It's Compromise

[Sven Valquist]

Sven took a few paces in Anastaise's wake as she moved to get the door. Already his lips were tugging into a courteous smile that would no doubt be the appropriate etiquette to greeting Anastaise's colocataires. Instead of seeing two men, however, both Anastaise and he were met with a sole man and an eruption of blinding camera flashes that had the Swedish narrowing his eyes reflexively even though he was fairly accustomed to facing the media. Without wasting a single heartbeat, Sven quickened his footsteps towards Anastaise, bracing to lope his arm around her slender shoulders for moral support and to shield her from the vicious reporters. He vaguely caught a rushing river of French syllables before the door was then slammed shut by Anastaise, and Sven offered up a small grimace from beside her.

"Helvete," he breathed, shaking his head, "let me talk to him so he won't be bothering us for the rest of the afternoon."

[ Psst...! ]

"Hell!"

[Anastaise Valois]

Paparazzi was not encouraged in Anastaise's list of acceptables, but they were sorely, hard to avoid. It seemed that fame came with a price, and having flashing devices in your face was one of them. And yet, whilst her whole adult life had been surrounded by cameras and reporters, the french woman still continuously had trouble dealing with them- she always came around to act rather off-guard and even clumsy in their wake. So as Sven mentioned talking them out of an interview or whatever they wanted, leaving nothing but peace and quiet for the rest of the evening, she couldn't help but sigh with relief. Reporters made her edgy, and that was that. "They're always following." she breathed, placing her tired head into her hands, face distorted with a pained expression, her anxiety swooping to dangerous levels.

[Sven Valquist]

Once again, Sven found himself tensing as Anastaise let her head fall into her palms. He could not see her face owing to the angle, but something told her that she was slowly steering off the edge by the interruption of the paparazzi out of the blue. Slightly alarmed, the blonde-haired wizard seemed to hesitate for the briefest moment before he reached out, his lean arms wrapping around the slender, lithe frame of the witch's as he spoke lowly, "Shh. I'll ask them to leave. You will be fine, Ana." A small voice within him laughed at the irony of it - this was precisely the sort of thing that the wizarding paparazzi lusted after so desperately. Now a mere door separated them from a reporter and yet the poor thing would not be able to snap a single picture of this comforting embrace of which he was offering his faux girlfriend.

[Anastaise Valois]

Keep calm, breathe- remember to breathe. They were words that her sisters would usher, soft emollient buttery words to soothe at her battering head. Anastaise's breath was ragged, wrought and dire, each blow a thin rail of shattered notes emitting from her pouted lips. Her eyes were haggard as she placed herself in the Swedish males arms, back hunched and shattering- as if she was scared. Ana felt light headed, dizzy even. So sick that she had to press her palliative yet throbbing head against Sven's neck to keep the bile from escaping her throat. She needed the security to keep her sane.

Breathe in, breathe out.

[Sven Valquist]

He could feel the long muscles of her body quivering, as if she was trembling out of fear, although he wasn't certain what was the source of her fear. The paparazzi? They had grown up surrounded by camera flashes. Him? Then why was she leaning into his embrace as if her life depended upon it? Anastaise was a mystery to Sven. He couldn't fathom her way of thinking, he couldn't understand her mind. Then again he never really did understand the female way of thinking as was. They were all a series of Arithmancy equations that led to no answers. His girlfriend's soft, pliant body felt good in his arms even though this, them, wasn't supposed to be real, and somehow Sven found himself tightening his arms around her gently, rubbing his larger, warm palm against the small of her back, even though it must be some sort of masochistic torture to remain so close to someone he shouldn't touch for the sake of avoiding complications.

[Anastaise Valois]

She allowed his embrace, the soft supple breath against the small of her pallid neck, those endearing palms against her slender back. She allowed it for the same of allowing it- the sake of allowing comfort to place itself insipidly within her disposition. But Anastaise was ginger as she plaintively and tenderly (as if afraid to do so) clutched Sven. And suddenly it was a tidal wave of primadonna standards. "You mustn't let them in." Ana whispered, already somewhat lost within his stealthy embrace.

