Chapter Text
November had settled over Yale like a slow-moving fog, clinging to the stone walls and winding through the arches with a weight that felt deliberate. It wasn’t raining yet, but the sky looked like it wanted to, and the air was wet in that awful way that made everything feel heavier—clothes, breath, even thoughts. The old campus was quiet. Too quiet. The gothic towers, so proud and looming in the daylight, now crouched in the fog like ancient beasts watching him pass, their windows glowing faintly through the mist like half-lidded eyes. It was the kind of atmosphere that made even footsteps sound nervous. The sidewalks, slick with damp fallen leaves, glistened in the streetlamp glow like trails of spilled ink across a blank gray page.
He kept moving fast, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his fists, shoulders hunched into the wind like it had a personal vendetta. His sneakers hit the cobblestones with uneven urgency like even his feet were anxious to get somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t this cold, haunted stretch of ivy-covered architecture. He told himself it was just the weather getting to him. He told himself that every November. But it was more than that. Yale in late fall always felt like it was waiting. Holding its breath. Maybe everyone was. After midterms, the world slowed into this weird liminal drag where the days blended and no one could tell whether they were supposed to be panicking or coasting.
And Alfred hated that feeling. He didn’t like stillness. He didn’t like gray skies or cold wind or silence that made his thoughts echo too loud. He especially didn’t like it when everything felt like it was about to change, but no one was saying it out loud. Except for Matthew.
Matthew was Alfred’s brother—and it was nothing short of a miracle that they’d both made it into an Ivy League, let alone the same one. Their high school was small, the kind of place that might send one student to a top college every few years if they were lucky. But two? From the same family? It almost didn’t happen. Alfred had been over the moon when they got their acceptance letters. Proud of Matthew, obviously. But more than anything, relieved. They wouldn’t be separated. They’d be taking on college together. He didn’t know what he would do without his twin.
He tightened his grip on the strap of the backpack slung over one shoulder, the fabric damp and cold under his fingers. His hoodie was too thin for the weather, but it was his favorite—he’d had it since high school, from some semi-regional football tournament where he’d played through a sprained wrist and still won MVP. The lettering on the front was cracked and fading, barely readable, but he liked it that way. It reminded him of where he’d come from. Reminded him who he was when he wasn’t trying so hard to prove himself here.
Yale was beautiful, sure, but it wasn’t easy. People liked to act like it was all tailgates and traditions, but it had teeth. You could feel it in the way professors looked through you when you didn’t answer fast enough. In how easy it was to fall behind if you blinked too long. In the pressure to perform, always, even if you were running on empty. Sometimes Alfred wondered if everyone else felt the same constant undercurrent of Don't fuck this up, or if that was just him.
He passed under an archway, boots echoing off the stone as he cut across the courtyard. He was late, but not by much. Astronomy started at seven sharp, and Professor Capellini was one of those hardline types who thought lateness was a moral failure. Alfred had already gotten one of his classic disappointed-in-you emails earlier in the semester after showing up ten minutes late with wet hair and a protein bar in his mouth. He wasn’t about to get another.
The astronomy building loomed at the far end of the quad, older than most others, tucked half in shadow. It always looked a little out of place to him—round and strange with its silver dome and faintly humming wires. It felt more like a museum or a bunker than a classroom. It smelled weird too—metal and chalk dust and something sterile that didn’t quite belong. The first time he’d walked in, he’d joked that it smelled like a science crime scene. No one had laughed.
He climbed the steps two at a time, yanked open the door, and stepped inside. The hallway was dim, lined with dusty glass cases full of planetary models and faded clippings from the old astronomy club. Most of the overhead lights buzzed like they were trying too hard to stay alive. The building was always cold. Colder than outside, somehow, like the walls had absorbed winter years ago and never let go.
He walked fast down the hall, the slap of his footsteps bouncing off the stone. He already knew what seat he wanted. He always sat in the back row, far left, near the window—unless it was taken. Not because he liked the view, but because it gave him the best angle on the room while still being out of sight. Which, okay, yeah. Kind of weird. But he liked having eyes on the exits. That wasn’t creepy. Just… practical.
Except tonight, someone was already in his seat. Again.
Ivan Braginsky.
Alfred blinked. Not in surprise—he knew Ivan was in this class—but it still caught him off guard, like running into a wall he forgot was there. He dropped into the chair next to him, trying not to look weird about it. Tried to keep his shoulders loose. Like this was nothing. Like, Ivan didn’t make the whole room colder just by being in it.
