Just because Alfred isn't [unspokenly, tacitly agreed upon-ly] supposed to go into the USSR alone-or at all, doesn't mean he hasn't randomly popped up there.
Ivan has found him there, after the war. More and more. At the ballet, rapt with attention, bag of snacks on the box's other chair beside him. Ivan always has a feeling he's there, somewhere.
And half the time, he's right. Asking the Starbucks drink mixers if they've seen an American with a film star smile usually gets him his answers right away. The child apparently likes mocha fraps, he's told.
Of course, he's not a boy anymore. He's just barely big enough to match Ivan's stature. It's only his feelings, his temperament that's young. The Starbucks girls tell him that Alfred has flawless Russian, but his accent is a little 'old', a bit 'quaint'.
He has them describe it for him, and imitate the accent. The fourth attempt suddenly jolts him with realization: that's how he himself used to sound, his precise pronunciation.
Back in the 1800s.
He always joins Alfred in whatever he's doing, but not without watching him from afar first... just for a while. It's not creepy, it's just relaxing, somehow, he thinks, justifying it to himself. Alfred is very expressive on every level-his words, face, expressions, body, clothes.
Sometimes he dresses drably in dark, somber colors that have no place on him. He seems to stick to the old things then, the churches and the wide fields of just sky. Other times he dresses like the youth he is, all hipster colors and joy radiating from his rainbow of clothing. He goes to the ballet, he tries Russian tea with black cherries, and caviar [hesitantly every time], and goes and gets pastila [пастила], sweet pates of fruit in tiny squares.
By the time he gets to pastila at the end, Ivan has always joined him. It's then that they first hold hands, almost by accident at first as they talk. It's over tea, and Ivan is talking; Alfred waves his hand around to convey his side of their quiet debate [he can barely recall the particulars, it's always just in fun], and then his so very young paramour laid his hand down upon his.
It was softer than Ivan expected. Much, than his own hands. This gentle set, this light weight sent a secret jolt of pleasure down his spine. Alfred stopped talking, suddenly realizing Ivan had fallen silent. He looked down at his hand. And up again, and blinked a little, slowly, and his face melted into a look that Ivan couldn't believe was for him.
He almost turned around to make sure he wasn't looking at someone else. It was the most petrified he'd ever felt. He sat speechless, unable to get past the idea that Alfred felt for him, that he was loved back.
And Alfred snaked his other arm out, grabbed his teacup, and drank, all while still gazing at him. Ivan knew he was lost. And he knew exactly what was going to happen when Alfred finished that tea.
.
If Alfred has a weakness, it hasn't announced itself-much to Ivan's displeasure. While he's got Ivan's number down pat, it doesn't work the other way. Alfred is an expert at relationships in some ways, despite his total lack of practice; not that Ivan's had any either, to be fair, but he has lived much more.
Alfred just has this way about him, the things he does, he always makes Ivan feel special, cherished. He sends him random gifts all the time, just sent in the mail, with a letter stuck inside that explains why he thought he really needs this box of macarons overnighted from Paris. He always has random bottles of liquor with him, too, and Ivan really appreciates that.
That's just a step above, people. When don't you need a random bottle of vodka-all great brands, too. They seem to be stashed everywhere. Even culturally, every time he is interested in the old ancient things of his people, the art, the food, the festivals. He is full of questions, he always has been.
He just gives him respect, that's all. Alfred acts like he matters, like he's important. He rarely ever calls him any of the nicknames that come to mind, only resorting to teasing him with 'commie' when Ivan's called him a hayseed. He always blushes at that.
He doesn't see what Alfred gets from him, and it kills him a little bit, thinking that he might not feel as loved as Ivan does. Every time he's proposed they go to an event, or on a trip, or just to drive around aimlessly, Alfred agrees, and they have a great time. But it's Alfred who's letting Ivan run the show, most of the time. It's Ivan who gets what he wants, all the time.
So why does he feel so nervous about it? Nothing is free, Ivan thinks morosely, worrying about Alfred leaving him [even though they're not official as a couple-right? Do you say that out loud? Or no? What do people do now? Alfred is very mortal in behavior, very modern, always...], pouring out more drink into a tiny cup. What is it that Alfred gets here? Because he sure as hell can't see anything.
.
