Author's Note: Out of the five Romanov children, Anastasia and Alexei were the ones rumored to have survived the shooting. But Anastasia seems to overshadow her younger brother in terms of being well-known, and there appear to be more stories on about her and Ivan than about Alexei and Ivan. It's a shame, really, because Alexei is just as inspirational as her: his personality, his struggle with his hemophilia, how young he was when he died. He was executed just about a month before he would have turned 14. I personally find his courage incredibly inspiring.

I have tried to be as historically as possible, but there are several instances where I diverged from historical fact to incorporate Ivan into the story. For example, it was (obviously) not Ivan who shot Alexei in the end but Yakov Yurovsky. Not only that but some accounts claim that Alexei was not the last of his family to die, but in fact Maria, Tatiana, and Anastasia were. Still, I hope you enjoy this story regardless of some historical inaccuracies. ^ u ^

**Update (12/23/14): Added an extra scene during their walk in the gardens. I'm sorry for the extra editing but this story seemed too short without it. After all, it is supposed to be expanding on Ivan and Alexei's relationship. Hope you still enjoy this story! ^^;;**

"Ivan?"

Ivan started awake, his eyes flying open. The room was dark, curtains drawn tight over the windows; his breath misted in the early morning chill. Despite the perfectly made bed just a few feet away, he was slumped in a chair against the wall. When had he fallen asleep? Ah — now he remembered: he had been cleaning his gun and apparently drifted off doing so. Parts of the disassembled gun rested both in his hands and on the floor, where they had fallen from his lap. How careless of him. Ivan exhaled, breath fogging briefly around his mouth, and his hand closed around the barrel. The metal felt cold as ice even through his glove.

"...Vanya?"

He blinked once, blearily, and then looked over. His gaze fixed on a small figure sitting near him. The early light seeped through the curtains to illuminate a worried face and the contours of a shiny black wheelchair. He relaxed, smiling. It was Alexei.

"Yes, little Alexei? Is something wrong?" He straightened up from the uncomfortable position he was in and stretched, his back popping gratifyingly. A relieved smile spread over the boy's face and the tentativeness left his voice. In the weak light of dawn he seemed so frail in his wheelchair, a too-small coat snugly hugging his thin frame.

"No, it's nothing. You just… It looked like you were having a bad dream. You were talking in your sleep." Alexei looked at him with all the seriousness of a child. Ivan had to laugh a little, tugging at his scarf.

"Ah, thank you, Alexei, but I am fine," he said warmly, patting the young man's hair. "It feels a little hazy now, but I don't think it was a bad dream."

Alexei cringed and appeared to be pouting beneath Ivan's fondly pat. He was always complaining about how Ivan still treated him like a little boy. Of course Ivan paid no attention to these complaints. And anyway, Alexei was giving him a curious look now. "Really? What was it about?"

"Well… Hm, I don't quite remember anymore. But I think you were there." Ivan smiled at his little tsarevich. "Ah, that's right, you were there! We were under a beautiful sky full of clouds. That's all I can remember, though."

Alexei smiled back and reached up to touch Ivan's hand lightly. For all his complaints, the young man certainly had moments of childlike affection. "It sounds like it was nice. Oh, that's right…!" He appeared to suddenly remember something. "Ivan, when the guards let us out for a walk this afternoon, will you come with me?"

Ivan blinked, slightly taken aback by the unexpected request. "I'm not sure…" he began slowly. "You know we would not have much time to—"

"I don't care about that. Please, Ivan." Alexei's brow furrowed and for a moment, Ivan saw a younger version of the boy: a willful but caring little boy wearing this exact expression. He had to bite back a grin. "I just want to have a walk with you. Please."

