Lighthouse

The ship buckled and lurched on its side while it carelessly tossed any of the strong sailors that had somehow managed to stay aboard thus far. In the distance, desperate cries of help danced in the wind from men who were drowning even as they were thrown about in the waves like nothing more than paper in the wind.

Ivan knew that most of the crew was sure to be dead by now, and those that lived would soon find their own graves among the murky bottom of the Atlantic Ocean that always promised to take no prisoners. A wave crashed into his side, bringing with it the ship's First Mate until he was perilously close to Ivan's reach, but the moment their fingers touched, the cruel sea separated the two men without any chance of recourse.

The sky split open in an awesome display of its power and magnitude, lighting the chaos and destruction that surrounded them for all to see. Ivan was forced to helplessly watch as the main staff fell from its post and crashed directly onto the flailing First Mate, cutting the man in half like no more than melted butter.

There was no time to grieve, not for his death, nor for anyone else's, as the sailor soon took note of the black rocks approaching from up ahead. They jutted forth from the ocean floor like the teeth of some ravenous sea monster that had been unsatisfied with its prize of the Great Russian ship and now demanded only the blood of its dying crew.

Ivan used his powerful upper arms to resist the undertow, ever conscious that his futile efforts did little to improve his situation as wave after wave blinded his vision and it in turn effectively cut off his air supply. It felt like hundreds of powerful hands had taken a hold of his soaked tunic without relent, the current trying mercilessly to drag him below in order to follow after his fallen shipmates.

The salt water stung his eyes while his lungs continually filled with the deadly cold liquid that chilled him from the inside out, offering yet another option for his certain and most likely death. But Ivan would not… could not submit to a watery grave. He would fight till the end, as he had always done before.

And then… it came to him, like a gift from above, or maybe from Satan himself… Ivan felt the coiled rope as it whipped dangerously around him in a deadly dance that could just as soon kill him as save him. The Russian sailor spared no seconds in wrapping the thick line around his forearm, fully aware that a particularly strong wave was all it would take for the appendage to be separated from his body for good. But his luck held out… and so he began to pull himself forward.

Despite the continual waves that rocked his body, the constant threat of undertow and the never ending battle for fresh oxygen… he managed to feebly scale the rope hand over hand until he was certain his arms would give way.

The further along the rope he climbed, the less the waves affected him, offering instead a mild form of relief from the relentless attack from all sides. Ivan blearily realized that that the rope had not been attached to a broken rigging of the ship as he had first imagined, but instead some sort of island land mass that partially shielded him from the onslaught of the storm and would continue to do so, if only he could find the strength to complete the length of the rope.

But even as his arms succumbed to fatigue, the ocean once again denied him the option, steeling itself for one last push and lifting the struggling man high above the rock face before crashing downwards onto the banks of the rocky shore.

A searing pain ripped through the side of his torso as his ribcage took the full force of the blow. But still Ivan hung on, wrapping the coil further along his arms and what he could of his injured mid section. He didn't have the strength to hold on, but maybe the rope would grip him until the storm passed… and then maybe he would live.

And as the thunder cracked loudly above, salt water taunting him from every direction and consciousness slipping from his grasp, Ivan could only pray that the rope would endure longer than he had.

xxxx

Warmth enveloped him now in the same way that the cold salt water had before, seeping deliciously into every pore of his weary body. Ivan dared not open his eyes for fear of what he would find, but instead soaked in the sensation of rough wool beneath his skin, the sound of a fire crackling in the distance… and warm hands that were in the process of tending to an open wound.

It was the hurt from the latter that forced his eyes open and the Russian sailor grunted out loud at the shock of pain that surged in his ribcage, even as the gentle hands placed themselves against his chest to prevent him from any further action.

The lamplight was set low and the fire that he could hear was burning steadily in another room entirely, so all that could be made from the pale shadows was a set of glittering eyes that looked at Ivan with no show of emotion whatsoever.

