Ivan's kitchen was nice, not at all like Alfred's. There were no plastic films from microwave dinners lying about. No discarded napkins or forgotten utensils. Definitely no overflow of empty beer cans sitting next to the sink, waiting to be taken out.

But there were also no magnets, no photos of friends or family stuck to the fridge. The hand towels were white, plain, unmarked by discoloration and burns. House plants were a no go, and there was definitely nothing resembling art on the wall. The appliances were cool and stainless, casting muted reflections.

Ivan was the only thing that drew Alfred's eye in the kitchen. He stood in front of the stove, all casual grace with one hand fiddling with a knob as he looked over the back of the pizza box. He hadn't said anything after Alfred's late night confession.

He'd simply taken the pizza from Alfred's hands and stood aside. He hadn't looked mad, or sad, or even happy. He hadn't looked like he felt anything other than tired. Alfred had wordlessly stepped inside, listened as Ivan closed the door behind him. Alfred thought he heard the sound of a lock turning, tumblers falling, but he didn't mention it.

Ivan led him to the kitchen and sat him down. That was how he ended up watching Ivan, after all. There were no newspapers lying around to browse, no cereal boxes with backs he could read. So he stared, and stared, and stared. And he was good at it too, had improved since he met Ivan. He knew exactly when Ivan would look back at him, knew exactly when to pretend his nails were the most interesting things in the world as Ivan turned toward him.

He kept his eyes glued to his cuticles even when Ivan took a seat across from him. Alfred knew he was the one who was supposed to start the conversation. He was the one who'd shown up at one in the morning, the one who'd announced his interest in Ivan. And now Ivan was waiting, patient and quiet as always.

There was an intensity though, in how he leaned forward and how his eyes seemed to bore into Alfred, tried to read him without an exchange of words. His foot brushed against Alfred's under the table, a friendly touch of their toes. Alfred had forgotten to put on shoes and socks in his haste to talk to Ivan.

"Do you have something you would like to tell me?" Ivan eventually asked, his feet coming to rest toe to toe with Alfred's.

"Uh, naw. I think I pretty much already told you." Was that a hangnail? Yeah. That was a hangnail. What a bummer.

"Only that one little thing, then? That you brought me a pizza because you like me?"

"Mmhmm." He really needed to clean the dirt out from under his nails.

"And do you like pizza?"

Alfred looked up at that, head cocking to the side as he met Ivan's gaze. "Of course I like pizza."

"And," Ivan continued, placing his hands over Alfred's, "do you like me the same way you like pizza?"

Ivan had good hands. They were clean, without a hint of dirt or bad cuticles. The nails were trim and uniform, fingers long and slender, like a pianist's. They didn't give Alfred much to go back to looking at. But they were soft, soft and warm and careful. They squeezed gently, coaxed with touch instead of voice.

And they made Alfred's blood thin, made it sparse and watery, like he didn't have enough to pump through his veins. He got that intoxicating rush, like there were fireflies in his head, blinking on and off, filling his thoughts with their lovely glow. He liked it much, much better than pizza.

"I like you in a different way," Alfred admitted, toes curling.

Ivan laughed, the sound smooth and kind. It wasn't mocking, but instead amused. The lightness of it brought a smile to Alfred's lips, a small, flighty thing that could flee at any second. A sigh trailed at the end of Ivan's laugh, a satisfied wisp of a noise.

"And I'm sorry," Alfred said, before he had enough sense to stop, "for being such a jerk to you when you asked me out. So I totally get it if you're not big on me anymore. 'Cause like, yeah. I was really uncool to you."

Ivan smiled at Alfred's words, but it was all wrong. There was a tightness to it, a too-pinched look at the edges. His lips were too thin, pressed together in a pale line. The light in his eyes dimmed, darkened as his walls went up. He pulled his hands away.

"Straight to jail", Alfred thought grimly. "Do not pass Go, do not collect $200."

This was so like him. He'd start off on the right foot, get himself through the door and grab their attention. Then he'd blab, spout something about aliens or comic books, maybe a line about how good peanut butter and bacon was, and whoever he was with would just turn right off.

"Can I have a redo?" Alfred asked, shoulders hunching, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he cringed. His smile turned guilty, embarrassed.

Ivan looked past him, expression impassive for a moment. Most people were easy to read once you really tried, once you figured out their tics and habits and expressions. But Ivan was different. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, let his emotions into his breath. It was all very carefully guarded, hidden beneath a calm and collected exterior.

"Okay," Ivan eventually said, placing his hands over Alfred's once again. "I will let you try that again."

Alfred broke out into a grin. "Thanks, man. I won't screw it up this time."

He steadied himself with a breath, let his toes touch up against Ivan's. His fingers gave a nervous twitch and he squared his shoulders as he opened his mouth.

"I like you in a different way," Alfred repeated, this time more emboldened.

Ivan's smile returned, more natural this time, without the tenseness of before.

