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field-s-of-flowers · 2 years

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Oh this is just for my great comet followers, but I won’t be continuing the Havana au because

I no longer ship Maryalene

I don’t know what’s going on in the gc/w&p fandom right now but I’m not touching that shit with a ten-foot pole

If you need me I’ll be in the hadestown fandom trying to tune out anyone other than my mutuals

#soph’s posts #great comet #havana au #<- this is the last time I’ll be using that tag #For a while at least #I also have other multi-chapter fics to work on #My toh one and my atla one #For example

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field-s-of-flowers · 2 years

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Havana, chapter 7

Midnight was so different in Atlanta. Clearer, somehow, and brighter than the city lights Hélène was so used to. She vaguely recalled why: a phenomenon known as light pollution, in which a street lamp or a lit apartment window could upstage the stars. It was pretty fascinating, really. Out of sight, they were, and so out of mind.

That had to be a metaphor for something, right? There were people who thought of themselves as stars. Her brother, for one. Anatole could go on and on for hours to Hélène about whatever new thing he last discovered. Sometimes, it could even be kind of beautiful. But there’s only one poet in any family. And stars didn’t apply to Hélène, anyway. They hadn’t for a while.

So why did it feel like the stars were watching her tonight?

“Are you going to bed anytime soon?”

Two weeks had passed since Hélène arrived. Right from the moment she stepped off the ferry, she’d felt a sense of different-ness. A sense of being at home, not at all what she’d had with Pierre. Comfortable, like she didn’t need to constantly put on a show for Natasha or Sonya or Marya.

Oh, Marya.

“Sit with me,” Hélène murmured in way of an answer. “Just for a little while.”

Marya cocked her head, but sat down all the same.

“It’s funny,” she said. “Before I met you, I had a picture in my mind of how you looked. Pierre talked about you so much back at home that I felt like I knew you already.”

“What was it?”

“Mm?”

“What did I look like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You were older, I think, than you are. And you were always wearing black.”

Marya laughed. “That is funny. I always pictured you in white.”

Oh, that laugh. It was rare, and never failed to make Hélène blush. A small glimmer decorated ice-blue eyes, and a small dimple grew on her cheek. One more new thing I’m learning about you.

“White,” she repeated, “just like the moon right now.”

The moon was a crescent tonight, surrounded by glittering stars and inky clouds. When the moon waned, as Hélène heard once, the stars always looked just a little brighter, a little starker against the sky. The metaphor wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Havana 6

If Marya’s house was big, the Bolkonsky’s was a mansion. Sonya wasn’t quite sure what did and didn’t count as a mansion, but if there was one in Atlanta, this was it.

It was raining. That was okay. Sonya liked the rain, especially if it was a hot May day like today. There was something so oppressive and lonely about a dry heat, and Sonya wasn’t lonely often. She liked being alone, too. Lonely rainy days like this were perfect.

Of course, the reason she was knocking at the door of Mary’s house was that she’d rather not be alone at this particular moment.

There was a shining black car in the driveway. That was new. Sonya didn’t think Mary‘s father would be the type to drive, nor to let his daughter do so. It wasn’t quite like it mattered to her, since Mary’s face would appear in the doorway in three, two-

“Come in! Now, it’s very important!”

The door shut, what seemed like an inch behind Sonya’s back. Was it just her, or was the Bolkonsky house quieter, more somber than usual? Some of the lights were dimmer, she realized, and Mary’s old things were no longer scattered across bureaus and tables. What had Petya said about that? “The cleaner a house is, the more it looks like a funeral.” That might’ve been it. Sonya smiled to herself. Petya was always saying-

“What?”

Mary’s voice was hushed, her face even more anxious than usual.

“Oh, nothing, I-”

“C’mon. Let’s go in my bedroom, we can talk there.”

“Why can’t we talk out here? No one can-”

“Mary?”

A man entered from the hallway, a pained grimace on his face. He was shorter, with intensely dark eyes and a look about him that just made him seem a bit taller than he actually was. The young man’s furrowed brow betrayed that he didn’t actually know who Sonya was, but she knew him well: Andrey Bolkonsky, back from the war. His leg was wrapped in a bandage, and Sonya wondered how he’d got down the stairs.

