open ❄️ and a song someone sings

[peasant]

CHARACTERS: alina & you!
LOCATION: various places on the station
DATE: throughout december
CONTENT: december catch-all. christmas antics, mistletoe madness, possible stupidity.
WARNINGS: will update if anything comes up!

I. COMMON AREA

[ bedrest hadn't suited her. freshly released from the infirmary, alina finds herself restless for a change of scenery — for a splash of color that isn't sterile white walls and beeping machinery. it doesn't take long for her to grow tired of seeing that same starkness reflected in the station's walls, spaces that hardly look lived in despite the time they've spent aboard.

maybe it's the inherent desire to create a home, to leave her little mark somewhere. maybe it's her drive to add color, unwilling to live in a dull and gray world. maybe it doesn't matter, in the end, when the result is the same — alina taking the skill she had spent time practicing and polishing in braccia, grateful for the peace that painting brings her.

she begins her work in the common area, first — ignoring the unnerved fluttering in her stomach at the thought of sharing a piece of herself so openly, so vividly, when she's gone unseen throughout most of her life. still, she won't allow self-consciousness to hold her back; with a paintbrush in hand, alina dapples it along the wall, rich colors in shades of hazy reds and neon blues that map out a mural.

— it's a messy affair, too. covering the floor in tarp has spared it from the same streaks of paint that have found themselves across alina: flecks across her knuckles, dried in strands of hair messy spilling out of the bun at the back of her head, smears on her shoulder from where an oversized (stained, now, with a dapple of green paint) dress shirt hangs loosely.

she doesn't seem at all bothered by it. in fact, she's so engrossed that she startles, the moment anyone makes noise in the room, nearly jumping out of her skin. once she recovers, she turns an apologetic grin toward them, biting it back with a nip to her bottom lip as she holds the paintbrush a little protectively to her chest. ]

Am I in your way?

II. CHRISTMAS CHEER.

[ keramzin's orphanage had never looked so festive. alina can only remember the gloom that had followed the feast of sankt nikolai — another holiday to remind them all of what they had lost, the lives they might have had if fate had been kinder to them. another day alina and mal had spent searching for peace in their meadow, finding the only family they needed in one another.

it had almost been enough to ease the ache in her chest. almost. it isn't quite enough to soothe it, now; it feels traitorous, somehow, to share in the celebrations without mal at her side. decorating the halls is a pleasant distraction, at least — another outlet for an artist, making the most of what she had never had the opportunity to indulge in.

alina lingers in the hallways, stringing along tinsel into spaces that have been left bare, sprinkling mistletoe and wreaths from doorways. what she hadn't accounted for, however: her own height, hopping and failing to reach closer to the ceiling, with a puffing huff of frustration. when she catches sight of another orber in her peripherals, she turns to them, decoration in hand — opening her mouth, hesitating with the words, before they come. ]

You're tall. [ it doesn't matter if they're tall or not. most of the ship seems to tower over her, regardless. her hands jut out, offering up whatever happens to be in her hands. ] Hang this for me?

[ if it happens to be mistletoe dangling from her fingertips, she breathes out an embarrassed laugh, reassuring them with, ] I'm not trying to trap you. Promise.

III. SUNLIGHT ROOM.

[ the flurry of snow that greets her in the sunlight room would put ravka to shame. much as alina knows it's an illusion, she's grateful to viveca for bringing her that slice of home, feeling the wintry air nip her cheeks into a frostbitten pink as she soaks in the sight, tipping her face toward the sky to invite a dusting of snowflakes to collect in her eyelashes.

it's with a carefree spirit, feeling lighter than she has since returning, that alina loses herself in packing together an arsenal of snowballs. waiting for the opportunity of an ambush, she lurks until she catches a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye — and sends a snowball soaring through the air, striking them on the cheek, before ducking behind the nearest trunk of a fuzzy pine tree.

or, for those she knows well — they'll find the surprise of icy fingers at the back of their neck — and snow that follows suit, shoved down the back of their shirt. sneaky is hardly a weapon she can wield well, however — alina's girlish laughter rings out as she makes an attempt at an escape, chiming in the air as she moves to dart away, rabbit-hearted and breathless.

maybe you've found yourself on the lake with her, frozen over and slippery. it's new — the ice skates on her feet, leaving her as graceless as a newborn fawn on jittery, shaking legs as she stands. it's inevitable, really, that she would come tumbling down — knees buckling from momentum as she reaches out to steady herself, tangling her fingers in the fabric of another's sleeve.

