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Late at night in their shared apartment, Till remains wide awake. He lays on his stomach across the wooden floor while he draws at record speed. Even though Ivan did procure him an ergonomic, adjustable desk and chair when they first moved in together for college, he still refuses to use it most days. And thus Ivan naturally joins him, to the detriment of his back.
It’s worth it.
Till looks radiant when he’s in love. To be fair, Till always looks radiant to him, but being in love suits an artist well. It takes him from complete artistic drought to a gargantuan inspiration with which he builds a whole catalogue of life-like Mizi portraits. He makes her look ethereal, like a shoujo manga protagonist.
“They’re great. You should show them to her,” Ivan says as he takes a picture of Till’s sketchbook with the sole purpose of flustering him.
When Till’s cheeks go bright red, he smiles. So predictable.
“Fuck no,” Till hurries to slam the sketchbook shut, warding off Ivan’s prying eyes. “What if she thinks I’m weird?”
“You are weird.”
“Fuck you,” Till grumbles, with no bite in it. “Look who’s talking.”
When he decides it’s safe and he won’t be personally victimized by Ivan’s phone camera, Till continues shading Mizi’s eyes, and Ivan continues pretending to read the material for his constitutional law class, which he already memorized the past weekend.
He doesn’t even need to do a good job at fake-studying when Till is so genuinely hyper-focused. The process is nearly identical every time, but just as fascinating to watch. First, he’ll stick his tongue out when tackling a particularly difficult spot, then he'll stop to observe his line work while wiggling the pencil between his index and middle finger. If he’s not satisfied, he’ll bite the pencil and frown, erasing and starting over. If he is, he’ll smile to himself and start adding about ten thousand additional details.
Rinse and repeat.
This is still different from when he draws flowers, or skulls, or whatever catches his interest at the time. There’s this sparkle in his eyes when he draws Mizi, a mix of confidence and then shyness when Ivan looks too intently, as if these particular pieces of his art are too vulnerable to share with the world.
No use concerning himself too much with it when he can instead admire the tip of Till’s tongue –it’s the best part of the cycle, in his opinion. Ivan is so invested in it that he doesn’t predict the abrupt change of script.
“Stop,” Till says.
“What?”
“You’re staring like a crazy person.”
Ivan snorts. This is a rare occurrence. Whenever he’s caught red handed, it’s usually because he wants to.
Till looks radiant when he’s in love. In contrast, it apparently makes Ivan look insane. He feels like it too, most of the time. With those being the circumstances, does he have a right to call it love?
Codependency, his therapist said when he was thirteen and his adoptive father got him into counseling exclusively because he was worried he wouldn’t be able to blend in properly within his rich social circles. That lasted all of three sessions until she tried to prescribe Ivan antidepressants and Unsha shut it down, god forbid they made him gain weight.
Not like Ivan wants them, either way. No pill would be able to detangle whatever deep-rooted, rush inducing, soul twisting attachment he has to Till, and no psychological jargon would be able to define it. It’s embedded into his very core now, like breathing or walking. It’s the only thing that reminds him that his heart is as prone to erosion and cracks as the rest of the world, if only for one person.
And if he won’t pursue it, does it really need to be fixed?
He’s always been fine with just watching. Even now.
When Ivan doesn’t try to explain himself further, he expects Till to insist. Instead, he rubs the back of his neck and looks away, a bashful gesture Till only pulls when he’s about to ask something that he considers embarrassing. Ivan knows he wants to make a not so subtle segway into what kept him distracted enough that he actually noticed Ivan staring.
“So… Will you help me or not?”
“Unfortunately I’m not very good at drawing, but I can give you my opinion as an observer.“
Till does it again. The scrunched up face and reddened cheeks.
“You know what I’m talking about. What I asked you before…”
Ivan does. He’s just considering whether he should play fool for a little longer until Till chases him around with a slipper, but he decides against it in the end.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Ivan idly flips through his book, feigning indifference.
" Why?” Asks Till, exasperated.
Till has been asking him to play wingman for him since last week, given that Mizi shares most of her classes with Ivan. At some point she declared herself his best friend, too. Ivan doesn’t mind. Not only does she look like a shoujo protagonist, she’s as impossibly bright as one, to an overwhelming degree at times. The urge to study her under a microscope is there the same way it happens with Till –not nearly as intense, although enough to keep her around.
