The tree was broad and solid at Rose's back. Each crenulation of knotted bark left an imprint like some bizarre crayon rubbing in her back. Her head lolled back, and her eyes were closed. From Dmitri's vantage point some yards away, with his view of her bent leg and toes splayed against the branch on which she sat, Rose appeared as some exquisite mirage. Her fingers picked absently at the moss, and one leg swung slow arches in the hot air. He marvelled at the way the leaves cast dappled shadows on her shoulders, shadows that mottled across her hair, and at her exposed neck below her up-thrown chin.
The day was heavy with sun and baking earth. The grass was close to yellowing brittle blades, but in the shade, everything felt verdant and alive, clicking and rasping, growing and sunning. Rose could feel the sun and the whispering leaves through her gold stained eyelids. The pace of her swinging leg, fingernails plucking at bark, scrunching toes, all were somehow meditative and mesmerising. The moment was stretching out into infinity. Her entire being could feel the circles of her foot, as though the static breeze between her toes had concentrated all sensation into concentricity. Her leg pulled her hip into an infinitesimally slow rock against the limb she sprawled on. It was too warm and still for pleasure, but her breath sang.
Dmitri tried not to noticed the way that Rose, posed between him and the sun, was articulated and outlined in gold, tried to ignore the flush of russet and the freckles across her cheeks, and the way he could hear the slight rustle of her shirt over her chest as she inhaled lazily. But his entire being cried out not to disturb the moment, but to join it. This was iconography, this was worship. Her dark eyes, even closed, called to him, despite training and rigor and regulation. He shivered as a languid breeze slid over his shoulders, and swallowed this fervent baptism of sunlight to bury it next to his carefully paced heart.
"Rose."
Not a call, not a question, hardly articulated, more of a deep whisper. Yet her eyes sprung open, and her leg hung still.
"It's time to train. Come down."
She turned her face down to him slowly, and glared at him deliciously.
Dmitri had to stifle the urge to look away in wonder as she stood up with near feline grace, a deep stretch of her stacked vertebrae, and obvious disdain in her features. She was so unaware of the power in her movements. She pretended to fall, catching a branch above her at the last second, but Dmitri hardly blinked. As if she would ever fall.
Rose hung out over him, "Comrade, it's far too hot to train. Perspiration does not become me. You're welcome to join me in my nap."
"As attractive a proposition as –," Dmitri paused, and squinted up at her through dark lashes, grinning at her scowl, before his voice became steelier, "Come down. How you can hope to manage Strigoi if you cannot manage a warm day is beyond me."
Rose held his gaze, and jumped down for her perch to land crouched and catlike, seeming to hardly consider the ten metre drop.
"Unseasonably warm, Comrade, I think you'll find. And, if I remember correctly, Strigoi die in sunlight." She strode towards him, knees loose and fists upraised, "Frankly, I think you disturbed my nap for a useless exercise."
"Useless?" Dmitri leant away from her jab as though his body had never been where Rose aimed. "I distinctly remember you pleading for my training."
Rose growled from between clenched teeth, and launched into her favourite kata, punches punctuating her words.
"That is not," jab, "exactly," kick, "how," feint, "I," jab, "remember," jab, "it." She grinned as the final kick landed home. "It was something resembling punishment, if my memory serves."
"Punishment?" Dmitri arched an eyebrow, a roguish grin playing across his face. "My company?"
Rose straightened up, dropping her hands and grinning back. Her waist curved like a question mark into her jutting hip, and her toes pressed into the grass. "Perhaps not your company. But your goddamn exercises – yes." Up came her fists, and the attack resumed.
"And the idea of me pleading for anything is, frankly," she swung a vicious right hook that made satisfying contact with his jaw, "demeaning."
Dmitri grinned again, sidestepping and rubbing his jaw. Rose recognised too late that his defence was over, seeing him lean forward unto the balls of his feet like a deathly dancer and kick out her legs with a roundhouse kick in the same moment. She gazed up at a sky the colour of an overexposed polaroid. The impact had winded her, and her diaphragm burned with the crash of defeat. Her head throbbed and everything felt loose, a little jarred. Her jaw ached, strangely, and she could feel the bruising gathering on her knuckles.
"Now we have established that I am not, as of yet, wholly defunct," Dmitri almost purred, "may I suggest — or rather, demand — laps."
His shadow stretched over her, coalescing into a reaching hand. She took it and pulled herself up. It was cool and calloused, enveloping her palm. She could feel his pulse through his fingertips – an absurdly delicate flutter against the back of her hand. Her breathing settled, and the wild feeling of violation and affront that accompanies hurt fled with a ragged exhale. Instead of dropping Dmitri's hand, she turned it, spreading his fingers open and running her thumb over his rough palm. Her eyes were intent, but his searched her downturned face with a lost expression. With delicate deliberation, she lifted his hand up and kissed his palm, eyelids flicking closed for the briefest of moments. Then she was off, onto the white ghostings of the track, barefoot and hair unfurled down her back, knees beating a swift tempo against the day.