— only to inadvertently tug them down with her in a tangle of limbs and a surprised yelp, the breath crashing out of her with a small, ] Oof. [ as she's sprawled out, blinking up at the sky with a dizzied grimace on her face. ] Sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass both of us.

IV. WILDCARD OPTION.

[ all of the above prompts are open to anyone and everyone, including mistletoe shenanigans, bc i have no shame. but feel free to shoot a PM my way or find me at nereids if you want to hash out a closed starter! or just throw a prompt my way and i'll gladly go along with it. c: any variations you want to do on these prompts are open game, too!

planned closed starters will be found below in the comments. ♥ ]

Comments

🌟 ( CLOSED ) BONES.

[peasant]

[ there's a certain restlessness that settles into the marrow of her, confined to her bout of bedrest. for all that she's occupied her mind, busied her hands — finding a temporary escape in flipping through pages, or pressing her colored pencils to paper to sketch something that isn't the sterile walls she's forced to admire — it's unnerving, to return to that delicate girl she had thought she had left in her past. to be sickly and frail again, even if this sickness seems to promise a quicker recovery.

she is — recovering, in some small part. the way withering flowers tend to perk their petals up, once they've been tended to with proper care. not quite flourishing, but not quite wilting, either. exhaustion still seems to line her eyes when bones comes to her bedside, though her relentless shivering has calmed. an effect of the blankets piled on top of her like a mountain, undoubtedly, but — her power returning to her in concentrated doses, too.

her fingers tug her hoard of sheets down, draping in wrinkled waves near her waist. with it, the book in her lap jostles, nearly losing her place. the food on her tray is still relatively untouched, perturbed by how close it tastes to ash in her mouth — but she has greater worries than the strange, wobbling texture of gelatin. jello. whatever they had called it.

her eyes flit up to his, some nervousness pooling in her gaze, as her fingers automatically raise to her collarbone. the bits of broken antlers forced through her skin might be veiled beneath her turtleneck, but something self-conscious sparks at the thought of not revealing them on her own terms, or —

worse. having them gawked at as an aberration. after a second of chewing a little anxiously on her lower lip: ] You're not going to poke and prod at me, are you?

whew, ty for your patience

[homeostatic]

( A calm seems to have settled over the infirmary at last, the flurry of activity dropped to manageable levels as people filter out, slow and steady. Getting to sleep in a real bed, not those wretched cots, and adhering once more to a regular sleep schedule, that certainly made things easier, too.

McCoy has generally been out of his patients' hair during their stays, there to check vitals and levels and make adjustments to medications, and then leave them the Hell alone to rest. It's boring for them, he knows, but it's the kind of boring that's safe, harmless. Not that awful, anxious wait between disasters.

He glances at Alina after a check of her monitors, meeting her gaze with his dark brows quirked. )

I try not to, tends to make folks uncomfortable. Should I? ( A touch from flatscreen to the tablet in his other hand transfers over readings, snapshots and recordings captured for her file.

Bones mistakes Alina's hand at her collarbone for something else, equal evidence in the pile of blankets she's shoved down, and he turns solicitous: )

Too warm now?

ty for yours!! the holidays ate me and spat me up, sobs

[peasant]

Uh. [ her stunted laugh fills the space like an awkward segue, equally as strained as her nervous smile. ] I would rather you didn't, if it's all the same to you.

[ not only for the unpleasant memories it provokes, but — for how revealing it may be, of secrets she isn't ready to express. origins of scars and wounds she hasn't formed an explanation for. the other orbers have seemed to duck drawing attention to them, but to a doctor ... it would be a warranted concern. a particular curiosity.

alina's lips roll, a confused question mark etching itself into the lines of her expression. too warm? another second ticks by, the corners of her eyes creasing, before — ]

Oh. [ it billows out of her, hand flopping back to her lap. ] A little. I'm surprised I haven't burned through them yet, now that my power is coming back.

[ the way she delivers it suggests it's an absurd possibility, but still a potential possibility. ]

feelin' that for sure. this is lovely!

[homeostatic]

( He shrugs, just as she says- it's all the same to me. Nothing suggests he need to, besides.