[Sven Valquist]

"Of course not," Sven answered almost a touch dryly as he continued gently stroking Anastaise's back in a hopefully calming motion, although every single muscle in his own lean body was strung to the tightest. No eighteen-year-old guy was allowed to hold in his arms a girl as pretty as Anastaise without wanting to do something about it, jävlar! Holding together every ounce of restraint, his voice was a touch strained as he then asked carefully, "You better now?"

[ Psst...! ]

No eighteen-year-old guy was allowed to hold in his arms a girl as pretty as Anastaise without wanting to do something about it, darn it!

[Anastaise Valois]

A breath- inhaling the exhaling. Yet Anastaise's pace was jagged, roped with a morbid sense of dread, fear... each negative indice a nuclear explosion within her mind. "S-somewhat." Was all Anastaise could say. Because she was- and she would be. It was Sven, just Sven- just someone to whom she could hold when all was strikingly grim.

[Sven Valquist]

Slate blue eyes latched unto the French for a brief moment, searching her beautiful face for confirmation to this statement. Then again, he was in no position to tell her if she was being honest or if she wasn't. This wasn't real. They weren't real. "Okay," was all Sven said a heartbeat's pause later as he slowly began drawing his arms away from her, even though that, too, took an immense amount of effort.

[Anastaise Valois]

She wanted him- wanted him to latch on to her like a child clinging onto their mother pre-abandonment. She wanted him to cradle her like she was a pathetic dying thing, heart-beat against heart-beat the only thing keeping her sane. She would never admit it fully- but in a way, she wanted Sven. Perhaps not like Jacques (and no one could ever achieve such a position as Jacques) but either way, some morbid and minuscule part of Anastaise- wanted Sven Valquist for herself. She wanted him but he had already let go.

Anastaise bit her lip thoughtfully, as if a little nervous of the dire situation. The forgotten liqueur lay discarded upon the coffee table and hastily as if liquid gold, Anastaise poured herself another shot before downing it in one go- allowing the burning recreational sensation to rise her awake from her previous thoughts. "It's fine."

[Sven Valquist]

For some reason he couldn't bring himself to peel his gaze away from Anastaise, something that was strange in its own right given Sven Mikael Valquist's general disposition. He was the sort of person who let things roll off his back if they weren't consequential to the bigger picture, and this - this wasn't in the bigger picture either. As long as Ana and he kept up appearances in public, nobody gave a darn what they did in private. If she intended to get wasted, his only duty was to make sure that she remained within these four walls. Yet somehow he couldn't bring himself to just turn away to go deal with that pesky reporter. Somehow he stood rooted to the spot as he watched her. Her biting her lip like that didn't make things any better for him, or specific parts of his body for the matter.

Sven lifted a hand, spearing the long, slender fingers through his slightly shaggy hair as if to stifle a groan. He managed to turn himself around towards the door, reaching for the knob as he instructed in forced casualness, "One sip at a time, Ana. It's too early to already be drunk."

[Anastaise Valois]

"I have a- high alcohol tolerance." Anastaise managed to say, pouring yet another simmering glass. "And one mustn't let a girl drink alone- come Sven. Relax, we are at my home." Perhaps each syllable that Anastaise uttered was laced with the influence of brooding alcohol. Her voice chippered and buzzed, as if a little uncertain and shallow- the air getting caught in her throat and bitterly causing Ana a hard time when it came to breathing. For after all, Ana was only doing her best to reassure that everything would be alright. But everyone knew, that Miss Anastaise Babette Valois was no persuader.

[Sven Valquist]

Valquist paused, hesitating for a split second. He could hear the impatient, hopeful shuffling feet of the reporter still lingering outside, waiting for one of the pair to leave the apartment so that he could hound them for juicy gossip. It wouldn't look too good on them if they simply lock the reporter out without at all any explanation, and Anastaise's previous reception hadn't been all that gracious either. This was altogether a rather strange circumstance for the young man. He didn't feel like leaving the girl. In the end he turned back to his faux-girlfriend, holding out the glass in his hand for a refill, "Rätt, if it makes you happy."

Better upset the paparazzi than upset Anastaise.

[Anastaise Valois]

"Tres Bien/" Murmured Anastaise as she clumsily lifted the bottle to pour a drink for her so-called lover. If they were even lovers at all. To which they weren't, just two individuals being forced into the most vicious of circles. "It would make me happy." Anastaise muttered, her doe-like eyes instructed to gaze at Sven. He was something of a God, or a deity. Such beauty was iridescent in light, such eyes forlorn with gritty glitter. But he wasn't hers, and she could never ever be his.

