#pel asks

2022 has been, by anyone's metric, an exceptionally shitty year. Given its predecessors, that is a hard standard to beat, but now they have to deal with the looming end of American democracy, Russia's official and full-speed race back into the worst days of the USSR (Fedyor and Ivan's Ukrainian neighbors in Brighton Beach are aware of their dissident political sympathies and don't hold this clusterfuck against them, but it's worse when some old Soviet codger thinks that because they are also Russian, they clearly approve of the war and starts spouting imperialist bullshit about how Putin is the best Russian ruler since Peter the Great), and everything else. Rasputin the cat also has some kind of mystery disease that the vet can't figure out; he's old and lived a rough life before they adopted him, but it's another hassle they don't need to deal with. Fedyor's family has finally fled Russia, and are currently stuck in visa limbo in Finland. His parents aren't sure if they want to move all the way to America, and Fedyor isn't sure if he wants them here. Their relationship is miles better than it used to be, but having them around all the time would be... strange.

In the meantime, at least Ivan's construction company is continuing to boom, and he can almost get through an entire conversation with a Park Slope hipster without looking as if he wants to get hit by a meteor. (Key word being almost.) Fedyor has also taken note of the fact that next summer, August 2023, is their tenth wedding anniversary, and he wants to start planning something special. They had a hurried, low-key courthouse ceremony when they first arrived in New York in 2013, and since their long-held dream of returning to Russia for a big celebration has been finally and fully destroyed for the foreseeable future, he has to come up with an alternative. Ivan, of course, hates any fuss and furor, and will be entirely happy with the smallest and most modest celebration they can possibly have. But they should do something.

Besides, Fedyor isn't entirely sure that the Supreme Court won't find a way to overturn Obergefell by this time next year, and waiting until 2023 feels like tempting fate. So he decides to expedite the timetable, and secretly gets everything together while Ivan is pulling long hours redecorating the overpriced apartments of said Park Slope hipsters. (His latest clients, a pair of obnoxiously earnest young white vegans named Aidan and Ainsley who work in "lifestyle coaching" because of course they fucking do, think he's adorable and want to invite him to a baby shower for their doubtless-equally-alliterative-A-name offspring. Ivan would rather gnaw off his own leg from a bear trap.) But when Ivan gets home on a sweaty late-summer evening, he stops short, looks around in deep confusion, and finally calls dubiously, "Fedya?"

There's no answer, so Ivan follows the signs out into the corridor and up the stairs. Their old brown-brick Brighton Beach apartment building sits within spitting distance of the Atlantic Ocean, and it has a rooftop terrace that is usually used for barbecues, birthday parties, and other get-togethers by the residents, but as Ivan pushes through the fire door, he notes that it's oddly empty. He frowns, but before he can get too worried about what the fuck is going on here, he steps out into a softly glowing fantasia of fairy lights, an arch tied with flowers, and a white-draped table set for two, votive candles illuminating the awaiting supper and excellent bottle of wine. When the gobsmacked Ivan glances up, he spots his husband across the way, flashing a shy and dimpled grin at him. "Happy anniversary, Vanya."

"Fedya, I'm...." Ivan makes a self-deprecating gesture at his grimy work clothes. "I'm not really dressed for this."

"Nonsense," Fedyor says briskly, getting up and grabbing him by both hands. "You look fine. Come sit down."

Ivan allows himself to be towed, sits down, and accepts a glass of wine. They sip in comfortable silence, listening to the noise of Brooklyn on a summer night, until Fedyor says seriously, "So it's ten years, you know."

"Nine," Ivan corrects. "Ten next year."

"Yes, thank you, Vanya. I can do math." Fedyor rolls his eyes in an exaggeratedly patient fashion. "But I thought that... what with everything happening right now, and how we don't know what's going to happen next, I thought it was more important for it to be now. We're not going to get the big Russian party we wanted, but if I know you, you didn't need the big party part anyway. Just this, and us. And I want you to know that marrying you was the best decision I ever made in my life, and regardless of what anyone says or does or tries, nothing can ever take that away from us. So." He pauses, almost diffident, then gets up and holds out his hand again. "For our almost-but-not-quite tenth anniversary, will you marry me again?"

"I...." Ivan blinks as if he's just been hit on the head with something very heavy. "You... you're sure?"

"Oh no," Fedyor deadpans. "After a decade of marriage, I have suddenly chosen this romantic dinner to tell you that it's over, goodbye. Of course I'm sure, you oaf. Get over here."