Really, he could have been better about not throwing the non sequitur at her like that. )

You're pyrokinetic? ( It's...honestly a bit of a bland question, his tone not one of surprise or the grotesque curiosity of a normie poking a stick through bars, just professional interest. Something to ask while he maneuvers that topmost blanket and folds it down to the end of her bed. )

🌟 ( CLOSED ) CLARKE.

[peasant]

[ tba! ]

[construing]

[ clocking in at 5'5", gwen has never considered herself tall. not that heights are any trouble to her, but only a twelfth of the orbers know that.

she also would not have given the mistletoe another thought, not expecting anyone to seriously keep to the tradition (much less with her). then alina mentions it's not a trap, and gwen's eyes narrow.

she looks from the bunch of mistletoe now in her hand to alina.

drily, ] Pretty sure you saying it's not a trap makes it a trap.

[peasant]

[ alina's smile wilts instantly, replaced by the look of an unbalanced, startled fish gaping on dry land. with a startling flush to her cheeks, red as the berries tucked between those sprigs of mistletoe, she gives an adamant shake of the head. ]

It's not — [ for all of her instinctive and immediate defensiveness, she knows well that protesting it won't matter — not if the woman across from her has already made her judgments. the words die a futile death on alina's tongue, her lips pressing together in a thin line. ] Please tell me you're joking.

[ or not. but she knows what it looks like, when another face wears their suspicion of her openly; ravka hadn't been lacking in those glances, openly sharing their distrust. but they had been crueler, too — spitting out acid, in place of gwen's dryness. discerning whether she's serious is a nearly impossible feat.

another beat passes — and only then does alina manage the miracle of looking more embarrassed by the lack of control over her own mouth, fumbling through its missteps. ]

Not that you're ... [ not pretty, she stops herself from saying, swallowing her own stupid tongue, and trails off in a fit of mortified frustration. good job, alina. now you've probably insulted her again. ] Having to trap someone into kissing me sounds like a miserable experience.

[construing]

[ well, doesn't she feel like a dick now. ]

Oh, God, no, sorry! Sorry. I was joking. That was a bad joke. [ good fucking job, gwen. you just kicked a puppy. she fixes her face into what she hopes is a reassuring smile and not halfway manic. ]

I keep forgetting we're definitely not in Queens anymore, huh?

[ for the love of all that is holy, gwen. she would dearly love to stop. unfortunately, asking a spider to stop cracking shit jokes is like asking a spider to stop talking, and she really, really needs to do both right now.

gwen pinches the bridge of her nose. without looking up, she waves the mistletoe. ]

I'm gonna hang this up now, yeah?

[ just…gonna do that. before she causes another crisis.

turning toward the wall, gwen steps on it…and walks up the surface as if it weren't smoothly vertical. on the ceiling, the artificial gravity pulling at her hair and clothes, she crouches comfortably upside down. ]

Here?

[peasant]

[ oh. alina's lips round, parted on that one silent syllable, like a revelation. relief visibly pours through her, washing away the tension gripping at her shoulders, but — the bright burst of color in her cheeks hasn't faced. gwen's embarrassment only flames alina's higher, an echo chamber of misunderstanding, until she's chiming out a nervous giggle.

spoken with a dramatically silly flourish to her voice, to ease the tension: ] All is forgiven. Hanging it for yours truly can be your penance.

[ even if she isn't certain what queens and royalty have to do with it — the name of a place, maybe. another unheard town to add onto the map of worlds she can only imagine in her mind. she keeps it to herself, unwilling to humiliate herself further, and shuffles to the side to allow gwen room to ...

scale the wall, it seems, rather than stretch on the tips of her toes to fasten the little plant. alina blinks once, twice, a flash of incredulity in her eyes. despite the wonders she's seen — wings that can take flight in the skies, castles that shift and move to their own whims — her giddiness over new discoveries hasn't dulled.

she huffs out a disbelieving laugh, tilting her head so far back that it dizzies her, a little. strains a crick into her neck, just trying to fully eye gwen from where she dangles. ]

You're doing that?

