⧗ CHAPTER ELEVEN ⧗
Back to the sparring ring.
It had only been a few days since Dmitri broke Sabina's nose (she now proudly wore the bandage across her face, and refused to blot out her black eyes with concealer), but he still did not like his chances against Ksenia. Sparring with Sabina and Oksana had helped, but even with their promises not to go easy on him, neither could match the sheer brutality and mercilessness Ksenia wielded in her very breath.
There was just no arguing. She was the best fighter of their class. And no matter how much Dmitri can harken back to his training, he was still four years out of touch and a boy besides. Ksenia seemed to take increasing delight in beating him up than any other opponent. Except, perhaps, the big lugs that were offered up like ritual sacrifice, for the girls to take turns bringing down, one after another.
"Again!" Comrade Kuzmina commanded for the hundredth time, and Dmitri wanted to shove that whistle down her throat.
Not even waiting for a response, Ksenia was already clapping her hands, mocking Dmitri. "Come on, котенок, I want another go! The hour's wasting!"
If she calls me 'kitten' one more time… Dmitri grit his teeth, shoving himself back to his feet, but there was no use griping. Ksenia could call him her little bitch if she wanted to and there was nothing Dmitri could do to stop her. A smack to the ear nearly took him down again, head ringing.
"You can do this, Dmitri!" Annika called, though her cheer was half-hearted at best, and any encouragement he received seemed to be begging for an end instead. Just get this over with.
He stumbled but did not fall, just heaved himself back upright and tried not to bite his own tongue. The last time that happened had been gross. Ksenia practically danced around him, idly picking her next attack point while Dmitri turned on the spot, haggard and annoyed, trying to keep up with her.
Every time her back was turned, Oksana would point to her left hand. Dmitri had yet to get in any strikes, and this was their seventh round. So far. Maybe. Honestly, Dmitri lost count after the fourth. Right now his best course of action was to mitigate damage as much as possible, but that wasn't a feasible long-term solution. Eventually Ksenia was going to get bored and give him another concussion.
Dmitri knew the only reason he wasn't at the bottom of the class was because of Sabina and Oksana, and the deal they had with each other. Keep themselves afloat against the worst of the class (in sparring, it was either Rada or Liza, depending on the day).
He now remembered much and more about his sisters. Like that time Oksana gave herself a terrible haircut at 8 and was so upset at being seen by the Madame, she hid in the bathroom for five hours. The Madame, of course, wasn't angry at all, perhaps admonishing; but had so fondly fixed her hair.
Or the time Rada opened a locked window on a hot day and triggered an alarm.
Or how Liza, in their first cooking session (and every single one since), has consistently burned the first piece of toast or blini or wontons — though all the rest always came out perfect.
Or when Annika learned about the concept of friendship bracelets, and proceeded to use scraps of thread from their crafts class to weave individual bands for all of them. Sabina had worn her out from wearing it so much, and Dmitri was pretty sure he was still safely tucked away in his trunk, with what few personal effects he had.
And Sabina, who'd used to sing lullabies when one of them had nightmares and had no adult to comfort them.
Ksenia, who'd always been so competitive, had once upon a time been protective. How she attacked an older girl for making Liza cry. She'd always been the angriest whenever Dmitri had to leave to see his mother.
(There were other girls, Dmitri thought, when they were younger. More of them. But they're gone now. And it hurt to think too hard of them).
Paff. Hitting the mat again.
"Again!"
Dmitri didn't talk about his other life with his sisters. They never asked, and Dmitri felt strange having a relationship none of them had. And would they know, would they understand the pain he felt when his mother died? How would they react, learning his father had not only been KGB but also a high-ranking member of HYDRA? Was, that is, because Lev Kasyanenko was currently faking the dead.
Would they turn against him, knowing who his father was? Would his prior work with the KGB instill loyalty, or resentment? What kind of enemies had HYDRA made, and what part did the Red Room play in all of that? Dmitri knew the Red Room had soviet ties, but he didn't know how deep. Just knew it was old. Older than he knew.
Dmitri was half lost in his own thoughts when he struck Ksenia. Almost not even paying attention. He saw her strike coming out of the corner of his eye and it was mere instinct to parry it and strike with his left fist, bopping her in the face. Not hard. Dmitri was hardly in the shape to be throwing himself into things (and after busting Sabina's nose, didn't want to create cause for concern).
He felt the impact, the following chorus of gasps as Ksenia recoiled, hand flying to her face. The eyes wide with shock, but unlike Sabina, Ksenia didn't waste a second — she delivered her heel right to Dmitri's gut.
He hit the floor again, breathless.
"Damn you," she spat, and that was the end of their sparring session.
Dmitri wished that was it.
But when is anything ever so easy?
Ksenia actually ignored him during their lunch period, though that was partly due to the fact she was in the infirmary for half of it, and came back with an ice pack. She kept shooting him glares over the table and Dmitri sat as far away from her as he could. It was the most he could do, a peace offering, a white flag. Ksenia was the last person he wanted to start a fight with.
By now, he should've known it was already far too late.
During dance lessons, Dmitri had taken a backseat, largely focusing on studying the arrangements and choreography, practicing on his own for a dance he'll never have. The girls were already developing their dances long before he ever returned, and their professor, Comrade Barinova, had not given Dmitri any direction otherwise. She was a thin, severe-looking woman, somewhere in her sixties, with a pinched mouth and a pinched bun, and a cane she smacked on the floor for emphasis.
