Post by Elizabeta Héderváry on Jun 12, 2012 16:44:06 GMT -5
Unfinished Sweden / Belarus giftfic (the guilt still plagues me). Posting in the hope it will kick me into FINISHING SOMETHING I START.
Warnings for: gratuitous OOC-ness, particularly on Bela’s part; cliches out the wazoo; Bela’s knife; hideous misuse of Russian diminutives; alcohol; and my writing in general.
In the flagship Ikea ice hotel, business was booming. Gloved hands clasped squared-off shot glasses. Cheeks were flushed from the bracing cold, the strong schnapps and the uncomfortable budget airline flights, as customers tried to delay the struggle of assembling their own bed for the night from ice blocks and reindeer skins. Somehow, however, the chatter and tipsy bonhomie failed to penetrate one corner of the spacious lounge, such was the gloom that appeared to have descended over that particular recess.
Berwald Oxenstierna, all 182cm of him, slumped in an ergonomically-designed ice armchair, letting the little heat escaping from his gloved fingers wear small grooves around his glass of brännvin as they rubbed gently at the surface of the frozen table. He watched as little rivulets of water would form in the grooves, then do their best to refreeze before his fingertips returned. His gloves, and the back of his long navy trenchcoat, were soaked through, indicating the length of time he had been sat there. The Swede sighed, draining the last of the vodka and squinting over the top of his glasses into the base of the tiny vessel, as if willing it to refill.
The pretty blonde who walked into the bar carried an air of command about her, despite her young looks. Men looked up as she walked in, quickly turning back to their drinks and suddenly suspicious girlfriends as they met that icy blue gaze. Nataliya Arlovskaya was like the polished edge of a blade – sharp, beautiful and dangerous. She looked around methodically as she reached into a worn handbag, sliding a note across the counter to pay for two unflavoured vodkas. The barman began to ask for identification, before being caught on the receiving end of a particularly pointed look and thinking better of it. She hadn’t threatened him as such, there was just something about her that made him think he really didn’t need her kind of trouble right now.
Nataliya headed straight for the portable thundercloud that was Berwald, knocking the glasses down on the table to get his attention. She settled herself down opposite him, crossing her legs, as he lifted the glass.
“To Minsk.” Berwald spoke in English, easily but with a strong accent.
“To Stockholm.” Nataliya returned the toast in clipped syllables, emptying the glass in one swig and then frowning at it.
“Y’brother can do better?” There was no menace implied in Berwald’s question, merely an introduction to a well-rehearsed dialogue.
“Ivanushka makes the best spirits. And well he should, he drinks enough of them.”
A pause, and the implication was skipped over. “Arthur’s trying to break into Ivan’s market.”
A snort erupted from the girl. “The award was rigged. To anyone with taste, Ivanushka should have won.”
“And you clearly have taste, Natasha, to dismiss m’brännvin so quickly.”
“I’m sure it may grow on me after a while.”
The hint was taken, and a small motion from Berwald got two more drinks delivered to the table.
Nataliya pulled her black fur-lined overcoat around her from the cold. The coat might once have been stylish, had it not been patched and repaired a hundred times. Berwald thought she was looking thin, her features a little more pale and drawn than usual, tiredness showing not in circles around the eyes but in the heavy makeup used to hide them.
“Trouble at home?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“More trouble than they’re worth, sometimes.”
“Oh no.” Nataliya raised her glass again. “They’re always worth it.”
“It’d just be nice to be appreciated.”
“Stop moping and drink, Shvet’ka.”
Berwald raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but obligingly lifted the glorified ice cube. “To what are we drinkin’?”
Nataliya swirled the shot glass around, watching the clear liquid dribble down the sides of the glass. “Tino and Ivan. May they one day realise the error of their ways.”
“Unrequited love, huh.” Nataliya aimed a sharp glance at Berwald, and he relented. “Tino and Ivan.”
Drinks downed, Berwald returned to grim silence, eyes fixed on the table. Nataliya produced a small flick-knife and commenced cleaning her fingernails. The lights in the bar dimmed and the sounds of Sibelius began to fill the spaces left by the chatter of a crowd now retiring for the night, some to comfy beds in an adjoining chalet, some to struggle with thermal underwear and insufficient sleeping bags under the guise of romance, leaving only the binge-drinking hardcore and a couple of lovelorn countries.
“Finlandia.” Berwald huffed.
“The vodka?” Nataliya paused, the knife flashing in the low light. “You would like another drink?”
“The music.”
Nataliya’s lips pursed in an O shape. “Everything reminds you of Tino. I understand. For me, everything is Vanya, yes? This vodka, Ivanushka. The snow outside, Ivanushka. The scarf on that British tourist girl, Ivanushka. The predatory smile on the face of the man she has just met, Ivanushka.” She emphasised each statement by slamming a hand, the one not holding the knife, against the table. “But we must live for ourselves occasionally.”