Ivan laughs, a little helplessly, and puts his napkin on the table. Then he lets Fedyor pull him out of the chair and lead him to stand beneath the flowered arch, the city lights reflecting in their eyes like earthbound stars. "Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov," Fedyor says, "do you take me as your husband, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live?"

"I do." Ivan, likewise, has never known an easier answer to anything. "And you, Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, do you... the same?"

"Of course." Fedyor's smile trembles a little, on the edge of tears, but his eyes shine like diamonds. "Always. Always."

Ivan has a sneaking suspicion that he should have said something else, but grand speeches have never been his forte, and he feels that the point has been made. So he crushes Fedyor against him and kisses him hard, and Fedyor kisses him just as frantically back, neither of them pulling apart until the need for air becomes acute. Then Fedyor goes over to where he's connected his phone to a miniature speaker, turns on some music, and returns to wrap his arms around Ivan's neck. They sway like two teenagers slow-dancing at an American prom, and Ivan doesn't care about that, or anything except this moment, and the man in his arms. "This is very nice," he whispers in Fedyor's ear. "This is perfect. No other people to bother us."

"You are a very strange man, Ivan Ivanovich." Fedyor lifts his head and leans up to kiss Ivan again, slow and lingeringly, renewed with the peril and the promise of forever. "I love you so much."

60. "A day at the zoo, is what you need."

Ivan Kaminsky has not had a good week. He is working on a home renovation project for a pair of insipid white middle-aged yuppies who want to earnestly ask him what he, An Actual Russian, thinks about Putin's war (stupid, evil, deranged, and also stupid, how was that not clear), he has had to spend far too much time in Williamsburg as a result, and Rasputin is hacking up truly enormous hairballs and has already cost them a bundle in vet bills as they try to figure out if this is an actual problem. Aside from that, Fedyor has been gone with all the Brighton Beach Neighbors' Association Ukraine Aid meetings he's chairing, because that is Fedyor for you. But Ivan misses him, he's grumpier than usual, and he is just so very tired. About everything.

Thus, Ivan wakes up on Saturday morning and makes his usual grocery shopping run before Fedyor wakes up, then sits at the table with a cup of coffee and a pastry, as Rasputin twines himself around Ivan's legs and meows plaintively. The big grey bastard is far too large to actually sit on Ivan's shoulders, but he climbs up there anyway, purring like a carburetor engine. It's nice, as long as no hairballs make their appearance. Ivan found one in the bathtub last night that was almost the same size as the damn cat.

He's sitting there, moodily spacing out and feeling sorry for himself, when the floorboards creak, and his sleep-tousled husband appears in the doorway. He takes one look at Ivan, raises a dark eyebrow, and says, "Was the week that bad?"

"Yes, actually." Ivan huffs. "Fedya, if they keep trying to talk to me about their stupid Twitter arguments, I am going to lose my entire -- "

"To be fair," Fedyor points out, mouth quirking, "you'd think that no matter what they were trying to talk to you about. Shoo, Ras," he adds to the cat, who regards him vindictively. Fedyor and Rasputin have been engaged in a long-term rivalry for Ivan's love, and Fedyor clearly does not want to contend with twenty pounds of bad-tempered feline while attempting to fix Ivan's bad mood. Once Rasputin has been grudgingly forced to climb down and sit mournfully by his bowl as if he has never been fed in his entire life (there is kibble in it, but apparently it should be fresh kibble), Fedyor sits down next to Ivan, leans in, and kisses the side of his head. "Don't worry," he says. "I have an idea. A day at the zoo, that's what you need."

"The zoo?" Ivan chokes. "Fedya, how old do you think I am? Five?"

"It's fun," Fedyor insists. "The Bronx Zoo always has lots of exhibits, it's one of the biggest and most historic zoos in the country, and it'll take your mind off things. It might be fun."

Ivan looks mistrustful. "Fun?"

"Yes, Vanya." Fedyor kisses him again, to which Ivan submits with only a minimum of grumbling. "Fun."

Ivan, of course, still thinks that this sounds like a horrible idea, but Fedyor is determined, and thus there is no choice. They get dressed and prepared for a day out, then head to the Brighton Beach subway station, just a few minutes from their apartment building on its elevated track. It will take them at least an hour and a half to get all the way uptown to the Bronx (Ivan refuses to pay for a Lyft and then sit in traffic for even longer), and they shuffle through a various assortment of trains and buses until they finally reach the historic gates. Ivan eyes them up and down with patent skepticism as Fedyor pays for their tickets. There are already far too many shrieking children for his liking. Are they going to be here the whole time? Terrible.