This time when he pulled his hands away, he took Alfred's with him. He brought them up close to his lips, warm breath skimming against Alfred's skin as he watched. His chest fumbled his heart, dropped it to the bottom of its stomach where it bounced and fluttered.

The shrill cry of the oven's timer shattered the mood. Alfred jerked away, the legs of his chair tipping back, his hands pulling away to windmill for a moment, trying to regain his balance. Ivan stood, fast and jerky. They stared at each other for a moment, Alfred's eyes startled and wide, Ivan's own bordering on something akin to disappointment.

"You should, uh, prolly get that," Alfred said as the oven continued to beep.

Ivan nodded once and turned away, grabbing an oven mitt from the counter. Alfred scooted his chair closer to the table, folding his hands in his lap. Ivan had almost kissed him. Kissed him! Well, not on the lips, but the hands counted too, right? They were still part of Alfred after all.

Alfred wondered if he was ready for kissing. He wasn't super sure. He'd only figured out he was definitely liking Ivan as more than his buddy an hour ago. This whole kissing thing was a big jump for him. It was nice in his head, the thought of kissing Ivan. It was simple and perfect and Alfred loved it.

In Alfred's head, the kiss was preceded by long, dreamy glances. Ivan would lean in, pause for a moment, the tips of their noses barely touching together. And Alfred would smile, or laugh, or make some kind of noise to signify his permission (he hadn't decided just yet). Ivan's lips would be soft and supple, and certainly warm. There would be a biting edge to the kiss, a hint of roughness, 'cause Alfred sort of dug that thing.

But real life couldn't live up to Alfred's expectations. The dreamy part they might be able to manage, but it'd go downhill from there. The second Ivan moved closer Alfred would worry. Would Ivan see that pimple that refused to go away, or notice that his bangs were kind of greasy and he smelled a bit sweaty? He would find Alfred's imperfections, and they would disgust him.

And what if Ivan didn't like him anymore? What if he'd gotten over Alfred once he was rejected, what if that was why he didn't like bringing it back up? He could be embarrassed for Alfred, that he'd developed these feelings too late and now there could be nothing. And sure he'd held Alfred's hands, touched their toes beneath the table, but he didn't say he returned Alfred's feelings.

"D'you still like me?" Alfred asked when Ivan placed a plate full of pizza before him.

"Do you need to ask?" Ivan countered.

Alfred nodded as he dabbed at his pizza with a napkin.

"Actions speak louder than words," Ivan said as he took his seat again.

That was not what Alfred wanted to hear. He had no desire for prolonging his anxiety, his worries. He didn't want to play word games and dance around the subject. He tried to be up front, and sure it took some wheedling on Ivan's behalf, but Alfred had spit it out.

What if Ivan wanted him to press the subject? Should he keep the questions coming, go along with his teasing and enigmatic answers? No matter how appealing, Alfred couldn't manage that. Ivan was the one with a penchant for words, able to string them together in the most interesting and romantic ways. He never offended or pried to deeply, he merely opened his mouth, and the things he spoke made Alfred want to spill everything to him.

Ivan had a silver tongue, while Alfred's was made of nothing but lead.

And then Alfred went and burned his stupid lead tongue on the first bite of pizza. He spent the rest of the meal pretending like he could taste his food, humming happily at the appropriate intervals. Ivan smiled kindly at him when he asked how it was, commented that the pizza was good and thanked Alfred for bringing it over. Aside from that, there was no conversation.

Afterwards Alfred insisted on doing the dishes. Ivan refused. They both found themselves vying for the sink, hips and shoulders bumping as Alfred's heart jumped back and forth from elated to nauseous. He settled for letting Ivan wash the dishes while he dried them off, but in the end Alfred was baffled by the cupboards organization, turning to Ivan again and again asking him to point out where they should go.

When the table was cleared and the dishes put away, Alfred found himself at a loss for what to do next. During the day he could suggest a walk, a stroll around the block or a stop at the ice cream parlor. They could amble around the mall or catch a movie─

"Hey," Alfred said, perking up. "Wanna watch a flick or something?"

"That is sweet of you to ask, but I think sleep would be best for us," Ivan replied, his words filtered through a yawn.

Alfred's cheeks flushed as glanced at the clock. It was nearing three in the morning. On a school night. He made an instantaneous beeline for the front door. "Right. Right, absolutely. I'll totally get out of your hair. It was good eating pizza with you and all, thanks for letting me in so late at night."

Ivan's palm slammed against the door as Alfred's fingers toggled the lock. It was sudden and loud, causing Alfred to jump. His eyes snapped up to see Ivan, his arm outstretched as his palm remained on the door. He carried the lazy confidence of a tom cat.

Alfred could feel the warmth of Ivan's breath against his face, see what a rich and impossible violet his eyes were, how his pupils were so large, so dark. There was a feral curve to his lips, something wild tinged with a playfulness. He was too close, and Alfred's automatic reaction was to pull away, his attention slipping as he hit the wall, belatedly realizing he was cornered by Ivan.

"You can stay if you'd like," Ivan said, tone inviting and honeyed.

So Alfred did.