Burning Skies - 3 - Ilya

Ilya loves rain. The sound, the smell, even the feeling of it on his skin — Demelza says he's crazy for it, but he doesn't care. It's raining now, the sky darkened more than usual for late evening, at least in summer. He's closed the door to the toyshop, because Lexi doesn't like when rain gets into the place, but it's still loud enough.

He's lying on the floor, eyes closed, when the bells on the door jingle — he looks and it's Lexi, back from work. Her hair, completely soaked from the rain, is a far darker shade of red than usual.

She's quiet as she closes the door, which is already weird. Normally she'd be sarcastically congratulating him on yet again tracking the whole city in on his boots, or something, but... nothing. Ilya doesn't like it, so:

"Cat got your tongue?"

Lexi glances at him, like she's only just noticed he's there. She smiles, but it looks wrong somehow. Something in the eyes. "Very funny."

Ilya sits up and grins at her. "I know, I'm hilarious. Maybe I should give up on being an informant and become a comedian?"

Lexi doesn't respond.

"Lexi?"

She startles. "Oh, um." She shrugs. "I don't know, you'd probably get heckled off the stage."

Ilya looks at the door. He... could just... go on a stroll around the city. Let Lexi work out whatever is (very clearly) wrong by herself. There's a lump in his throat, and eventually, "...You okay, Lexi?"

Lexi actually laughs. She drags a hand down her face, then sits in her chair. There's a long silence, then she just says, "I got fired, Ilya."

"You what?" Ilya says automatically. Then he registers what she said. "No, wait, I— you got fired? From your job?"

"That does tend to be the meaning of the phrase," Lexi says drily, staring at the ceiling.

Ilya's heart is racing and he's not entirely sure why; he's not being chased, his life isn't in danger, nothing's all that wrong. He takes a deep breath, presses a hand to his mouth. Shakes his head. "Can I help?"

Lexi looks at him, almost pityingly, and he really doesn't likeit. So he stands up, smiles, and walks out the door.

He can feel the raindrops on his shoulders, his hair, his face. It's a funny thing about rain — when there's water running down your face anyway, you almost can't tell if you're crying.

***

Ilya keeps walking. He doesn't know where he's going, and frankly doesn't care. Through the Market District, past the Library — he glances up at Drachen Palace, turns away from it and keeps walking, ends up in the woods somehow. It's all a bit of a blur.

The woods are intimidating, millenia-old trees with huge, scarred-over gashes in the trunks. Legend would have you believe it was dragons, though Ilya doubts that.

Even if it was day, it would be dark here; the tree cover is almost absolute. There's constant noise, birds and squirrels and things chittering, foxes hunting rabbits. Deer prancing through. He feels a little bit like he's home and it hurts, a stabbing pain in his heart (or is it his lungs? He really can't tell.) His hip hurts, too. Maybe he landed on it a little too hard earlier.

Ilya likes the rain, but he kind of wishes that the clouds weren't covering the moon, because moonlight filtered through the leaves would be a sight to see.

Someone grabs his wrist.

He whips round to face them, but it's only Demelza, with a lamp in her other hand. She doesn't let go of his wrist.

"What are you doing, Ilya?" She says it like it's not really a question. She does that a lot.

Demelza Lockridge is tall, even to people who aren't as short as Ilya. She has long, dark hair, which she keeps in a braid around her shoulder. Her gaze is sharp and so is her style; she wears elegantly tailored suits, most of the time, to the great chagrin of Lord and Lady Lockridge. She's a bit soaked.

Ilya, staring at her hand, notices idly she's somehow painted her nails iridescent. They shine in the lamplight. "Wandering."

"Wandering," Demelza repeats, softly, "on your own, in the woods, in the dark and the rain. Were you planning to walk all the way back to—?"

"I'm not a child." Cutting her off, Ilya pulls his wrist out of her grasp, glaring.

Demelza sighs and drops her arm. She adjusts her cufflinks. "I know, Ilya. I get worried. Lexi gets worried."

"Lexi has more important things to worry about."

"You and I both know she cares about you more than anything."

"Well, maybe she shouldn't."

Demelza puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's not so easy as that, Ilya."

Ilya shrugs it off. He doesn't meet her eyes.

He knows, firsthand, how difficult it is to stop caring about something, but... Lexi's always been so much stronger than him. Which, uh, time for a subject change! "I may or may not be lost."

"Of course you are." Demelza laughs. "Let's get you home, ev Emieln."

Ilya hates it, a little bit, when she uses that name. But some small part of him is glad that there's another person who knows who he was.

He lets her take his wrist again, lets her pull him out of the woods and back into the city — the streetlights are on now. The streets are slick with rain, and they reflect the light. He likes how it looks.

He's really trying not to think about what'll happen when he gets back to the toyshop.

"What are you going to say to her?" That's Demelza, helpful as always.

"'Sorry' would probably be a good start."

Ilya doesn't often have a chance to look at Drachen Palace. It's one of the largest buildings in the whole of Idora, and that's not even counting the grounds. He envies the prince just a little bit, and isn't that ironic?

It's really just like a fairytale, all those towers and roses. This whole city, this whole kingdom is like a fairytale — the cities are shining, the countryside is all golden wheat fields and sun-ripened blackberries. He sticks his hand out into the rain, imagines how different tonight would be if he'd lived here all his life.