After a long, hesitant moment, Ivan nodded and sighed. His breath emerged a soft gray in the dimness. Gently, he reached out to take the boy's hands in his own. He couldn't help but compare them, his large and steady hands, sheathed in worn black leather, with Alexei's — small and slim and maybe trembling just slightly. Looking down at those hands, he felt an abrupt surge of protectiveness. Despite everything that had happened, these little hands had not changed. My little tsarevich…

Gently, he pressed Alexei's fingers between his palms and smiled faintly.

"All right then, Alyosha. I will see what I can do."

Ivan was permitted to accompany the tsarevich on the ten-minute walk. The commandant of the House of Special Purpose, Yakov Yurovsky, had taken several minutes to deliberate before he finally gave a curt nod. That was how he always behaved around Ivan, with an austere politeness as was demanded by their different rankings. To the guards, Ivan was not the embodiment of their nation but merely a soldier from Moscow, albeit an esteemed one. And perhaps one that was overly familiar with the imperial family as well. Ivan knew that Yurovsky and the other soldiers did not approve of the familiarity he sometimes showed, but he'd been approved by Lenin himself and likewise appeared to be strictly loyal to the Bolshevik leader, thus he held a position of respect in their eyes.

Still, Ivan was cautious not to be heard addressing any of the Romanovs by their nicknames. Nor did he dare call Nicholas the tsar anymore. Fortunately, the family understood and likewise avoided speaking to him casually. But this appeared to pain the children deeply, as they often cast him sad looks, and Ivan couldn't deny that he missed the playful conversations they used to have.

Alexei sat wrapped in a thin blanket as Ivan pushed his wheelchair out to the garden. Even though they were well into the summer months, the mornings remained cold until the afternoon; Ivan noticed that Alexei was shivering a little. He paused, looking at him in concern. "Are you cold, Alexei? Do you need another blanket?"

"No, of course not," replied the boy, sitting up straighter. He put on such a stubborn expression that Ivan had to grin. "It'll take more than a little cold to kill me, Ivan!"

Ivan chuckled softly. "Yes, yes, I suppose so," he said cheerfully, but despite Alexei's protests, he shrugged off his coat to drape it over him. The braided medals clinked together, glinting in the warming sunlight. Alexei frowned over the starched collar but just mumbled as he wrapped the coat around himself, pulling it up to his chin. Ivan laughed when he picked out the grudging words, "It's warm…" before he resumed pushing the boy's wheelchair.

The day was giving way to afternoon, chilly gray shifting to yellow with the sun heating itself up. Alexei inhaled the fresh air deeply, leaning back against Ivan's hands. Both of them were quiet. What few birds were flitting around filled the silence with their song. It was a beautiful day.

"...Ivan."

"Yes, Alexei?"

Ivan looked down and found the tsarevich gazing up at him with a small frown. "Is it true what the guards are saying, Ivan? That the White Army is almost upon us?"

The nation hesitated at first — but then he sighed. What was the point of keeping it from the boy? Alexei was, after all, the son of the former tsar. He was directly involved in this, regardless of what Ivan did or did not tell him. And besides, it was true. The White Army was advancing, and advancing fast. Ivan could feel it within him: a certain coldness in his bones, like an illness whose symptoms crept up on him one at a time.

"Yes, Alexei, that is true."

The trees were thick with green leaves, a lovely contrast with the blue sky. Ivan thought to himself that if it were to rain, the dripping leaves would look as though they were weeping. He was startled when Alexei spoke in a suddenly quiet voice.

"I wish things had not happened this way."

Ivan stopped and merely looked at him. The tsarevich returned his gaze with a mixed expression of pain and anger. In his chest Ivan's heart seemed to sink; he swallowed and willed himself not to look away.

"I wish…" Alexei's voice trailed off, and he shook his head, laughing softly. However, it was a totally humorless sound. "No, never mind. It's selfish of me to say such things when our people are suffering…"

Silence encompassed, and after a minute Ivan stepped around the wheelchair to kneel beside Alexei. His head was down and he was staring intently at the ground. Ivan asked, "You know that if anything is bothering you, you can tell me, don't you, Alexei?"

