'My dearest sisters,

I write to you now with the lightest of hearts. It is a wonderment in its own time how I should come to call the emotion of love as my own. I have met someone, and I love him very much.

You should see him, sisters, for surely you would never behold anything more beautiful on this planet. His hair is liken to sunshine, his skin like the bronzed statues of Auguste Rodin, and his eyes, oh, my sisters, you should behold his eyes. They are bright, vivid blues liken to the December topazes, but more luscious, possessing a spirit like a fiery flame. Certainly his value is far above any gem or precious metal. I would price him for no less, but know that he cannot be sold for it is I who own his worth.

He has promised to become my lover and every moment of the day even unto the evening hours when I slept amongst the playing dreams do I worship him. He is my soul, my heart, my entire being. I have never loved anything more than him. No music, poetry, or the accomplishments of my country could sway me from my affection for him.

Your charming brother,

Ivan Braginsky'

'Dearest Vanya,

Forgive me for being the only one to respond to your joyous news, you know how Natalia can get. I am so very happy for you, my brother. I know how much you struggled just to find meaning in anything in this world. It does my heart good to hear you've given your own to one so special and appreciating of your attention. I am so ecstatic that I cannot contain myself right now, the servants have brought in warm tea just so I can control my voice. This means so much to me, brother, that you have finally found the mate to your soul.

I had not believed that when I embraced you one last time before the ship carried you away into the arms of another country that you would find someone to care so deeply for. Now I am conflicted, you see. I wish you well and that you remain by his side, but I do terribly miss you and wish to see your face again to know you are eating well.

I also would adore to see this love of yours. He sounds handsome and the conjured image of you both in my mind is satisfying. Oh, how I wish to see visible proof of one so poetically beautiful.

Your ever loving sister,

Katyusha'

"A picture?" Alfred questioned. He had been caught off guard by the request when Ivan had suddenly asked this while the two of them lounged out in the gardens for brunch.

"Da." Ivan nodded with a hopeful smile. "One with you and me. It would please me very much to carry an image of you everywhere I went."

The way Alfred's eyelids fluttered and the flush painted his skin was gorgeous. It was even better when a light smile turned his lips. The American was already head-long past the point in denying anything Ivan wanted. "Well, if . . . if that's what you want."

Ivan placed his teacup down onto the stand they had carried with them and leaned over Alfred's chair, catching his lips with his own. The poet had been so happy with Alfred's approval that he had missed the return in pressure from the American before he pulled away. Despite Alfred doing his best to hide the frown from the lack of kiss length, Ivan's own smile continued to beam the rest of his features brightly.

"We shall look our best then," Ivan coerced. "Would you allow me to order you a suit?"

There was a negative tweak in Alfred's frown that Ivan simply overlooked to keep his hopes. A suit, was it? Sure, Alfred knew it was desired to look one's best for a photograph, but going through with getting an entire suit fitted for him meant . . .

"I will measure you if you are uncomfortable riding into town to see the tailor."

Alfred offered a short smile for Ivan's suggestion. He didn't like the idea of getting fitted at all, but the Russian was presenting an opportunity where Alfred didn't have to bare himself before a tailor for a bodily measurement.

And it seemed Alfred nodding in agreement made the entirety of the Russian's day.

Ivan was still courteous when the day came for him to take out the measuring tape and made to take down the numbers. Alfred sat on his bed and willingly held out his arms, raised his chin for proper length of neck, and sat up straight. Ivan saved measuring Alfred's thighs for last.

Alfred was quiet as Ivan slid the measuring tape over his body. The arms were first and then his neck. Alfred raised his arms for Ivan to wrap the tape around his waist. When the Russian slipped his fingers into the loop for a fitting test Alfred found his face heating. One hand of Ivan's rested against his ribs as the other pulled the tape for accurate measurement. Alfred liked those hands very much, and the memory of their touch still lingered on his skin, ever requiring more ministrations now that he's had a taste of the skill.

So the American purposely began subtly leaning into Ivan's touch. When those large pale hands came down to his waist, Alfred would gently press into those moving hands. But it seemed the poet was focused on the task of measurement than letting his thoughts stray to other provocative actions. So, Alfred tried again when Ivan gently wrapped he tape around his thighs and held his palm still to tighten the tape evenly. Alfred rose his thigh, pressing it more into the palm but Ivan simply retracted his hands altogether, done with taking down the numbers.

Ivan hadn't even noticed the soft flush on Alfred's features when he rolled up the tape and thanked him for his cooperation before biding the younger a farewell. Alfred wasn't certain if he felt upset over his inability to communicate bodily to his love—they were lovers, weren't they?—or just sad over Ivan leaving him so quickly.

Alfred said nothing about his feelings, not even when Ivan came to him the day the suit was ready.

"Here it is, Alfred," Ivan said after laying the wrapped package down onto Alfred's bed after he returned from town one day. "I should think it will fit you just finely."

Alfred took up the package and thanked Ivan for it, though he had noticed how expectant the Russian looked. "What is it?" Alfred questioned the reason for Ivan's continued stay in his room—he usually left quicker.

"Well, I was thinking . . ." Ivan reached up to scratch his cheek almost sheepishly. "It would be better for a test, da?"

"Test?" Alfred raised his brow curiously.

Ivan nodded his head. "Da, before the photograph. You should try on the suit so to make sure it fits you perfectly so you won't be uncomfortable if it doesn't when the plates dry."

Alfred shrugged his shoulders. He supposed he could. So when he took up the package and began unraveling it he glanced toward Ivan who waited patiently. "You don't . . . you don't have to be here for me to try it on," Alfred assured.

Ivan nodded and backed away. "Will you call to me when you have tried it on?" the Russian asked.

Alfred shrugged again. He didn't see any reason against it. "If you would like."

Ivan then smiled that smile that made Alfred's heart melt. "Da, I would," he said before biding Alfred farewell again and leaving his room.

Alfred hadn't put on a suit in a long time. A formal one at least. The last known suit he wore was his military outfit. They were basically the same with a few alterations.

