rainbowfic | i can see lights in the distance;

Name: Mischa
Story: as if words could be undone
Colors: octarine (The people who really run organizations are usually found several levels down, where it is still possible to get things done.), halloween orange (I find relationships so often are an awful bore),
Supplies and Styles: canvas
Word Count: 551
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed, I think?
Summary: Mikha hates upper-class parties, anything where she has to smile and pretend to be something she’s not, but she does like the wine. Information-gathering at a party thrown by nobles: not Mikha's style.
Notes: This takes place before Mira ever met Ilya.

Mikha leans against the wall, casually flipping a knife from hand to hand as she watches her siblings, or at least the two who had talked her into this foolishness. At least it wasn’t her job to be sweet and charming (Mira had laughed, even possibly a genuine laugh, when Sorin had looked up from his books long enough to suggest it), only to be watchful and looming and possibly slightly wound the next person - woman, man, in-between, whatever- Mira flirted with.

“I’m surprised you haven’t stabbed anyone yet,” Rahela chirps, cheerfully, holding out a glass of wine, which she takes gratefully. Mikha hates upper-class parties, anything where she has to smile and pretend to be something she’s not, but she does like the wine. Occasionally. “But I'm glad you haven’t. We’d never get invited back if you got blood on the carpet.”

“I’d never get the blood out of my dress.” Mikha says (and she likes this dress), as she takes a drink of the wine. Only the third tolerable thing here, behind Rahela and Mira.“And are the people here such twits that you and Mira need more than one invitation?”

“Maybe,” Rahela says. “I mean, nobles. You know how they are.”

Mikha sighs irritably. “Don’t bring me next time. It’s Sorin’s turn to suffer. Or Iulia’s.”

From the absolutely sunny smile on her sister’s face, she knows exactly the odds of that happening. Information-gathering was a necessary part of their job, and both Mira and Rahela were good at it, at talking to people, at blending in. And yet, somehow, she finds herself dragged along on these events.

(she’s just convinced that her sister likes to see her suffer)

“Besides, someone has to keep Mira out of trouble.” Rahela adds, a point that Mikha can’t dispute in the least. Their youngest brother is smart, clever, silver-tongued, a complete liar, and born to trouble, like the moon pulls the tide. “Though he’s doing an actual reasonable imitation of keeping himself out of it for once.”

Mikha downs the rest of her glass and drops it on a nearby table, watching Mira at the center of a knot of prissy nobles, smiling and flirting and charming his way through them. As comfortable and natural as if he was born with blue blood in his veins. Flirting with probably all of them, knowing him.

“That’s reasonable? He’s flirting with at least six people at once. Members of the High Houses. Half of them are probably married.”

“He won’t sleep with any of them, at least?” Rahela offers, optimistically. Mikha isn’t given to being optimistic, but Rahela is at least correct in that assessment. Mira flirts, with anyone who strikes his fancy, but he’s never touched any of them, or so he told her once. It’s hard to tell sometimes if he’s being genuine with how perfect his many masks are, but that was another of the rare moments in which Mira was unguardedly honest.

Mikha snorts, as Rahela hands her another drink. Looks like they were going to be here for a while yet, unfortunately. “It might be better if he did. At least that would be predictable trouble.”

Someday, Mira will fall in love: someday, it will be an utter disaster, but at least it won’t be tonight.