The sailor attempted to speak, his throat sore from the saltwater he had swallowed, but his foreign words meant nothing to the stranger sitting patiently on the bed beside him, watching him without expression.

His savior resumed his administrations without a word, as if there had been no disturbance in the first place… as if Ivan were still unconscious. And when he'd finished his amateurish medical aid, the stranger only stayed long enough to pull a quilt roughly over the Russian's bare torso and then stood to leave.

Ivan called out to him, suspecting even as he spoke that his foreign words wouldn't be understood, but he was nonetheless sure his intent was clear. The stranger paused in the lowlight of the doorway, allowing the Russian to catch the barest hints of the young man's partially hidden features.

Soft wispy hair danced around his pale youthful face, highlighted only by the glow from the other room. And his eyes… his eyes were as dark and foreboding as the churning sea during its most turbulent nights… and much the same colour.

It made Ivan pause and he dropped his arm back to the bed, relinquishing his request for the other man to stay. The stranger turned his shoulders back towards the doorway and resumed his plan of departure without having spoken a single word. Ivan had little time to dwell on the implications as Morpheus rose from his domain and stole the sailor away for a night of restless sleep.

xxxx

The second time that Ivan awoke, he was alone. The oppressive darkness that he had up till now been bathed in, had given way to daylight that crept through the impossibly small windows placed high in the stone walls of the house, their thick blurry glass allowing little but the barest amounts of light to seep through.

Ivan slowly sat up in the bed and surveyed the small cramped room with some distant form of interest. The bed where he now lay was relatively small, only big enough for one man, maybe two if he shared it with a wife. There was an armoire that must have held within it a small array of clothing and a single bedside table that propped up the flickering oil lamp and a very welcome sight of a bowl of soup and bread.

The sailor reached over and gave in to his hunger, eagerly laying waste to the small meal, thankful, no matter how meager the offering was. Through the small doorway he could make out certain details of the sparsely decorated living room that held only an old couch and a small woodstove that was probably used to heat the room as well as cook the soup he had just finished eating.

There was probably another room around the corner, or maybe an exit of some sort, but Ivan could not see past the barrier of the doorway. Both the living room and bedroom that he lay incapacitated in was rounded in a way that most rooms were not and the sailor was now sure that whatever seaside house he was being held in was rounded on the outside like a circle.

A sudden noise filtered through where he could not see and the strange young man from before appeared with a bundle of wood in his arms. Ivan could make out his features much clearer in the dim light of day and curiously took note of his long sleeved red woolen shirt and thick woven pants. His soft blonde hair fell just past his ears and danced around defiantly in waves and ringlets with every motion that the young man made.

He did not bother to look Ivan's way while he continued to slowly and carefully rekindle the fire, although Ivan was sure that the young man must have known he was awake. When he finally did join the sailor in the bedroom, the stranger did not offer a greeting of any sort and only continued to frown in indifference to his patient, neither happy nor sad to see that the other man was now awake and well rested.

Ivan once again attempted conversation in his native tongue, unfamiliar with even a single word of the English language that the stranger was most likely to speak in these parts. But the young man paid him no mind and instead concentrated all his attention in placing his hands on Ivan's exposed chest, checking the long bandages that were wrapped around his midsection for any further bleeding.

There was none.

When finished, he stood to leave again, Ivan just barely managing to catch his wrist before he slipped away into the hidden parts of the strange abode.

The Russian sailor motioned to himself and in a clear and concise voice told the other man his name. The blonde's expression remained unmoved and only a tilt to his head betrayed that he'd heard the other man at all.

The room grew quiet save for the crackling of burning wood, and the whistling of the wind as it slipped through the stone cracks around them. For a few short moments Ivan was struck as if trapped in a spell, unable to tear his gaze from the bottomless eyes that shared it's colour with the blue and violet waves that had not that long ago attempted to take his life. The young man's mouth parted ever so slightly and a pink tongue peeked out to lick wind-chapped lips, but no words came forth, nor did any try to.

The young man calmly reached down to where Ivan's larger hand enveloped his wrist painfully tight and carefully pried his patient's fingers away with little resistance from the injured man. Their second meeting had been short, uneventful, and more of a mystery than ever.

The next day continued in much the same way as the first. Ivan slept most of the time and would wake to yet more scraps of food. When he was lucky, he was treated to a visit with his ever silent companion, who did little more than tend to his wounds and check him for fever before disappearing once more into the recesses of the house.

By the third day Ivan felt more than well enough to escape his prison of a bed and he crept along with only minor difficulty until he'd reached the other room. Once there, he saw that the only missing part of the house that he'd been unable to see was a wooden spiral staircase that ascended up to a second story that Ivan had not known existed. The living room itself had hidden a large thick door that looked relatively unused and a desk positioned around the corner. On it Ivan found a modern telegraph machine that he'd seen the port masters use back on the coasts of Russia, but he did not know how to use it, and even if he did, he could not understand the strange 'dits' and 'dahs' that it would send and receive.

Fatigued from his small adventure, Ivan chose to lay himself on top the welcoming couch positioned conveniently directly in front of the wood stove, allowing him to best take advantage of the valuable heat that it offered in the chilly environment. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders that he had found laid out over the edge of the couch and then soon, against his will, he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke to the feeling of a warm hand checking his temperature in a careful attempt not to wake him. It was an attempt which had subsequently failed as Ivan opened his pale eyes to meet those of the stranger that he was without question indebted to. And while the blue orbs offered no form of comfort, they stared bravely back at him, unblinking and unrelenting until Ivan himself was forced to look away.

The young man leaned back onto his haunches and walked into the bedroom, only to return shortly after with a soft pillow and a warm hand woven button shirt, both of which he proceeded to hand to Ivan in silence. The sailor thanked him in Russian, but as always, his words were unreciprocated.

xxxxxx

For the next few days Ivan chose to remain in the living room. He enjoyed the proximity to the fire, and also the ability to keep a closer eye on his strange companion. Slowly the hours that he was awake started to exceed the hours that he was asleep in recovery.

He rummaged without care through the files in the stranger's desk and was soon rewarded with a vital piece of information, the missing name of his savior. There were numerous handwritten letters that had been stashed away in one of the drawers, and while Ivan could not read them, they had all been addressed to a "Matthew Williams".

When the stranger next returned, Ivan took considerable pride in finally being able to greet him properly by name, greatly enjoying the annoyed look that flashed across the stranger's tumultuous eyes. Realization soon dawned on the young man known as Matthew and his gazed shifted across towards his work desk with a look of betrayal. Ivan only smiled softly to show that he was unashamed, even as he continued to test out the name on his tongue along with words that were not able to be understood by the irate young man.

Matthew evenly made his way over to his desk and proceeded to pull out a key from one of the drawers in order to lock them away from prying eyes. He then pocketed the key, but lifted up a calendar that had lain innocently on the desk, which had apparently not warranted a closer look by the Russian sailor. The young man pointed to a day that didn't seem too far off from the last one Ivan remembered, and then he pointed to a separate day that was scheduled to take place in little less than a month away. And then… he then pointed to Ivan.

The sailor wasn't positive what the stranger was trying to tell him, but he could only assume that Matthew meant that this was when he could leave, although why he had to wait at all was yet another mystery for him to unravel. But it mattered little to the sailor how long he stayed. He had nowhere else to go and for many reasons, he was reluctant to return home. There were far worse punishments than that of remaining under the care of a handsome young man in solitude.

In the weeks that followed while Ivan's weakened strength returned, the sailor began to talk ceaselessly whenever Matthew was present to hear. Unable to stand the eerie silence that was punctuated only by the creaking of water and wind against old wood, Ivan chose to break it with the calm deep undertones of his native tongue, speaking to the stranger as he would a small child. He would tell the uninterested man about his adventures across the sea or of his small cottage back home that he had grown up in, but was now entailed away by another relative. He confessed to great crimes that he had committed, and not so great acts of bravery that were too small to absolve him of his many sins. Matthew would never acknowledge his words and would often leave him whenever his tasks were complete, or he no longer had an excuse to remain at his desk.

It was on one such evening while Matthew sat next to him on the warm couch, incessantly writing in what the sailor could only assume was a log book; that Ivan once again used the quiet hours to speak about his family and of his sister whom he was sure never to see again. The sudden gravity of such a statement struck him cold, and he grew quiet as he stared off into the crackling flames that the wood stove produced. He wondered silently to himself if she was warm and cared for with a family of her own, or dead and cold beneath the earth.

He was startled by a gentle touch on his arm, curious eyes watching him beneath long pale lashes. Ivan could only stare back as lost as always in their depth, not understanding at all what Matthew was trying to tell him… until it suddenly dawned on him. The quiet man was asking for him to continue to speak in his soft tones as the hours drifted by, to fill the void of silence that was normally only filled by loud wind and the sounds of waves and burning wood.

Ivan smiled then, his momentary melancholy forgotten as he watched the beautiful young man that had never asked anything of him before, and may never do so again. He was only too glad to comply with this one small request.

xxxx

Their language barrier was obviously not their only hurdle in understanding each other. It wouldn't have mattered if Ivan spoke flawless English because Matthew refused to communicate back with him.

Ivan spent many hours wondering why Matthew chose to be all alone and more importantly, why he never spoke. Was he actually mute or was he silent by choice? And if so, what could have caused him to decide that the life of a silent hermit at such a young age was preferable over the alternative.

He greatly enjoyed watching the young man work, be it writing in his logbook, preparing food or simply cleaning up around the small living area. There was no denying that he was attracted to the quiet blonde, even if such a thing was as unwelcome as it was cursed by the many priests and fellow countrymen that he had known.

But nonetheless, it was how he felt.

And while the dark desire that slept within him was no great revelation, the fact that he was simply content being in the other's company was as much a surprise to him as any he'd ever known. He enjoyed watching as the lamplight caught in his hair or the very few times he'd managed to make those sullen lips quirk up in the barest hints of a smile. Ivan thought to himself that he could never grow tired of such amusements. He greatly mourned the loss of the young man whenever he would escape up those spiral stairs that separated the Russian sailor from Matthew each and every night.

It was not long before Ivan felt his ribs had recovered enough for him to brave the difficult ascent up the stairs, so during a particularly sleepless night, he crept silently up along the stone wall. The creaking of the wood was concealed only by the loud wind magnified in the empty circular stairwell.

Once he'd reached the pinnacle of his journey, all too soon many things became significantly clearer in his mind. The apparent isolation… the constant waves crashing around them… the circular nature of the house. He was amazed that the thought had never occurred to him before.

He had been residing in the bowels of a functioning lighthouse.

Peeking his head just above the old wooden floorboards, Ivan watched in awe at the beautiful display of the lamplight rotating in an endless circle, its bright light reflected against hundreds of mirrors that refracted the glow out towards the merciless ocean. The salt air was as thick as ever, but otherwise the night was clear and without a cloud in sight. There was no doubt in Ivan's mind why the young man preferred to spend his nights laid out across a few blankets on the hard floor instead of making use of the warm bed that had been provided for him. With the ever watchful beacon of light that washed around him, the night sky shining above and the luring siren call of the waves crashing below, this may have been heaven on earth for anyone who loved the sea.

Of course none of that was as alluring to Ivan as his first glimpse of the Lighthouse Keeper as he lay fast asleep. The young man's normally sad eyes closed peacefully in the depth of sleep with naught a care in the world. Ivan quietly pulled himself up through the hatch and crawled over to where young man lay, not even bothering to resist in the temptation to stroke his fingers lightly across the pale cheek that was reflected only in the moonlight and periodically from the bright lamp above while it turned in constant motion.

It was all he dared do without waking the tired young man, but it was more than enough to make up for the many hours of constantly wondering what was so important to steal the young man away from him for so many hours. With great regret, Ivan crept back to his lonely makeshift bed on the couch below, knowing that despite the proximity of the wood stove, he would soon feel bitterly cold compared to the brighter light that lay sleeping on the top floor of the lighthouse tower.

xxxx

Without any warning, the first big storm since his shipwreck a couple of weeks ago had blown in. Something that Ivan would have not noticed for some hours more if not for Matthew's failure to appear that morning to prepare breakfast. As the hours went by and the wind grew in strength, the very walls began to shake from the unrelenting onslaught of the waves outside, leaving no doubt in his mind that this storm might rival his own.

Ivan knew that he would be of little use upstairs when he could barely walk, but the anxiety over his quiet caretaker came to an abrupt increase when he heard a crash from above. Pulling himself away from the safety of the warm cocoon like living space, Ivan limped up the stairs with complete disregard for his broken ribs and still healing wounds.

He was greeted with a monsoon like display that had turned the morning hours to that of the darkest night. At first Matthew was nowhere to be found, but Ivan soon spotted him outside one of the open balcony doors that crashed recklessly in the wind, the action presumably what had caused the loud noise that awoke Ivan's concern. The small wet figure of the Lighthouse Keeper could be seen doing his best to tame one of the wayward stability ropes, but his efforts were in vain as the wind whipped around his tired body and threaten to claim him as a sacrifice for the sea.

Without hesitation, Ivan ran outside onto the precarious balcony and took the rope from Matthew's bleeding rope burned hands, oblivious to the salt wind that stung his cheeks and soaked his pale white hair in seconds. The rope now secured in his hand, he used the strong upper body strength that he had gained through years of work at sea and pulled the loosening wooden slate down until he was able to tie the rope tightly against one of the stone pillars. The wooden balcony was slippery and wet from the crashing waves that now managed to reach them, even at this height, and for a brief frightening moment Ivan was sure that Matthew was to be swept away to sea, never to be seen again.

He reached forward to secure the smaller man's arm, pulling him inside along with himself and kicking the door shut behind them. Even in the safety of the enclosure, they were not spared the attack from the outside storm, but there was at least little chance of them falling to their deaths from where they lay.

They were both now panting heavily, drenched from head to toe. The adrenalin induced effects of his actions prevented Ivan from feeling the cold, his eyes locked onto the pale wet face next to his, soft lips pressing themselves together in worry even as Matthew looked away from the continuous storm and back towards Ivan's torso.

The smaller blonde let out an exclamation of worry, quickly moving his hands in order to rip off the white tunic that was turning red from Ivan's newly reopened wound. Weeks of recovery… ruined in a momentary instance of bravado.

Matthew scrunched up the ripped shirt in his hands and pressed it to Ivan's wounds, but the Sailor did not feel the pain and could only smile as he watched those normally unreadable eyes tighten in worry and concern… for him.

Had the adrenaline not been running though his body, Ivan might have thought better of his next action, but he was hopelessly and carelessly lost in the moment. Ivan gently placed his own large hand over Matthew's in order to steady the icy digits that were now covered in blood. His other hand slowly reaching up to gently wipe back a stray lock of wet hair, his own fingers equally numb from the exposure to the cold waves outside.

Matthew never wavered from his hold on the makeshift bandage, but he licked nervously at his pink lips that were thoroughly flushed from the recent exertion and stared back up at Ivan in curiosity and apprehension as the Russian's finger tips boldly followed the path of his tongue.

But the storm was not over, and there was still much work to be done for the one whose job it was to man the Lighthouse. A particularly harsh wave slammed against the windows and Matthew was jolted out of his trance, flinging himself into action. He helped Ivan to move across the floor until he was lying up against the center post, and Matthew firmly directed his hands to hold the blood soaked shirt in his stead, even though by now the wound had calmed in its bleeding.

Ivan could only watch, unable to help no matter how much he wanted to as for the next few hours Matthew worked tirelessly in order to prevent any further shipwrecks… like that one that had brought Ivan to this very lighthouse.

By the time night had fallen and the storm had finally died down Matthew was able to turn his attention back to the wounded man at his feet. The young man found some bandages from below and in the eerie calm that followed after any storm, he carefully rebandaged Ivan's bare chest, careful not to aggravate any ribs that might again be broken.

Matthew did not bother to try and move Ivan downstairs and instead brought him some fresh dry clothing with which to change into. The sailor thanked the young man once again and smiled when he noticed how the Lighthouse Keeper's eyes lingered without meaning to when Ivan stripped his cold wet pants to trade them for the dryer pair.

Matthew prepared the bed for that night and Ivan gently laid himself onto the hard floor. He was happy to be alive, happy to see the stars while he slept and happy to be allowed the chance to watch over his keeper.

The blonde made a failed attempt to leave him to sleep on his own, but Ivan quickly caught his wrist and motioned for him to stay. It was a lot to ask… and they both knew the implications if Matthew conceded… but he did anyways.

The young man laid himself down next to the larger body, his back inches away from Ivan's injured belly. The Russian could see a slight tremble in the other man's shoulder and was unsure if it was from the cold night air or from something else entirely.

Ivan reached down to pull the blanket over them both and snaked his arm around Matthew's midsection so as to gently pull him back into his warm embrace. The silent young man did nothing to object and when Ivan nestled his tired head against the crook of the other's neck, he could have sworn he felt the young man crack a timid smile.

xxxxxx

To say that they never spoke of what had happened went without mentioning. With the exception of Ivan's constant unreciprocated rambles, the two never spoke of anything. But despite all that, there was an understanding of the situation that had not been there before. Ivan believed he now knew why someone as youthful as Matthew might hide himself away from the world in a job that was meant for a man who was aged well beyond his years.

And if Matthew ever questioned why Ivan never asked to leave, or whence he came from, he never showed it. He looked perfectly content to live whatever lie the Sailor had concocted if it meant that Ivan continued to talk to him in that calming foreign language of his and continued to wordlessly follow him up to the lighthouse deck so as to fall asleep under the blind eye of the lighthouse beacon.

It took another week or so for Ivan's newest injuries to heal itself, but in that short time he'd been able to occupy himself with menial tasks to help Matthew in the daily operation of the lighthouse. This, along with stolen glances, and more importantly, lingering touches that continually pushed the boundaries of what they both knew was allowed, was what gave him hope of something more.

In the end it was Matthew who made the first move as he redressed the long bandage that wrapped itself securely around Ivan's muscled abdomen and fore chest. But when he was done, his hands did not stray and without looking back up for confirmation, Matthew's long finger's slowly traced their way up the large muscles that graced Ivan's chest, until finally he rested them on top of strong well-defined shoulders.

Only then did Matthew brave a glance upwards, a small worrying of his lips the only indication that he was nervous in anyway at all… nervous that maybe he had misread the other man so horribly. But Ivan would not let the young man doubt himself for long, weaving his large hands through Matthew's soft wind swept hair and pulling his face closer until they were mere inches apart.

Nothing was rushed, they were far from any sort of hurry and the delicate situation coupled with Ivan's still healing wounds prevented any action other than the careful ones he proceeded with. A feather light kiss was pressed against Matthew's temple that hinted of the taste of sea salt, followed by another on his cheek… the corner of his lip… his jaw… and then finally the center of those parted lips that Ivan would have given almost anything to hear his name whispered from.

Matthew's breath hitched beneath his and Ivan could only smile in encouragement, the task of leading the way the only thing hiding how Matthew's small trembles made his stomach roll in anticipation, or how the blush in those normally pale cheeks forced him to steady his hands.

An unspoken agreement passed between the two and Matthew swallowed slowly in the dim light, his Adam's apple bobbing enticingly as he slipped his warm shirt off before lying bare against the warm blankets underneath them, his eyes never straying from Ivan's intense gaze.

The Russian helped them both to be rid of their remaining clothes, his movements slow and calculated, as much for his own sake as for the young man beneath him. But at no moment did Matthew shy away or show any indication of fear, even as he displayed more emotion on his face than any Ivan had yet bared witness to up until that moment… and inside it thrilled him.

Ivan took hold of the young man's wrists and held them high above his head. He took pleasure in seeing how Matthew remained calm, arching up into his touch in a way that mildly betrayed his lack of innocence, but did nothing to diminish his appeal.

The large man took his time exploring, while denying his caretaker the same pleasure, a reversal of their roles from the last three weeks. He would have gone on this way all night if he could have, but instinct and desire took a hold of him long before such an aim could be achieved.

He body soon forced him to move things further along. And with his one hand still holding Matthew's wrists captive, the other slipped cautiously, but with intent, down the length of young man's ribcage, ghosting along the defined edges of his hips before dipping below. Ivan took great pains in an effort to prepare his willing companion, the silence around him only punctuated by the ocean and their deep heavy breathing that seemed almost louder than any words that they could have been spoken. And when he did finally enter Matthew, it was with the same languid intensity that he'd displayed thus far.

Ivan rocked smoothly inside the quiet young man beneath him without breaking a single second of concentrated eye contact, his thrusts causing Matthew's wavy hair to jump in way that was wholly enticing and that tested his composure all anew. The Russian could only press his lips into a warm kiss along the pale exposed neck in an effort to maintain the impenetrable silence that surrounded them.

At long last he was complete, holding onto Matthew in the only demonstration he knew how to show that he had every intention of remaining that way, his whispered words of adoration meaning nothing in his foreign tongue.

But as Matthew followed suit, his whole body tensing in an arch, Ivan was rewarded with the only proof that he'd yet to show that the young man could make use of his vocal cords if he so wished. The soft keening moan that broke forth, reached deep into Ivan's soul in the way that no display of release ever could.

And it left him reeling.

xxxx

Ivan woke up to find himself alone, a quick glance through the balcony windows revealed a particularly beautiful sunny day. But the warmth of the morning sun did little to compensate for the loss of the body heat that he'd grown accustomed to. Ivan stood to walk towards the balcony, but stilled all movement when he heard a low murmur of voices drifting up from below the deck, something he'd never heard in all his time in the quiet lighthouse.

He kneeled down low, and caught the louder sound of a boat rocking back and forth along with the waves as it hit softly against the outside dock bumpers. It dawned on Ivan that it must be the day that the Lighthouse Keeper had been patiently waiting for all this time, the day that the resupply crew had arrived to take Ivan away.

The stairwell hatch lay suspiciously closed, something Matthew had never bothered to do before. And Ivan thought that it might be silent offer for him to remain hidden upstairs… if he so chose… an invitation to stay… if he wanted.

The Russian Sailor crawled soundlessly towards the hatch, careful to open it without making too much noise and slipped down the stairs until he was positioned behind the wall that separated the staircase from the living room, well hidden in the shadows beneath the large spiral stairwell.

He was just able to see through a crack in the wall and he watched as two men made themselves at home while Matthew wrung his hands nervously. Even Ivan could tell that he was eager to see the men depart as soon as they could. The larger of the two men stepped outside to gather more boxes, but a fit blonde remained behind to address Matthew with a look that Ivan had no patience for.

Their words were as foreign as ever to the sailor's ears, his time with Matthew had done little to change that. But there was no doubt that the man, who was currently making Matthew so uncomfortable, was a blood relative, of some sort. He had impressively similar features; his blonde hair cut just a bit shorter and he wore a pair of spectacles that only just barely differentiated them. Ivan briefly wondered if they might be twins.

"Mattie… you know I don't like the thought of you stuck out here on your own… and you've got to stop lying in your reports. You told me in your transmissions that you never saw the Russian shipwreck last month… but I saw some of the wreckage in your burn pile. You can't just lie about these things to keep me from making sure that you're safe. You know how I feel about you being here, I don't like it… not one bit."

The man who sounded impressively loud after his month of quietly spoken soft words with Matthew alone, reached up to gently stroke back Matthew's hair in a way that Ivan thought inappropriate even if they had been brothers. "Why don't you let me stay out here with you… or better yet, why don't you come back home? I could keep you safe… you know I could."

Whatever it was that the relative was saying, it brought a distinct frown to Matthew's face, his body stiffer than ever as he brushed away the hand that tried to affectionately cup his cheek. Ivan would have liked to jump out and break those fingers for ever touching him in such a way, but he knew that the act would be foolish. It was not Matthew who was in any danger, it was him.

The Lighthouse Keeper turned away from his relative and began to help the larger man who'd just come back with more supply boxes. Ivan watched with no small amount of satisfaction as the first man threw Matthew's transmission papers on to the floor in anger, calling out Matthew's name in frustration.

But in the end whatever he'd said, or whatever he later asked for, it had been said in futility, and the second blonde grew more despondent the longer they conversed. The two visitors ending up staying much longer than Ivan would have liked, his hiding place becoming more of an inconvenience as the hours drudged on. Trapped as he was in his dark corner under the stairs, he eventually succumbed to the fatigue brought on by his still recovering injuries and drifted off to sleep.

Ivan wasn't exactly sure how much time had passed, but the sound of something he'd never heard before woke him up with a start. A soft unsure voice was calling out his name and if he wasn't mistaken, the owner sounded on the verge of barely concealed panic.

"I-ivan… Ivan?"

The Russian Sailor was now certain that he'd never heard anything as sweet, or as sad, as the sound of his name spilling forth from Matthew's lips, his voice rough and obviously out of practice from ill-use.

He surveyed the living room area and could see that a few things had been overturned; it appeared that the Lighthouse Keeper had been looking for him, although he had not thought to check under the stairs.

Ivan made his way upstairs only to find Matthew sitting dejectedly against the central column of the lighthouse with his legs held close to his chest, his head resting forlornly on his knees as he looked for all the world as if he had been utterly abandoned… by him.

The young man had undoubtedly assumed that Ivan had chosen to jump ship and was now hidden aboard the resupply boat where he was sure to be long gone… and never to return…

Not wishing to startle him, Ivan tentatively called out his name, surprised when Matthew jumped in fear, his eyes no longer void and empty, but sad and full of feelings that the young man must have found impossible to express in words or with action.

Ivan approached as carefully as he could until he was able to slide down next to the other man, reaching over to wrap one strong arm around Matthew's shoulders and pulling him closer until his head was resting securely on the sailor's shoulder.

Matthew didn't try to speak again and barely looked at him as he breathed in and out slowly in tandem with the strong waves crashing below in order to slow his racing heart. Ivan couldn't resist the chance to close his eyes and nuzzle his cheek against the soft golden locks beneath him, leaving a painfully reassuring kiss on the young's man brow as he did so. Matthew allowed himself to be pulled in tighter, his own fingers reaching over to capture Ivan's free hand in his own, bringing it close to his lips to place a chaste kiss on the callused knuckles before holding it tightly to his chest for safe keeping.

And Ivan thought to himself… if this was the punishment of hell that had been promised for him by so many and for so long… then he was never happier than to have drowned that violent night at sea; if only to have been led to this eye of the storm, with its hidden guiding light.

The End

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Author's Comments:

Obviously I've been in a 'nautical' mood lately. I love lighthouses; there is something mysterious about them, constantly bordering on the security of ancient rocks, and the precarious nature of the deadly sea, all the while offering a single light of hope to those that choose to heed it.