Alfred has always thought faster than he could figure out his own ideas. He has only know multi-faceted, conflicted yet almost harmonizing fighting or blending or learning, everything always flooded in. All the time, always new, he had so much learn and still does. Everything is always different, nothing stays the same. Except of course Arthur, and yes Francis too, and of course his open snow fields loving, hermit tracker brother Matthew.
They are always themselves. The others he doesn't always know so well, and they just look down on him, for every reason. He's young, and naive, and stupid [see: young], and not old, not smart, and not cultured. His people have a fresh, new culture every day. His people are everyone's people, but changed a little by him. He's like a weird transmorgification of the older countries into something strange, and off putting to them-something new-ish.
Ivan too is someone who doesn't change. He is literally the exact same guy Alfred saw as a little boy. He has the same mannerisms, just different clothes. Ivan is still weirdly shy, reticent and he always gets the feeling Ivan wants to spend more time with him, he wants to pause things. He doesn't want the night to end. That he wants them together every day.
More and more, Alfred gets why he has that look. Because he feels that way himself. He has so much he wants to say to him, all the time: what is up with those tiny dolls? Are they puzzles somehow? And let's talk about the space program, obviously. Has he read the latest reports at NASA? Alfred's made copies just in case he hasn't hacked his servers and already read them. He just needs to know Ivan's opinion, okay?
He just needs to talk to him, all the time.
Ivan may lack words, and he may be very down sometimes-super ugh, cheer up man! It creeps him out!-but he makes up for it a billion times with how loving he is. People have congratulated Alfred many times when they're out together in Moscow or somewhere, on what a great husband he has. Because he looks at him with such feeling, even little mortal children can tell!
He always sits so close with him, but Alfred never minds, it's somehow not without breathing room. It's like Ivan is breathing him in instead. Ivan doesn't really blush, but his whole face relaxes, and he looks like he's planning exactly what they're going to be doing later. Sometimes Alfred can't keep his eyes up at his face, he's just too intense. Too intent.
And it's on him. In more quiet places, when the light are off and its somehow always the middle of the night [but they're just getting in to his house, or to a hotel room, always ones where everything is super soft and plush and Alfred loves it], Ivan just ramps it up. Alfred thought he couldn't get more into being high off their love, as one says... ahem, but no. Ivan's so into touching normal skin with so much sensuality and he's just so into it, the look on his face-
When his eyes are shut, that is. He looks rapturously high, while they do what Alfred thought was called making out.
But isn't that just supposed to be for a minute and then the fast part and then it's over? Because this lasts a loooong time, and many times they can't even get past that because he keeps getting too gone in it. Ivan apparently doesn't feel it's weird, since he seems very happy, like a bunch of soft, long pasta hitting the cold floor. He's like a giant, boneless tiger that's clinging to him. He gets too excited quite a bit, and all without Alfred even doing anything; Ivan just overwhelms him his hands, and kissing his neck, and he keeps somehow massaging that one wrist while his knee is right between his legs.
Sometimes it feels like dying slowly, Alfred is not sure he's not going to not evaporate somehow.
Ivan is always so over the top passionate, so into it, that Alfred kind of wonders if he's addicted to this type of thing. Who was he doing this with before [... or even right now, on the side.. which is fine, obviously, he's older and they all do crazy, non-labeled wild stuff with each other-even he knows that and he's young, okay. Okay!] he decided to have these moments with Alfred then? He doesn't know.
Alfred isn't aware enough to understand this is what love is, not indiscriminate ho-ing around. He knows he has a special thing with Ivan, but who knows what the big guy thinks. He barely communicates anything not in metaphors as it is!
It's basically hotter than Alfred thought was possible. He didn't know this type of thing could be this good; with the few mortals he experimented with, it was perfunctory, it didn't feel like he was going to pass out from going through this endless writhing.
Ivan acts like all his normal parts are involved with bedroom, three-a.m. time. He once spent twenty minutes on a single hand, and let's just say it was like his whole body was somehow involved, and he almost fell off the bed because he was shaking so much. In the good way. You definitely needed your energy to visit, Alfred thought. Thank god he always had an emergency supply of granola bars in his suitcases. It was truly a lifesaver.
.
Ivan had a side to him that was lazy as hell. He could be like a giant snowbank, uninterested in moving with one arm around Alfred, snuggling him-and smelling his hair? Or maybe his neck. Alfred could never tell what was going on.