[ her fingers raise, tempted to skirt through the ends of that falling hair just to confirm it's real — but she snatches them back at the last minute, sheepish and half-convinced it won't be welcome. no need to start off on a worse foot than they have. ]

iii;

[kovach]

[ he doesn't really feel the cold, not with the trench coat tucked comfortably over his body, along with the signature cigarette peeking out from his mouth; the end burns hot, glowing tiny embers as he feels it scratch along his throat and through to his lungs, pleasant, itchy heat that feeds the ongoing nicotine addiction he involuntarily got stuck with. it pairs nicely with the change in weather in the sunlight room, not remembering the last time he'd actually experienced a bit of snow, even if this isn't necessarily the authentic kind. not much is these days.

but there's definitely something undeniable chilling when he feels the striking cold of ice settle past his collar, making him mutter a sharp, deep fuck! as he tries to slap the sneaky hand away, missing it by a millisecond.

it's not like he didn't sense her coming; envoy instincts prepare him for this sort of thing, just by listening the soft crunch of snow beneath covered feet, along with the weight of her chilled breath as she inches closer. but the snow is definitely a surprise, noted in his face when he spins around with a slight snarl in his expression, not necessarily serious but instinctive in light of the prank. ]

The fuck you doing!? [ despite the shouted swear, his lips move more into a sunken out as he watches her try to dart away, standing there watching her move about like a child. ]

[peasant]

[ kovac's snarl calls to mind cornered animals, wild beasts that bare their teeth to remind intruders of their sharp bite. she doesn't doubt the violence that must live in his bones, like a wolf that's been trained to kill for its masters — but it speaks to her faith in him that she doesn't flinch. doesn't so much as bat an eyelash, when faced with it.

(it's a strange thing, to trust hands so capable of killing.)

much as she has an advantage in snow and size, familiar with terrain so close to ravka's — and petite enough to be quick as a fox on her feet — she doesn't have the breath for it. her delighted laughter winds her, only making it so far as two feet from him before she slides to a graceless stop. hardly a safe distance to tease him, and yet — ]

What does it feel like I'm doing?

[ little specks of snow still cling to her fingers, caught red (well, white) handed in the act. her grin only seems to widen further, bright and beaming, when she takes in the scowl fixed to his mouth. a pout, alina might bravely call it — so far from what she's come to expect from his expressions that the corners of her mouth dimple. ]

Oh, Saints. Are you pouting? You're pouting. [ an incredulous laugh bubbles out of her in a fog, light and breezy. she's in the middle of rubbing at her cold, pink-bitten nose when she pauses, mouth falling into a little oh of revelation, her playful smile slipping. surely he's not so terribly upset with her, but ... if he was only a child when he was taken, she can't imagine he ever had the freedom to flit through the snow. not when his life has been spent within someone else's control. what has he known of the world, outside of blood and battles? she blinks, sounding hesitatingly unsure of herself when she asks, ] You're not actually angry, are you?

[kovach]

[ despite his appearance, instinctive in his defensive reactions, there's no actual intention for violence here (because when it is intended, then the target will most definitely know it). though he has plenty of bite, sometimes it really is all bark, depending on who exactly the shared company happens to be.

luckily for alina, she's more in the camp of people that earn a definite eye roll, which is probably as best as anyone can hope for when it comes to his perception of them.

he reaches his arm back into his collar trying to wipe off as much snow as he can, even if some of it just escape even further within his clothes, teeth hissing at the resulting chill that shoots directly against his spine. ]

I'm not — fucking — pouting. [ he swears in the midst of trying to get rid of the snow, finally straightening himself up again. he's more exasperated than angry but he's not going to lighten up his expression, especially as he squints at her almost in a challenge. ] Furious. [ he mutters, bending down to scoop a bit of snow in his hand, shaping it with his fingers. ] Really wanna fuck around, huh?

[peasant]

[ — never mind, alina corrects herself. a lifetime without much freedom won't hinder him from getting his revenge, if the retaliatory glint in his eye is any indication. a frisson of dangerous excitement shivers down her spine, her dying smile twitching back to life.

there are much worse fates, after all, than being drenched in snowballs. she huffs out a breath at furious, crystallizing in the air like wisps of mist. ]

I couldn't tell. [ unafraid — undeterred, better yet, by the certain doom awaiting her — she gestures to his mouth, with the jut of her chin. it raises soon after, steady and challenging in its defiance. the telling mark of how truly stubborn her nature is. ] With all of your pouting, I thought you were just sulking.

