Work Text:
Scene: IKEA, mid-afternoon. Maria's somewhere in throw pillows. Vladimir has been lost for 17 minutes.
—
Vladimir hadn’t thought it would be this hard. It’s just IKEA. Big, blue box. Swedish meatballs. Furniture with names that sound like minor gods. How hard could it be?
…Very. Very hard, apparently.
He’s got a cart full of unnecessary things: a potted fake fern she pointed at once two months ago, four mugs that reminded him of her, a floor lamp he definitely doesn’t need, and a small glass fox figurine that made his chest feel tight for no reason. She’s nowhere in sight.
He loops through lighting. No luck. Loiters in rugs. Nothing. He swears he just saw a mirage of her hoodie near curtains, but it was an old lady. He's spiraling. The worst part is—he’s trying not to panic. He’s being reasonable. This place isn’t a labyrinth. There are arrows on the floor. Maps. Exit signs. But she’s gone. And the moment she left his line of sight, something in him started tugging, gentle but persistent—like a little wire from his ribs to the air she took with her. He paces. Checks his phone. No signal. Or maybe IKEA just has Wi-Fi from hell. Why does no one text back here? He crouches next to a display couch like a war veteran reliving trauma. A little girl walks past and looks at him like he’s a tragic exhibit. He nods solemnly at her.
He doesn’t even like shopping. But the moment she dragged him in here, bright-eyed and talking too fast, pointing out things like “imagine this in the corner of the living room,” something stupid in him went soft. Something hopeful and unguarded. Because if she’s imagining a corner of the living room, then maybe—maybe—he gets to be in that room, too.
Someone bumps into him. A man with a trolley full of kitchenware. He snaps out of it, stands up, determined. One more round through the throw pillow section. One more chance.
He rounds the corner— And stops. There sweet Maria is. Crouched. Surrounded by waves of stuffed sharks. Back turned. He freezes like a scared animal. Then exhales. Shoulders drop. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t walk over just yet. Just stands there for a second, because the world just clicked back into place.
He’ll tell her later that IKEA is a form of psychological warfare. That it made him dramatic. That he bought her a fox and a fern and maybe they can leave now, please.
For now Vladmir's sighing deeply, trolley rolling, shoes feeling all the more lighter the closer he steps towards Maria.