They head into the zoo, hand in hand, and start to wander, heading through JungleWorld, Tiger Mountain, Big Bears, and African Plains, among others, before reaching the Butterfly Garden. Ivan stands there patiently as Fedyor looks around, occasionally shooting death glares at the small child screaming behind him. Why, heterosexuals. Why.

After that, they stop for lunch (the cafeteria is overpriced, but fine), then go on the Bronx Zoo Treetop Adventure, which is once more at Fedyor's urging. It is an aerial rope course with ziplines, bridges, ladders, and other swinging things, and they opt for the advanced route so as to avoid all the infants crowding the beginner course. As they monkey around high above the Bronx River, the sun and the wind in their faces, Ivan is forced to admit that as usual, Fedyor was right, and he is enjoying this. Odd how being married to someone for almost ten years, and together for almost twelve, can do that. He resents it. (He is a liar and doesn't resent it at all.)

At last, they come down from the heights, buy an ice cream cone apiece just because it seems like the thing to do, and sit together on a bench beneath the rustling trees, eating it slowly. "All right," Ivan admits. "I did enjoy that. Thank you."

"When are you going to learn, Vanya?" Fedyor leans over and nips a bite from Ivan's cone. He looks so cute that Ivan forbears altogether to rebuke him. "I am always right."

Oh, I have spent a lot of time in New York (I did my undergrad just outside the city), and everyone agrees that the subway is the worst. And while I haven't been to Russia (though I have been to several other Eastern European countries), I know that the Soviet-era metros, i.e. Moscow, Kyiv, Tashkent, etc, were purposefully designed to be beautiful. There are tons of amazing pictures of them, and yes absolutely, going from THAT, to the grubby underbelly of New York City, would be a massive downgrade.

40. "Hard cash is a girl's best friend."

42. "You live to annoy me, don't you?"

69. "You do know that we're in public, right?"

Nina Zenik-Helvar is a woman who is, it cannot be denied, used to getting what she wants at all costs. It is either a serious character flaw or her chief strength, depending on how you look at it, and she is certainly prepared to admit that it has gotten her into plenty of trouble in the past. This, however, is not a matter of life and death. Not really. That doesn't make it any less irritating that Matthias, as is also his wont, is being unreasonably, stupidly stubborn about it. God forbid anyone make an unscheduled luxury purchase and live a little. His boring, sensible Scandinavian brain might actually explode.

"No," Matthias says again, for emphasis. "We need to pay the berthing fees -- there are also daily docking charges, we need to fill up the gas tank, and get some food before the storm hits. If it's bad, we won't be able to get on shore again for several days at least, and then -- "

"Matthias," Nina interrupts. "Darling."

He glowers at her. "What?"

"May I remind you that this is my own money that I am proposing to spend, and kindly ask what, exactly, you are contributing to the effort?"

Matthias harrumphs in patent disapproval. They are currently living on a houseboat in Bridgetown, Barbados, their most recent stop since leaving Norway and bopping itinerantly around the world, and while Nina is still working for the Crows from afar, Matthias's own employment options have been far more limited. He is mostly stuck with working day jobs for under-the-table cash payment; he is tall, he is strong, and he can carry heavy things without complaint, so there is that. Their budget can definitely get fairly harrowing at times, and it's not like Nina has forgotten about everything else they need to pay -- most of which will also come from her, as the chief breadwinner -- but still. She picks up the necklace again, letting the luminous black pearls trickle through her fingers, then turns to the stall owner, adopting a tone of no-nonsense brass tacks. "How much?"

He names a figure that Nina absolutely does not intend to pay, so she spends the next ten minutes haggling him down to a more reasonable number. While Matthias stands nearby with a resigned look, they finally reach agreement, Nina peels off several colorful Barbadian dollars, and takes the necklace, fastening it around her throat. "There," she says to Matthias. "What do you think?"

He sighs deeply. "It's nice, but if we can't pay the berthing fees and get thrown out in the middle of the night, I'm blaming you. Besides, where did you get all that cash? Aren't you usually paid virtually?"

"Hard cash is a girl's best friend." Nina flutters her eyelashes and takes her husband's arm. He sighs again, but doesn't say anything else, and they stroll down the cobbled street, under the waving palms and market awnings, the island breeze laden with the damp scent of the incoming storm. "Besides, I think it's your turn to buy the groceries for once. And a pair of barbecue tongs."

