They remained close throughout the winter. They would dine together, read together, and Ivan would often take Alfred into the music room to entertain him with a melody. He had promised the American that he would not head back outside for the remainder of the season and the Russian kept his word.
But when spring arrived Ivan took his determination to get Alfred to ride a horse again to another level of hope.
Mrs. Thatcher was a very involved woman in many of the activities around the stead and outside the property. And so when the roads dried and ice began to melt with the warmer spring temperatures and it was time to ride into town to replenish the home's stocks the old woman accompanied her servants with a long list in hand. Ivan had offered his services if only for an excuse to head into town and bring Alfred along with him.
The American didn't want to come. He was perfectly content with staying at the home or lounging around in the garden. But Ivan would have none of that.
As a means to raise the boy's hopes the Beilschmidt brothers were called in from town to help construct a saddle reasonable for someone like the Civil War veteran to ride. The two men were German immigrants with thick accents Ivan found himself clashing with over understanding, but they were excellent engineers and blacksmiths. He could see no one else crafting what he was looking for.
"Are you certain you attached the latch on properly, Gilbert?" The younger of the two—but clearly the most ingenuitive—Ludwig asked while moving the saddle on the chestnut stallion to check for security.
"For the last time, ja, I did," Gilbert complained from the other side of the animal. He poked his head above the animal's middle to glare at his accusing brother. "But if you'd like to check behind me then go ahead."
While the two brothers fumed over the other with the tedious task of attaching the unique saddle on the patient animal Alfred continually tried to wheel himself away back toward the home, but Ivan kept a good grip on the chair's handles.
"You are not leaving," Ivan insisted, holding Alfred steady in the chair. "Not until we get you riding again."
"I don't want to," Alfred plainly stated. "I want to stay here." He leaned back in his wheelchair with a huffing sigh. His eyes held the scene of the German brothers setting to work at securing the saddle. "Even if you manage to get me on there, there's no telling if I can ride the horse." It was a little hard making commands with no legs, and holding onto the horse would prove difficult too. Humans did a lot of things with their legs that wasn't noticed until they just weren't there anymore.
"That's why I asked the Beilschmidt brothers to make the saddle," Ivan explained. He kept his eyes on the Germans preparing the animal for a rider with no legs. He was very hopeful.
Convincing Alfred to give it a try was hard enough, more so was helping him mount the beast. The American didn't like to be picked up. He had been utterly embarrassed when Ivan had that one rainy October night, and so the Russian was a little more than worried as to how they were going to prop him onto the steed.
But Ludwig and Gilbert knew how to properly handle this. Instead of picking up the amputee like that of a child as Ivan had that one time, they both politely stood on either side of him and scooped him up into their arms, letting Alfred hold onto both their necks while he was hoisted onto the animal.
"There you go," Gilbert praised while helping Alfred settle into the saddle. Ludwig then went to the task of strapping him on and informing the American on what to use for signal commands.
"This should hold," Ludwig informed.
"How's it look from up there, Alfred?" Gilbert asked with an encouraging smile.
Alfred held his frown. With a sigh he took up the reins and looked around. There was Mrs. Thatcher waiting by the wagon with a servant, Ivan stood only a little ways away near Alfred's empty wheelchair. The Russian offered a proud smile while Alfred turned from him again.
"Would you mind trotting some steps?" Ludwig questioned. He let go of the horse's bridle and took a step back to inspect the testing hold.
Again Alfred said nothing. He nodded his head tried his best to control the horse.
"Use the straps, Alfred," Ludwig reminded, following Alfred's ride closely, watching for any mishap.
It had all been working just fine before the horse picked up its pace. After a canter Alfred stumbled in the saddle and nearly fell off. The horse was well trained and stopped the moment it felt Alfred slip forward and grip onto its mane for support.
Ludwig and Gilbert quickly ran up to the horse, Gilbert taking the reins into his own hands to steady the horse from wandering while Ludwig quickly looked at the buckles and straps of the saddle. Ivan had been just as startled by Alfred's near tumble and jogged up toward them with worry for Alfred's fright.
The closer the Russian got the more he could see how shaken Alfred was. His hands were trembling while his fingers held their tangle in the beast's mane. His eyes were wide and startled, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
Ivan had almost reached out and placed a comforting hand on the boy's thigh, but he refrained from touching any part of his legs. He knew Alfred didn't like anyone coming close to the stumps, much less looking at them and their lack of length. Instead, he asked, "Alfred, are you alright?"