Warnings for: gratuitous OOC-ness, particularly on Bela’s part; cliches out the wazoo; Bela’s knife; hideous misuse of Russian diminutives; alcohol; and my writing in general.
In the flagship Ikea ice hotel, business was booming. Gloved hands clasped squared-off shot glasses. Cheeks were flushed from the bracing cold, the strong schnapps and the uncomfortable budget airline flights, as customers tried to delay the struggle of assembling their own bed for the night from ice blocks and reindeer skins. Somehow, however, the chatter and tipsy bonhomie failed to penetrate one corner of the spacious lounge, such was the gloom that appeared to have descended over that particular recess.
Berwald Oxenstierna, all 182cm of him, slumped in an ergonomically-designed ice armchair, letting the little heat escaping from his gloved fingers wear small grooves around his glass of brännvin as they rubbed gently at the surface of the frozen table. He watched as little rivulets of water would form in the grooves, then do their best to refreeze before his fingertips returned. His gloves, and the back of his long navy trenchcoat, were soaked through, indicating the length of time he had been sat there. The Swede sighed, draining the last of the vodka and squinting over the top of his glasses into the base of the tiny vessel, as if willing it to refill.
The pretty blonde who walked into the bar carried an air of command about her, despite her young looks. Men looked up as she walked in, quickly turning back to their drinks and suddenly suspicious girlfriends as they met that icy blue gaze. Nataliya Arlovskaya was like the polished edge of a blade – sharp, beautiful and dangerous. She looked around methodically as she reached into a worn handbag, sliding a note across the counter to pay for two unflavoured vodkas. The barman began to ask for identification, before being caught on the receiving end of a particularly pointed look and thinking better of it. She hadn’t threatened him as such, there was just something about her that made him think he really didn’t need her kind of trouble right now.
Nataliya headed straight for the portable thundercloud that was Berwald, knocking the glasses down on the table to get his attention. She settled herself down opposite him, crossing her legs, as he lifted the glass.
“To Minsk.” Berwald spoke in English, easily but with a strong accent.
“To Stockholm.” Nataliya returned the toast in clipped syllables, emptying the glass in one swig and then frowning at it.
“Y’brother can do better?” There was no menace implied in Berwald’s question, merely an introduction to a well-rehearsed dialogue.
“Ivanushka makes the best spirits. And well he should, he drinks enough of them.”
A pause, and the implication was skipped over. “Arthur’s trying to break into Ivan’s market.”
A snort erupted from the girl. “The award was rigged. To anyone with taste, Ivanushka should have won.”
“And you clearly have taste, Natasha, to dismiss m’brännvin so quickly.”
“I’m sure it may grow on me after a while.”
The hint was taken, and a small motion from Berwald got two more drinks delivered to the table.
Nataliya pulled her black fur-lined overcoat around her from the cold. The coat might once have been stylish, had it not been patched and repaired a hundred times. Berwald thought she was looking thin, her features a little more pale and drawn than usual, tiredness showing not in circles around the eyes but in the heavy makeup used to hide them.
“Trouble at home?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“More trouble than they’re worth, sometimes.”
“Oh no.” Nataliya raised her glass again. “They’re always worth it.”
“It’d just be nice to be appreciated.”
“Stop moping and drink, Shvet’ka.”
Berwald raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but obligingly lifted the glorified ice cube. “To what are we drinkin’?”
Nataliya swirled the shot glass around, watching the clear liquid dribble down the sides of the glass. “Tino and Ivan. May they one day realise the error of their ways.”
“Unrequited love, huh.” Nataliya aimed a sharp glance at Berwald, and he relented. “Tino and Ivan.”
Drinks downed, Berwald returned to grim silence, eyes fixed on the table. Nataliya produced a small flick-knife and commenced cleaning her fingernails. The lights in the bar dimmed and the sounds of Sibelius began to fill the spaces left by the chatter of a crowd now retiring for the night, some to comfy beds in an adjoining chalet, some to struggle with thermal underwear and insufficient sleeping bags under the guise of romance, leaving only the binge-drinking hardcore and a couple of lovelorn countries.
“Finlandia.” Berwald huffed.
“The vodka?” Nataliya paused, the knife flashing in the low light. “You would like another drink?”
“The music.”
Nataliya’s lips pursed in an O shape. “Everything reminds you of Tino. I understand. For me, everything is Vanya, yes? This vodka, Ivanushka. The snow outside, Ivanushka. The scarf on that British tourist girl, Ivanushka. The predatory smile on the face of the man she has just met, Ivanushka.” She emphasised each statement by slamming a hand, the one not holding the knife, against the table. “But we must live for ourselves occasionally.”