He sat the way he always did—too upright, too still—but this time, as Alfred settled in, he felt the guy’s eyes shift toward him. not a turn. just a glance. Not subtle enough to ignore. A minute or two passed, before Ivan spoke.
“You are late again,” Ivan muttered, low, like he wasn’t really speaking to him but still wanted him to hear. His voice barely moved the air.
Alfred didn’t look at him. “Yeah, I may have noticed.”
“You make a habit of it.”
“Do you make a habit of being annoying?” Alfred hissed back, just loud enough for him to hear. Ivan’s smile was barely a twitch.
“Only when I am near Идиоты.”
“You know I don’t understand Russian,” Alfred muttered.
Ivan didn’t respond right away. The silence between them thickened, stretched taut across the shared desk like a pulled thread.
Then, still not looking at him, Ivan said under his breath, “Does not matter. You always sit here.”
Alfred flinched—just slightly—and didn’t reply. His fingers tightened on his pen, the cap nearly snapping in his hand. For a second, he forgot what class he was in. The professor was still talking. No one noticed. No one ever did.
He pulled out his notes and forced his focus back to the lecture, but the tension stayed. Thick. Buzzing. His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He didn’t look at it right away, like it’d be some kind of defeat, but eventually gave in and slid it out quietly under the table. There were multiple texts. One was a text from the football group chat. One of them hadn’t completed an assignment for their bio lab and needed the homework screenshot. Another was from his brother, Matthew, asking if he was going to come to some random dorm party thrown by Gilbert tonight. He quickly responded, then opened his camera roll to scroll through for the homework.
His thumb paused.
Hovered over a folder, A folder he treasured.
One with no fewer than a hundred photos. Angles, screenshots. Caught moments.
A folder labeled “Braginsky.”
His breath stuttered. Shame flickered hot under his skin. He didn’t open it. He just kept scrolling until he found the screenshot, sent it, and locked his phone again—too quickly, too harshly, like that could erase the moment. Ivan hadn’t moved. At least, that’s what he told himself, that's what he saw.
The rest of the lecture passed in fragments. Professor Capellini droned about spectroscopy and lab protocol and observatory schedules while Alfred sat with his jaw clenched, heart ticking strangely in his chest. Every once in a while, he glanced sideways—not because he wanted to. Because he had to. Because some part of him kept checking, like instinct. Ivan never looked back.
When class ended, Alfred stood up too fast, chair legs scraping the floor. He shoved his notebook into his backpack without closing it and slung it over one shoulder like he couldn’t leave fast enough—he had to meet his best friend Kiku and his Brother soon for the party. Ivan stayed seated. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t even glance his way as he left. At least, thats what he thought.
Outside, the cold hit like a slap. Sharp, fast. It cut straight through his hoodie like it wasn’t even there. His footsteps echoed louder than they needed to. He didn’t go to meet his Brother and Kiku immediately. He walked in a loop instead—around the quad, past the library, and under an archway he usually avoided this late. Everything felt dimmer. Quieter. Like the whole campus had shrunk.
He hated how much Ivan got to him. He hated that a single whispered sentence could ruin his focus like that. He didn’t even say anything bad. It was just the way he said it—like he knew Alfred better than Alfred knew him. Like he was humoring him. Like he was watching. It didn’t make sense. They weren’t close. They barely spoke. He probably didn’t even know Alfred’s name. And still—he could be completely still, completely silent, and Alfred would still feel him. Like heat off a flame. Like gravity.
Ivan rested like a statue crafted for the sole purpose of personifying the moon—cold, beautiful, and distant. Every emotion on his face was worn like it didn’t belong to him. He looked untouchable. Like he only existed for the tides. And even if he bothered Alfred—bothered him immensely—he was still a work of art.
And Alfred hated that.
He scoffed under his breath and straightened up, brushing a few dry leaves off his jeans. Maybe he was just tired. Or overthinking. or needed to delete a few folders and stop being weird about someone he didn’t even like. He turned towards the dorms, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, wind nipping at the edge of his ears. But even as he walked, even as the lights behind him dimmed and the quiet swallowed everything else, he couldn’t shake it—that feeling in his chest like eyes on the back of his neck. The kind that made you want to look over your shoulder.
He didn’t.
—————————-
Ivan arrived first, which meant he got the window seat.
That was how it worked—unspoken, but consistent. A quiet agreement carved from repetition. The one who arrived first took the side with the window. The other took the inside. And though it was never discussed, never even acknowledged aloud, Ivan noticed that Alfred cared. Maybe not outwardly. Maybe not in any way most people would catch. But Ivan wasn’t most people.