[ her boldness is begging for it, really. a deliberate move, on alina's part; taunting him into a harmless war distracts from the fight that awaits her in her peripherals, beckoning her back to ravka's shore. a respite from the shackles she drags with her, that permanent reminder of the destiny she can never quite escape — like a memory plucked from her mind, of simpler times. when she had been alina starkov, a simple soldier and orphan girl, with no grand destiny ahead of her. ]

I really do wanna fuck around. [ not her usual turn of phrase, but — she steals it from him, mocking, as she takes a step back. and another, eyes darting to the snow packed between his fingers. she could remind him of the power that lives at the heart of her, but — ] Are you sure you want to?

[ having the advantage of sunlight doesn't mean she's going to make it easy on him. with another quick look at the snow gathered in his hands, she breaks into a run toward the treeline of the sunlight's room clustered forest. ]

ii.

[petsthedog]

[This might as well happen dot gif. Shinjiro accepts his fate as a Designated Tall Person, and he's reaching out to accept the decoration from her when she makes that reassurance, and his hand pauses in midair, lightly confused.]

Huh? What d'you mean?

[See, this is just a plant to him. Mistletoe kissing isn't really a tradition in Japan, and though he has some familiarity with western media, the association is not clicking at all right now.]

[peasant]

[ oh.

explaining it is somehow more flustering than offering any promise that she isn't planning ill-intent. that's the natural outcome to her self-conscious overthinking, no doubt; the gears in her head turn swiftly, despite how alina has gone as still as a statue, the confusion carved into the thoughtful twist to her mouth.

maybe the announcements on the network, all that talk of shared tradition, had been a joke? for the sake of occupying her hands, she reaches for a twisting rope of tinsel, idly snaking it around her fingers in little rings of silver. ]

They don't have that tradition in your world?

[ a normal person would elaborate, rather than leaving him grasping for an explanation. alina starkov, however, is decidedly too awkward to be any sort of normal, for all that her life had once been a plain, ordinary map leading to nowhere partcularly grand. ]

[petsthedog]

[He must have missed that post on one of his hermit-y days, whoops. There's a blink at her fluster, like he's missing the punchline to a joke she's in on. He shrugs.]

Eh, maybe? Christmas ain't as a big deal in Japan. We mostly just do the trees and lights and shit.

[Whatever, even if it's embarrassing he's not sure he cares. He ends up plucking the mistletoe from her hand without waiting for an explanation.]

So, where'd you want this anyway?

iii. rest in piss, newton

[groupiedrifter]

[See, there are two types of people. There is Kovacs, who is big and scary and pouty when faced with snow shoved down his shirt, and then there's Newton — who jumps five feet in the air and yelps like a dog that got scared by a leaf-blower.]

ACK!!!

COLD COLD COLD-

[He dramatically flails his arms before spinning around to Alina with torment in his face that not a single person on this planet should ever take seriously. Look at this shaky chihuahua. Listen to him yap.]

Alina, n-not cool! My sh-shirt's tucked in...!

[He's trying to pull his shirt's end tails loose, but his pants are so tight... so skinny in the jeans...

He's gonna expire. ;A;


FORGET THAT HE DID THIS VERY THING TO OTHER PEOPLE HIMSELF.]

get wreckt

[peasant]

[ newt's flailing is a sight to behold. like a baby bird tumbling from its nest, alina thinks — sad and small enough to tug at her guilty heartstrings. the difference, however, is that baby birds are far more innocent — and far more defenseless than the menace in front of her.

after all that she's witnessed of his frolicking? turnabout is fair play. she snickers, a sound of childish mischief, taking an absent step back as he continues to shake and shiver like a tiny hound trying to shake off rain and sleet from its coat. ]

Seems like it's plenty cool, actually.

[ if the nipping chill of the snow isn't brutal for newt, that pun must do its own damage. to make this snow warfare dramatically worse, she takes her icy fingers and smooshes them into his cheeks, warm against the chill that's set into her own bones. the price she pays, for pointedly shaking off her mittens every five seconds, simply to prove a point. ]

Didn't I just see you tormenting innocents? It's a poetic punishment, if you ask me.

[groupiedrifter]

You saw nothing! You see nothing but your torture of me! [... HE MAY HAVE BEEN TORMENTING INNOCENTS. BUT HE WILL DENY IT UNTIL HIS DYING BREATH!!! He whines at the feeling of icy fingers on his cheeks, but — ] The lady's first mistake!!! Gotcha, you little delinquent!

