A quarter after midnight, and Alfred had never come.

Ivan recrossed his legs on the coffee table and reached for the bottle he'd set on the floor. The inky blackness and silence were intensely comforting, as he had hoped, though he realized he was probably strange to sit in such a lonely darkness. No one had questioned his desire to be alone in the house, which left him to realize that his business was not nearly as private as he preferred it to be, and he'd reminded himself to have a word with his sister about her good intentions. He didn't wonder where they had all gone. He did wonder if he'd chilled the room with his aura, as Alfred insisted he did when nervous or angry.

Alfred had told him not to, but he'd packed the boy's things. No one had ever needed an overnight bag for him before. It had been a new concept. He was certain he'd found every last detail and possession on his exhaustive search after he'd discovered one of Alfred's sneakers in the back of his own closet. He'd apparently only needed one of the pair at home. The sneaker sat in the bag with the rest of Alfred's things on the couch beside him, waiting. Waiting.

The display on his game console was sickly green and inexplicably irritating. He'd never noticed that obnoxious glow before. He'd also never waited so impatiently for a visitor.

He took another drink of Alfred's favorite vodka. It wasn't his favorite. He'd have to do something with the crate in the basement.

He would wait until the next hour struck, then he would do something else. He wasn't sure what. The waiting was degrading.

Though he might wait forever.

Alfred was right, though he suspected that Ukraine had warned him of her brother's obsessive tendencies. Ivan was a danger to those he loved, even more so than to those he hated. He always had been. He'd never bothered to check his behaviors until Alfred. Alfred had asked. He'd only had to ask. Ukraine had asked too, but never seemed to realize how she'd tamed him. Well, unless she had. Maybe that's why Alfred had felt the need to warn him away from his little brother.

He'd only had to ask, and Ivan had de-clawed himself. Alfred had been oblivious at the time, which had come as a surprise to no one, and Ivan certainly wouldn't tell. It had been a fling. He would hate the boy again soon, he had thought, his mind played tricks.

The fling never ended, and Ivan sat in the darkness alone with an empty bottle and an aching chest. Alfred wasn't there, and the hole he left behind was insulting and maddening. And real. So real that Ukraine had offered him a tiny smile and a moment of eye contact before she'd closed the door, one of the rare familial moments he shared with only her. He wondered if she could hear the frost growing in crystalline patterns over his heart, then decided she probably couldn't. But she could guess the frost was there.

Ukraine knew too much. She needed to be punished. He would regret her tears.

He lied to himself: his heart did not leap when a knock finally sounded at the door. He didn't rise to his feet with a devastatingly potent sense of elation, and he did not hurry into the hall. Adrenaline didn't surge when he identified that the shadow on the stoop was Alfred in his red sweater and favorite coat. His fingers didn't reach for the handle by themselves. He didn't welcome the rush of emotion that rocked him when he made contact with those beautiful blue eyes. They did not remind him of warmth and laughter.

Alfred didn't want it, so it couldn't be.

Alfred greeted him awkwardly, as was to be expected, and Ivan held his face blank. The boy must not know.

But he was shivering, and snow gathered in his golden hair. Ivan's stomach twisted—Alfred didn't like the winter storms.

Ivan backed away from the door to tempt him with the house's heat. "I have your things."

"Oh." Alfred's gut knotted uncomfortably. He stepped inside the house, but only after Ivan had moved out of easy reach. "…Thanks."

Alfred stomped snow from his shoes before he closed the General out of the house. He followed Ivan into the living area with a growing sense of nausea.

Ivan lifted a duffel bag from the cushions and tossed it over the threshold into the hall. Alfred caught it, grateful for Ivan's sensitivity toward his comfort. The further away he was, the safer Alfred would feel. Why were all the lights off? The place was like a tomb.

He cleared his throat. "Um, do you mind if I—talk for a minute? Mattie says I owe you an explanation. I don't mean to be a dick."

Ivan simply stood in front of the couch and stared at him with those bottomless eyes.