It wasn't hard for the American to put it on. He sighed like usual when it came to the pants. With the legs unfurled the empty fabric stretched to the foot of the bed. Alfred understood that Ivan likely hadn't informed the tailor that he was taking measurements for an amputee.

And so Alfred did was he usually always did. On habit he began rolling up the pant legs and clipped them to hold. He rolled his shoulders and even wiggled his hips. The suit fit nicely.

A knock rapped across Alfred's door, startling him. His heart calmed its heavy beats when the voice of Ivan echoed on the other side.

"Have you tried it on, Alfred? I would like to see it if you may allow me to."

Alfred sighed. He really couldn't deny Ivan anything. So he nodded and then told him to come in. The poet was smiling per usual when he entered and examined the young lad.

"You look every bit a gentleman," Ivan praised, surely noticing the sweet flush painting Alfred's cheeks.

Alfred didn't say much, but when he went to take off his coat Ivan reached out and patted his shoulder. "If you may," the Russian began. "I should like to see you move more in it."

Alfred rose a brow and then rolled his shoulders and twisted a little to show Ivan that he could move perfectly fine, but the older man simply shook his head with a chuckle. "Nyet, Alfred. As I see it the best way to test the durability of a man's suit is to try it in a session of dance."

Dance?

"Come, come."

Alfred suddenly found himself pulled into Ivan's arms and seated in his wheelchair. In a blink Ivan had pushed him into the vacant music room and slid over to the piano. The American looked confused beyond anything else, but when Ivan sat down on the stool and turned to him with a smile, fingers out above the piano keys, Alfred subconsciously smiled in return.

"I have just tuned this," Ivan informed as he laid his fingers down and pressed against the keys, striking up a pleasantly soft melody.

It was late at night and Alfred may have worried about waking any of the servants or tenants hadn't he known the music room to have thicker walls. And the soft tune struck would only be heard like bells in someone's dream should it float to everyone's ears.

When Alfred had leaned back in his chair, intent on enjoying the music, the Russian stopped. He stood up and smiled at Alfred and said, "Now, remember that melody."

Suddenly Ivan pulled something out from the corner, it was a high stool. He sat it in the middle of the room and then walked up to Alfred. He bent, reached his arms out to pick him up, but halted after realizing he hadn't asked any sort of permission to do so.

"May I?" Ivan questioned.

Alfred's cheeks flushed and he nodded, letting Ivan take him in his arms. Of course he hadn't expected said poet to sit him on the high stool nor to strap him on it securely.

A firm hand pressed against Alfred's back, pulling him flush against Ivan's chest. The American started, wobbling on the stool, afraid he'd lean too far which way and teeter over, but Ivan's hand did not relent pressure and the steady rise and fall of that broad chest let Alfred know he had a sturdy anchor with which to cling to.

The room was still quite dark with only a small lantern lit, seated atop the piano, and the silvery rays from the moonlight cascading into the room through the window. Even still Alfred could see Ivan's face perfectly as he looked down at him and smiled that soft smile that made Alfred's cheeks warm.

"Now, remember that melody in your head," Russia said. He paused for a moment, looking into the American's eyes. "Do you have it playing out?"

Alfred's eyes fluttered and he nodded silently, his gaze falling down. He looked back up toward the Russian poet when he felt that pressing hand on his back grip his coat jacket.

"Good." Suddenly Alfred was skidding forward while Ivan slid backwards. Once again the American feared tipping over and crashing to the ground with the stool attached to him, but Ivan held him close, and steadied his motion.

The moment Alfred might have thought about easing his nerves happened to be around the same time Ivan took a turn to the left. Once more Alfred was clinging to Ivan, trying to remain as upright and steady as possible. It took more time for him to realize that Ivan was not going to let him fall.

"Are you listening to the music?" Ivan questioned, trying to keep Alfred's focused eyes off of the stool he was seated on for stability, and back toward him, because the Russian enjoyed looking into those gem-like eyes. "A pleasant melody for a dance like this."

And Alfred did look up at him. Those blue eyes watched as the Russian set his vision on where he was to lead Alfred to next, the small space between the instruments proving an easy path to follow in the slow motion of their waltz. The wheels on the stool did create some bumpy turbulence, but Alfred now understood that he could hold onto Ivan and that the older would not let him fall.

"You seem to move just finely in that suit. Is a good fit," Ivan noted while he looked down at Alfred and watched the way he moved in the suit. There was another moment of silence before the Russian's chuckle bounced off the room's walls. "At least I don't have to worry with you struggling for lead or stepping on my feet."

Alfred was surprised by the comment. He blinked and looked up at Ivan. The statement was quite insensitive, and for a poet he certainly could have used better wording. But before any insecure feeling arose in Alfred's chest he watched Ivan look down at him again, that loving smile always on his lips when the Russian looked at him.

"Da, I am glad for you being with me." When Ivan pressed close, his cheek rubbing against Alfred's temple, the American heard a content sigh pass out of his lips. "There is no more perfect a moment than this."

Alfred flushed at Ivan's heartfelt statement, more so when Ivan had pressed close and slowed down their dance to a simple sway in the dark. The American could feel the poet's heartbeat, its soft pattering calmed him and helped him accept the heat burning his skin. All too soon Alfred laid his head against Ivan's chest and closed his eyes to feel the moment as Ivan had and he hoped the Russian could feel the beat of his own heart which picked up pace for the poet.

Alfred had never felt so at peace in anyone's presence, but right then he had never been more content in his life. In a way he was glad he had lost his legs . . .

He wouldn't have met Ivan if he hadn't.

That night have been perfect and the two returned to their beds with content hearts. It was from this assurance of love that Alfred and Ivan held their smiles through the entire time the photographic plates dried when the photographer came and took their picture in a light room.

