A/N: Continuation of Soul.

Spirit

"You..You are not my father?" The young boy asked, his blue eyes warm and saddened in the light of the fire. He looked down at his knees, watching the flames dance and flicker along the tanned skin. His knees were scraped from having fallen as he played ealier that day- as was expected from boys his age of just 8 years.

"No, I am not." The man beside him said in the low, thick tone the boy had known all his life. He stood tall and silent, a cold presence, as he had been everyday for the last 8 years. Just like this, speaking when spoken to, otherwise silent except to wake him, feed him, and hurry him to bed.

"Then..What are you, Vanya?"

"I am yours."

"Oh come on, just a half hour longer! Just until the sun rises!" The boy pleaded, a pout on his soft, pink lips ever present and quite familiar to his dark companion. The preteen, now 12, sat on the lowest branch of a large oak tree, one of many that surrounded the small house in which he had spent most of his life in.

"No." Came the simple reply. Dull violet eyes looked up at him, and hair the color of fresh snow swayed lightly in the warm breeze that the summer evening brought. He stood, gazing up at the other, his black robes casting a longer shadow than most, but the boy didn't think anything of it.

"But Vanya-!"

"Now, Alfred."

The change in tone was unnoticeable to anyone but the boy. It was still bored, still monotone in that way it had always been, but now it was a bit cooler, now the ice in his eyes seemed a tad bit colder.

It didn't take too long of a moment before the boy was down, his small hand held within a much larger gloved one, and they were heading back to the house.

"She talks of marrige.." The young man said, his blue eyes lost and distant as he gazed out of the window, watching as the clouds crawled lazily across the sky. "She says it's odd of me to not ask for her hand, nor have even mentioned it to her father. Or anyone else, for that matter."

The dark man stood silently, his eyes on the mortal who stood at the window. He watched the way the glass of his spectacles glimmered in the light of the sun, how his golden hair and radiant youth seemed to glow with each new beam that poked through the pillowing clouds that lingered tiredly about their heads.

"Then marry her."

There was the tone again. The tone he had known since he was still a young boy who feel over tree roots and played with insects he found in the mud. It was colder, different from fresh snow- more now like frost bite than anying. He had sounded like that more often, when Alfred spoke of Alice and the dreams she had for them.

Ivan spoke the words, but he knew it was never to happen. He could tell by the way Alfred's soul did not flicker, did not even glow brighter at the sight of her. His soul never did such- not for her, at least.

"I cannot." Came his voice again through the silence, meloncholy in its warm, glorious way.

"And why is that?"

Alfred turned to look at him, and Ivan saw the way his soul grew brighter and flickered like a flame under a soft breeze.

He knew why.

The sweat of their bodies glistened in the light of the fire. The room was hot, bright with a warm illumination and with the stench of sweat and sex. They laid there, letting the mortals heart calm and and the reaper to watch his soul calm down from the vibrant frenzy it had been for the last few hours. The warm body lay against him now, tanned and scared with years of life and wisdom. No longer a man of pure youth, Alfred had seen his fair share of life, but that did not mean it ended at his age of 43.

"Vanya?" Came his deep, rumbling tone as he turned his head, the coarse hair on his chin scraping against the reaper's porcelain chest.

"Yes?" The chest vibrated beneath the mortal, and the rolling tone made his soul flicker the same way it did for the past 43 years.

"What are you?"

Alfred mouthed the words as the reaper spoke them.

"I am yours."

He had known of this moment since the first time he held Alfred in his arms. He had prepared himself for this, waited for and anticipated this day since the moment it all started. He knew it was today, he could tell by the way Alfred's soul had lost that last bit of color, and no longer carried the scent of life. He was dying.

Ivan sat with him, holding him in his arms as he read to him poetry. The bed they shared didn't feel as warm as it always had. The hair he now ran his fingers through was coarse and thin, and as white as his own. Every so often he would cough in a way that made Ivan feel that the next breath would be his last, but instead he would lay his tired head back and look at Ivan with eyes that had dulled over his long life.

It was around lunch, before noon had rolled around, that Alfred soul finally sang to Ivan once again. For the first time in his life, and for the last few moments of it, Alfred saw a smile on the reaper's lips.

The book of poetry was set aside, and he watched as his life companion removed a glove for the first time in his life. Beneath the leather was not a human hand, but that of bones. White, gleaming bones. Alfred did not feel fear, nor did he feel suprise. Somehow, he had always known what Ivan was, and this moment only confirmed it.

"I love you, Ivan."

The words were soft, smooth like a warm breeze on a new silk. Ivan's glistening eyes flickered to watch Alfred's dulled ones, and again Alfred saw that hauntingly beautiful smile peak behind the top of his scarf.

"I love you, Alfred."

The bone fingers touched his soul, and Alfred's last glimpse of the world was that single, enchanting smile.