Ivan was afraid Alfred would give up again. That he would demand to be taken off the horse and rolled back inside. He looked shaken, but when Ludwig finished tightening the straps he took a step back and asked Alfred to round the stallion again. To Ivan's surprise he watched Alfred scoot himself back into the saddle again. The straps around his hips were tightened once more and Gilbert gave up the reins.
This time around Alfred didn't slip. Ivan smiled at the sight. He could definitely tell Alfred was a rider. The way he handle the reins was excellent. The Russian could tell Alfred was doubtful about lack of leg commands, but the straps set in place to pull at the animal helped make up for the lack.
It had worked. And now Ivan wanted Alfred to ride into town with them.
The Russian sat with Mrs. Thatcher and her servant in the open wagon, keeping his eyes on Alfred whose horse was lagging behind slightly more than Ludwig's or Gilbert's. But the older German slowed his ride to match speeds with Alfred. The day was just starting out, there was no need to rush their journey.
It was nice to see the buzz of town. People going to and fro from homes and shops enacted a revived life in a nation coming out of hibernation. Ivan enjoyed the sight and eyed the bookstore and post office intently.
Turning around he watched Gilbert help Alfred tie his horse down before he and Ludwig began unstrapping the boy. The Russian noticed the stares, and he quite clearly understood that Alfred noticed as well, but the American opted to ignore those ghastly looks and focus on watching the German brothers help him out of the saddle.
One would think that after the Civil War the sight of amputees would become a common thing. Perhaps, but that did not stop the children from staring or the adults from looking away in disgust. After all the North had not been struck as fatal a blow as the South, and from the outlook of winning the war the Northern states did not see much of the devastation of those in their grand army.
Seeing a double amputee was one thing, but seeing said handicap veteran actually mounted and riding a horse was another. It was as if he had arrived strait from Barnum's circus and the audience was gathering.
The moment Alfred was pulled from the saddle and set into his traveled wheelchair the people minded their ways. Ivan didn't like it that Alfred kept his eyes down to his lap. The boy looked better with his head risen and eyes wandering to the things around. But Ivan understood; he knew Alfred was intimidated by their stares and quite quickly it was not a surprise in watching Alfred lay a blanket over his stunted legs to hide the fact of his missing limbs.
"Thank you kindly, Beilschmidts," Mrs. Thatcher praised with a clap of her hands to the brothers. "I trust the funds received was enough for your contraption?"
"Nein, it is fine," Ludwig spoke up. "Keep the saddle for free. It was a pleasure creating something for Alfred."
"Ja, it is a good thing to see him riding again," Gilbert said with a fond smile while turning to the boy who kept quiet, and kept his eyes down. "Now we're hoping his spirits will return sometime soon. It would be good to see."
Mrs. Thatcher nodded in agreement. But Alfred was left in Ivan's charge while everyone went off to their own business about town.
"It is a nice day," Ivan noted. "Would you mind staying here while I go mail these?" Ivan questioned. He had letters to return to his sisters and the postal station looked a bit crowded, much too crowded to fit a wheelchair in. Alfred said nothing and so Ivan took the silence as agreement.
The longer the day passed and the higher the sun arose in the sky the more lively the town became. More folk from isolated steads flocked in to replenish stocks and meet old friends after the long winter. The children ran back and forth on the streets, the horses neighed and carted their owners up and down the main road, and the pavilions were aroused with melody.
A particular tune, Yankee Doodle Dandy, Alfred's all-time favorite had burst into the air. The tune enticed him to follow it. He rolled himself down the wood walk, minding not to exit out onto the road—the road was still slightly moist with melting ice and Alfred didn't want to chance getting stuck in the mud.
From the walkway he could see the flutist and drummer. The fiddler simply sat and slapped his knees while his two bandsmen played the melody and evoked cheerful claps from the surrounding crowd. Alfred would have liked to join in with the crowd in clapping the band on with patriotism if his hands hadn't been so tightly gripping at the wool blanket over his legs. Those passing by stared Alfred back into insecurity and now all he wanted to do was return back to the homestead—at least there he was more isolated, away from eyes looking on him with pity as if he were some forgotten unfortunate soul.