Matthias blinks at her, utterly baffled. "Barbecue tongs? Why?"

"You know," Nina says sweetly. "To pull out that stick that is still, somehow, stuck all the way up your ass."

Matthias groans. "You live to annoy me, don't you?"

"Maybe." Nina grins angelically, snuggling closer. He's so damn tall that she has to reef him in like a sailboat, pull him down to get close enough to kiss, and she does so, until she's good and ready to stop. Matthias squeaks, performs an aborted attempt at a struggle, looks around furtively, and then gives up and kisses her back. His hair has turned very blond in the tropical sun, and he smells like male sweat, ocean salt, and big dumb boy. Nina loves him so very much.

"You do know," Matthias says prissily, once they pull back, "that we're in public, right?"

"No, I totally didn't notice." Nina rolls her eyes. "Come on, you moron. Let's go find some dinner. And you are paying for it."

Matthias eyes her up and down. Despite all his protestations, he is clearly imagining how she will look while wearing nothing but the necklace. "All right," he says, and offers her his arm again. "I hope you're in the mood, yet again, for fish."

I’m looking for more details surrounding Ras’ adoption—how did Fedyor wind up owning TWO prickly sourpusses?

Or anything phantomverse, really. Or lighthouse AU or or or.

tbh I’m not picky at all. I’m just looking forward to reading any and all fluffy prompts 🤗 we all crave that mineral.

It's about three weeks after Ivan gets out of the hospital -- gaunt, pale, and enervated, but reassuringly as stubborn and grumpy as ever, since even this dread coronavirus cannot possibly defeat him -- when the idea comes up. Ivan is currently unable to work, it's spring 2020 and much of New York City is shut down, and Fedyor is virtually telecommuting to most of his meetings. He keeps having to get up every so often and check that Ivan's still there and still breathing; the last two weeks totally alone in the apartment, limited to one video call a day and only if Ivan was feeling up to it, were the most hellish of his entire life. Finally Ivan, deeply irritated at being babied once too often, snaps, "Perhaps you should get a houseplant, Fedya. Or a hamster. Something else you can dote on. I told you, I am fine."

Fedyor raises both eyebrows at his dearly beloved, who still looks like a strong wind off the Atlantic Ocean would knock him over (and nearly did yesterday, when they went out for a cautious masked walk along the nearly-empty Brighton Beach boardwalk). It's heartening to see that Ivan is still Ivan, even if he needs more help than he admits, but maybe it is also true that Fedyor is overdoing it. However, the idea has been there for a while, and before he can think better of it, he says, "We already have the houseplants. What about a cat?"

It's Ivan's turn for the skeptical look. "I don't like cats."

"That's because you are one yourself," Fedyor says tolerantly. "It would give me something else to pay attention to, though."

Ivan scoffs, grumbles, protests, and otherwise dismisses the idea, and things go on as usual (or at least, whatever usual is right now) for the next several days. Then at the end of the week, on Saturday, they are on their way home from Brighton Bazaar (it's only a few minutes from their apartment, and Ivan usually does the shopping at the same strictly regimented hour every week, but can't carry all the bags by himself right now) when they hear a horrible ruckus in the nearby alleyway. Indeed, it sounds exactly like the moment in a movie when something flies out a window and is met by banging trash cans, screeching tires, and yowling cats, and it makes both Fedyor and Ivan stop in their tracks. A moment later, a huge old grey tomcat, one ear torn off, slinks out of the alley and regards them with malevolent yellow eyes. The cat, Fedyor, and Ivan all consider each other. Then the cat lays his ears back and hisses. It is a very loud hiss.

"Yeah, all right," Fedyor says to it. "Jeez, we're going. We're going."

They get home, unload the bags, and otherwise enjoy yet another Saturday afternoon at home. The weather is getting warm enough to open the doors and windows, and they're sitting outside on the balcony, looking over the sea, when Fedyor glances down at the street and sees the same cat sitting on a fence and glaring up at them. He snorts, elbowing Ivan. "Look. I told you that it's you."

Ivan looks at him archly, but even he knows when he cannot deny it. They see the cat several more times over the next week, until Fedyor finally decides that they should do something about it. He borrows a cat carrier from the neighbor, a lacrosse stick with a large net from the neighbor's teenage son, and a pair of very thick work gloves from Ivan, then goes down to the alley and prepares to do battle with his feline nemesis. It takes several hair-raising runarounds, and bloody-murder yowls from the cat, but Fedyor finally catches the confounded beast, stuffs it into the carrier at serious personal risk to himself, and takes the Q train, furiously volcanic hisses emanating from the carrier the whole time and causing even the subway weirdos to keep their distance, to a veterinarian on Avenue U.

