Naturally, Ivan assumed he would be awake first. Alfred was the typical tired, worn-out, end-of-the-year student, and Ivan was, according to society's standards, an adult with his own home and steady life. So when Ivan woke at seven, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and wandered out into the living room, expecting he'd have to wake Alfred in a few hours.

To his surprise, Alfred was sitting on the couch, reading Yevtushenko (Ivan assumed that the compilation was his copy, as he'd left it sitting on his coffee table a few days ago). Ivan had loaned Alfred some sleep clothes, and Ivan could not deny the fact that Alfred pulled off the 'this is my boyfriend's oversized shirt that he gave to me after I spent the night at his house' vibe very well. Even if, of course, that vibe was not real at all. Ivan shoved away his irritating thoughts and cleared his throat.

"Have you been awake for long?"

Alfred startled and set down Ivan's book. "No. Fifteen minutes, maybe."

Ivan pointed at the Yevtushenko book. "You like poetry?"

"Not really, no." Alfred smiled. "But you do?"

"Yes. Could you tell?" Ivan grinned back. He had tons of books of poetry in both Russian and English, and in every single one, he'd bookmarked his favorite poems, underlined, highlighted, written notes in the margins—before he moved to America, he had wanted to be a poet. But art fit him more. "Do you want breakfast?"

"Sure."

Ivan headed to the kitchen. "I am thinking of making waffles. Would you like waffles?"

Alfred followed. "What? No way! That's way too much to make you do."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "It is not for you. I was simply in a waffle mood," he teased. Then, more seriously: "It is no trouble, I promise. Coffee?"

Alfred sat at the tiny kitchen table, eyeing the plants on Ivan's windowsill. Ivan noticed that while it was still raining and the sky hadn't changed from its dark gray color, at least there was no thunder and it didn't seem to be storming. "These are nice. I must admit, you do rather fit the whole artist aesthetic, wouldn't you say?"

"What is that?" Ivan grunted, pulling out the ingredients for the batter. "Artist aesthetic?"

"Oh, you know..." Alfred waved his hand. "Stargazing. Art supplies everywhere. Annotated poetry. Windowsill plants. Do you run a hipster blog, too?"

"Idiot." Ivan snorted. "For a lazy teenager, you sure don't sleep late."

Alfred matched Ivan's tone word for word. "And you rise early for a grandpa. Say, how old are you, anyway?"

Ivan cracked an egg into a mixing bowl. "Twenty-two."

"Oh. Nice. I was getting a little worried I had started to like an old man."

Ivan froze, slowly turning to look at Alfred. "What did you just say?"

Alfred looked like he was trying to move in every direction at once, and as a result, he remained completely still, firmly grounded in his chair, eyes wide. "N-no, I just—"

"Alfred." Ivan inhaled deeply, moving back to the waffle batter.

"I'm sorry." Alfred looked down at his hands, which were wrapped around his coffee mug. "I... I'm sorry if I creep you out or something. You've been so courteous to me, and I may have just been a jerk. That was a stupid thing to say."

"It isn't that." Ivan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, wondering what to say. I am sick. I am very, very sick, and though I might seem okay right now, I do not know how long I will be like this. I am sick and I could not put you through dealing with that.

Alfred looked discouraged, but his voice held a tinge of hope. "Well, what? Is it because I'm a guy? Is it the age gap? Is—"

"Stop." Ivan walked over to the table and sat down across from Alfred. "Those things are not the issue, either."

"Well, what is it, then?" Alfred let go of his coffee mug and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Just be honest with me. I know this is a childish question to ask, but do you think you could ever like me?"

I think I kind of already do. Ivan didn't say that out loud; instead he looked directly into Alfred's eyes, his eyebrows furrowed. He knew he looked harsh, but that was the point. "I could. I definitely could. But I should not."

"Ivan, please." Alfred reached across the table for Ivan's hand, but when the Russian stiffened noticeably, Alfred drew his hand back quickly.

"Go home," Ivan said quietly.

Alfred looked taken aback. "I'm sor—"

Ivan shook his head quickly. "No. No, Alfred, listen to me. Go home. Think about if this is something you truly want. If you wish to pursue a relationship with me and think you can handle it, I will consider giving it a chance, too. I know your answer right now would be yes. But I want you to go home and really, really think about it."

"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

"And can you handle it?" Ivan asked, his voice challenging. Alfred looked out the window, his reflection skewed by raindrops. He was silent for a very long time.

"Drive me home, please," Alfred finally said, standing up and pulling out his phone. "I'll think about it. I really will." He smiled at Ivan. "But don't think you've seen the last of me, Braginsky."

"Let me guess, Ivan. You've been feeling rather well lately, correct?" Dr. Kiku Honda, Ivan's regular oncologist, looked up from his laptop and smiled gently at Ivan, waiting for a response. Dr. Honda was a quiet, polite Japanese man. Ivan held immense respect for him—Dr. Honda was still young, only in his early thirties, but was very intelligent and good at his job.