It sometimes seemed kind of like being in a French movie: super hot, long and confusing, very intimate but when you left and it ended for the week you felt like you'd walked out of a dream into cold, real reality. Ivan was like a haven of mysterious customs, long [very long] books and vodka. He was a very comfortable pillow, though, you could tell he was crazy strong under a light pillowly softness. He always turned off the lights before he'd take anything off-always.
Seriously, every time. Alfred was mentally counting. He cut an impressive figure, all big and tough all over, so he couldn't understand why the need for total darkness. But hey, maybe it was cultural... as he still hadn't read half those Russian tour introductions to general culture that he was supposed to. That would probably explain a lot, if he ever got around to it. Sometimes he can't believe Ivan even is willing to bother with him.
He knows how young he is. And how everyone talks about him. It's not like there's a ton to provoke any positive regard from the old world countries-or the far away continents, or the desert areas, or basically everyone else, everywhere.
Alfred always finds his habit of reading so much literature [by his own people, only-as far as he can tell] as this sign of true intellectual prowess, but he doesn't see what Ivan's life is really like. When he's not visiting, Ivan doesn't do a ton. Sure, he goes around his own cities and countryside, and tries to do some good, and spends a lot of time promoting and reading about space projects, but mostly he wanders around. Other than that he holes up in his country house. It's an old estate he'd never really showed his neighbors.
Only Alfred has been there. It's very cold in such old houses, so he always builds fires for him in their rooms, but
Alfred never complains. When he's alone, he just lays around and reads. And reads.
Etc.
Alfred must think him very hidebound and stuck in a past that's gone, he thinks. He's never written to him with emails or phone texts, just some letters. When he, quote, 'randomly' tells Alfred he's going to a conference on Russian literature in Seattle, the boy's response rattles him. He simply says, 'Cool, that's nice', and keeps playing the video game he was doing on his phone. Ivan startles into silence... for the next fifteen minutes. Alfred doesn't say anything more.
He kind of feels a little crushed, inside his stoic shell. Ivan doesn't know what he wanted him to say, except that he does. He wanted him to be thrilled, and to demand they stay together. To him, all this is implied-to Alfred, his phrasing and tone were so cynical and unenthusiastic [compared to American tones of expression, sometimes everything Ivan says sounds monotone and bored] that he assumed it was going to be a drag and he didn't even want to fly over.
They keep missing each other, over and over, in different ways.
.
Alfred never invites Ivan over to his fifty states. He comes to Russia all the time, after all it's just a quick hop, skip and jump from Japan, where he hangs out all the time, Ivan thought grumpily, resting haphazardly on the casual sitting room's couch.
There was no one to remind him to take off his shoes before he laid across it, but he did it anyway. He and Katyusha talked almost every week by phone, but it was still lonely.
It was a gloomy Saturday afternoon, with some rain. He was already on his second bottle of Severnie Amuri. It really was so good. And he still had to try Siberia's Mamont.
He almost was melancholy enough to watch Alfred's people's recreation of До́ктор Жива́го [Dr. Zhivago] on film. …
It was always an experience. To be sure. There were so many things wrong it was just odd. The letters were from after the Soviet times, instead of the old writing of Tsarist eras. The names of everything were strange and out of place [and time]. A child crossed herself the way Westerners do, instead of the Orthodox fashion. The Ural mountains weren't the mountains they filmed.
Random extras spoke Spanish in the background for some reason. And the bells. The bell ringing was Western, not fast and high the zvon way it was done in Russia [listen here]. And you could never see the white puffs of breath outside that such a cold season would get you in Russia. Just unbelievable.
But what a bright, silly view of the whole country. There was such hope in the little movie, and Russia seemed so beautiful there. From the [wrong ethnicity] people to the landscapes […which were Finland and Canada]. Even the little [inappropriate] balalaika.
It never fails to get him a little misty by the end. And send him into even more somber brooding. Is this a film Alfred himself enjoys? Is this how he sees Russia, or is it just a random movie? Has he even seen it? Ivan thinks so, as he recognized the book title and pulled it off the shelf–all in cyrillic.
He has a feeling Alfred knows quite a bit of Russian, other than just the basics that he taught him as a youth back a hundred years ago. How much exactly does he know?
Ivan never stops and thinks about what he himself takes from American films. Or what Alfred just assumes everyone thinks about him: concealed carry, hidden liquor [got to pretend you follow the dry county laws], comics not books, tabloids not journalism, trash not substance.