He settled into his seat with methodical care, unwrapping his scarf, folding his coat once, placing it on his lap. His fingers were still cold from the walk across campus. The sky outside the window was the same dull grey it always was at this hour—flat and vast and unfeeling. He opened his notebook to the next blank page, pen already uncapped. He didn’t write.
The door opened. He didn’t look up.
He didn’t have to.
He could feel the shape of Alfred Jones the way one feels heat through glass. Loud footsteps, heavy bag dropped too fast, a breath caught in the throat and released through clenched teeth. There were thirty-two seats in this classroom. Ivan only cared about one.
Alfred took the other chair at their shared table. Inside seat. Ivan could feel the way he resented that—how he sat with his spine stiff and shoulders coiled too tightly, like a spring. How his arm brushed the edge of the desk but didn’t settle, hovering instead, unsure whether to relax or keep distance.
Ivan kept his eyes on his notebook. The tension beside him didn’t fade.
He didn’t look. Not yet.
The professor began, voice low and disinterested, droning on about axial tilt and rotational velocity, stars charted in outdated patterns. Ivan listened with half an ear, the rest of his mind tuned to the silence beside him—the way Alfred wasn’t moving, wasn’t writing, wasn’t listening. He could hear the way Alfred’s breath hitched every now and then, sharp and short, like he was trying not to be annoyed. Or worse—trying not to be noticed.
It was too late for that.
Ivan finally turned his head, just slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to see him in full.
Alfred’s jaw was tight. His gaze stayed forward, locked on the projector screen with hollow focus, but his posture gave everything away. His foot bounced, then stopped. His fingers hovered near his phone, then pulled back. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something but bit it down last second.
Good.
The lecture had barely started, but Ivan wasn’t listening. Not to the professor, anyway.
He could hear Alfred’s every movement. The rustle of his jacket against the edge of the desk, the soft scrape of his shoe dragging slightly against the floor before freezing again. The way he uncapped his pen with unnecessary force, only to hesitate before writing anything down. All of it loud to Ivan. Not audibly—just loud in the way that disruptions always were when you spent long enough memorizing someone.
Ivan sat still, completely still, as if carved from the desk itself. He didn’t move except to blink. His hands rested loosely on the edge of his notebook, fingers relaxed. No tension showed on his face. He didn’t need to look to know Alfred was already unraveling.
And then, quietly, with a kind of precision that was more scalpel than sentence, Ivan said,
“You are late again.”
His voice was barely above a breath, low and even, like he wasn’t really speaking to him, only allowing the words to drift in Alfred’s direction.
The reaction was immediate.
“Yeah, I may have noticed,” Alfred snapped back, just as low but brittle. Defensive. His words were tight around the edges, like he’d been holding them in before Ivan even said a word.
Ivan didn’t turn to look. He didn’t have to. He kept his gaze forward, tracking the slow shift of the professor’s shadow against the far wall. “You make a habit of it.”
Another pause. A long one. He could feel Alfred chewing on the reply.
Then: “Do you make a habit of being annoying?” The words were whispered in a hiss, tight and sharp like they were meant to wound, not provoke.
Ivan didn’t flinch. He almost smiled. Not fully—just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like the hint of a storm far off. Invisible if you weren’t watching him close. But Alfred was. Always.
“Only when I am near идиоты,” he murmured, the Russian lilt sliding easily off his tongue, soft and unhurried.
He wanted Alfred to ask. He always wanted Alfred to ask. He never translated it. Not unless he was asked. And sometimes not even then.
Alfred’s grip tightened slightly on his pen. Ivan heard the soft creak of the plastic as the cap bent under pressure. He could picture it perfectly. He could feel the tension thrumming off him like static.
“You know I don’t understand Russian,” Alfred muttered finally, jaw clenched. It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
Ivan let the silence grow again. Let it breathe. Let it tighten.
He didn’t need to speak to win. Not when Alfred was already shifting in his seat, already mentally halfway out of the room. Not when the thread between them was stretched so tight it could snap from a whisper.
Still without turning, still watching nothing in particular, Ivan said under his breath, “Does not matter. You always sit here.”
And there it was.
A shift. Barely perceptible—but it happened. A twitch in posture. A pause in breath. A stillness that lasted one second too long. Ivan could feel the weight of it settle in the air between them like dust.
He didn’t smile. But the satisfaction was a quiet, curling thing in his chest.
Alfred didn’t respond. He wouldn’t. Not now. His fingers remained tense on the pen, locked in place like they’d forgotten what to do.
Ivan turned a page in his notebook, smooth and soundless. The professor’s voice droned on in the background. Words about stars. Motion. Nothing that mattered.
