Not a member of defy_ka with this journal. Oops. So the random AU thread goes here instead!

[steelartisan]

Piotr is ensconced on a rock outside Milliways, with a large sketchpad in his lap and a pencil case sitting on his empty bag.

He's working with charcoal at the moment, and from memory. The image slowly taking shape is that of a woman, with long pale hair in a braid and a lopsided half-sad smile.

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[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

Her mouth crooks in response, a small smile in kind; it can't not.



She realizes, belatedly, that she hasn't said anything in quite a few seconds; her eyes hurriedly lower to the sketchpage. "It's--" She traces a daffodil with a slender finger. "They're really very flattering."

[steelartisan]

Aaaand suddenly this is faintly awkward.

"They are not perfect. I try to draw what I see. Is all."

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

"You," says Maya to the sketchpad, "are a perfectionist, Piotr Nikolaievitch."

(When she smiles, it's at him, not the paper.)

[steelartisan]

Piotr rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, but he's grinning.

"Da. I have been told."

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

Her smile strengthens again; solidifies.

She makes as if to lift the next page, and looks up at him. "Do you mind...?"

[steelartisan]

Piotr's large hands lift in a quick oh, no, go ahead gesture.

She'll find a collection of sketches: some rough, some detailed, and mostly in pen and ink with a few colored (or half-colored) in pencils or markers. Most of the drawings are of people, though there are some landscapes and objects and abstract collections of shapes mixed in. She'll see familiar faces from Milliways scattered through the book. Other faces are unfamiliar, but several of them recurring: sometimes in civilian clothes, sometimes in spandex, and sometimes figures (abstract, or half-finished, or with faces obscured or turned away) whose identity is unclear.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

Maya flips through slowly, devoting an equal amount of time and attention to each page. Her fingers are on the edges, careful not to touch the artwork, to avoid smudging delicate lines in pencil and charcoal. There are pages of trees and vines, a tea kettle, the Milliways lake spread out in front of the mountains; there are forests and countryside and farms that she doesn't recognize. Pages of hands and disembodied eyes staring out at the viewer.

Where Piotr's talent truly lies, Maya thinks, is in capturing faces. A man frowning with a glint of surly humor in his eyes (Logan, Maya recognizes, and her smile is swift and sudden); a white-haired woman staring regally out of the page (the white eyes catch Maya's attention; this must be Storm, she thinks, and she lingers over it). There is a page of half-colored blonde girls, each abandoned before completion, and in the largest drawing, Maya sees a smile that she thinks looks like Piotr's at its brightest.

There are groups of men and women in spandex, and in ordinary clothes; her eye is drawn to the grinning woman with a small dragon wrapped around her neck, and she smiles again, softer this time. On another page, Laura, caught mid-kick, her hair fanned out behind her.

There are dozens of them, some thumbnail sketches, some looking fleshed out, like they could step off the page if they so chose.

"How long have you been drawing in this book?" she asks, finally. ('My God' goes unspoken but heavily implied.) She turns the next page.

[steelartisan]

"That one? Ah." He thinks. "Several months?"

"I am not sure. I have a few."

Art is a hobby; it's also a coping mechanism for stress (most of the time) and for boredom, and there are times when Piotr has a lot of free time.

And, of course, times when he has none at all, and is nowhere near a sketchbook.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

"Very prolific," Maya says, grinning up at him, and she closes the lid on the final page and offers the pad to him.

[steelartisan]

Piotr shrugs a little, amicably, as he accepts it back.

"It is good for many moods. And the only way to get better."

And he's never liked to spend long stretches of time doing nothing. He has the value of work too much ingrained for that.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

"I think you're pretty good already, мой друг." She shakes her head lightly at him, shifting her legs under the warmth of the sun. Boots scrape rock.

[steelartisan]

--Did he teach her that word? He can't remember if he did, and it gets a quick glance and a pleased half-smile.

"There is always room to improve," he says, but placidly, and teasing a little in return. He's good, and he knows it; still, there is always room.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

Her smile warms under his. "Always, Piotr Nikolaievitch?" she teases. "There's no such thing as 'this is good enough'?"

(There is an old adage about a pot and a black kettle; Maya would like it, if she knew it.)

[steelartisan]

Piotr knows her well enough, by now, that she gets an amused look in return. In the same tone: "You tell me, Maya Antares."

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

The trying-not-to-laugh twist of her mouth says that she has taken his point, though is determined not to admit it.

"I don't know," she says, smile turning a touch softer. Her eyes flick down then back up to him, so fast that if it weren't for the telltale swift move of her eyelashes, it would be impossible to notice. "I don't see too much room for improvement here."

[steelartisan]

Piotr's smile shifts too: turns a little warmer, and a little more lopsided.

"Da."

"I have no complaints."

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

"Me neither," she says, and while her eyes can't be as expressive as they once were -- they're locked on Piotr; that's for certain.

The plus -- or minus -- side of lacking pupils: it is exceedingly difficult to tell when her eyes slip to his smile, then hurriedly back up again.

"Not bad, for two incurable perfectionists."

[steelartisan]

Piotr drops the sketchpad back atop his bag -- it's close enough that he doesn't have to lean over to do it -- and settles back more comfortably on the rock, propping a hand behind him. The sun is warm on his face and the stone beneath him, and Maya's smile means his own hasn't gone away yet.

"We are managing, I think."

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

"I think we're doing just fine."

She shifts, too, in several nimble movements that leave her sitting cross-legged with her hands in her lap.

If her knee bumps his in the process, it isn't on purpose -- but she isn't in a rush to move it once settled, either.

[steelartisan]

Should he move away?

...Nah.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

Piotr Rasputin is a gentleman. If he were any more of one, Maya would kill him.

The time for patience and the slow, cautious dance is passing, she thinks, watching the sunlight play across his face; feeling that solid, warm point of contact between them. Maybe it's time to go for broke; to take a risk.

She takes a deep breath and says, "Piotr--" but the problem is, she hasn't thought beyond that. Her sense of conviction isn't much help.

[steelartisan]

He glances over, eyebrows lifting a little in inquiry -- but she's broken off, and "Da?" he says, and thinks that perhaps it comes out a little too fast, overlaps that stuttering pause of hers, and he has half an idea of what she's going to say.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

'Oh my God--' says Maya's disgusted courage, in what she always imagines as Alex Goncharova's voice. 'Would one of you just do it already?!'

Take a risk.

She doesn't allow herself time to think about it.

She reaches for him -- her palm on the back of his neck and her fingers slipping into the short hair at his temple, just behind his ear -- and she swiftly leans in and up and kisses him.

(Her heart is pounding.)

[steelartisan]

--Okay, he was maybe expecting something a bit more gradual.

But after the first startled instant (barely an instant, and he's already leaning down to meet her as she darts in) one hand rises to cup her cheek lightly, and -- this is Piotr, really not complaining.

[joiningyousoon.livejournal.com]

He's kissing her back.

Maya didn't expect much different, but it's still a crushing relief; still a thrill. She eases off a little; the pressure of her lips turns less fierce, less desperate. She doesn't need to fight for him.

She brushes kisses along the line of his mouth, to the corner, and she lingers there before she leans back, just enough that she can see his eyes; not enough that she has to move her hand.

For a minute, she doesn't know what to say; for a minute, she really isn't thinking about it, because she's a little preoccupied with how hot her cheek is under his palm, and with smiling. Her face is shining.

"I got impatient," she says, and she almost laughs.