Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 9b/?
anonymous
May 4 2010, 08:59:34 UTC
He dreams of having enough money to have a basket as full as Marcus and Leila’s. He would buy a George Forman grill, and Emeril Lagasse pots and pans, and Iron Chef knives. He would buy vegetables, real, fresh vegetables: potatoes, chives, garlic, onions, turnips and rutabagas. The garlic would simmer in the saucepan with a chunk of butter, billowing steam that smelled just like home. He would chop the onions chink, chink, chink, and toss them hiss into the saucepan and they would pop and shiver. He’d dice the potatoes, turnips and rutabagas, drizzle them with garlic and onion, dash a bit of rosemary on them, put them in a pan and set them in the oven to cook. Twenty minutes in the oven. Enough time to prepare the pirogyi.
There would be guests over, and soft holiday music would whisper in the background. Candles would glow and hit the yolka just right. Snow would fall outside in slow pirouettes. Katusha would be dressed in fine velvets and silks, like the dresses she wore when the family was together and happy in St. Petersburg. She would greet the guests, and charm them with her wit and grace, and they would compliment her, as they would complement the delicious food that was soon to come. Natalya, quiet Natalya, even though she would be just as adorned as their eldest sibling, would remain in the shadows, never cold to the guests, just shy, and he would keep her company as he had in their youth. The potatoes would finish on time, and he’d put on the pirogyi and he’d-
CRASH!
SMACK!
Ivan is ripped from his fantasy as the cart handle shoots into his soul plexus. He sucks in a quick breath, and sees that he’s knocked someone to the ground, the person struggling to breathe. The shoppers in the aisle decide this crash is far much more entertaining than the nutritional facts of spices and sugars.
In a hot flash, Ivan is on his knees, his victim in his arms, so she can better breathe. He finally gets a good look at his victim, coughing and wheezing, pulling in whatever oxygen she can into her bruised lungs. Sharp blue jacket, angled perfectly without a trace of lint or wrinkle. Spotless pants and mirror-like shoes, which twitched with her breaths. Shocking blonde hair and a lock that stubbornly didn’t want to stay down. Glasses askew.
It’s a cadet. Oh God, he’s killed a cadet. He’s killed a cadet.
“Are you ok?” he asks.
She gives him an incredulous look from over the bent metal frames, just trying to breath.
“Amie?” comes a shrill woman’s voice, deeply dredged in a French accent. High heeled shoes tip-tap on the linoleum floor. “Amie! What happened?”
The blonde haired woman, who seems to have walked off a runway rather than a Wal-Mart aisle, falls to “Amie’s” side and gathers the fish into her arms.
“I am sorry, Miss,” Ivan says. “I wasn’t paying attention and the cart it…it-”
“Amie, do we have to take you to the hospital?” the woman asks, shrill voice like a bird’s caw. “Amie?”
Amie is quiet for a moment, save for labored breath. She blinks once, twice, and shakes her head, that wild lock bobs. The woman, Ivan assumes is her mother, fawns over the injured girl, and pulls her into a tight lung-crushing hug, thanking the Holy Mother that she is all right.
The people in the aisle, seeing as Amie is not in mortal danger anymore, shuffle along their way.
“I’m really sorry,” Ivan attempts to apologize again. His cheeks prickle and the back of his neck flares. He’s sure it’s a lovely sanguine on his face, but so long as the cadet is breathing all right. He bites his lip, stands clumsily, and keeps his eyes averted.
“You!” Amie cries.
Ivan pinches his lips and looks at the girl. The memory hits him like a sledgehammer to the temple. Her. Of course it’s her. His stomach flops and his blush deepens. He was such a large, overweight oaf. Men were supposed to get used to their size, but not Ivan Mikhailovich Braginski! Nope! Not him!
“You know this man?” the woman asks.
“Yeah! This is the guy who fell on my boobs at the flower shop, I told you about Mrs. B,” Amie says, throwing her arms up in protest.