Alfred swallowed and tried to ignore how well Ivan melted into the blackness of the room. "I just want to make sure you know you didn't do anything wrong. I—made a mistake."

He lifted his head, but couldn't meet Ivan's eyes. "I'll tell you the truth. I feel like I owe you that much respect. The truth is that I—started getting attached, you know? And I know and you know we can't have that."

Ivan had been expecting some kind of babble, had been terrified Alfred wouldn't speak at all. He'd imagined what conclusions Alfred would draw over his weeks alone with his elder brothers and their gossip and thought he had been prepared.

He had not been prepared.

Alfred shifted the bag to his other sweaty palm. He stared down the hall toward the deserted kitchen and tried to silence the riot in his stomach without success. "It started a little while ago. After December?" He released a frustrated sound and met Ivan's gaze. "Are you going to try to kill me?"

"Nyet." Even if he thought he could.

"Can I have a swig of that?" Alfred pointed at one of the open bottles on the table. "Can I sit down? We might as well talk like adults."

Ivan sat and held out the bottle. Alfred loosened his tie, dropped the bag in the hallway, and landed in his seat. He took a long drink, then offered the bottle to Ivan, who took a mouthful to communicate that the alcohol wasn't poisoned or drugged.

"I don't know what happened, man." Alfred accepted the bottle. "All of a sudden. You and me." He met Ivan's eyes, and they shared a moment. "What happened, man? What the hell happened?"

Ivan kept his silence.

"I want to be open about this." Alfred said to himself. "Look, I started to get attached to you. It's weird and really uncomfortable, and I don't like it. It's not safe, it's not smart, and…"

"I agree." Ivan took the bottle and hoped the vodka would deaden the hollow throbbing in his ribcage.

Alfred rested his forearms on his knees and stared at the wall. "I don't know if you wanted this to happen. Maybe you're manipulating me. You told me yourself what you said you'd do to Arthur's kids. I imagine I'm probably the toughest of us to crack."

Yes, Ivan thought. Rationalize. Remember how much you hate me. Guard yourself with disgust.

"But—I don't think that's what happened. Neither does Francis." America passed the bottle. "I'm really sorry, Ivan. I'm sorry to be taking somebody away from you. I didn't mean for this to happen." His voice rang with sincerity. "It's my fault."

"It's fine," Ivan heard himself say. Damn the boy's cloying nature. "This was an unforeseen consequence of amity. I am glad to know you are aware of your mistakes."

Alfred snorted. "I guess goodwill isn't for everybody."

They sat in uncomfortable silence until Alfred said, "I'm gonna miss you, man. Even if that's not okay for me to say. I'm not looking forward to being lonely again."

Before Ivan could speak, Alfred said, "Listen. I need to thank you again for staying away from Mattie. I know it probably hasn't been easy these last few weeks and I'm just really grateful you've been so cooperative. So thanks. It really means a lot."

Ivan paused with the bottle in the air and met his eyes. Alfred's gaze was candid. His heart twisted, beat once, and tricked him into speech. "I am glad to have helped you." Then, in the following silence, "I will leave your family be, for now. I have no business with them."

It was a lie. He did have ends to meet. But Alfred had so politely asked to be left alone. The boy knew he would not maintain peace for long. He had merely wanted to see him smile once, before he left. It occurred to Ivan that he behaved abnormally; but Alfred had thought to thank him for his effort, and he had been honest. The boy had always been able to move him.

"Wow, really? I appreciate that. Thank you, Ivan. Really." Alfred reached out as if to touch him, but took avoided contact. His smile was strained, but genuine. "Thank you."

He stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I should go. I hope you understand. And thank you. For everything."

Ivan stayed on the couch. He didn't follow Alfred's awkward steps to the door. He didn't stare into the hallway until the door closed. He didn't watch for Alfred's shadow on the curtains.

He let him go, let Alfred back into the free world where he belonged.

"Attached." Ivan repeated into the neck of the bottle, in English. "Emotionally attached."