“Mashka, who’s this? I heard noises, and-”

“Oh, don’t mind that! Andrey, you remember Sonya, don’t you? Now you should go back upstairs, which is where we- come on-”

And before Sonya even knew what was happening, they were in her plain white room. And by plain, she meant plain. The whirlwind of information and activity that had led up to this moment stood in a startling contrast to the complete stillness that surrounded the girls now, accompanied only by the soft sounds of… crying?

“I’m sorry,” Mary sniffed from her bed. “I just don’t know what to do, and well, you saw him! And father’s not going to help, so I’ve got to do it on my own and it gets so lonely, but I shouldn’t have asked you to come, I-”

“I know,” Sonya said, taking her girlfriend into her arms. If she knew anything about anything, it was comforting people, whether it be her cousin or Mary. “I know. It’s okay that you called me. I want to be here for you.”

Mary sniffed again, looking up at Sonya. “You do?”

In way of an answer, she gave Mary a small kiss on the forehead. It happened pretty often, but it was so sweet every time it lasted longer than it needed to.

“I love you, Kotenok. I really do.”

And Mary, still in Sonya’s arms, muttered a quite I love you too into her chest, which seemed like it would burst from that soft and simple happiness.

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Havana 5

“So what do you have in the way of drinks here?”

Marya’s kitchen was huge. The floor was checkered black and white, little flowers grew in the window, and it smelled like sugar. There had to be something, somewhere. Hélène was parched after the long walk she took with Natasha.

“You don’t mean alcohol, do you? Because I don’t keep that in the house.”

“Not what I meant, although it’d be nice,” she said, eyes meeting Marya’s in a little smirk.

“Well, you can throw away those hopes and dreams. All I have is leftover tea.”

Hélène’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Tea was okay, but it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t fizzy, it wasn’t minty, it didn’t particularly taste like anything. Walking with Natasha had made her expect something... a little more exciting. And Hélène didn’t know why, but she really wanted to do something exciting with Marya in particular.

“Tea is fine,” she said, attempting indifference.

“Good. Meet me out on the patio, I’ll ice some up.” There was no smile on her lips, but Marya’s eyes seemed to glint with some kind of anticipation, though Hélène couldn’t say for the life of her what it was. They’d barely spent two days together, but she could already sense a kindred spirit, an Alma Gemela, who knew all too well the game that they had to play, and who was sick of games. But tea and serious talk didn’t seem so bad on the patio.

Sunset was falling. The sky was hazy, blurring a tangerine glow that Hélène had seen so clearly the night before. Dragonflies flitted near the little bluebells that Sonya had planted that spring. Was every night in Atlanta this uniquely romantic, this sweet and orange-tinted and warm? The cloying heat Hélène was so used to was nowhere to be found.

Marya’s face appeared in the doorway. Apparently Hélène had taken more time than she had thought.

“Here, have a sip,” Marya said, sitting down in the chair right next to her. Two icy-cold glasses sat on the table, a slice of lemon in each one. “It didn’t take too long to make. I hope you like it.”

One sip was enough for Hélène’s tastebuds to explode in a burst of unexpected sweetness. A little sugar in tea was expected, but this was something else entirely. Before she knew it, Marya’s face and dress were covered in cold tea.

“I am so sorry-”

Hélène’s shocked pause only gave way for her to see Marya’s bemused smile.

“Not used to sweet tea, are we? Natasha introduced me to it, and there was a bit of that shock, but you’ll like it just as I did...”

“Did you... trick me? Into drinking tea?”

The dimple on Marya’s cheek grew as she smiled even wider. How long had that been there? It served only to make her look even more beautiful.

“And what if I did?”

“Well, I would say,” said Hélène with a laugh, “That you are some kind of lady, Mrs. Marya Akhrosimov.”

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Havana character descriptions!

Natasha: She/her, 19. Marya’s goddaughter. Born in the US to immigrant parents. Currently staying with Marya in Atlanta.

Sonya: She/her, 21. Marya’s goddaughter. Russian immigrant, lives with Marya in Atlanta.

Marya: She/her, 40. Sonya and Natasha’s godmother. Russian immigrant, lives with her goddaughters in Atlanta. Pierre’s close friend.

Anatole: He/him, 31. Hélène’s younger brother. Cuban, born and raised in Havana.

Hélène: She/her, 36. Pierre’s wife. Cuban, born and raised in Havana.

Dolokhov: He/him, 33. Anatole’s best friend, Hélène’s ex-lover. Russian, lives in Havana.

