To Russia, with love.

[Defy gravity]

Name: Demitri Petrov.
Birthdate: 4/18/1976

Occupation: Writer.

Likes: Sleeping in, sunshine, finishing a novel, columbian coffee, all things European, accents, bourbon, animals, changing his appearance, history, philosophy, learning new things, being independent, creating new worlds, etc.

Dislikes: Anything russian, deadlines, his nosy editor, having to teach, the rat race, money, cars, arrogance, greed, politics, etc.

[Defy gravity]

"Demitri! I just had the greatest idea.."


"Mark, no. Whatever it is you're about to say, just don't."


"Fine. Who got your panties in a twist?"

"..Ha ha. Very funny, ass."

Demitri was a mystery,never showing the same emotion twice. Never eating at the same restaurant, staying at the same hotel. He was after life experiences, because they would all be remembered in his next best seller. He had tried marriage, and it had failed miserably, but got him some recognition on the New York Times bestseller list. He wrote about anything and everything. The people loved it because it was gritty and real, he didn't hide behind poetic language like his peers. He told the truth.

He'd lived everywhere, Europe, Asia, South America, America. The different countries had stolen away his Russian accent (thank goodness!)and leaving behind something that sounded faintly foreign. People would all guess about his heritage, though they'd know once his name was given.

He'd been described as a panther by a lover long ago, with those intense amber eyes and sun bronzed hair. His body was lean and angular, and he always seemed to swagger like a predator. He was in the prime of his life and enjoying every second of it, watching the world with stoli-tainted vision.

[Defy gravity]

Six Months Ago.

"..What are you doing, Demitri?"

"I'm smoking. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Well, if you're going to take that attitude then I'll just leave you be..."

"Yea, well. You do that. Say 'Hello' to the Communist for me too."

"Demitri. How many times do I have to tell you that your father is not a Communist?!"

"He's Russian, isn't he?"

"Yes, and so are you."

"Well, alright then."

"...Demitri? Just come inside and help your father cut the freaking turkey. Its Thanksgiving for goodness sakes."

Life was always so pleasant during the holidays wasn't it? Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, it was all a blur of people clinging together to keep away the loneliness. Drowning their sorrows in false cheer and Cranberry sauce that came from a can. People always claimed that they liked the holiday season the best, the bright lights, the presents, the beautiful decorations. The holidays gave them hope that the world was going to be different next time around. They'd lose those pesky lovehandles, stop smoking, start working harder, get better grades -- the list was endless. But Demitri?

He knew the truth. Holiday wishes didn't mean a damn thing. Not when you looked at the big picture. And the big picture was all he cared about.

[Defy gravity]

"So, you were telling me about your time in Italy...?" Prompting as he looked up from his scribbling, eyeing the woman intently with that lidded stare of his. Around them the sounds and sights of people enjoying their dinner could be heard, along with the traffic on the street. Demitri had started to frequent this little cafe, mostly for its distinctly European style and menu (he was secretly a creature of habit, though he chose to believe otherwise). He was slowly urging the waitress to tell him her story, but she seemed to have other things on her mind..

"Where are you from?" She asked, leaning closer in an obvious attempt to flirt, twirling her hair lazily. "From, like, Europe or somewhere?"

He sighed, but decided to answer the question. "I'm from Russia, actually."

"Russia?" She drew back, brown eyes narrowing. "You aren't, like, a communist or anything are you?" Head tilting.

Demitri could only stare at her. "Yes, I'm a communist and I'm here to take over the world.. starting with this cafe." Deadpan.

The blonde's eyes only widened and she darted a glance around to see who was listening for leaning closer. "Really?! So, you're like.. Pinky and the Brain?"

It was right about then that Demitri realized he had his work cut out for him...