[He proceeds to grab her and drag her down into the terribly cold snow beneath them. Sure, he's sacrificing his own warmth by being equally as attacked by the snowy ground, but it's a sacrifice he's more than ready to make.]

Sweet revenge!

[HE'S SO COLD, HIS TEETH ARE GONNA CHATTER-]

II.

[spacedisaster]

[ With his 6'2", Peter is not a small guy, that for sure. He stops in his tracks at Alina's request, in no rush to get to the sunlight room, and looks down at the ornament in her hand and then up at her. After a second, he flashes her a mischievous grin. ]

I could do something better. [ Leaning in slightly, he places his hands on each side of Alina's waist...and lifts her up. ] Can you reach now? I could lift you higher if needed.

[ He watched Dirty Dancing so many times as a kid, Alina doesn't even know how much he wanted to do something like this. ]

[peasant]

[ squeaking like a startled mouse isn't her finest, nor her proudest, moment. her flailing is reflexive, her muscles bunching together with tension, in her constant expectation of the worst — that part of her that always expects to be dragged through the mud, ready to defend herself — before she fully comprehends that peter hasn't ambushed her at all.

a laugh floods out of her, finding herself in a new vantage point. perhaps this is what it must feel like, to always be able to skim past the tops of people's heads. (and perhaps it's for the best she hadn't been born with that advantage, drawing even more unfortunate attention.)

for now, though — it's a luxury she doesn't mind indulging in, pleased to be dangling in the air with the lightness of a feather. the ornament jingles in her hands as her nose scrunches, pretending to calculate the distance when she already knows she can reach. and yet — ]

Hm. No. Try going higher.

[ — she chooses a very obvious, playful lie, if only to have the full experience of being raised further toward the ceiling. ]

[spacedisaster]

[ Peter laughs at the reaction but it's in a good-natured way rather than mocking her for it. everyone would have been startled and he's glad that Alina didn't start swinging her legs around and kicked him.

She seems content up there and her words are encouraging. Peter looks up and that mischievous smile is still playing on his lips. ]

Oh we can go higher, for sure. [ You're talking with a guy who's got jeet boots, Alina. He changes his hold on her waist so his arm is around it and she's at no risk of falling and then...jumps up and activates the attachments, sending them both up in the air. They're not good for long-term flight or hovering, not in the same way as his jetpack, but this he can do. ] How about this?

iii.

[business]

( rhysand loves snow almost as much as he loves alina. with the two paired? it's wine and cheese, baby.

something giddy has been wrapped up inside of him since they managed to make their way into the sunlight room, smiling brighter, laughing louder, acting rowdier, as if all pretenses of the title high lord have been hung up to dry for the day. he sets to work with a certain efficiency, fixing the snow in two opposing walls ( once alina had said, in no uncertain terms, she would not be making her own fort ), tugging mittens onto alina's hands every time she teases him with her little icicle fingers. wool the color of robin's eggs — somehow, they keep going missing. somehow, rhys keeps rewarding her ice by kissing the snowflakes off the heights of her lips and from the space between her eyelids, something surprising efficient in keeping him warm.

cute as the sentiment is, she kind of radiates heat, anyway. it's messing with the structural integrity of the forts — though he doesn't like snow that much to shoo her away. thus, the line of succession in his heart is definitively decided — alina first, snow second. alina first, sweets second, snow first.

once the game begins, they might've been going at it for an hour or two, rhys too fond of snowball fights to understand or even notice when a game has gone on too long. his usual games last for the entirety of a day, and leave one victor standing tall — usually azriel. it's been decades since rhys has won, even before amarantha. but hey, this year? it's looking pretty good in his favor. alina is not the seasoned professional that he is and he laughs boisterously, not unlike a small child, every time he decks her with a ball. he laughs when she gets him too to be fair, lungs and cheeks all aching from the extent of his joy, from the burning cold of the snow. every ache is just exquisite.

he starts off snickering as he decks alina with another ball — but she goes down in a way he hadn't exactly witnessed before, no echo of her cursing ringing out as the crush of pelted snow. rhys perks immediately, peering over his wall. )

Alina! ( he calls out, brows knitted. ) ... Alina?

