? No way. We have to do that,” Sonya says. 

“I used to do piano. I’m not amazing, but I can try,” Natasha offers, tapping her fingers on her notebook. “Does it have lyrics?”

“I guess,” Marya says, pulling her notebook out of her satchel and flicking through it. “I should just find something else, though, really, I don't know if it's too weird for you, Natasha…”

Natasha glances at the lyrics, written out in perfect, neat cursive. Sweetness, it says. She reads. They’re very nice lyrics. A good rhythm in her head. Easy to forget it's about Lise. 

“No, we should do that. Sweetness. It’ll be fun!” Natasha gives her a smile. Marya curls her fingers around her notebook and shoves it back into her bag. 

“If you’re sure. I can...work out some...drums and whatnot if you give me a couple days?” 

“Hell yeah,” the other Marya says. “Give me something fun.”

“I'll try,” she answers. 

“Okay! And for me…” Natasha thinks for half a second, running through her favourites until Sonya interrupts her train of thought. 

“You're doing No One Else, right? You will not deprive the world of your bisexual pop-rock anthem, will you?” Sonya says, a big grin on her face. 

“You and I and no one else!” they cheer in unison, punctuating the last three words with synchronized slaps to the gritty concrete floor. The two Maryas are on opposite sides of the confused-but-elated and confused-but-terrified spectrum. 

“Okay, No One Else it is,” Natasha says, scrawling it down with excessive swoops, excited. 

“Thank you, Maryas, for joining us, because Natasha and I have been wanting to hear it in full with all the instruments for so long,” Sonya says, still excited. 

Marya B still looks confused. Marya D looks excited. 

“You'll see,” Natasha assures her. “In terms of order...do we open with a bang? Ease into it?”

“ I say,” Marya D jumps in, “we go right in so they know we mean business, ease back, then end with No One Else, 'cause that seems like it'll be a pretty rockin' closer.”

“Translation: You want to do your song first,” Natasha says, with a very lighthearted sigh. 

“Perhaps,” Marya says, brushing her short hair out of her face and looking away. 

“So…” Sonya closes her eyes and thinks. “Rebel Girl, Sweetness, The Salt, No One Else?”

“Objections?” Natasha says. 

No objections are posed, so Natasha flips the page of her notebook and writes, in her cleanest lettering, their set list. 

“Now, we've gotta do something school-appropriate for the dress rehearsals. I think our middle songs can stay, but the rest…”

“Let's just do, like, The Beatles,” Sonya suggests. Marya D gags. 

“Sorry, I'm allergic to boy bands and British people,” she says. 

“Can you do it just this once?” Natasha asks, giving her best big wide sparkling baby unicorn eyes. 

“Fine.”

“Okay. That's settled. We'll just do Here Comes the Sun or something,” Natasha says, scratching it down.

“Ew,” Marya D says. 

“We’ll do the dress code later. Uh, well, nothing to do but get practicing, I guess?” Natasha shuts her notebook with a slam. 

“All right!” Marya D shouts, slapping the hi-hat of Nikolai’s old drum set hard, a clatter of cymbals. Marya B jumps. “Let’s get this party freakin’ started.”

-

andrei & Marya Bolkonskaya

andrei: Masha?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yes?

andrei: you holding up okay over there?

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m fine. 

andrei: eating, sleeping?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yes. 

andrei: any panic attacks lately? 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Three or four. 

andrei: let me know if I should come home. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: No! No, have fun. 

andrei: you are more important than stupid college parties or my intro to anthropology class. swear. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you but I’m okay, I promise. 

andrei: how’s Dad?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Not well. He’s been forgetting. The doctor’s coming Monday.

andrei: has he said anything to you?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Only the usual. 

andrei: you know I’ll come and get you out of there. anytime. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: It’s okay. He’s just old. 

andrei: if you’re sure. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yes, I’m sure. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m in a band now. So I sort of have friends. 

andrei: Tasha told me! 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yeah, with Natasha and Sonya and the other Marya. We had our first rehearsal a couple hours ago. 

andrei: that's awesome. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m doing keyboard. 

andrei: I'm glad you're making friends.

Marya Bolkonskaya: Me too. 

andrei: kay goodnight!! love you 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Goodnight. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: :)

Chapter Text

Sonya yawns and texts Natasha again, gripping her hot chocolate in one hand as Natasha’s drink slowly cools on the windowsill. She sips it and leans against the coarse brick wall of the school, nudging her scarf a little higher over her neck. 

sonyushka: where the heck are you your drink is turning into a popsicle hold the stick

“Waiting for someone?” a voice says, and Sonya turns to see Hélène Kuragina, queen of all things prefaced with social - media, networking, clubs, gatherings (read: parties) - currently watching her, clad in a long black peacoat, green scarf, and burgundy lipstick. Her eyes are surrounded and pointed by a trail of black-grey makeup.

“My sister,” Sonya says, a little confused about why Hélène is talking to her, of all people. “Cousin. Whatever. You know Natasha.”

“Ah,” Hélène says, leaning her shoulder against the wall and giving Sonya a bit of a smirk. “I do know Natasha. Where is she?”

“Practicing with Marya, maybe. Uh, Marya B.”

Hélène laughs. “The church mouse? Really? That girl’s the most skittish little thing…”

“Yes, really,” Sonya says, her tone clipped and unusually defensive. She hadn’t realized how much she liked Marya B. 

“Hm. Well, I’m waiting on my brother.”

Sonya rolls her eyes. Hélène gives her a cheeky little grin, exposing her perfect white Invisalign-ad teeth. 

“He’s not that bad,” Hélène says, pulling the collar of her coat up higher on her neck. 

“Sure,” Sonya says, taking a drink of her hot chocolate and trying very hard to pretend it’s coffee. 

“Mm. Well, we all know I’m the pretty one,” Hélène says, with a shrug. Sonya laughs. “What, Sofia, don’t you think I’m pretty?” Hélène pouts, in mock offence. 

“Of course you’re pretty. Anatole’s pretty too.”

Hélène puts a hand to her chest. “How you wound me with your words, dear Sonya.”

Why is she calling me dear? Sonya thinks, but chuckles politely anyway. 

“At least you don’t call me a slut,” Hélène says. “God, I hate it when people do that. Someone tried to convince me it was, like, feminist or something once.”

“Ew,” Sonya says. 

“You wouldn’t do that,” Hélène says. 

“I mean, that bar is on the floor. But I would not call you a slut.”

“You’re funny. I like you,” Hélène says, coy, reaching out to wrap her finger around one of Sonya’s little flyaways. 

Oh. 

“Sorry. Not into it,” Sonya gives, simply. 

“Mm. Shame.” Hélène pulls back, kicks one foot up against the wall. “Can I interest you, perhaps, in my brother?”

Sonya lets out a disbelieving bark of a laugh. “I don’t like guys, and even if I did, your brother’s not exactly ideal boyfriend material.”

“Tell me about it,” Hélène says, rolling her eyes. 

“Wait, you’re not…” Sonya says, a little jolt of horror up her spine. 

“Oh, Christ no! That would be weird as hell. Barring the grossness, I’d literally rather kill myself,” Hélène says. 

“Good. It would be really weird if I thought you were in an incestuous relationship because of one throwaway line.”

“Yeah. I hope no one does that,” Hélène agrees, and then rustles around in her coat. 

“What are you doing?” Sonya mutters, and then catches sight of the green and gold flask - what kind of seventeen year old has a flask - in Hélène’s hand. 

“What, want some?” she offers, lifting it to her lips. 

“What are you doing ? There’s a security camera right there!” Sonya yelps, pushing Hélène’s hand away and spilling a couple drops of her illicit drink of choice onto her lapel. 

“Hey, this is expensive! The bourbon and the jacket,” Hélène whines, wiping off her coat and then lifting her flask to the camera. “Cheers.”

“Put that away, ” Sonya hisses, mind already leaping to all the possible trouble she could get in. 

“Sonya!” comes the faint sound of Natasha on the other side of the courtyard, and sure enough Sonya can see Natasha running towards them. 

Hélène chuckles. Sonya pushes down her flask with her hand. 

“Sonya, I’m so sorry,” Natasha says, hyperventilating slightly and gripping the windowsill so hard her knuckles go pink, breath clouding in front of her, “I forgot, I just got all caught up with Marya, hi Hélène, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sonya says, handing over her tepid latte. 

“Hi, Natasha,” Hélène says, then gives Natasha a little scan, a once-over, grins at her, and then strides away like she’s won, tilting up her flask as she walks. 

“I cannot stand her,” Sonya decides. 

“She’s nice! Give her a chance,” Natasha says, taking a very large swig of her coffee and leaning against the wall to recover. 

Sonya just snorts. The Kuragins are, simply, incorrigible . 

She watches the little green speck that is Hélène disappear behind the music wing. 

-

nat!!! & andrei

nat!!!: [rehearsal1.mp4]

andrei: oh my god is that you and Marya?

nat!!!: yep!!!

andrei: you guys are doing sweetness?

nat!!!: yeah! dw marya already told me abt it

nat!!!: i don’t care that u wrote it for lise it’s all good

andrei: you both look so happy!

nat!!!: it was nice to see her smile. she looks like you

andrei: she does. 

andrei: thank you for looking out for her. 

nat!!!: it’s nothing! 

nat!!!: she’s rlly nice <3 

nat!!!: ANYWAY

nat!!!: how r you???

andrei: [image1.jpg]

nat!!!: awwww <3333 u are so cute!!! ily

nat!!!: [img_278.jpg] 

andrei: is that a giant stuffed bear in your hands?

nat!!!: what do you not like sonya’s djungelskog?

andrei: Sonya's what?

nat!!!: [djungelskog.jpg]

nat!!!: hes Baby

nat!!!: his name is bruin and we love him <3

andrei: whatever you say. 

nat!!!: do they have ikeas in france?

andrei: i think so?

nat!!!: u should get one for your apartment!!!!

andrei: maybe I will!

nat!!!: i miss u :(

andrei: I miss you too. 

nat!!!: oh shit sonya texted i forgot i was gonna meet her after rehearsal w marya

nat!!!: byeeee call me!!! 

andrei: bye!

nat!!!: mwah mwah

Chapter Text

Natasha flips through another rack of shirts, almost mechanically. Sonya is checking her phone and drinking a smoothie by the jewellery rack, earbuds in. Sonya hates shopping, what with the noise and the people and the germs. Natasha normally doesn’t, having developed a taste for the mall rat lifestyle since about twelve when she realized that yes, you can just walk off and go to the mall if you want. 

But she is very tired of looking for pyjamas and tank tops and jean shorts now, and she’s halfway to giving up when she sets down a red camisole, looks across the store, and locks eyes with none other than Her Majesty Hélène Kuragina, who is aimlessly running her hands over a display of cardigans. 

Hélène has her curls loose and long and bounteous, and they swing nicely around her face, her very lovely face, and her pretty lips with their burgundy lipstick and her pretty cold eyes and her pretty, pretty cheekbones, and oh my God she’s been staring and now Hélène is walking towards her. 

Does Hélène Kuragina even walk? Natasha doubts her feet touch the ground. She’s above gravity. 

“Hey, Natasha,” Hélène says, in her lovely deep voice and Natasha is about to faint right there. Hélène’s got that perfect I’m-not-even-trying look, black high-waisted crepe shorts with two rows of four buttons, a light green T-shirt, a worn-out pair of Docs, one tiny thin gold necklace with a little emerald teardrop.

“Hi, Hélène,” Natasha says. 

“Looking for something?” Hélène asks, leaning against a low display table and crossing her shopping-bag laden arms. 

“Kinda. I mean, we’ve been looking for some stuff that, like, breaks the dress code, yknow, fingertip rule, no pyjamas, school appropriate, no bra straps, whatever,” Natasha manages, and then kicks herself in the shin mentally for saying something so stupid. 

“Huh.” Hélène presses one perfectly rounded French tip fingernail to the center of her lips. “Why?”

“The spring festival. We’re protesting. Kinda. Maybe. You know.” Natasha shrugs, face hot. 

“Oh, I saw something that’d be perfect,” Hélène says, and reaches out her hand, and before Natasha realizes it she’s got her hand in a vice and they are striding out of the store like Hélène owns the place, and she might, honestly, Natasha doesn’t have a clue of the breadth of the Kuragin’s wealth. 

“Sonya-” Natasha starts, checking over her shoulder and trying to catch a glimpse of red hair somewhere. 

“You’ll catch up with her later. Come on!”

And Hélène starts striding away, and her hands are very soft, and warm, and Natasha just lets Hélène tug and pull her because -

Why?

Natasha doesn’t know. 

Hélène pulls her up a flight of stairs to a store she’s never been in, one of the ones that’s trendy and expensive and too nice for her budget, and Hélène tugs her past puffer jackets and pinstripe blazers to a little shelf in the back, and then Hélène grabs a clothing hanger and holds The Item up. 

A nightgown. 

It is baby pink. It has puffy sleeves. It has lace. It’s long, but has a little slit up the side. It has a print of the Birth of Venus on it. 

It’s perfect . 

Natasha flips over the price tag. Sixty-eight dollars, which is a lot, but she’ll wince through her draining bank account. 

Hélène pulls it from her hands, delicately. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, with a grin, flicking a credit card out of her pocket. “On me. Well, on my dad.”

“Thank you,” Natasha breathes. Hélène is just a little dazzling. 

“There’s gonna be a party at my house Thursday,” Hélène says, leaning against a T-shirt rack. “You gotta come.”

A party . Her Majesty Hélène Kuragina is inviting Natasha to a party . 

“Oh. Okay?” Natasha says, biting her nail. “Uh, what time?”

“Seven. There will be drunk boys doing stupid shit for laughs and an indoor pool. Booze is provided. Bring your sister if you want.” Hélène claps her on the shoulder. “Come on , it’ll be super fun.”

“I should text my boyfriend,” Natasha offers, weakly. 

“You need to ask him to go to a party ?” Hélène says, one eyebrow raised. 

Natasha stops for a second. Does she?

“You don’t have to kiss anyone and no one’s gonna make you drink. Please?” she pouts. 

Natasha’s heart softens like a foil-wrapped chocolate heart held in Hélène’s palm. 

“Okay,” Natasha says.

Hélène grins. “Let’s find you a dress! Come on, Natasha, you’re gonna be the prettiest girl there.”

I can’t be the prettiest, next to you , Natasha thinks but does not say, as Hélène pulls her deeper into the labyrinth of the store. 

-

sonyushka & nat!!!

sonyushka: natasha i’m gonna have a meltdown it is too loud i am leaving

sonyushka: where are you?

sonyushka: text me baaaaack. 

sonyushka: i’m walking home

sonyushka: natalyaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

sonyushka: :(

3 unread messages 

nat!!!: SORRY SORRY I WAS WITH HÉLÈNE 

nat!!!: she dragged me away i got a nightgown i will be home in 5 and i will bring you all the miso soup your melted brain could possibly desire

nat!!!: and i will kiss u on the forehead and get u bruin to hug i love you i’m very sorry

-

nat!!! & hélène k

nat!!!: [img3709.jpg]

hélène k: oh you look SO charming natasha

nat!!!: thank q!!

nat!!!: i'm worried i'll look like a stuffy old bride if i wear a white dress tho :/

hélène k: no fuckin way, you look hot as hell

hélène k: besides when was the last time you saw a bride in a skirt like that?

hélène k: btw your legs are fucking amazing do you do a million squats a day or smth

nat!!!: omg no I just play soccer!!

hélène k: i could NEVER i would rather kill myself than exercise

hélène k: such a shame i've never seen you all dressed up before tho ugh you look so good seriously

nat!!!: yeah i don't rlly do parties :(

hélène k: i can't believe you're a comet and you don't do parties

nat!!!: idk i have a boyfriend and he's not super happy w the idea of me going to parties 

hélène k: what the fuck tho like doesn't he want you to have fun?? 

hélène k: how can you live here and never go anywhere??

hélène k: shame to stick a pearl like you at home

hélène k: anyway as my mother used to say allez dans le monde plutôt que dépérir d’ennui

nat!!!: parles-tu français?

hélène k: oh fuck non 

nat!!!: okay JDKCKDKFKSKDKD

hélène k: anyway you gotta come to the party 

nat!!!: okay i will!!!

hélène k: fantastic

hélène k: see you there!

