K, we're going to skip what happened there.
Shan't we go to after classes?
I must tell you now that it is Friday, for that is relevant.
Thou shall understand soon enough.
I must remind thee that I own nothing but my original characters.
Kent was seated rather comfortably on her bed, in her room, reading the book her mother sent her. Even if Nikita Thomas knew that her daughter had read Harry Potter about seven times, she still urged her to read it again.
She was in the part where Draco Malfoy had appeared, and somehow, Kent's heart fluttered. Maybe it was because he reminded her of a friend she had, misunderstood, or maybe he had a striking resemblance to her friend.
Either way, Kent sipped the water beside her to calm her. She was writing today; Nero had assigned them to write ten chapters of a story that was loosely based on their new lives. Thus she was dressed in her mom's ratty old track shorts (yes, they wear shorts in Russia) from her years at Moscow State University, and her dad's overlong t-shirt from his years at the University of Buckingham. This was regarded as the most comfortable outfit, thus Kent usually wore it when she needed inspiration or luck. If her parent's clothes weren't so ratty and old, she'd wear them to dates.
For those were the clothes they wore when they met.
She was told the story countless times; Nikita Volkov went to London for a track and field competition in her senior year, and she met stumbled upon the stark misunderstood guy that went by the name of Stephen Thomas. They fell in love, after a few years, got married, then after a few years, bam, she was born.
Good thing they didn't name her something really stupid, like Patricia Marie. Because if they did, she'd have to live with choosing the stupidest name ever if there was more than one Patricia (which was terribly likely). She shook away that thought.
She took her glass of water and walked out of her room, trying to find inspiration. She looked out the window, not glancing at the room, alternately sipping her water.
She finally glanced at the door.
She spit out her water, surprised at the person standing there.
Otto was dressed in an expensive-looking pinstriped suit, with black trousers and shiny leather shoes. A black fedora with a grey ribbon was perched upon his head at an angle. He looked like an Italian mafia heir from the old movies.
She stood there in her ratty old clothes, feeling entirely underdressed.
Only then did she realize that Otto's mentor and her mentor were standing on either side of him, looking like his parents.
Nadya glared at her.
"That was not an act worthy of a lady, Innokentiy."
She straightened up, nervously looking at her clothing. "Go change, Innokentiy Madeleine. Your clothing is in the closet, in a dryclean bag. Sweet mother of Khrushchev, try and appear proper and God-fearing," said Nadya coldly, not breaking her glare.
She walked rigidly back into her room to find the said outfit.
It was in a dryclean bag, as promised. She looked upon it with disdain. It was a dress. She hated wearing dresses.
It was black; seemed to be made of fine lace and shiny silk, ¾ sleeved, with a square neckline. There were about fifty layers beneath the black façade, and she barely new how to walk in it once she'd gotten in. The only good thing was that she was wearing flats.
She managed to glide-yes, I said glide- out the door and carefully settled herself into a proper state. Her hair was in terrible condition, her eyes were bloodshot, and her hands were shaking. Nadya swiftly called up the prep team, fixed her up, deemed her ready, in about 5 minutes.
Most of her hair was pinned up in curls, and she disliked the blush they put upon her cheeks. They made her stand up again.
"What's happening that we have to get all dressed up?" she asked Otto as she clung unto his forearm in the elevator. "We're meeting everyone's parents," he grumbled. She understood where he was coming from: having no parents, he'd have no one to greet and show affection to. "Why?" she asked once more, in a lower voice. "Because they want last looks at their children in person."
She kept a straight face when she was seated in Otto's car. She also kept a straight face on as the many people were ushered in the ballroom.
A bright chandelier sparkled above them. She walked across the ballroom floor on Otto's arm, smiling and laughing when one of the parents said something funny.
Truth be told, she was scared of who would appear as Otto's parents. Perhaps Mr. Arkwright, the curator. She glanced around the room, and her eyes settled on Claire Haruno.
She wore a white dress of silk, and Wing stood by her side, proud of the pretty and ladylike girl who was laughing sheepishly behind her cream-colored fan. Who knew the bitch could act so demure and erm, chaste? She ignored the throbbing questions in her head, and decided to actually talk with the people; they weren't going to see them for another six years. Otto seemed to be master of every conversation: easily changing the flow of topics from the stock exchange to the long lost piece of the great Michelangelo Buonnaroti. He seemed to enjoy the company. Thus Kent quietly excused herself and went into one of those olden cloak rooms they used in the 19th century. She closed the door, then searched around the folds of her dress, and found what she was looking for:
A steel pack of cigarettes attached to a steel flask.
Her father had handed it down to her, seeing as she was his only child. He said that her grandfather had used it in the war, and that it held so much value, since her grandfather was a sniper, and had killed more German than the Germans killed Jews. It was somehow normal for a Russian child to drink, since the main export was vodka. Kent never got drunk easy, since ever since she was little, her mother swigged vodka right in front of her and didn't care less if she took a sip or two.
She shuddered, and then took a stick from the packet. She lit it with the lighter she had in the other hand. She took a long drag; her life was going to be monitored for so long, and she'd have to go along pretending that she was something beside herself. This sucked. She let a puff of smoke descend lightly on all the coats in the room. She was sitting on an abandoned leather suitcase stacked on top of others, and her pale feet dangled freely off the edge. She sipped the fire whiskey, sending a shot of warmth down her spine. Her mother would kill her if she realized that not only was she drinking, she was smoking too. But of course, her father would be delighted that she was using his gift.
She sat there in the darkness, listening to the sound of her own breathing and only pausing to take a drag and drink. The door creaked open. She jumped off the suitcase, stamped out her cigarette, and then hid her flask in the folds of her dress.
"Who are you?" she called out to the darkness, unaware if this was a friend or much worse a parent. The person lit a match in the darkness, surrounding the both of them in a warm glow. The pale skin, blue eyes, and white hair gave him away. "Oh, it's just you," she breathed, plopping back down on her makeshift chair and lighting another cigarette. He stared at him through the dim light of the candle. "Could you get me one of those?" he asked, holding the candle to his face. She assented, finding her flask-cigarette case in her skirt. Once she'd found it, she handed him the stick. He mumbled his thanks, and lit his cigarette on the candle's flame. She murmured welcome through her drags. "So you're not here to check if I'm a whorish crackhead who's heat got cut off?" she asked between her teeth. This was about as relaxed as she was going to get around him. He smiled crookedly. "No. That's from RENT. I'm here to escape from your mother and father," he replied, taking a drag of the white nicotine stick. He noticed how she was drinking from the steel flask. "Can I?" he asked, gesturing to the flask.
Kent felt like she was abandoning her grandfather's memory, but she handed him the flask anyway, accompanied with a, "As long as you don't get wasted easy."
He smiled crookedly, and then sipped long on her flask. Her flask. She smiled a little, thinking that he'd always have the taste of her lips on his… and vice versa. "I don't, love," he replied, handing her back the flask. He was staring at her…with those scarily iridescent blue eyes…and everything seemed perfect. The darkness, the color of his hair, the soft haze of smoke, even the candlelight.
The candlelight.
Only then did she realize that the hot wax from the candle was dripping down into her fingers, slowly burning areas of the skin on her hands. Her prep team would have a fit. Otto must've noticed, since he began to knead away the wax that was slowly hardening on her pale hands. She blushed (but it might've not been seen, given the light of the candle) as he began to knead away the invisible wax on her hands. "Erm, Mr. Arkwright told me that trick. Helps the erm, circulation get back," he said softly, still kneading away the invisible wax. "I used to work with wax sculptures," he added.
"Oh," she said, taking her hand away. "Thanks."
He nodded and kept the candle away from her. She finished smoking, and stamped out her cigarette. She hid her flask-cigarette case in the folds of her skirt, and hopped from her little seat. A gust of wind must've blown through, since the candle's flame got extinguished. "Otto?" she asked, clutching her skirt. "Yeah?" asked Otto's voice close by. She fumbled in her skirt for her lighter, which she found, but it dropped to the floor. "You got a match?" she asked again, feeling around for her friend. "That was my last one," his voice replied calmly. She sighed, and then felt around for Otto. She bumped into a suitcase, a scarf, and then a sort of human flesh. She took it as Otto, and then whispered, "Otto?" A flame flickered on, and then she realized that Otto was up against her, quite literally, holding the silver lighter she dropped. "I have your lighter," he admitted silkily. "I can see that," she replied in a smaller voice. "I think they're expecting you," he said, taking her by the hand to the door, the flame flickering slightly. "I don't think I should even be here, honestly," she said softly. "Then stay here. If you want, I can stay with you, and tell someone that we left," he offered, the flame in his face once more, illuminating his features. She was thinking of going back out, making her parents proud. But of course, a part of her wanted just to stay here, being as true and real as possible, even if that meant smoking and drinking with a boy.
"Will you please?"
"I will, Kent, I will."
Otto proceeded out of the closet discreetly, and whispered to Wing what he needed. Wing nodded, and disappeared to tell the social headcounter.
"I've told them. As of now, you can stay as long as you want here."
"Thank you. Will you stay with me please?"
"If you wish."
"Yes, I wish you'd stay with me."
"Then you have me."
Aww. Isn't that cute?
Well it better be, I spent a full three hours just thinking about what to write.
R&R, it'll make my life so much easier.