He emptied the drink, and through the resulting burn he muttered, "Bud'te zdorovy, podsolnechnik." Be well.

England would be proud of his boy, he thought, though Alfred deserved better than unappreciative silence. Alfred had made a decision against his heart for what might have been the very first time. For him, a creature of sentiment and spirit, he was sure that was a hard lesson to learn.

Ivan was glad he had been the villain. He trusted no one else to handle Alfred properly. He molded the boy like no one else could, and the usually obstinate Alfred had been flawless in every response. No one tried to deny that the two were meant to be together, either as enemies or as allies. No one but Alfred, evidently, and he was the only person on Earth who mattered.

But everything would be all right if Alfred had what he wanted. If he was safe, if he was happy, if he had the world at his fingertips. If Alfred was free, so was Ivan. That had been a hard lesson too, but Ivan was old, and he knew how to learn quickly, not to fight his own unpredictable heart. Sunflowers were meant for vast fields and the kiss of sunlight. They simply perished in the cold and dark. He was a fool.

"Hey."

Ivan's knee barked against the table, and he struggled to contain the excitement that shook his bones when he found that Alfred had returned to the hallway, covered in snow and shivering. His bronzed cheeks were ruddy, and his shoulders heaved with exertion. Had he been running?

"Did you forget something?" Ivan kept his voice as calm as he could. He was not entirely successful.

Alfred hugged his arms closer against the chill that stuck to his clothes. He'd tracked snow all over the floorboards, and it melted in the shape of hurried footprints. "Sorry. I knocked, but I figured you were probably still up. I forgot to say something."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It doesn't really matter, but if I didn't tell the truth it'd haunt me. And what I'm about to say might give you a great opening if you ever wanted to take me out, so listen up."

Ivan set the bottle on the table and stood. Every minute with the boy was precious, all the more for his leaving. "Breathe, then speak to me."

"I can't. If I hesitate I won't say it." Alfred's teeth clattered together. "I wasn't completely honest. I know what happened. I can tell you where it went wrong. It started after December. After we started hanging out for fun."

Alfred spoke with harried concentration, as if trying to cast out the words all at once. "That's when it started, but a couple weeks ago I finally figured out what's been bothering me and it spooked me, man, it really freaked me out."

"Alfred." Ivan used his most soothing voice and moved into the light of the hallway. "Speak more slowly or I cannot understand you."

"Right. English. Sorry. Anyway." Alfred took a step back when Ivan took one step too close. "Since we started hanging out, I've been feeling like something's been wrong."

"How long?" Ivan asked to slow his train of thought.

"About a year ago? When things settled down between you and me." Alfred gestured between them with a finger. "When we started playing online together."

"Yes?"

"Okay, here goes." Alfred released a breath and shifted from foot to foot. "You know me, man, I'm always running around to the next thing and everybody's always around, asking me for shit. Kinda chaotic, but in a good way, you know? Those nights when it's just you and me and online mode and a crate of vodka," he chuckled, "that shit started keeping me sane."

Alfred continued. "You're the only person who really knows what I'm capable of sometimes. You make me feel powerful and strong and smart. I like who I am when I'm with you. I was talking to Francis and Mattie and Arthur yesterday and I realized that you make me feel… so calm."

Ivan didn't know what expression might show on his face.

Alfred's voice slowed. He warmed his fingers by rubbing them together inside his sleeves. "My head gets quieter and I feel like I can think and I feel more grounded. When you're around. And I realized that the thing that was bothering me was that…" He stopped for a steadying breath. "A couple weeks ago I realized that I can't get through the week if I don't talk to you. Like I told Francis, I realized I can hear my heartbeat when I'm with you, and I never notice it otherwise. That was just such a shock to me, the symbolism."

Ivan feared that the moment would vanish in a dream. He thought perhaps that Alfred was mocking him and was almost proud of the boy's brutality. He wondered if he'd finally lost so much of his sanity that he'd retreated into some precious delusional fantasy. A fantasy wherein Alfred would sprint to him through the dark and the cold to make some profound confession about his beating heart.