When his eyes roamed toward the small children dancing around their mother's skirts he smiled. If there was one thing he missed the most it was his act of dancing. He'd give up the capability to walk and to ride if all he could do was dance.
The sound of high boots stopped right behind the veteran and when Alfred's wheelchair moved just slightly he understood that Ivan had returned. But the Russian remained quiet, keeping close and watching the small band strike up pleasant nostalgia in the town and roaming people. The band had played a number of three revolutionary hymns before they took a short break.
"You liked those tunes, didn't you?" Ivan inquired while he pulled the chair back from the edge of the walk way and then began pushing Alfred back down the board.
Alfred didn't say anything but Ivan was ever an observationist and had understood perfectly the feelings the amputee had felt. He especially noticed the boy's eyes on the playful children. The longing in those blue irises helped Ivan to understand just really what Alfred wanted.
On his way to the bookstore Ivan had stopped by the pharmacy. From what he understood from Mrs. Thatcher is that Alfred had one nasty sweet tooth. And if the progress recently was a show of anything then Ivan hoped the boy still had a knack for all things sugary.
"Oh, would you like some candy, Alfred?" Ivan asked, halting the chair near the entrance. The boy didn't say anything but Ivan decided to go and buy some for him anyway. "Stay here," he bade while walking into the store.
While the small stores weren't ideal to push a disabled veteran in with wheelchair and all, the outside offered challenges for the amputee as well, especially the sheer scene of bustling life. People were walking back and forth on the street, up and down the board walk, chatting, laughing, singing. Life in its rejuvenated finest was always seen around spring. This all reminded Alfred of the previous spring and of the same spirit he had lost after the wound that cut his service short.
"You just have too long of legs, George," came the giggle of a young maiden who amused herself with the frustration of the tailor trying to measure her betrothed. Alfred turned to the scene. The tailor shop was next to the pharmacy and even it seemed overflowing with costumers. The tailor taking measurements of the customers had been forced outside while the desk clerk inside was busy taking down orders for fabric.
"I do apologize, Sarah, but I'm afraid I have not stopped growing since the age of eleven." The man getting measured chuckled.
His fiancé giggled and looked at the tailor, saying, "Last spring he was an inch under. Let us hope he doesn't grow the more before the wedding."
"If it be then let it be," this George said while wrapping his arms around the smiling woman. "Then I shall dance with my wife ankles bare."
"You'd look like a fool," Sarah muttered with a pat to the man's hat.
"No more a fool from wanting to wed you," the young man mused with a devious smile that made the girl giggle.
A bag of candy plopped down onto Alfred's lap. He started out of his stare and looked down to the neatly wrapped sweets before looking up and noticing his Russian escort sucking on his own piece of candy. Ivan offered him a smile before noticing the tailor store next to them.
"Would you like some fitted clothing?" Ivan questioned. He smiled at the image conjured in his head. Alfred would look very nice in a sharp coat and dark pants. He's never seen Alfred in formal attire and the very thought evoked a need to see just that. "I could ask the tailor to measure you."
"No," Alfred spoke up. "Don't."
Ivan noticed Alfred clutching at the blanket over his stunted legs. The Russian understood. The tailor would measure his arm length, bust, waist, and pull back the blanket only to have his tape fall short of measuring the length of the boy's legs. Alfred didn't want to go through that and so Ivan pushed him along.
Mrs. Thatcher had remained in town until high noon after which her stocks were replenished and now called for the task of catering them back to her estate. The Beilschmidt brothers showed Ivan how to properly harness the saddle and correctly strap Alfred onto it while they remained in town at their shop. Ivan memorized everything and thanked them again for their services.
The ride back home was quiet. Alfred lagged behind like he had on the ride into town. With no one to be a close escort Ivan had to constantly turn in the wagon to keep an eye on him.
The concern weighed in when home was reached. Ivan went to unstrap Alfred from the saddle but was surprised to watch the boy steer the steed away and trot off.
"Alfred, where are you going?" Ivan called out. He couldn't keep up with him and could only watch the American distance himself from the home.
"It's still light outside," Mrs. Thatcher noted while she helped her servants usher in the stocks. "He'll be fine."
