Warning: This story is rated T for shounen-ai/yaoi and historical inaccuracy.
Summary: Ivan and Alfred have been dating for five years. But in five years, they've both kept secrets. Maybe they aren't as different as they thought. Or maybe they really are.
Note: This story was inspired by several writing prompts that I found on Pinterest, but it really has nothing to do with said prompts either.
Another note: This story is set in the early to mid 2000s, and everything about the Element Project is completely made up.
Chemical
"Some say the world will end in fire,
"Some say in ice.
"From what I've tasted of desire,
"I hold with those who favor fire.
"But if it had to perish twice,
"I think I know enough of hate,
"To say that for destruction ice,
"Is also great,
"And would suffice."
―"Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
"Hey, how long have you been living in America?" I ask.
Ivan doesn't look away from his book. "Since '93."
After a moment of mental math, I say, "So you were thirteen." When Ivan doesn't say anything, I ask, "Why did you move?"
"The collapse of the Soviet Union left Russia in famine and poverty. My father was in a government position at the time, and we were able to find enough money to move to America."
"Okay."
It's one of those days, I guess. Sometimes, Ivan just shuts down emotionally and socially, sitting with a book for hours. It just so happens that Ivan will put up with cuddling and the television during this time, too, so we usually end up like this, with him lying down on the couch and me sprawled out on top of him. Some things happen when you date someone for five years and move in together.
But some things…some things don't come up. And they won't ever come up if I have any say in it.
Oo_oO_Oo_oO
Sometimes, I want to tell Ivan about…about that. About why I always lock the door to the bathroom when I'm bathing. Why I don't touch him when I'm angry or upset. Why our bed sheets have to be black. Why I never get burned.
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
Alfred is definitely a wild spirit.
I've known this since…well, since I met him, really. It's part of the reason why I fell in love with him. Twice. Year two of our relationship was rocky, to put it mildly, and we both did and said some things we shouldn't have. We're stronger now, and our relationship is solid.
Complete opposites though, he and I.
Tonight, Alfred bursts through the door with Japanese takeout, singing Big and Rich's "Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy", and I realize that there's something really wrong with the fact that I know the song and being a Russian who is very knowledgeable about country music. Also, singing country music while carrying Japanese food.
"Did you have a good day at work?" I ask as I bookmark my book and set it on the coffee table.
Once the food is safely on the counter, Alfred jogs over to the couch and bends over it, balancing himself on his stomach. He grins before he kisses my nose. "Guess who got promoted?"
My lips pull up into a smile. "How could you possibly make more money than you already are? You're in six digits."
"More money to buy takeout," Alfred says. Then he kisses my lips and wiggles backs onto his feet. "And Artie said that I could have three weeks off at the end of the month, too. Not paid leave, but still."
As he's pulling boxes and Styrofoam from the bag, I stand and move closer to inspect what he got for me, but when he hands my box to me, I frown, tilting my head at him slightly. "Three weeks? We usually only go to Quebec for a week at Christmas; is Matthew expecting you to stay that long?"
Alfred smiles and finishes putting the boxes on the table, taking mine from me and setting it aside when he realizes I'm not moving. Then he folds his arms around my neck. "Well, Mattie expects us to stay from the twenty-second to the twenty-seventh."
I wait for him to continue. When he doesn't and just stares at me with those blue eyes, I wrap my arms around his waist. "And?"
"And then Kat and Natalya are picking us up from the Moscow airport on the twenty eighth," Alfred says, still grinning. "Figured that you'd like a birthday party Russian style."
"Russian style?" I repeat, but it doesn't hold the sarcasm I want it have, and Alfred knows it.
"Yeah, you know, like―" He breaks out into song again, pulling away from me to do some sort of dance―and I say "dance" very loosely. "―'Ra-Ra-Rasputin, lover of the Russian queen. There was a cat that really was gone. Ra-Ra-Rasputin, Russia's greatest love machine'―"
"Hardly Russia's greatest love machine," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Da."