Alfred shrugged. "Maybe it's because we spent so much time trying to kill each other, you know, so we've seen the worst in each other already. You're powerful and dignified and you've got so much experience and everybody knows what you're capable of. You're good at all the things I suck at, and I'm really good at the things you suck at, and you're totally fine with that. It doesn't make you uncomfortable at all that I'm a little stronger or a little bit younger. You know you're formidable too. I have so much respect for that, dude, I really do."

Ivan thought that surely his heart couldn't beat any harder. Surely his stomach couldn't feel any lighter. He forced his lungs to inhale.

Ivan's face was hidden in shadow, and he couldn't see his expression. Alfred reminded himself that it didn't matter and exhaled long and low. "Okay. It was really important to me I tell you all that. I don't think you're a crazy person, dude. I think you're nuttier than a box of squirrels, but I'm not convinced that's a weakness."

He shook his head, feeling melting snow run down the back of his neck. Or was that a chill because he didn't know Ivan was reacting? "I left my bag by the road. I'll say this one last thing: just because everything I just said is true, don't think for a second that I don't know you could be manipulating me. All that is the real reason why I'm leaving. I can't take that risk."

He scuffed his shoes on the stained floor. "I told Francis about the heartbeat thing. He seemed to think it was important I tell you about it. I don't know why."

Ivan swallowed. So the boy had no idea what he'd just done. General Winter burst gleefully into the hall, scattering snowflakes in his wake.

His heart cried for him to speak, beat powerlessly against his ribcage as if the boy might hear. Dirty icewater soaked into Ivan's socks, but he didn't remember stepping into the hallway. Alfred laid a hand on the doorknob, and Ivan said, "If I was not manipulating you?"

Ivan's voice was so soft, so… light. Low and quiet. Startled, Alfred said over his shoulder, "Then you'd be wasting a good opportunity, I guess."

He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. Waves of frigid air numbed his face, but the house at his back was warm. He had been so sure, on the jog back to Ivan's house, what he would say and do. How the conversation would end. That he would know for once and for all that he had made the best decision.

It was Alfred's fatal mistake to look up at Ivan. One large hand clutched at the end of his scarf in a display of anxiety while the other rested in the folds around his throat. The elder's sensual mouth was a thin, pale line; his throat worked. Ivan's penetrating stare left no room for rebellion. It was a hypnotizing expression that always preceded pain.

They'd avoided any real fighting—excepting righteous sex, of course—for nearly a year, but he'd committed a sin. He'd admitted weakness, Alfred thought, and his heart began to pound. He needed to run. He needed to throw open the door, run into the cold, and lock his apartment behind him. And maybe pray.

Ivan laid a hand on the door, and Alfred knew he needed to sprint out into the wind, run home, hide under his bed until daybreak. He gritted his teeth and stared up at Ivan with defiance in every cell of his body. But he couldn't move.

Ivan turned the lock on the door, holding Alfred still with his eyes. He was a man to give credit where credit was due. Francis had earned a respite from the punishment he'd earlier decided.

"The boy has known so little affection," Francis had sighed, and tapped ash from his cigarette. "You should have seen him the first time we made love. I lament the poor boy's upbringing. Arthur showed him so little warmth, and now my little enfant sees fault where compassion should be. You should know. Like you, Alfred is resistant to pain, but he has no defenses to le toucher doux."

Ivan had not corrected him.

"Be gentle with him." Francis had said with a slant to his eyes. "And he will melt like butter."

How many times had Ivan fantasized the moment Alfred submitted wholly to him, bowed his head and renounced all others before him? How many nights had Ivan stood over the boy while he slept unwittingly on his couch and dreamed of the day when Alfred belonged to him? He had made his threat to Arthur with the intentions of carrying through, and carry through he would. The boy was right to fear for his safety.