There was no immediate answer. Then Alexei lifted his eyes and smiled ruefully.

"I'm...sorry I couldn't keep my promise, Ivan. I couldn't even become tsar, let alone your greatest one ever…"

Ivan blinked, then laughed a little sadly. But really he was touched that Alexei had remembered that. It was so long ago… "It is not your fault, little one. Your health—"

"I didn't care about that!" Alexei interrupted, vehement. "I still don't care! If I could have healed the country, healed you—"

"Alexei." The nation cut him off at once and glanced around furtively. Thankfully, it didn't seem like the young tsarevich had been overheard. Alexei stopped and wiped at his face with a gloved hand. His cheeks were aflame; whether with passion or embarrassment, Ivan wasn't sure.

"I'm sorry… I overspoke again."

"Haha, it's all right, Alexei. Just...be careful."

The boy nodded, and Ivan smiled at him before standing to continue pushing him. As he resumed their short walk, Alexei spoke up, just once more. He didn't look at Ivan when he did.

"...If I could go back and fix all of this somehow, I would…"

He didn't seem to have expected an answer, and anyway he didn't get one. Ivan kept his eyes forward, trying to ignore the overwhelming anguish in his heart.

This wasn't how he wanted his little tsarevich to feel.

But then, how could Ivan say to him that he believed nothing could have changed this?

He felt Alexei lean back against his hands again, and sighed. History was moving, coursing, ever-changing and endless. It was a sentient river, an unstoppable force. Yet here was a moment where he wanted that river to pause, to stop for just a while.

To let this peace last for as long as it could.

After a few moments of silence, Ivan glanced down to see that Alexei had closed his eyes. His cheek was pressed against Ivan's fingers; his skin felt cool to the touch. With a growing touch of concern, Ivan ran a light hand on the young man's forehead, looking at his eyelids which seemed almost bruised even though he knew they weren't really. But he was startled to see how dark the circles under Alexei's eyes were. Had he been having trouble sleeping?

However, that thought soon vanished when he realized that Alexei's breathing had evened out. He had to laugh quietly. Most people would be aggravated when a person who invited them out for a walk falls asleep on them, but Ivan only looked at the boy with fondness. The boy's cheek was still resting against his hand. The coat had slipped down and Ivan leaned over to tug it back up over Alexei's chin. He took care to push the wheelchair along as smoothly as possible.

When the guards came to announce that the ten minutes were up, Ivan decided not to wake Alexei. He nodded to the guards and then pushed them back to the house, but instead of waking the boy he lifted him out of the wheelchair. Alexei stirred and mumbled as Ivan cradled him in one arm, bringing a small smile to the man's face while he lifted the wheelchair into the house with the other hand. The young tsarevich didn't wake but curled against him, murmuring something Ivan couldn't make out. Ivan chuckled and carried Alexei and the wheelchair upstairs. An odd sense of déjà-vu prodded at him as he did, and only when he opened the door to Alexei's room and set the wheelchair in the corner did he realize why.

Just how many times had he done this? How often had he carried one of the children back to their rooms after they'd fallen asleep? Turning his head to look the slumbering Alexei, he realized he wasn't just seeing the thirteen-year-old boy. He never did. Ivan also saw a baby swathed in a golden mantle and cooed over by his mother and sisters. He saw an infant that gurgled and tugged at his hair, making him laugh. He saw a six-year-old crying that Anastasia had broken one of his toys. He saw an eleven-year-old in a sailor suit that soon changed into a miniature uniform, a serious look on his childish features.

Down the hall, he heard music coming from a few rooms down, from Nicholas and Alexandra's quarters. It was the tsaritsa's voice. She was half-humming, half-singing a song that was very familiar to Ivan, just as it would be to all her children. The lullaby drifted softly through the decrepit hallway as she sang, a nostalgic and lonely sound in the quiet. Alexei stirred at his mother's voice but then fell back against Ivan with a sigh. As gently as he could, Ivan laid him down on the mattress where he curled up at once, mumbling. His eyebrows knitted but, smiling a bit, Ivan continued to stroke his forehead until they relaxed again.

