Ivan is waiting when Edward is released.
It's not much of a surprise. Ivan's regular visits were enough to give away his intentions even if he weren't persistent in talking about an assumed future together. And it's not as if Edward has anywhere else to go; he's grown accustomed to the shape of his cell, the strict lines of confinement marking out his whole world, until when he steps outside it hits him like a blow, all that space and all that freedom. It makes his head spin, makes his feet stumble, and when Ivan scrambles towards him to reach but not quite touch him, it's a relief more than it is a burden.
They don't speak during the cab ride to Ivan's apartment. Edward doesn't know what to say, feels like the smell of prison is clinging to him like visible filth, and when Ivan stays silent he's more than happy to hunch his shoulders and turn to stare unseeing out the window, watching the color and light and movement of the city pass him by like it's on a television screen instead of close enough to reach.
He has no idea how long it takes them to arrive; it's just some period of time, the awareness of seconds and minutes long since gone hazy in Edward's mind, and then the cab is drawing to a stop, and Edward opens the door and steps into the screened-out world he's been watching. The apartment complex is unremarkable, clean and quiet and painted in bland greys and browns; it's comforting, in some ways, to stare at the simple lines of the building while Ivan pays the fare and comes jogging up behind him.
"We're on the third floor," he says, the first words he's spoken since they left the prison. When Edward turns to look at him Ivan's head is ducked, the angle hiding his features like he's afraid to be seen. The pose is familiar from schooldays long past, the fall of white-blond hair enough to obscure the changes a decade has made to Ivan's features, and for a moment Edward can breathe again, like all the weight of the years spent in prison is gone for the span of a heartbeat.
It doesn't last. By the time they've climbed the stairs to the apartment in question Edward is tense again, strain collecting between his shoulderblades and itching at the back of his neck like there are unfamiliar eyes sticking to him. It's strange to know that he's free; he keeps expecting someone to seize his arm and declare there's been a mistake, that they can hardly let someone like him go after all this time.
"Here," Ivan says, so softly Edward almost doesn't catch the words, and pushes the door open to lead the way into the apartment. Edward follows, the comfort of the enclosed space a help for his panic all on its own even before he's taken in the setting around him.
It's simple inside as well as outside, the entire space done in black and white and muted browns, soothingly familiar while still more welcoming than the industrial grey Edward has lived in for the past twelve years. There's not much by way of decoration, just a few pieces of photography framed on the walls and a few bowls to catch fruit or keys, depending on their location. With the minimal design it's hard for Edward to notice, at first, how lopsided everything is, like half the objects are missing. But it's true - for every full shelf on the bookshelf in the corner another is left empty, for every picture hanging on the wall a square of equivalent size is left bare on the opposing face. The longer he looks the more the shape makes itself clear, the layout of a single person living in a space for two, until he's certain enough to draw his brows together in irritation and speak.
"You didn't have to move your stuff," he growls, swinging his bag off his shoulder to toss it carelessly against the wall by the door. "It's not like I have anything to fill the space anyway."
"What?" Ivan asks. When Edward looks up he's paused en route from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand. "What are you talking about?"
"This." Edward waves a hand generically at the half-full space around him. "You didn't have to make space for me."
Ivan blinks, looks up to follow the gesture of Edward's hand like he doesn't know what they're talking about. His eyes trail uncomprehending over the surroundings, sketching out the shape of the decorations and pictures, and then he visibly blinks himself into understanding.
"Oh." He comes out of the kitchen, offers the glass of water to Edward. "I didn't. It's been like this since I moved in."
Edward doesn't take the glass for a moment. He's too caught in staring at Ivan's face, the wide dark eyes that have never been able to lie about anything, and he can't see even a flicker of dishonesty in them now.
"No way," he says, and reaches out to take the glass because Ivan is still holding it out more than because he knows what to do with it. "Not this whole time."
Ivan ducks his head again. "Yeah."
Edward's throat goes tight, like he's holding back a shout or a laugh or a sob, or maybe all three at once. He takes a sip of the water, a quick rushed attempt to clear the ache in his throat, and when he coughs it at least knocks the knot of sound loose.
"So." Ivan's still not looking at him; he has one arm crossed over his chest now, is idly rubbing the sleeve of the coat on his other arm like he's unaware of the nerves implicit in the motion. "Do you want me to leave you alone? You're probably not used to-"
"No," Edward says, too fast and too rushed. He didn't intend to let that much panic out into his voice but it spills free anyway, pushes him forward a step to reach for Ivan's shoulder, even if the motion stalls out incomplete. He doesn't have the words to speak to the crippling loneliness of too-long alone, or the strength of will to push them past his throat without crying, and maybe someday he'll be able to sob out the drawn-out pain of what he's lost against Ivan's shoulder but he can't do it tonight.
So "No," he says again, carefully, and when Ivan looks up to meet his gaze it's Edward who looks away, pulls his arm back in so he can hunch in on the ache in his chest. "Can we watch a movie?"
Edward does better with the movie on. Ivan's taste in film hasn't changed at all in the time they've been apart; when Edward leaves it up to him to choose they end up watching a historical drama, familiar enough in a vague way that Edward thinks they probably watched it together before, or at least that Ivan watched it while he watched Ivan. It's an easy habit to fall back into, with Ivan drawing his knees up against his chest like he used to and riveted to the screen like he hasn't seen this movie a dozen times. The only real difference is that Edward is watching instead of touching, glancing at Ivan sideways instead of scooting in closer to drop an arm semi-casually around the other's shoulders. It's too soon for that, still, the jittery panic at physical contact still more than enough to drown out the ache of desire for it in him. So he watches instead, keeps his hands still and flat on the couch, and tries to figure out how to fit into the life that has been waiting for him all this time.
He's still thinking about it when fingers brush the back of his hand. When he looks sideways Ivan's still watching the screen, eyes wide and mouth falling into a frown of concentration, but the hand against Edward's tenses, fingertips feeling out the shape of his in featherlight suggestion. Edward can feel adrenaline under his skin, uncertainty and unfamiliarity at this contact that is something other than the distant professionalism or aggression that have made up his life for so long, but he doesn't pull his hand away. After a moment he twists his wrist, turns his hand palm-up so Ivan can fit their fingers together, and when the surge of friction hits his blood like fire he shuts his eyes and lets it wash over him.
Ivan doesn't comment when Edward ducks his shoulders in, or when his breathing catches into the telltale rhythm of sobs. Edward thinks more than anything else, he's grateful for that silence.