Now onto the issue. Why, Till asks? There are many reasons. For one, if the shared glances between Mizi and Sua are anything to go by, she might not be looking for a man at all. It would be the decent thing to warn Till. Then again, Ivan isn’t decent. Additionally, Till isn’t just any man, either. He’s the kind of man who will immortalize their beloved in music and art and pick wildflowers to place in their hair. If he was Mizi, the choice would be a no brainer.
Of course, not only is he already biased, he was raised as Sua’s cousin, so Ivan isn’t the best judge.
The second and most important reason: He’s never had Till need him this much before. It’d be a shame if he agrees right away –Till would then stop throwing him those bashful glances and chasing him around the apartment to ask him about Mizi’s favorite color, food, band. Just yesterday he almost got him to actually say ‘please’. A few more times and maybe he’ll even give Ivan the puppy eyes.
Love suits Till well, definitely. But if he were to get into a relationship, would Ivan still be privy to those reactions? Would he enjoy them as much while sitting across the table on a double date with some girl –Mizi or otherwise– clinging to Till’s arm?
The thought is… unpleasant. Unpleasant, that’s all. He’s used to dealing with unpleasant things.
“I’m busy this week.”
Ivan is an acquired taste, like roller-coasters. Scary and confusing the first few times until one grows addicted to the thrill.
Liking him is a bit of a vice, is what Till is saying. He doesn’t know just how many more times his heart will be able to handle the ride at this rate. Especially with Ivan being this fucking dense for a straight A student.
Ironically, it’s easy to speculate that if he didn’t know Ivan so closely, his actions would come across as glaringly obvious to him and anyone else. Till is just too close to the subject to see the picture clearly.
It doesn’t help that Ivan has never been a normal guy for as long as he’s known him. It’s not like he can ask anyone for advice when no one would be able to relate to their particular dynamic.
Sometimes, on sleepless nights, the door to Till’s room will creak softly and the mattress will sink with an extra weight behind him. He doesn’t know how Ivan manages to fit perfectly like a puzzle piece against his body in an individual bed, so easily falling asleep with his forehead pressed against the nape of Till’s neck, oblivious to the ticklishness of his hair and breath.
It’s intimate even for close friends. He can tell that much.
Till eventually gave up trying to kick him out. Even when they were kids and they’d have sleepovers at Ivan’s cartoonishly huge room inside his cartoonishly huge mansion, Ivan would still climb down from his king size bed to crawl into Till’s tiny futon.
Till had never given it much thought beyond it being just one of Ivan’s many quirks. He’s always gone by the time Till wakes up, his side of the bed cold like he’s never been there at all. Neither of them ever bring it up.
When Ivan is awake, it’s like a coin flip. Either he’ll be an asshat and mess with Till almost to the point of tears or he'll diligently go through all the reading materials from the classes Till hates the most and break them down into digestible bullet points for him, while not even sharing a major. Sometimes one after the other, in no particular order.
Other times Till’s things will go missing. Little things that have no real value, or use –for Ivan, at least. Guitar picks, failed doodles ripped out from his sketchbook, old school IDs, a box of expired chocolate with Till’s name on it that even Till himself had never seen.
It made him feel some type of way when he found them in a box tucked under Ivan’s bed back in high school. At the very bottom lay a dried flower crown that Till made him when they were seven, carefully laminated. He’d made the mistake of telling Luka, which resulted in Till breaking his nose when he subsequently called Ivan a pervert.
The name calling to his best friend wasn’t even what angered him. Looking back, it’s the fact that despite all of Ivan’s weird behavior and psychological warfare, there’s nothing to show for it, not then and not now, years later. If he’s truly a pervert, Till fucking wished he owned it and made a move instead of… whatever the hell he’s doing.
Most days Till wonders if he’s going crazy, if all this actually means that Ivan harbors feelings for him or if he just gets some sort of sadistic enjoyment out of messing with his head. As Ivan himself would put it, to study his reactions like he’s a lab rat.
Which is why Till won’t give him the satisfaction to make the first move, either. Worst case scenario, Ivan will play fool and tease him for being dumb and ‘misunderstanding his signals’ and then Till really will have to murder him.
Even worse case scenario, Ivan will mean it.
Frustrating doesn’t even begin to describe it. Complicated is just vague enough to work.
It’s in the middle of that hailstorm when Ivan introduces him to Mizi. The first time she sees him, her lips curve into the most radiant, genuine smile Till has ever seen in his life.
You’re Ivan’s artist friend?! She asks, excitement shining in her golden eyes. He showed me your still-lifes. Edelweiss is my favorite flower!
Since then, Till hasn’t been able to draw anything else. Gardens of edelweiss, and her in the middle.
