It was hard for Alfred to pinpoint exactly when he'd started to like-like Ivan. It was more of a gradual realization than anything. Alfred simply noticed as the days went on how much he thought about Ivan, how many times he snuck glances at him throughout school or saw things at the store that reminded him of Ivan.
Every day Alfred woke up, his first thoughts were of Ivan. If Ivan had slept well, or poorly, if he'd stayed up too late or had any interesting dreams. He wondered what Ivan would wear that day. Would he go with a blazer or a sweater? Regardless of the fact that everyone wore nearly identical uniforms, Ivan somehow managed to always wear his the best.
Alfred assaulted Ivan with questions on their walks to school. There seemed to be no end to how interesting he was, and Alfred endeavored to find out every little detail about him. Had he ever broken a bone? Did he have a weird phobia? What was his favorite number?
Ivan answered Alfred's questions with his usual cool composure. If he found that at all bothersome, he never mentioned it. Instead he indulged Alfred, like a parent explaining the most simple things to their child, always kind and calm.
During school Alfred's mind was still stuck on Ivan, tuning in only occasionally to take notes. When they passed in the hallways between classes, Ivan was never too busy to spare a few words with Alfred. That was one of Alfred's favorite things about him (though it was hard to narrow down the list).
Ivan was an unhurried man. There seemed to be a silent knowledge he carried with him everywhere, a sense that things would get done and there was no need to rush. Where Alfred was constantly moving at a bouncy lope, Ivan strode along with an easy gait that spoke of his calm demeanor.
It was in English, where they sat so almost-close that it drove Alfred crazy on a daily basis, that it was hardest not to think about Ivan. He was out of reach of being handed a note, whispered to, or kicked at under his table. (Not that Alfred would kick Ivan. He stopped kicking things he liked after middle school.) So instead Alfred he settled for lots and lots of staring and the occasional thrown pencil.
Ivan's desk had a funny way of being in the perfect spot for the afternoon sun. The rays always shone on him all special-like, as though he were an angel and he couldn't hide it very well. It didn't help that it made his hair look like it was touched by a halo, the beginnings of a nimbus.
Alfred always went red when he realized what he was thinking up in his head. Ivan was a person. A really cool person, no doubt, but not an angel. No matter how awesomely the sun shone on him and no matter how downright divine he looked, he was a person. Not that the constant reminder of that stopped Alfred from putting Ivan on a pedestal.
On the weekends they always hung out. Ivan was the studious one, diligently working on whatever projects were due on Monday, not-so-seriously admonishing Alfred for his lackluster interest in doing the same. And each time Alfred came to him on Sunday night, pleading for help. And while Ivan refused to do his homework for him, the answers to the questions had a way of managing to find themselves into their conversation.
But once, and only once, Alfred had found himself putting his head down for a moment, thinking how nice it would be to sleep. The library had been so quiet and warm, so wonderfully cozy. And the worksheet in front of him was daunting in its blankness. The regular scratch of Ivan turning a page next to him was what did it, what made him figure he'd be able to think if only he could rest his eyes for a second.
When he opened his eyes again the bright light that had been streaming through the windows had dimmed, turned a dusty color that reminded him of the Grand Canyon. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Alfred found that his worksheet was already penciled in, his handwriting neater than he remember it.
He looked to Ivan, who was infinitely more interested in his book than meeting Alfred's gaze. He was smiling though, a warmth in his eyes as they skimmed the pages. Alfred had smiled back and bumped his shoulder against Ivan's, whispering a quiet "Thank you," before he put his head down again.
It was the accumulation of all those thoughts and memories and observations that did Alfred in. They coagulated in his head as he lay down to sleep one night, one after another, fond things that soothed his mind and made his worries melt away.
He found that he stopped thinking of Ivan as a boy, as Ivan being the same gender as him. Alfred began to view him as another human being. Not a boy, not a girl, not anything in between. Alfred stopped letting gender dictate and restrain what he felt for Ivan.
He liked Ivan as a person. Liked how Ivan made time for him, never told him off for his silly antics. He liked that Ivan explained the deeper meanings of poetry and the lives of historical figures as though he'd known them personally. He liked that Ivan laughed as his jokes no matter how corny they got.
Most of all, he liked the idea of Ivan being close to him. Of holding his hand and squeezing it, or pressing a kiss to his cheeks. Where such thoughts before had made his stomach flutter uneasily, this time around they seemed only to bring him a certain happiness.
Ivan didn't scare Alfred. He didn't push or pull or do anything at all to upset him. His words never made Alfred uneasy, or like he was trying to manipulate Alfred on the sly. Alfred associated Ivan with comfort, with days spent lying around watching movies and talking about nothing in particular.
Ivan wouldn't mind that Alfred wasn't the best kisser. He was the kind of person to guide, to help, someone that would be able to show Alfred without words, without putting him on the spot or making him feel like the foolish boy he was. Ivan wouldn't push him too hard, force him out of his comfort zone.
He'd take things slow and easy and with that secret knowledge of his. Things would be nice, warm and comfortable and never scary. The kisses and touches would be sweet and chaste, nothing to shy away from or be fearful of. And Alfred liked that. He liked the easy joy the thought of Ivan touching him brought him.
That was how he ended up at Ivan's doorstep at one in the morning, one hand knocking away while the other held a frozen pizza, a peace offering for dropping by so late. Ivan answered the door looking like he was still asleep, his tank top ill-fitting and long, his boxer briefs barely peeking out from beneath his shirt.
Alfred found his mouth suddenly parched, his eyes inexplicably drawn to Ivan's thighs. Somehow it'd never occurred to them how ridiculously awesome they were. And kinda sexy. Yeah, definitely sexy. How could they not be when they were all nice and muscled and bare like that. Defined, really. Alfred's urge to touch them was immediate and fierce, but his hands were about as useful as his mouth at the moment.
"Alfred, I am thinking you had a good reason to wake me up, yes?" Ivan asked, his voice still thick with sleep as he ran a hand through mussed hair.
Wow, Alfred thought. Wow, wow, wow. This was not going according to plan. He was supposed to say something smooth now, something endearing or quirky or suave. Not ogle Ivan and stand around with a pizza in his hand that was slowly numbing his palm from the cold. Not standing on a doorstep in front of a practically half-naked Russian hottie.
"I brought you this pizza," Alfred finally said, his tongue thick and brain fried. "Because I like you."