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 9c/?
anonymous
May 4 2010, 09:00:32 UTC
Ivan wants to crawl into a hole. A small hole on the other end of the planet. When he’s shrunken his size and made it into the hole, he wants to cover it with a giant rock. A giant rock so no one can see him or his oafishness again. His cheeks flush deeper red. They almost match the color of the beets a few cans behind him.
Amie stands quickly, perhaps a little too quickly as she bobs and tries to regain her balance. She points an accusatory finger at him. “You have a lot of nerve assaulting me twice, you know!”
Ivan puts his arms up in defense. “It was an accident! Both times! I am sorry I made you embarrassed, trust me, I am in the same position!” Amie drops her finger and Ivan relaxes. He sighs heavily, exacerbated and on edge.
Amie stares at him for a moment, trying to read if his intentions are pure. Satisfied, she huffs.
“I accept your apology.” She turns to Mrs. B. “Can we get out of here, Mrs. B? I’ve got everything I need for this week, and I gotta get back before seven.” She taps a leather wristband watch.
“Of course, my dear, but first,” Mrs. B turns her attention from Amie to Ivan. Her eyes are lined with expertly precise eyeliner and mascara, making her blue eyes penetrate his soul deeper. Something slides out of place in his chest, and suddenly Ivan feels very, very, cold. Ivan had always been awkward, if that word even covered the half of it, around older, matronly figures. Her left eyebrow arches. Was this woman once a KGB officer in her past life?
“You run a flower shop?” She finally asks.
Ivan lets out a heavy breath. Worked up for nothing.
“Um…yes. With my two siblings. It’s off of Powers, by that formal dress store.”
“I know the area,” Mrs. B says. Amie grows impatient. She purses her lips and her freckled nose wrinkles just a twitch. She checks her watch and bites her lip.
“My daughter is getting married in the spring,” Mrs. B continues, “and we can’t seem to find a descent florist in town to do the job.”
“Oh well, I’m sure there are plenty good florists in Colorado…” as he says the words, Ivan’s eyes grow wide with recognition. She’s asking him for a job? And not just a small bouquet, but arranging the decorations of a wedding? A wedding? His soul leaps from his chest and dances above his head. This is the type of break he and his sisters had been praying for, had been hoping for, had been wishing for! With a wedding, no matter if it was big or small, would bring in enough revenue that he wouldn’t have to worry about paying his landlord! It would be such a boost in sales, and it would get his name out! They’d be able to expand! To grow beyond their reputation as the store that set W2s on fire the day before Tax Day! Don’t go silent now, Vanya! Say something!
Amie catches his eye. She smiles and giggles. It’s a soft, tender little thing.
“We’re good florists,” Ivan manages to say, hoping that he doesn’t come off as too high or too desperate. He’s not desperate. The Braginski men are not desperate! Although there was Uncle Boris in 1974, who was so desperate to leave to Soviet Union that he’d shot himself and died at a mere 22 years old, but-where was this train of thought going?
“My youngest sister, Natalya, is…she is a natural at arranging flowers. She can tell a story with her bouquets, and Katusha! Katusha is the mastermind behind the operation. She is very good with money and will not cheat you, like some of our competitors do. We are always fair.”
“And what do you do?” Mrs. B asks.
“I? I am the owner of the company, the manager of our goods. I am also very good at arranging flowers, if I may be-what is the phrase?- blunt.”
“You may.”
“Here…here is my card,” Ivan says, fishing out the business card from his wallet, giving Mrs. B the company’s card. It wasn’t anything spectacular: a white background, red candy cane strip on the side, and a Calibri font, with a delicate fleur-de-lis in the corner. It was the only clip art he and his sisters could agree on.
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 9d/?
anonymous
May 4 2010, 09:01:21 UTC
Mrs. B looks at the card, and returns her gaze to Ivan. A small sweat drop runs down his back. Does he have a potential sale? A customer? A real customer in months? In years? His first real break since he’s shaken the dirt of St. Petersburg off his shoes and moved to America? He offers a smile, and hopes its not that awkward one Katusha says he makes, the one that drives children and small animals away from him. The one that pinches one side of his mouth, but not the other, baring sharp incisors like a wolf baring its fangs.