-

nat!!! & andrei

nat!!!: [img3709.jpg]

andrei: what's the occasion?

nat!!!: oh i just felt like being pretty you know!

nat!!!: <3

Chapter Text

“About the dress code,” Natasha says, pulling a rolled-up tube of paper out of her back pocket and bonking her knee with it a few times, “It's stupid.”

She is met with unanimous nods from the rest of her bandmates. 

"We've all been dress coded, right?" Natasha asks. "I mean, except for you, Marya B."

"It happened once," Marya B responds, and does not elaborate. 

"So that's everyone. It's well known that our school has the world's worst dress code. It's just an excuse for their bullshit! Literally, I know two guys who've ever been dress coded, but every single girl I know has been," Natasha says, curling her fingers around the hem of her jean shorts. 

“Yeah,” Sonya agrees.

"Uh-huh," Natasha agrees, flipping through the printed-out rulebook in her hands. "I got dress coded once for my hair being distracting just because I had it up in a high -" she gestures- "you know and the person sitting behind me decided to report me instead of asking me to move or something, like he couldn't see over me anyway! And the six-two football player sitting in front of the tiniest girl in the class still hasn't been moved! It's so stupid. So, " she says, smoothing out her printout, "I circled the most pointless rules. Figured we'd just find ways to break 'em."

“All right ,” Marya D says, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s hear it.”

“The classic skirts or shorts must extend past fingertip length . Sonya, you have the world’s most disproportionately long arms, you can do that,” Natasha says, chewing on the end of her pen. 

“They’re not unusually long,” Sonya says, crossing her unusually long arms over her stomach. 

“It’s because you have no torso. Only legs. Anyway. No hair in eyes or, quotation mark, unprofessional hairstyles, quotation mark. No exposed midriff or crop tops. No sleepwear? Uh -” she flips the page - “No intentionally torn or ripped clothing. No fishnet tights. No depictions of people violating the dress code. No depictions of violence. Piercings are limited to the earlobe only - Marya D, you’ve got that, right?”

“Sure do,” Marya D says, flipping her septum ring out of her nose. Marya B looks frightened. 

“No muscle shirts. Tank top straps must be at least three fingertips width - subjective, much? No exposed bra straps. No cleavage. And, of course, remaining family appropriate . Didn’t you get dinged on that at prom?” she asks Marya D, making sure not to look too much at Sonya, who’s digging her fingers into her knees. 

“I did,” Marya D says, leaning back on one arm. “But I looked sick as hell in that suit, so it was worth it.”

Sonya mostly slipped under notice of that rule via jeans and T-shirts, and it’s not like the school could truly force her to cut her hair, but she’d walk home sometimes with her face red and a slip in her hand, skirt swishing around her legs. Eventually, Natasha’s mom called the head office and chewed them out for an hour or so, and then it stopped, for the most part. Still, it’s a stupid rule, and Natasha has full intent to take a baseball bat to it. 

“Okay. So, what I’m thinking is we have Marya D on menswear duty, suit jacket, maybe some ripped jeans? Sonya, I know you’ve got those basketball shorts that just don’t make it past your fingertips.”

Sonya nods. “I can wear a tank top or something with it.”

Natasha gives her a big, bright grin. “Perfect! And, Marya B, I have this old Macbeth shirt from freshman year’s show, it’s just got a stylized bloody dagger design on it, figured you could just wear that?”

“I would rather have a long-sleeve shirt,” Marya says, quietly. “My dad likes me to cover up and I just get cold.”

Natasha’s mind instantly spirals off in a million different directions, none of them good. She bites her tongue. 

“Maybe we get a little stripey turtleneck under it,” she offers up, because Marya looks like she’s about to keel over. “That’s kinda punk rock, or whatever. And you can pull a little hair in front of your face, too. I think you might get away with that.”

Marya nods, severely, seeming relieved that conversation has drifted away. Natasha reaches out for Marya’s braid, hand hovering over the hair elastic and bobby pins at the back of her head. 

“May I?”

Marya nods again, lips pursed. Marya seems to do everything with that pursed, tense, scared, straight-back vibe. 

Natasha picks out two bobby pins and sticks them on the collar of her shirt, then unwinds Marya’s braid from her head. Her hair is a darker tone of blonde, soft, heavy in her hand. She runs her thumb over the zigzag in the braid and then gently pulls off the black elastic, unweaves her hair. 

The room is oddly silent. Marya is looking at Natasha with soft, big eyes, her mouth just slightly ajar. Natasha wonders if anyone’s ever done this before, and then she shakes out Marya’s locks over her shoulders and smiles. 

“There we go,” she says, and Marya gives her a smile through that thin, streaky curtain of hair. 

Sonya nods. Marya D nods too. 

“You look good,” Natasha says. “With your hair down. You look more...relaxed.”

“Thank you,” Marya says, and she blushes as she pushes her hair out of her face. She looks so happy, for a moment. 

Natasha steals one last look at Marya B, then slaps her own knees and stretches. “Now that that’s all worked out, shall we?” 

Marya D has already made it to the drum stool by the time Natasha even stands. 

-

nat!!! & Marya Bolkonskaya

nat!!!: hey marya

nat!!!: im really sorry to bug you and i know we don’t know each other that well but ive been worried about you since rehearsal today and what you said about your shirt

nat!!!: like obviously there are normal reasons to not wear short sleeves!! but i’m just worried

nat!!!: you don’t have to tell me anything but if you could just let me know that youre ok? 

nat!!!: and if you aren’t it’s okay there’s like helplines and stuff i know they kinda suck but they can help in a pinch

nat!!!: they helped me a lot

nat!!!: uh if you don’t respond i’ll just slip a little card with a bunch of resources n stuff into your bag they hand em out in guidance 

nat!!!: yeah anyway that’s all

nat!!!: hope ur doin ok

nat!!!: <3

Marya Bolkonskaya: Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see this for a minute. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Your concern is very touching & I’m glad you’d reach out if you thought a friend would be in crisis, but I assure you I’m all right. It’s just for my own comfort, really! Nothing’s going on. 

nat!!!: ok!!! glad to hear it!!!

nat!!!: let me know if you need anything i’m here for ya

nat!!!: <3

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: :)

Marya Bolkonskaya: Also you should be in bed. 

nat!!!: and so should you!!! take that!!!

Marya Bolkonskaya: All right. Go to sleep, Natasha. 

nat!!!: FINE

nat!!!: night! 

❤️ 1

-

andrei & Marya Bolkonskaya

Marya Bolkonskaya: Andrei?

andrei: hey Masha, everything all right?

Marya Bolkonskaya: I think so.

Marya Bolkonskaya: Natasha just sent me a bunch of messages saying she’s worried about me because I said I wanted long sleeves for our performance. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: She was very earnest. 

andrei: what did you say?

Marya Bolkonskaya: I assured her I was okay. 

andrei: are you?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yeah. All good. 

andrei: okay

Marya Bolkonskaya: Are you okay?

andrei: it’s been hard

Marya Bolkonskaya: Andrei…

andrei: i swear i’m okay

Marya Bolkonskaya: Let me call you. 

andrei: all right

Marya Bolkonskaya started a call that lasted 1h 49m. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Sorry, Dad came in. 

andrei: it’s ok

andrei: you really really should go to bed anyway it’s like 2 over there

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yeah. Goodnight! :)

andrei: night!

Chapter Text

Sonya leans against the railing in front of the bleachers, camera in hand, idly spinning the little shutter control wheel as she waits for the practice to start. She’s not a sports photographer, but they needed someone to get the photos of the women’s rugby teams, since their usual camera operator is, in fact, a rugby player. 

(Sonya doesn’t know anything about rugby. Or sports photography. Or sports.)

She takes six or seven under- and then over-exposed photos of the pylons lurking at the corner of the field until she’s got her settings acceptable, then messes around with the shiny, extra-zoomy zoom lens she’s been given.

A bird lands on one of the goalposts, and she amuses herself with trying to get a good photo of it for a while, until finally the team comes out in a rustle of red and gold jerseys and clamoring voices. Sonya watches them move, scans through the huddle of various teenagers - she recognizes the two Annas; their sports photographer, Rose; Kutuzov; and Balaga, who is there, for some reason. He is definitely not a member of the women’s rugby team. 

She takes a few photos, all of which are acceptable, not amazing, and looks up from her camera to see Balaga, walking towards her, and more interestingly, a teammate with long light brown hair and a long-sleeve black shirt under her jersey, who is most certainly Marya Bolkonskaya. 

She didn’t realize Marya B played rugby. Marya D plays softball and football and lacrosse and tennis and every other conceivable sport, but Marya B? 

“HEY,” Balaga says, in all caps, somehow, and Sonya starts.

“Hi,” Sonya responds.

“COOL,” he says, and then jumps the railing of the bleachers, walks to the other end, and lays down on one of the benches. 

Sonya takes a photo of him, then turns her attention back to the field, where they have started various warm-ups, some push-ups, sit-ups, Sonya can’t say she’s too invested in the field. She takes a lot of photos of the coach shouting. 

She also takes a lot of photos of Balaga. Since he’s there. 

Finally, finally, as Sonya’s hands start to turn pink with cold, the team actually starts to play. There is a lot of shouting and rearranging and scattering into teams, and then they huddle, which Sonya gets several photos of, and then there is more shouting and they start running.

And they are running. 

Sonya hasn’t ever really seen a sports game. She was under the impression they were boring. If sports are anything like this, she gets why gladiator fights were popular. This is grotesque and amazing .

Rose gets the ball, eventually, and three girls start chasing after her like doubletime Pac-man ghosts, and Sonya gets photo after photo after photo of the pursuit, of Rose’s red hair flickering around her shoulders, grass turf and action shots.

It’s all like that, the whole time, dirt and cleats and tackling, kicks and sprints and shots on the goalpost, and it’s brilliant.

And then Marya’s passed to, and Sonya gets why she’s on the rugby team. 

Holy shit, Marya is fast. 

She gets through the whole muddle before anyone realizes she’s got the ball, and halfway down the field before anyone can figure out where she is, and then it’s like a pack of wolves after a bolting deer. Both Annas get on her heels, but Marya edges them out, and Julie’s close enough to grab Marya’s shoulder and she tries to, but all she does is pull out Marya’s ponytail, and then Marya is right by the goal line and she leaps for it. She throws her whole frame across the line like she’s diving, and the ball hits the ground and Sonya gets the perfect shot. She knows it’ll be her best of the year the second she takes it. 

And then Marya hits the ground hard , and she rolls onto her back, and Sonya can see how heavily she’s breathing, but she can also see the massive grin on her face.

She gets a photo of that too. 

Kutuzov helps her up and gives her a pat on the back, and then the practice is over. Marya gets a lot of hugs, and everyone disperses, and Sonya thumps down on the bleachers, suddenly aware of how cold her hands are.

She starts flicking through her photos, absentmindedly. The coldness of the metal bleachers seeps through to the back of her thighs.

“Hi, Sonya,” Marya says, softly. She gives a bit of a smile and plays with the hem of her sleeve. 

“Hi, Marya. I didn’t know you played rugby,” Sonya says, still a little shaken up. 

“I don’t talk about it a lot. I’m really just supposed to do band as a club...my dad doesn’t really know that I do this. Uh.” She laughs, awkwardly.

“Oh,” Sonya says. “Um, I can make sure we don’t put your name on any of the rugby stuff. If you want.”

“Really?” Marya says, her eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Sonya says. “Of course.”

Marya smiles at Sonya, thankfully. There’s dirt on her cheek and nose is bleeding.

“You’ve got a bit of a -” Sonya swipes her thumb under her nose.

“Oh!” Marya says, wiping her face on the back of her nose. “Ow.”

She laughs, brightly. Sonya laughs too, and gets a photo. Just out of instinct. 

And then Sonya rustles in her pocket for a tissue, and Marya leans against the railing, suddenly wobbly like Jell-O, and they part ways, and Sonya is left one Kleenex lighter with a question:

Should she become a sports photographer?

-

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected] 

Subject: Rugby practise photography

Hey Mr. D,

Got some photos of the practice this afternoon. I put all the photos in the folder, but you said you wanted a couple for social media, so I attached some of the best to this email. 

First one: team captain G. Kutuzov practicing a tackle on willing participant Anna P. 

Second one: our very own Rose R. with the ball; exit, pursued by Anna M., Julie K., & Amelie B.

Third one: Teammate with hair whipping about face after hair elastic came undone slipping past the opposing team and touching the ball to the line. 

Fourth one: Balaga taking a nap on the bleachers. No, I don’t know why he was there.

Sonya

4 attachments

To: [email protected] 

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Rugby practise photography

Sonya, these look great! Thanks for stepping in. I love the third one, any idea who that teammate is?

D

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected] 

Subject: Re: Re: Rugby practise photography

Hey Mr. D,

She asked me not to give out her name for some family reasons. I hope that’s okay? I have it if you need it for a file or something, but she’d rather not be identified. 

Sonya

To: [email protected] 

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Rugby practise photography

Don’t worry about it. Good work today! 

D

Chapter Text

The party is so loud Natasha can taste colours.

(Not that she, personally, can actually taste colours. But it kind of feels like it, given the amount her brain is melting in the flashing lights and pounding music.)

There aren’t really as many kids as she expected, maybe about fifty-odd people, scattered around an obnoxiously large sitting room that looks like it could very well have been a ballroom, all fancy moulding and wood finishes and giant, empty picture frames. A few boys are dramatically draped over the white leather couches, shitty frat boy beers in their hands. One of them has very blonde, very styled hair. Natasha assumes that must be Anatole. (He is, admittedly, kind of hot, but he also looks like a greasy rat, and Natasha’s not into that at all.) There’s something on the TV, which is massive and sleek and about as thick as a saltine cracker, but no one’s paying attention to it, and it’s not like anyone could hear it, anyway, over the house music positively blasting through two six-foot-tall concert-type speakers. 

Also, there’s a chandelier on the ceiling. 

A real, actual chandelier. 

“Natasha!” Hélène shouts, and Natasha feels Hélène’s arm collide with her back, and there she is, beaming broadly, cup in hand, her hair up in a tight bun, bright red lipstick and silvery-black eyeshadow. She’s wearing a pair of jean shorts over what might be a bathing suit, but Natasha can’t see anything too well.

“Hi, Hélène,” Natasha manages.

“C’mon. C’mon!” Hélène says, still grinning, and she hooks her arm around Natasha’s and starts to pull her away, stumbling.

“What’s -”

“ Shhh! Oh my God-d-d, ” Hélène stage-whispers, very loudly, and then she giggles and keeps pulling Natasha towards the door, and before Natasha can really fight her they’re lurching past Anatole and his buddies (who make a terrible whistling noise, reason number four hundred and twenty million as to why Natasha is tired of those stupid boys), and into the hallway.

“Hélène,” Natasha starts, again, “where are we going?”

“I’ve got somethin’ to show you-u-u-u, N aaaa tash aaaa, ” Hélène says, grinning crookedly and stumbling past some random girl who Natasha recognizes from her bio class to pull her into a room up a flight of stairs and down yet another hallway.

Hélène shuts the door behind them, then shivers and straightens up.

“Hélène, you seem drunk,” Natasha finally blurts.

“Oh, I’m not,” Hélène says, completely coherently, squaring her shoulders. “Sorry about that.”

She dumps her cup into the potted fern next to her. 

“Oh,” Natasha says, lost.

“It’s just that everyone expects me to be drunk so if I just pretend to be, I can do whatever I want,” she says, and Natasha watches her as she crosses the room and throws herself onto her four-poster bed, plastic cup dangling from her fingers. 

“Your room is really big,” Natasha says, and then immediately feels stupid for saying that, even though it’s a bit of an understatement. It’s probably the size of her and Sonya’s rooms, their kitchen, and the bathroom of their house all put together. Maybe even bigger. It has nice dark wood floors and a big window, deep green walls with that sort of brocade-y detail, a huge bed, a desk absolutely covered in papers which have started to cover the floor, too, a bookshelf, a few potted plants, some hanging ivy, and of course Hélène’s guitar, sitting next to a fairly small upright piano. 

“Eh,” Hélène shrugs, drops her cup, lets it roll across the floor. “The really nice thing is that it’s quiet in here. The house is so old the walls are, like, just slabs of wood, basically.”

“Ah,” Natasha says, wandering over to Hélène’s piano.

Hélène sits up. “You like her? She’s pretty sweet, right?”