But Alfred couldn't get out of the saddle on his own, Ivan understood this. Even if the American managed that there was no way he could strap himself back in or even manage to make it back to the home. So Ivan swore to help Mrs. Thatcher with unloading before heading to the stables and saddling himself a horse to go looking for Alfred.
Alfred really was a good rider. It was a shame he thought the lack of legs hindered his skill with the horse. Ivan could clearly see his experience in maintaining the stallion as he approached the boy who was maneuvering in and out of the trees aligned next to the lake.
The American was taking his time, lost in his own thoughts. Ivan noticed his circular walk and so dismounted his horse and tied it to a tree. Ivan kept his distance and took out a pen and paper to write.
He hadn't noticed when Alfred looked up to see him nor when the boy suddenly unlatched himself from the saddle and fallen off the horse. But when Ivan looked up from his written words to suddenly see the chestnut stallion bare of a rider and Alfred collapsed in the greenery he dropped both pen and paper and darted toward him. He scolded himself for losing focus in his mission to oversee Alfred's safety but when he knelt down to the amputee he found himself baffled by the smile on Alfred's face. Especially the laughter that burst out after Ivan had rolled him over onto his back.
"You . . . you are laughing." Ivan was at a loss for words. He's never heard the American laugh, barely even saw him smile. What a pleasant sound to his ears.
"Yes, that would be the term," Alfred said with a chuckle. His eyes looked lighter, and the light smile on his lips made him look younger. Ivan wondered if laughter was all it took to de-age him. He looked beautiful in such youth.
"You're not hurt are you?" Ivan questioned. Falling off a horse could be damaging, and Alfred had slid right off.
Alfred sighed. His smile had left his lips and Ivan had wished he kept to his awed silence. He liked Alfred when he smiled. Now the American was pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes falling to the sparkling blue lake—it illuminated his eyes perfectly and all Ivan wanted to do was drown in them.
"You're always concerning yourself with me," Alfred said. He sighed once more. The lull of the lake's waters cascading over its shore calmed the moment, and Alfred's own soul. He seemed more relaxed, but still in deep thought. "You don't have to."
When Ivan made no comment Alfred turned toward him curiously. Ivan was looking at him in silence. His eyes observing every movement, every feature and expression. Alfred scoffed.
"Why do you look at me like that?" the American asked. "I know you're a romanticist, but even poets and writers and artists need to come to terms on what is art and what is useless garbage."
"And why do you do that?" Ivan questioned. A poem bloomed in his heart and he felt the need to write it down so he wouldn't forget it. "My eyes are trained to find beauty, so it is no wonder why I cannot avert my gaze from your form."
Alfred didn't seem to like the compliment. He glanced down and away, self-conscious once more. "Perhaps it's you who needs to borrow my spectacles."
"Nyet, I see just finely," Ivan informed. Very finely and he was so glad to behold Alfred's unrevised beauty. He truly was a masterpiece, maimed or not.
Alfred sighed again. "You're the only one who thinks so. The others," Alfred was referring to the townsfolk, "they looked at me as you should."
Ivan shook his head. "It is they who are blind to the beauty of the world, and of the life it creates."
"Life didn't create this," Alfred muttered, his eyes falling into darker memories as he rubbed his thighs and then let his fingers slip down to the nubs where his calves would have been. "I did." It was he who knew the possible consequences of joining the army. He'd seen the dead, the limbless. He had never thought it would personally affect him . . . not when the war had almost been won.
"It illuminated the sun, shinning white while in the eyes it shines a light blue.
Oh I look for the vibrancy and am I disheartened to find it faded in hue.
No, let me see it, let me behold thy contempt for the world.
Let it take root, up grow, stretch wings, and unfurl.
I wish to see it soar.
I wish to see it more.
Will you show me just this once?
Before I unravel and come undone?
Before me right now have I beheld a beauty unseen by many
Of the likes there is none, no, not any.
In your heart there beats much doubt.
So keen to mistakes, so hurt by the stares of man and unspoken words of their mouth.
Help me to find a way to convince, to assure, to assist.
For if I cannot then I find myself amiss,
In a world that is blinded to true beauty and the freedom therein.
For love, and beauty, and peace, is a blessing, not to be thought of as a sin.
Would you help this longing soul find what it seeks in earnest?
For all my life I believe we have been worlds apart, touches just missed
Help assure my heart, my mind, my body, and my soul.
