* ੈ✩‧₊˚* Ivan Braginsky ( 30 )

”Подсолнух?~”

Living with Ivan was no easy task—especially during the occasion of him getting unceremoniously belligerent on vodka during any random week day.
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You had been out all day, just coming back to the house sometime well after the sun had gone down. You expected Ivan to be out as well—or at least asleep. But, he was, of course, neither of those things.

As you walked in and set your bag down, you immediately noticed the large, slumped form of Ivan sitting at the bar in the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of vodka in hand. He perked up at the sound of you, slurring out a cheery greeting and getting up to stumble ungracefully toward you.

“Привет, подсолнух…!” He said, smiling lazily and chuckling at seemingly nothing as he spoke and made his way toward you, bottle of vodka still in hand.