“Yeah,” Natasha says, running her fingers over the glossy black side of the piano, the finish slightly sticking to her fingers. 

“She’s a family heirloom. My mom used to play. Go ahead, if you want.”

Natasha gently pokes out the melody from Marya’s song one-handed. It sounds unusually smooth and rich, heavy and resonant.

“Nice, right?” Hélène grins at her, slides off the bed and onto her feet. She yawns.

“Yeah, really nice,” Natasha says, a little confused.

Hélène seats herself on the red velvet cushion of the piano bench, stretches out her legs as she plinks out a few scales at lighting speed. “Make yourself at home, Natasha.”

Hélène seems relaxed, here, more relaxed than Natasha’s ever seen her, and she watches her play for a minute, something faintly familiar and a little jazzy, then drifts over to Hélène’s bookshelf and pretends to read the spines.

This is all very weird . She isn’t complaining, though. She’s starting to like Hélène’s company.

No texts from Sonya when she checks her phone, but she fires off a reassuring text anyway.

nat!!!: all good, super chill here

Sonya always appreciates that. 

She doesn’t really know what to make of any of this. She’s in Hélène’s room, at a party, while Hélène is practicing piano? And Hélène was pretending to be drunk, which is very weird, and she definitely shouldn’t have to be doing that, and the Kuragins’ house is huge but there’s nobody here except these teenagers, and she’s in that dress that Hélène got for her that was absolutely too expensive, and it kind of seems like she’s being extra charming, and Sonya doesn’t like Hélène, for some reason, but she doesn’t know her-

“See anything you like?” Hélène asks, brushing her fingers against her dictionary. “I bet you didn’t expect me to have a bookshelf, nobody ever does.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything, because it’s true, she hadn’t expected Hélène to have a bookshelf, as horrible as that makes her feel.

“Yeah. Well, I read a lot. I don’t know. Anatole hasn’t read a book in a million years, but I like them. My mom doesn’t get on my case for reading. You read any Tolstoy? You might like some Tolstoy, actually.”

“I haven’t,” Natasha admits.

“My mom made me read, like, everything he ever wrote. Except War and Peace. She thought that was too much. Whatever, actually, I think you might like this guy,” Hélène says, handing over a thin little book, yellowed and wrinkled with old water damage. The Fall of the House of Usher. “Take it.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says, and awkwardly shoves it into her pocket. 

“ Anyway, ” Hélène says, wandering over to her guitar and running her fingers over the pegs, “I have an - opportunity for you, Natasha.”

“You do?” Natasha asks, and then immediately kicks herself for sounding so excited.

“You know the Moscow theatre?” Hélène asks, plucking the highest string. 

“Of course,” Natasha says. Everyone knows the Moscow theatre, the big slab of Russian architecture two cities over. It’s not insanely big, but it’s got the coolest stage, lots of little loops and pockets of audience members on stage. All good Comets have fond memories of concerts on that stage. 

“My dad got me and Anatole opening a show there, right? Just, like, basically background noise as everyone files in, you know. But we have a problem, because I really want to do this funky little Charming piano piece, but Anatole can’t play electric and I’ve only got two hands, so…” Hélène shrugs, a casual grin on her face.

“You are not inviting me to play at the Moscow theatre. You are not! ” Natasha yelps. 

“Invitation’s open,” Hélène says. “Only problem is it’s the same day as the spring concert.”

“Oh,” Natasha says, and her heart drops to her shiny white sneakers.

“Well…” Hélène chews her lip. “I guess if we went the night before and got everything ready, we’d be able to get back in just enough time. It’s an hour and a half away, our bit ends at one-thirty, back at school right at three?”

Natasha has not wanted anything so badly in her life, actually.

“I’m in,” she says, and she does not think of Sonya or her band or traffic or logistics or practicing or anything except the absolute euphoria of standing on that Moscow stage.

“Brilliant,” Hélène says, giving her a grin, and then linking their arms and walking her towards the door. “Come on. Let’s go swim.”

Natasha follows her. 

-

sonyushka: all good?

nat!!!: yes all good!!

sonyushka: nobody’s drinking?

nat!!!: sonya people are drinking but i cross my heart i have not touched a drop of the devil’s juice

sonyushka: okay good. 

nat!!!: but really it is very chill

nat!!!: how is movie night with bruin

sonyushka: [img0035.jpg]

nat!!!: are you watching cats (2019)???

nat!!!: again???

sonyushka: it’s a camp masterpiece!

sonyushka: also i think jason derulo cat is funny. 

nat!!!: whatever enjoy ur movie <333

nat!!!: HOLD ON

nat!!!: [video007.mp4]

sonyushka: IS THAT ANATOLE KURAGIN?????

nat!!!: YES

sonyushka: oh my god that man is a danger to society where did he get a folding chair

sonyushka: BALAGA???

nat!!!: HE’S HERE FOR SOME REASON

nat!!!: legend has it they’re still fighting over the last shitty grocery store cupcake to this day. 

nat!!!: the legend is me i’m watching them do that

nat!!!: nvm it just fell in the pool. 

sonyushka: rip cupcake 

nat!!!: rip o7

nat!!!: oh wait balaga just ate it anyway

sonyushka: ew?

nat!!!: yeah very nasty

sonyushka: okay go have fun don’t do drugs <3

nat!!!: the only drugs i do are prescription ssris babyyy

Chapter Text

“G5.”

“Hit,” Sonya says, sadly, adding the little peg to her plastic ship. 

Natasha is really good at Battleship. 

“Uh, I8,” Sonya mumbles.

“Miss,” Natasha says, adjusting her crossed legs and jostling Sonya’s mattress. 

“Come on,” Sonya says. “I never get yours.”

“It’s because you always guess in the same pattern,” Natasha says, leaning her head on one hand. She picks at her game pieces half-heartedly.

“No I don’t,” Sonya scoffs.

“Yes you do,” Natasha rebuffs. “F5.”

“Hit,” Sonya says, and watches her little cruiser sink under the weight of Natasha’s dead accuracy. Natasha doesn’t even cheer. “A1.”

“Miss,” Natasha says, not even looking at her board. She stares at the window crank.

Sonya waits, picking at the hem of her shorts, pulling out a loose thread.

“Nat, it’s your turn,” she finally prods.

“Oh. G5.” she says, shaking her head.

“You already said that. Hey, are you good ? Is something wrong?” Sonya reaches out for Natasha’s hand. 

“No, I’m fine,” Natasha says, squeezing Sonya’s hand back reassuringly. Her rings are cold on Sonya’s skin.

“Nothing happened at the party?” Sonya’s stomach clenches a little. She doesn’t like parties for a reason.

“No, no, I’ve just - Sonya, it’s stupid,” Natasha says, rubbing her forehead.

“Come on, tell me,” Sonya begs.

“I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking. About Andrei.” Natasha sighs, rubbing her knee with her palm. “I just - I miss him a lot.”

“You haven’t seen him in, what, three months? Four? At winter break? And you haven’t really seen him since last summer,” Sonya offers.

“And he’s not really been...we haven’t really talked and I just don’t know .” Natasha bites her thumbnail.

Sonya closes the Battleship boards, letting them click into place.

“I don’t know if he really...I don’t know if he’s okay. I’m worried about him. And he’s in France, so it’s not like I can just drive over and check on him, and he won’t pick up his phone and I know it’s just because he’s busy with school but I just want to talk to him again!” Natasha says, curling her arms around her knees and blinking away the shine in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Sonya says, giving Bruin a preparatory squeeze before passing him over to Natasha. Natasha takes him, gratefully, and hugs him tight.

“And he’s been gone so long I can’t even tell if I like him anymore,” Natasha mumbles. “Like what if he comes back and I just - I don’t love him anymore? And I’ve never had anyone else, I haven’t dated anyone, I mean, I got together with him ninth grade, and now he’s in college and it’s been like three years, what if I just - what if I wasted all that time?”

“Oh, Natasha,” Sonya says, softly. “I think you should just talk to him.”

“I’m trying! I’m trying ,” Natasha sobs, her face all wet and twisted, and Sonya’s whole chest caves in on itself. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, weakly. “I - if you need anything I’m here.”

“I know you are, Sonya,” Natasha says. “I know.”

Sonya gives her a quiet minute to gather herself again. Natasha always appreciates that.

She didn’t realize how much Andrei being gone must be hurting Natasha. She didn’t even think about it, really. It’s never felt like Andrei’s been here. He’s a ghost, almost. Communicating via Skype calls and sporadic texts and the occasional email of France photos and that’s it.

It’s been a year since he’s been here, in person. A whole year. 

It feels like a lot, the longer Sonya thinks about it. Too much.

“Hey, Sonya, wanna know how I actually win?” Natasha whispers, sniffling.

Sonya nods.

“I can see your game board in your glasses.”

“You can’t, ” Sonya gasps, grabbing her glasses off her face with the rage of a million lost games. “No!”

Natasha laughs, a little, and Sonya feels just a little more at ease. And also betrayed. But mostly at ease.

-

nat!!! & andrei

nat!!!: andrei?

nat!!! started a call. 

nat!!!: please pick up 

nat!!!: you know im worried abt you

nat!!!: and i really miss you

nat!!! ended the call. 

nat!!!: i guess i’ll talk to you some other time. tell me what works for you. 

nat!!!: text me back

-

nat!!! & hélène k

nat!!!: hi hélène!

hélène k: hey natasha what’s up??

nat!!!: you know what? i forget

nat!!!: well. anyway. ill see you next monday?

hélène k: fuck yeah kuragins & co rehearsal!

hélène k: see you then natasha. 

hélène k: ❤️

nat!!!: im so excited!!!

nat!!!: <33333

-

sonyushka & andrei

sonyushka: andrei you have got to call natasha.

sonyushka: i am not joking, andrei, she had a breakdown over this. 

sonyushka: if you don’t start TALKING to your GIRLFRIEND she will break up with you.

sonyushka: i’m so fucking serious. text her back. like actually

Chapter Text

Hélène’s room has got to be soundproofed. 

Natasha cracks open the heavy wood door and bam, Anatole and Hélène right in the middle of rehearsal, with nary a peep from the other side of the wall. 

(Maybe she had earbuds in. It doesn’t matter.)

Rich people. 

Anatole, clad in a faded COMETS STRING QUARTET t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, greets her with a faux hat-tip, but Hélène slips out from her piano bench and hops over to greet her with a tight hug and a light squeal, her hair getting in Natasha’s mouth and her arms wrapping around her shoulders. She smells like vanilla extract and bike grease, and squeezes Natasha so tight she can feel her heart in her throat and almost drops her guitar case.

“Natasha!” Hélène cheers, and she smacks her lips on Natasha's cheek before pulling back and looking at her with a messy, slightly wild grin. “I'm so glad you came!”

“Hi, Hélène,” Natasha greets, resisting the urge to touch her face where Hélène's lips were. 

“Come sit! Or do you like to stand? We have amps and cords and all that,” Hélène says, gesturing at the power bars and snaking cables around her feet. “I have the music up on a stand, chords are all written down, it's fairly easy. I'll show ya. Oh, Dolokhov’s late. He’s always late.”

“Hey, Nat,” Anatole says, drawing out the y. He plucks a violin string. Natasha digs her nails into her forearms. 

“Hello, Ana,” Natasha responds, biting her cheek to keep from shouting. Anatole Kuragin is at the bottom of the list of people allowed to call her Nat. 

Hélène laughs and shoves Anatole in the shoulder. He looks offended but resigned. 

“Ignore him. We have a tuner, too,” Hélène says. “Make yourself comfortable and we’ll get going.”

Natasha gingerly sets down her guitar case, then unclasps the clips and cracks it open.

She loves her guitar. She got a summer job for this guitar. It was too expensive from the weird little music store downtown, and she knows she should have just gotten a nicer, less expensive, classic model, but this shiny, iridescent acrylic thing is both cool and heavy as hell. It flickers like snow and it is her most prized possession and she would literally burn down a building for it. For her .

(Maybe Natasha names and personifies her instruments. If she didn’t want to be named and personified, she shouldn’t have looked so much like a Luna.)

Natasha lifts Luna out of her case and pulls the cornflower blue strap over her head, tests a few chords. She sounds nice, clean. Natasha tuned her before she left. 

“ Nice ,” Hélène exclaims, tossing Natasha a cord.

“Right?” Natasha returns, looking up at Hélène, who grins at her. 

Natasha plugs in the guitar, gets herself situated. The amp is way too nice. She sort of feels like she shouldn’t be allowed to use it. 

“Nice. Okay, so, the guitar is fairly easy. We wanted it to be a bit more fun. A little more modern. So, you’re just adding texture. You’re just gonna -” And Hélène reaches around Natasha’s shoulders and wraps her hand around hers, adjusts her fingers into the right positions, and yes she was right it’s pretty easy, just a couple tricky hammer-ons and a fun slide, but Natasha can barely think about that when Hélène is right there and God she is distracted.

She focuses very, very hard on the parallel lines on the sheet music in front of her and tries very, very hard not to think about how soft Hélène’s hands are.

“You got it,” Hélène says, before Natasha even registers she’s learned anything, and then they are playing the song and Natasha’s playing too, because she guesses she must have absorbed something, and man, the Kuragins are talented.

Anatole is an asshole, but he kills it on the violin. He sways with it, swings with it, hovers the bow just right and, well, Natasha doesn’t know shit about classical music, but she knows that he definitely knows what he’s doing. And Hélène’s piano is quick and darting and very lovely. 

And her voice.

It’s so good. So deep and so heavy and so inviting. Natasha is enchanted. It plays so well with this song, with this Charming, that jazzy sound with this pulsing electric guitar in the background, and yeah, Natasha’s missing notes and lagging behind but with Hélène singing, she could very well be throwing tambourines like frisbees in the background and no one would notice.

Hélène sweeps across the piano, and her head flips back and she grins at Natasha while she finishes the song, and Natasha feels like she’s front-row at a theatre, caught in the flypaper of an actor’s eyeline.

And then there is silence.

Complete, dead silence, just buzzing amps and breathing.

Hélène opens her mouth to say something, but then Anatole’s phone buzzes.

“Dolokhov,” he says, without even checking, and then he strides out the door without even setting down his instrument.

More silence.

“You sounded really good for a first shot, Natasha,” Hélène says, finally, walking over to her amp, twisting something or other.

“I’ll practice, I promise,” Natasha says, her chest and arms still buzzing with music. “You were wonderful.”

Hélène stands up, and she is very close to Natasha, which almost startles her. “You think so?” she says, her voice low.

“Yeah, I think so,” Natasha says.

Hélène starts to lean in, and Natasha nods, gently, before she can think twice.

And then Hélène kisses her full on the mouth. 

Natasha wanted this so badly. 

She can’t even lie. She knew she wanted this. She knew she wanted this from the moment Hélène grabbed her hand and the moment Hélène told her to get that dress and complimented her legs and very honestly from the first time she saw Hélène play that green electric. She knew she wanted and she came here anyway. 

Nobody has made her feel like this, wanted, desired, pretty, perfect, in so long. 

She does not pull away. 

She expects Hélène to yank away, to laugh in her face, to do something brash and horrible and to see everything clatter to the ground like a drum set in a tornado. Hélène doesn’t. Hélène doesn’t say a word as she presses her forehead to Natasha’s and holds there. 

Natasha knows this is a mistake. 

But she is a very kind, beautiful mistake, and so when Hélène puts her arms around Natasha’s waist, Natasha gives into it. 

