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They weren’t supposed to catch feelings. Nikolai, at least, felt like a failure for doing so; he wasn’t sure if Alina felt the same way about him, really, which just made him more miserable.
It was an arranged wedding for the sake of Ravka: a living saint who’d survived the fall of the Fold and the scarred boy king it had left behind, joined together to make Nikolai’s reign slightly more palatable. They’d promised each other friendship and companionship, but no romantic love. No, love was not in the deal - Alina reeling from two deaths, Nikolai with his newly found fear of the dark; it was too soon to even think about anything like love.
It had, though, been two years, and time (and loneliness; two survivors of the Fold, each affected by merzost in its own way, who were the only ones to really know what had happened and thus the only ones able to offer comfort in a specific way) had entangled them together - perhaps not romantically, but fucking was nice: Alina’s hand on his skin were the only ones that didn’t make him break into cold sweat, the only ones that didn’t let him feel the taste of shadows and blood on his tongue.
Nikolai had read enough romance novels to know it had been a terrible idea, but when one just wanted to be in another’s arms, skin to scarred skin, it had been the best option.
Now, there he was in that conundrum, puzzling over it. It wasn’t even an appropriate time to look handsome while pondering; no it was a Saints-forsaken middle of the night, the clock ticking closer and closer to sunrise as Nikolai sat, silent, in one of the many rooms of the palace.
He didn’t sleep in his marital bed: in fact, other than sex, it went mostly unused. The dark still scared him, and thus, Nikolai’s sleep schedule deteriorated as he spent nights by the pale light of a lamp, roaming the palace like one of the many ghosts Vasily tried to convince him were real.
He wasn’t the only one, of course. Alina was sleepless too, a pale shadow of herself at night. In the awful nights - birthdays and celebrations were they mourned instead of partied -, they pretended to not see each other sometimes; most times, though, they were like magnets, finding each other through thin and thick.
No such luck that night, though: the room, spacious and once maybe a sitting room that now only sat dust, was empty except for Nikolai and the presence of a single lit lamp, staving off shadows as it flickered, creating volcras as it bounced off the walls.
That was fine, really. It meant he could groan about this without challenge, without curiosity. He lowered his head into the cold wood of the table, and watched the light dance, pretending it was Alina, bright and sunny and beautiful, until afterimages danced in front of his retinas and blinded him.
There was a ball, which had been a contributing factor to Nikolai’s worries. He had been, in retrospect, lucky to not meet any of the esteemed guests they hosted, but Nikolai knew his palace and home like the palm of his hand. If the king wanted to avoid someone, he would.
Nikolai hadn’t wanted it, and Alina had sent him a look that asked if it was really needed, but they had to: it was important, in royal circles, to show off - and thus was planned a show to flaunt Ravka’s renascent wealth and show off the power of their new army of Grisha. Half celebration, half threat; it averaged out to a normal aristocracy party, really.
But that did not matter, not when Alina looked beautiful in her clothes: a brocade-heavy dress, white and gold, sun motifs embroidered alongside’s Ravka’s eagle, to show the sun summoning queen she was. On her shoulders, a cape that put him in the mind of a deconstructed kefta, as if a reminder of the fact she was Grisha, not a saint. The effect, of course, was cut by the halo-like kokoshnik she wore, which Nikolai liked to tell her it was her corona.
Alina always smiled at the small joke, and it always made the upcoming hours of dreadful politics worth it.
Nikolai used to enjoy these sort of parties before: before everything, when it was just a game for him to play. But now it was work, and it couldn’t be fun; the destiny of the country depended on him.
Still, he could find games to entertain himself - pitting aristocrats against one another, so they’d destroy themselves and not look for the throne, was always good fun.
Now, though, Nikolai, while stuck in a conversation with a duke or another, had noticed Alina excitedly chatting with someone - not familiar to his eyes, but clearly familiar to her. He made a quick excuse to get out of the conversation (with a small dropped hint about a neighboring duke that surely would make this one pause) and went to find his paper wife.
“... You give remember! Saints, I didn’t think I’d find you here, Mikhail!” She giggled, and Nikolai slid by her side. Alina could sense him, or maybe it was the way the mysterious’ Mikhail’s eyes widened in seeing Nikolai, who was doing his best to keep his face nice and polite, even if his heart roiled like an unruly sea at the sight of such a bright smile in her face, at the hand on Mikhail’s forearm. “Nikolai! You wouldn’t believe who this is!”