No one noticed them. No one ever did.
But Ivan did. Every breath, every glance, every word left unsaid. He noticed all of it.
The professor’s voice faded into the background, a dull buzz behind the flicker of slides. Something about solar declination. Charts. Diagrams. Ivan didn’t absorb any of it. He didn’t need to. He sat still, gaze low, hand idle on his notebook, and listened instead to the shift beside him—the quiet tremble of Alfred’s presence trying desperately to remain unnoticed.
And failing.
Alfred was stiff, overly so, trying not to move in a way that made every adjustment more obvious. His elbow bumped the desk once. His foot tapped and stopped. His breath hitched mid-sigh.
Ivan didn’t look. But his awareness tunneled, narrowed around that presence like gravity.
Then came movement—subtle, but unmistakable. The shuffle of fabric. A thumb brushing glass. The low glow of a screen igniting under the desk. Ivan’s gaze didn’t move, but his eyes tracked downward, barely shifting. Alfred was checking his phone.
Probably the group chat. Something about homework. Ivan watched through his periphery as Alfred scrolled fast, recklessly, like if he didn’t slow down it wouldn’t count. Messages flew past. Images. A screenshot. Then he opened the camera roll.
Just for a moment. Just long enough. There it was again.
Braginsky.
The folder hadn’t changed. He’d seen it before. Just a glimpse. Just once. That alone had been enough to burn it into his memory. But now, seeing it again, seeing it still there—still named, still untouched by guilt—something bloomed in his chest.
Warmth.
Heavy, hot, slow-spreading warmth. It sank through him like sunlight behind glass, sweet and terrible. From his pale cheeks to his stomach.
His throat felt tight in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.
The screen vanished. Alfred must’ve realized he’d lingered too long. He shut the phone fast, tensed like he expected someone to have noticed.
Ivan only blinked.
The lecture ended with the usual hollow dismissal. Ivan reached for his coat calmly, folding it over one arm with care, letting the rest of the class rush around him in that frantic, relieved way people always did when released from silence. Chairs scraped. Notebooks zipped. Voices rose in loose conversation.
Alfred stood quickly, bumping the desk, nearly dropping his pen. He didn’t glance back. His retreat was as ungraceful as it was familiar.
Ivan watched the back of his head vanish through the door. Listened to the sound of him disappearing down the hallway.
Then he rose, slow and deliberate, sliding his notebook into his bag with silent hands.
Only when the classroom had nearly emptied did Ivan finally leave.
The hallway was still loud, the sharp clash of voices and laughter and boots on old tile, but he moved through it like a shadow—quiet, certain, unmoved.
That warmth still hadn’t left him.
He was halfway down the steps outside when he heard someone call his name—soft, tentative, too polite to be anyone else.
“Ivan!”
He turned.
Matthew jogged up, breath visible in the cold air, cheeks pink from wind, hoodie hood half-falling off one shoulder. He looked out of place here, bright in a way the rest of Yale’s grayness never quite swallowed.
Ivan stopped walking. Waited.
“Hey,” Matthew said, brushing his hair out of his face. “You vanished right after calculus.”
“I went to my dorm,” Ivan replied, quiet, but not cold.
“Ah, that makes sense.” Matthew gave a small grin, then added more gently, “You okay?”
Ivan didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t used to being asked. Matthew didn’t press him, He never did. Ivan liked that about Matthew.
After a moment, he added, “There’s a party tonight, if you feel like showing up. At Gilbert’s dorm. It’s just Kiku and some friends. No pressure.”
Ivan blinked. “Gilbert’s dorm?”
“Yeah.” He hesitated. “Alfred’s going. Don’t let that stop you.”
Ivan tilted his head slightly. Matthew shrugged, like he’d said too much.
Ivan glanced away toward the dark stretch of sidewalk behind Matthew’s shoulder, still caught somewhere between the classroom and the flicker of a name under a photo album. He exhaled, soft.
“I will come,” he said finally.
Matthew looked surprised. Then nodded, like he hadn’t expected a yes but was happy to take it anyway.
“I’ll text you.”
Ivan nodded once, slow. Before smiling softly, then walking in the opposite direction as he waved bye to Matthew. Ivan wasn’t a cold person, and it seemed like Matthew was the only one who understood that.
Unfortunately—Although he liked him—He did pretend Matthew was Alfred instead sometimes.
Most times.
—————————
The music was already too loud by the time Alfred showed up.