-

sonyushka & nat!!!

sonyushka: where ARE you?????????

nat!!!: FUCK i’m sorry i got caught up

nat!!!: home very very soon

nat!!!: i will get doritos

sonyushka: i guess i can forgive you :///////

sonyushka: get me some mountain dew please

nat!!!: what are you, a gamer?

sonyushka: i’ll have you know my sims 4 household is thriving

sonyushka: but you know what is not thriving. my english homework

sonyushka: i need caffeine in the form of neon green soft drinks 

nat!!!: me and your father found light-up cat ear headphones in your room and we’re worried about you sofia

sonyushka: AJFBDSJHBSJDKFBSJDHFBSDKFB

sonyushka: YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. HOLD ON

nat!!!: it’s okay if you’re a gamer girl we understand and love you regardless but…

sonyushka: [0083.mp4]

sonyushka: I BOUGHT THEM IRONICALLY!!!!

nat!!!: HELP

sonyushka: THEY WERE ON SALE TODAY AND MY HEADPHONES BROKE

nat!!!: i literally cannot believe this 

sonyushka: blame marya d she texted me about it. i think she bought a pair for pierre

nat!!!: CATBOY PIERRE?????

nat!!!: cursed

sonyushka: [nya.jpg]

nat!!!: i HATE you sonya you’re my enemy forever 

sonyushka: don’t you mean. enemy furever

nat!!!: im disowning myself. goodbye

sonyushka: disowoning yourself?

nat!!!: STOP

nat!!!: (also they do look very cute on you and i hate that they do. who gave you the right to pull off light up cat ear headphones)

sonyushka: god did

sonyushka: wait. Hold on.

sonyushka: [img0037.jpg]

sonyushka: gamer bear bruin real

nat!!!: SJHKFBSJDKFBSJKDHBFSJDFBSDJKFBSDJHFBDSJ

nat!!!: ily <3

sonyushka: <3333 

Chapter Text

“Hey, do you know how to tie a tie?” Marya D asks, staring at her phone with one hand tangled in her skinny black tie.

“Easter Sunday flashbacks,” Sonya laughs, lacing up her boots. It’s been a long time since she’s had to tie a tie, and she fully intends to never tie one again.

Marya B silently steps over and knots it in just a second. 

“Thanks,” Marya D says, and then she glances down at the knot and follows with “Dude, that’s sick, how’d you even tie it like that?”

Sonya leans over to take a peek. It sort of looks like it’s been braided. 

“My dad likes it like that,” Marya B says, tugging at her turtleneck. 

“It’s cool as hell,” Marya D exclaims, and then she adjusts it around her neck and leans against the wall. “Natasha, how’s it going?”

“I just need one more second!” Natasha calls out frantic from the bathroom, and Sonya hears her clatter brushes and pens as she rustles around. Marya D chuckles.

The bathroom door unlocks and Natasha swings into the doorway.

“Holy shit ,” Marya D says.

Natasha’s in a baby-pink nightgown with big puffy sleeves, long down to her knees with an edge of eyelet lace, a cut up to her thigh. There’s a vinyl cut-out of the Birth of Venus on it. She has white socks on, heavy black shoes with a little bit of a platform, her hair pulled up in a big lovely cloud on top of her head. She looks adorable .

“Mm?” Natasha says, grinning, and she spins around, the skirt flowing around her calves, and Marya B claps twice. 

“Ahhh, Natasha, you look so fucking cool ,” Marya D exclaims.

“I feel so fucking cool,” Natasha says, full of energy and brilliance. She bounds over to Sonya and gives her a tight, warm squeeze, then grabs both Maryas, too. Sonya loves it when Natasha gets excited like this. 

Together, they stare at each other in Natasha’s skinny little mirror. Marya D in her dress shirt and tie, ripped jeans over fishnets and low-top red sneakers; Sonya in her silly obnoxious light purple puff-sleeve top with the nice V and satiny shine, her pair of basketball shorts, her awesome purple boots; Marya B in her plaid skirt and Macbeth shirt with a stripey long-sleeve under that; Natasha in her dress. 

“We look awesome ,” Natasha says, then laughs, tosses her arm around Marya B’s shoulder.

“Mm-hm,” Sonya agrees, tugging at the bottom of her shorts.

“You want a skirt, Sonya?” Natasha asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah,” Sonya says, quietly. 

“Yeah. Okay, hold on,” Natasha says, and darts off.

“Marya, close your eyes,” Marya D says, and Marya B, confused, does as she’s asked. The elder Marya whips out her old eyeliner pen and gives the younger Marya a quick flick on each eyelid, smudging the mark with her finger. Sonya can't help but laugh.

Marya B blinks at herself in the mirror.

“You look good,” Sonya says, genuinely. 

Marya B giggles. “I like it,” she says, swirling her skirt around her calves.

Natasha comes back with a nice little blue skirt and a pair of shorts for Sonya, which she darts off to change into, and she comes back to Natasha in a laughing fit. She wheezes out something incoherent, leaning hard on Marya B's shoulder.

Sonya takes a shot of all of them in the mirror. 

They look nuts. They look perfect.

-

the russian blues

sonyushka: [us.jpg]

sonyushka: look at us <333

nat!!!: [0394727.png]

sonyushka: KSKDKSKDKSKFKSKFJKDKRJR

nat!!!: this is what your photoshop lessons become sonya

dmitrievna: What is that

Marya Bolkonskaya: ????

sonyushka: omg you guys haven't met bruin yet 

sonya: he's my djungelskog and I love him

dmitrievna: I don't understand your kid lingo

sonya: we're literally the same age marya

-

hélène k & nat!!!

hélène k: you know what i love about you natasha

hélène k: you dont look at me like they do no youd never say look at me i fucked helene what a whore what a slut shes hot and she’s disgustinf anf im gonna tell eveurone i slept with her in graffoti on the basthroom wall

hélène k: helene is a slut helene is a slut why am i the slut why does evruone thing im a slut 

hélène k: why foesnt anyone look at me like i could be sometjing more than hot why cany i be pretty or normal why fo i have to be yhe one whos sexy whos that girl whos the whore i just want people to stop callong me a fucking whore

hélène k: i never slept with any of the people who say i have you know why 

hélène k: rhey are assjoles who realizefvthey could just lie and get a way wuth it

hélène k: the girls are worse almost

hélène k: it’s the ones who think theyre uplofyijf women whobthink theyre feminist but in that stupid fake way who alway scall me a slut but they won’t say slut they never say slut they say i respext your lifestyle choices always practise safe sex then look at me weurd everygtime i see them and they ducking tedt their friends or say whatva daring outfit lke id rather youd just spit on me and call me a filthy whore 

hélène k: i should be allowed to be as prmiscuous as i want what happened to bldily automomy andywa bht im not 

hélène k: and you know i think i might eb a lesbian anyway

hélène k: which is FUCKED UP if you think about it

nat!!!: hélène are you ok???

hélène k: oh i thought youd be adleep

hélène k: yeah

nat!!!: are you sure?

hélène k: i’m just drunk

hélène k: lmaooooooooo

hélène k: do i hate kyself?? ivthink i hate musekf

nat!!!: how much did you drink?

hélène k: idk i dropped the bottle befors i cold fibidh it 

nat!!!: i’m coming over right now

-

Sonya - sorry, don’t worry, I’m just at a friend’s house because she texted me. Give me a call if you need me. 

Natasha

Chapter Text

Natasha finds Hélène exactly where she expected to find her. Right on the floor of the Kuragin’s white marble kitchen, leaning on the drawers next to the oven, sitting there in a stained T-shirt and green pyjama shorts, hair untended, stiff and bowed like a tossed-aside doll. 

What she was not expecting was the blood, which yanks her heart up to her throat and has her running to Hélène’s side. It’s splattered her shirt, her shorts, around her mouth, a pool on the reflective white tile, and as Natasha is grabbing Hélène’s shoulders, she realizes it isn’t blood, it’s wine, and there is wine and little bits of burgundy glass everywhere, and she hears it crunch under her shoes as she sits back on her haunches. 

“Hélène,” Natasha says, and Hélène looks at her with a dull, slow expression. 

“N’tasha,” Hélène says, her voice slanted and off. “Y’came.”

“Of course I came. Are you okay? Where’s your family?” Natasha asks, checking Hélène’s pulse. Hélène swats her away lazily, and she backs off. 

“I dunno, dunno...Anatole’s with fuck-ing Fedya an’tha whole crew...parents went...somewhere I don’remember. Dropped the fucking bottle.” Hélène leans her temple against the handle of the oven door. 

“Your poor feet,” Natasha says, softly, as she glances down and sees little paper-cut pokes where the glass has cut the soles of Helene’s feet. “And your legs…does it hurt?”

“Like a bitch ,” Hélène says, and then laughs like a horse. 

“Okay. I’m gonna - okay. You’re drunk.” 

“Newsflash,” Hélène mumbles, one hand slipping off her stomach and onto the floor. 

Natasha has never seen Hélène this drunk. It’s a little frightening. More than a little frightening. 

“I’m gonna call someone to come and look after you, and I’m gonna clean up all this, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t die of alcohol poisoning while I wait, okay?”

Hélène doesn’t say anything at all. 

“Can I call your brother? Is there anyone who might be able to come make sure you’re all right?”

“By’all means, call A-na-tole, s’not like he cares about me ,” Hélène says, fumbling for her phone, putting her thumb on the fingerprint reader and shoving it in Natasha’s direction. 

Natasha takes it, clicks on the little address book, finds the contact listed as Anatole, middle finger emoji, and calls him. 

It rings. He does not pick up. His voicemail is full. 

Natasha could crush Hélène’s phone into tiny bits. 

“Okay, he didn't pick up, uh - is there anyone else?” Natasha asks.

Hélène slaps her on the shoulder, passively. “Ippolit,” she says, “m’older brother.”

Natasha looks up Ippolit, finds a contact called Ippolit, whale emoji, and clicks it. 

The phone rings a few times, but finally Natasha hears a bleary voice say “Hello?”

“Ippolit?” Natasha asks. 

“Hélène?”

“No, I'm not -”

“ Eeeee- po- leeeett ,” Hélène shouts. 

“I'm sorry to call you so late, Hélène's just a bit of a mess right now and I don't - I don't know what to do,” Natasha says, trying not to cry. “Can you - could you come and check in on her?”

“Oh, gosh,” he says. 

“Who’s that?” comes another voice from the phone. 

“It’s Hélène, Ishmael,” Ippolit says. 

“S’his boyfriend,” Hélène explains in a very loud whisper, flicking her hand dismissively. 

“Ishmael? Like the guy from Moby Dick?” Natasha frowns, covering the phone mic with her palm. 

Hélène shrugs. 

“I - I can’t come now. I’m in Nova Scotia. Whaling. I mean not really. I mean we are looking at whales. And I’m on a boat. To look at the whales. Yeah.” 

“Oh,” Natasha says, flatly. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Also I think I’m disowned. But, uh, I could text her later? Check in?” 

“Okay. Yeah, that would be good.”

“You can take my number and text me afterwards. Please?” Ippolit says, his voice so worried, and Natasha grips Hélène’s phone even tighter. 

“Yes, of course, I will,” Natasha says, and pulls out her phone, where she sees two frantic texts from Sonya. 

sonyushka: natasha where the hell are you

sonyushka: natasha I am freaking the fuck out

nat!!!: im ok

She responds quickly, shifts back to Ippolit, signs off, adds him as a contact, texts Sonya back. 

nat!!!: sonya i am ok but i need your help and i need you not to make fun of me

sonyushka: what did you do

nat!!!: i am at the kuragins house

“Ippolit’s gay,” Hélène proclaimes. 

“Mm,” Natasha says.

sonyushka: YOU ARENT. 

nat!!!: hélène is having a breakdown please come and help me deal with her

sonyushka: for real?

nat!!!: yes for real. 

“And i’sweird cause I was little when m’parents foundout, like - fuck - dunno like twelve maybe eleven,” Hélène continues. 

sonyushka: oh my lord. 

sonyushka: be there asap

nat!!!: thanks

nat!!!: oh bring bandaids

“An’ he wassof to - whereverthefuck he wento school. And my dad jus’. Jus’topped talkin’ to’im. It’d be a birthday or somethin’ and I’d be like ‘where’s Ippolit’, y’know, ‘where the fuck is Ippolit’. An’ he’d say ‘Ippolit’s at college,’ always Ippolit’s at coll-ege. But he nev-er got home. Ever. Not f’Christmas or Eaz-ter or - whatever. An’ I didn’t know. Where he was. Until my brother toldme. Tolme. Said ‘Ippolit’s gay’. An’ I was like ‘whasthat.’ An’ hesaid ‘Ippolit fallsin love with boys . S’gay. Like me, I’m gaykinda. I like boysngirls, s’called bi-sex-u-al. An’ you can’tell any -one. Specially not Dad. He doen’tlike that.’ So I din’t. Tell anyone. An’ I han’t seen Ippolit ‘n like...five years. Isn’t that fucked ?” 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says. 

“An’ it’szlike I might be gay too I mean I was al -waysin’o girls. But liiiiike jus’girls.” Hélène’s head sort of lolls to the side as she waves a hand vaguely. 

“Is there a broom somewhere?” Natasha asks, opening another perfect white cabinet to find nothing but glassware. 

Hélène laughs. 

“An' it's weird and fucked up cause like y'know I'm the sluuuuut . I got this fuckin' - rep- u- ta- shun . Of sleeping with guys. Which iza lie, byth'way, notha’ anyone should be call’n anyone anythin’ cause’f that stuff,” Hélène says, gesturing offhandedly.  

“You said,” Natasha responds, finally finding a broom in the cabinet next to the fridge. 

“ Right? An’ it doen’t matter wha’I do. Evr’one thinkszI’m a slut. A whore ‘r a bitch ‘r - canni just be a girl? Like yeah I’ve dated a few people an’ y’know slep’ with a few but izlike they wamme to be a vix-en. Seductress. Bu’I’m not. I’m justa kid. ‘M like...sixteen, Na-tasha. Sixteen! I wish they’d leave me th’ fuck alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, sweeping the glass on Hélène’s left into a little pile. “You are a girl. And it’s not fair, how they talk about you.”

“An’my brother, he’z hot ! S’not a slut , s’not a whore ‘r whatever, they call’m hot! An’iss the same thing. God .” Hélène slaps her hands on her thighs, then looks up at Natasha with big, heavy-lidded, sad eyes. “But you , N’tasha, y’don’ look amme like that. Like they do. You lookamme like ‘m pretty. ”

“You are pretty,” Natasha says. 

Hélène gives her a weak smile. 

“An’ isweird I care s’much about it cause s’not my body. S’my body but isnot. S’not my body. Someone else’s body. I’m jus’ in it. It doesnfit. Doesnfit. S’all wrong, wrong, all wrong. Like. Like it itches, real, really bad y’know like issitchy s’tight at th’ corners. Wha’s this?” she slurs, gesturing at her chest. “S’not mine. Isnot mine. Don’ like it how I look. Shoudn’ have this body. My body doesn’t exist. Wha’ m I doing with - withis body. S’not my body , Natasha.”

“Hélène, that’s not good,” Natasha says, softly. 

“I d’know is just’a way they look at me. Don’like it.” Hélène shakes her head, and her curls spring half-heartedly. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, simply, sweeping the little glass pile to the side and reaching out for Hélène’s hand.

“Mm,” Hélène says, and she fumbles for Natasha’s hand. Natasha helps her to her feet, hefts her arm over her shoulder. Hélène lurches a little.

“I’m just gonna - let’s just get you sitting in that chair, hm?”

Hélène presses her hand to her forehead and stumbles against the counter, the marble pressing against her stomach. She leans over the sink.

Natasha holds Hélène’s hair back and closes her eyes.

“You okay?” Natasha asks, softly, turning on the tap when she’s done. 

Hélène nods, pushes her forehead against Natasha’s shoulder, her hands tugging at Natasha’s waist. She helps her to the chair, settles her down. Hélène pulls her knees to her chest.

“I’m gonna get you some water, I think,” Natasha offers, opening the nearest cabinet to find nothing but various sizes of plates.

“Mm,” Hélène answers. Natasha’s phone buzzes.

sonyushka: i’m getting siri to tell me how to take care of a drunk person. 

sonyushka: if she passes out and you can’t wake her up call 911

nat!!!: i will

nat !!!: she seems ok-ish??? i don’t think she drank enough to give her alcohol poisoning

nat!!!: i’m getting her some water

sonyushka: ok good

“But, li… Ev’ryone feels’like this,” Hélène shrugs. “Like m’body isn’t mine. ‘r yours. Y’know?”

“I don’t think most people feel like that,” Natasha says, pulling out a weirdly light glass from the second cabinet. 

“Y’don’t?” Hélène says, with full and complete surprise.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, staring at Hélène’s fancy stainless steel fridge and trying to figure out the water dispenser interface.

“ Really? ” 

“I don’t think most people feel like that,” Natasha says, pressing a random button and loudly dispensing a single ice cube into her glass. 

Her phone buzzes again, and she checks it as she tosses the ice cube in the sink.

sonyushka: also why do you need bandaids?

nat!!!: she broke a bottle

sonyushka: jesus 

sonyushka: okay i’ll be there in a second hold tight

Natasha finally fills the glass, then steps over and hands it to Hélène. She takes a little sip.

