* angels on the moon - - THEODORE

[Lyubochka Pasternak]

Lyuba woke up sweating, fists tangled in the quilt covering her. She'd had the same dream for the third time that week, the ninth time that month, each occurence becoming more vivid and harder to distinguish from real happenings. She dreamt of a forest full of the dead, the sour, irony stench of bood coating the inside of her nostrils. She would be alone, looking at the bodies of people she couldn't distinguish (their faces were all blurred and melted into each other, or were too disfigured to recognize) and see her own body off in the distance, laid up against a tree like some sort of sacrificial lamb. Somewhere in the distance would be a crash of water and seconds later she would see it rolling towards her, picking up bodies and dirt and twigs and staining pink, then red, then maroon with the blood, and she'd always wake up before the water swept her away too.

She turned onto her side to face Ivanna (one of the two other girls she shared quarters with), whose forehead was uncreased, her breathing steady, quiet snores coming from her slightly open mouth. Lyuba cleared her throat quietly and sat up, pushing a few wet strands of hair covering her forehead to the side. She thought she knew what her dream meant, some sort of shit symbolism that felt the need to spring up now, just when things were beginning to feel normal and clean and just generally alright again. It's not that she wanted to forget (the would be the last thing she wanted) she just wanted to seal the experience, dull it down or something similar.

The sweat covering her made her feel sticky and greasy, a sensation she hated, and she walked over to the small basin of water used for washing. She picked up the washcoth and soaked it with water, scrubbing her skinny arms. The cold braced her and woke her up, both a good thing and a bad thing: good in the sense the it fully brought her out of that dreamworld, bad because now she couldn't go back to sleep. "I'll just take a walk, then," she mumbled, rubbing her left temple.

Five minutes later, candle in hand and shawl over shoulders, Lyuba tiptoed through the ornate halls of the palace. She'd been about the palace at night, once or twice, but on her way to the gardens or the kitchen. This was the first time she'd really noticed how nice the moldings were, or appreciated the way the light reflected off the marble floors. She smiled to herself as her bare feet padded across the floor. It was peaceful this way, she thought, less wig powder and the clacking of heels. She ran her free hand over the walls, trying to warm the marble under her fingertips.

It was now that she remembered the smoothness of Ksenia's skin, how her shade of pale was almost luminous, instead of waxy like Lyuba's. It was like the very marble she saw everywhere now, the - -

Stop it.

Breathe.

Don't think about it.

Things never are going to be normal again, she thought. No matter how hard I try it just keeps crawling back.

[Theodore Bonaparte]

WHAT DAY IS IT? AND IN WHAT MONTH? THIS CLOCK NEVER SEEMED SO ALIVE.
i can't keep up and i can't back down, i've been losing so much time.

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ALL OF THE THINGS THAT I WANT TO SAY JUST AREN'T COMING OUT RIGHT. I'M TRIPPING ON WORDS.
you've got my head spinning.
i don't know where to go from here.[/b][/SIZE][/color]
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The French Prince was not O.K. Theo stood, rather unsteadily, in the middle of his private room, eyes drifting back and forth across the paneled walls. He had begun to look for mistakes in the painting; he yearned for a color or shape that did not fit the pattern, to see a bit of art like himself, but to no avail. In his maddened state, he hurled the glass bottle of vodka across the room. It shattered against the wall to his right, and the shards fell to the floor like twinkling little stars. He frowned, thinking about how that would probably create a problem for one of the maids, then sighed before taking a flask out of his pocket. Moonshine, oh thank the God I pretend to believe in, he thought as he threw his head back and downed a large sip of alcohol. The liquor rolled down the back of his throat before reaching his gut and exploding, the reciprocations being felt all throughout his body. He was numb, just as he had hoped.

He took a step forward, tripping only slightly. He wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t walk, but he was drunk enough. With slow, tremulous steps, Theo made his way towards the door, slipping out with less than grace. Placing his large hands along the wall, he forced his wobbly legs forward, an action that created the feeling of a large cinderblock pressing down upon his head. Tears sprung to his eyes as he moved onward, cautiously. He gasped for air, swallowed, but his chest still ached. The tears dribbled down his cheeks and he wanted to drink them, as if they could bless him, but he didn’t know how. Forcing his body another step, he stumbled, falling forward fully. Bile rose in his throat and for a minute, he prepared to vomit. Luckily, Theo swallowed it back down, with only a bit of a cringe. Theo, what the fuck are you doing…, Theo asked himself. His eyes wandered across the marble floor, and a thousand memories danced and shown in them.

His mother, in her finest silk dress, dancing around their Paris home. His father laughing. His brother and sister clapping and dancing with her. A younger version of himself standing idly by, smiling nervously. His mother had come over and gotten him to dance, and it was fun. He couldn’t remember a recent time as happy as that. The bile rose again but he gulped it back as he had the thousand times before. . Oh mother, and Theo snapped.

Sinking to the ground, Theo pressed his eyelids closed as he threw his hands to his face. Salty tears slipped through his fingers as he sat, knees to chest, on the hallway floor. His back cracked against the wooden wall with ever sob that he choked on. He was hunched over, drunk, and alone, crying over a woman who was more than just gone. Life could and would not be the same, and Theo could not accept it. He could not take it standing, so instead, he took It curled up into a ball, drunk.

Then, after about ten minutes of crying, there was a small sound. Theo looked up, and, through his watery, blurred vision, Theo saw a small light flickering a few yards away. He was confused at first, but then noticed the shadow that was moving across the wall. It was a person: thin, and nearly silent, ghost-like, but a person. Unsure of what to do, Theo cupped his hands over his mouth. Then, feeling silly, he decided to see who this stranger was before deciding whether they were a threat to his family’s social standing. With a deep breath, his voice pierced the night. It came out as clear as he could, without any sense of slur. Or at least, that’s how it sounded in his head.

