Once Upon a December
Ivan Braginski returned to St. Petersburg in December of 1916, for only a few weeks, to sit with the tsar and that family he adored, a break from the war that drew him west. When news reached his baby sister, she flew to him as birds scattered from their place of rest. No where else mattered after that, save the palace he called home. Now she calls it home too.
This night there is a grand ball, and though they did not know it, it would be the last grand ball in Alexander Palace for such people. It is an amazing place, with electricity and a telephone and things that scare her. When she enters the great hall, that magnificent ball room, she finally comes to feel at ease, the familiarity of that which had always been, that which would soon depart. She went to search for her brother.
Around her people dance, the men in straight uniforms, women in expensive dresses purchased for just this night. They dance beautifully, sweeping the room, as if each has their own lover, someone special to whom they are always connected. To them she pays no mind, does not notice when a daughter of the tsar's passes, because they do not matter. She did not know that days such as these were now over, would not return. The one variable that would remain in Russia was at this moment her only object of attention.
She finds him speaking with several officials, and the sight of him makes her heart stop; he is so much more handsome than even her memories had allowed. His military uniform is clean, pressed, the white fabric covered in medals and other adornments, testaments to the bravery of her beloved, of her dearest brother. His face is light, happy, as the officials part with him, as he turns back toward the room. War was always so hard for him, but her beloved is strong and had made it through many terrible things, would go through many more.
That is when he sees her, smiling. "Nataliya Arlovskaya," he whispers, approaching her, reaching out for her hands. She gives them to him willingly, and is rewarded with two lavish kisses, one for each hand, as he bows before her. She is no longer breathing.
"Vanya," the word escapes and he smiles as if he knows how much she loves him, how much pain he causes her. He smiles as if he knows how many seconds of each day are his, though she knows he does not fully understand her love. She is his baby sister; for now, though, that is enough.
Those eyes, those eyes shine and sometimes they are purple, sometimes they are blue, but tonight they are so full of life like she has never seen. They would never look like this again because these were the eyes he saved for his beloved girls, the tsar's daughters, whom he loved more than any other family they had known. Without them, these eyes could never return. If she had known that, she would have gazed into them that much longer.
Her face it turned up towards him; she leans in unconsciously, and he chuckles at that. She catches herself and chuckles too before he takes one hand back, kissing it again, spinning her before him. It's a slow turn, as he takes her in. Her dress is the same color as his uniform, the accents and ribbons matching each of his medals. She has committed his uniform to memory by now, would never forget it. When he hid it away she saved it, kept it locked away until a day when he could return to showing it with pride, after it was safe again. The dress is cut in the highest of fashion because her brother knows women's fashion, loves to hear of it from those girls, and so there was no other option for her gown.
That blonde hair is piled simply upon her head, lose strands cascading down her back, and as she finishes her revolution for him he fingers one strand on her collarbone. His eyes are unfocused as he strokes the curl, before his fingers smooth over her shoulder, down her arm, stealing the other hand to grace it with but another kiss.
This one is different. The kiss lingers, his lips on her knuckles. No one pays them any attention, all eyes on the other side of the room, but, to the two nations, they are the only ones in the large room. When he looks up his face is both surprised and needy, and it's in moments like these that the blur is most visible. That blur between sibling nations, though no nation is blood relation with another, and forbidden lovers, alone in their journey through the world yet afraid to no longer travel in solitude. His eyes soften as he strokes her face, and he is the most beautiful man she has ever seen.
"Vanya," she whispers again, and he leans down, kisses her gently, chastely. She does not know if she wants more, does not yet know what side of the blur she is on. For years she wanted only his affection because he had two sisters, and she needed to be his favorite. In years to come she would grow obsessed with him, needing his love, needing him, wanting him to never leave. He is a good man, could never leave his wife if he were married, and so she wanted marriage. Wanted him to stay forever because he was the only constant, and she needed him.
In her mind her brother has only ever been what is good in the world, what is right. He is all that is beautiful, that shines brightly, that poets write of, that painters strive to depict on their blank canvases. Nothing can taint this image of him in this moment, though she knows his hands are bloody and would know how much more blood would come to taint them. Blood of the officials he had just spoken to, blood of the children he loved. His people's blood.
Their lips meet again and she presses into him just a little bit more. Though their lips touch they do not move them, parting quietly, both sets of eyes cast down. Large arms encircle her and she hugs him back, tightly, because she has missed him during their years apart, is afraid of how many more years they might be parted again.
He pulls back, holds her face in both hands, smiling. "I have missed you Nata," he whispers, kissing her forehead. "Will you dance with me?" His question is light; he loves to dance. She cannot speak, only nods, grinning mischievously.
Before they can take a step a man approaches with a camera, a simple box that is a testament to the modern day in which they live, the advancements of technology. He asks her brother if he may take a picture of them, and with a boyish grin he look toward his sister. He is so delighted with the idea, so smitten with her this night, that he nods, throws one arm over her shoulder in a familiar way, the pose lacking the grace of earlier photographs. They had had to sit for so long and, though shorter than siting a portrait, it was difficult to hold, to enjoy. Now cameras can take pictures in just a single moment, allowing such an instant as this to be preserved so long as there is someone to care for the image.
He's so much taller than her, so happy, and she cranes her neck to see the delight upon his face. "I love you Vanya," she whispers in soft Russian, and he looks down in delight. He throws his head back, laughs, looks so young and perfectly happy in that instant that she cannot breath, cannot do anything but smile up at him in sublime bliss, and that is when the man takes the snapshot. Weeks later he will send her the photograph, and she will see just how wide his grin was. Just how much that laugh filled his face. Forever preserved was that beautiful chest of his glistening in the light, her head at his shoulder. The smile she had on her face would by then seem foreign, forgotten in the turmoil that consumed her brother's country. Her dark eyes were wide, the blue shining up at her brother, and it seemed as if his eyes matched her, in their delight, in their color, in their love.
They would be barely recognizable by the time they met again.
When the man with the camera leaves, he holds his sister a little longer. With a questioning look she takes his large hand in hers, playing with the fingers. "You look beautiful Nata," he whispers, leaning down, his lips barely brushing her ear. "I love you Nataliya."
It was the only time she was ever called beautiful.
It was the only time she was ever told she was loved.
It was the first and only time Ivan Braginski said that he loved Nataliya Arlovskaya.
The photograph would live on forever beside her bed, a small token of the one singularly perfect moment in their lives.
Death.
Destruction.
Revolution.
It never mattered, because though he never repeated the words, though he never accepted her advancements, he had loved her once upon a December.