“Thank’ou,” Hélène says, her eyes slipping closed.

“Hey, stay awake,” Natasha says, jostling her shoulder gently. 

“Mm,” Hélène says.

“Sonya’s gonna be here soon and she’s gonna help me take care of you,” Natasha says, gently. “Uh, I hope that’s all right.”

“Sonya!” Hélène cheers, then she giggles loudly and flaps the sleeve of her sweater. “I love Sonya!”

“Good,” Natasha says, genuinely.

“She’so pretty, ” Hélène says, “and so niceeee .” Hélène takes another sip of her water and leans against the arm of the chair.

“Yeah,” Natasha says. 

“I din’t say anythin’ ‘cause I did’t wanna sound weird n freak’r out by tellin’ her speci-spechifically but I was really happy when sh’came to school in tha’ skirt. I know I can’ do much since my dad doen’t like it but if anyone gives’r trouble tell me an’ I’ll take care of it,” Hélène whispers. 

“Thank you,” Natasha says. 

Hélène’s head rests against the back of the chair and her eyes slip closed. Natasha pokes her in the shoulder again. 

“What were you saying?” Natasha asks, vaguely. 

“Uh. Wazsayin’ tha’...Makes me nau-seous whenthey look a’me like that. The boys. I don’t wanna be a girl like that. I don’t wanna. I wanna...I wish I was diff’rent.”

Hélène covers her face with her free hand, limply. 

“Okay,” Natasha says, unsure entirely what to make of this. “I’m going to sit here with you. Sonya’s gonna be here really soon. Do you want me to put on some music?”

Hélène nods. Natasha scrolls through her library of pop, wondering what Hélène would find tolerable.

“Put on...some good shit N’tasha. S’m fuckin’...Vivaldi. Orrrrrrr Holst. Rachmaninoff. Yeah. One of those.” Hélène waves her hand vaguely. 

Natasha laughs, but puts it on anyway, and lets the intense strings fill the kitchen.

“Pierre never let me listen to this ‘cause it r’minded him of his ex!” Hélène shouts, way too loud.

“His ex?” Natasha asks, trying to recall who that could possibly be. 

“Andrei,” Hélène says. 

“ Andrei? ”

“What, y’din’t know? He talked a’bt it aaaaalll the timeee, Pierre,” she says, rolling the R’s in Pierre excessively. “‘hey so weren’t over ea’other ‘hich is why we broke up. ‘N also he threw a table at me,” Hélène says, offhandedly. 

“He what?”

“He w’s realllly drunk ‘n he got mad so he threw a table amme but he’s a bad shot so i’just hit me in the shoulder a lil’. ‘N then we broke up.”

“Christ.”

“Right?” Hélène giggles. “An’ then he called me a slut to everyone. An’ now I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“‘h’ever,” Hélène says, waving her hand dismissively. “S’not your fault.”

And then the woodwinds pick up, and Hélène jams out all by herself, and Natasha picks up her phone. 

-

nat!!! & andrei

nat!!!: you dated pierre?

andrei: what

nat!!!: OH now you respond. 

nat!!!: hélène said so 

andrei: yeah, we dated for a bit. 

andrei: why?

nat!!!: the one who used to catcall me in music class?

nat!!!: the unironic fedora vodka waterbottle reddit guy?

nat!!!: mr devils advocate???

nat!!!: that fucking guy????? is uour ex???

andrei: he’s really not that bad

nat!!!: ???????????

andrei: he just doesn’t get it. 

andrei: look natasha he’s a nice guy he’s just weird. 

nat!!!: i know im not entitled to your entire dating history i know 

nat!!!: but what the fuck man

nat!!!: he threw a table at hélène

nat!!!: a fucking TABLE andrei 

andrei: you know he’s depressed. 

andrei: he was really drinking and it was terrible. he didn’t mean it. 

nat!!!: OKAY???? HE STILL THREW A FUCKING TABLE

nat!!!: I’M DEPRESSED HAVE I EVER THROWN A TABLE AT YOU?

nat!!!: jesus christ andrei

andrei: look Tasha he’s soft and he’s really kind to me. he struggles with a lot and I know he feels horrible for that. I wish you’d understand that he’s a nice guy. 

andrei: I don’t see what any of this has to do with right now. 

nat!!!: it’s that I text you all the time and you never fucking answer until I bring him up

andrei: Marya’s texting

nat!!!: ANDREI. DO NOT. 

nat!!!: YOU CAN TEXT TWO PEOPLE AT THE SAME TIME. 

nat!!!: come ON. 

nat!!!: hélène was right you aren’t over him.

-

andrei & Marya Bolkonskaya

Marya Bolkonskaya: Andrei???

andrei: Masha?

andrei: are you okay?

andrei: did something happen?

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m not in danger I’m okay I think I think I’m okay

andrei: what’s wrong? 

Marya Bolkonskaya: I keep trying to type but it’s not working

andrei: take your time

andrei: it’s okay

Marya Bolkonskaya: [Message deleted.]

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m sorry. 

andrei: Masha it’s okay. 

andrei: it’s really okay. don’t apologize. 

andrei: [Message deleted.]

Marya Bolkonskaya: I don’t think I knew that. 

andrei: well I do. 

andrei: and I love you. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: But I’m afraid Dad knows cause I wrote about it in my journal and it’s gone. 

andrei: shit

Marya Bolkonskaya: I don’t know what happened to it and I’m really scared I don’t know what he’d do

andrei: okay well you have me. 

andrei: I know I’m far but I’m here for you when I can be. 

andrei: could you crash at Natasha’s if needed?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Natasha’s? Yeah, I guess. 

andrei: or Boris’. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yeah. Okay. 

andrei: are you gonna be okay?

Marya Bolkonskaya: I think so. 

andrei: do you want to call?

Marya Bolkonskaya: We can’t talk about it. 

andrei: I can. 

andrei: Dad up?

Marya Bolkonskaya: We just have to be quiet. 

andrei started a call that lasted 29 minutes. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thanks. I feel a lot better now. 

andrei: good. 

andrei: now go to bed Masha it’s late. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Good night. 

andrei: you’ll be ok. promise. 

andrei: love you <3

Marya Bolkonskaya: Love you too. 

Marya Bolkonskaya deleted 2 messages. 

Chapter Text

It takes another half hour for Anatole to come stumbling in the door, with Dolokhov in tow. Anatole giggles loudly and drunkenly, hanging on Dolokhov’s arm, who assures them he’ll get Hélène up to bed safely. Sonya, exhausted, is inclined to trust him, and so she and Natasha climb back into Natasha’s father’s car and drive home. 

“Are you gonna tell me why you were at the Kuragins’?” Sonya asks, adjusting the rearview mirror as Natasha curls up in the passenger seat. 

“I told you. Hélène texted,” Natasha says, dully. 

“I know. I read your note,” Sonya says, turning. “But you barely know each other.”

“I don’t know.” Natasha sounds completely numb. The streetlights gleam off her skin. She taps her fingers on the window. “She was really upset.”

“I could tell,” Sonya says, dryly but lightly.

“She was just drunk,” Natasha says, flat. 

“Really drunk,” Sonya echoes. 

Sonya waits at an empty intersection for the light to blink. Natasha says nothing. 

“Are you okay?” Sonya asks. 

“I’m fine. I’m just sad. I dunno.”

Natasha fiddles with the puffy collar of her white coat.

“I'm a little worried about you,” Sonya says. 

“I promise I'm okay,” Natasha assures. “It's just one of those weeks.”

“Friday,” Sonya says. 

“Friday,” Natasha echoes, with a bit of an unsettled smile. “We sound good.”

“We sound amazing ,” Sonya says, a little puff in her chest about it. 

At the next stoplight, Sonya pulls a bandaid out of the pack in her pocket, crinkles the paper, and sticks it on Natasha’s jacket. Natasha giggles, lightly, and Sonya's worry eases just a little.

Natasha's father is up when they pull into the driveway. The kitchen light is on. 

“Girls,” he says, quietly, when the two of them open the door as silently as possible. He's sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a mug of tea, one of his many little hats perched on his head. “Where were you?”

“One of Natasha's friends had an emergency,” Sonya says, feeling exhausted and about ready to topple over. 

“I'm sorry, papa,” Natasha whines, on the verge of tears, 

“Oh, Tasha,” he says, and she runs to him, lets him give her a nice big warm hug, gentle and affirming and all too forgiving. “It's all right.”

Natasha sniffles, and some horrible part of Sonya wishes it was her being held like that. She stamps it out quickly. 

“If you must stay home tomorrow, I'll tell your mother you have a fever,” he says, then gets up and starts the kettle without being asked, and Natasha and Sonya slump down in the kitchen chairs, trying not to think about waking up for school. 

-

Dolokhov & anatoleee

anatoleee: FEDYAA DOLOKjov. where areyou

anatoleee: i am SOOOOOO FUCKING COLDFDDDD i beed your stupid hot body so i can sleev

anatoleee: sleeb

anatoleee: sleep

Dolokhov: I’m one room over putting your sister to bed. Hold your horses. 

anatoleee: but i miss yiuuuuuuu :(

Dolokhov: I’m going to hold her hand until she falls asleep.

anatoleee: i dont wanns wait

anatoleee: im freezing font you cARE about me

Dolokhov: No, I do not. 

Dolokhov: This is your fault. You drank too much and now you’re in a mood. 

anatoleee: am NOT!!!!

Dolokhov: And Hélène’s clearly very upset about something. You were just acting like an idiot, as you always are. 

Dolokhov: And I’m not your personal space heater. 

anatoleee: u are soo much more thsnhat to meeee <3322332333

anatoleee: and i iusr wanna see my boyfriend and his eally soft faceee 

Dolokhov: I am not your boyfriend. 

anatoleee: :(

anatoleee: but i lvoe you fedya 

Dolokhov: You do not. 

Dolokhov: You like me. 

anatoleee: but i dooiiooooooioi likw so much

anatoleee: i think about u all of the time likeall of the TIME

anatoleee: i love ufor REaL i wanna be ur old man boyfriend andI aanna have a bunch of kids with u or hwatever the fuckjk

Dolokhov: You hate children. 

anatoleee: IT WAS A METAPHORRRRRRR 

anatoleee: wjatever. i htst i like yiu more that how we behvae 

Dolokhov: You don’t love me. You’re just drunk. 

anatoleee: i amDRUNK but i sont lieeeee 

Dolokhov: You lie all the time. You lied and said you only had one drink like fifteen minutes ago. 

Dolokhov: Which is a very stupid lie because I watched you do shots. 

anatoleee: hwatevef 

anatoleee: this is reallll i mean it

Dolokhov: How’s this. You give me your stupid fancy watch so I can make sure Hélène’s all right. 

anatoleee: noiiiiiooioo i need to trakc my sleep

Dolokhov: I will leave if you don’t. 

anatoleee: FINE. 

Dolokhov: And your phone so I can get notifications if something happens

Dolokhov: And also to delete this conversation because you don’t want to remember it. 

anatoleee: you dont know my PASSWORD hah

Dolokhov: Yes I do. You’re basically an 11 year old boy so it’s definitely 6969

anatoleee: come onnnn

anatoleee: fedya :((((

Dolokhov: You are literally the only person who calls me that except for my mom. 

anatoleee: but you love itttttt

Dolokhov: No I don’t. 

anatoleee: u are SOOO mean

Dolokhov: Okay. 

anatoleee: what are you doing i hear nouses

Dolokhov: I’m getting Hélène some water and advil and a granola bar for tomorrow morning. 

anatoleee: pretty please will you get some for ne tooo

Dolokhov: Fine. 

anatoleee: thank you ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

anatoleee: TRAIOTR

anatoleee: COME BAKCCC

Dolokhov: Oh my God I’m literally just putting your watch on Hélène. Calm down or I’m sleeping on her floor instead. 

anatoleee: im sorry :(

anatoleee: do you forgive me fedya :(

Dolokhov: Absolutely not. Give me your phone when I come in. 

Dolokhov: Also I’m paying myself for dealing with you. 

anatoleee: fine :(((

-

anatoleee & Dolokhov 

anatoleee hid 60 messages.

anatoleee: You’ll thank me later, Anatole. 

-

drubetsboy & nat!!!

nat!!!: hey boris!

nat!!!: so. kinda weird question

nat!!!: you got a binder laying around? it is for a friend

nat!!!: i assume you don’t need one anymore HDHDHDGXHDVXV 

drubetsboy: Youre in luck!!

drubetsboy: I found one in my closet 2day. 

drubetsboy: [img8942.jpg]

drubetsboy: Sizr large 37-40in chest measurement does that work?

nat!!!: YES that sounds right

nat!!!: i can offer you fourteen dollars in loose change and some chocolate chocolate chip cookies

drubetsboy: Bro just take it

drubetsboy: Actually no I want cookies 

nat!!!: understandable theyre really good

nat!!!: ill drop em off tomorrow in english

drubetsboy: Gotcha

-

Marya Bolkonskaya & andrei

Marya Bolkonskaya: [Message deleted.]

Marya Bolkonskaya: I don’t know what to do about this. I feel sick all the time now. 

andrei: I think I should come home. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: No it’s really fine. Stay there. 

andrei: spring break is coming up soon and I can come home then. 

andrei: you’re really struggling and I don’t want anything to happen. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Nothing’s going to happen. Really I’m okay. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Dad’s not been well at all. I don’t want you to have to deal with that. 

andrei: you’ve been dealing with it this whole time. 

andrei: it’s about time I visit, anyway. 

andrei: I want to hug my sister because I miss her. and love her. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: I miss you too. 

andrei: I found a ticket a couple hours after my last class Friday. 

andrei: I’m just going to come down.

Marya Bolkonskaya: I want to talk you out of it but I know you won’t listen. 

andrei: you’re right 

andrei: did you ever find the journal?

Marya Bolkonskaya: He was using it as a coaster. 

andrei: do you think he read it?

Marya Bolkonskaya: No. He can’t read my script by himself. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Also it’s in French and Amélie had yesterday and today off. 

andrei: okay that’s good. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: I hid it better. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: And I need to go give him his medication now, actually. 

andrei: okay love you

Marya Bolkonskaya: Love you too. 

andrei: see you soon. 

Marya Bolkonskaya deleted 1 message. 

-

Marya Bolkonskaya & nat!!!

Marya Bolkonskaya: Will you send me that rabbit breathing thing again? I can’t seem to find it. 

nat!!!: sure!!!

nat!!!: [anxietybunny.gif]

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you. 

nat!!!: everything okay chez marya??

Marya Bolkonskaya: Everything’s good. 

nat!!!: ok good!!! ily!!!

Marya Bolkonskaya: Andrei’s coming home next week for the break. 

nat!!!: is he??? 

Marya Bolkonskaya: He only just decided. 

nat!!!: huh

nat!!!: well i’m glad you’ll get to see him again!

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you. ❤️

nat!!!: holy shit you used an emoji

-

the russian blues

nat!!!: BREAKIBG NEWS EVERYONE. MARYA B USED AN EMOJI

nat!!!: [Screenshot_at _01.34.04_AM_March_28.jpg]

sonyushka: holy shit

dmitrievna: Good for her?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Was this really breaking news?

nat!!!: absolutely. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: How do I change my name?

nat!!!: little buttons on the top left hit change display name

Marya Bolkonskaya’s nickname changed to Marya Bolkonskaya, certified emoji user

nat!!!: HELP AKSHDJCHCJCH

-

Are you sure you want to change this contact name from Marya (the tall one) to Marya, emoji user ❤️ ?

Yes             No

Chapter Text

“Fifteen minutes!” Sonya declares, turning off her amp with the toe of her shoe. “Then we should work on The Salt.”

“Agreed,” Natasha says, stretching her fingers and shaking out her hands. Across the room, Marya D retracts her brushes and tosses the towel back over her snare, and Sonya takes off her headphones and hangs them on her bass stand, rubbing her shoulder.

“You sounded really good. Today, I mean,” Marya B whispers, delicately taking out her earplugs and locking them in their little plastic case. They’re hip to hip on the piano bench, Natasha squinting at the sheet music to plunk out her chords while Marya’s melody carries through perfectly. 

“You too,” Natasha says, watching Marya’s thin fingers play out a scale. Her grid-patterned button-up is rolled up to her elbows. She has nice arms, which Natasha feels bad for noticing. Sturdy and long and dusted with faint medium-brown hair and faint medium-brown freckles. There is a long pink scar diagonal across her left forearm. 