“Hello...?”

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THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT YOU I CAN'T QUITE FIGURE OUT. AND I DON'T KNOW WHY
i can't keep my eyes off of you.[/i][/b][/color]
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[/SIZE][/b] Lyuba ;D
wearing;
outfit
hair
music; you and me - lifehouse
word count; 647
credit; La-La-Lia from caution
notes; sorry it took me so long...hhaha[/color]
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[Lyubochka Pasternak]

Lyuba could say a lot of things to people. She could say "My parents died", or, "I was an orphan", or, "I wanted to travel", or "I lived in Siberia." They would believe her, and it would be easy enough to give a small explanation that would leave it all be. She doesn't, though. She doesn't a lot of things. She doesn't smile as much or talk to the others. She doesn't giggle over boys like she should or assist in dressing the Romanov princesses without getting a warm, sore feeling in the base of her stomach and furiously washing her hands afterward. She doesn't understand why this is happening to her or how she could have let the happiness make her reckless. She doesn't give her voice anymore unless it is asked for.

Instead, she listens. She listens to what others tell her; her employers, the senior servants, the priest on Sundays. She is obedient, a model for her peers. She is seen and not heard (and sometimes not even that) and she goes about her given business behind the shadows of lace skirts and porcelain plates. She is the mechanics behind the magic, and she takes pride in doing the most with no-one knowing. They praise her silently, with a nod and a smile and every single one gives a small bit of joy. The ghost of her former self becomes the frame of her new one, and it is as simple as doing what you are told and hiding what they don't need to know. She should have done that before: just listen.

Hello...?

Lyuba's free hand leapt to her mouth, making her yelp come out as a small squeak. She hadn't expected anyone, honestly, and she slowly surveyed the area, swallowing. But instead of the dark, broad-shouldered monster of a man she had expected, she saw a considerably less intimidating sight. A figure on the ground, not as thickly built as she had thought (though still, presumably, male) and incredibly disheveled-looking. He had the appearance of a royal who had for some reason fallen into a ditch. She stared at him for a several long moments, blinking once before quietly clearing her throat and stepping forward gingerly. As the distance between her and the man grew shorter, the stench of rum grew much stronger, and her candle illuminated the details of his person. His clothes looked like they had been immaculate earlier that day, but were now creased in the wrong places, the front of him slightly damp with something. His hair stood up, ruffled and his eyes were unmistakably bloodshot. He was a prince or a noble of some kind, no doubt, because no-one else she knew drank that much with such fine clothing, or stayed up all night doing so.

She stopped walking when she was about a yard or so away from him, putting a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sir?" she began, sighing slightly at the obvious question that followed, "Sir, how drunk are you?

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ooc: can i just say that you have got some serious writing skill? :][/font][/color][/size]

[Theodore Bonaparte]

WHAT DAY IS IT? AND IN WHAT MONTH? THIS CLOCK NEVER SEEMED SO ALIVE.
i can't keep up and i can't back down, i've been losing so much time.

[/i][/b][/color]
ALL OF THE THINGS THAT I WANT TO SAY JUST AREN'T COMING OUT RIGHT. I'M TRIPPING ON WORDS.
you've got my head spinning.
i don't know where to go from here.[/b][/SIZE][/color]
• • • • • • • • • • • • • •[/font][/center]

[/i] Her voice was light, only half concerned, and almost annoyed. Even though she sounded submissive, the way she spoke gave her a very masculine air that even someone as socially awkward as Theo could understand. Her accent was, undoubtedly, Russian.

Oh great. The perfect first impression upon the Russian royalty: me, drunken, in their hallway, found by a servant girl. Damn it to hell.

Sir, how drunk are you? The girl questioned, following the sigh that had escaped her lips moments before.

Oh, not nearly drunk enough! Ah moi!

Head pounding, hands sweating, Theo opened his mouth.
“ Oh bonjour, madamoiselle! Belle nuit, ce soir, est-ce pas? It’s a beautiful night tonight, isn’t it? I was just on my way to the lower gardens, to take a look at the stars…” Losing his concentration, Theo half drifted off, forgetting what he was about to say. Then, regaining his composure, and shifting, ready to get up, he said, “ I fell, je suis tombé, but I am fine now. I think I best be on my way.”

With a huff, Theo placed his hands on the wall and began a pathetic attempt to pull himself to his feet. His large, monstrosities of hands, clawed at the wall as his knees cracked under his weight. He was halfway up before losing his balance. In a moment of utter panic, he reached for one of the gold sconces lining the wall. He managed to wrap a hand around one of the unlit candles and its holder, but his massive weight could not be held up. As he fell back, the sconce tore from the wall with a horrible ripping sound, and Theo landed with a loud thud, on his back.

Fuck.

Putting on a sheepish smile, Theo let out a false laugh.

“Perhaps I did have a bit too much to drink tonight.”

But who could blame him? Alone in a crowded room, as he always was. This palace was not the place for him. How was he expected to take this in soberly?

So I don’t. He told himself silently, stifling a sigh. Theo, giving up, let his head fall back on the wooden floor, and waited for his redemption.
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

[/color]
THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT YOU I CAN'T QUITE FIGURE OUT. AND I DON'T KNOW WHY
i can't keep my eyes off of you.[/i][/b][/color]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[/color]
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[/SIZE][/b] Lyuba
wearing;
outfit
hair
music; you and me - lifehouse
word count; 497
credit; La-La-Lia from caution
notes; sconces—candle wall lamps.
Thanks, you’ve got plenty of skill too ;]
By the way, I’m sorry this reply too an EXTREMELY long time, AND is really bad haha. I’ve been ill.[/color]
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