Liking Mizi, in comparison, is a breath of fresh air, a sweet escape. It’s simple. Till loves simple. He might become nervous and tongue tied around her, his palms may sweat a little bit more than usual, but that’s only because she’s radiantly pretty and Till is awkward to a fault around girls.
For some reason, he doesn’t even particularly agonize about eventual reciprocity the way it happens with Ivan. Thinking about and being around her makes him happy on its own. He grows fond of the dopamine from a crush that doesn’t cause damage to his health bar every time he remembers it. It’s almost enough to distract him from anything else.
Like Ivan’s poker face through it all.
Not gonna lie, Ivan’s apathy is infuriating. Would it hurt him to be normal and show an ounce of jealousy, or any remotely identifiable emotion at least one time? Then Till would at least have something akin to an answer to his questions.
In reality, he remains impassive even when Till shows him his portraits of Mizi and asks for his help getting them together. Yet, he’s had an excuse ready every single time about why he can’t or won’t, or his preferred method: avoid it altogether in a roundabout way until Till gives up.
Well, Till won’t give him that satisfaction, either.
Ivan is cooking dinner when Till asks for the fourth or fifth time that week. He does so much more casually than previously, sitting on the kitchen counter while mindlessly scrolling through TikTok on his phone. He knows Ivan will find a creative way to decline, anyways.
He swears he hears a sigh muffled by the sizzling of the pan.
“Okay. Sure.”
Till looks up from his phone in shock. He tries to detect any sarcasm in Ivan’s voice, to no avail. He’s facing the stove, too, so Till can only see his back.
“Are you shitting my dick?”
There’s a humorous huff. Ivan keeps stirring the wok with scary concentration. He doesn’t think stir-fry requires such levels of laser focus. Then again, Till can’t cook to save his life.
“What? Did you change your mind already?”
Till scoffs. He’s too hangry at this point to entertain Ivan’s bullshit.
“You kept being a dick about it before. What changed?”
“Mizi wants to go to a house party this Saturday. She doesn’t really know anyone there and would like some friends to join her,” Ivan says nonchalantly, as if that answers Till’s question.
“Would you like it with rice or should I start cooking some noodles?” He continues.
“Rice,” Till answers all loud and snappy, his brows pinched. It takes him a few seconds to remember that he’s supposed to be happy about this. By the time he realizes, Ivan is finally looking at him, a sly smile on his face. The one he shows whenever he’s successfully managed to provoke Till.
It only pisses him off more, as if he's lost whatever kind of game Ivan is trying to play.
“Whatever. I’m not hungry anymore,” Till declares, an inexplicable wave of embarrassment crawling under his skin as he gets up from the table.
“Yes, you are.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder, then a clink from the bowl being placed on the counter. The whiff of warm, savory food floods Till’s nostrils and by then he knows it’s a lost battle. Why the fuck does Ivan have to flex his cooking skills when he’s trying to be upset?
“Shut up.”
Ivan doesn’t even have the decency to hide how pleased he is when Till obliges and sits back down.
To Ivan’s credit, he’s right. Till is very much starving and devours his bowl like it’s his life’s mission.
Only halfway does their previous conversation start to sink in. Till doesn’t particularly like parties. No. It would be more accurate to say that he would rather eat cement than spend his weekend night surrounded by loud, drunken strangers. The only possible worse thing he can imagine would be letting Mizi do the same thing all by herself.
The thought is so horrifying that he temporarily forgets about his nerves and his dispute with Ivan.
“Are you coming with us, then?” Ivan asks after a while.
“Duh. No take backs now.” Till replies. He pretends not to notice Ivan’s chopsticks sneaking more chicken into his bowl.
Parties aren’t a new thing for Ivan.
Ever since he was adopted, he’s been attending all kinds of social gatherings pretty much on a monthly basis. Those are black tie events, however. The kind with waiters, fancy canapés and expensive booze, where he’s expected to charm Unsha’s investor friends and entertain their bad jokes and thinly veiled alcoholism.
He managed to convince Till to join exactly one of those, on Ivan’s sixteenth birthday. With all his money, Urak still refused to buy him a new suit since he outgrew his previous one after he hit puberty.
On the bright side, that meant Till had to borrow one from him, so he got to see him with his hair slick back, piercings in full display, wearing Ivan's own clothes that were undoubtedly oversized on his slimmer body.
Then they stole an entire tray of cupcakes and a bottle of champagne and sneaked out to the garden to find a hiding spot inside the family mausoleum.
It’s been Ivan’s best birthday so far.