That there is beauty, so much beauty in the likes of you in this world."
Alfred had always been politely quiet when Ivan read his poetry to him, but he was struck with confusion when the Russian reached out in his recitation and pressed his cold hand to his cheek, lingering in the American's warmth while large fingers moved and carded through golden bangs. But Alfred did not move away, even when Ivan had finished his heart-felt poem and leaned close to him, pressing his lips to his, Alfred remained still in his bewilderment.
The kiss was a simple press of the lips, but it held for a good five seconds before Ivan pulled away. There was some embarrassment for the unexpected action but Ivan's smile still remained soft and his eyes ever looking into Alfred's own.
"Ah, forgive me," Ivan apologized softly. He pulled his hand away from Alfred's face and instead carded his own fingers through his sandy locks. "We poets tend to get too caught up in beauty. If I have caused any offense then do forgive me."
Alfred remained in shock and quiet in his confusion. Ivan just simply dismissed it all and took to the task of helping Alfred back onto the horse and buckling him in. Ivan then went on to lead Alfred's horse as well as his own back to the stables.
Nothing else was said of what had happened and when Alfred settled in for the night he rose his hand, his tanned fingers touching the place on his lips where Ivan had pressed his own against. Oddly enough it wasn't Ivan giving him a kiss that troubled the American, it was the Russian going about his daily business as if it had never happened that upset the boy.
But the boy could not settle this unspoken issue if he, himself, didn't give voice and speak. And so, after days of remaining in usual silence, Alfred finally initiated a conversation—asked a question that needed answering.
"Back by the lake . . . why did you kiss me, Ivan?" Alfred was currently out in the vegetable garden, watching the Russian who was assisting in Mrs. Thatcher's chores and fertilizing the plants himself. Usually, wherever Ivan went so too did Alfred, if only because the Russian would push him along without a say in the matter but simply to get better sun.
Ivan was currently lathering the new soil around, mixing in the fertilizer before Alfred asked this. He stopped and wiped his gloved hands. Looking at the boy who had a ripe looking squash settled in his lap.
"I told you I was sorry for doing that," Ivan explained. The Russian was concerned that that instance had been the reason Alfred's been unusually quiet and lost in his thoughts more than usual lately.
Alfred sighed. That clearly wasn't the response he wanted. "But why did you do it?"
Ivan placed the garden tools back in the basket near his feet and took of his gloves. He came closer to Alfred, knelt down so he could chance to look him in the eyes—that is if the boy would look at him and not the sizable squash in his lap.
"I was caught up in a muse," Ivan explained gently. He hoped to evade any offense he might have caused the American. "Artists may do unforeseen things when engulfed with such emotion. Even things they themselves would never do."
"So then you would have never kissed me under normal circumstances?" Alfred inquired. His eyes looked away from the ripening squash seated on him to take a quick glance at Ivan. His gaze fell back as quickly as it as rose.
Ivan sighed gently. "Not unless you would allow me to," he answered. This answer had caught Alfred by surprise. Wide blue eyes turned up to look into deep amethyst irises.
"You would want to kiss me again?" Alfred asked. No one wanted to be that close to him. So why Ivan of all people? Was this simply for the sake of inspiration?
Alfred's eyes glanced down when Ivan placed a gentle hand atop his own resting on the armrest of the wheelchair. When he looked back up the Russian looked so sure, so certain, but Alfred was frightened and trembling.
"Da," Ivan answered gently.
"Why?" Alfred asked. He wanted the truth. What was he to Ivan? Why was the Russian so fixated on a broken piece of fine pottery?
The hand lain atop his own now clenched and held tightly. Alfred glanced down at it, no longer able to look the Russian in the eyes.
"You are not unwanted, Alfred," Ivan answered. "Every man, woman, and child on this planet are meant to be cherished and loved no matter what condition they retain." The Russian's smiles were nice and Alfred always felt he too should smile with him at times. "I've come to learn in my journey for looking for the desolate and depraved that there are some that can never be such. You are one such being, Alfred." Ivan chuckled shyly before glancing away. "It is a little hard to explain in English words and even my own language, this why I could only speak through poetry. Forgive me if I brought you confusion."
