Alfred broke into Ivan's house one night. Well, not really broke into it, not with lock picks or a skeleton key or even with an intent to steal anything. It was more like he noticed there wasn't a car in the driveway for the fourth night in a row, and that Ivan's light was still on but he still wasn't heading to school so maybe he was sick. Maybe his dad had gone off on a business trip and Ivan was lying in bed, addled with a fever and unable to care for himself.

Alfred knocked first, of course. He even tried the doorbell, holding his ear to the door to see if he could hear anyone moving about inside. But there was nothing, and it only added to his worries. He found that the door was unlocked when he tried it, and the hinges gave a haunting groan as he let himself in. He halfway thought it would slam behind him the second he was inside.

Alfred crept carefully through the house, trying hard not to disturb anything. The entire interior gave off an air of old money. There were busts on desks, oil paintings that held people with noble faces and fine clothes, military memorabilia within glass cases. Everything had its own place, and it made Alfred think of the houses he and his old man had visited when their old pad got too expensive.

He thought of the burning wax candles and the throw rugs on couches no one would ever use. The plush pillows on beds that were for decorative purposes only, the shiny tafetta sheets no one would sleep on. All of those houses had been staged, made to look like a home, like a place you would want to live.

But no amount of smoke and mirrors could hide their lonely halls. They were houses, not homes. They didn't have memories in their rooms, there were no scuffs or chips in the paint, no stains in the carpet. It was just walls and furniture and decoration with no warmth.

Alfred tiptoed up the stairs silently, fingers gripping the banister, pulling him along one step at a time. He envisioned the floor plan in his head, mapped out where Ivan's room would be. He walked the hallways with careful steps, ignored closed doors and opened ones alike until he reached what he thought could be Ivan's.

He looked out the window from the hallway and saw his own room, that vase with its wilted, dying flowers. He'd been keeping watch, a vigil, eyes always open, waiting to catch a glimpse of Ivan. But the blinds remained shut, the curtains drawn.

Alfred rapped his knuckles lightly against what he thought was Ivan's door. If Ivan was in there, he wasn't answering. With a quiet click and a simple twist he had the door easing open, his body through the crack, shutting it softly behind him.

Ivan's room was neither clean nor messy. His things seemed organized, for the most part, but there were some clothes on the ground. All his books were nice and neat in the bookcase though, arranged seemingly from tallest to shortest in descending rows. His desk was neat, the pens lined up carefully, papers stacked with purpose.

His bed was messy, sure, but then again he was sleeping in it, so that made sense. Ivan looked like he was having a good dream, too. His expression was calm, the hint of a smile on his lips. His blankets were twisted around him like snakes, limbs sprawled out.

Alfred moved closer, his shadow casting over Ivan. He must have been tired to fall asleep with the light on, or, in his sickness, it was possible he couldn't reach it, didn't have the energy to move. He could be starving for all Alfred knew, dehydrated and trapped in fevered dreams. The thought of it made Alfred's heart turn inside out.

He rested his hand against Ivan's forehead, feeling for the tell-tale heat. Yet there was nothing, not even the stirrings of warmth. Ivan's skin was smooth and cool, pleasant, even. Ivan stirred under his touch, eyelids fluttering open as Alfred pulled his hand away.

There was a tense moment as Ivan seemed to wake, stretching, struggling groggily with his sheets. He rubbed at his eyes, a bright, alert look slowly ebbing into them. Alfred instinctively took a step back when Ivan rose, all slow movements and sleepy grace. It reminded him of Frankenstein's monster, freshly brought to life.

"Get out," Ivan said, and his voice was husky, deeper than Alfred remembered it. It made his pulse quicken and his breath shiver.

"C'mon , man, hear me out for a sec─"

"I said get out."

Alfred planted his feet, balled up his hands into fists, and screwed up the courage to stay. "I'm not going anywhere in a rush, so hold your horses."

Ivan stood, and it took everything in Alfred not to edge away. Alfred was a tall kid, strong and confident looking, but Ivan was taller. Where Alfred's muscles were boyish and rounded, Ivan was nothing but cut. His shoulders were broad, his collarbone well-defined. He could certainly be intimidating if we wanted to, and the fact that he was only in a loose-fitting tank top and his boxers didn't subtract from that fact.

"Why are you in my house?" Ivan asked, his tone guttural, too-rough.

"Look, I've been worried as all get out about you. You've been missing loads of school and it's like you're always home alone. I thought you got sick or something."

Ivan smiled, but the expression was all wrong. His lips curled at the edges, more a sneer than anything, a glimpse of white teeth behind taut lips. He took a step forward, and Alfred could feel his body trying to shy away. But he held fast and leveled his most serious, super-adult face at Ivan.

"You could say I have been sick," Ivan started. "But not in the way you think."

Alfred's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I didn't─ I didn't mean to say all that stuff so loud. I still wanna be your buddy and all, it's not like things have to change."

Ivan looked away, and Alfred could see his pulse jumping in his neck.

"That is how you show me you want things to stay the same? By sneaking into my room at night like this?"

Alfred groaned. "Why're you being so difficult? Look, let's make a deal. Come back to school and you won't even have to talk to me. I'll be like a ghost or something."

Ivan's expression grew pensive, his eyes darkening. Alfred fidgeted, toes curling within his shoes. He tried not to think of what had caused all this, that pretty bouquet and Ivan's invitation for a date. It made Alfred's blood run hot to think that Ivan of all people could like him that way.

Ivan, who was more handsome than anything (and Alfred could say that, because handsome was what you called good-looking guys no matter your orientation). He was smart and well-read, able to answer any question Alfred posed to him. And he was so careful, so precise with his hands when he was brushing back an errant lock of Alfred's hair, or when the pads of his fingers glanced Alfred's skin as they walked.

"Fine," Ivan eventually said, snapping Alfred back from his thoughts.

And if anyone had a fever then, it was Alfred. With his cheeks still hot, the redness seeping down into his neck and up to the tip of his ears. It made it hard for him to speak, his throat too tight and dry. All he could do was nod in response and open his arms.

But Ivan didn't return the gesture, didn't lean in for a hug. Instead he got back into bed, hiking the covers up to his chin this time. Alfred's arms dropped back to his sides, useless and floppy. He finally let himself back away, a hand reaching out to flick off the light switch.

"So, uh, guess I'll see you tomorrow then?" Alfred said quietly.

"Mmhmm," Ivan mumbled. "But do not think I will forget about your sneaking."

"Wouldn't dream of it, bud. Heck, I'll even give you a free pass to show up in my room sometime all unannounced-like."

Ivan's laughter was a low rumble in his chest before he said, "I will keep that in mind."

And as he let himself out, Alfred found himself hoping Ivan would make good on that promise.