[Sven Valquist]

"If I didn't know any better," Sven spoke with his gaze still latched unto the girl, "I'd ask what did you do with the real Anastaise Valois." Once again he didn't immediately lift his glass to his lips and merely swirled it idly in his hand as he continued watching her with a strange, mild intensity that one would rarely ever find coming from Sven.

[Anastaise Valois]

"She's right here." Anastaise said yet her voice was lofty, as if it was the most normal of conversations in the world. Her coffee stained eyes followed the circulation of Sven's hand as he swished his drink around. Would it spill, could it spill? Oh what would happen if it did spill, then there would be a mess and she'd have to clean it up and start crying over spilt liqueur. And then there'd be a mess and everything would go to crap just about. "Stop that."

[Sven Valquist]

Sven's infinitely thin, lean lips ticked upwards in the tiniest of smirks, "Secretly an alcoholic and you've never breathed a single word about it." He did come to halt the habitual twirl of his wrist with the glass in his hand at Anastaise's protest, and for a moment it was as if he intended to inquire into this. In the end, he simply inwardly shrugged as he tipped his head back and took a much more generous swig than he previously had.

[Anastaise Valois]

"I h-hardly call a few sips alcoholism. And anyway, I'm v-very stressed." Her voice was charred with slurs, a pinpoint of deductive hiccups. She however was soft in disposition and her expression hithered into gratitude as Sven claimed to her request silently. "Thank you, you're lovely."

[Sven Valquist]

"Lovely?" Sven repeated after her, his slate blue eyes never leaving her person. He had to remind himself not to swirl the whiskey in his hand again, it really was a habit of his. His lean lips twisted slightly in an incomprehensible arc, "Is that it?"

[Anastaise Valois]

"Hmm." Anastaise pondered, placing a dainty finger upon her pursed and pouted lips. "What else... decisive, wonderful, amazing, should drink more, a big procrastinator, handsome, funny... is that enough Sir Valquist?" She reclined upon the sofa, yet her gaze did not falter from the blonde across the room; eyes ever so intent with question.

[Sven Valquist]

Sven's lips quirked into a more prominent smirk as he sauntered towards the sofa, the arm which her head was rested upon. "I feel compelled to protest to procrastination, but look at us," he perched himself on the arm, leaning against the back of the sofa, his gaze flickering as he observed the furniture, the sunlight strewn across the floors. He glanced down to see rich brown tresses fanned out, and almost as if prompted, Sven reached his free hand out, twirling a silky lock around his lean, slender finger, fingers meant to play the pianoforte, according to his younger sister, Eline.

[Anastaise Valois]

"You are a horrible procrastinator- horrible." Sang Anastaise- odd against those lips of hers. No sing-song manner was deemed upon the maidens disposition but it seemed that things like alcohol had quite an influence, a good one anyway. She needed to lighten up a bit, dip her feet into the water and such. She was about to pour herself another shot when a slight pressure, or tug of sorts distracted Ana from her drink and she vented her eyes towards Sven, questioning. "Oui?"

[Sven Valquist]

For some reason he didn't mind the sing-song insult flowing from her pale throat. He focused instead on the glossy lock of hair wrapped around his finger, "Ingenting."

Sven's slate blue gaze met Anastaise's liquid brown. He stated almost in, or at least he hoped was, an offhanded manner, "You have beautiful hair."

[ Psst...! ]

"Nothing."

[Anastaise Valois]

"Merci." Dazed if not a little confused, Anastaise in turn, allowed her delicate fingers to roam the crescent of jaw, following to the peach of his cheek and finishing off at his lips. They really were nice, perhaps her most favoured feature out of Sven himself- except for those eyes of course. Those eyes could kill if they had wanted to. "And you have the most... exquis lips."

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

1. thank you
2. exquisite

[Sven Valquist]

"Tack," Sven's lean lips curved beneath her butterfly-light touch, the easy smile which he always seemed to pull off so flawlessly. It emerged for the briefest heartbeat before vanishing once again, he then asked, his voice controlled and nearly even strained, a touch hoarser than it otherwise would be, "I like yours better."