But he had expected to take the boy by force. He had not anticipated that Alfred would be so delightfully charming, or so erotically willing to please. He had not been prepared for black jealousy to strike when Belarus threatened to beat Alfred with the broom handle, for Alfred's unexpected delivery of dessert when he'd otherwise have been alone, for Alfred's complex understanding of his own strange behaviors. He had not planned for those nights they spent tangled together, satisfied after hours of vicious fucking, vaguely conscious of their fifteenth round of some videogame and too drunk to leave the house.

No, he did not mind admitting defeat. Not if Alfred won something in the fall.

Alfred's eyes were ablaze with the promise of violence, and as much as he loved that expression on that charismatic face, he needed the boy compliant. He needed him docile and to understand what Ivan asked of him. He wasn't ready, and Ivan would sincerely enjoy preparing him.

The boy tightened his fists and stared him down without fear. How beautiful. He'd missed the sight. Alfred would kick a heel into his hip to unbalance him, then shove at his ribcage to push him away. Ivan laid his palms on Alfred's forearms without pressure and stepped into Alfred's space. He lowered his head, holding Alfred's eyes with his own, until the bridges of their noses nearly touched.

Confusion crossed Alfred's handsome features. The heel of his soaked running shoe hit the wall with a thump that startled him. His eyes widened in shock.

Neither of them could count the number of times they'd fucked over the years. They were an insatiable pair, lustful and gluttonous, and neither bothered to feel shameful for his appetite. But for their number of brutal defeats, bloodied fistfights, and ferocious grappling, not one time had either thought to kiss. They weren't lovers, just convenient; it wouldn't have made sense.

The unspoken communication passed through them—Are you really? and Yes, I am.

Alfred's head moved from side to side, but he held eye contact and opened his mouth, maybe to shout or to gasp in surprise.

Ivan took Alfred's mouth with his own. He made no attempt toward gentleness, made no promises he couldn't keep. He dominated Alfred's mouth with his tongue and punished with his teeth when he was denied. He was so enthralled by Alfred's taste—he actually tasted like warm sunshine and salted sunflower seeds—that he failed to register that the expected kick and push never came.

Alfred meant to shove Ivan. He fisted his hands in his shirt and pressed his feet into the ground, but then Ivan's mouth covered his, and his head hit the wall with a solid thunk that didn't hurt, and he realized that Ivan tasted just like fresh snow and crisp morning air and maybe tea, and the taste was so good. He remembered the smell—the taste—of tea from a home he'd once known, and memories of safer times assaulted him. The surprise drained the strength from his arms, so he stayed where he was and allowed himself to be attacked.

No battle for dominance came. Ivan watched Alfred's eyes and hid the thrill that electrified his spine when Alfred chose not to fight him. He cupped Alfred's upper arms with loose fingers and used his palms to urge Alfred away from the wall, into the frame of his body. They weren't unfamiliar with one another—Alfred wouldn't resist.

Alfred's head fell backward as Ivan deepened the kiss. He stepped forward into Ivan's shape, shocked and drained. It—it didn't hurt, not even a little, and he wouldn't strike if he wasn't hit first. Ivan closed a hand around his jaw, holding him captive for his tongue to explore, and Alfred tensed.

Ivan was not new to le toucher doux, as Francis had said, the gentle touch. He was mild with Lithuania—he had to be, or he'd break him—and he had been calculatingly gentle with Francis on two separate occasions after the curious Frenchman approached him. If Francis' mewling and the following pouting had been any indication, he was adept. He supposed it made sense. He knew the dance between authority and compliance, and what else was sex? He knew how to bring about tremendous pain; it would follow that he could bring about tremendous pleasure as well. The two were not opposites, but partners in the body, and he could call either forth with skillful ease in pursuit of the note that would break a man.

Alfred was adverse to Ivan's gentleness, and Ivan was adverse to offering. To be tender would have been a lie, and neither party was interested in boring lies if the honest pain felt so damn good. Their companionship was based in, built on, and thrived with hatred, and so they fucked rather than made love. For Ivan to show him pleasure without suffering would have meant something else entirely, something emotional which neither wanted or believed.