The vet, after looking impressed at the nerve it took to trap this monster, scans the cat for microchips, administers the relevant vaccines, tests it for rabies (negative, thankfully), advises to make an appointment for neutering, and seems surprised when Fedyor says that this is not his cat. "If you don't want to adopt him, we'll have to just send him to the pound. It's a shame, this is a ten-year-old big guy who's clearly had a hard life, but..."

"Well...." Fedyor wavers. The cat is looking at him with surprisingly plaintive eyes, and he has always been a sucker. "I suppose we could at least see how it goes. For a bit."

That is how, after a stop at the pet store to acquire the relevant supplies, Fedyor gets home with a brand-new cat and is greeted by his deeply incredulous husband. "Wait," he says, facepalming. "You adopted that monster?"

"You wanted something else for me to focus on, yes?" Fedyor opens the cat carrier, and the prisoner shoots out like a cannonball, takes up a position in the corner, and judges them balefully from the shadows. "See. You two should get along swimmingly."

(leaves random artwork at your feet and runs away like…well, a cat with a dead mouse 💖)

AWW THE BOYS!!!

(And also Rasputin, the grumpy ass old cat, who adores Ivan and grudgingly tolerates Fedyor at best, leading to several notable scuffles about who is more entitled to Vanya Privileges. Bless.)

Also I love the idea of Fedyor and Ivan having a cat that only likes Ivan <3

Sequel to this and prequel to this. Set, as usual, in Phantom!Verse.

Moscow, 2013

June 30, 2013, is not a good day. In fact, it might be the worst of all the days of Fedyor Kaminsky’s life to date, and it is made absolutely no better by the fact that he’s long known it was coming – he just hoped, however vainly, that it wouldn’t. Three weeks ago, on June eleventh, the Duma unanimously passed the law formally entitled “For the Purpose of Protecting Children from Information Advocating For a Denial of Traditional Family Values,” with only one abstention and no dissenting votes, and President Putin is going to ceremoniously sign it into law today. It’s more pithily known as the “anti-gay law,” and it basically prohibits anything related to acknowledging that homosexuals exist in Russia. Fedyor has been anxiously following its progress with his activist friends in their group chats, all of them praying for some last-minute miracle to swoop in and knock it off course. Now that’s not going to happen. He has no idea what is going to happen, but to say the least, it won’t be good. He’s taken some body blows before, but this one sucks.

Fedyor vacillates wildly between wanting to watch the signing ceremony just to scream obscenities at it, and wanting to hide under the covers with the pillows over his head and cry. He texts frenetically with his friend Lyosha, who lost his position at Perm State University a few months ago for daring to do research about LGBTQ people, and is already planning to head into exile abroad. Does he have to do that too? Fedyor has lived in Russia his entire life, even if he has traveled internationally and has lots of foreign friends. He could stay. He could try to fight this thing somehow. He could do more. He should do more.

But how?

When Ivan gets home from work at six o’clock that night, that’s where he finds Fedyor: sitting on the living room floor under a quilt and neurotically eating chocolate biscuits, texting and crying. He drops his backpack and rushes over. “Fedya? Fedya! What’s wrong?”

“He signed it,” Fedyor says flatly. No more elaboration is necessary. “So now we’re fucked.”

Ivan looks troubled. He rocks back on his heels next to Fedyor and searches for the words. Then he says, clearly trying to be helpful, “Maybe not. Nobody has to know about us. If we just keep on like before, go about our daily lives, it will be all right. We are not important people. Why would they bother with us?”

“What?” Fedyor wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and lurches upright, shedding the quilt and a shower of cookie crumbs. “What are you talking about? Just – deny ourselves and go back in the closet and pretend we’re not here, that those assholes won? Go out, but make sure I never hold your hand walking down the street or dare to pretend that we are together? I don’t want to be afraid every second we’re out in public, Vanya! I don’t want to be wondering if maybe they’ll look at my emails or cook up some other reason to come after us! Lyosha already got fired before this even officially passed, and – ”

“Lyosha was a radical beforehand,” Ivan says dismissively. “It wasn’t because of this, I’m sure. So what? He’ll get a fancy position somewhere else. The West will love to take in the gay Russian, persecuted by the barbaric Putin regime, to show off how humane and enlightened they think they are. He will be fine.”

