Always too formal - too considerate -

"May I?"

Always making him so vulnerable, always the one to mumble out a broken "yes, please." He hated him for it.

And then he couldn't. Because so many - so many times, he knew he had been rejected, and he was just so shy, so hurt on the inside, under thick coats and scarves. And even if Ivan didn't quite care, he was the only one who could see him like this. Even after the blood, the biting, cutting, shooting pain, he always asked before -

"Don't ask for it." He choked out the sentence just barely.

Ivan only furrowed his brow. "Chto?"

"Take what you want. Take it."

Violet eyes stared back into his, and he thought he could see - could see it there -

"Spasibo." He murmured and began to move slowly, almost lovingly, which couldn't be true no matter how hard he wished it, and soon enough he was biting back gasps of pain.

He smiled faintly as Ivan was reduced to his state, panting and moaning as he came, and he buried his face in his neck, mumbling three words that he knew he must never let him hear because he wouldn't understand.

He breathed deeply and let the arm curled loosely around him fall away, despite how much he wished it would stay. "Spasibo, America," he whispered again as he fell asleep, and he was so glad that he could not see him cry.

Uhhh...I don't know. Again, more brain rot. Because my muse left. Again.

And "Chto" is the phonetic spelling of "What" in Russian, if google translate was right..."Spasibo," thank you, and...I think that's all...

Semi-rant: this new layout is screwing me up so much, it took me five minutes to even get to the doc manager...I'm a fail, aren't I?