Dandelion Sky

Desc.: Anya Braginskaya: a young girl with a large and gentle heart, eager to love and be loved in return. Desiring a brighter future, and some friends, she leaves for the US. A timid freshman, she is teased by many until a certain student council president comes to the rescue… [College AU - Rusame, one-sided USUK]

I hope you enjoy!

I - Stupid Little Girl, I've Spent my Wishes

Her mama always told her to never fall in love young.

The strong-willed and dark-haired woman sat across the kitchen table, fixing a dark green handkerchief that wrapped around some silverware. When time wasn't her enemy, the frail body once turned some heads some years ago. Those dark eyes, highlighted by deep, black semicircles, knew of the many dangers love possessed. First was a blissful, deceiving blindness so crippling to even the wisest man - then a madness, plagued by obsession. A drive - a focus so fleeting yet impractical. Love always claimed their soul and left one barren, and this was the case for the young girl's own dear mother with the girl's absent and selfish father.

"Дорогая, Anya..."

The girl's amethyst eyes softened in pity, bearing witness to her lifelong caretaker slowly fade away as she struggled with her own name. Anya had just recently arrived back home from university thousands of miles away, leaving for home in a matter of hours after she received a frantic phone call from a distant cousin she hadn't heard from since living in Moscow. She knew for certain she would return to this place once filled with early, warm memories with her sisters. But now it made Anya predominantly uneasy as she couldn't shake off the recollection of a poverty-stricken and death-filled adolescence.

She took note of how her childhood home had changed in recent times. It was truly a blessing for her younger sister to keep her informed of the status of the family home - otherwise, she'd cry from the sight. The walls that were once bright white were littered with cobwebs and even yellowed due to years of her mother's smoking habits. Family portraits of the four that once hung straight were terribly lopsided and dirty dishes laying in the sink flooded over the sink and along the counter top.

Anya shook her head and returned her gaze to her mother who was now stirring some honey into her herbal tea. Pinning a few wayward silky strands behind an ear, the light blonde leaned one elbow against the tablecloth. Her voice wavered as she cracked a nervous smile. "You look so beautiful today, мама. You saw Ирина today, didn't you?"

"Why, y-yes, I have. Thank you," her mother's cheeks became flushed when the girl mentioned her hairdresser and close family friend by name. She tapped the spoon against the rim modestly. "When I heard you were coming home, I rushed over to make sure I looked my best."

"You shouldn't be spending your money on such trivial things," Anya said matter-of-factly, laying the napkin over her pale, dainty legs.

Her mother replied with a flick of her wrist in reassurance. "Don't worry about me."

Such an intense gaze followed by an eerie silence. Even in such a fragile state, her mother was still a fighter, which Anya respected wholeheartedly, because she often dreamed of having such confidence. She certainly had the ambitions but assumed no one was ever willing to lend an ear or give a hoot. The girl couldn't help but run her spoon through the black abyss of the hot tea before her, filling her spoon completely before flowing the fluid back into the cup.

Then it reached her ears, just like clockwork. "Well, how was America? Was it all that you hoped it to be?"

Her lip quivered, and she felt a surge of warmth spread to her fingertips.

"It was good." Anya said flatly, not bothering to look up. She adjusted the scarf wrapped tightly around her neck to give herself some breathing room. Trying to keep face during a conversation about her former temporary home of three years made her extremely uncomfortable. It contributed to the strained relationship she had with her mother. In fact, the two didn't exchange words after she made up her mind to find a better life in the States. 'Why can't you just stay in Moscow and find a good university here?' her mother insisted. Anya remembered the words well. 'Find a good and honest man, be a devout and loving wife, and live a full life.'

But she couldn't settle for that. She wasn't a girl for husbands or babies.

