title: Running Through Sunflower-scented Dreams
players: Alfred F. Jones/America, Ivan Braginsky/Russia
word count: ~430
summary: Ivan dreams of a familiar place, a familiar person.
Running Through Sunflower-scented Dreams
The petals of the sunflower, a brilliant, sun-kissed wheat colour, reminded him of someone. He couldn't recall a name or even a whole face. There were bits and pieces of a distant memory.
Blonde hair that sunflowers envied for its luminescence, eyes so blue the sky may as well have been void, and a mouth that was always smiling, laughing among the stalks of sunflowers, calling his name to find him.
But that wasn't the entirety of his memory. Sometimes while he slept, he would be back in that time and place in the field. He ran between the stalks and grasses, avoiding the field spiders and jumping over animal burrows, spooking song birds to flight. Stopping to catch his breath, he looked around but could see nothing except for woody green stems and wide leaves. If he looked up, he saw the vast sky framed by lemon petals. He called out a name, a name he never heard in his dreams, and something poked his back.
The chase would continue; he followed shouts of laughter and taunts of his slowness, got lost, and would be teased again into tracing the bodiless vocalisations.
One time, he ran into a clearing in his dream. The laughter had stopped, and a small boy crouched in the very middle of the grassy meadow. He played with something, cooing to it. Standing abruptly, his arms shot into the air, and a bald eaglet rocketed into the sky. With strong flaps of its mighty wings, it took off over the field, and the boy followed. No amount of protesting could stop him.
"No! Stay with me! Stay and play with me...!"
"Alfred. Alfred F. Jones."
"I'll tell him you're here. Please take a seat." Ivan's eyes squinted open. He had fallen asleep on his desk again. The heavy office door swung open silently and shut behind the secretary. He set a file folder on Ivan's desk. "Sir. Your appointment's here."
Stretching his arms over his head, a sharp intake of breath turned into a jaw-popping yawn. His chair creaked beneath his weight as he shifted to sit properly. "Who he is?"
"His name is Alfred Jones, the American."
"I don't remember any American..."
"It's been a while, Ivan." Employer and secretary looked to the doorway, surprised at the interruption. The American was tall and tanned with broad shoulders and blonde hair. The secretary nodded his head and excused himself. Alfred approached the desk in easy strides and extended his arm from behind his back.
A sunflower reached over the desk and kissed Ivan's nose. "Miss me?"