"You two look so handsome," Mrs. Thatcher mentioned after the plate had finally dried and she got a chance to see the finish result. "Oh my, you even held those lustrous smiles the entire time." That was a feat to do while waiting for the picture to engrain. But right then it seemed like the most natural thing for the two to do. They were even smiling then while looking at the final image.

"You take very lovely photos, Alfred. My thanks for allowing it." Ivan was proud of the picture and would indeed ask the photographer for copies. He would send one to his sister and keep one for himself.

Alfred only smiled approvingly. However, he didn't voice that he had never sat down in a photo before, and that this was the first instance where he had no other option but to be the seated participant. After a while Alfred feared Ivan might have noticed his moody reminiscence, the Russian usually did, but this time the poet would not draw his attention away from the photographer and his plans to obtain multiple pictures.

It was a good thing to see Ivan so enthusiastic about something. Alfred knew that it was important to him because it was a picture of the two. The image of two lovers were endearing and yet when Alfred received a copy and made to place it on the night table next to his bed he couldn't bring himself to look at it. It was indeed a lovely picture of the both of them, but the lack of Ivan's current presence made Alfred sore about the picture, especially when the poet seemed to busy himself with other things.

There were the daily poetry reading yes, but when Alfred asked to go out into the gardens, Ivan had to head into town for something, when Alfred asked for him to help him go horse riding, Ivan had to fix his room. Alfred understood that he wanted to spend time with the Russian, but now, ever since that nightly dance of theirs Ivan's embrace has been more than far from him.

So, Alfred began to move in the day. Instead of waiting in the lounge room for a read, he would head outside to the gardens. He wondered if Ivan would even notice his absence, and for a moment Alfred hoped he wouldn't because he was upset with the neglect he'd dealt with lately, but in reality Alfred wanted Ivan to come looking for him and to inquire as to why he had suddenly changed routine.

"Alfred?"

The American rooted in his chair. He tried to hide his frown but it was plastered to his face when he heard Ivan approach him. He stopped next to him, Alfred would not turn toward him, instead he focused his gaze down on the ripening vegetables.

"I came to search for you in the lounge room and was surprised to find you vacant of the room that time of day." A chuckle arose in the air and all Alfred wanted to do was grumble. Just what was so funny? "I wanted to apologize."

Finally, Alfred looked at the Russian. Had Ivan known his unease with his distance? Had Ivan understood how neglected Alfred felt? How detached from him since . . . the lake . . . when they . . .

But Ivan smiled, a seemingly oblivious feature now while he pulled something out from behind his back and placed it on Alfred's lap. The younger's blue eyes looked down and noticed a book weighing him down. Crime and Punishment . . . a new novel.

"The man who wrote this is a dear friend of mine, and might I say it is exquisite writing." Ivan seemed ecstatic about the published title. He then took out a copy of his own. "While I have been a little too kept in tasks to sit and write my own, I think it would be nice to read together sometime."

Alfred sighed, his frown returning. It wasn't the reading that perturbed him, however, he allowed it. It seems Ivan really hadn't the time to write his own poetry—which Alfred missed—and so instead sat with Alfred and read his copy of the book while Alfred read his own in silence. Ivan would only speak up or look at Alfred for inquiring the page number or chapter he was on. Their chats were short and their reading time seemingly even shorter.

While Alfred always enjoyed their private time together, this just seemed so mundane and old. He wasn't sure how his thoughts should be about it all. Some days Alfred felt as if Ivan still treated him like some adolescent child by giving him some "toy" to hold him over while the "adult" went off. Alfred didn't like feeling like that and he wasn't certain if Ivan understood he was making him feel like such.

In honesty Alfred realized he was looking for a change. A change after their night out by the lake. At first he had believed he saw it; with he and Ivan sitting even closer, touching each other unabashed without permission to do so, the soft smiles on Ivan's lips seemed to hold a deeper meaning, and Alfred flushed more often when he was with Ivan, especially if they were amongst only themselves.

The feeling was slowly waning and Alfred was afraid that he had done something wrong. As usual.

The snap of pages and a cover coming together alerted Alfred that Ivan had finished his reading session for the night. The Russian used to wait for Alfred to finish the chapter, but now it seemed the time called to him quicker, tonight was no exception.

"It is late," Ivan noted while tucking his book under his arm and standing from the chair he had sat himself in near Alfred's bed. When he looked at Alfred he was none the wiser that Alfred simply stared at the pages, the American simply playing at reading because he couldn't get focused enough to care to read—not with all of the internal conflicts. "Are you finished with the chapter?" He approached him closer, leaning over to look at the Alfred's spot in the book. He chuckled after noticing the place Alfred had been "stuck" at. "Why, Alfred, you'll have to read faster to catch up to where I am. I am already half way through the novel."

With another chuckle Ivan leaned over in habit to grace the American with a kiss goodnight, but Alfred turned his head letting those pale lips press against his cheek instead of mouth. This wasn't the first night this had happened. It was a common gesture between the two of them since their first kiss, a kiss goodnight was both appreciated and wanted, but lately Alfred's been turning his face to avoid any lip-to-lip contact. Ivan hadn't worded any concern over it and if he shown it through his expressions in the disappointment afterwards Alfred wouldn't know, he's come to avert his gaze until Ivan left his room—his upset pushed him to look away.

That night was like any other. Ivan said nothing to the shifted kiss on the cheek. He said nothing even when he moved Alfred's book away and set it down on the night stand near the bed. When he began habitually tucking Alfred into his sheets, it was all the same.

But Alfred's upset forced him to change this growing normalcy.

Quickly, Alfred reached out and took Ivan's hand and placed it against his chest. His night shirt hung loose enough for Ivan's bare hands to brush skin. Alfred wanted to entice him to touch him more intimately again, to look at him like he wanted him, like he couldn't stand the mere thought of turning and leaving the room.

When Ivan smiled and moved his hand away, simply patting Alfred like he was some damn pet the American exploded. The Russian turned to leave, to make it that everything was settled in for the night and that it was time to depart from the other without another word, or without the chance of embrace.

