[ Even the slight flame flickering awake like a living entity is enough to offer near-immediate relief. Konstantin turns his body towards it and fully unzips his coat so that it's like two pieces instead of one, so that he can nudge the flaps of it behind his sides, exposing the front of the thick black turtleneck he wears underneath. Standing there like that warming himself like some reptile, he keeps listening to her talk, head turned to follow her movements to the kitchen, thoughtful in a solemn way that he usually isn't, everything made more severe by the weight of it all.
There's a nod before he can even think to stop the gesture, something affirmed and agreed to — dating, relationships; for him they're under the same umbrella of a certain type of connection, of commitment, something that feels too final. An anchor (a rope, a noose, a string around his finger keeping him hooked to someone else no matter how far away he might try to run, and it might as well be around his neck, choking him out).
There's a lift of brows at the part about using fake names — that'd be a first for him, and he's equal parts amused and impressed as he looks her over again. ]
That's not a bad idea, actually. Using a different name. [ He smiles a little, showing teeth as his eyes briefly move down over exposed skin as she stretches. But there's something to it, to relating with someone over this, that makes it all a little better — like going over it with a friend, a buddy, and maybe it'll even improve her opinion of him in the process (Konstantin... it won't) ]
The only problem is, everyone knows who I am. I can't go anywhere without being recognised. [ A fact that never bothered him before. Not him, who loved the glory of it all, there was no shame in admitting to that fact. The glory was a part of it. The starry-eyed way he was looked at. He was adored. ...Now though, there's someone who looks at him with love, not just adoration, and it's—
—It's terrifying. ]
But I agree that an exit strategy is always a good thing. Sometimes I like to map out more than one. Plan A, Plan B.
[ He turns his body around to face Wynonna fully, eyes dipping briefly from her face to the drink she's offering to pour. For a moment there's a yearning, and a bad decision trying to shove its way through. He stares, and then he smiles again, swallowing down a joke about Russians and their love of drink. It doesn't matter. He can't. ]
None for me, actually. I can't drink alcohol anymore, with this.. condition. At least, I haven't found a way to without things going wrong.
[ The last time he'd tried, he'd ended up vomiting very violently all over Vasiliy's living room floor and the thing knocked him out in its upset. He's only just making a better impression on Wynonna (he thinks); he doesn't need to throw up an alien in her cabin. ]
Have a glass for me? You look like you could use two, anyway.
no subject
There's a nod before he can even think to stop the gesture, something affirmed and agreed to — dating, relationships; for him they're under the same umbrella of a certain type of connection, of commitment, something that feels too final. An anchor (a rope, a noose, a string around his finger keeping him hooked to someone else no matter how far away he might try to run, and it might as well be around his neck, choking him out).
There's a lift of brows at the part about using fake names — that'd be a first for him, and he's equal parts amused and impressed as he looks her over again. ]
That's not a bad idea, actually. Using a different name. [ He smiles a little, showing teeth as his eyes briefly move down over exposed skin as she stretches. But there's something to it, to relating with someone over this, that makes it all a little better — like going over it with a friend, a buddy, and maybe it'll even improve her opinion of him in the process (Konstantin... it won't) ]
The only problem is, everyone knows who I am. I can't go anywhere without being recognised. [ A fact that never bothered him before. Not him, who loved the glory of it all, there was no shame in admitting to that fact. The glory was a part of it. The starry-eyed way he was looked at. He was adored. ...Now though, there's someone who looks at him with love, not just adoration, and it's—
—It's terrifying. ]
But I agree that an exit strategy is always a good thing. Sometimes I like to map out more than one. Plan A, Plan B.
[ He turns his body around to face Wynonna fully, eyes dipping briefly from her face to the drink she's offering to pour. For a moment there's a yearning, and a bad decision trying to shove its way through. He stares, and then he smiles again, swallowing down a joke about Russians and their love of drink. It doesn't matter. He can't. ]
None for me, actually. I can't drink alcohol anymore, with this.. condition. At least, I haven't found a way to without things going wrong.
[ The last time he'd tried, he'd ended up vomiting very violently all over Vasiliy's living room floor and the thing knocked him out in its upset. He's only just making a better impression on Wynonna (he thinks); he doesn't need to throw up an alien in her cabin. ]
Have a glass for me? You look like you could use two, anyway.