It was Roderich that had answered the gate for Bonnefoy when he arrived. The wintry brunette was solemn, as he led the doctor through the corridors of the palace. Traveling deeper within, the architecture and decor became much more modernized. They stopped at a steel plated door.

"He is already inside." Said Roderich, typing into a keypad below the handle. The door unlocked and was pushed open. "Let me know when you have finished." He said, dully.

"Merci." Francis said, entering the poorly lit room.

Ivan was naked, sitting upon the coverless bed. He did not acknowledge the man had entered. The space was bare and had the atmosphere of a prison cell.

"Bon Jour, Venus de Milo." Francis greeted. "How are we feeling?"

"I am well." Said Ivan, drearily. He shifted his gaze, but, did not make eye contact.

"Good to hear, Monsieur Braginski." Bonnefoy smiled, removing his shoulder bag and taking a seat in the single chair. It had been bolted to the floor. "It appears you are healing nicely." He said, taking notice to the sutures, just below the shoulder.

"Da." Braginski agreed. With great effort, he managed to move his new fingers. "It is miracle."

"Oh, do you think?" Said Francis. He chuckled and examined one of his arms. "Can you feel anything yet?"

"A little."

"Excellent." Exclaimed the Frenchman, he reached downwards into his bag. "I stopped to see an old friend of mine and met a very handsome young man. Monsieur Jones?"

Braginski's attention was redirected. He was staring at Bonnefoy, his mauve eyes eager.

"What of this man?"

Francis held an envelope out towards him. Struggling, Ivan reached out and took it. His numb fingers slipped the poorly written letter out of the sleeve. He looked down at the paper in his hands, reading the content. After reading it once through, he read it again, then again.

"Ivan,

Hey, I hear you've gotten fat. The doc said he'd bring you this letter, I hope it got to aint the same without ya. Kirkland has become even more of a drunk, since you've left. Also, he didn't really have a choice but to give you up. Sure, he hates you, but, he didn't want to get rid of you. Well, he did, but, didn't, yeah. One of her men, the quiet one, figured shit out and things went to hell. He's dangerous and sneaky, so, watch out for him.

I guess you've been eating well, that was a surprise. How are things there? Are they treating you okay?

Write me back, please.

-Alfred"

"Thank you for this treasure." Braginski bowed his head. "This means great deal to me."

"It was my pleasure." Bonnefoy said, shifting in his seat. "Perhaps, you should practice using your newly acquired appendages and write a reply?"

There was a brief moment of silence and a quick glance to the door.

"Da." He replied.

Francis returned to the Kirkland estate, after his visit. Alfred had been waiting for him on the porch, in anticipation.

"Bon jour!"

"D-did he write back?" Asked Jones, he met him midway up the footpath.

"Oui, oui." Laughed Bonnefoy, taking the letter from his coat. "Here."

It was immediately snatched from his hands. Impatiently, Alfred opened the neatly scripted letter, tearing the envelope to shreds. He slowly skimmed over the words.

"My dearest comrade,

You have horrible hand writing, it was a challenge for me to read. Even so, I am so glad to have received word from you. Things here are very good. I get much attention and I enjoy living here. The Queen is fond of me and ensures I am comfortable. I often spend time with her servants and escorts, they are quite nice.

I do miss you, Alfred.

However, I believe it is time we go our separate ways.

-Ivan Braginski"

Alfred's arms went limp and at first, he did not react. He remained where he stood, unsure what to feel. His feelings quickly switched to angry.

"Monsieur Jones?" Questioned Francis.

He was ignored.

Alfred went back inside and retreated to his room.

"That bastard!" He hissed, balling up the letter and tossing it behind the bed.

He quickly regretted his decision, hurrying to retrieve the precious piece of paper. Alfred flattened it out on the desk, dropping himself into the chair and began to write.

"BASTARD!

How could you fucking say that? You give me that bull shit and expect me NOT to write back?! Do you even care? I can't even function right without you, and you're acting like you don't even give a shit!

YOU BETTER WRITE ME BACK, ASSHOLE!"

When Francis returned without a letter to respond, Alfred wrote a second.

"I feel so alone. I miss you so much, it makes my stomach hurt.

Please, don't push me away. I need you.

Please. I'm begging, please.

-Alfred."

. . . and a third.

"

I CAN'T FIND IT!

I CAN'T FIND IT!

They threw you out! I told them not to come in here, I told them not to touch your things. I told them. I told them, I FUCKING TOLD THEM!

I'm fucking going crazy!

IVAN, PLEASE! DON'T IGNORE ME!"

The letters became more frantic. Alfred's room was littered in discarded paper. Every moment was spent agonizing over pen and paper. He did not know what to write anymore.

"I feel dead inside. How can you be so happy, when I am so hollow? Doc says he gives you my letters, God, I hope its true. I just want to know if you are getting them. I've been trying to write better. Can you tell?

I hurt.

What do I have to say to get you to write back? I'd do anything. Without you I am nothing. God dammit, I am so weak!

Ivan, please, Ivan.

I love you, so, don't throw me away."