“I’m sorry, I have to ask,” Natasha blurts, pointing at her arm. “Are you okay? Now, I mean. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Yes,” Marya says, solidly, softly, tilting her head to one side. “Yes, I’m all right now. Do you want me to -” she tugs down her sleeve a hair. 

“No! No, I don’t care,” Natasha assures. “It’s cool. Anyway, I heard the team made it through semifinals?”

“Yeah,” Marya says, poking at middle C with a barely concealed grin on her face. “We go to Moscow next week.”

“Right, Sonya said,” Natasha recalls. “Congrats. Break a leg, or I guess don’t do that, but you know what I mean.”

Marya giggles. “You can just say good luck.”

“Well, good luck,” Natasha says, who opens her mouth to say you’ll be great but is promptly interrupted by Marya D slapping the crash cymbal heartily. Sonya and Marya B both start. 

“I got in to fucking Moscow!” Marya D shouts, staring at her phone screen. 

“The conservatory?” Sonya asks, faintly. 

“No, the deli. Yes, the fucking conservatory!” Marya yells, foot slamming on the kick pedal, a wild hammering. “Holy shit!”

“That’s amazing!” Natasha says. 

“Oh, fuck yes,” she says, and Natasha watches as she, unable to do anything else with her boundless energy, runs over and gives Sonya a giant celebratory hug, shaking her vigorously. “Oh my God my parents still think I’m gonna come out doing classical cello. Oh my God that’s gonna be so funny.”

“Congrats,” Natasha yelps, hopping out of her seat to pile onto the hug, which becomes a giant tangle of laughter and long arms. Marya B follows, quietly. Marya D squeezes them all tightly by the waist, then pulls away and extricates herself from the pile. 

“You know, it’s cool,” Marya D says, nonchalantly, and Natasha watches Marya B’s little nose crinkle as she giggles. 

-

dmitrievna & Marya Bolkonskaya

Marya Bolkonskaya: Hi, Marya. I have a question for you. 

dmitrievna: Cool what’s up

Marya Bolkonskaya: How did you know you were a lesbian?

dmitrievna: Cute girl in music class and a fixation on perfume ads

dmitrievna: How did YOU know you were a lesbian. riddle me that 

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m not a lesbian. 

dmitrievna: Oh shit right

dmitrievna: Lmao

dmitrievna: sorry

Marya Bolkonskaya: It’s okay. 

dmitrievna: Hey man I’m always down to talk lesbianism if you’ve got questions or something 

Marya Bolkonskaya: That would be nice. 

dmitrievna started a voice call that lasted 2 hours 36 minutes. 

dmitrievna: [genderslider06.png]

dmitrievna: [butchfemmeterms.jpg]

dmitrievna: [JSUDC_sexualityflowchart958467963.jpg]

dmitrievna: https://youtu.be/9u4MRCINeks

dmitrievna: [Screenshot_at_06.29.42_PM_March_29.jpg]

dmitrievna: [WhatIsCompHet.docx]

dmitrievna: [2848_rudJD648Hdv_ace_identity_intersects.jpg]

dmitrievna: [lesbian_v_bisexual_v_queeralt;3.png]

dmitrievna: [stonebutchblues_lesliefeinberg.pdf]

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you. I’m sorry if I sounded old-fashioned or out of date. 

dmitrievna: No worries man you’ve got your heart in the right place

dmitrievna: You are very sure you aren’t a lesbian?

Marya Bolkonskaya: Yes. 

dmitrievna: Because I’m going to be blunt those are some not heterosexual thoughts and feelings that you have about her

dmitrievna: I get it I really do but also you should maybe think about it a little more

Marya Bolkonskaya: I’m not a lesbian. I shouldn’t have said anything. It isn’t like that with her. We’re friends. 

dmitrievna: Okay

dmitrievna: But it would be okay if it was more than that

dmitrievna: I want to make sure you know 

Marya Bolkonskaya: But it isn’t. 

dmitrievna: In the hypothetical situation in which you are attracted to women I am assuring you that it is perfectly fine to crush on your lady friends

dmitrievna: Look man I’m a butch russian lesbian raised orthodox I know it’s hard to come to terms with but it is okay to love women. It’s actually pretty fucking awesome 

dmitrievna: I know it can super tough to deal with religion and being queer I mean I had to switch congregations when I started being open about it and me & my parents go to different churches but once I reconciled being Christian and being a lesbian I found a lot of joy in it. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: How do you mean?

dmitrievna: God made me a lesbian for a reason I get to experience joy and happiness and beauty in my attraction to women that I was given by Him

dmitrievna: So yeah

dmitrievna: It’s hard to explain 

dmitrievna: Also there are gay penguins so if penguins can be gay so can I

Marya Bolkonskaya: I think I get it. 

Marya Bolkonskaya: Thank you again. 

dmitrievna: Anytime 

dmitrievna: Honk honk or whatever penguins say

-

Dolokhov & anatoleee 

anatoleee: did you pickpocket me???

anatoleee: also where the fuck is my watch

Dolokhov: You were being a brat so I took your wallet. 

Dolokhov: I’ll give it back in music.

anatoleee: i hate you

Dolokhov: Not what you said yesterday, but okay. 

anatoleee: what did i say yesterday???

Dolokhov: I think you’ll find you’ll remember things better if you don’t get blackout drunk. 

anatoleee: fuck youuuuuuu

Dolokhov: Also I’m confiscating your fake ID. 

anatoleee: NOOOOOOOOO

anatoleee: fedya :(

anatoleee: :((((((

-

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Check-in

Hi Hélène,

I’m just sending you a quick check-in email. I want to make sure all is well with you. You know Ishmael and I are here for you if you ever need anything at all. 

Regards,

Ippolit (he/him)

From: [email protected]  

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Check-in

oh my god why cant you just text me like a normal person?? 

but ya i'm ok

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Check-in

Hi Hélène,

I'm glad to hear that. I was very worried about you. I hope you're taking care of yourself. It's not good for you to drink. You're too young. 

I prefer email communication because it does not depend on access to your phone. Also, Dad never checked my emails.

Have you consulted with any of the specialists I sent you a few months back? 

Regards,

Ippolit (he/him)

From: [email protected]  

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Check-in

lmao. lame

no i haven't i just haven't had the time.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Check-in

Hélène,

That’s very understandable. I hope you find some time to check them out. You understand that mental illness is not a thing you can brush aside and that our family history makes us all prone to depression and various other such things. Please take care of yourself. 

Ishmael says hi. 

Regards,

Ippolit (he/him)

From: [email protected]  

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Check-in

k

Chapter Text

“Show me that one more time,” Natasha says, plucking at the strings and fiddling with her hand positioning. Hélène’s all wrapped around her, hand on hand, her chest against Natasha’s back. They’re perched on the edge of Hélène’s bed, cords piled up at their feet.

“It’s basically just C,” Hélène says, “I know you know how to do this.” 

“No, I don’t,” Natasha says, unconvincingly. 

“You just like that I’m right here,” Hélène says, pulling her a little tighter and kissing her on the neck, her hair tickling her shoulder. Natasha giggles.

“Oh no ,” Natasha says, with fake drama. “I’ve forgotten how to play guitar. Will you pretty please show me the entire song?”

“Of course,” Hélène says, and then she does just that, runs the whole song with her fingers on Natasha’s, her other hand around Natasha’s waist, her deep lovely voice murmuring the lyrics right by Natasha’s ear. 

Andrei never did anything like this. Not even close. She can count on zero fingers the number of times they were this close for this long. 

“You okay?” Hélène asks, pulling the guitar strap over her head and tenderly setting Luna back in her soft case. 

“I don’t know,” Natasha says, and she feels her spine slump. “I’ve been sad. I don’t know why.”

“Oh,” Hélène pouts, putting her arm around Natasha’s shoulder, cold fingers on her bicep. Her cheek presses against her arm. Natasha closes her eyes. 

“ Lelyaaaaaa ,” Anatole drawls, throwing open the door without knocking or looking up from his phone. Natasha starts. “Has Dad called you?”

Natasha tries to pull herself away from Hélène’s arms, but her grip is firm, so Anatole must not care, and it must be okay that they are so close, so Natasha relaxes. 

“No,” Hélène says, smooth. Natasha feels the motion of her jaw on her shoulder. 

“‘Cause I got a weird voicemail. Oh, hi Natasha.”

“Hi, Anatole.” Natasha waves, weakly. He salutes her. 

“He always leaves weird voicemails.”

“I'm like ninety percent sure he just pocket dialed me in his Uber. Dolokhov and moi are gonna go practice. Enjoy your...” He gestures, vaguely, then walks out the door backwards and shuts it securely. 

“If you weren't practicing, what have you been doing ?” Hélène shouts. 

“Leave me alone!” Anatole shouts back. 

Hélène snorts, and then her phone dings. Natasha peers over her shoulder as she texts. 

Dolokhov: He was making slime. 

hélène k: PHOTOS NOW

Dolokhov: [img8353.jpg]

hélène k: oh my god

Dolokhov: Enjoy. 

“Oh, man ,” Hélène says, folding her legs up beside her on the bed, Sonya's bandages under her tights. She yawns and leans against Natasha. 

“I’m worried about you,” Natasha says, hesitantly. 

“Oh? Why?” Hélène’s tone is genuinely questioning, and Natasha almost laughs. 

“Because I found you covered in scratches and completely drunk on the floor at like three a.m. on a Sunday night? And because you told me you hated yourself and you didn’t think you were in your own body and you hate the way people look at you and your brother got disowned for being gay?”

“Oh, that wasn’t anything. I was just drunk,” Hélène says, dismissive, defensive. 

“Hélène, I was scared ,” Natasha says, and she feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “I thought you might die and I didn’t know what to do. And you were so out of it I barely knew who you were .”

“Oh, Natasha ,” Hélène murmurs, her face seriously concerned as she takes her head off Natasha’s shoulder and looks her in the eye. “It’s okay. You’re - don’t cry. I didn’t meant to scare you…”

“But you did, ” Natasha moans, and she realizes she’s whining like a child, whimpery and foolish, but she can’t help herself. “You did scare me and I-I think you know it wasn’t just being drunk. I think you-you know. ”

Hélène kisses her on the lips, gently, curls her arms around her. 

“Natasha,” she soothes, “it really wasn’t anything.”

“But-”

“Shh,” Hélène says, sharply. “I am perfectly fine.”

“I don't think so,” Natasha says, her voice wavering. 

“Don't you trust me?”

“Don't make it like this, Hélène. I love you.”

Hélène's breath catches in her throat, Natasha hears it. 

“I mean it,” Natasha says. “I don't want you to feel the way you did because I care about you. I know what you think and I promise, Hélène, listen, I'm not here because I think you're pretty or because I want you to sleep with me. I'm here because I want you to be happy. Do you believe me?”

“That's not how I think,” Hélène says, tentative and light, holding back tears. 

“When I say I don't want anything more from you, do you believe me?” Natasha whispers. 

Hélène's dead-eyed silence is a no. Natasha leans forward and kisses both her cheeks, as softly as she can. 

“ Please tell me what's going on.”

And then Hélène’s cool, collected appearances breaks off, and she starts to cry, which builds into a sob, until she is trembling, bawling, about to keel over.

“Go away,” she cries, hysterical, “get out, I don't want you to see me like this, I don't want you to see me like this .” 

“I don't mind,” Natasha says. “I can-”

“Just go, Natasha,” she says, in a tone definitely meant to be harsh but which just sounds pathetic.

Natasha nods and leaves, shuts the door firmly behind her, and then recalls her guitar is still on Hélène's bed. 

Well, she was planning on staying anyway. 

Dolokhov and Anatole are actually practicing, so she watches them for twenty minutes or so. Anatole's violin is stunning as always, but Dolokhov's drums seem heavier and more groovy. 

Moscow. Natasha's heart pounds at the thought, her guitar on the Moscow stage, Anatole's sweeping violin. Hélène. It will be perfect. 

“You're a girl,” Anatole says, interrupting her daydream. “You know about fashion.”

“How politically correct of you,” Natasha says, dryly. “I don't.”

“Should I wear the green jacket or the black one?” Anatole asks, holding up two blazers which seem almost identical and probably cost more than Natasha's guitar. He puts one on and he looks like a terrible real estate agent. 

“Neither,” Natasha says. “Be like Dolokhov.”

“Put on a metric ton of eyeliner?”

“I meant wear a waistcoat, but also the eyeliner thing,” Natasha says. 

“See?” Dolokhov says. 

Natasha leaves them to bicker as she heads to the kitchen. There's an apple in a bowl on the counter, and she locates peanut butter in the sliding drawer next to the fridge and a knife on the magnetic bar next to the stove. She cuts carefully, and arranges it all inside a small pie dish, as no plates were anywhere reasonable, and then she fetches a glass of water and gets the fridge dispenser to work on the first try, and then she heads upstairs. 

She knocks, gently. There's no response, but Hélène's lack of shouting she will take as a hope that she's calmed down. 

“I'm coming in,” she declares, and pushes the door open with her hip. 

Hélène is curled up on her bed, facing the wall. The room seems in decent shape, but she's hurled a few books off the shelves. 

“I brought some peanut butter apples,” Natasha says, setting down the plate on Hélène's nightstand, “and some water. My dad always makes that for me. It's good. Get some protein in you.”

Hélène makes no motion that she's heard. 

Natasha collects the books on the floor and makes a mission to tidy them. Her Austens slot in nicely between the Allende and Atwood, Anna Karenina sidled up by The Goldfinch, her Edgar Allen Poe short stories by a very skinny The Raven. 

She hears Hélène turn over and eat a slice of apple, hears the glass clink against the table. She doesn't look. 

The bookshelf is complete with a beat-up edition of Macbeth, and then Natasha sits on the very edge of the bed and composes her thoughts. 

“I...there is a lot more to you, Hélène, than the way you look. It's the least important thing about you. I don't mean to say you aren't beautiful. You are. But I would still love you if I couldn't see you or touch you. I think you're very smart and very interesting and you are a wonderful singer and guitarist. You are a lot of things.” She chews her lip. “It's nice to be close to you, and to kiss you, and to love you like that, but it's not why I'm with you and it's not why I'm here. If all I wanted to do was, God, I don't know, bed you? I would have left a long time ago. I hope you believe me.”

She reaches for Hélène's shoulder, but thinks better of it. She grabs her guitar case from where it's tucked up against Hélène's knees, and grabs her backpack from where she tossed it on the floor, leaves her little gift for her on the nightstand. 

“I won't talk about this until you're ready,” Natasha says, and then she walks home. 

-

nat!!! & andrei

nat!!!: andrei i’m breaking up with you

nat!!!: i don’t think you even liked me

nat!!!: you don’t like to touch me like andrei maybe i just wanted you to hug me once. maybe i just wanted you to kiss me. but i always had to ask and it wasn’t fair

nat!!!: i just wanted you to say you loved me in a way that meant something because i know you can say that but do you mean it. i don’t think you do. 

nat!!!: you’re also older than me and in college which i was fine with for a while but i’m sixteen now and i see thirteen year olds and i think

nat!!!: that’s a child like that’s a baby

nat!!!: what did you see in me??? was i special? what was it, andrei. 

nat!!!: did you want to fuck me when i still used glitter pens on homework. was my naivete sexy. 

nat!!!: what made you want me like that? i liked it at the time. i loved it. i adored you. i thought you were so soft and gentle and different because you were nice to me. and yeah i think you were careful i don’t think you ever did anything to hurt me i really don’t think you’re bad. i mean when we had sex it was because i asked you to. but i also had to google if it was legal which seems like a question i shouldn’t have been wondering. 

nat!!!: and you need to GO TO A FUCKING THERAPIST. right now. because i have seen how depressed you get you are borderline suicidal and i worry about you all the fucking time. 

nat!!!: and you’re mean when you drink and i just kind of ignored it because i know you’re not like that and you never did what pierre did but that’s a low ass bar. 

nat!!!: and you didn’t tell me you were coming back marya told me. don’t you want to see me? jesus christ

nat!!!: i know you’ve got a seed of good in you but i don’t have the time to get down in the dirt. we’re done. i’m sorry.