Dmitri's palms felt empty. He sat down, cross-legged, to wait, but his hand stayed open. He could feel the brush of her lips on every inch of his skin.
Rose ran flat out, each foot fall a leap. Dmitri would only call for her to stop when she was too tired to follow the lane markings, and if she dropped her pace it was tantamount to utter failure. Every line of her was tensed, exhilarated. He made her body flame and fall. She needed none of his approval when she had the pure joy of her strength and speed, but together they danced a fine fight. She feinted, dodged, run and hit with her heart in her mouth, because each moment opposite him was charged. Rose could feel his eyes on her as she flew over brittle grass and warm earth. Her ears could pick out the hard thump of his heart, even as her breath grew rough. She felt like a sword, grateful to be worked into as lithe a weapon as her maker.
The heat of the day blurred the time again, as though Rose was simultaneously at the 100m mark, each staggered relay lane and the finish line. Dmitri looked down, but listened to her as she ran – to each footfall, pant and gasp. As the air began to catch – he heard it almost in his own throat – Dmitri ran to her, meeting her as she rounded the final curve.
"Race me to the finish line, Rose."
No sympathy, no question. Rose laughed, and her hands tightened into balls as her stomach drew together and her legs tensed like bowstrings. She drove herself, upping the pace of his feet as though she was a metronome cycling through beats per minute. The soles of her feet flamed hot, as she sprung on towards the elusive line. The wildness of being winded, beaten, of loss ignited in her, and although Dmitri was fresh and ran like a 700 horsepower car rolling off a cliff, she flew over the finish line first. She slowed her legs with difficulty.
"Fuck," she crowed, panting opening to quell her sudden need to retch, "I'm going to need an ice bath after that." Dmitri gazed at her with open awe framed in his face.
"You are," he paused, as though words were inadequate, "astonishing, do you realise?"
She met his eyes, cocky and unkempt. He tried to ignore the swift rise and fall of her chest.
"Yeah," Rose laughed breathlessly, "but not so Zen. Fuck, fuck, fuck – my legs."
"Stretch," he growled.
"Sure, sure," she muttered, half-heartedly leaning forwards. "I just want my tree seat back. Fat chance I'll be able to climb up again after this. Thanks, Comrade."
"Stretch properly," Dmitri's voice was almost dangerous. "Do you want to be able to walk tomorrow?"
Rose laughed to herself, perversely amused by the remark. "Not particularly, Comrade, but preferably from other pursuits," she muttered under her breath.
"You forget dhampirs have excellent hearing, Rosa."
Rose snickered louder, and then paused.
"Fucking nocturnal moroi and their fucking nocturnal schedule!" Rose exploded. "Comrade, what's the time?"
"Half past two, give or take," Dmitri replied immediately, without obvious reference to anything.
"I have to be at class in four hours! If Kirova hears about me sleeping in lectures one more time… Fuck." She looked up at Dmitri through her cascading hair. "I'm blaming you, Comrade Belikov. If I can even walk to the classroom."
"Devotchka, stop complaining. Lie down, I'll help you stretch, ten minutes in an ice bath, two in a hot shower, sleep for three hours, and I'll wake you up at eight with coffee. Now lie back."
She slumped back against the grass. "Comrade, you think about my bathing schedule in great detail."
Dmitri just chuckled, lifting one of her legs off the ground with strong hands wrapped around her ankle.
"Keep your other leg flat to the ground," he instructed.
With one hand on her knee, keeping her leg straight, and the other still circling her ankle like a brand of contact, Dmitri pushed her leg back towards her shoulders. She muttered expletives as the burn of aching muscles crept to a fevered intensity. He moved his hand to the arch of her foot, flexing it tight, as he continued to increase the pressure. She could feel the warmth of his abdomen on her calf, the slight pull of his muscles as he leant forward. Her legs screamed and skittered. Once the angle between her stomach and thigh was acute and shaking, Dmitri held her there, body undone and foot pressed against his chest. Ten long seconds.
Rose almost fainted after the second leg. The surplus, the pure excess of sensation from his pressure and his hands was too much. The ground was soft and warm under her shoulders.
Dmitri's voice was gentle, "Rosa, you— let me help you inside."
She lay there for a moment, ignoring him, gazing up into the sharp blue. "How do moroi live – without the sun?"
"I do not know. Only, we dhampirs must always remember that these days in the sunlight or the rain are a gift for creatures born of blood and darkness. But, Rosa, take my hand."
He helped her up, encircling her forearms. She swayed a little as she stood, but shook off his hands.
"I can walk."
"I know, devotchka." Dmitri threaded his fingers into her hair and brushed her forehead with his lips so briefly she could have imagined it. "Cold bath, shower, then sleep. I will wake you at eight."