“What is today…Sunday? How about I call you, Mister-”
“Ivan. Just Ivan is fine.”
“Well, Ivan. I will call you tomorrow, and maybe we can schedule something. My name is Símon Bonnefoy. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” Simon extends her hand and he shakes it, careful not to let the excitement crush her hand.
Ivan asks Amie once more time if she is alright, and she rolls her eyes and nods, tossing it off as if nothing had happened.
“Lesse, I’ve already been groped and assaulted by you,” Amie starts, tapping her finger on her cheek thoughtfully. “There’s really not much else you can do, unless…you know, you kill me or something.”
Ivan’s heart sinks as he chuckles nervously along with Símon, who finds the joke rather amusing. She laughs just as he would imagine a high class debutante would laugh. When Amie laughs though, it sounds like silver Christmas bells, her freckle speckled nose crinkles.
Amie looks back at her watch, and pokes Símon’s arm, pestering the older woman to move to the checkout lanes. Símon waves goodbye, and he catches something from her, along the lines of “did you see his face when you said that?” Ivan isn’t sure what he thinks of Símon Bonnefoy, but…
Amie looks over her shoulder once more and gives Ivan a lingering summer smile.
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 9d/?
anonymous
May 4 2010, 09:36:12 UTC
fdsjfkaj anon, I am so glad you're back. I decidedly to randomly check this fic just now, and I am so glad that I did! Thank you for not abandoning it! ;w;
Real life is always very important, I've been swamped myself. This was a cute little tidbit, though thanks for explaining stuff in notes, because I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with all this cadet business. :)
Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 9d/?
anonymous
May 4 2010, 10:34:56 UTC
THIS.
YOU YOU YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW ECSTATIC I AM TO SEE THIS UPDATED 8DDDDDDDDDD (flails and torpedoes into a wall)
(wipes bleeding forehead) Ahem...anyhow. Poor Ivan, I want to give him a big hug now - hopefully this big break will go well and not blow up in his face. XD;;;
And this made me laugh - He offers a smile, and hopes its not that awkward one Katusha says he makes, the one that drives children and small animals away from him. The one that pinches one side of his mouth, but not the other, baring sharp incisors like a wolf baring its fangs. The Smile of Doom (TM)
o.o My, I've never received such an enthusiastic review before! :D That pretty much made my day, thank you anon. I'm so glad that you like the fill! ^___^
The Smile of Doom (TM) It brings tears to small children.
I am SO delighted to see this fic being updated! Really, my day is made. Oh man, seeing Amelia and Ivan interact again was totally worth the wait. I love poor awkward clumsy Ivan so much~
There is only one Ivan Braginski/Russia in my headcanon and that is awkward, clumsy Ivan with a little too much height, and too much weight than he knows what to do with. XD
There would be guests over, and soft holiday music would whisper in the background. Candles would glow and hit the yolka just right. Snow would fall outside in slow pirouettes. Katusha would be dressed in fine velvets and silks, like the dresses she wore when the family was together and happy in St. Petersburg. She would greet the guests, and charm them with her wit and grace, and they would compliment her, as they would complement the delicious food that was soon to come. Natalya, quiet Natalya, even though she would be just as adorned as their eldest sibling, would remain in the shadows, never cold to the guests, just shy, and he would keep her company as he had in their youth. The potatoes would finish on time, and he’d put on the pirogyi and he’d-
CRASH!
SMACK!
Ivan is ripped from his fantasy as the cart handle shoots into his soul plexus. He sucks in a quick breath, and sees that he’s knocked someone to the ground, the person struggling to breathe. The shoppers in the aisle decide this crash is far much more entertaining than the nutritional facts of spices and sugars.
In a hot flash, Ivan is on his knees, his victim in his arms, so she can better breathe. He finally gets a good look at his victim, coughing and wheezing, pulling in whatever oxygen she can into her bruised lungs. Sharp blue jacket, angled perfectly without a trace of lint or wrinkle. Spotless pants and mirror-like shoes, which twitched with her breaths. Shocking blonde hair and a lock that stubbornly didn’t want to stay down. Glasses askew.