-

pierreot & andrei

andrei: Natasha broke up with me. 

pierreot: Why are you telling me this?

andrei: I don’t know. 

pierreot: I didn’t want to know that

andrei: I’m sorry. 

pierreot: I’m drunk

andrei: well I didn’t want to know that. 

pierreot: It’s okay I’m not partying

pierreot: I’m just drinking vodka alone like a good depressed Russian

pierreot: In Marya D’s light up cat ear headphones which she gave me as a joke 

pierreot: Do you need something?

andrei: I’m coming home Friday. 

andrei: I want to see you. 

pierreot: Well my schedule’s pretty full of getting smashed and staring at textbooks until I pass out, but I’ll try and squeeze you in

andrei: okay. 

andrei: I miss you. 

-

Hélène -

I'm sure you don't want to talk about this, but I've got this to give to you. It's a chest binder. I guessed at the sizing and it's secondhand, but I hope it helps a little. Don't wear it for too long and stretch. Google some stuff. 

Natasha (who loves you very much)

-

hélène k & nat!!!

hélène k: for your reference:

hélène k: [download_img8353.jpg]

hélène k: slime anatole

nat!!!: ill treasure this photo forever 

nat!!!: thanks 

Chapter Text

hélène k & nat!!!

hélène k: babe I need your opinion

hélène k: [img0937.jpg]

hélène k: [img0938.jpg]

hélène k: dress or suit??

nat!!!: jesus christ you are so gorgeous. not to be bisexual but hoooly fucking shit

nat!!!: i like the suit 

hélène k: hmm ok

hélène k: [img0939.jpg]

hélène k: [img0940.jpg]

hélène k: matchy-matchy pinstripe vest or green vest?

nat!!!: hélène i am going to pass out

nat!!!: try the green one without the jacket i just wanna see

hélène k: [img0941.jpg]

hélène k: i think you’re on to something here

nat!!!: YOU ARE SOOO HANDSOME I LOVE YOU. ROLL UP THE SLEEVES

hélène k: [img0942.jpg]

hélène k: did you call me handsome

nat!!!: i do not lie

nat!!!: methinks this look might be elevated with some jewelry. perhaps some of your eight quadzillion rings and maybe like a long necklace OOOH WEAR YOUR PEARLS HÉLÈNEEEE

nat!!!: it would be SO good.

nat!!!: also please please convince anatole to let dolokhov put eyeliner on him.

hélène k: [img0943.jpg]

hélène k: one you were right and two i’ll do my best??

nat!!!: im SO excited for tomorrow. and ill see u tonight!!!!

nat!!!: i’m gonna wear the white dress

hélène k: oooh yes

hélène k: u live by matreshka’s right

nat!!!: i mean. technically yeah but i’m in the lil residential cul de sac

nat!!!: numero 29 it’s grey brick with a red door 

hélène k: thought so

hélène k: see u at 10

nat!!!: mwah!!! see you at 10!!!

-

“Natasha,” Sonya says, waving a hand in front of her face, illuminated by her phone. “What are you doing? ”

“Texting Mom,” Natasha says. “I’m telling him we’re having a riotous party and I broke her vase and also we’re all doing so many drugs.”

“I’m sure she will completely understand that you’re joking,” Sonya says, flatly. “Come on. You gotta at least pretend to sleep or you’re gonna pass out on stage.”

Natasha keeps texting.

“ Natasha, ” Sonya says, but she doesn’t even blink. “Marya D’s bothering me about it. Come on, gimme that.”

Sonya rips the phone from her hands. 

“Hey!” Natasha shouts, and the way she says it, something about the fear in her dark eyes, something about the abruptness, the way she instinctively grasps for it, and something else drops in Sonya’s chest. 

There, on the screen, blinking: 

hélène k: see u at 10

“Sonya, give me-”

“Why is Hélène texting you, Natasha?” Sonya asks, and Natasha grabs for it but Sonya turns away, scrolls, something something that’s their house number, Anatole, time, excited for tomorrow, and photos of Hélène, of Hélène dressed up, and Sonya spins around with her mouth open and Natasha jams in before she can even say a word.

“Sonya, Sonya, I’m sorry, I’m sorry she didn’t tell you but we’re going out, tonight, because - because tomorrow we’re going to the Moscow Theatre, because she’s - her family, they have this thing and we’re - Sonya, we’re performing! I am - and Hélène, she’s just been so kind and she’s really - I love her, Sonya,” and the ferocity in Natasha’s face frightens Sonya, scares her, but she continues, “and we’re going to play, and she’s just so sad, Sonya you wouldn’t believe it, how sad she is, it scares me sometimes, and I just - oh, Sonya!”

Natasha takes her by the shoulders, and Sonya’s head is spinning.

“Natasha, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just - it cuts really close to the show and I know you don’t like Hélène and I just - I dunno, ” Natasha shrugs, but she’s still grinning, grinning so brilliantly. 

“What about Andrei? ” Sonya asks, grabbing her shoulders, “what about him?”

“I don’t love him anymore, Sonya, and he’s too old and he’s not kind and he doesn’t understand! Sonya, can’t you just be happy for me?” Natasha is terrifying now. She seems high on something, something intangible. 

“No, I - Natasha, what’s happened to you?” 

“I fell in love for real.”

“You’ve only known her a month or two and you’re sixteen ,” Sonya pleads, but Natasha isn’t listening. Natasha hasn’t been listening for a while. Then, something flashing over her head, “ Natasha. When does it end?”

“What?”

“The Moscow performance.” Sonya’s palms are tingling with adrenaline. Fear.

“One-thirty. Why?”

And Sonya’s ribcage caves in on itself. 

“It’s a two-hour drive.”

“No it isn’t,” Natasha protests. “No it isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t. ”

“Natasha, please, I can’t let you go, ” Sonya says, but Natasha whips around, frightened. “You’ll ruin it. You’ll ruin everything and you’ll hurt yourself.”

“That’s my business, Sofia! It’s my mistake and I’m going to make it. Leave me alone, get out, get out!” Natasha shouts, and then with a mighty shove she slams into Sonya and pushes her out into the hallway, stumbling over herself, and the door shuts and -

The lock clicks into place. This stupid old house. 

“Natasha, let me in!” Sonya shouts, but there’s nothing, rustling on the other side.

Natasha’s phone is still in her hand. Nine fifty-eight.

A message pops up on the lockscreen. hélène k. She knows Natasha’s password - 1812 - types it in and -

Nothing. 

And then she hears the window opening through the door, and Marya D coming down the hallway, and headlights pass by the window.

“Marya,” she yelps, “Marya, Natasha - she’s -”

And she can’t put it into words, so she just grabs her wrist and drags her to the front door, bursts out into the drizzly April night in bare feet and fuzzy pyjamas, and Natasha is standing on the sidewalk with her guitar and there is fucking Hélène Kuragina stepping out of the passenger side door of Balaga’s car.

“Sonya,” Marya D starts, and Sonya can see her piecing something together, something in her head. 

“Natasha, please, ” Sonya begs, and she runs to her, but Natasha’s cold and distant and there’s something flinty in her eyes. 

“You can’t stop me, Sonya,” Natasha says, even as Sonya’s desperate fingers grab her wrists. “Leave me alone, I want to go with Hélène.”

Sonya’s knees weaken and now she is only standing because of her grasp on Natasha’s arm, pulling at her skin, and Natasha is looking at her like a used paper bag, and Sonya can feel herself start to cry. 

“Please,” Sonya begs. 

“I’m so bored , Sonya, nothing ever happens to me, and I just want something fun, I just want, if nothing happens to me I’m going to fucking kill myself, I hate this, I just want to go, Sonya, all I want to do is play Moscow, it’s just a stupid fucking assembly and this is Moscow, Sonya, please,” Natasha says, ripping her hand away and letting Sonya stumble. Marya D appears, steadies her. 

“ You, ” Sonya shouts at Hélène, stupid pretty rich Hélène who’s never had anything bad ever happen to her, “how could you do this to her, why are you even here, go home, go back, leave her alone, I never liked you, I never liked you I knew you were bad news, I knew they were right about you.”

In the dark, in the hum of the lights, something shifts over Hélène’s face, and Sonya wants nothing more than to strangle her perfect little neck. 

“You’re a bitch,” Sonya says, solidly. 

And then Natasha slaps her. Hard. Hot burning red all over her face, pins and needles.

“How dare you,” Natasha says. “How fucking dare you, Sonya. I hate you. I hate you. Is that how you think of her? Do you listen to them, Sonya? Who taught you to call a sixteen-year old a bitch ?”

“I didn’t-” Sonya says, but then Natasha shoves her, right in the center of her chest and she stumbles back into Marya’s shoulder. “Why can’t you just come back and sleep?” she says, pathetically. 

And then the car revs and Hélène is gone. 

Natasha watches it drive away, watches it with open mouth and complete disbelief.

Silence, crickets, light rain, breathing like beat-up boxers. 

And then Natasha slams her guitar onto the pavement and it shatters into a million tiny iridescent chunks. 

“It was just a stupid school assembly,” Natasha says, her voice high and weak.

“But it mattered to me, ” Sonya cries, and it comes from somewhere low in her chest, somewhere she didn’t think she could make noise from, “ Natasha, it mattered to me.”

Natasha looks at her, and her eyes are big and warm and teary, and then she crumbles like a dropped doll and collapses to her knees onto the pavement.

Sonya crouches beside her and wraps her arms around Natasha’s trembling little body, a finch in her hands, and Natasha sobs into her neck as they rock back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” she warbles, her throat thick. “I’m sorry, Sonya. I’m sorry.”

Marya starts to gather the shattered guitar. 

-

From: [email protected]  

To: [email protected]

Subject: No subject

ippolit can we talk. a bunch of shit just happened and i did a lot of stupid stuff and it’s all a lot and also i know you get up at six in the morning like a lunatic so please email me back 

From:   [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: No subject

Hi Hélène,

Yes, absolutely. Would you like to call? I’m very worried about you. You know Ishmael and I are always here for you.

Salutations,

Ippolit (he/they)

From: [email protected]  

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: No subject

ok great you’re up i’ll call you in just a minute is that good? 

also did you just sign off with salutations???

From:   [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: No subject

Hi Hélène,

Yes, call me whenever you like. 

Regards,

Ippolit (he/they)

Chapter Text

Natasha stares at the crack in the tile floor of the dressing room.

No matter how long she looks at it, it never changes.

Marya B and Marya D are Googling vocal warm-ups in the corner, and Sonya is tuning her bass for the hundredth time, and Natasha is stewing. 

If only their shitty music program had the money for an electric guitar.

Natasha insisted they continue, for Sonya’s sake, but she woke up from her hour of sleep in the morning with a shot voice. Sonya can take two of the songs, and Marya D’s remarkably capable at singing and drumming at the same time, which is fortunate, because none of them could dependably learn the lyrics that fast, and Marya’s got the right energy. Marya B, though, has the most beautiful ghostly soprano that makes Natasha wonder why she didn’t sing Sweetness in the first place. 

Her fingers itch.

The pink dress feels synthetic and sticky on her skin. The room is so silent. 

This is hell. And it’s what she deserves.

She’s useless. 

Marya B and Marya D take their exit to go change, and Sonya leans by the door, crossing one boot over her leg.

“Sonya,” Natasha says, and her voice scratches. “You have the most beautiful voice.”

“It hurts,” she says. “I don’t like to sing. I have to pitch myself up and it hurts my throat.”

“You don’t have to,” Natasha says. 

Sonya looks at her, head tilted to the side. Her natural singing timbre, her lovely solid baritone, is not something she’ll ever want to sing in. Not until everything starts working and her voice rises.

“Middle ground?” Natasha offers. 

“‘Cause I haven’t thought of that, Natasha,” Sonya bites. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, putting her head between her knees. “I’m sorry I just -”

“I know,” Sonya says. She tugs the corner of Natasha’s blanket around her shoulders a little more.

Someone knocks at the door, once, twice, three times.

Sonya tentatively goes to open it, but before she can turn the handle, it opens.

Hélène.

Hélène, exhausted, in her suit, holding her guitar, her hair loose all over her face, heavy dark circles under her eyes. 

“Hey!” Sonya yelps, but before she can do anything, Hélène elbows past her.

“Natasha,” she says, and her voice is rough and Natasha’s chest pangs in spite of herself. 

“You can’t-” Sonya starts, but Natasha waves her hand.

“Please,” Natasha says.

Sonya grumbles, but backs off. She leans against the wall and Natasha can tell that her nails are digging into her forearms.

“I’m sorry,” Hélène says, and her voice is low and dead. “I fucked everything up. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I shouldn’t have gotten into this whole - mess. I shouldn’t have - I wasn’t - I have too much I have to deal with. I fucked up your really important plan with your sister because I wanted to see you a bit longer and that was fucking stupid of me. I want you to take this for now,” Hélène offers, and she holds out her beautiful green guitar, her beautiful polished green guitar.

“I can’t,” Natasha says.

“Just take it for the day,” Hélène says. “I want you to. Please.”

Hélène settles it into Natasha’s lap, and Natasha puts her hand on the neck and plucks a string, and it’s clean and clear and rich.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I messed it up.”

Hélène sweeps her curls over one shoulder, her hands getting tangled. Natasha almost wants to reach out and touch her shoulder, but she doesn’t.

“Thank you for being so kind to me,” she says. “I liked you a lot.”

“I wasn’t being kind. I was being decent,” Natasha returns. “I liked you too.”

“Goodbye, Natasha,” Hélène says, and she kisses Natasha on the lips gently and leaves. 

Natasha stares at that beautiful green guitar in her hands, and Sonya gives her a look, and when the Maryas return, she’s certain.

“We’re doing this.”

-

There’s a fun peculiarity to the school auditorium stage, which is that there aren’t any stairs leading off the front. Access is limited to doors that connect to the wings.

So Balaga flashes them a thumbs up from one side, and Rose the photographer from the other, and they’re unstoppable.

There’s no intro. They rip off their jackets and Marya D hits the snare, one, two, three, four, and the Russian Blues are in session. 

Natasha doesn’t know how she even survived it. It was an impossible power.

Marya’s riot song is followed up with Marya B’s soft fun piano ballad, and Natasha relishes in being shoved up so close to Marya as she sings, her high soprano sweet and genuine. 

Marya D takes the mic after that, so Natasha can re-tune her guitar for The Salt. She declares something or other, but her ferocious energy is enough to get people excited about their protest.

Sonya’s voice is lovely and unusual, even with the strain, and Natasha wants nothing more than to give her the most loving hug for doing this. There’s something to be said for her folksy alto. 

And then it’s No One Else, and Natasha’s fucking frenzied now, and Sonya takes this one to sing, too, but really it’s a collaborative effort, and Natasha knows her guitar’s not tuned exactly right anymore but that doesn’t matter, when she’s pounding her feet on the stage and jumping in with her hoarse voice for the chorus about the guy she loved and the girls she kissed, and it doesn’t matter, nothing outside of this concert matters, because they’re all feral girls with instruments and nothing at all is more important than making noise and shrieking out No! One! Else!

It ends too fast, but Natasha doesn’t think it’s ever really going to end, not even when they’re led out into the hall and straight into the principal’s office.

-

They stand in the parking lot with three dress violations among them. Marya B has escaped with a warning, thanks to some quick thinking and a school copy of Macbeth she was carrying about for this reason, and, well, the rest of them couldn’t care less. They did it. 

“I’m getting pizza. Meet you in the garage,” Marya D says, fumbling for her car keys. 

“Yep,” Natasha says. She’s weirdly hungry, but also barely attached to her body. 

The three of them drift back to Natasha’s garage, where her dad has left a pile of blankets and a very large bottle of ginger ale, for some reason, and throw themselves down on the floor.

Sonya bursts into laughter, and the rest of them follow. It doesn’t stop until Marya D returns with the pizzas, and Natasha is dizzy and happy and thinks maybe this is what being on drugs feels like. Her nightgown is so soft. 

“I’m gonna be mad at you later, Natasha,” Marya D says, tossing the pizzas on the floor and grabbing herself a blanket. “We rocked that shit.”

“We sure did,” Sonya says.

“Russian Blues forever,” Natasha says, giddy. 

“Russian Blues for-fucking-ever,” Marya D affirms, and then they stop pretending to not be hungry and descend on their cheese and sauce and bread like ravenous wolves.

“Oh, shit,” Natasha says, mid-bite.

“What?” Sonya asks, with a little jolt of fear.

“I haven’t taken my meds in, like, three weeks.” Natasha counts in her head, and, yeah, shit, her Prozac has sat untouched in its bottle for three entire weeks. 