Not pounding, but pulsing—low and steady like a heartbeat in the walls. The whole hallway smelled like cheap vodka and half-done laundry, and the second he stepped inside Gilbert’s dorm, the air got thick with heat. The crowd wasn’t huge, but it was enough. Too many people in one room. Everyone packed close with red cups and loud laughter and someone yelling about hot women in the other corner.
Alfred didn’t care about any of them.
He’d told himself he was only showing up because Matthew invited him. Which was technically true. But the second he walked through the door, something sour twisted in his stomach, and it wasn’t the smell of vodka. He was still thinking about class. About Ivan.
About that dumb stare and that same blank tone, the way he always said things like he wasn’t actually talking to you but still wanted you to hear it. The way he said, you always sit here. Like it meant something.
And then there was the phone thing.
He hadn’t meant to scroll past it. He didn’t even know he had that folder still open, not that it mattered—he’d made a thousand folders for dumb things before, and that one was just for keeping track of weird shit. Ivan was weird. His vibe was weird. That wasn’t illegal.
But the second he saw the name flash across the top of the screen—Braginsky—his stomach had dropped like he’d been caught doing something wrong. And for a split second, he’d thought… what if he saw.
No. No way. Ivan hadn’t even looked at him once. Right?
Alfred grabbed a drink off the closest table and threw it back too fast. The burn hit immediately, biting at his throat and sinking warm into his gut. It helped. A little.
Matthew spotted him from across the room and waved, but Alfred just lifted his cup in reply. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Not even with his brother. Maybe Kiku.
He drifted instead—around the room, drink to drink. Letting the noise drown out the thoughts. Laughing too loud at stuff he didn’t hear. Leaning against the kitchen counter at one point, talking to some girl he didn’t know about… something. Football? Philosophy? He didn’t even remember. Didn’t care.
The buzz kicked in fast. He liked that. It slowed everything down and made the edges softer, made the weight in his chest feel a little less sharp.
And then, somehow, like gravity pulling him sideways—
He saw him.
Ivan.
Across the room. Half-shadowed by lamplight. Alone. Quiet. Just standing there, holding a cup that looked untouched.
Alfred’s heart kicked weirdly in his chest.
—————————
He shouldn’t have come. He knew that the moment he stepped through the door.
The room was too warm, the lights too dim, and the bass of the music too constant, thudding behind every sound like a second heartbeat. The air smelled like sweat, spilled beer, cheap cologne. People were pressed together shoulder to shoulder, and the only place to stand without being touched was the far corner of the room—so he stood there. Alone. Watching.
His drink remained full. He held the cup loosely in one hand, fingers barely curled around it, not intending to sip. He didn’t like the taste of whatever was in it. Didn’t like the taste of anything that dulled. He preferred to stay sharp. Quiet. Focused.
He scanned the crowd once. Just once, and saw Alfred immediately.
Drunk already. Or nearly there. Ivan watched the way his posture shifted—looser, messier, his balance too casual for someone sober. He’d seen Alfred drink before, at some other campus gathering neither of them admitted to attending, but it was always the same. Sloppy fast. Like he couldn’t stand the silence of his own thoughts unless he drowned them.
Tonight was no different.
Alfred moved from person like he didn’t care about any of them. Bumping shoulders, talking loud, laughing louder. Ivan could hear him above the crowd when he wasn’t even trying to listen. Could see the flick of his wrist when he raised his cup, the way his fingers curled too tightly around the plastic like he wanted to crush it. Like he needed to hold onto something.
Ivan didn’t take his eyes off him. He didn’t need to pretend to be interested in anything else. Everyone here had somewhere to look, someone to talk to, someone to impress. But Ivan didn’t care about any of them.
Only him.
The boy who had flinched earlier when Ivan told him you always sit here. The boy who had scrolled past a folder labeled Braginsky like it wasn’t burning a hole in his phone. The boy who was now staring too long into the corner of the room where Ivan stood, glassy-eyed and flushed, like he couldn’t decide if he was angry or scared or just drunk.
Ivan tilted his head slightly. Barely a movement.
He smiled.
—————————
Alfred blinked hard. Once. Twice. He swore the lights shifted or something, because for a split second, Ivan—Ivan Braginsky, eternal blank stare and frozen statue posture—was smiling. Not a smirk. Not a twitch. A real smile, soft at the edges, sharp at the center, like he knew exactly what he was doing. It was slow and quiet and maybe not even meant for Alfred, but it felt like it was. And Alfred, drunk off his ass and sweating through the collar of his jacket, stared like he’d just witnessed something holy. His heart flipped violently in his chest. “I’m so wasted,” he mumbled under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “There’s no way that just happened.” But it had. And it was, without exaggeration, the most attractive thing he had ever seen in his life.