[Defy gravity]

I have been in this town for a few weeks already and while I have gathered hundreds of stories, none of them are right. None of them tug at this world weary heart and make me twitch with the need to rush home and copy all of the words on paper. I feel no desire to write, and it baffles me. Not even in dull and dreary Moscow -- for that is what Moscow has become, dull and dreary -- did I have such trouble. You would think with this town's collection of odd creatures and misfits that a story would be somewhere.. but if there is then I can not find it.

Or perhaps it is that I have found it, but I can not use it. I have never felt any guilt about my craft before. I am a historian and people should feel honored that their stories grace my pages, but Marlowe made me feel like the lowest of criminals for considering to write his story. Am I criminal? Did I overstep the line? Yes Marlowe is my friend, a very old and dear friend, but does that make his story off limits? I think so, and yet his story is the only one I come back to every time I try to write.

It is an odd feeling, this guilt. I am not used to making connections, having friends. That time with Mark, Marlowe and the others in that faraway city seem like a dream to me, something that wasn't real. For we all were so different then, untainted by life and death. There was a swagger to our steps and a glow about our faces that spoke of youth and immortality. The world was ours back then. We have all chosen our paths, become different people, and I suppose this is another chapter in my life. Another change.

I will not write Marlowe's story. I will be his friend instead. Perhaps that will provide us both with some insight into our new lives.

[Defy gravity]

Every writer had a tool that they used to help them with their craft, tricks of the trade if you will. Demitri's tool was his notebook, the small pad was always in his pocket along with a pencil stuck behind his ear. It was his lifeline and he was quite serious whenever he said he'd be lost without it. He used to joke that you could tell how well a book was doing based on the condition of his notepad. If it was pristine and looked like he had just purchased it then the book was not going well, but if it was beaten and worn (like the one he had in his possession) now, then the book was proceeding at a good pace.

A faint grin tugged at his mouth while he studied the last entry in his notebook, seated at his desk with a steaming cup of tea near his laptop. A review of his notes was always taken before he began to write, it helped him focus.

Tracy Orleans:

-- Comic book writer, some political satire from what I understand

-- Very American but was able to speak French fairly well

-- Youthful, smiles often

-- Interesting hair cut

-- Witty and a quick learner

-- Has a philosophy regarding eggs and people's personalities (for example, liking your eggs scrambled means you might be screwed up)

-- Seems comfortable in his own skin

-- Study more, just in case

He set his notepad down with a nod, cracking his knuckles before beginning to write. Mr. Orleans was an interesting fellow and he could only imagine what kind of story might be found there.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 14, 2004 12:54 PM: Message edited by: Defy gravity ]</font>

[Defy gravity]

Demitri had never had a crazier week in his whole life. He had gone from his boring, private life to learning to care for someone else. The communist (harhar) was a caretaker now. He couldn't forget how broken Marlowe had looked when he rushed to the mental hospital to release him. His primal instincts screaming for all of the people who locked Marlowe away to be punished. How dare they lock up such a gentle soul. Couldn't they tell that Marlowe could never hurt a soul?

Marlowe had been released into his care and now he had to make sure the artist didn't have a relapse. He wanted Marlowe to get better.. and knew that sending him for treatment was the right thing to do, but he couldn't stand the thought of someone analyzing Marlowe. Taking all of his private thoughts and turning them into some scientific theory, along with therapy and medication. He knew that Marlowe would be fine.. in time.

He'd do everything in his power to help Marlowe get better too.

[Defy gravity]

The package was small, about the size of a shoebox and wrapped in plain brown paper. On the front was simply Marlowe's name, but no return address. Inside was a simple letter and a bunch of pictures from the old days, with Marlowe, Mark and Demitri smiling and laughing. The good old days.

Marlowe,

I hope these help bring a smile to your face. I found them in an old box and thought you might want them. If nothing else.. maybe these will help remind you that you have friends who love you. I'll see you soon, mon ami.

-Demitri




Marlowe..



Mark..