He did not know who, in any Saints’ name, this boy was: the sight of him was forgettable, and Nikolai’s memory failed to be jogged. He just hoped it wasn’t someone important.
Perhaps it was the hand on Alina’s own, like two childhood friends or more, making Nikolai’s memory fail so badly.
“I am afraid we are not acquaintances, no.” Nikolai replied, cheerful, and Mikhail made a small curtsy as she half-turned to him, the boy forgotten, his hands gone from hers.
He hated it. He hated the idea someone else had touched her - yes, she was just a wife on paper, but Alina was his, and…
And he shook his head: that was a dark line of thought he didn’t want to go down.
Alina, unaware of the darkness swirling in his head, ignored the curtsy - and Nikolai (who perhaps was cruel, but Alina had giggled, and Nikolai was a jealous man) kept his sight on her, barely acknowledging him as Alina explained she’d known him from Keramzin, then a brief military stint together, and how she hadn’t expected to see him there, of all places.
A curious look in Mikhail’s direction got him speaking: he’d married a local noble lady he’d saved during the war, and thus was the origin of his station being raised. He gestured for his wife in the crowd, doe-eyed and in love as Alina cooed about it, hands clasped together, eyes shining brightly as her sun.
Nikolai supposed it was romantic, and he bit his tongue, averting his eyes - but happy to notice that Mikhail and Alina did not touch again.
Later - when the party had died and Nikolai was alone with Alina in their room -, he always did her the favor of undressing her; Alina hated to bother a servant at all, much less in the middle of the night, closer to early morning than actual evening.
Thus, Nikolai’s service: to undo her white hair, let it cascade on her back, gently pushing it away (fingers skimming the bare skin of her neck, always a thrill Nikolai couldn’t deny himself from having) so he could kneel and undo the myriad of buttons that hid her away.
That night, though, he couldn’t avoid pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, gaining a giggle from her - which only made his heart swell with something akin to joy.
He kept the trail of kisses going, then: following the line of her spine, kissing bones whose name he, half-drunk with delight at her laughter, could barely remember being taught about.
“Someone’s clingy today.” Alina hummed when Nikolai was finished with his duty, staying on his knees for her. She turned, shrugging the dress away as she moved, and Nikolai’s breath was caught in his throat. Her hand patted his hair, and he all but purred at the touch. “What got into you?”
The sight of Alina with Mikhail, which was still making rounds in his mind - but he couldn’t say that. No, that’d be too much feeling for their arrangement.
“You looked beautiful tonight.” He replied, resting his head on her leg.The fingers stayed in his hair, petting him gently. Nikolai’s hands tugged at the dress, and Alina was the sun: warm, the hand in his hair leaving to his cheek, gently making Nikolai look up. “May I?”
Alina did not reply: no, she simply lowered herself to his level, the dress crumpling like a used napkin as she did, revealing more and more skin, her mouth on his barely a second after.
Nikolai knew a yes when he saw it - and no words but Alina’s name passed his lips from then on.
When tiredness won over them and they ended up sleeping together like children afraid of the dark -, Nikolai woke up early not because the sun was shining in his eyelids, but because Alina herself was.
He pushed away a strand of her white hair from her face, and Alina leaned into his touch. A smile took his lips - and he thanked every Saint that she couldn’t see the fondness in there.
Nikolai tried to get up to leave - he had work, he had to give her space -, but Alina’s hand sought his, trapping him in place.
He stayed.
Sometimes, Nikolai liked to see what the Fabrikators were doing. He wasn’t a Grisha, but if he had been born one, he’d have liked to be a Durast. Alina, sometimes - when she wasn’t busy with queen duties or Grisha duties - accompanied him around, introduced Nikolai to the new little Grisha around and took an interest in whatever Nikolai was looking at.
Of course, sometimes those items were more experimental than practical, but he could see the value of their concepthood - the value of letting a mind wander and explore and create without worry.
Such was one item he observed: a Durast playing with liquid and sparks, trying to create flame for soldiers to always have in their pockets - to aid Inferni when the need came.