"Yes," Ivan said.

Dr. Honda tapped his keyboard a few times, his eyes scanning over the screen quickly. "I can't say I'm surprised. Things are looking very good, Ivan. Very good."

Ivan felt a mix of nervousness and hope in his stomach, and he swallowed hard. "Very good? Does that mean...?"

"Now, you know I won't lie to you or falsely raise your hopes. Honestly, it's much too soon to determine anything extremely useful right now. But I can tell you with certainty, you're better now that you've been since diagnosis. Much better. We need to keep an eye out, and make sure you keep doing everything you've been doing." Dr. Honda glanced at Ivan. "You have been getting enough sleep, yes?"

"Decent amount."

"What about rest? Please tell me you are not out and about all day."

Ivan hesitated. "I will try to tone it down."

Dr. Honda smiled. "Good. Now..." Dr. Honda continued to speak of medication, of treatment, of recovery. Ivan listened intently, nodding along, returning Dr. Honda's small smiles with grins of his own. It did not have to be terminal. There was a chance. Of course, there was always a chance.

By some miracle, some entanglement of the universe's coincidences—or maybe just the weather working in Ivan's favor—the rain cleared up around four in the afternoon. He knew Dr. Honda didn't want him straining himself too much, so instead of walking to the clearing, he drove a few minutes to the abandoned lot where teenagers occasionally hung around and did things of teenager nature. There was no one there. Ivan sat on the hood of his car and watched the meteor shower.

He knew Alfred was watching it, too, somewhere; eyes wide and excited.

Ivan smiled.

And it made it not so bad, Alfred not being there with him. They were both watching, intrigued, both looking at the same sky so that, if you could imagine hard enough, it almost felt like they were watching this together, sharing it between them.

"Oh my God. Oh my—holy. It's. This is. Ahh!" Mathias' smile was huge, and he flung his arms around Ivan and hugged his friend. "I love it so much."

Ivan smiled. "I am glad." He'd finally finished his Copenhagen commission, and since Mathias lived so close, the Dane just offered to swing by Ivan's apartment and pick it up. They sat on the couch, nestling cups of coffee in their hands, and chatted about life. Mathias was in the middle of telling a really animated story about a flock of pigeons that had chased Lukas a few days earlier in Brooklyn when the doorbell rang.

Mathias raised an eyebrow. "Expecting someone? Need me out?"

"No, no," Ivan said, standing up. "I do not know who that is. Just a moment." He shuffled over to the door, not too surprised when he opened it to reveal Alfred.

"Hi," Alfred said.

Ivan smiled softly. He had not heard from Alfred for a week. "Would you like to come in?"

"Please." Alfred entered, saw Mathias sitting on the couch, and froze. "I—sorry. I didn't know you had company."

Mathias laughed loudly. "Aw, kid, don't be so nervous. The name's Mathias. Firm believer in coffee and drunk dancing. And you?"

"I'm Alfred. Nice to meet you." Ivan noticed Alfred was acting shyer than usual. He assumed Ivan had come to tell him his answer. And Ivan also highly assumed the answer would be yes.

"Ah-ah, Al. Ya gotta tell me one passion of yours. I told you two, so it's even more than fair, you hear?" He smiled in a good-natured way, blue eyes sparkling with interest. "It's how I gotta greet everyone."

Alfred grinned, and Ivan could practically see the high-schooler relaxing. Mathias generally had that effect on people. "A passion? Okay. Okay. Sloppy sunrises."

"Sloppy sunrises?" Mathias and Ivan asked at the same time.

"Yeah," Alfred said, sounding like he was close to bursting out laughing, "when you drink too much and get a hangover and wake up and the sunrise is all wrong."

"No! No!" Mathias shouted playfully. "You're just a kid! Not s'posed to be drinking in America!" Ivan and Alfred were both laughing. Mathias stood up and placed his coffee mug on the side table. He grabbed the Copenhagen painting. "Thanks so much. I'm just gonna head out now. Nice to meet you, Alfred. Hands off the alcohol for a few years." And, like that, it was just the two of them. Mathias' energetic presence still hung in the air, the sound of the door closing reverberating through the silence.

Alfred shuffled his feet awkwardly.

Ivan tried to stop smiling, but he found he couldn't. He really liked Alfred, he did. "Well? Sit down and tell me. Coffee?"

"No thanks."

Ivan tilted his head. "Well? Why did you come here?"

"I had to tell you something." Alfred was staring at the carpet.

Affection bubbled through Ivan, something he didn't know could happen because of someone like Alfred. "And what might that be?"

Alfred looked up, walked over to Ivan, and pressed his lips against the Russian's.