The great river continued to flow. So many things had happened. But then, some things had not changed at all.

He kissed Alexei's temple before heading out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

At the foot of the stairs, a guard stopped him.

"A telegram has arrived, sir. Mr. Yurovsky orders that we meet in his room in a few hours."

The night was black against the windows, even though the stars were out tonight.

Ivan stood by the window, staring out blankly as his hands fumbled with his gun. He kept locking and unlocking the safety, even when one of the soldiers came in.

Lock. Unlock.

"Mr. Braginsky."

Lock. Unlock.

"Yes, Vaganov?"

Lock.

When he turned, the guard was looking at him solemnly. "It is time. Mr. Yurovsky has gone to awaken them."

Unlock.

"Understood. I will be there momentarily." The guard clicked his heels together in a salute, then turned around to head upstairs.

Ivan stared after him, unable to comprehend the storm of emotion roiling inside him. Hadn't this been inevitable? And yet...and yet he had hoped…

Lock.

The telegram in his pocket felt like it was burning right through the fabric, searing his skin and flesh and into the bone beneath. It burned deep into the marrow, charring him from the inside out. Part of him wished it would. The guard that had stopped him was wrong: there had been two telegrams. Yurovsky had read them the first and then, before Ivan left the room, discreetly handed him a second slip of paper, neatly folded. He was silent, there was no way of knowing if he had read it himself. Not that it mattered, since the message had been too short and cryptic to make much sense. Ivan realized who it had been from at once. Who else in Moscow would address him specifically?

The message had been: "I trust you, Ivan."

Spoken or written by anyone else, these words would have been warm. Ivan, however, knew the clipped meaning behind them and it sent a certain numbness into his limbs.

Lenin trusted him to do what was right.

This was a revolution.

Unlock.

Ivan came out to stand at the foot of the stairs; the clock on the mantle ticked a little after one in the morning. He noticed two men standing at attention by the door, and recognized them. Members of the Extraordinary Commission, of the Ekaterinburg Soviet. A chill crept down his spine and he quickly looked away. This was happening. This was really happening.

Doors opened upstairs and the sound of footsteps trudged down the stairs. Ivan swallowed hard when he saw the family. Alexandra was dressed in a threadbare coat and smiled at him minutely when she saw him. Behind her came her daughters. Olga was still buttoning up her coat and murmuring to Tatiana, both of them looking nervous. Anastasia followed with a pillow, rubbing her eye sleepily, and Maria was beside her with two more pillows in hand. Their father followed, dark bags under his eyes. Ivan's heart seemed to drop like a stone when he saw that Nicholas was carrying Alexei. He forced himself not to hyperventilate.

Please, please. This can't be happening.

The family doctor followed the former tsar, and after him came the maid, the servants, the cook, the waiters. Yurovsky came up at the rear of the party. His expression was calm, very calm, and by chance his eyes locked with Ivan's.

He saw nothing but the cool expression of a soldier, one that knew his duty and was ready to follow it.

The imperial family was led down into the semi-basement room of the Ipatiev House. Ivan followed behind, his hands fisted in his pockets, so tight he knew his knuckles were turning white. Still, he didn't want them to tremble. He didn't want anyone to see them trembling. His trepidation nearly burst over when Alexei lifted his head to look at him, and by some miracle he managed to return the boy's smile. A wave of nausea lapped at him as Alexei glanced away. From the back, the set of Nicholas' shoulders was weary but he held his son with strong arms. Ivan couldn't look at the gentle expression the tsar gave Alexei.

