The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

Pushkin's Palace

There was only one thing one could count on in St. Petersburg: and that thing was that, at any given time, there was a bar open and willing to sell you alcohol, whether or not you were already drunk off of your mind.

And that was something that sounded really, really good to Sasha at that point.

He didn't have much money at that point (he would be paid at the end of the week, according to one of the servants) but he figured that he had enough to get some beers – just enough to maybe make him forget about all the junk going on at the Winter Palace – a bite to eat, and money to get home, should he need it by the end of the night. A lot of the places he usually went to for a drink were closed (he assumed that it was because they were "under suspicion of sedition" or something stupid like that), but, eventually, he found a place, over by the Pushkin Theatre, a ways away from the palace.

Pushkin's Palace was definitely not a palace: it was one of the seediest dives he'd been to in awhile, in fact. The wallpaper was peeling and soiled, the floors didn't look like they'd been cleaned in years, flies buzzed around the open mouths of some of the passed out drunks, most of whom had been transferred from wherever they'd been originally sitting to the back wall to make room for the people that were still drinking, the air was thick with the sickly sent of tobacco smoke; it was just the sort of place he wanted to be after a day spent in a place as rich as the Winter Palace. He needed some time away from all that and to go back to his poor, pretty disgusting roots.

And that was the exact place he wanted to be.

He plopped down on a ratty, scratched barstool. Even as he sat, he could feel the stuffing in the cushion coming out, making the thing little more than a thick quilt. Great; just perfect.

And he meant it: he'd always been pretty suspicious of bars that didn't have well-loved furniture. How else was a man to judge whether or not people actually came to the place on a regular basis?

The bartender's eyes got wide when he saw Sasha. It kind of make him self-conscious: he'd almost forgotten that he was wearing his military uniform until then.

"W-what can I get you, sir?" he said, coming right over in a hurry. "I'm afraid that I don't have much of a selection: it's been tough getting some drinks, thanks to the fight the reds are putting up. Hopefully, now that the Czarina is in the city, we'll be able to get a little more."

Had it not been for the fact that Sasha wasn't exactly in the greatest of moods (being called "sir" did that to him), he probably would've laughed at that. The poor man had phrased that so carefully, it almost sounded scripted. He didn't like it: he shouldn't have been so scared to say something wrong in front of him.

"Something hard, good, and cheap," Sasha said, smacking a few rubles on the bar. "How much is it going to take for you to not call me 'sir' ever again?"

The bartender picked up the ruble coins and flipped through them, seeing just how much Sasha had given him. Sasha wasn't exactly worried about the inspection: he knew that he'd given him more than enough for beer, a tip, and for a little name-change.

Sure enough, the bartender smiled as he put the money somewhere behind the bar. "That's plenty, son. What would you prefer, then?'

Sasha shrugged. "'Dunno; just not that."

"Just not that, eh?" the bartender said, scratching at the forming beard on his face. "Alright, soldier: I'll get you something real nice."

The bartender walked off to go get Sasha his drink.

Sasha sighed. Soldier? He pays this guy to call him something – anything – other than sir, and that's what he picked?

Oh, well; he guessed it was better than some stupid title he didn't even want.