"Ivan." The Russian stopped, his hand on Alfred's doorknob, ready to turn. "Why won't you look at me?" With that question Ivan turned toward Alfred, his face was so very hard to read and Alfred often wondered if one had to be born with observational skills to embrace empathy for another being.

"I am now," Ivan explained, but Alfred didn't want that response.

With a harsh sigh, Alfred sat up straight in his bed, his hands entwined together but often times disconnected only to connect and fall apart again in a nervous motion. "No." Alfred sighed again.

He didn't want to look at Ivan again for his lack of understanding. Alfred wasn't a man who willingly and openly portrayed and explained his feelings. That was why Ivan had been so perfect for him, because he knew when Alfred didn't want him to, but now . . . now . . .

"No, you won't look at me," Alfred said, trying to emphasis words if that's what Ivan needed for everything to come to an understanding in his consciousness. "Do you not see how much I . . . how much I . . ." Alfred wasn't the poetic soul and his range of vocabulary wasn't as vast as Ivan's nor as beautiful and so he struggled with how to explain himself and his internal needs. "How much I yearn for you? How I look at you to turn and look at me, how I reach out for you to reach back toward me." Alfred felt his eyes sting and he furiously rubbed his lids to keep himself held high. "You look right at me but you don't see me. You touch me but you don't feel me." Shaking his head sadly, Alfred offered a pitiful smile. "I thought you knew me so well, but now you distance yourself from me and I wonder if it was something I've done . . . if I've found displeasure in your eyes. I would ask what wrong I've caused but I don't think I would be able to bear your acknowledgment of my known faults." Alfred sniffed. He wasn't an emotional man—or so he told himself over and over. "I would rather you hold me in your arms and whisper your poems in my ear than have to sit in that damn lounge room or here just to have you an arm's reach away and listen to you bout off useless paragraphs that I don't care for. I care for you, Ivan, I want you, Ivan."

Alfred's heart thumped so fast, and his throat constricted, making it hard to swallow and harder to breathe.

"I want to feel you over me again. I want your hands upon me, and your lips pressing where they may." Alfred's face flushed, but he continued explaining his heart's as well as his body's desires. "The experience you gave me before was everything to me and now this body of mine yearns for your touch once more. Now tell me how am I to explain to it that you do not find favor in me anymore?"

Alfred had been watching Ivan move closer through blurry eyes but he had not been comprehending the reasons behind such movement. It wasn't until Ivan reached out and cupped Alfred's face that he blinked away the blur in his vision and focused his gaze on the Russian. Ivan was smiling, like usual, his eyes, his movement, every gesture and expression full of love that Alfred hadn't believed in a moment ago.

"In no way have you fallen out of favor with me," Ivan assured gently, just loud enough in tone to make sure the American heard him. "It was I who feared myself fallen out of your eyes," Ivan explained. Leaning closer he pressed his forehead against Alfred's and listened to the American catch his trembling breaths to compose himself better after the misunderstanding.

"Forgive me," Ivan again spoke. "But I felt it was only proper to wait for permission to hold you so intimately again. I regret that I ever made you believe I did not want you so passionately."

Alfred chuckled at it all. So Ivan had wanted the same but refrained because he had not given consent about it. They've always danced around each other like such fools. Ivan Braginsky, always the gentleman even when it wasn't necessary. Such refrain in him.

"Then make love to me, Ivan," Alfred requested. His hands reached up to grip Ivan's jacket sleeves. He was trembling, just like their first night together, but Alfred wanted this, he wanted to feel their shared bond once more after fearing it had vanished into nonexistence.

Ivan took in a breath, almost as if he were inhaling Alfred's own scent. While it might have been another misunderstood action, Alfred still found himself shivering and parting his lips, leaning close to Ivan's mouth.

"Not tonight," Ivan declined, raising his hand and pressing his fingers against Alfred's seeking lips. The American may have felt a sense of disappointment and worry arise again hadn't Ivan so given explanation for his refusal. "It is Sunday and I must write my sisters as I do so every week." There was a more assured smile on Ivan's lips before he said, "Tomorrow. Wait up for me and I will come to you."

Alfred's cheeks flared a bright red at the promise of entwined bodies and shared breath. He contained the shiver of excitement that his body was aroused upon. When Ivan kissed him it was slow, drawn out to define the promise before he pulled away and bid him a goodnight.

Alfred hardly slept. He fell into slumber late and awoke too early to a morning that could not end quick enough only to go about a day that he hated the length of.

Ivan had run into town that day with Mrs. Thatcher and Alfred hadn't been up to making the journey and so he stayed. After the party returned the Russian whisked himself back to his room and wasn't seen much of save for the meals.

Not a word was shared between Alfred and Ivan that the American began growing concerned. But he held the poet higher than that. He was a gentleman and was always very good on his word. So that night while Alfred lay in bed . . . waiting . . . he hoped.

Alfred's eyes held that of his doorframe and watched the brass knob for any movement. He watched intently so often that his eyes strained and he was forced to take off his glasses and put them away. When he set his spectacles down he noticed the book he and Russia had been trying to read together still set near the candle stand.

He hadn't much else to do and so Alfred took it up and began to read where he had left off. Ivan had been right, it was a good book. But even good books couldn't fend off weariness.

Alfred had fallen asleep in the late hour and would not have been roused if not for the feather-light touch of ghostly hands gliding over his body, wary finger tips pressing against buttons, popping them off one by one in slow time before pausing in touch before slinking underneath his nightshirt to feel skin only to retreat and attempt a latter time. The dip in the mattress was felt, especially when the American's body almost rolled into the new presence in the room.

Opening his eyes he looked up into the dark room. There was a dark figure leant over him, one knee dipping the mattress down and two hands traveling over his shoulders, chest and waist. Alfred's eyesight varied without his glasses. There were two things he could see clearly without them, the stars in the sky, and Ivan Braginsky.

With a blink, the tiredness washed away and there above him was Ivan. Of course the moment the Russian noticed Alfred's consciousness returned the American watched as those violet eyes glanced away shamefully and his hands left, returning back to Ivan's side.