Old Prince Bolkonsky: He/him, 69 (nice). Mary and Andrey’s father. Russian immigrant, lives with Mary in Atlanta.

Mary: She/her, 22. Andrey’s sister, OPB’s daughter, Sonya’s girlfriend. Born in Atlanta to immigrant parents, lives with OPB.

Balaga: He/him, age unknown. One of Anatole’s friends. Cuban born and raised- we think. He’s mysterious.

Andrey: He/him, 29. Mary’s brother, OPB’s son and Pierre’s best friend. Born in Russia, moved to Atlanta as a young child and still lives there.

Pierre: He/him, 34. Hélène’s husband, friend of both Andrey and Marya. Lived most of his live in Russia, currently lives in Havana.

#Soph’s posts #Havana au #great comet #character descriptions #Great comet au #Great comet Havana au #Maryalene #marlene #Natasha rostova #sonya rostova #marya d #anatole kuragin #helene bezukhova #fedya dolokhov #old prince bolkonsky #mary bolkonskaya #balaga #andrey bolkonsky #Pierre bezukhov

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Writing masterpost

Havana

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Character descriptions

A Love So Tender

Before the eyes of Storytelling Girls - 1984 - Cosmic American - Belly and the Beast - Orion (Zukka) - Mockingbird - I wear your Dress - Quecreek Flood - A Hymn for the Exiled - Two Kids - One good thing (Kataang)

#Soph’s posts #A love so tender #Havana au #great comet #atla #writing

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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In case you were wondering, this is gonna be the exact dynamic when Hélène gets to the house

#Soph’s posts #Soph’s quotes #but not really cause I got it from a generator #Incorrect great comet #Incorrect Havana au

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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You write? For what fandoms? I’d love to read it if I know the fandoms!

Well I have a Hadestown/Atla crossover called Free as a Honeybee, and a Maryalène (great comet) 1960s AU called the Havana AU. Other than that, I have a couple of Hadestown oneshots. I think you’ll like them!

#Phoebe tag #Soph’s askbox #My tag is #Soph’s fics

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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You have a Great Comet AU set in Havana? I’m from Havana!

That’s so cool! Although it’s not set in Havana mostly, it’s set in Atlanta in the 1960s! It’s named after Havana by Camila Cabello, that’s why it’s called that :)

#Solana tag #Soph’s askbox

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field-s-of-flowers · 3 years

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Havana, chapter 2

Hélène could feel Dolokhov shifting in bed as she woke. It was closer to sunrise than it was to midnight. Pierre would be home by now.

“Fedya.”

He turned and faced her, not intending to say a word. He still smelled like vodka and cigarette smoke. His skin was pressed with the wrinkles of Pierre’s sheets, and there were bags under his eyes. Have they always been there? thought Hélène. Maybe that was why he wore eyeliner.

“My husband’s probably home now, you sh-”

“You have a back door, don’t you?” His voice was rough and lower than usual. Hélène found herself wondering if he had slept at all. Dolokhov dressed the same way he did everything: quickly, quietly and half-heartedly. She watched from the bed, burying herself under the covers as his smell filled the room again. Hélène liked watching men dress after she’d been with them. She found it was indicative of who they were: A flirtatious man would linger for a couple of minutes, putting his shirt on last. A man with somewhere to be would sometimes put things on backwards, as would a man who’d had too much vodka the night before. Dolokhov didn’t miss a thing, even as quickly as he dressed, as quickly as he did everything. Just as quickly, he was out the door.

She sat on the edge of the bed, watching the barest edges of the sun peek into her window. She saw Pierre’s car in the driveway, a little gray thing that shone from condensation brought by the humid, sweltering heat. He wouldn’t talk to her, not that day. They never talked anymore.

Hélène Bezukhov was still bored. But it wasn’t like last night, not anymore. It was a new, desperate boredom. Day after day after day, night after night, it was all the same. But she didn’t feel anything. She hadn’t felt anything for anything in so long, and she couldn’t go on, she couldn’t. Hélène needed to get away, she needed something new. Yes, that was it! She began to pace around her room. It was hot, too hot.

She suddenly hated it. The heat, the world, her life, this room. Me estoy volviendo loca, she thought. I’m going crazy. She needed a way out, badly.

Pierre had friends in America. Maybe one of them could help.

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