(What would that even be like? Maybe he'd be Lexi's little brother, Ilya Ayres, except he probably wouldn't even be named Ilya. Maybe he'd have grown up in the apartment above that little toyshop... Or maybe he'd be an orphan. Would that be better? It's closer to who he is now, but maybe that isn't better, he can't decide.)

Demelza snaps her fingers. Ilya startles. "Where did the fairies take you this time?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just... thinking."

She smiles at him, shakes her head. She's still holding the lamp in her left hand; it's fading, now, the fuel burning to nothing. The lamp style is different here in Chandelle — at least, different to what he grew up with (although, he's not certain if eight years counts as 'growing up in' a place).

Demelza's skin is a warm brown shade, maybe a few shades darker than Alexei's, so the flickering lamplight is familiar, really.

Ilya remembers—

***

— well, Ilya remembers his father lighting the fire in the dining hall.

"You know there are servants for that sort of thing, Emiel," Alexei said, honey-sweet fondness in every word. Ilya remembers looking up at him, remembers firelight dancing on Alexei's face.

Emiel stood up, walked to Alexei, wrapped an arm around his waist. "I know, and they do so much for us. I owe them this small favor, at least."

Seven-year-old Ilya had heard this conversation, or variants on it, more times than he could count. But he always listened. (Ilya's not sure why he remembers this time, specifically.) The dining hall was huge, wooden floorboards and intricately patterned rugs. He only really remembers the floor, and the way the firelight gleamed on everything.

Emiel smiled down at him, picked him up in his arms, and Ilya remembers it being warm, and feeling safe. He remembers smiling back.

Alexei laughed, said, "You're going to be too big for your papa to carry soon."

"I'm making the most of it while I still can," Emiel retorted, still smiling.

Ilya laughed, too. The memory is hazy, but he remembers the bubbly feeling in his chest, and in his moments of weakness Ilya clings to this moment like a lifeline. Almost a year before the borders closed, when everything was still okay.

He's shaken out of his thoughts when—

***

"Ilya?" Demelza's waving her hand in front of his face. Somehow, while he was distracted, he ended up in front of the toyshop again. Lexi's leaning against the doorframe — she's trying for a blank expression, but he knows her too well for that.

"I'm starting to worry about your health," Lexi says, like it's a joke, though it's clearly not.

Ilya clears his throat. The cobblestone paving of the street is slick with rainwater, and he's distracting himself again, so, "Sorry, Lexi."

"Mhm." She holds out her arms for a hug, which he gladly accepts. Her shirt is soft. "I get being overwhelmed, but, Ilya, swear to me you're never gonna do that again."

Ilya tries to reply but there's— a lump in his throat, or something. He presses a hand to his mouth and, oh right, he never actually put his gloves back on, that feels weird.

Lexi's brow furrows. "Ilya?"

He's crying. Wow. Actually crying, there's no denying it.

"I'm— I'm sorry, I, I don't know why I'm crying—"

"Hey, Ilya, shhh. You're fine."

Demelza puts a gentle hand on his back. "What's wrong?" He thinks maybe she says some other stuff too, but he can't quite hear her. All he can focus on is that it's stopped raining. He can see the stars.

Disconnecting himself from how he's feeling can be useful when he needs to run from an angry gang, or something, but at this point it's almost a reflex, so it happens even in situations like these. He wants to swear to Lexi he'll never do it again, he wants to tell Demelza what's wrong (except he's not actually sure what's wrong), but all he can think about is how it's not raining anymore; and really, he'd like to yell at himself of course it's not raining anymore, I am very much aware it's not raining anymore, please stop, but unfortunately that isn't an option.

Eventually he figures out he's sitting on the floor of the toyshop. Apparently the girls led him into the toyshop without him noticing. He's not really crying anymore, just sniffling. Demelza and Lexi sit in front of him, each cradling a mug of tea, careful concern written all over their faces. They look so similar in that moment that Ilya actually laughs.

Lexi startles, and some tea spills onto the floor. It's going to leave a stain. "Gods, Ilya, are you okay?!"

"Um. I think so?" Ilya pushes his bangs out of his eyes. Demelza gets up, and comes back a few seconds later with another mug of tea. He takes a sip. "Sorry. I... genuinely do not know why that happened."

"That's fine. We just want to make sure you're alright." Demelza lets out a long sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I swear, it feels like I age ten years every time I talk to you."

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

Lexi snorts. "Right." She leans forward. She's got that look in her eyes, the one like she can see into your soul, but, like, blunter. Like she's kicked down the door into your soul. "Ilya, what's wrong?"

Ilya breathes in. Then out. He's stalling. "I... ugh. I just. I don't know what we're going to do," and the words become true as he says them— "I don't know what we're going to do! You got fired, and I brought in some money from my last job but that gang's going to make sure I don't get any more for a little while, and it's— it might be enough for one of us, but you and I both?"

Lexi draws back immediately. "Uh."

That's when he realizes. "You don't know what to do either, do you." It forces a laugh out of him, for some reason.

Demelza isn't looking at either of them— in fact, she appears to be suddenly very interested in the ceiling.

Lexi drags a hand down her face and groans. "Yeah. I... I don't know what to do." She stands up and starts pacing. "I could probably support myself, yeah, with odd jobs and things, but two people's a bit much. But you don't have anywhere to go, and I am not about to abandon you, so..."

Ilya stands up (ow, he really did hit his hip too hard this morning) and pushes aside the curtain leading into his room. For a long moment he just stands there, looking.

Demelza taps his shoulder. "Can I have a word with you, Ilya? Outside?"

He purses his lips and nods.