"Forgive me," Ivan apologized bashfully. "That was very rude of me to touch you without conscious consent."

Alfred found himself smiling. Even in the darkness of the room he could see the painted colors on Ivan's pale cheeks out of his embarrassment and lack of restraint. The poet was ever the gentleman.

But it was nice knowing that Ivan wanted Alfred as much as he wanted him. To be wanted and desired wasn't something Alfred's known, but now that he was he adored it and pleaded that affection stay on him for eternity.

Reaching forward, Alfred cupped the back of Ivan's neck, pulling him back down over him. The Russian almost lost his balance hadn't he placed both of his hands on the mattress beside Alfred's shoulders, his larger body caging Alfred like he wanted him to. When Ivan steadied himself and would lean down no more without risk of toppling over, Alfred leaned up, brushing his lips against the Russian's.

"Touch me whenever you want, as long as I may do the same," Alfred said and then placed a light kiss on Ivan's lips. He had wished Ivan to return the kiss and shift into a more passionate experience, but a smile pulled the Russian's lips taught, not quite ideal for a kiss. So Alfred leaned back, pressing his back into the mattress and looking up at Ivan's smiling face and those glowing eyes of his.

"Da," Ivan agreed with a very pleased smile. "Agreed."

With that Ivan bent his elbows, securing his lean on them while pressing his chest into Alfred's and leaning his head down to press his lips to Alfred's. It was a soft kiss, gentle and tender. The lateness of the hour had in no way tired their passion for one another.

Despite Alfred's desire to make love again he shook, trembled as much as he did the first time. Ivan seemed to notice this more prominently when he pulled Alfred's night shirt over his head. Immediately Alfred's limbs locked and his arms quite tried to cover his bare chest, but with Ivan's gently caressing hands he eased Alfred's arms away and pressed them into the mattress while the poet's pale lips descended on that warm chest.

Alfred sighed, his eyes fluttering closed when Ivan's lips worshiped his body like that. Every kiss pressed and America would arch into that mouth. His body still shook but that didn't give him reason not to open himself and to let Ivan do as he pleased.

The American's hands caressed the Russian's neck, his fingers playing with sandy locks before rising and massaging his scalp. He liked the way Ivan held him, his hands were gentle when pulling on his arms or pressing down on his sternum, but they held a purpose to them and would hold onto Alfred and keep him still to try to calm his trembles.

They have made love before, but Alfred could not stop shaking. He wanted to believe he was merely excited again, but he doubted that was the entirety of the reason behind his tremors. Alfred later became concerned on what Ivan would think, perhaps seeing him as the same insecure young man he had bedded, but this was not the case.

The poet simply took his lips away from his abdomen and leaned up, cupping Alfred's face and looking into his eyes. Alfred was quick to offer a smile, but even the folds of his lips trembled. Ivan only smiled down at him, as if he understood everything, and all it took to get Alfred to still himself was one kiss.

Ivan pressed his weight down upon Alfred in the kiss, laying on top of him and just caressing his arms, encouraging them to hold him. Alfred did as instructed and wrapped his arms around his lover, kissing him back with as much passion as Ivan was displaying. He moaned into the kiss, sighing his breath into Ivan's mouth who only inhaled every sound.

There was an annoyance when Alfred's fingertips scrapped over harsh jacket fabric, but he didn't have to deal with the obstacle long. Ivan began shrugging his shoulders, huffing off the jacket and letting it slide to the floor when he began unbuttoning his vest and then shirt. Alfred didn't reach out to him at first when Ivan bore his torso, but when the Russian pressed down upon him again, bare chest to bare chest Alfred's hands came up on their own accord to feel the older's muscles and the thumping of his heart inside his chest.

Lips remained locked, Ivan settling to keep Alfred focused on their shared kisses while he slowly undressed himself and the American. Alfred moaned, pulling his lips away and turning his head to the side when Ivan ground into him. His eyes clenched shut at the feel of Ivan's hard manhood pressed against his own, just as hard. To think that mere moments ago Alfred believed that Ivan didn't want him.

Before nearly turned blue in the face before Ivan pulled his lips away and they rested their foreheads together, breathing in each other's exhales while they worked on catching their breaths. Ivan's hands constantly rubbed up and down Alfred's sides in adoration. The motions eased Alfred but he particularly enjoyed rolling his hips into Ivan's, sighing as he sighed, and moaning in time with him.

When the Russian pulled back to sit on his knees, his hands sliding down onto Alfred's hips, he did not stop thrusting against him. He hummed in pleasure while his eyes darkened a shade in hue, almost glowing surreally while peering down at Alfred so deeply passionately.

"I have something," the poet said while reaching into the pocket of his jacket he had tossed to the side of the bed. It was a small vile of oil and Alfred couldn't think of what he needed it for until Ivan explained, saying, "I know before was a little difficult for you, as it was for me, but this will make it easier."

Alfred then watched Ivan pour it onto his fingers and immediately understood what it was for. He flushed at the thought of what it was made of or if it was even intended for this sort of thing, but he soon came to realize the truth in Ivan's words and how much easier it was to slick him up before penetration. Alfred gasped when two fingers immediately sunk into him with ease. He had once had trouble with so many digits, but the fine oil lessoned the stress on his body and inner muscles.

When Ivan would lean down and kiss his thighs, rubbing his lips up and down them before traveling up and blowing lightly onto Alfred's aching arousal he couldn't care for the fingers slipping inside him. He trusted Ivan and knew he would take care of him like he had before. But of course this didn't lesson his flush any more, especially when the Russian leaned down and pushed his lips down onto the head of his penis.

Alfred jumped, his eyes popping open wide while gazing down at the Russian. He'd never . . . not even heard . . .

"Oh!" Alfred's eyes fluttered though he wanted to keep watch. The sounds coming out of his mouth and the way Ivan hummed around him was breathtaking. This was then he knew that every time he and Ivan made love it wouldn't be the same, but an entirely new experience.

