Kavinsky took a deep, consuming breath, like he could swallow up all of the desire suffusing this room right now. It made the hair on his arms stand on end, and sent a shiver down the back of his neck.

He wrapped a hand against the curve of Steve's hip to hold him still and changed his grip on the knife so he could start carving. He used cyrillic instead of roman letters, more familiar to him.

"Do you think birthdays still count after you're dead, Steve?" he asked conversationally, without looking away from the work.