( worry settles into him and, without thinking much, he jogs across the field to where he saw her fall, crumpled into a heap of fabric and snow. rhys takes a crouch beside her, pulling the hat off his head the prop up underneath hers, lifting her a little by the extra fabric on her jacket to give her a little shake. )

Darling? ( his frown deepens the more she stays on her back, rhysand's cold fingertips pressing against her neck and chin and cheeks, like searching for — broken bones? he didn't his her that hard, did he? shit shit. ) I'm so sorry. Can you tell me where it hurts?

[peasant]

[ she shouldn't be so steamed over a simple children's game.

she shouldn't, and yet — some draconic entity must have possessed her spirit for her to fume with a dragon's temper, stomping through the snow as though she means to rampage through the icy castle wall this self-proclaimed prince has built around himself. all of rhys' endless provoking sets her nostrils flaring as she huffs out steam each and every time his laughter flurries around her, childishly delighted by his own victories — of which there are many, snowballs bouncing off of the back of her head with frustrating accuracy.

this is one war alina was never equipped to win. her small hands can't pack snow together quickly enough to take her revenge, her sad horde of treasures consisting of two pathetic little globes of ice, misshapen and melting. snow has never agreed with the sun — that much is clear, every time the unnatural heat radiating beneath her skin thaws the frozen fortress separating them, prompting rhys to come and repair the frosty wall he's built for her. and even if she were simply alina starkov, a standard soldier and lowly orphan —

it wouldn't be enough. for all that she had been his protective shield, mal had handled wild things with care — alina included, another frail and sickly rabbit in his collection, the runt of a litter never destined to survive past spring. if frolicking in meadows had tired her skinny bones, what casualties would battling in the snow bring? rhys is an opponent she had never had the luxury to prepare for, no childhood training to ready her for snow fights, but surrendering is unthinkable. a challenge she won't submit to in the face of his smugness, no matter how outmatched she truly is.

he should be proud of her trickery, alina tells herself, when she deliberately collapses to the ground in a graceless pile of limbs. a lesson that training with him has instilled in her: self-preservation first, survival first. there are no rules in a fight. no one will fight you fairly. honor means so very little if you're dead. still, a stab of guilt pangs through her, blinking open her bleary eyes to peer up at him. snowflakes stir from where they've clung to her eyelashes like glittery powder, but his worry is plain to see — creasing his brows, tightening his mouth. she nearly feels sorry for him, until she remembers —

the taunting chuckling in her ear. her resolve sharpens, reaching her chilly fingers to frame his face, with a faraway hum. ] Mm. I don't know.

[ mischief sparks in her eyes, a twinkle of lights that rivals the christmas decorations draped over nearby pine trees. a warning that comes at the last second, right before her legs sweep out toward his ankles to knock him off-balance. she scrambles quickly once he crashes into the snow, throwing her (feather-light) weight over the top of him in an effort to pin him to the earth, clawing into the snow around his skull to gather clumpy handfuls.

— and promptly smash them into his face, unapologetically smushed into his mouth for good measure. ] Why don't you tell me where it hurts, Rhys?

[business]

( it's a sparkle he's well familiar with, mischief as akin to him as blood and bones — she glimmers, and before rhysand can even comprehend that he's been had, he's laid out on his back, staring up at her. something bewildered tickles his gaze. did she really just knock me down? seems to be the only thought circling his brain, impressed and honestly proud by the advancement — but before he can express his delight in the bell clear ring of his laugh, he's being just —

brutally, brutally assaulted.

he turns his head immediately to the side, coughing up snow bits, slapping a hand down on her straddling thigh as he spits up the melted crystals too, pulling a gross face once his mouth is clear. he eyes alina from the corner of his eye, a tense moment of knife weighing, to see which edge of emotions he'll come out on — as if it was a choice. loudly, he rumbles laughter from beneath her, some snow in the far distance shaking off trees by the rattle of fae laughter in the room. )

Get off me you brute!

( but — he doesn't seem to really want her anywhere else, given that he puts no effort into lifting her, only settling his cold hands on her thighs and keeping her grounded. after a moment he sits up, alina balanced in his lap, so he can press his freshly chilled face and mouth to her cheek, nuzzling down to wear she's warmest in the curve of her neck, not unlike an explorative kitten, looking for the nicest patch of heat in a house to cozy up to. )

Someone's a sore loser.