The Dance of the Snowflakes, and the Dance of the Flowers, the Cygnets, and so many others - all of those were female only. Dmitri knew he would perform a pas de deux eventually, but for now he could watch, mesmerized, as his six sisters moved in perfect unison.
The lift of their arms, the sweep of their legs, shimmering on pointe, skirts rustling, heads craning, all to the rise and fall of sweet symphony — the bittersweet tones of clarinet and violin, the tremble of the bass, the power of the trumpet — Dmitri can't remember if he's ever witnessed anything else performed so perfectly. Nothing in the world compares. And to think the Americans could hold a claim to the art of ballet.
And when each set ended, it came with it an inexplicable sadness. Like a beautiful painting hidden behind a curtain, a heart wrenching film coming to an end. Dmitri felt silly getting all emotional. The music was playing from a speaker. The girls were dressed in identical leotards, no costumes or make-up.
And still, his eyes burned. Aching to move like them. To be back on the stage, where he belonged.
"Ksenia, Dmitri, together now," Comrade Barinova barked, her voice cutting through his thoughts. Dmitri nearly stumbled off the bar he'd been leaning against.
Even Ksenia, now with a black eye, looked surprised. They locked eyes for a moment, pointed daggers exchanged, before both reluctantly stepped to the middle of the floor. The mirrored walls reflected their every movement, and Dmitri couldn't help but glance at Oksana and Sabina. His expression a silent cry for help.
But they looked as helpless as he felt, shrugging silently. The other girls stood against the wall to watch as Comrade Barinova continued. "You've both been practicing the deux, correct?"
"Yes," they said in unison, and exchanged another barbed look.
"Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker, correct?" Ksenia asked, with a spark in her eye, as if hoping Dmitri had the wrong one.
Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, for her, he knew which one. Barinova barked again, "Correct! You should both know this one by heart. From the top!"
This was not how Dmitri imagined his first foray back into dance, a piece he hasn't performed with any partner in ages; much less one he's never danced with before.
But that wasn't true, was it? As the music began, Dmitri automatically adjusted to the first stance — second nature. Muscle memory. And Ksenia did the same, legs together, arms down, before sweeping around him in slow, measured steps. Smooth, flowing, like they were moving in water. Dmitri's head turned first, then the rest of his body, following her movements. He couldn't remember who was the lead in the dance — in the end, it didn't matter. To the audience, they must be seamless. One flowing into the other, action and reaction, a balance of two forces, two characters, two stories playing into one. Lovers, coming together, falling apart, and returning once more.
His right arm protested when he guided Ksenia through a spin. He'd expected her to recoil or strike him upon skin contact, but she didn't. In this moment, it seemed Ksenia was a different girl entirely. Her expression entirely serene, so unusual and striking that Dmitri was caught off guard. How her eyes fluttered closed as he swept her around, then back on her feet again, and sharp blue eyes met his.
But there was no animosity there.
Only the dance.
Dmtri could muster through the pain, determined not to let it show, even when he had to lift Ksenia briefly. Thank God she was tiny, or else he wouldn't have lasted the entire two seconds it took to accomplish. Still, his arm felt a little shaky afterwards.
They shouldn't have gotten this far without direction. Without Comrade Barinova stopping them, correcting their placements, their steps, their positions. And yet, she did not move. Did not say anything. Just tapped her cane in an even beat, silently counting, her dark eyes watching carefully.
He shouldn't be able to do this. And yet he was. And Dmitri could feel the echoes in his mind, reverberations, like ripples in water. Performing these moves before, in this very room, with this very girl, years ago. Could he really have forgotten? Had it been Ksenia the whole time?
No, it couldn't be. It was also Sabina and Liza, Rada and Annika. All of them, he's danced with. A child's hands, then. Their movements were not as graceful, their limbs not as long.
They grew up so quickly.
In Ksenia's face, Dmitri saw others. More, not just the ones in front of him. Other girls. Other sisters.
They'd been here too.
And now they were gone.
The music seemed to end as soon as it started — yet Dmitri found himself panting for breath, shoulder burning with exertion, he and Ksenia ending locked in an embrace, her back to his chest, face lifted to his. Blue eyes into green.
Then the violins stopped and Barinova hit the pause button. Ksenia pulled away so quickly, as if he'd burned her. That serene expression, gone, replaced by the coldness he'd gotten to know so well. Looking him up and down, as Barinova gave a short clap of her hands.
"Well done, you two," She said, and it was rare she gave a compliment. "You've come a long way, Dmitri, since you first came here. Your lifts need work, and you're a little slow. Ksenia, you must not be so obvious a lead. Don't make him chase after you."
Ksenia just sniffed, but didn't argue. Just cast a look at Dmitri before saying, "Not as bad as I thought."
Dmitri didn't have a chance to speak before Comrade Barinova struck the floor with her cane again, calling forth the next girl. "Next! We'll see that you all have practice with a true danseur noble, and not those thick-headed lugs they send in from the state school."
And with that, the moment was gone. A swish of blonde hair and Ksenia had turned up her nose at him, sauntering back to sit on the floor. Yet as Oksana scrambled to join him on the floor, looking a little excited — Dmitri couldn't help but wonder:
Was that a compliment?