It was true that she loved her hometown and would do anything to keep it in the same condition as in her childhood memories. But this was an impossible task as Moscow's economy plummeted and unemployment rose to unprecedented levels, leaving much of its citizens destitute and hungry. The happy world which Anya knew vanished in a heartbeat's time, robbing the little girl of a stable family and leaving her with a need to find hope elsewhere, which she quickly found in an array of magazines her older cousin brought back from the West. Travel, Woman's, News: the little girl was enchanted by any topic pertaining to this much different world. There were countless large, colorful prints of beautiful islands with vast white beaches and rolling fields of lush, dark green. Anya prayed to one day be magically transported to such places, and wished even harder when her cousin came back from this utopia with a shiny new diamond on her finger...

Her thoughts came to a halt when she saw her mother struggling to keep her head up with her hands. Anya swiftly pushed her chair out from under her and ran to her side.

"A-ah, мама!"

Gasping for air , the dying woman instinctively clung onto her daughter's blouse, too wrapped in pain to register her daughter's words. Instinctively, Anya wrapped her sweater around her mother's bony shoulders, ignoring the soup that proceeded to drip down the tablecloth and onto the floor.

As she helped her mother rise from the table, Anya tried to keep her anger at bay. She should have noticed it then. This very different and distant place never failed to entice even the strongest of hearts with its allure of the fast life. She should have never left Moscow. She was young, and reckless - disobedient and careless. At that time, she did not realize how much her family needed her. Home was where she ultimately belonged, no matter how much she wanted to fight it.

Listless and clouded purple eyes fixated on the sluggish body below. With a soft whisper, she lugged her mother along with small baby steps toward the master bedroom.

"Here, let's get some rest. We can talk more in the morning, да?"

An hour after tucking her mother into bed, Anya made way to her childhood room. With a flip of a switch, her eyes fell on her neatly-made single bed decorated with the finest, handmade satin sheets her uncle ordered from the textile town of Ivanovo. It was one of the finest birthday gifts Anya received in her short life, as she fell in love with the red and white floral print. Smiling gently to herself, she ran her fingers over the precious stitching. She guessed the bed was still made from the last time she did it.

It had been a long first day back in her native country, and she couldn't wait to jump under those familiar sheets. Throwing a small suitcase on the floor, she pulled out all the necessary items for a restful night's sleep: a long nightgown accompanied by slippers, a hair tie, and her little stuffed white bear with glasses, Ре́биков, whom she named after the famous 20th century Russian pianist. When she finished the preparations, she sat on the bed, dust flying around her after being disturbed. With a few good shakes of the large sheet, Anya managed to brush the rest off and flicked the light on the nightstand off.

Minutes have passed in the quiet and darkened room. Shadows of swaying tree branches danced along the walls, the moonlight flickering in between the spaces. The girl wearily squinted to see the numbers on the small clock beside her: 12:31. She did the math in her head and sighed dejectedly.

Her mind was somewhere far away from Kozhevnichesky Lane, deep in the heart of Moscow. She was transported to somewhere vast and warm, the heavy and humid air filling her lungs. As she opened her eyes, she saw that soft, tanned skin beneath those torn and faded daisy dukes. The light, uplifting smell of fresh linens hung to dry in the country breeze; those baby blues that softened and narrowed when she laughed even boldly and loudly… it was all so beautiful. The blonde clad in flannel standing before her flashed a wide and charming smile.

Anya shook her head. No. The blue-eyed devil was dangerous: the epitome of lust and greed. There were tons of girls in the world so similar, and surely Anya could find something more pure to worship. It was just a silly little thing, a fling of sort - a fling of 3 years. It really wasn't anything serious, ...was it?

Anya turned on her side and hugged her bear tightly against her abdomen. She made a mental note to burn all the photographs resting in her bag tomorrow.

Feeling her heart almost weep out from her chest, Anya pulled the covers over her head and desperately tried to shake any residual unholy thoughts out of her mind. Tears prickled her eyes and threatened to roll down those porcelain, white cheeks. She was a caretaker now, she would have to start thinking like one. There was no time for love with the exception of her family. She would just have to learn to accept it. In what seemed to be hours, the Slavic girl drifted to sleep, falling back into her dream world that was the deep South...

Translations

Дорогая - dear, sweetheart
мама - mom
Ирина - Irina, Irene
Ре́биков - Rebikov. Relating to Vladimir Rebikov, a romantic 20th century Russian composer and pianist.