The passing minutes felt hazy yet crystal-clear: the family was arranged in the basement, having been told they were being relocated due to the White Army's advance on Yekaterinburg. Standing behind her mother, Anastasia caught Ivan's eye and pouted, expressing her crossness at being awoken so late. He smiled at her numbly and then looked away. When Nicholas asked Yurovsky for three chairs, Ivan murmured that he would do it and struggled not to run from the room.

Don't do this. Please, please, don't do this.

He returned with three chairs, which he and another soldier set in the middle of the room. Alexandra took a seat in one of them, gazing out the window; Nicholas set Alexei down in the second chair before sitting down himself. Ivan stepped back, nausea turning his stomach over as one of the soldiers ordered the family to wait while the truck for their transport arrived. There was of course no truck. No one was going to leave the room.

No, please, please...

He could only watch numbly as, a few minutes later, Yurovsky came into the room. The click of a lock seemed to echo. Behind him were about five more soldiers.

All of them were armed.

Please...

"Nikolai Alexandrovich, in view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you."

There was a moment of shocked silence, then Nicholas rose from his chair so fast he knocked it over. Ivan saw his lips mouth the words "What?" twice. The former tsar's face was stunned and he turned to face his family.

He saw Yurovsky raise his gun.

He heard the sentence echoing in his head.

Please...!

"I trust you, Ivan. I trust you'll do the right thing.

"For the revolution…"

This is a revolution.

...My revolution.

A shot erupted and Nicholas collapsed, blood pouring onto the concrete floor. He gasped but only for a second; several bullets fired from Yurovsky's gun, burying themselves into the tsar's chest until — and after — he was no longer breathing.

No one but the rest of the family noticed the still-smoking gun in Ivan's hand. He stared down at the tsar's body, feeling slowly seeping back into his numbed mind.

For the revolution to succeed, Ivan needed to cut away all connections to the past, to the old government.

What have I just done?

A scream jolted him back and he saw Alexandra's look of horror as the gunmen began to shoot chaotically; the two servants fell to the floor, their faces frozen in shock and pain. The tsaritsa turned away to cross herself, a final and desperate prayer, but as she turned a gunshot rang out and the bullet caught her in the head. She collapsed, dead, and at the sight of their mother killed the Grand Duchesses shrieked and scrambled back. Their terrified expressions burned against Ivan's eyes.

No, wait—

His horrified gaze swung around the room and suddenly locked with Alexei's. The boy was looking at him, his expression terrified. Ivan stopped breathing when he realized that the boy's face was splattered with his parents' blood.

In the next moment, a bullet caught Alexei in the head and he was thrown to the floor from the force, crying out. Yurovsky looked down at him, his face blank and his gun smoking.

Ivan choked and staggered. "N-No, stop…" None of the soldiers paid him any attention. The gunshots continued to burst in staccato, punctuated by the screams of the Grand Duchesses and the maid. Tears blurred Ivan's vision and he shook his head frantically when he saw Olga collapse from a bullet wound to the head. She moved slightly as if to get up, then fell back against the floor, tears streaming down her temples. "Please, stop, don't—!"

The memories, the memories, they flashed through his head beneath it all, taunting him and tearing him apart.

—Olga laughed and shook her head when Ivan asked her where the other girls were, it was a secret she said lifting her book to her lips mysteriously, he had to go find them—

The doors had been flung open to let out the guns' smoke. Maria and Anastasia were huddled against the wall, screaming as the soldiers advanced with bayonets this time. Tortured shock ripped at Ivan's heart when he realized they were clutching each other in fear.

—the girls huddled together in the closet, squealing in delight when he threw open the door and they scrambled out between his legs, running before he could catch them. Laughing, Ivan chased after them—

"No! Don't kill them! D—" Ivan's words ended in a choked sob when the soldiers thrust the bayonets. Blood sprayed over the concrete floor when they hauled back the blades to stab again, and again, and again, frustrated with how the girls continued to scream, unknowing that jewels sewn in their shirts were protecting them.