..and Demitri.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ July 06, 2004 12:54 AM: Message edited by: Defy gravity ]</font>

[Defy gravity]

The sounds of his type writer (Demitri refused to use anything else when writing, technology was not important to him) echoed loudly in the house. The clatter of the keys and whir of the old gears helped him focus.. or they usually did.

Crumpled up balls of paper covered the floor near his desk and the nearby trash can. Another savage curse was muttered before another piece of paper joined the pile.

Crap. It was all crap. What was going on? He had never experienced a block like this. It had been lingering for days, making him edgy and close to ripping out his hair. His hair was already tousled from him tugging lightly and tangling fingers to try and get some inspiration. But none came.

He was still muttering when he pushed from his chair and turned to pace the room. Motion. Maybe moving around would help. He paused when he passed by the phone, rubbing at the back of his neck while he studied it.

Should he?

He sighed and snatched up the phone, dialing the number he knew by heart. He paced the room while listening to it ring, not sure whether he wanted the person to be there or not. In the end he got his voicemail, which in the end was probably just as well.

"Hey Marlowe, it's me. I'm having a hard time getting past this block so I was going to go get a drink.. and see if you wanted to join me. Call me later."

He set the phone down with a sigh, shaking his head to keep the doubts and worries from creeping in. But when he turned away from the phone and saw his type writer, he knew what he had to do.

Inspiration had finally arrived.

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ July 19, 2004 10:48 AM: Message edited by: Defy gravity ]</font>

[Fairytale dreamer]

The office was large, with expensive leather furniture and a beautiful view of the city. Bookcases lined the walls, filled with first edition. Manuscripts and other paperwork littered the desk, Demitri's was probably in the stack somewhere, and the writer looked it all over before settling down in the chair facing the desk.

"Ah, Mister Petrov, welcome." His editor looked up from the manuscript he was skimming to focus on the writer, offering a pleasant smile. He was polite to Demitri, because Demitri always put his company on the New York Times bestseller list.

"Mister Murphy." Returning the greeting politely, though Demitri didn't make a show of smiling. His smiles were always rare -- and reserved for people he actually liked.

"So, what brings you by, my boy?" He leaned back in his chair, the picture of a comfortable gentleman in his tailored Armani and bright grin.

Demitri had to grit his teeth to keep from snapping at the nickname. He cleared his throat before finally allowing himself to speak. "Well, I'm going away soon.. on a vacation and I'd like my manuscript back." It was never safe to leave Murphy with a manuscript while a writer was away, who knows what he would do with it.

"Going away? Well, that's wonderful, my boy. I was just telling Joyce that you needed a vacation. Where are you going?" He removed his glasses and cleaned them off with the handkerchief in his coat pocket.

"France, my fiance and I --"

"You're getting married? Well, congrats, my boy!"

"--Thank you. As I was saying.."

"When's the big day?" Cutting in without the slightest hint of remorse.

"We haven't decided that yet." He took a deep breath, counting to ten before trying again. "As I was saying, I would like my manuscript back since I am not sure when we will be returning."

Mr. Murphy studied Demitri for a moment before shuffling through the stack until he found the manuscript. "Well, here it is..But you know, I think this is your best work yet, my boy. Are you marrying this Martin fellow?"

"Marlowe." Correcting with his jaw clenched. "And I am glad that you think so, but I do not want to publish it. So, if you wouldn't mind?" He extended a hand, waiting for the manuscript to be handed over.

Murphy stared at him in shock. "..Not going to publish? I don't think you understand what you're saying, my boy. Tell you what, you go on with that little boy of yours and I'll take care of everything. You won't even have to lift a finger --"

Well, enough was enough. Demitri leaned over and snatched the manuscript from Mr. Murphy's hand. "I don't think I'll be needing your services anymore, Mister Murphy. Good day." Ever the gentleman, he inclined his head before turning to storm out of the office.

It wouldn't be until he was in the elevator that it dawned on him. He had just fired his publisher. It was just one more tie to his old life that he was cutting... making way for the new one he was about to begin.