Fedyor looks at him as if he has two heads. “That’s how you’re reacting to this?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Ivan shrugs. “We have to make the best. What else are we going to do? Leave Russia?”

“Maybe we have to. What other choice do we have?”

“Stay?” Now it’s Ivan’s turn to sound like he’s talking nonsense. “Russia is our home!”

“Look, Vanya. I know you and I think differently about things, and we’ve gotten used to that. But I can’t – I physically cannot – stay in a place where I am criminalized for existing, for loving you, for being afraid that something will happen to us. We have to go.”

“No.” Ivan’s voice is colder than Fedyor has ever heard it. He sounds like a stranger. “No, we don’t. That’s crazy talk. Where would we go? America?”

“At least America doesn’t have this law!”

“America has no law that is helpful for us!” Ivan shouts. “And I’m not going there. The end! You make that choice, Fedya. Exile, or me?”

There’s a horrible silence in the wake of that pronouncement, as they stare at each other and Ivan instantly looks like he wants to bite it back, but it’s too late. Fedyor turns on his heel and marches away in frozen silence, refusing to utter a single word to Ivan for the rest of the night, even as Ivan tries to apologize and coax him into speaking again. Finally, taking the hint, he takes his things and silently goes to sleep on the couch, and Fedyor lies in their bed, staring at the ceiling and tossing and turning. Ivan didn’t mean that, right? Or maybe he did? Flee Russia, start a new life somewhere across the sea, but leave his boyfriend behind? Until recently, he thought Ivan Sakharov was the love of his life. Maybe he isn’t. Or even more terrifyingly, he is, and Fedyor will have to give him up anyway.

The rest of the week is just as bad. Ivan leaves early for work and keeps to himself when he gets home, while Fedyor starts Googling the U.S. asylum-claim process and reaching out to North American-based friends who can help with logistics. He spends hours on the computer, takes reams of notes, and doesn’t feel any better. Is he planning this for them or for him? He needs to answer that question like, now, and yet the prospect fills him with sickening dread. He cries himself to sleep with the bedroom door shut, and hears awkward shuffling in the corridor outside, like Ivan is listening and desperately wants to come in, but doesn’t think Fedyor wants him there. That’s even worse.

Finally, on Saturday night, Fedyor decides that they can’t go on like this. He drags himself out of his cave of blankets and cooks a nice supper, while Ivan goes for his usual afternoon workout at the gym, and when he comes back, he blinks. “Fedya? What’s this about?”

“We need…” Fedyor’s throat is a desert. “We need to talk about us.”

Those six little words are usually the kiss of death in any relationship, and he has no idea what’s about to happen next, but Ivan’s face wrenches in half like a torn piece of paper. He opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head furiously, and comes to a sudden and unassailable decision. With that, still in his gym clothes, he drops his bag and goes to one knee on the creaky wooden floor of their kitchen, in this humble sixth-floor Moscow flat that is the first place Fedyor ever knew pure and perfect happiness. “Okay,” he says. “How is this for a start. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, will you marry me?”

Fedyor stares at him, utterly blankly, seized with the horrible fear that Ivan is making fun of him. “Have you – are you – are you serious?”

“Yes.” Ivan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. “I wanted to do this in a different way, but maybe this is better. Fedya, I don’t – I can’t – I don’t want to live without you. I’ll even move to America if you want to. I’m no good without you. I can’t. Please.”

Fedyor continues to stare at him. Then finally he moves closer, as Ivan holds out the ring with a look of utter, silent entreaty, his heart wrung out and raw in his eyes. “Are you – ” Fedyor’s voice is a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Ivan says again, strong and steady. “More than I have ever been about anything.”

Fedyor starts to answer, and simply can’t. He starts to shake from head to toe, and Ivan scoots forward, still on his knees, and wraps both arms around Fedyor’s waist, burying his face in Fedyor’s stomach. Fedyor clutches hold of him and sinks down, the two of them barely making a sound. Finally, he whispers, “You hate America.”

“I don’t,” Ivan says. “Not really. But either way, I love you, Fedya. And I’m choosing that.”

Fedyor grips Ivan’s face in his hands and kisses him thoroughly, then remembers that he still technically hasn’t accepted his proposal, and he should do that. He holds out his right hand so Ivan can slip on the plain band, with the promise to buy him a nicer one once they get to wherever they’re going. He’ll help with arrangements, he promises. Whatever Fedyor needs him to do.