Alfred would feel only pleasure, and that was certain to scare him. The boy was not yet compliant enough to appreciate the comforts he had planned. The peak of attainment was thrilling, but Ivan's work was not yet done.

To emphasize his disobedience, Alfred remembered his impressive strength and shoved Ivan hard. He regained his balance quickly, but lost control of Alfred's head.

Flushed and frantic, Alfred lifted a defensive arm between them. His wet shoes squeaked on the wood panels as he turned on his heel. Ivan kissed him, he thought in shock. It hadn't hurt. He stomped away from Ivan, from what had just happened. Not only had that kiss not hurt, it felt great, and that was not okay. "I will not be the idiot who falls for this."

Ivan struggled not to panic. He was so close. He couldn't lose when he was so close.

He forced himself to stay silent as Alfred twisted the lock. General Winter had bored with their teasing; the winds of the storm had softened. A single snowflake curled around the open crack in the door to land on the side of Alfred's shoe.

Alfred turned, and a gust of white breath vanished into the house. "What do you want with me, Braginski?"

The hallway darkened with Alfred so far away. He couldn't let him leave. He'd do what he must to make him stay, to make him his. He was so close. Ivan hid his nose in his scarf, twisting it with his hands, and looked away. "Go, Alfred."

Alfred's azure eyes narrowed, and he ground his perfect teeth. "Just like that?"

"You have your things. You said what you came here to say. Leave me."

Alfred's face betrayed him: cockiness, anger, anticipation. The heady liquor of youth. "You're not gonna make me. I'm supposed to believe that."

Ivan lifted himself to his full height, allowed his disdain to show. "You have made your desires clear, and I have been as patient as I can be with your imprudence. If you want to go, then go." He performed the finishing blow with a drop of the eye and clench of the jaw. "I want you to be safe. I thought—you said—just go."

Alfred's weakness was his heartstrings, and Ivan played him without mercy. In truth, his own heart beat frantically beneath his shirt, desperate to call out, to make him understand. Perhaps they still played each other in this new game of emotions. They had never been merciful combatants.

Ivan dropped his gaze, shook his head, and left the hallway. He stood in the darkness behind the couch, excruciatingly aware of how close he was to losing the encounter. If Alfred left, he would miss his perfect opportunity. If Alfred stayed, he might win him forever. He pressed the material of his scarf to his lips. His nerves frayed where he stood.

The door closed and latched, and then—there —the sound of a wet shoe. Ivan thought he might shout in delight. He couldn't stop the manic expression of glee that stretched his face, and was glad he was hidden in shadow.

Alfred was hesitant. "Are you—are you seriously not fucking with me?"

His voice had taken on a northern accent, which Ivan had always liked. He turned in a slow glide and stared, melancholy. If only he could speak it, and be believed. But Alfred needed to be shown. Just a little more. Just a little closer.

Framed in the hallway's light, Alfred glowed like the angel he was. He licked his lips, eyes narrow. "You know what? I know you're fucking with me." He tilted his chin, voice slow in thought. "But I don't… think you're doing it on purpose."

Taken aback, Ivan lifted his nose out of his scarf. "Kakiye?"

"You know what I think?" Alfred lifted a hand to gesture, face tight with anxiety, and shifted on his feet as he spoke. "I think somewhere down there, you're sincere. But I think what you really want and what you really think have to go through so many layers of acting, and pretending, and faking," he accentuated each word with a slice of his hand, "that you can't be sincere anymore."

Shocked to the core and vaguely insulted, Ivan found that he had nothing to say.

"You want me to stay here tonight. You got something planned. Something you're real excited about." Alfred said, and Ivan lifted his head to communicate that he was correct. "Yeah, that's what I thought. But I don't think," Alfred said slowly, "you're scheming. It really is important to you that I stay with you tonight. Isn't it?"

Ivan turned his body consciously to face the hall, and Alfred lifted his other hand, fingers splayed. "Easy. Easy, all right? I don't think either one of us want a fight right now."

