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Быть не в своей тарелке [Fenn]
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Posted on March 28, 2020 at 03:56:28 AM by Zhenya

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The new king threw a decent party, Zhenya thought. Less cohesive than he would have arranged, of course, but generous in the ways that mattered – the music flowed uninterrupted, and so did the booze. He and his cohort were soon properly soused.

It was the only way they knew to carry on.

Zhenya, at least, held his liquor better than most. Nastya was a disaster. “Zhenya, Zhenya, chto my budem delat’?” she kept saying, at a volume he found inappropriate, even beneath the music.

”English, Nastya,” he chided, ”you’ll make everyone suspicious.”

“Tch, your accent makes everyone suspicious,” she slurred back, sulkily. Then her face fell. “And what are we going to do? This is impossible.” Her accent was better than his – she’d spent time in a London boarding school, at some point in her adolescence – but Zhenya could still barely understand her. He scratched his temple.

”Why don’t you find Pyotr,” he suggested, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray and forcing it into her hand. She sloshed a bit, steadying her grip. ”Forget about problem for one night. Your dress deserves to be danced in, you insult me standing around in it. Go.” He patted her bottom as he steered her away, and she muttered a curse. The remaining members of their group smirked derisively.

Zhenya found he didn’t have the stomach for their attitudes and bitching, tonight.

He excused himself, extinguishing his cigarette under the toe of a custom John Lobb, and blowing the last of the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Even among the classier crowd on the lawn, he stood out – his tux was obviously bespoke, cut perfectly to his slender frame out of dark teal cashmere as fine as spider’s silk. He’d foregone a tie after hearing that the new King tended to buck convention, and left the top button open. A patterned pocked square was artfully tucked into his breast pocket. His hair was perfectly imperfect.

There was a reason Lorraine had liked him so.

With one hand in his pocket he strolled through the crowd, surveying them. These were now his people, he reminded himself: all these mismatched hundreds, with their differing aesthetics and politics and faiths. Nastya had not been wrong – it was a difficult adjustment. Zhenya wasn’t sure how exactly to behave in this context, and he needed to learn fast.

His gaze snagged on a vision in blue and yellow, and he stopped to look at her. Zhenya had a way of looking at a woman that was simultaneously far too direct, and totally unthreatening; he took his time doing it, now.

”Very good,” he declared, sounding incredibly Russian, and raised a rotating finger. ”Give us twirl, beautiful.” She hesitated a moment before complying, obviously unused to being spoken to this way. Zhenya retrieved his hand from his pocket to clap.

”Perfection.” He said it as if he were a proper fashion critic, presiding over a red carpet somewhere. Then he extended his hand to her, already moving in the direction he intended. ”Now dance with me.”



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