—Maria shrieked her laughter when Ivan caught her around the waist, lifting her up and Anastasia giggled and dodged out the door running down the hall—

He noticed Tatiana stepping forward and his eyes widened. "No, Tatya, stay back!" But Tatiana charged at the soldiers, her face pale and lips trembling as she tried to pull them away from her sisters. "Stop it, leave them alone, stop it!" she screamed but then stiffened when Yurovsky lifted his gun and shot her. She fell, blood pouring around her head like a twisted halo from the bullet. Was there supposed to be peace in the fact that she'd died quickly? Ivan gulped and grasped at one of the soldiers. "Please just stop, they're just children, please, stop!" The man shook him off and stabbed Anastasia. Her blood-curdling scream made Ivan collapse backwards, tears pouring down his face in desperation.

—coming out of her room to see what the commotion was all about, Tatiana almost ran into Anastasia the little girl squealed as she swerved Tatiana looked back and forth between her little sister and Ivan before laughing, understanding their game—

Maria had gone silent, and to Ivan's horror, Anastasia's cries were also dying away. "N-No...I…" His breath came in quick bursts, he was dangerously close to hyperventilating, or vomiting. They were all dead. His family, his children, they were all dead.

A soft moan seized his attention and he looked up, unable to believe it. Only when he saw Alexei's fingers twitch did he realize the boy was still alive.

Just when he reached out, however, one of the soldiers cursed and bloodied boots tramped towards him. "Dammit, the boy is still alive!"

"Well, what are you waiting for? Kill him!"

"NO!" Ivan screamed and lunged forward, but arms grabbed him and held him back. He struggled and yelled with increasing hysteria as the soldiers' bayonets speared Alexei's body. The young man jerked and screamed in horrific agony, writhing. His eyes whipped back and forth, searching desperately until he found Ivan, and his mouth opened to cry out. "Ivan! Ivan!"

"Alexei!" Ivan yanked against the hands holding him back; he tasted the salt of his tears on his tongue. "Alexei, I'm right here, I'm right here! Look at me, I'm here!"

The boy was sobbing now, the soldiers cursing above him. Like his sisters, Alexei's shirt had gems sewn into the fabric which made it not unlike chainmail. The protection was a curse in disguise, however; it was prolonging an inevitable death and Ivan felt every stab of the bayonets himself with every single one of Alexei's screams.

"Please don't! He's just a boy! He's just a little boy! Please!" The soldiers gave no response to Ivan's pleas. Their focus was on Alexei, on the son of the tsar. Their faces were completely void of mercy, and Ivan realized with a burst of panic that they were not going to let him live.

Alexei's wails rang through the basement, piercing and echoing inside Ivan's head, blocking everything else out. Worse, now it was Ivan's nickname he called out. The familiarity of it coupled with the horrible circumstances felt like it would rip his sanity to pieces. "Vanya! Vanya, please! Vanya!"

Ivan choked with his sobs, wishing more than anything to save him and unable to. He had never felt so helpless before. Never so powerless. Never so useless than right now, when Alexei was screaming for the very man who he had seen shoot his father, yet Ivan could do nothing but watch…

"Alexei…" he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry…"

The boy was dying. His cries had faded to agonized whimpers but every so often he would moan for Ivan. His bloodied hand twitched and then reached out, eyes blurry and dazed with pain as he searched for comfort. But from the distance he was at, Ivan couldn't take his hand.

Comfort.

No. He had a way.

Tears began to leak down Ivan's face again as he realized the one way he could give the boy peace. He gasped and dropped his hand to his waist, fumbling. His gun, after all, was still loaded.

There was no time for the other soldiers to react. And for just a moment, in that moment before he lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, his eyes met Alexei's. The young man's lips shook as he parted them, trying to speak.

"V...V-Van...ya…"

Ivan wanted to say something. Words ran through his head, everything he wanted and needed to say. I had to. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I had to. Alexei, please. I didn't want this. Please forgive me. My little boy, my tsarevich, I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

He pulled the trigger instead.