The American's hands fisted into his sheets the more Ivan descended upon him. He watched it all, the sight hardening him more and he could visibly see the way the veins on his manhood pulsed and stretched the organ erect. But Ivan simply opened his mouth and took it in its growing shape.

"I-Ivan," Alfred gasped.

At the sound of his name the Russian looked up at him. Alfred hummed out a moan because the poet hadn't stopped suckling him, but those eyes upon him held him with some sort of spell, sending tingles throughout his body that enticed his hips to buck. The moment they did Ivan reached up and pressed them down into the mattress to keep them still. Alfred's face shifted bright red and he felt he had done something wrong, but Ivan only pulled away from his cock and kissed his thighs.

When the Russian leaned over him again Alfred kissed him without hesitation. The American's hands went up and cupped Ivan's neck and jaw, holding him close while their tongues danced around the other muscle. Alfred's mouth shuddered, opening and letting a long drawn moan escape. The way Ivan's fingers moved inside him was more than pleasurable, and instead of an in and out motion they now were rubbing something inside him that made him weak in the knees, his arms shaking while he let go of Ivan and slipped back onto the mattress beneath him.

In no way was Ivan done with Alfred's mouth. He followed him when he fell back into the mattress, leaning down and kissing his breath away while he rubbed those expert fingers inside the American. Alfred had been teased to the point he felt himself ready to explode and when it seemed Ivan would not stop he pushed his hands against his shoulders and whimpered.

"Please," Alfred begged. His face bright red and eyes closed from having to ask this. "Ivan please . . ." He could feel the Russian pause in his ministrations. He knew he was looking at him, waiting for his command, but Alfred was just . . . Finally, when he managed to open his eyes and look at Ivan he saw him staring down at him, a soft expectant smile on his lips while a light pant heaved his chest back and forth. "Don't make me finish just yet," Alfred pleaded. His eyes fluttered with his growing flush. "I want . . . I want . . ." His face was hot, his mouth was dry, his penis uncomfortably hard, and his asshole clenching. Alfred F. Jones was the epitome of sexual frustration. "I want you inside of me . . ."

There, Alfred said it. His body trembled like that of a virgin's once more when his insecurities crept upon him. The embarrassment of letting something like that come out of his mouth, and as a demand no less, it weighed on Alfred and he almost reverted back into himself.

But Ivan always seemed to know what to do. While Alfred trembled he knew he only needed to kiss him to calm him, and he did. From the American's previous request Ivan obliged in removing his fingers and then coating himself with the slick oil.

Alfred had even watched him. Watched as Ivan's large hand reached down and stroked himself to lather completely. Shamelessly Alfred's thoughts were filled with the organ, delighted in the knowledge that it would soon be filling him, letting him experience such pleasures as the night by the lake.

When Ivan leaned over him again, Alfred reached up and wrapped his arm around his ribs, fingers digging into his shoulder blades the moment he felt Ivan press against his entrance. The second time they joined was indefinitely easier than the previous. Alfred still winced from being stretched so wide, but in one fluid motion Ivan was settled inside him, letting him grow accustomed to the full feeling of him quicker.

The kisses being placed on his face loosened Alfred's jaw, lips parting in hopes the Russian would abandon placing pecks on his cheeks and eyes to return to his lips. Alfred's jaw, ears and neck were kissed first before the poet's pale lips returned to his mouth, and when they did the older began to move. Alfred moaned even at the slow pace, he felt a slight embarrassment for his sudden rash volume but he had been craving this—craving when he and Ivan would become of one body again.

And Ivan seemed to enjoy his voice. His mouth was constantly on his neck, kissing, sucking, and nibbling while Alfred's vocals reverberated inside his throat with heightening moans the quicker Ivan paced himself. Alfred's hands slid down from Ivan's back toward the man's moving hips, enjoying the feel of the way they shifted every time the Russian would buck and thrust into him. More so Alfred enjoyed the feel of Ivan's hands on his own thighs, rubbing him soothingly, getting the younger to use the muscles he neglects to squeeze against his pale hips.

Alfred shuddered when he felt Ivan's thumbs dip lower in their caress, running over the bumpy patches of Alfred's sown skin over the amputated limbs. Alfred, himself, touched those places rarely because of his regret over losing his legs, but when Ivan touched him he was very gentle and even considerate in his caresses. Alfred didn't mind and in fact enjoyed his ministrations.

"I-Ivan," Alfred whispered, sighs leaving his lips while his head turned and chest arched into the Russian while the older man kissed past his collarbone and then began placing discolored patches across the expanse of his torso.

Alfred's hands moved to the small of Ivan's back, grunting and moaning each time it moved and dipped forward, signifying how the Russian slipped deeper into his body, rubbing him in all the right ways. It was odd that Alfred could feel so much pleasurable sensations to something inside him when he, himself, was clearly created to enter, but to be penetrated felt strangely natural and he wouldn't deny his desires to continue to have Ivan slide inside him . . . if it was only Ivan.

The American really wanted to kiss the Russian right then, but the poet was entrenched in a task of suckling his nipples. Alfred would usually wait until the older saw it fit to return to his lips, but tonight his impatience took hold of him and he boldly grasped Ivan's face, pulling him off of his pectoral and then pulling that saliva-slicked mouth onto his own. Ivan had not protested, but by the way his hips began rolling faster and harder into him, he enjoyed the demanding motions. It was then Alfred understood that the older simply wanted him to make decisions for himself and take the lead in times when he wanted to, so Alfred smiled into the kiss and did just that.

The sound of the wet squelches from the thrusts made Alfred shudder in the kiss. Even their smacking lips sucking folds didn't deter Alfred from listening to the scandalous sounds of Ivan's manhood sliding in and out of him. The American moaned, rolling his own hips in time with Ivan's while the sound of their skin meeting each other deafened the both of them.