"Prove it."
"Then I suggest you reach the bed before I catch you."
"Or what?"
"Or this."
Oo_oO_Oo_oO
I always worry that Alfred won't...accept me. If he finds out. He's so warm, vibrant, and alive, like summer fireworks.
He never complains about how cold my skin is. How I sometimes forget my coat when it snows. But he doesn't know about how when I wash my hands, warm tap water is cold by the time it goes down the drain. And then there's my paycheck that comes from Moscow every month, deposited in my bank like clockwork, even though I spend most of my time buried in books.
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
Ivan falls asleep almost immediately after our hour or so of…playtime. I wiggle out of the bed and pull on my robe before I move to the kitchen to put the untouched takeout into the refrigerator. I really didn't think that through very well….
Once I finish, I pour myself a glass of water, folding my arms and leaning on them against the counter.
"What do you mean, 'cold climate'? Canada isn't enough?" I ask.
"I mean," Arthur says with that exasperated tone that adults get with small children sometimes, "if you choose a colder place to vacation, we'll send you there for two weeks. It'll be like vacation, but you need to keep up with the way your body reacts."
I pause. "What about Moscow? Right after Christmas."
"That's fine."
Sighing, I put my forehead on my arms.
Oo_oO_Oo_oO
My birthday passes in "Russian style", as Alfred said, and it's one of the best birthdays I've had. I have to stop by that lab though, and that's hard to hide, especially since I don't like lying to Alfred, but Katyusha and Natalya both help with that part. That doesn't make me feel any better about it though.
But while we're in my home country, I see Alfred writing in a small notebook every now and then, and granted, it's not a lot, but it's more often than I've seen him write in a journal before.
One night, as we're lying in the guest bed, I glance from my book to his journal curiously. "What are you writing?"
Alfred's hand freezes, pen ink bleeding on the page where it stopped. "Just some stuff."
"Stuff?" I repeat.
"Yeah, it's nothing important."
I manage to read the top of the page. The date, location, temperatures throughout the day―
Alfred flips the notebook shut and sets it on the nightstand. "You know how I said this wasn't paid leave?"
I nod.
"Arthur says he wants to market better to colder countries. You know, find ways to make our tech stuff more efficient and stuff when it's freezing outside, so he said that he wanted me to keep up with stuff like that while I'm here." Alfred glances down at the bed between them. "I wanted this to be all about you instead of work, so I didn't tell you about it."
I slip my bookmark into my book and set it on the bedside table before I roll onto my side. Alfred looks up at me with his blue eyes in the way he does when he thinks I'll be mad. I don't know why he thinks that; I'm rarely ever mad at him. Well, frustrated and irritated, a little more often than "rarely", but we hardly ever fight and when we do, it's settled quickly.
In a smooth motion, I slide my hand under his shirt, up his spine, and bring him chest to chest with me.
"So I'm forgiven?" Alfred asks, and our lips are already touching. Our foreheads are tipped together and our noses are side by side, but our eyes are still open and we're breathing each other's air. There's something more intimate about this than there is in kissing, and it burns my frozen core.
"I suppose with the right incentive…I could forgive you," I murmur.
Despite the implied meaning of the sentence, we do little more than kiss and cuddle before we go to sleep. However, Alfred owes me a trip to my favorite coffee shop tomorrow.
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
The night it happens, everything has been normal.
Ivan and Alfred have just eaten dinner and are cleaning up the kitchen. Usually when they have dinner, Ivan cooks the meal and Alfred cleans up afterwards, but tonight it's switched. That doesn't mean that Alfred wants to make Ivan clean everything, because it was a pretty big meal.
And that's where things get tangled.
Ivan doesn't think anything of it; he has a bit of gravy on his hands from putting the food away and dunks his hand under the faucet long enough to wash his hands off. Alfred is washing dishes. And all that would be fine. But the running water is hot, steaming hot, and while it doesn't bother Ivan at all, Alfred all but jolts when the water hits the plate he's cleaning, ice cold.