It’s the little things, in the end: an errant spark on a still too unstable pool of flammable liquid. Flame shot up higher than any of the two could have predicted, singing Nikolai’s skin, licking him clean.
Alina, who’d been away a few steps - talking to a Tidemaker who’d brought her a class report - had her hands on him immediately, pulling him away from the flame. He hadn’t heard her move, but he supposed the imminent threat of fire made him unable to hear, ears ringing like someone had shot a gun by his side.
It took a few quick blinks to realize he was sitting on the floor, undignified but unburnt, Alina above him holding Nikolai by his shoulders, straddling him, a crease in the middle of her forehead as her mouth moved, but made no sound. She straddled him, close but so distant, and if Nikolai’s limbs weren’t made of lead, he would’ve touched her.
Was she worried? Well, Nikolai supposed anyone would be: a childless king dying inside a Grisha installation after a civil war would make Fjerda look like a Grisha haven. That must be Alina’s worry, he reasoned to himself.
Frustration shone in Alina’s expression, and she turned her face away, mouth moving wordlessly once more. There was a commotion around the two, one that went away with a second order.
He knew when Alina gave orders: shoulders tense, soldier-like expression, sharp movements of her hands, a contrast to the fragility of her summoning movements. Beautiful to him, as always.
A Healer approached from the right, quickly kneeling by Nikolai’s side, touching his head. The ringing cleared, and noise filled the room like the sea when it found a cave,rushing in without patience, too loud to the unaccustomed ear.
“- And cancel his appointments for today.” A pause, her eyes snapping to someone. “Mine too.”
“It’s okay, I can probably squeeze…” The Healer made a noise of protest, and Nikolai conceded when he saw the worry in her eyes. “Yes, cancel mine.”
Alina nodded, rose from where she was, hands leaving him to offer Nikolai help getting up, which was accepted gratefully; his legs felt unstable.
He half-wished he didn’t need the gloves to hide his scars: Nikolai longed for the warmth of her hands on his, skin to skin.
But not now. He couldn’t show the Darkling’s last gift to anyone but Alina.
Alina took him to their room, sat him down, and then - shoulders down, exhaustion written clearly in the lines of her face - plopped down by his side, hand on his still.
It took Nikolai a moment to realize she was shaking.
“Alina?” He asked, voice gentle, and she looked at him. “Are you okay?”
She took a deep breath, then another, then another. Nikolai was momentarily worried about hyperventilation. He turned to her, brought Alina’s hands to his chest.
They stood in silence for a moment that dragged onto eternity, but Nikolai didn’t mind. He rather enjoyed having Alina all for himself.
“You can’t die on me, Nikolai.” She said, finally, and Nikolai made an inquiring sound. “You’re all that I have left.”
His laughter was dry, but not mocking.
“I’m sure I’m not, Alina. There’s so many that look up to you - that will look up to you. I’m just your husband of convenience.”
It felt freeing to say the words he knew, but had locked inside himself. Less freeing was Alina’s bewildered look at him.
“What? Nikolai, what story did you…” Alina stopped, shook her head. “Look. Okay, sure, I may have been off, but I do love you.”
Something in Nikolai’s carefully put mask must’ve broken, because Alina’s eyes widened, saucer-like almost. He struggled to put it back on, mend the crack, but Alina’s hands were on his face, stopping him.
“Nikolai. I love you. I thought maybe it was just convenient to you, but…” A pause, a bite of her lip. “I am not either, am I?”
“No. Not really.” Nikolai’s voice sounded too soft, too tender; he cleared his throat, but Nikolai doubted it had any effect. The world seemed dream-like, or maybe it was the shock still in his veins coloring his perception. “I love you, too.”
There was a lovely smile on her face that made Nikolai’s cheeks redden in answer.
“We did this all wrong, didn’t we?” He managed, and Alina chuckled in answer. He did quick work of removing his gloves. “Want to start again? Hi, I’m Nikolai, sometimes a privateer. The scars are a funny story.”
Another peal of laughter, and Alina’s hands were on his. He missed the heat of them on his face, but on his hands - perpetually a degree colder than the rest of him -, it was better.
“I’m Alina. Orphan from Keramzin. Long story on how I’m here. Not funny, though.” She leaned in close. “I have time to tell it all.”
“I have time to hear.” Nikolai replied, closing the distance and kissing her.