A/N: This will be multichapter. Bear with me for a bit—it's been a long time since I've written fic. I don't own. Enjoy.

Ivan blinked as he stepped out into the half-lit street. It was mid-December, and the usual bleak, gray cloud cover had moved in, casting a bluish sheen on everything. He pulled his half-buttoned trench coat closer around himself and stepped off of the doorstep onto the sidewalk. He heard a seemingly distant goodbye from his workmates and waved halfheartedly, not really hearing them. The snow swirled around him; it settled on his hair and eyelashes and Ivan blinked it away, squinting. He set off at a brisk pace, restless and wanting warmth.

His coworkers always teased him for hating the cold, since he was Russian, but Ivan couldn't help it. One too many nights stuck outside in the dead of winter after someone was gone when they said they wouldn't be and an evening or two spent outside after his father had had too much to drink had really rubbed him the wrong way.

There was only one good thing about winter, as far as Ivan was concerned—matter of fact, it was coming up on the next corner. He hastened along.

Ivan felt a pleasant warmth settle over him when he opened the door to the café. The feeling settled low near his stomach, comforting and fuzzy. He stamped his feet on the shop's soaking floor mat, pulling his hands from deep within his pockets, and tugged his scarf down from his flushed cheeks and chin. He paused a moment to pull off his scarf, inhaling purposefully to catch the distinct smell of coffee and old books the café had. Ivan stepped back a bit from the door and wound his scarf up, then tucked it in his bag.

He smiled softly, naturally, and walked over to the bookshelves. He loved books, though in this case more for the look and smell of them (and for the armchairs that lay hidden behind them) than for the books themselves. He was fairly certain he'd already read all of the books that the café had. He settled down in a plush chair, the same white chair he always sat in, and immediately felt his body relax. He closed his eyes, feeling drowsy suddenly.

He really did love this shop.

Ivan heard footsteps on the carpeting behind him and knew who it was. He was immediately wide awake, and though he didn't open his eyes, his heart began to beat faster, just like it did every day. He felt the usual shy butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

This…was the second reason he loved this shop.

He heard the footsteps stop, predictably, right next to him. He caught a puff of his warm, cinnamon scent. He opened his eyes slowly, sleepily, feigning tiredness, and turned his head slightly to look up at the man next to him.

He would never be able to look at this man enough. There was something about him, something that drew Ivan in inexplicably and had captured him completely. He pushed down a sudden impulse to reach up and run his fingers through the man's unkempt blond hair. The man smiled at him and adjusted the tray underneath his right arm.

"The usual, I take it?" he said, and Ivan could feel his own stress melting off in waves. He struggled to keep his smile a friendly one rather than a fond one.

"Yes, please, thank you," Ivan replied. The man walked away and Ivan sank back into his chair. He allowed his thoughts to run freely now that he was alone.

How long had he been coming here? It had been a year, at least. He'd been grinding his teeth over last year's winter and one of his coworkers had mentioned this place in passing. Since he appreciated coffee and had never been one to object to a good book, he had stopped in. The moment he'd walked through the door, that man had caught his attention. He was all warm, sincere smiles and vibrant blue eyes, and however cliché it was, Ivan could swear he heard the ice frozen over his heart start cracking.

He often wondered what his name was. He often wondered how old he was, too. He seemed young, probably young enough that Ivan wouldn't appeal to him, even though Ivan was only twenty-five. He wished he could ask that man if he was seeing anyone, but he didn't even know if he was gay. God forbid he say something wrong and scare him off; Ivan might well pack up his bags and go home to Russia if that happened, and to hell with American university.

He really, really wanted to know what the man's name was. Why didn't he wear a name tag, Ivan wondered. There was no point in having fantasies if there was no name to be screami—

"Here's your coffee," the man said, setting the cup down on the small table next to Ivan, snapping him out of his thoughts. Ivan smiled (friendly, not fond, he repeated inwardly) and dipped his head obligingly.

"Thank you," he said, picking up the cup. The man straightened and turned, Ivan still wishing he knew what his name was. Well, he thought as he blew on his coffee, beggars can't be choosers. Suddenly, the man hesitated and looked back at Ivan. He seemed to be thinking about something, his eyes darting back and forth. Ivan looked back cautiously. He could hardly breathe.

"You know, I've been wondering," the man said. "For a while, actually: what's your name? I know it's kind of a rude question, but I see you here every day, and it's…odd to not have a name to put to the face."

Ivan gave an amused smile.

"It's no trouble at all; I've been wondering your name, as well," he told the man, taking an experimental sip of his steaming coffee. "I'm Ivan, Ivan Braginski."

"Alfred Jones," Alfred said. He held out his hand. A beat passed before Ivan reached out and took it. He felt an electric jolt that he was certain was only on his part. Alfred had a firm grip, and god but his hand was so soft.

Alfred's brow crinkled a bit and he parted his lips, looking as if he were about to say something. Ivan loved being able to put a name to him.

Suddenly, a call came from the front, snapping at Alfred to get up and get back to work; he could chat on his own time. Ivan decided that he hated the owner of that voice very much.

Alfred gave Ivan an apologetic look. "Sorry. Duty calls. Enjoy your coffee, though."

Ivan smiled understandingly back at him. "Of course. There is always tomorrow, after all, da?"

Alfred blinked. He laughed, a clear, ringing sound that echoed through the café and turned a few startled heads to look at him.

"Yeah," Alfred said, grinning. "Yeah, I guess there is."

He walked away and Ivan leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair. He slowly processed the last few minutes. He decided he couldn't believe any of it had actually happened—he'd been trying to work up the courage to ask Alfred his name for months, and he'd been beaten to the punch. He sighed and picked up his coffee again.

Oh, well. It was progress. They were making progress.

Ivan chuckled ruefully and reached into his bag for his class work. That would do.

That would do just fine.