“Are you okay?” Marya B asks, with real concern. 

“I’m fine. I just -” Natasha giggles at her own stupidity. “Oh, man, I’m gonna take it again and it’s gonna give me a headache. Gross.” 

“Gross,” Sonya agrees.

Natasha takes another slice of pizza, and lays down with her head on Marya B’s knee and one leg on Sonya’s lap.

Marya B dabs at her mouth with a napkin like a delicate lady, and then she says “I think I’m a lesbian,” so quietly Natasha’s not sure if she actually heard it. 

“Okay,” Natasha says. 

“ Hell yeah,” Marya D says, and reaches over to give Marya B a spine-breaking hug, which Sonya piles onto as Marya B laughs in relief. Natasha squeezes her calf and gives her a smile. 

“Welcome to the loving women club,” Natasha says.

Marya laughs, again, and Natasha could listen to nothing but that forever. 

“Honk honk,” Marya D says.

“I’m glad you felt like you could tell us,” Natasha says. 

“I feel like I could tell you anything,” Marya B says, earnestly, extricating herself from the hug. 

“Also I called this,” Sonya says. She gives Natasha a look.

“What?” Marya B asks.

“I knew you’d be a lesbian. I knew it,” Sonya declares, slapping her palm against the concrete. 

“Oh,” Marya B says, and she laughs again, and casually shoves up her sleeves, and Natasha watches her long delicate fingers open a sauce packet, and maybe all is right in this little garage.

-

@therussianblues:

never forget that we are THE RUSSIAN BLUES, and we WILL crash your assembly even sans our lovely lead singer’s voice. much thanks to dolokhov for filming & we better see y’all in your own awesome clothes monday! let’s break some rules and show off just how stupid those rules can be.

[video description: four young women in the comet auditorium, playing the song no one else by natasha rostova. marya d is on drums in the back left corner, wearing a blazer jacket over a white button-up shirt with a tie. marya b is on keyboard in the front right corner, wearing a long striped shirt under a macbeth t-shirt. her hair is slightly covering her eyes. sonya rostova is playing bass to the left of marya b. she is wearing a purple shirt with big sleeves and a skirt. natasha rostova is playing guitar centre stage in a pink nightgown. all of their outfits violate the dress code. end id.]

167 likes 16 comments

Chapter Text

Natasha knocks gently on Sonya’s door twice, then pushes it open. Sonya’s sleepy face and mess of red hair greets her from beneath her duvet pile.

“Morning,” Natasha says.

“Mornin’,” Sonya replies, stuffy. “What time is it?”

“Ten thirty. I brought you breakfast,” Natasha says, holding out her old kitchen tray, laden with an omelet and a glass and some grapes, because it looked a little lonely. 

“Oh, Natasha,” Sonya says, pushing herself up to a sitting position. “You should be resting.”

“No, I shouldn’t. I should be apologizing to you,” Natasha returns, sitting gingerly on the edge of Sonya’s bed. “My voice will live and my head will be fine. Look, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done any of what I did. I should have just told you about the concert. I shouldn’t have hid Hélène from you. I knew you didn’t like her but I also know you well enough that you wouldn’t have been terrible about it. I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

“I shouldn’t have called her a bitch,” Sonya says. “That was - that was really awful of me.”

“I understand it. I know you didn’t really mean it,” Natasha returns. “It’s just - she’s going through a lot. With self-image, I think. A lot of people say a lot of things about her and she’s - I know you won’t do it again.”

Sonya shakes her head, mouth sealed. 

“ God , Sonya, I really - I did a thing to fuck up something that was important to you and that was pretty shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

“And you said -” Sonya sniffles, her voice cracking, “you said you’d...you…”

And Sonya starts to cry. 

Natasha is struck by the memory - if nothing happens to me, I’ll fucking kill myself - just a thing she said, a thing she picked up from Hélène, but to Sonya? No, she couldn’t have said it. 

To Sonya ?

“Oh my God,” Natasha says, slapping one hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, I didn’t even realize. Sonya, I swear I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it at all. I swear.”

“I just - I couldn’t sleep - I was sitting outside your door - making sure you were still snoring - I was - I couldn’t,” Sonya manages, and Natasha’s heart breaks into a million tiny bits like a giant hunk of Lego.

“You must have been so worried. I am so sorry, oh my God,” Natasha says, grabbing hold of Sonya’s hands. Sonya gives her a sad smile through strands of red hair and a steady trickle of tears. 

Sonya, right outside her door all night, listening. It hadn’t really struck her, how bad it must have scared her when Natasha had been so sick two years ago. How could she have been so stupid?

“I didn’t mean to scare you and I didn’t mean that at all, Sonya. I promise. I promise I didn’t mean it and I’m never gonna say it again. I’m okay now. I’m better. I swear on me, you, the moon, and both Maryas,” Natasha assures, her chest squeezing painfully at the sight of Sonya’s blotchy, tear-stained face. Sonya lets out a little sob, and Natasha lunges forward to wrap her in a hug. “And you are the best sister I could ever ask for,” she adds, into Sonya’s hair. 

“I’m not really your sister,” Sonya says, with a weak laugh. 

“Don’t be silly. Of course you’re really my sister,” Natasha says, dismissively, and Sonya squeezes her so hard she thinks she might suffocate. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sonya says, her nose poking into Natasha’s shoulder. 

“And I am never letting myself abandon you ‘cause of some hot girl ever again.”

Sonya chuckles, and Natasha extricates herself from her hug. “How did that even work?” she says, lightly, leaning back against the headboard. She plucks a grape and rolls it between her fingers.

“We are not all beyond one good movie kiss,” Natasha responds. “We can’t all be asexual, Sonya.”

“You didn’t sleep with her, did you?” Sonya says, smirking. 

Natasha flushes deep red and looks away. She can’t lie to Sonya, even if that’s not what she meant. 

“Oh my God!” Sonya shrieks, her voice shrill. 

“Shhh!” Natasha covers her ears. “And I didn’t even mean - ugh.”

“You are never living this down, ever.” Sonya grins at her.

“I know.”

Sonya drops her voice another octave as she whispers “You were safe, weren’t you?”

“Oh my God,” Natasha says, covering her face with her hands. “Obviously. I’m not stupid. Not that stupid, anyway.”

“Good,” Sonya says, and then she bursts out in a fit of giggles that spreads to Natasha, too. 

“Girls?” comes Natasha’s father’s voice, followed by his head peeking through the door, topped by one of his little caps, felt and green with a little tassel. “I heard screaming.”

“Oh, we’re okay, Dad,” Natasha assures, giving him her biggest smile and reaching out to squeeze Sonya’s hands.

“Natasha was just showing me a - meme,” Sonya says, barely suppressing her laughter. 

“Oh,” he says, confusion on his face, and he ducks back out, shutting the door behind him.

Sonya looks at her again, face teary and red, upper lip shining, beaming wide and giving Natasha a soft, warm, friendly look. Natasha’s heart fills up again, and she laughs, bright. 

“I love you,” Natasha says. 

“I love you too. And I forgive you. I know you’re gonna beat yourself up over this for a while and I think that’s punishment enough.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, softly. “I’m glad you forgive me. Now eat your omelette. I worked really hard on it.”

“Mm,” Sonya says, poking at it. “I will. And you should go nap, because I can tell you’re about to pass out and Dad’s gonna get on your case if you don’t go sleep and drink water.”

“Yep,” Natasha says, blinking. “Yep, I’m gonna go lie down.”

-

Natasha is woken from her half-sleep haze by a few light knocks to her door. 

“Sonya said I could come in,” Marya B says, softly. She steps across the threshold, black tote bag clutched in her hand, wearing a long grey felt peacoat, hair down and damp with dew. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not,” Natasha says, looking at the slats of light through the window and tossing a hand over her face. 

Marya sheds her coat and hangs it on the hook by Natasha’s door. She’s in a long blue skirt and the Macbeth T-shirt. She pads over to Natasha’s side and tests her forehead with the back of her palm. Her eyes are sunken and exhausted, but she looks happy, somewhere.

“It’s not as bad as I’m acting like it is,” Natasha says. “I’m just moping.”

“Okay,” Marya nods. “I just thought I’d come by. I was out.”

“I’m glad,” Natasha says, and Marya rests her hand on hers and perches on the side of the bed.

“Andrei’s back,” Marya says. 

“Oh,” Natasha says.

“He wanted me to give this back.” She holds out the bag, and Natasha peeks in - a folded T-shirt, some notebooks, and there’s the binder of sheet music they put together, that glorious collection of songs for two voices and Natasha’s guitar, but now the pink plastic makes her dizzy and ill. “I’ll just - I’ll leave it here.” She sets it on the ground.

“Can you tell him - can you tell him I’m sorry?” Natasha asks. 

“I can try but I don’t think…”

“No, I don’t want to get back together. I just - I’m sorry for keeping him attached to me for a year when I didn’t love him anymore. I’m sorry I did terrible things. I hope he’ll forgive me.” There’s a bite at the back of her throat, a pinch at the corner of her eyes.

Marya takes her hand, lifts it to her mouth, and kisses it, and the action is so disarming Natasha nearly yelps. 

“He forgives you,” Marya says, “but I don’t know if Andrei will.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, her voice quiet. “That’s okay.”

“He went to visit Pierre,” Marya adds. “He’s been upset. I think he’ll be all right.”

“Will you tell him that Natasha says he needs to see a psychiatrist?”

Marya laughs, quietly, bright and beautiful. “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks,” Natasha says. Marya’s thumb is still rubbing the back of her hand, gently, and the way her hair looks when it’s down is just so beautiful, soft.

“You’re still wearing the nightgown,” Marya remarks.

“Hey, it was expensive. I gotta get my money’s worth,” Natasha says. “Well, Hélène’s money. Well, Hélène’s dad’s money.”

Marya snorts. “It looks nice on you,” she says. “I like the way you look in pink.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says. “I like the way you look in eyeliner.”

Marya swipes under her eyes. “I tried my best to get it off but it’s stubborn and I was tired.”

“Ah,” Natasha says. There is a bit of a residual line right under her eyelashes, but it’s faint.

“My dad said I looked like a goth,” Marya says. “Amélie said I looked nice. The nurse,” she supplies. “My dad’s ill. Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh,” Natasha says, and yes, she’d picked that up from the way Andrei talked about him, but she’d never heard anyone say it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s life,” Marya says, simply. “He still loves me. I can tell. Sometimes he gets all quiet and he says it.”

“That’s good,” Natasha says. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I pray for him. Andrei thinks it’s silly. I don’t know. Sometimes it feels pointless.” 

“It’s not silly if it helps you,” Natasha says. “It isn’t.”

“Thank you,” Marya says, quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m tired, I - I help Amélie with his medication. We don’t have a night nurse and I get up every four hours…we’re on a waiting list. He’s got a bad reputation.”

“Oh, Marya,” Natasha says. “How long has it been since you slept through the night?”

Marya shrugs.

No wonder she’s exhausted all the time.

“My dad’s an RN, I can ask if he knows anyone,” Natasha offers. “He probably does. Oh, Marya, why don’t you lay down?”

“I shouldn’t,” Marya starts, but then Natasha watches her lose the fight in real time, and Natasha pulls back the covers so she can lay down. She rests her head on the pillow opposite Natasha, tucks one hand under her cheek. Natasha pulls the duvet up to her mid-torso.

“You must be tired,” Natasha says, looking at the shadows her eyelashes cast under her eyes, the way they flicker.

“I guess I am,” Marya says, and then follows in a moment faintly with “I haven’t worn a T-shirt in a long time.”

“I like it,” Natasha says. 

“Thank you,” she says, reaching out with her other hand to pick a speck off Natasha’s sleeve, “for not saying - for just - for being - okay - with it.”

“They’re just your arms,” Natasha says, plainly. 

“They’re just my arms,” Marya repeats, and Natasha can see her trying to convince herself.

“Also, why are you so - literally, I’m going to steal your biceps,” Natasha says. “I’m jealous.”

“Oh,” Marya says, blushing just faintly. “It’s the rugby.”

“Of course,” Natasha says. “No wonder you’re a lesbian.”

“Yes, that was also the rugby,” Marya says. “Was it the soccer?”

“Yeah,” Natasha says. 

Marya closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again, half-lidded.

Sweet, kind Marya B, who is lovely and glorious and beautiful and laying on the pillow across from Natasha. 

There’s a long quiet stretch. Natasha looks at Marya’s eyes, and Marya looks back, but it doesn’t feel intense, not like a staring contest, barely even like eye contact. Her eyes are cool grey, just a little bit greenish-blue. They’re very beautiful. Unusual. 

“If I wasn’t me, if it wasn’t now, if I was - if I was brilliant and beautiful and confident, if I wasn’t so scared…” Marya starts, and her eyelids droop as she reaches out and hovers her cool fingers just above Natasha’s cheek, feather-light. “If I deserved you, I would…no.”

Natasha’s chest pulls tight as Marya looks to the side and breathes out. She watches a strand of hair droop over her face. 

“Later,” she says, softly. “Come back to me later.”

“Later,” Marya affirms, and then Natasha takes her hands and kisses her knuckles, warm soft skin under her lips. 

“I’ll be here,” Natasha says, and the promise is made. “Come on. Get some rest, Marya. Masha .”

Marya blushes, and then rests her head against Natasha’s chest, puts her warm arms around Natasha’s waist, and curls up her legs. It’s shocking how tiny she feels, nestled up. She’s long and willowy and yet she folds up like a bird. 

“Wake me up before eight,” she mumbles. “My dad.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, gently. “I’ll take care of it.”

Marya settles into Natasha’s embrace, making a tiny, sweet sound as she does. She closes her eyes. 

After a while, her breathing settles, and Natasha thinks she can hear her whispering, inaudible, in her sleep.

-

nat!!! & Ilya R.

nat!!!: dad i have a favour to ask

nat!!!: will you go help marya’s father’s nurse give him his old person medications at 8

Ilya R.: Yes of course dear.

Ilya R.: Where does she live.

nat!!!: THANK YOU ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

nat!!!: she lives on that street by the costco it’s house number 63 it’s white and has statues

Ilya R.: All right i will go.  There 👍

nat!!!: he really sucks i’m sorry but she needs to sleep

Ilya R.: Don’t  worry I have dealt with worse. HAHA!

nat!!!: the nurse’s name is amelie she is lovely

Ilya R.: Did I ever show you that movie. 

nat!!!: yes dad we watched amelie like six times

Ilya R.: Oh yes of course. LOL

nat!!!: also will you go give sonya a hug

nat!!!: please

Ilya R.: Yes

nat!!!: thank you love you mwah

Ilya R.: Love you as well.  Get some rest 

1 ❤️

-

music theory (academic)

that’s your highness kuragina to you’s nickname changed to hélène (she/they)

hélène (she/they): none of you say anything or i’ll stomp you to death with my hooves. 

nat!!!’s nickname changed to nat!!! (she/her)

sonyushka’s nickname changed to sonya (she/her)

Marya Bolkonskaya’s nickname changed to Marya B (she/her/they if you want)

dmitrievna’s nickname changed to marya d (she (?))

Dolokhov’s nickname changed to Dolokhov (he/him)

drubetsboy’s nickname changed to Boris (he/they)

hélène (she/they): thanks. 

❤️ 4

IT’S BALAGA: GOOD FOR YOU. FUCK YEAH

hélène (she/they): you aren’t even in this class???? 

IT’S BALAGA: LMAO

IT’S BALAGA: PLEASE DONT STOMP ME TO DEATH WITH YOUR HOOVES 

anatoleee’s nickname changed to anatoleee (he/him)

anatoleee (he/him): * ominous horse galloping sounds*

IT’S BALAGA: THE HORSE APPROACHES ME DEFENSELESS ON THE GROUND. I LOOK IN HER EYES AND SEE NOTHING BUT BLOODLUST AND RAGE. GOODBYE MY DANCING LOVERS ALL MY REVELS HERE ARE OVER I WILL SEE YOU IN THE NEXT LIFE

IT’S BALAGA: ALSO MY PRONOUNS ARE HE/HIM BUT ITS NOT LIKE I CARE 

IT’S BALAGA: I AM TRAMPLED INTO HUMAN APPLESAUCE BY HÉLÈNES HOOVES.

IT’S BALAGA has left the chat. 

hélène (she/they): what is wrong with you all

nat!!! (she/her): ❤️