With another sigh Ivan rubbed Alfred's hand. He frowned in his thoughts before looking up at the American again. "The reason why I want to kiss you is so I can come to understand just why I do," Ivan admitted. Even he didn't understand the pulls of his body, but he acknowledged it.
"Then kiss me," Alfred so gave permission. Their eyes met and Ivan looked astonished by Alfred's response. "Because I want to understand why as well."
Ivan seemed taken aback by Alfred's stance, but not for long. He leaned closer until Alfred bit his lip and bowed his head. He was still too self-conscious and could not look at Ivan like how he wanted him to.
But the Russian did not reprimand Alfred for this. Instead he lifted his hand and pinched Alfred's chin, making him look up at him. A smooth rub from the thumb helped Alfred's teeth let go of his bottom lip. Ivan smiled in gratitude over Alfred's calm and then leaned in more.
Alfred's heart hammered into his ears, deafening him to the sounds around when Ivan's lips pressed over his own again. His eyes fluttered shut on their own accord and his face grew hot with all of the blood pumping rapidly in his veins.
The kiss was shorter than the first one, but when Ivan pulled away he smiled at Alfred's expression. The American's eyes seemed dazed, but focused, there was even an excited gleam in them that the Russian wondered if Alfred was aware of. The flush was washed beautifully with the boy's tanned color. He looked utterly innocent in that moment, so pure and untouched. And all Ivan wanted to do was touch him. So he did.
Ivan caressed the American's cheek again and leaned in. He kissed him for the third time. It was easy to tell Alfred didn't have much experience in this sort of show of affection—Ivan was probably his first kiss as well. But Ivan didn't mind, in fact he reveled in the knowledge of being Alfred's first. He would have no other.
Ivan smiled when he felt the younger press back into the kiss, trying to return the pressure to his best ability. Ivan relented on his own guide and allowed Alfred to explore himself. The boy reached up, lightly clenched into the Russian's shirt as if unsure of what to hold onto. Ivan grasped his hands and placed them against his neck and jaw, showing the younger that he could touch him back.
Alfred held onto Ivan like this and continued to kiss him until he could live with breath no more. He pulled away, his face still as red as the ripening tomatoes near them. Those blue eyes of his seemed so bright and contrasted perfectly against the redness of his flushed skin, but they would not look at Ivan, the embarrassment rode over the American's senses.
No, there was nothing wrong with this. There was nothing wrong with Alfred. So Ivan pulled him close once more and kissed him again. It was easily told that Alfred hadn't expected this and simply fumbled in the kiss until Ivan's lips moved so gently, so smoothly that he guided Alfred along and showed him how to properly give such passionate displays of affection.
Alfred learned quickly. He was moving in time sooner than Ivan had expected. Those strong hands of his fisted into the fabric of his shirt again, pulling and pulling until the Russian was nearly leant over the wheelchair and pressed down on the amputee.
Ivan was unamused with the wheelchair. It was obviously in the way and all Ivan wanted to do was to wrap his arms around the boy, pull him close to his chest so that he may feel the thumping of the American's heartbeat. But Ivan was in a way glad for the hindrance, because he wanted to do so many more things, things he wouldn't think too polite in a time as delicate such as this.
Ivan's pale fingers rubbed up the warm tanned length of Alfred's neck, enjoying the way it arched when Ivan pressed his mouth harder onto the American's. Every time their lips separated in a moment Ivan could hear Alfred quickly inhaling what breath he could before Ivan pressed close again and took his breath away. When Ivan's hand rubbed that strong jaw it slacked, leaving Alfred's lips to part and now Ivan pressed his tongue inside.
It may have been too bold for a tender moment like that, but Ivan could not go back. He moaned at the taste of the boy. Alfred still had a lot to offer the world . . . to offer Ivan, and the Russian wanted every piece of him.
When Ivan finally pulled back a string of saliva connected their mouths, but when Ivan's thumb brushed over Alfred's lips the line was cut. The American's face was truly an inspiring sight to behold. His eyes were still closed, brows furrowed, and lips parted now plump and swollen. Ivan wanted to kiss him again for looking so promising, but he refrained and instead caressed the veteran's face until those trembling eyes opened and looked up at him.
Ivan tried to assure him of his feelings through his gaze, but often wondered if Alfred could read him as much as he could the American.
