air [zhenya]

She should have known it by now. Things that seemed as easy to her as it was to walk a step on firm ground weren’t easy for those who were mere beginners on an artistic flying broom. While Conrad’s first failed attempt still looked rather promising, his next tries were much worse. Zhenya wanted to encourage her boyfriend but chose not to say anything, feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate a comment.

His face had turned red and Zhenya feared that he was about to give up for today and forever. She did not expect him to love the sport; did not believe that he’d come to the practices of the artistic flying club, but she didn’t want him to dislike what meant the world to her.

She watched him, hovering in mid air herself, stretching her limbs and itching to do some more interesting stunts. However, she felt that this wasn’t the time for it. She’d only frustrate Conrad if she showed off now that he was hitting the ground for the third time.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, seriously concerned as she approached him, hoping that it was solely his pride that was hurt and nothing more. However, she knew herself that it sometimes took longer to recover from hurt pride than from any broken bones.

Zhenya looked at him sadly as Conrad said that he had known that he wouldn’t be good at this. What had he expected, though? That he’d get on an artistic flying broom and everything would be easy as if he, like Zhenya herself, had been training since his early childhood? She felt a little mad at him now. He was a quitter. She had known it before, had actually appreciated it that he wasn’t under constant pressure like she was, that he wasn’t trying to prove himself from morning till night. Now, however, it bothered her.

“Today is your first time on an artistic flying broom,” she said, her voice revealing that she felt irritated, “you tried this jump three times. If you’d done it all flawlessly I’d say you should join the club and actually try to become a professional athlete because then you’d be incredibly talented.”

He told her that she could keep flying and he’d just watch and learn that way. Zhenya huffed and shook her head. This was not at all what she wanted now and, what was worse, she was sure that he was lying to her. He claimed that he’d learn that way but she felt deep inside that he did not intend to ever mount an artistic flying broom again.

“You won’t learn how to do it by watching me,” she said, her voice a little bit shriller than usual. “If that was the case I’d watch Aglaya every day during my holidays and suddenly be able to do a back flip.” She snorted and then elegantly jumped off her broom so she was standing face to face with her boyfriend.

“Now tell me honestly, do you even want to try again at some point or have you already given up?”

She was annoyed now, which he should have known to expect. It irritated him right back. He tried not to react to her words, to her tone. (Her tone was more aggravating than her words; it would have driven him to distraction to have a shopping list read to him like he was an idiot.)

Why couldn’t she understand? Three tries was as much as he was giving her; she could take it and be grateful for it, because he hadn’t even owed her that many. He didn’t want to keep trying and trying, and falling and falling, for something he never planned to do again. Zhenya was just too used to being perfect and doing what everybody expected of her to understand that some things just weren’t worth the trouble. What did Conrad care if he was good at this? He would still be a useless loser, and everybody would still know it.

He hadn’t looked up at her when he spoke, and as her voice went higher and sharper, he stared more fixedly at his hands in front of him, rubbing at a callous on his thumb. If she was going to yell at him, he really didn’t want to keep doing this. He couldn’t make himself want to do anything he didn’t want to do; eighteen years of everything desperate his parents had done hadn’t broken him of that wilfullness. Zhenya didn’t stand a chance – Zhenya, unlike his parents, didn’t have the option of just forcing him.

“I mean, I wasn’t learning it on my own,” he said mulishly; she jumped down from her broom too, probably so she could look at him properly, but he was sure he would look too indifferent, or too angry, and make her even more upset with him, so he kept his head down.

It would have been easier if she’d asked it as a simple question – something he could say ‘no’ to, and leave it there – but he had to formulate some kind of real response, which felt far beyond him just now. “Fine. I don’t want to try again,” he said. “I don’t like it. I’m already shit at everything without doing it for a hobby too.”

She had known it all along - Conrad didn’t care about artistic flying and that consequently meant that he didn’t really care about her either. If he truly loved her wouldn’t that mean that he’d make a true attempt to understand what mattered to her? Didn’t that mean that he’d want to like what she liked? The girl felt irritated and confused now. Wasn’t a relationship based on mutual understanding? On two people liking the same things?

What did she have in common with Conrad, after all? Zhenya felt herself getting really mad at her boyfriend. He gave up on everything so easily. He had no ambition. He was lazy and indifferent.

In the past she had appreciated it when he told her that she didn’t have to live up to other people’s expectations. When he took away some of the pressure she felt. Usually she liked to see that life was not all about having high set goals and fighting every minute of the day to achieve them.

As he spoke again Zhenya’s eyes narrowed dangerously. The girl was actually a rather soft person, she didn’t seek fights. Now, however, she was aggravated and it bothered her more than she could even put into words that Conrad had so quickly spoiled what had been a perfect moment minutes ago.