"Mmm," Alfred hummed out his moan when he felt Ivan's cock swell inside him, his movement inside him slowly just a bit until Alfred's anal walls expanded to the new growth in accommodation. But when Ivan reached in between them and let his hand palm Alfred's erection the American sucked in a sharp breath, the shaft inside him suddenly felt tighter due to his walls clenching from the pleasure of his cock, and therefore Ivan once again felt larger.

When Ivan groaned in his ear he leaned down and sunk his teeth into the American's lobe, pulling and sucking it into his mouth. Alfred's moans came out in stuttering breaths, pitches ranging from high to low and guttural. But the moan slipping past Alfred's lips when he came was swallowed by Ivan's mouth when those pale folds descended onto his in that moment.

Alfred moaned long and in time with his orgasm as it washed over him, encouraged in length by Ivan's stroking hand. Even after he had spilt his essence onto himself and Ivan above him, the Russian continued to rub the head of the phallus, sending sensitive currents throughout his post-orgasmic body that helped him continue clenching around the Russian's cock so that he too could follow his lead.

Alfred sucked in another breath when he felt Ivan swell until he burst. The essence filling him still made him shudder, but his heart melted always when Ivan would lean down and kiss his breath away after just catching it a moment before. They embraced each other for a long while, remaining connected for as long as possible.

Alfred wasn't entirely certain if he enjoyed Ivan remaining inside him or pulling out. He couldn't pinpoint his upset, or if he was so, when Ivan did just that and laid beside him. But he knew he enjoyed laying in the Russian's arms, having those strong limbs wrapped around him, pulling him back into a broad pale chest. Ivan's cool breath on his neck was pleasant as well, but not as pleasant as the feel of that heart of the poet's thumping against his ribcage for Alfred to feel.

They were both wide awake despite the late hour. Their hands seemed to have a mind of their own with the way they still moved over the other's body. Ivan would constantly lean down and press kisses to the back of Alfred's neck while his hands rubbed up and down the American's torso and abdomen. Alfred would simply cling to those arms wrapped around them, massaging the muscle and gliding over pale skin.

Just to be in the others presence was a comfort and Alfred quickly shooed away every self-conscious feeling of being neglected. With the way Ivan clung to him and kissed him he was both wanted and desired. It was so very . . . nice . . . to have someone who wanted him, being as broken as he was . . . or . . . used to be.

"What picture is this?" Alfred was pulled from his warm thoughts to see Ivan had reached over him and taken up a picture on his nightstand. It was one tilted downward and Alfred immediately knew which one it was. But it was too late to deter the Russian from looking at it, even in the dark room the moonlight was enough to illuminate the old picture.

Ivan smiled as he traced his fingers over the glass case of the photograph. "This is you, da?"

Alfred didn't look at the picture. He only laid his head on Ivan's arm and continued to try to escape to his own thoughts. He nodded in confirmation however.

Ivan seemed very enthralled with the old photograph, the one taken of him in Union uniform when he was only sixteen years old. It was a handsome picture, one capturing his youth and resilience, and his once tall posture when he had long legs to call his own.

"Your eyes shine brightly in this one," Ivan noted. His smile held while Alfred tried not to frown at the remembrance of it. "You never change."

Alfred turned in Ivan's arms. Looking at him in confusion. Of course he's changed; his legs were gone and the light in his eyes snuffed out.

The Russian seemed to notice his internal conflict and only reached down to pinch his chin, moving it to the right and then to the left as if to examine him. His smile broadened and he nodded as if in agreement with his previous statement to which Alfred was in disagreement with.

"Da, the light has returned. It has taken a while, but it has returned," Ivan stated and pressed closer until their foreheads touched. "Keep that fire, Alfred. Because it is what I have fallen in love with."

Ivan set the picture down and wrapped his arms around Alfred again, pulling him close and kissing him passionately again. The two shared this tender moment of reassurance full of kisses and caresses, both hoping the night would remain forever. But even as the sun arose neither decided to take their eyes off of each other for the need of sleep. Their souls were rejuvenated and the spirits light.

However, it was indeed something Ivan had to say that put Alfred right back where he had started.

"It's almost been a year since I came here," Ivan made mention while he and Alfred took delight in watching the sun light up the American's window.

Alfred hummed in acknowledgement, settling himself easier against his lover while his heart swooned with content.

"I shall have to be leaving soon back to Mother Russia."

That statement right there froze Alfred. His eyes widened and his heart stopped. He quickly turned around in the poet's arms again. He wanted to say something but didn't know what he possibly could. Instead the hurt seeping from a heart suddenly wounded again began expelling out through his sad eyes.

"You're . . . leaving?" Alfred couldn't bear the thought of the Russian poet no longer gracing the home as a tenant. That meant no more daily reads, no more pleasant chats in the garden, no more picnics by the lake, no more rides into town, no more kisses when no one was looking . . . no more . . . nothing.

"Da," Ivan said with a nod while sitting himself up in bed. It was morning and it was time to go about one's business. He stretched, looked quite relaxed even for someone who just revealed to their lover that it was time for them to depart. "I have lingered a year in the States as I had intended to. I shan't keep my sisters waiting for my return any longer."

Alfred's hands began fisting the sheets, pulling them closer to his nude body the more he realized that Ivan was serious and that he was going to be leaving the United States of America very soon. His mind was in turmoil and his heart in even worse condition. He didn't know what to think and hardly what words to say or ask to settle his disrupted spirit.

"When . . . will you . . . be leaving?" Alfred really didn't want to know the date because he didn't want to accept the inevitable.

"I'm going into the city today to make arrangements for the transportation," Ivan said while he began dressing himself. "I'll likely be gone the entire day," he added while buttoning up his shirt and then slipping his jacket on. "Forgive me for having to skip our reading, but you understand, da?"

The Russian then expected to lean down and grace a kiss, but Alfred would not have it. He turned his head and let those pale lips kiss his cheek like numerous times before. Alfred had been so upset that his previous attitude before was nothing compared to the wretchedness he felt right now.

"Then why . . . ?" Alfred's voice was shaking, his fists clenching the sheets as he covered himself, ashamed that he had been so stupid and full of emotion. "Why did you do all of this?" Even when Alfred had to look away he could sense Ivan's confusion. So, in an instant he turned his upset gaze toward him and bit out his hurt. "Why did you waste your time with me? Why did you draw close to me? Why did you make me feel wanted again? Why did you make me feel . . ." Alfred rose his hand to his heart, it beat heavily in his chest, such a wounded organ should deserve so many medals of honor after so many blows.

He felt exhausted. Alfred felt drained so he just collapsed onto his sheets and pressed his face into the linens. He didn't want to cry, but it was happening, and he certainly didn't want Ivan to see. "Go away!" he cried. "Just go back to Russia!" Damn him. Damn that poet!

"Alfred." The sound of his name spoken so gently used to make the American swoon, now he despised such a tone, especially when it came from Ivan Braginsky.

"No!" Alfred turned to the Russian again, his eyes red and tears streaking down his face. "You . . . you used me for your own selfish needs!" Inspiration, pleasure. "And now you have the heart to tell me you are leaving!"

Ivan frowned at Alfred's tone. The older man looked on edge now. He even looked slightly confused as if he were looking for the words he had spoken and trying to figure out their meanings and if they indeed had offended the American veteran.

Alfred only shook his head, hiccupping his pathetic sobs. "You used me!" he cried, horribly heartbroken. "You're nothing but a damn bastard and I want to see you leave! Leave!"

A cautious hand was then felt on his shoulder. He knew Ivan could be assertive, but mostly he was attentive. So Alfred shook him off of him. If the Russian wanted him more outspoken then he would gladly show him how verbal he could be.

"Leave!" Alfred once again demanded. If he had better footing to stand on he would have risen to his feet and socked that man right in his nose. He would have!

"Dorogoy, you have simply misunderstanded me," Ivan explained, his hands returning to Alfred's shoulders gently.

Alfred shook the hands off again and then turned to Ivan, his eyes hard and accusing. "What's there to misunderstand? You told me you're leaving. You don't even plan to come back, do you?!"

"N-Nyet, I did not," Ivan said truthfully. He really looked like he was trying to excuse himself to the American, but Alfred would have none of that.

With a moaning whine Alfred fell back onto his bed and tried to ignore everything, especially the presence of the Russian poet. Even when the man went on explaining himself the American found no ease of mind.

"But I will visit," Ivan assured. His hands then pulled Alfred's shoulders backwards, pushing him onto his back so that he may look at him. "Because I have a reason to." The Russian accented every word, making sure they rung into the American's head. They had, but not in the positive way he had hoped for.

Alfred's frown worsened. "Why can't you stay here, with me? Is it because I'm just not worth it?"

"Never," Ivan pressed. He was now sitting down on the side of the bed, leaning over the American with hands upon him, trying to comfort his downed spirit. "I don't care if my purse empties from every trip I take here. I want to continue seeing you." The frown wasn't seen, but it was felt, even the sadness seeping out of the upset poet. Alfred wondered if he was starting to feel the emotions lingering in the air. "If . . . you would allow me to, Alfred."

"Why can't you just stay?" Alfred whined.

"I have a home and family in my country," Ivan reminded. "It would be hard to just refuse to return."

"I won't," Alfred cried, tears still heavy in his eyes. "I won't be able to stand it if you leave me."

"Nyet, you are strong, Alfred," Ivan assured when he leaned his head down and pressed his forehead to the American's. "Don't lose that attractive spirit of yours on my account."

Alfred sniffed and then shook the Russian away. Once more he took hold of the sheets and pulled them over himself. He said no more, and when Ivan tried to reach out and touch him he would shake him off.

It had been hard to leave him like that, but Ivan let him to his peace of room. He hadn't expected to see Mrs. Thatcher waiting just outside however. She looked upset, almost the exact replica of Alfred's torn emotions.

"I could not find you in your room for breakfast announcement," she said. Her eyes then darted toward Alfred's room where muffled sobs could still be heard by the most keen of ears. "I was on my way to inform Alfred but now I'm afraid he might not wish to join us."

"Apologies," Ivan replied. "But I fear I too must pass the meal."

Ivan had tried to go around the woman but she quickly placed herself in his way once more. When the Russian was about to kindly insist the widow evade from him she looked at him and quite sternly said—

"I had not said anything because he was happy." The woman's eyes would every now and then glance behind the Russian toward the room he was departing from. "But mark my words, Mr. Braginsky." When her eyes met the poet's the man understood her reasoning for being so protective of the American. "If you are the one to damage him this time then you'll be damned, not him. I will not take kindly to you using him as a means to entertain yourself. It may be fashionable to toy with another being's emotions in Europe, but not here in America, no siree." And just like that her dark aura vanished and she flattened her dress of invisible wrinkles. "Now, if you excuse me I have tenants to inform of breakfast."

She passed by the Russian, walking down the lower hall and knocking on doors. Ivan stayed where he was, shaken by her words and more than confused. He would have liked to turn back and try to comfort Alfred again, but he needed to head out and make it to the city to book a passage. It wasn't easy to do so with a heavy heart, but he did it out of habit, trying to put the hopes of seeing his family again to help his day along. Though . . . Alfred's heartbreak and Mrs. Thatcher's words haunted the Russian even when he finally finished his tasks.

He thought it might have been an obvious sign. He was Russian and only visiting. Had he really become such a regular that everyone believed he to be settling down in the country?

Needless to say Ivan was having the worst weeks of his life before his departure. Alfred would no longer come out of his room and his food had to be catered and soothingly convinced to eat by Mrs. Thatcher—Ivan wasn't sure on what to think about the old woman, God knew what she was filling Alfred's head with. But even if Ivan wished to be beside his lover during these last days in the United States he couldn't push himself to force his presence on the downhearted American.

It wasn't until the young soldier's parents arrived that Ivan had wished he had told Alfred of his pending journey back to his native country later.