Privāta firma- 'Private Company'

[man_nav_naudas]

WHO: Ivan and Raivis
WHEN: September 18th, Friday evening (Back to the future~)
WHERE: The Braginski apartment
WHAT: "Make your offering by the door, but once you enter the Russian's den, you'll not be seen no more..."
RATING: K, Kolkolkol. Not for 'kids'.

Comments

...I can has Vodka?

[das_vedanya]

Desperation. Ivan clutched his chest at the sound of the very word pounding in his ears. It was almost as if a doppelganger was standing behind the kitchen chair, his cold voice breathing snowflakes into ears endlessly until his earlobes formed icicles. 'Getting lonely, Ivan~? Oh, poor Ivan~ no one ever wants to be around you~ and now you're desperate enough to invite your secretary~?'The chairs of the chair screeched across the floor as Ivan pushed back an inch so he comfortably rest his head against the mahogany table, hands clapped tightly over his ears to save them from any sound other than that thankful silence. His elbow bumped against the glass bottle, threatening to knock it clean off the table and onto the merciless floor where it would most-definitely shatter. Frustrated, Ivan plucked the glass from its station to migrate it against the empty fruit bowl located at the center of the table. The matroyshka dolls painted on the fruit bowl beamed at Ivan with unnatural rosy red cheeks that reminded him of the numbing blush that

I has vodka, you can has vodka too- is gift-?

[man_nav_naudas]

It was raw, shocking, and disturbingly humanRaivis automatically inclined his head, subservient in body language- the shoulders slumping, the chin tilted down, the allergen induced watery sheen glazing over his eyes- until he realized, again with a start, that this was, in fact, very much not the office. And that he was, simply by staring so wide eyed and bewildered, being quite rude

Comez to da darkside... we haz Vodka.

[das_vedanya]

The Russian dragged his hand down hid left cheek and let it fall limp, useless at his side where the fingers could grab at the fabric swaying in the draft coming from the door down the hallway. He refused to pay patronage to Ravis's quivering arms, as if it weren't obvious from the noise the bottles emitted from the rattling. He frowned and pushed his back against the door, pushing it open in the process so Ravis could have a (comfortable enough) cushion to push past his boss and into the small apartment

...long, so long...

[man_nav_naudas]

The abnormality of seeing Ivan Braginski in such a domestic setting, while it did continue to instigate the shivers along his spine, was almost sadistically comical. The couch, the television. The sunflowers hinted at here and there- it was a cozy apartment, for what was available to work with and had it not been for the company, Raivis might have been able to convince himself he was back home in Riga with an aunt or a family friend. Just about to settle down for an evening's repast...

Chimes sounded.

No no, glass. The bottles. The bottles placed on the table. The table that was so inconspicuous and suddenly very prominent in his mind as a potential bludgeoning device.

Raivis suppressed a shudder. Despite the paranoia of physical harm, how little he had encountered the Russian in the outside world he wasn't going to dwell on short shorts and knee , tonight seemed a little

Kill not the Raivis for he is too young to die.

[man_nav_naudas]

The accent was horrible. That much registered from the pointed glower leveling across the table, pinning Raivis much in the way he might have pinned a butterfly through its thorax onto thin, smooth cork board. A mistake. Where the impulse to speak in the man's mother language had come from, he couldn't have identified and more than what had been said, his knowledge beyond that was limited indeed.

It might have been an obscure, obscene way of comforting Ivan, though Raivis hardly let himself dwell on that idea. He didn't want to linger on anything Russian anymore. He'd not wanted to be there since the beginning and now- fear beginning to reassert itself in his posture- he felt the need to flee all the stronger.

Ivan did have a broken bottle. There were shards all over, blood had been shed- It made sense to feel 'Fear

Men younger than you can go to war and die for their country.

[das_vedanya]

He suppressed the urge to jut out his foot, buying for amusement in the hope that it would send Ravis to the floor (maybe break his nose if he timed it right,) but instead he drew his foot in and tucked it against the back of his calf. The lip of the counter dug into the small of his back, he shifted his shoulders to scoot a few inches over for a position where he couldn’t feel the wood brand imprints into his spine. He didn’t follow Ravis to the kitchen, not with his legs, not with his eyes as his back was turned, but he did follow with his ears. He had distinctive footsteps - slow, calculating, cautious things they were, advancing on the floor as if it were littered in broken glass, except this time, it actually was

Is it for their country or for love (of an ideal)?

[man_nav_naudas]

It was certainly a physical assault on the ears at least, for a visible flinch twitched Raivis's body and the Latvian fell back into a silence Ivan knew to be the hush of anxious terror. For an indecipherable amount of time they stood there unmoving. Raivis did not back away, did not approach. The Doctor, too, engaged in neither. But one of them had to break and of course it would be the shivering little thing before him who hesitantly raised an arm, a palm. To do what? To toy with his own hair with a few nervous tugs? To mess at his shirt collar?

To alight at the hand covering the wound with a delicacy of flower petals falling from the branch of a cherry tree. "S-sorry it-"

Startled Ivan. The persistence and the boldness of it. "Th-there might be more sh-shards I... it should b-be washed out now..."

Brave as the touch might have been, he noted that the boy was still very adamantly refusing to look him in the eyes.

It depends on which country you are referring to.

[das_vedanya]

The way Ivan flinched made it look like he had just been shot through the heart with a Mosin-Nagant. His body language read nothing short of Don’t touch me. It was as if Ravis’s hand was a syringe injecting him with a medication that Ivan knew was meant to make him feel better, but it had a bitter taste and it made his stomach churn.

“Nyet,” he wrenched his hand away from his secretary, trying to ignore the pain that shot up his elbow when it collided - hard - with the countertop. The sound was a little less easy to ignore, as it was exaggerated by the rattling of Vodka bottles. “It is fine. Just a cut.” Ivan bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly self-conscious about how choppy and simple his replies were.

Without another word, he rounded on his heel and snagged the second to last bottle from the counter, and ignored the pain shooting up his bad hand when the grip on his bottle wedged one of the forgotten shards of glass Ravis warned him about deep into his palm. Just… just one more bottle.

…one more wouldn’t hurt.