Ivan, himself, wasn't sure what to call the two of them. He would like to say lovers, but that was such a strong statement that seemed to hold more passion than what was passed between he and Alfred. Ivan knew, after being given permission to kiss the American in the gardens, that he felt something strong for the boy. He first had assumed Alfred to be some incarnate form of a muse, a source of deep inspiration, but he felt now it was something more, something much more promising and exciting.
The two would share secret kisses in the privacy of their rooms and when no one had eyes upon them; in the gardens, near the lake, amongst the apple trees. And Ivan had never wrote so much passionate words in his life, each one he shared with the being that made his heart hammer inside his chest.
"Even from so close I feel we are so apart. Just an arm's reach, a finger's brush.
The beauty in your features entice my heart to hammer and my words to stammer.
This feeling continues to build and anticipate until you look at me.
And then I am calm and my soul does settle.
For I know you will let me touch you, you will let me hold you, you will let me kiss you.
And I am content in this."
Alfred's flush was just as beautiful as before. He has seemed to maintain its color to a soft pink painting on his cheeks this time, but when his eyes would glance toward the Russian seated near him—whether it be in the sunlight of the lounge room, or the small flickering candlelight on the American's lampstand—a deeper color would emerge and his eyes would glance down, a book or a paper covering his lips to conceal his shy sweet smile.
Today Ivan was sitting in Alfred's bedroom. It was late, much too late for any tenant or servant to be up. But he and Alfred tended to return to sleep in later hours and so one final poem was due before Ivan would bid Alfred farewell and with a kiss leave the boy to his dreams.
The two had long since passed the need to verbally ask for a kiss, as well as past the awkward glances and embarrassed flushes. Now, it was a need to be done. And as Alfred pulled the book down from his lips he quickly pushed it aside and leaned over, his movement calling to Ivan who placed his poem down on the lampstand next to the shrinking candle and pressed against Alfred himself.
Alfred was more confidant now and more certain on where to place his hands when he needed to hold onto Ivan. Right now one hand had its fingers tangled into the Russian's hair and the other cupping the back of his neck, pressing him down upon him as they kissed. Ivan was usually more polite with his hands, but this night those devious things wandered, one now was rubbing Alfred's shoulder while the other slid down, rubbing the boy's back and on its ascent back up to the neck it pulled Alfred's loose night shirt up with it and the heat of that tanned skin paused the wandering hand and enticed it to rub down again, palm now pressed flat against fine bare shoulder blades.
Alfred had not pulled Ivan any closer, but in that moment the Russian wanted to be. So he leant over the bedframe more, one knee dipping down onto the mattress where Alfred's legs would have been. His press made Alfred lean backwards with his own back sinking now into the springy mattress as the larger male bore over top of him.
Alfred did protest nothing, simply kept his mouth on Ivan's and moved with his lips. However, it was the poet who had pulled himself away when his hand had receded down toward Alfred's bare waist. When he leaned back he noticed the confused look on Alfred's face, and when Ivan altogether moved off of the bed and straightened his petticoat Alfred leaned up on his arms, looking on in concern.
"What have I done wrong?" Alfred questioned. Of course the American would always assume he was the one to blame for misfortunes when in fact Ivan found no fault in him, absolutely none. Which made it so hard for Ivan to fall away from.
"Nothing," Ivan assured. When he turned and noticed the unsure look in Alfred's eyes, the doubt that Ivan had been so hard to vanquish, he pressed close one more time and kissed the boy's forehead. "Nothing you could do would ever deface the perfection which you are incarnate. Rest your head and wait for the morrow. I will dream of you, will you dream of me?"
Alfred smiled and nodded his head while he settled into his pillows and sheets. Ivan smiled in return. "Then I bid you do svidaniya, moi bit serdtsa."
When Ivan returned to his room he didn't sleep. Instead he wrote the desires of his heart down. He was concerned with what he read on the endless mass of papers. But every word was beautiful and every one true.
He wanted Alfred as his own.
Ivan's passion ran deep. Deeper than he had thought it would for the American. Never before had he drawn this close to a source of inspiration, but he could not deny that he was glad it was someone as beautiful and awe inspiring as Alfred.
Ivan Braginsky had always been a picky man, denying all suitors sent to him by family and friends. They did not have what his heart sought for. And for a poet it was a high level of beauty.
Who knew he would find such beauty in an American amputee?