She glared at him but he had his gaze turned to the ground, making it impossible for her to get eye contact. He then said that he didn’t want to try again and Zhenya felt how tears of frustration watered her eyes.

“Fine.” She snapped at him. “You don’t like it, okay. I did not expect you to join the club or anything. I thought…” she exhaled loudly as she tried to calm herself enough to go on speaking. “I thought that if you truly liked me you’d want to at least make an effort to understand what matters most to me.” She paused and shook her head. “Apparently I was mistaken. Do you… even like me?” While her voice had been irritated earlier, she had spoken the last few words quietly, sounding a little insecure now.

Conrad, still picking at the callous on his thumb, hiked his shoulders up higher. Zhenya was mad, now, mad enough that he could no longer mistake her tone for simple impatience. He lifted his head to look at her; she was glaring, so he dropped his gaze back down hastily and shoved his hands in his pockets.

No more did he think he could say that he merely didn’t like this; now he hated it. He hated standing here and letting her yell at him. He hated the broom with its weird flat platforms. He hated that twisting midair jump – why couldn’t he just fly in a circle counterclockwise? – and while he was at it he hated the weather and the scarf wadded in his pocket, where it was itching madly at his left hand, and making him so distracted and irritated that he couldn’t think about anything but how much he hated this.

Long experience had taught him not to get caught zoning out while he was being told off, though, so he tried to zone back in. Zhenya said something about the club again (he didn’t care about the club) and then something about making an effort to understand what mattered most to her (total gibberish) and then she paused to shake her head disappointedly at him, and Conrad scrambled to put together some kind of defense when he’d only half comprehended any of that.

“I mean,” was as much as he had come up with before she spoke again, not sounding angry at all anymore; at once he abandoned his thread of thought and squinted with confusion at her. “What?” he said. This was the second time that she’d interpreted his unwillingness to dance around on a broomstick as dislike of her personally; it was even more baffling than it’d been the first time. He said, “Don’t be stupid. I wouldn’t have come here and met you if I didn’t.”

Usually Zhenya loved Conrad. Usually she liked him for his attitude that was so different from her own and from what her family taught her. Now, however, his attitude annoyed her. The girl wanted to yell at him to look at her, to talk to her. But he only glanced up briefly before lowering his gaze again as though he was waiting for the negative atmosphere to pass.

What she could see of his expression wasn’t promising. Conrad looked as though he was in a miserable mood, probably he didn’t like her sport any more now but rather less than before. This realisation hurt Zhenya. He didn’t have to love artistic flying. He didn’t have to want to do it himself. He just needed to accept her for what she was - an artistic flyer.

Conrad didn’t really respond to what she said and Zhenya felt frustration growing inside of her. In fact, it was more than sheer frustration, she was disappointed and sad that her boyfriend apparently didn’t understand her point. What was the point in their relationship if he couldn’t even comprehend how much this all mattered to her? She felt how tears were watering her eyes and she chewed on her lips, willing herself to stay strong and not to start sobbing in front of him.

’Don’t be stupid.’

Now it was Zhenya who looked down. Was it really all her fault? Maybe she really was too stupid. But Conrad aso said he wouldn’t even have come here if he didn’t like her and, while a part of her felt that this was true, there was another part of her, thinking that he had only come here to avoid a conflict.

“Really?” she asked sheepishly, barely daring to look up at him again. “But… How can you like me?” She wanted to add ‘when you do not like a big part of who I am’ but she felt that her voice would not obey her so she cut the question short.

Had he hurt Zhenya’s feelings again? He was always doing that. Her feelings were just so sensitive. Conrad said, “Yeah,” not very patiently, and regretted his tone promptly, since he couldn’t act impatient when he had no good answer for her. How could he like her? He wasn’t sure how anybody could like anybody, if she wanted to get into the mechanics of it. Most people seemed to like each other only because they had to; he liked his cousins only because it would be unbearable not to. He was fairly sure the same went for his parents.

This had to be a girl thing. Conrad worried over whether Zhenya liked him or not but he never really bothered wondering why. He was pretty sure, if he asked her, she’d have an even harder time answering it than he was having now, because he was a good deal less likable than most of the people he knew. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “You’re nice to me and you’re a good listener and you’re trustworthy and – I mean, you’re pretty.” That was honest, at least, he thought ruefully – not that he could have come up with a believable lie anyway, when she’d sprung this on him. If he’d wanted pop quizzes he wouldn’t have dropped Enchantments and Bans.

All the skin on the back of his left hand was crawling like mad now; he twisted his fist into his scarf, which only made his palm itch too, so he pulled his hand out and flattened it between his back and the Quidditch stands. “Do we have to talk about it?” he said, more pleadingly than he’d have liked. Surely he had said enough about his feelings today; he thought it would be fair to not have to talk about them for the next month or so.

