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[ailerons]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

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 hangman

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[ailerons]

Think we should show him the Sarah McLachlan SPCA video?

[ lol. lmao, even. ]

Rather crawl over coals covered in jet fuel than give Seattle any more ammunition

[ "Begged" notably not the word that means the same thing as "apologized" or "made sufficient amends". Jake Will Remember That. ]

You think I could take Santa in a fight
He did get me a puppy when I was six, but
A man does have rules to live by

[haggle]

not unless you literally want to fedex his ass express into the arms of the angels
i feel like you just asked me if we should run over a fucking puppy
sick and twisted shit, seresin

( more importantly: what is a boyfriend if not someone to hold your bags and your baggage? that's one more shiny sticker for the good behavior chart. )

yes baby. you're super tough and jacked
birds and skies have nothing on you
(i know this is really doing it for your dick right now)
also santa only comes once a year :( and you can't stop coming
embarrassing ass W-L ratio for him

[ailerons]

Just what you signed up for, mikheeva
I'm saying he should experience the full run of the mid 2000s

You think birds and skies are doing it for me after what you did last night
In the words of Mariah Carey
All I want for Christmas is

[ Well. ]

nothing compared to what I've got

Your grandmother have traditions this time of year?

[haggle]

christ
just turn on jerry springer and tell him it's a documentary

( flutters swarm between her ribs when she reads it back. not the pretty shit — no monarch wings, no sweetness swooping through her stomach. just moth-eaten collateral. when grief's been gnawing on you for so long you stop noticing the holes are there till someone else points it out, sticks their finger in it, names what went missing. your grandmother, ani. your traditions, ani. the place you pretend you don't come from, ani.

after lenin, there was stalin. after stalin, there were no more christmases, no more crosses hung around necks, just hope and hunger rationed out. she thinks of the easy out from the question, the escape into the norman rockwell scenes of jake's life, family that had everything instead of surviving on enough: nah. what about yours? like the warmth of his traditions might adopt her again — another memory that makes room for her to fit, paints her in happier colors.

she types. backspaces. what the fuck is she meant to say? that her grandmother passed on the same traditions her childhood, her country, never let her forget? christmas meals meant food had to stretch between four mouths for days straight? one communal present between her and her sister meant a night of waterworks and typical russian revolt over the selfish right to want, when wanting meant one of them would have to go without? that orthodox candles were her babushka's only protection spell against the dark when cash could cover christmas or the power bill, not both? that it was the last time someone still cared enough to keep both ends burning through the night, in the name of driving ani's nightmares back?

(maybe that's the tradition he's breathed life back into without knowing, the one worth carrying on — a cross, the inheritance attached to it: the duty of protecting, watching, keeping.)

it's not shame that has her rewriting like she's trying to invent the story that sells right — real, but not too real. honest, but not too honest. it's just — hard. her grandmother always said the sun will shine into our yard too — but she never warned ani how it would feel to stand in jake's. to see how bright backyard suns shine when someone's loved by it. to have to show him how fucking gray hers looks next to his charmed life, when you're born without the sure promise of a sky to chase. )

i don't do that shit anymore

( not an answer. still edging around a truth that costs, anyway. )

[ailerons]

[ Not an answer. Jake waits for a minute, blinking down at the pixels. Lets his thumb hover as he weighs it out: what family means to him, the place to come back to, and what family means for Ani. A scarf in the cold, a ring in the fist. The only holidays he never had were only trade-offs for country and duty — still choices, at the end of the day. Shitty improvised trees made out of wires in the bulkheads, drinking too much, sneaking contraband and stumbling around Okinawan streets after dark. Still enough. Always enough.

The orthodox cross sits around his neck, flat against his chest, metal body-warm. That, too, always enough. ]

Do you want to?

[ To make something new. To bring back the old. To twist something to fit into this new house, this place that takes — that'll make you someone who takes, if you're not careful. A beat, followed by: ]

For Dummies ran out of pictures near that chapter, so
As you can imagine
Got a little harder to read

[ And, ]

Not much we can't make ours, Ani

[haggle]

( a laugh chokes her throat, some wet clot of tears she's been holding in her lungs longer than any nicotine hit. a build-up without any place left to put it down, crowding the squeeze of her ribs, like if she breathes wrong now — if she tries to set it into his hands — it'll all pour out, too much for anyone to hold.

ani knuckles beneath one glassy eye, swiping at dry skin. crying without pay-off is a lot like fucking without coming: all of her body's effort for none of the relief. just the raw scrape of her insides, riding that over-sensitive ache. has to be why she's acting fucking stupid enough to hang herself on a word like ours, except — there's not a whole lot jake seresin does without intention. even if he'll have you believing it's homegrown talent, lady luck's kiss of breath on the dice roll when he was born. all happy accidents.

anything but the truth of what she sees on days he thumbs at his mouth, furrows his brows at her. patient. precise. like he's taking his time with words that won't get lost in translation, between his american accent and the butchered russian he hacks at. she stares at the shape of it, anyway, as if it's as foreign as any word. not hers. not his. ours. four letters with more space than vanya had cleared for her — just one half of a closet, one half of a bed, one half of a shelf. she never learned to live in a world like that — just how to decorate it, knowing her selling points: view comes with the property, perfect fixer-upper, family-ready. expensive asking price, but open to remodeling.

another stretch into silence, like her decision wasn't already sealed in skin and shine, worn metal pressed to his heartbeat. fear still curdles, anyway — the idea of letting him share space with the spirit she still whispers to in prayers half-remembered, setting a plate for babushka's empty chair at the table. bringing him home, in her own way, to her grandmother's ghost. how this might end: with him taking that memory no one ever gets to touch, making it his and hers but never ours again. leave her talking to more empty chairs like he's coming back. )

ours
?

( the question mark blinks back at him like she would. waiting, maybe, for her private tutoring lesson on jake seresin for dummies. if he'll correct her. if being new to this means she messed up the meaning in her head, somehow. did you mean it the way i think you meant it. )

jake
you know it's a whole fucking week right
and you can't clean for any of it
your odds of survival ain't looking sharp
that's "you're fucked" in statistics