It’s a cadet. Oh God, he’s killed a cadet. He’s killed a cadet.
“Are you ok?” he asks.
She gives him an incredulous look from over the bent metal frames, just trying to breath.
“Amie?” comes a shrill woman’s voice, deeply dredged in a French accent. High heeled shoes tip-tap on the linoleum floor. “Amie! What happened?”
The blonde haired woman, who seems to have walked off a runway rather than a Wal-Mart aisle, falls to “Amie’s” side and gathers the fish into her arms.
“I am sorry, Miss,” Ivan says. “I wasn’t paying attention and the cart it…it-”
“Amie, do we have to take you to the hospital?” the woman asks, shrill voice like a bird’s caw. “Amie?”
Amie is quiet for a moment, save for labored breath. She blinks once, twice, and shakes her head, that wild lock bobs. The woman, Ivan assumes is her mother, fawns over the injured girl, and pulls her into a tight lung-crushing hug, thanking the Holy Mother that she is all right.
The people in the aisle, seeing as Amie is not in mortal danger anymore, shuffle along their way.
“I’m really sorry,” Ivan attempts to apologize again. His cheeks prickle and the back of his neck flares. He’s sure it’s a lovely sanguine on his face, but so long as the cadet is breathing all right. He bites his lip, stands clumsily, and keeps his eyes averted.
“You!” Amie cries.
Ivan pinches his lips and looks at the girl. The memory hits him like a sledgehammer to the temple. Her. Of course it’s her. His stomach flops and his blush deepens. He was such a large, overweight oaf. Men were supposed to get used to their size, but not Ivan Mikhailovich Braginski! Nope! Not him!
“You know this man?” the woman asks.
“Yeah! This is the guy who fell on my boobs at the flower shop, I told you about Mrs. B,” Amie says, throwing her arms up in protest.
Reply
Amie stands quickly, perhaps a little too quickly as she bobs and tries to regain her balance. She points an accusatory finger at him. “You have a lot of nerve assaulting me twice, you know!”
Ivan puts his arms up in defense. “It was an accident! Both times! I am sorry I made you embarrassed, trust me, I am in the same position!” Amie drops her finger and Ivan relaxes. He sighs heavily, exacerbated and on edge.
Amie stares at him for a moment, trying to read if his intentions are pure. Satisfied, she huffs.
“I accept your apology.” She turns to Mrs. B. “Can we get out of here, Mrs. B? I’ve got everything I need for this week, and I gotta get back before seven.” She taps a leather wristband watch.
“Of course, my dear, but first,” Mrs. B turns her attention from Amie to Ivan. Her eyes are lined with expertly precise eyeliner and mascara, making her blue eyes penetrate his soul deeper. Something slides out of place in his chest, and suddenly Ivan feels very, very, cold. Ivan had always been awkward, if that word even covered the half of it, around older, matronly figures. Her left eyebrow arches. Was this woman once a KGB officer in her past life?
“You run a flower shop?” She finally asks.
Ivan lets out a heavy breath. Worked up for nothing.
“Um…yes. With my two siblings. It’s off of Powers, by that formal dress store.”
“I know the area,” Mrs. B says. Amie grows impatient. She purses her lips and her freckled nose wrinkles just a twitch. She checks her watch and bites her lip.
“My daughter is getting married in the spring,” Mrs. B continues, “and we can’t seem to find a descent florist in town to do the job.”
“Oh well, I’m sure there are plenty good florists in Colorado…” as he says the words, Ivan’s eyes grow wide with recognition. She’s asking him for a job? And not just a small bouquet, but arranging the decorations of a wedding? A wedding? His soul leaps from his chest and dances above his head. This is the type of break he and his sisters had been praying for, had been hoping for, had been wishing for! With a wedding, no matter if it was big or small, would bring in enough revenue that he wouldn’t have to worry about paying his landlord! It would be such a boost in sales, and it would get his name out! They’d be able to expand! To grow beyond their reputation as the store that set W2s on fire the day before Tax Day! Don’t go silent now, Vanya! Say something!
