( she very nearly laughs. fine. it strikes her as endearing, frustratingly petulant of a man so regal, but — well, the lantsov dynasty is testament enough that a throne isn't a curative for temper tantrums. her lips press together, smothering the flinching line of her lips, before they have the chance to flourish into an ill-advised smile. )
Well —
( hesitation stumbles her into a small, pensive pause. he hadn't been far from striking his mark, in accusing her of being eager not to disappoint; some girlish piece of her wants to hunt for an impressive answer, an attentive pupil itching for his favor, for pride to alight his eyes.
she never gets the chance. the whir of metal spun between his malleable fingers — the talented hands of an elegant sculptor, of an efficient tailor stitching masterpieces with their eyes closed — has her fingers encircling his wrist, tugging his hand closer, like she might be able to read some answer in the line of his palms.
even bath-warmed, her skin seems to lean unnaturally balmy, a touch of something summery when her fingertips slide over the sturdy line of his forearm, raptly inquisitive. )
You're Grisha?
( there's no hitch of fear in her voice, only lowly spoken surprise as the question comes, ensuring a secret stays hidden in the dark. pointlessly so, maybe; erik seems to have little qualms in revealing his sleight of hand, brazenly open, when alina has worked so tirelessly to cultivate a mask of someone unassuming, ordinary, in this place. )
no subject
Well —
( hesitation stumbles her into a small, pensive pause. he hadn't been far from striking his mark, in accusing her of being eager not to disappoint; some girlish piece of her wants to hunt for an impressive answer, an attentive pupil itching for his favor, for pride to alight his eyes.
she never gets the chance. the whir of metal spun between his malleable fingers — the talented hands of an elegant sculptor, of an efficient tailor stitching masterpieces with their eyes closed — has her fingers encircling his wrist, tugging his hand closer, like she might be able to read some answer in the line of his palms.
even bath-warmed, her skin seems to lean unnaturally balmy, a touch of something summery when her fingertips slide over the sturdy line of his forearm, raptly inquisitive. )
You're Grisha?
( there's no hitch of fear in her voice, only lowly spoken surprise as the question comes, ensuring a secret stays hidden in the dark. pointlessly so, maybe; erik seems to have little qualms in revealing his sleight of hand, brazenly open, when alina has worked so tirelessly to cultivate a mask of someone unassuming, ordinary, in this place. )