czarina sokolova | resort | olympic pairs skater | rhys cadell, sasha sidorov
When the first light streamed through the curtains of the apartment window, Czarina had little idea of where she was, how she’d gotten there, or why there was a dull ache coursing through what seemed like her entire body. She couldn’t remember what day of the week it was, and therefore, could not manage to chalk it up to workouts, practice, or any other routine stressor in her life. She carefully moved each of her joints to ensure that it was just normal soreness, which worked until she reached her elbow. It wasn’t her elbow that was the problem, it was the warm body beside her that was the issue. When she realized she had fallen asleep beside someone, she nearly jumped out of her skin. One night stands were not ever her style for a variety of reasons including but not limited to the anxieties included in the risks taken and the distraction from the more important things in life. Therefore, it was almost an insult to consider that a drunker version of herself had lowered her standards to… this.
Not particularly wanting to be associated with this event, or tied to it, ever, Czarina decided that she’d leave for a bit and return in hopes that the man in her bed could find his own way out. She wasn’t even marginally concerned about the sea of bodies passed out in the other areas of her hotel room, just the one she’d woken up next to. For whatever reason, the more she stared at him, the more she absolutely despised him. He was disgustingly perfect in the most repulsing way. His skin was blemishless and appeared to be a gorgeous ivory color, detectable even in the gentlest light of the early morning. The faint indigo hues that came through the window spilled over his glossy blond hair, painting shadows over his gentle expression. She found her sharp gaze gently tracing up his sharp jawline towards his curled lashes which undoubtedly hid eyes in the most beautiful shade she’d ever seen, though she couldn’t fathom what color they may be or why she so easily gave up that superlative to a perfect stranger. Her gaze fell back down his cheeks towards his lips, which, even in the dimmest light, appeared to have a hue so soft and ethereal she couldn’t describe them. Being a nosy individual, it wasn’t surprising that Czarina took the time to assess her drunker counterpart’s choice in men, but her reaction surprised her, filling her with even more shame than before. Still, she remained optimistic that she could leave the room and return to find him gone. In addition, that she’d never have to see him again, or, at the very least, that he’d been as drunk or drunker than she’d been, and he’d also have little to no recollection of the prior night’s activities. She wanted to say that it was impossible that they would have been brazen enough to do anything with so many people just outside her bedroom door, but that would be a lie. Sober Czarina had little shame when it came to methods of progress and achievement, and her drunken alter ego had little shame when it came to anything and everything. Stranger things than the concept circling her mind had occurred and been confirmed by credible witnesses.
“What happened to you, Czarina?” Sasha called down the hall after her, his deep, booming voice enhancing the effects of her hangover. He didn’t sound even slightly happy, which somehow always became her problem. It didn’t occur to her that it may have been because she typically caused his bouts of unhappiness. “You don’t return my texts, my calls–who’s shirt is that?”
She glanced down, mumbling something unholy under her breath as she realized what she was wearing. It had been a while since she’d let herself go, so it wasn’t second nature to check her body for signs of alcohol-induced peril as it once was. She was wearing a fashionable silk dress shirt that screamed ‘rich men with egos higher than their family’s skyscrapers wear me.’ Only the top few buttons were closed, the midsection open and revealing her small stomach and the top of her Team Russia workout shorts. Despite her tiny frame, the shorts were custom and fit a bit tight. The shirt was so large on her that the remainder of them were hidden by the shirt.
“What business is it of yours? You’re not my father, you’re not my boss,” her eyes narrowed, and she pushed him against the wall with one finger to his chest. He was about a foot taller than her and at least a hundred pounds heavier, but she clearly dominated him. “You’re. Not. My. Keeper.” As if nothing had happened, her expression softened again, the slightest smirk reaching the left side of her mouth. “Shall we?”
…
Breakfast turned out to be a bit of a bore other than the piece of plastic Sasha discovered in his eggs. Being an excessively dramatic drama king at all times with a limited knowledge of the English language, every minor inconvenience with the Russian man became of the same magnitude as an act of terrorism or a third world war. Czarina was often embarrassed for him, but amused by him. She had no problem with a bit of conflict, only with being the individual forced to relay messages back and forth, and, thus, often becoming the punching bag. If, for some reason, she were to get tired of it, she simply began to make things up, and to completely incorrectly mediate the argument.
“What is he saying?” Sasha fumed, throwing his fork down so hard his glass of water sloshed and spilled over his glass.
“Well, he called your mother an octopus.” Her face remained completely serious, without any indication of change or strain. “He also said you must like the color green.”
“I hate green,” he slammed his hand down on the table in the absence of another eating utensil. He’d already exhausted his usage of both forks, a knife, both spoons, a stirrer, a straw, and a serving spoon. “Tell him I hate green, right now!”
His face was bright red, as if he were a balloon that would burst at any moment. Czarina was just waiting for the pop. She turned to the staff member, and, with the sweetest smile she could muster, replied, “he said he appreciates your accommodation, and he wants to know if you’ve ever considered converting to Eastern Orthodox religion.”
The curly-haired man was an even brighter shade of red now, matching the Russian man in hue but not in temperament. “I…can’t say I have…” He apologized again, offering them assistance if they needed anything further, before excusing himself to return to his job. Soon after, Sasha’s ranting turned from the man’s incompetence to Czarina’s, something about why she wasn’t dressed to skate, and if she wanted to skate in a whore’s costume, she’d have to do so much closer to Halloween. Typically, she would have been stubborn enough to do their entire routine in what she was wearing, but her ulterior motive of needing to kick the remaining strangers out of her apartment before they stole something or posted anything from the prior incident caused her to take his attitude for once in her life. Her lack of response to his actual words was proof enough that she hadn’t complied because his words held any weight, and that she had other things on her mind.
Upon returning to her room, alone, Czarina found the place nearly exactly as she’d left it, plus or minus a few drunken extras. The first thing her eyes zeroed in on was whether or not the angelic blond in her bed was wearing a shirt, and, to no surprise, he wasn’t. Keeping an army of irreverent vocabulary on the tip of her tongue, the small woman wondered briefly what to do with the shirt before choosing the unscrupulous option, as was her custom–she traded his shirt out for one of her Team Russia workout shirts, stashing the expensive piece of clothing away in the depths of her closet before closing the door. It was far too expensive and far too comfortable to simply give back to him, and, besides: in her mind, he owed her.
Much to her annoyance, he was a very deep sleeper, and he wasn’t fazed by any of the movement in the room. She’d already thrown open the blinds and gotten the other guests out, not to mention making herself a very loud cup of coffee, leaving the microwave alarm on for as long as she could stand it (which was not very long, considering her insolent hangover), and just about every other trick in the book. Getting aggressive with a stranger was not beyond her, and she was running late, so she grabbed the broom out of her utility closet. Walking over to the bed, she began to whack him with it, first on his perfectly toned stomach, then on his neck and face. If he had a black eye, it wasn’t her problem. In addition, she began screaming at him as if he were some sort of terrorist, telling him to get out of her bed and, in general, insulting him in any way she could manage. She’d already checked his pulse–clearly he wasn’t dead–so, with any luck, the beating he was taking to his perfect body and his undoubtedly massive ego would send him straight out the door, giving her a few minutes to spare to drink her coffee in peace.
Winter 
Night 