Amie catches his eye. She smiles and giggles. It’s a soft, tender little thing.
“We’re good florists,” Ivan manages to say, hoping that he doesn’t come off as too high or too desperate. He’s not desperate. The Braginski men are not desperate! Although there was Uncle Boris in 1974, who was so desperate to leave to Soviet Union that he’d shot himself and died at a mere 22 years old, but-where was this train of thought going?
“My youngest sister, Natalya, is…she is a natural at arranging flowers. She can tell a story with her bouquets, and Katusha! Katusha is the mastermind behind the operation. She is very good with money and will not cheat you, like some of our competitors do. We are always fair.”
“And what do you do?” Mrs. B asks.
“I? I am the owner of the company, the manager of our goods. I am also very good at arranging flowers, if I may be-what is the phrase?- blunt.”
“You may.”
“Here…here is my card,” Ivan says, fishing out the business card from his wallet, giving Mrs. B the company’s card. It wasn’t anything spectacular: a white background, red candy cane strip on the side, and a Calibri font, with a delicate fleur-de-lis in the corner. It was the only clip art he and his sisters could agree on.
Reply
“What is today…Sunday? How about I call you, Mister-”
“Ivan. Just Ivan is fine.”
“Well, Ivan. I will call you tomorrow, and maybe we can schedule something. My name is Símon Bonnefoy. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” Simon extends her hand and he shakes it, careful not to let the excitement crush her hand.
Ivan asks Amie once more time if she is alright, and she rolls her eyes and nods, tossing it off as if nothing had happened.
“Lesse, I’ve already been groped and assaulted by you,” Amie starts, tapping her finger on her cheek thoughtfully. “There’s really not much else you can do, unless…you know, you kill me or something.”
Ivan’s heart sinks as he chuckles nervously along with Símon, who finds the joke rather amusing. She laughs just as he would imagine a high class debutante would laugh. When Amie laughs though, it sounds like silver Christmas bells, her freckle speckled nose crinkles.
Amie looks back at her watch, and pokes Símon’s arm, pestering the older woman to move to the checkout lanes. Símon waves goodbye, and he catches something from her, along the lines of “did you see his face when you said that?” Ivan isn’t sure what he thinks of Símon Bonnefoy, but…
Amie looks over her shoulder once more and gives Ivan a lingering summer smile.
…he knows how he feels about Amie Jones.
Reply
Real life is always very important, I've been swamped myself. This was a cute little tidbit, though thanks for explaining stuff in notes, because I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with all this cadet business. :)
Reply
I'm so glad that my notes make sense. Sometimes I'm worried that I'm still using too much jargon, what little of it I can remember anyway. >.o
Reply
YOU YOU YOU DO NOT KNOW HOW ECSTATIC I AM TO SEE THIS UPDATED 8DDDDDDDDDD (flails and torpedoes into a wall)
(wipes bleeding forehead) Ahem...anyhow. Poor Ivan, I want to give him a big hug now - hopefully this big break will go well and not blow up in his face. XD;;;
And this made me laugh - He offers a smile, and hopes its not that awkward one Katusha says he makes, the one that drives children and small animals away from him. The one that pinches one side of his mouth, but not the other, baring sharp incisors like a wolf baring its fangs. The Smile of Doom (TM)
Reply
My, I've never received such an enthusiastic review before! :D That pretty much made my day, thank you anon. I'm so glad that you like the fill! ^___^
The Smile of Doom (TM)
It brings tears to small children.
Reply
I am SO delighted to see this fic being updated! Really, my day is made.
Oh man, seeing Amelia and Ivan interact again was totally worth the wait. I love poor awkward clumsy Ivan so much~
Reply
Reply
Seriously I was wondering what happened! I am so over joyed that I'm totes bouncing up and down right now.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment