"Commie bastard."
"Capitalist pig."
It's only teasing, really. There hasn't been venom behind those words since the Sixties, only repeating them out of habit.
"You don't mean that."
"Neither do you."
His grasp of English is getting better, Alfred notices. The accent isn't as harsh as it used to be. Much better than it used to be. He slips into Russian for a moment, if only to indulge the other.
"I hate you."
"Of course you do."
"I do."
His Russian is getting better, Ivan notices. The words are starting to sound more natural. Not as good as a native speaker, though. He allows himself a smile. There is no 'I love you's between them; they don't need it.
"You're getting better."
"So are you."
Back to English. Alfred takes that as a small victory. He moves to close the distance between them, kicking off his shoes in the process. Ivan accepts his hug with hesitant open arms, but he understands. The past stays with you.
"I'm not going to stab you in the back."
"You wouldn't be the first."
Those are painful memories, and Ivan doesn't like remembering them too often. They stay a bit longer in the embrace, neither wanting to let go despite their former hesitation. It's a rare show of actual affection, something some people - not naming names - refuse to believe exists in their odd relationship.
"You can let go now."
"I don't think I will."
Alfred revels in his discomfort, searching about the room for someplace to drag Ivan to. And he does, to the old, rickety-looking love seat kitty-cornered into the walls farthest away. There isn't much actually in the room, just the basic necessities of an imitation living room. He still hasn't let go, snuggling up to the other's side and feeling rather proud of himself.
"You make a good pillow."
"Let. Go."
"How. About. No."
Despite Ivan's numerous attempts to pry him off, Alfred is still clinging to him. He decides to just give up, leaning back with a huff. It's not uncomfortable, though, but he isn't really used to all the physical affection. The other is a touchy-feely person, he knows, and maybe someday he'll get used to it.
"Are you done yet?"
"Couple more minutes."
And he does give Alfred a couple more minutes, to which he is grateful. It isn't often he gets to do this. It's comfortable, too, his legs sprawling over Ivan's lap and his head resting against his shoulder. He yawns, his grip loosening and his hands falling to the other's hips. Neither move for a while and Alfred slowly falls asleep.
"Idiot."
Ivan mumbles in Russian, drawing Alfred fully onto his lap. He smiles slowly, bending his head to nuzzle the other. A kiss is brushed against his forehead, before Ivan closes his eyes and drifts off as well.