Conrad said that he really liked her but the tone of his voice seemed to imply that he was annoyed by her question and thus by her. Zhenya chewed on her lip, and when she realised that lower lip was starting to bleed already, she went from chewing on her lip to sucking on it instead.

’I don’t know.’

A punch in the face wouldn’t feel as hurtful as these three syllables. Zhenya blinked. How could he like her if he didn’t know why? Was him liking her just a mood? Did he only like her because it was convenient and he could spend time with her because he’d get bored otherwise?

He went on quite soon, though, not giving her a lot of time to get on that downward spiral. So he thought she was nice, a good listener - when did he ever need a good listener? He barely shared anything about himself -, trustworthy and pretty.

Zhenya grimaced. What clearly was a compliment out of Conrad’s mouth felt like an offense now. Zhenya knew that she wasn’t a particularly clever girl but had he chosen to be with her because she was nice to look at? She shook her head as though to rid herself of these negative thoughts. Part of her knew that she was overthinking and interpreting things the wrong way. However, there was also the part of her that actually thought that he should have found more meaningful things to say.

He asked if they had to talk about it and Zhenya shrugged. “Not if you don’t want to,” she said, but her voice sounded bitter and gave away that, for her, the topic wasn’t really done yet.

She didn’t have anything to say to him, which was the sort of thing Conrad had lately learned wasn’t nearly as excellent as he’d spent his entire childhood imagining it would be. Between being harangued and being ignored, he’d have chosen a cold shoulder any day, but God, it was miserable. He looked up at her twice before he cracked and spoke again – both times she looked upset enough that he looked back off at the field, where the early sunset was already shadowing the horizon.

Of course, Zhenya was as interested in moving on from this topic as she’d been in acknowledging him at all; her tone was distinctly resentful. All of this over one petty question – if he’d had something to throw, Conrad would have thrown something. Instead he pushed back from the stands and let himself fall back against them with a thump, and retorted, “Na, I don’t want to.”

Immediately he felt like this was the wrong thing to say. He bumped his back against the Quidditch stands a few more times, now getting agitated – he’d said something wrong, and didn’t know what, and didn’t know how to fix it, and he thought Zhenya would take offense to being asked to explain. If he could have explained himself, he would have, but what was he supposed to say? He hadn’t said anything he didn’t mean.

Maybe it was time to start. With a little more frustration, he said, “What? I’m sorry.” She couldn’t possibly get mad at him for being sorry, at least – at worst, she wouldn’t care, and he could live with that. Apologies never fixed anything anyway; this was just the easy alternative to figuring out what she wanted from him.

“I see,” Zhenya said bitterly. He didn’t want to talk. Of course not. Conrad avoided confrontation, keeping his head low and waiting for the storm to be over. There were moments when Zhenya liked that about him. Now, however, clearly wasn’t such a moment.

It had all been so wonderful. He had agreed to fly with her, to get to know her sport a little from the inside and then it all went downhill. It was his fault, solely his fault. The girl felt that angry tears threatened to water her eyes and she had the urge to yell at him and tell him that he ruined everything, that he had just ruined a perfect day for her. Why? Why had he done that? Why couldn’t he accept her for who she was?

Now he apologised in a way that didn’t sound like an apology but a defensive reaction that meant as much as ‘leave it’. Zhenya saw only two options for herself now - either she’d try to get him to see her point (a fruitless attempt, surely) or she’d storm off and take some time to calm down.

Choosing the latter, Zhenya glanced at Conrad briefly. “Fine then, I’ll leave you alone,” she said before turning to leave in a huff. She shouldered her broom and marched a few steps towards the exit before reconsidering and mounting her broom. She felt a lot of (negative) energy and thought it was best to use it in a productive way.

[out]

Zhenya’s tone was cold; Conrad screwed his face into a scowl and screwed his left hand into a fist, so that his knuckles dug into his back when he knocked it against the stands. What was he supposed to say to that? If she wasn’t going to make him talk, then he wasn’t going to talk – that was basic stuff, and she should have known it already. She should have known from the start that this wouldn’t work. Hadn’t he told her, back in Rybinsk, that he didn’t want to do this?

She was probably done talking about it, though; nobody said ‘I see’ because they cared to understand. He didn’t mind anymore – this wasn’t worth the trouble it’d caused at all. “Fine!” he said – he’d have liked to be left alone long before he’d had to do those stupid jumps on this stupid broom, which was still hanging in the air at his side.

At first Conrad thought Zhenya was going back up to the castle, but when she was a few steps away she hopped back up onto her broom and took off again. That seemed like a pretty obvious dismissal; it made him fume. What did it matter if he was here, anyway? She was just fine on her own.

Conrad left the other broom where it was, at the edge of the stadium, and buried his hands in his pockets and stomped away, his itchy scarf dangling from his pocket.


OUT