"Did you turn on the cold water?" Alfred asks, but the handle for hot water is turned, not cold.
Ivan jerks his hands back in shock, and hot water hits Alfred's hands.
There's a minute of silence. Ivan dries his hands, trying desperately to think of an excuse as he puts the biscuits into a bag for the birds tomorrow.
"Ivan―"
"We're out of milk," Ivan says, already moving out of the kitchen and to the door. He grabs his keys from the little table beside the door. "I'll be back later."
"Ivan!"
He's out the door in an instant, barefoot and wearing only a t-shirt and sweatpants in the January air. His body hardly feels it, and when he starts walking from the porch to the car in three inches of snow, he only worries about sliding.
The door opens again. "Ivan!" Alfred stands on the rug just outside the door, robe pulled around his shivering frame and feet also bare. "Where are you going dressed like that? You'll get frostbit!"
Ivan finds that idea almost amusing, but now Alfred looks like he's about to come running into the snow, too, and he very well might get frostbitten.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," Ivan says, and he knows his plastic smile isn't working.
Alfred glares at him. "No, you won't. You're running away."
"I'm just going to get milk―"
"Don't lie to me!" Alfred shouts, and Ivan can't decide if the red face is from anger or the cold.
"I've been lying to you for years! What difference does one more make?" Ivan says.
Silence for a minute.
Then he hears footsteps, and Alfred is standing in front of him. The snow around the other's feet has melted.
"What―?"
Alfred holds out both of his hands like he's cupping water. But instead of water, a small flame flickers in his hands, and Ivan can feel its heat from the few inches away he is. Alfred gives him a tiny, scared smile. "We've both been lying." After a moment, he smothers the flame between his hands and looks down at the black streaks it left on his palms. "When the U.S. found out about the Soviet Element Project, they tried to recreate it, but they used fire instead of ice. Only a couple of us survived, and for moral reasons, it was scrapped after the Soviet Union fell." He chuckles a bit. "You know, I never knew if the Soviet experiments worked, and I definitely didn't count on falling for one of their successes."
Ivan holds out his hands, too, but instead of cupping them, he spreads his fingers out. Tendrils of frost creep along his skin before a few thicker parts form ice crystals and then ice spikes a few inches long. "I'm not sure how we managed this for five years."
"No kidding," Alfred breathes, watching the ice in rapt fascination. "Opposites really do attract."
Oo_oO_Oo_oO
That night, there's a lot of explaining and truth telling.
Much later that night, there's a lot less words involved in the explaining and truth telling.
The next morning, Ivan wakes before Alfred as always, and he glances at the black sheets with new interest. He can't tell at all that Alfred's side of the bed is supposedly singed, and he doesn't think that Alfred's heat is unpleasant now that he knows it's not natural. It's just Alfred, but he has another layer to him now.
An hour or so later, Alfred wakes up, yawning and stretching as he usually does, and then proceeds to kiss Ivan's neck and wiggle closer, ever jealous of whatever book is in the Russian's hands.
"Don't you have work today?" Ivan asks.
Alfred groans and makes to sit up. Then he flops back down, glued to Ivan's side. "I'll call Artie and tell him I've got a cold."
Ivan nods before he pauses. He glances at the other. "Was that a pun?"
"Huh?" Alfred laughs. "Ha, I guess it was! I'm awesome!"
A smile pulls at Ivan's lips. "I suppose you are." He kisses the corner of Alfred's eye, then his cheek, his nose, and then a quick peck on the lips.
"You're spoiling me," Alfred says, but he doesn't make any move to stop the attention.
Ivan closes his book―bookmarked, of course. He rolls over enough to curl up with the other, putting their foreheads together and their lips just barely brushing. "Maybe." He watches those blue eyes. "I might just be checking your temperature."
"Doctor, I think I got frostbit," Alfred says.
"I can't do anything about that," Ivan replies, "because I'm melting."