#WHERE MY ZENYA PPL AT

[sanktnikolais]

Used To Be

A/N: Me writing for another ship, which is my second favorite one after Zoyalai. The power they hold is just too strong ladkjfhsj i love them sm.

And also bc Tiff said that they have ex-girlfriends vibes, and when I thought of it, they really did have. 

ZENYA NATION, PLEASE RISE.

for Sapphic Saturdays hosted by @wafflesandkruge and @grishatober 

Did anyone ask for that blonde Zoya scene? No? Okay, here you go.

Word count: 1891 

It wasn't entirely inappropriate. But if one were to see two members of the Triumvirate getting drunk on a hidden balcony somewhere in the Grand Palace, word would surely go around. 

          Zoya winced as the taste of whiskey hit her tongue, blenching as she felt it burn her throat. "Where did you get this demon?" She tried to glare at the redhead across the small table, but her spinning vision made her unsure if she was really glaring at her companion instead of something else. "I am never trusting you with alcohol again." 

          Genya had the audacity to snort. "Admit it, you're just a light-drinker," she slurred before drinking another shot. There wasn't even a hint of disgust on her face when she downed the liquor. "I outdid the General in drinking tonight." 

          "Not in a million years, Safin." Zoya poured herself another drink. Or tried to. Her hand was already swaying from the rim of the glass, causing some of the liquid to spill on the table. 

          "You can't even pour shit in your glass." The redhead laughed, the sound unexpectedly distracting Zoya more from trying to pour another drink. "Nikolai could drink better than you." 

          "Please, His Idiocy can't even go near a glass of brandy without retching." Zoya rolled her eyes. The whiskey was starting to make her tongue loose. "At least I can handle two glasses before trying to hug the floor." 

          "Did you just admit you're a light-drinker?" 

          "No, shut up." 

          Genya raised an eyebrow, an amused smile on her lips. Zoya didn't know why her eyes focused on them for a second. "So you admit Nikolai is better?" 

          "Double no," she muttered, grabbing the glass in front of her and downing the drink. "We both know I am infinitely better. Make me blonde, I dare you. I would still look better." 

          "Yeah, sure," Genya drawled, "you would look good in blonde too."

          Zoya huffed, but said nothing more. The spinning in her head was starting to get worse, and she put a hand up to her temple. 

          It had been a while since she last got drunk. Problems were coming in all directions, requiring their full attention to address them otherwise they'd go deeper down the drain they're already in. 

          A short break was definitely out of their list. 

          Zoya turned to Genya, ready to concede from their drinking when she noticed the latter narrowing her eyes at her. 

          "What?" Zoya slurred, squinting at the redhead. There was still a playful glint in her eyes. "I don't like it when you look at me like that." 

          "Like what?" 

          Like the way you look at me back then. "Like you're planning something bad." 

          Genya laughed, and Zoya tried not to remember those lonely nights and eager touches. It was already in the past. "But it's not a bad idea," the redhead said, and then smiled slyly. "I wonder how you would look in blonde." 

          Despite her drunkenness, Zoya pieced out what the Tailor was trying to say. "No." When Genya's sly smile only became wider, Zoya raised a threatening finger. "Safin, no. I was just joking—" 

          But the redhead was already standing, walking towards Zoya with unexpected determination, her steps firm as if she hadn't been drinking for hours. 

          Genya was behind her in three quick strides, forcing Zoya back down to her chair when she tried to get away. "No, Nazyalensky, I am definitely intrigued now," she said. "My curiosity needs to be sated." 

          If it weren't for her swaying vision, Zoya was sure she would have whipped up a wind to stop the redhead's advancements. "Saints," she muttered, shaking her head. "I'm so going to murder you tomorrow." 

          Light hands started to work on her hair, and she tried not to lean on them. It was totally bringing back memories from years ago. "Please, General, you were the one who dared me," she said, "and besides, we both know you adore me to do that." 

          Zoya snorted. "Be thankful I do," she said. She had forgotten when their flirtatious lines stopped being awkward and just became normal, like the playfulness of two old friends. "Otherwise you would be expecting a lightning bolt coming for you." 

          "Ever the cruel one."

          “Ever the rational one." 

          Genya chuckled. "Do stop moving your head, General, I might do it wrong and suddenly turn your hair pink."

          After a few more moments, the redhead went around Zoya, crouching in front of her chair. She was obviously stifling a laugh. 

          "Genya, I swear if you did something atrocious with my hair—" 

          "I absolutely did not," Genya countered, kneeling up as she reached a hand to her hair. She was suddenly so close. "Wait, let's make it a bit lighter. Hold on." 

          Zoya waited another minute  before Genya leaned back. She frowned when she noticed the redhead's lip twitching. "What?" 

              A beat, and then Genya was doubling over, laughing as if it was the last day she was allowed to. Zoya glared at the Tailor. But if she noticed it, she didn’t bother stopping. 

          Sending a short prayer to the saints for more patience, Zoya let Genya laugh for another minute. "Are you done?" 