The sound of the gunshot seemed to explode through the room. Alexei was still now.

Ivan's hand shook as he dropped the gun, which clattered on the stained concrete. He slumped down and stared, unable to even cry anymore. He couldn't feel the tears that continued to roll down his cheeks.

Which was worse: his last prince's screams of agony, or the silence that hung over the room now?

"...Alexei… Alexei!"

The boy blinked and sat up, squinting to see a tall figure walking towards him. He sighed; it was Ivan. And if Ivan had come to look for him, that meant his parents were very upset.

Ivan couldn't help but grin at the little boy's pouty expression. Despite the tsar and tsaritsa's protectiveness, boys will be boys and Alexei was no different, regardless of his frail health. The ten-year-old tsarevich could hardly be expected to allow himself to be cooped up inside all day. Thus his frown at Ivan, as he expected a light scolding and then to be ushered back to the palace. But to Alexei's surprise, the man laughed and then sat down beside him. The grass was tall and swayed around them softly, a gentle shade of summery green.

"Now then. Why on earth would you do such a naughty thing to Derevenko, Lyosha?" he asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice. Alexei blinked, then thrust out his chest with not a little pride.

"He wouldn't let me go outside, even just a little! Anastasia helped, too," Alexei added with an indignant tone. Ivan just chuckled and stroked the boy's head.

"You know why that is, though, Alyosha."

"Yes, I know…" The child didn't look happy about it, however. He lay back on the grass, gazing up at the clouds. Ivan gave him a puzzled but warm smile, and after a few moments he leaned back as well. For several minutes, the two of them lay side-by-side, watching puffy streaks of cloud drift through the blue sky. It was a true summer day, the wind blowing the scent of grass and earth around them.

"You know, Ivan..." Ivan blinked and looked over at the boy's sincere tone. Alexei wore a thoughtful expression that looked strange on his childish face. "I'm going to try and be a great tsar one day. No matter what. Even if I can't do things like play outside, I'm going to work really hard and become the best tsar you've ever had!" The young tsarevich turned and beamed at Ivan, his eyes bright with conviction.

Ivan had to laugh, but he couldn't say he wasn't touched either. He reached over to pick a blade of grass out of Alexei's hair. "Even better than your father?" he teased.

Alexei frowned at that. "Well...maybe just almost as good — hey! You're teasing me, Vanya! That's not fair!" The boy watched in indignation as Ivan began to laugh, then rolled over to pound his arm with his fists. His eyes, however, were laughing, too.

"Haha, all right, I'm sorry, Lyosha," Ivan chuckled. "But why are you out here all by yourself? You'll get sunburnt."

The boy clasped his hands behind his head, looking up at a cloud that was shaped somewhat like a flattened hat. "Because I like it. I like to look at the trees, the grass, and the sky. I like to look at the clouds, and I like to lie down and think and wonder." His tone was wistful, and Ivan looked at him in an odd mixture of sadness and affection.

"What kinds of things do you think about…?"

"Lots of things!" Alexei beamed, and his face was like a little sun. "I'm going to enjoy the sun and the summer for as long as I can. Who knows if maybe one day I won't be able to anymore?"

Ivan was silent. The words came from a little boy, and that made it all the more poignant. He gazed at his tsarevich for a long minute and had just opened his mouth to say something when the boy popped up as if on a spring.

"Hahaha, come on, Vanya! I'll race you back!" He didn't want for Ivan to respond and just started running, his laughter trailing behind him.

"Ah! That's not fair either! Don't fall!" Ivan jumped up and chased after him. His long strides meant he caught up in just a few seconds and before Alexei could react, Ivan had swooped him up in his arms. With a delighted squeal, he threw his arms around the man's scarfed neck in a tight hug. Ivan laughed, his heart light with joy.

These times really were precious.

The sun shone after them, and the clouds drifted along in the blue sky.