He licked his lips, still plumped from what Ivan had done. "Now let me ask you something. If I do stay with you tonight, if I take off my coat and we do what you wanna do, what are the chances I'll walk out of here on my own two legs tomorrow?"

Ivan blinked. Alfred swayed in a halo of yellow light, hands held in a defensive position, face as hard as he'd ever seen. His brown jacket creaked as he inhaled deliberately, as if preparing himself, and looked Ivan up and down to assess his next attack.

"Alfred." Ivan stood as still as he could and spoke as clearly as he could. "You can do what you want. Tonight, tomorrow. The world is yours."

Ivan moved carefully, and Alfred stared him down with an expression he hadn't seen since the Cold War. Alfred shuffled back a step as Ivan stepped into the light of the hallway, and his breathing quickened. Like a frightened animal, the boy showed the whites of his eyes. He could still flee, and then Ivan would be left alone with his defeat.

He wrapped his fingers around the fur mantle of Alfred's coat and lifted it from his shoulders. Alfred swallowed audibly, shivering with the tension he held, and for a moment he only waited for some attack from behind. When none came, he brushed the coat off of one shoulder, then the other.

Ivan pointedly hung the coat in the foyer, watching from the corner of his eye as Alfred struggled to untie his laces with shaking fingers.

Alfred's heart raced so hard he worried that he might black out. His shoes were soaked through and stuck to his socks, so he tugged them off one at a time with both hands. Ivan hadn't given him an answer, he thought. Even if he had, it would have been a lie. Maybe that was why he hadn't said anything at all.

Ivan was facing him at the end of the hallway with an expression Alfred did not like, and he was between Alfred and the door. He'd seen Ivan's hatred, faced it head-on time and again. He'd seen Ivan's disgust, his fascination, his amusement. He'd seen Ivan calm and Ivan drunk and even Ivan kind of happy. He'd seen Ivan lustful and prideful. He'd never seen the intensity those violet eyes held as Ivan regarded him and planned his next move.

Alfred felt young. He felt inexperienced and scared. He already regretted his decision.

That beautiful night in the heart of Moscow's winter when Alfred had faced him for the first real time had been illuminating, exhilarating, infuriating. The boy refused to resign himself, refused to bleed out, refused to succumb to the cold. Ivan had felt his rage peak for the first time in a very long time, and Alfred had trembled in his wake. His hands shook with frostbite and fear, and his pistol had missed every shot.

Alfred held no gun, and he held no pipe. The cold was outside, and the hallway was warm. Not one venomous threat had been made, but the boy trembled. He looked so very like he had then that Ivan wondered what had been done to condition Alfred to fear le toucher doux. He reminded himself to break Arthur's nose, and maybe a few other fragile parts. He'd let him live. Alfred should be easy to fix.

They had played their delicate sparring game, and Alfred had come out the loser. He made no attempt to hide his anxiety as Ivan approached, and backed into the wall to escape him. "What are you gonna do? What did I agree to?"

Ivan stared down at him with something akin to pity, and the hair on the back of Alfred's neck stood on end. He threw up his arms in defense as Ivan set his palms on the boy's his shoulders. Alfred's backside made contact with the wall, and he was out of room to run. Ivan placed his knee between Alfred's unsteady legs.

Alfred's forearms barred him from stepping any closer without use of force. His bright eyes were hard as glass, despite his shaking, and his mouth was stiff as stone. Ivan eclipsed all but a sliver of yellow light which glinted on the edge of his glasses, his Texas, as if reminding Ivan how many layers had yet to be removed from the boy's psyche. And his exquisite body. He would relish the chore.

The location of the final act wasn't a concern of his, but he wondered if he should attempt to lure Alfred into the bedroom. Perhaps the bed was a comforting place for Alfred to resign the last of his liberties. He catalogued the task at hand, counting pieces of clothing and tantrums yet to be had. Ivan smoothed the fabric of the heavy cotton sweater down Alfred's arms in an attempt to soothe his trembling, and Alfred surprised them both. He dropped his eyes to Ivan's lips and back to his eyes in invitation.