          Genya was wiping the tears in her eyes as she sat up, her hand going to the pocket of her kefta. "Saints, if Nikolai sees this—" Another series of laughter escaped her, and Zoya was tempted to strangle her. She took out something and handed it to Zoya. "Here, have a look." 

          Zoya snatched the small mirror from the redhead's hand with a frown, putting it up to her face.

          The color of her hair was almost white under the moonlight, and it contrasted with her brown skin. But seeing Nikolai’s gilded head every single day must have been tiring because she winced at her own reflection. 

          "I look cheap," she said, and somehow, this only made Genya laugh harder. 

          "You look glorious," the Tailor wheezed. 

          Zoya gave her another glare. "Turn it back," she said. 

          "No," Genya whined, "you asked me to. How dare you back down." 

          "I'm not backing down. Just—" 

          Her words died in her throat when Genya leaned forward and reached up to her hair again, a deep furrow evident between her eyebrows. The tailor was staring intently at something on her forehead. Zoya suddenly found it hard to breathe. 

          "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice not more than a whisper. She didn't particularly like how breathless she sounded. 

          "There are still a few dark strands standing out." Genya's hand continued to move lightly on the side of Zoya's head. The Tailor's touch was sending shivers across her skin. 

          She was suddenly reminded of one particular night, at least two years ago, in the wake of the destruction of Novokribirsk. Zoya had come back to the Little Palace in her worst mood, the air around her crackling with so much energy that the other Grisha had stayed away from her the rest of the day. 

          Except for someone dressed in red. 

          Zoya was in the arena, mercilessly beating a training dummy with her fists. Zoya barely remembered how long she had been there, but she knew she didn't stop until the skin of her knuckles split open and her eyes were too tired of crying. 

          She had sat on one of the benches at the side, her shoulders hunched forward as she glared at her hands. The same hands that had failed to save her aunt and her niece that day. It had been so loud in her mind that she didn't even notice Genya approaching her until the Tailor was kneeling in front of her. 

          Genya had taken Zoya's hands from her lap without question, slowly healing the patched skin of Zoya's knuckles with her abilities. If it were some other time, she might have pulled away and fought with the Tailor, but the touch of her hands had been too comforting and gentle and warm for Zoya to take it for granted. 

          It was the first time Zoya was around with the redhead without them trying to verbally murder each other off, and she was surprised with the kindness that Genya showed her. 

          She still wasn't scarred at that time, but there was the look of anguish in her amber eyes that mirrored Zoya's own. 

          "Brave through the pain, Squaller," Genya had said, but the usual poison in her tone that she had whenever she talked to Zoya was gone. "It would all be worth it in the end."

          They ended up in each other's arms that night, finding comfort in the same pain they shared. 

          Neither of them admitted throughout the years who had leaned in first that time, but it had been the start of their nightly tryst that lasted for quite a while. 

          Now, as Zoya looked at the Tailor's remaining eye, the same one that never lost their fire even after everything she had been through, she was thankful that she hadn't turned Genya away back then.

          Genya must have noticed her look, because she stopped her movements, her eyes catching Zoya's. For a moment, neither of them spoke nor moved, both aware of the sudden change in the air between them. 

          Would Zoya still dare close the distance? She knew it was entirely inappropriate, as Genya was already married with someone else. But it must have been her drunkenness that drove her forward, reaching a hand up to the Tailor's face and pressing her lips to hers. 

          It was only a chaste one, something that spoke volumes of unsaid feelings of gratefulness and appreciation, and Zoya felt Genya holding on to their kiss a moment longer before she pulled away. 

          Genya rested her forehead against Zoya's, her eyes closed and an easy smile on her lips. "Getting sentimental, aren't we, General?" 

          Zoya shoved at the Tailor's face, who laughed before standing up. The moment was gone, and replaced with the usual comfortable air between them. "Shut up, Safin."

          The Tailor gave Zoya's hand a squeeze before letting go. She narrowed her eyes at Zoya, an amused smile on her lips as she eyed her work. "Nikolai really has to see this."

          "And not hear the end of him annoying me with his teasing?" Zoya chuckled. "Ravka still needs a king, dearest Tailor." 

          Genya laughed. "Ah, yes. A good point," she said. She went back to her chair, pushing the half-empty bottle of whiskey to Zoya. "Drink three more glasses and walk on a straight line. If you can do it, I will turn your hair back. But if you fail, we're barging into Nikolai’s chambers and showing him that." 

          Zoya scowled. "What kind of atrocity is that?" But she still poured the drink in her glass. "It sounds very one-sided." 

          "Take the bet, General."

          "I will win this, anyway."

          Genya laughed, and Zoya found herself laughing back with the silliness of their muddled minds. 

          Even as she pondered on their past, she never thought that Genya would be one of the constant people around her, someone she trusted with her life and someone she could turn to in times of need, even if they didn't end up together. 

          They were much better off this way, and Zoya didn't mind one bit. 

          It was already more than enough. 

***

She ended up winning the bet.