College parties are a whole different affair, the common denominator being that whether it’s snobby middle aged people or drunk college kids, Till is a fish out of water among both –and Ivan loves him for it.
He’s wearing one of those loose, black tank tops, the one that occasionally shows his nipples from the side whenever he leans forward.
Ivan returns with a six pack of beers and pauses for a moment to observe Till from behind the door frame. He sits on a sofa in the stiffest posture of his life next to Sua, both almost climbing on each armrest from how far apart they are. The vibes are so off-putting that they’ve somehow managed to repel any other party attendees from the area.
As hilarious as it is, it’s not the show that Ivan is hoping for.
So he texts Till.
> I’ll be back in a second. Got stuck in conversation.
Till’s phone vibrates on the coffee table in front, his eyes shifting to the illuminated screen. Then, finally, he leans forward to reach it. His armpit is the first thing to show as he extends his arm. When he does, the fabric starts sliding down and–
“There you are!” Mizi arrives next to him, and Ivan shushes her. He gestures to the scene he’s currently enjoying so she quickly catches on that they’re supposed to be sneaky. As always, Mizi is down to go along with Ivan’s antics. Still, she mostly just looks confused about what they’re supposed to be witnessing.
Till reads the message and glances towards the door. Ivan and Mizi then hide behind the wall for a few seconds before peeking again. Lo and behold, Till’s elbows are resting on his knees as he types a reply, the fabric of his shirt hanging down in a way that perfectly showcases his pecs and even a bit of ribs, as a treat.
Ivan forgets to breathe for the whole duration of his inspection until the weight of Mizi’s gaze on him snaps him back.
So she wasn’t looking? It becomes apparent that, just as he thought, Mizi isn’t a woman of culture.
He doesn’t pause to ponder about why that realization gives him a sense of relief. Instead he chooses to spare Till and his cousin and finally make his entrance.
-
The relief is short lived. It only lasts for as long as it takes Mizi to claim the empty spot in the middle of the couch. The moment she gets comfortable, Till’s posture is back to being as straight as a pole –not in the uncomfortable sense, like with Sua. He’s all flushed, sweating a little bit, his eyes nervously switching between Mizi and his own lap, where both his hands fidget with the seams of his shirt like he’s trying to self-soothe.
It’s excruciatingly adorable. It makes Ivan want to throw up.
It’s unpleasant , indeed. More than Ivan originally thought he would find it.
He distracts himself by opening the six pack and passing everyone a beer. Makes a point to only open his and Sua’s in the process.
Till looks almost offended when he realizes. It’s an unspoken rule between them that Ivan always opens Till’s drinks if he’s the one offering them. He used to do that even with Till’s milk cartons when they were young –at first, as a way to steal a sip of it for indirect kiss action. He did it so often it just became a habit.
Mizi, on the other hand, scouts the table for a bottle opener that isn’t there –Ivan has already dropped it somewhere between the cushions of the reading chair he takes, closer to Till.
Then, two things happen at once. One, Sua realizes also, and shoots Ivan a dirty look before looking at Mizi, likely considering trading bottles with her. Two, Ivan kicks Till’s shoe, which annoys him more initially until he realizes what Ivan is trying to signal.
“M-Mizi–!” Till says, a little too loud and sudden even over the music. He goes red again when she turns.
Cute. Ivan hates it.
“Let me open it for y–”
“Here. We can trade.”
Till doesn’t get to finish speaking when Sua hands Mizi her own readily opened bottle. Mizi turns towards her now, thanking her with an expression too tender and grateful for such a simple favor. Though Ivan knows better than to call it a favor.
Dejected would be the best word to describe Till’s face. Like a kicked puppy.
Also cute. Also unacceptable.
While Till is paralyzed, Ivan steals the bottle from his hand and pops the lid off using the ring on his index finger. A parlor trick he learned from another nepo baby at one of those other social gatherings.
Ivan takes a swig and hands it back to Till.
Till’s expression is…
Intriguing, he supposes. Too intense for his usual pouting, lips too tight, as if he can’t decide between punching Ivan and tearing up. And then there’s something else in his gaze, something that makes Ivan’s throat dry and his skin prickly, akin to the heavy, electrifying sensation of entering a magnetic field.
Till wants to kill him. He wants to kill him even more when he realizes his little showing off scheme actually works on him. He hates his stupid tricks and his stupidly handsome smug face as he hands Till his drink back. What’s the damn point if it’s all going to waste?
He takes an angry swig of his beer. Eventually, Ivan ‘stumbles upon’ the bottle opener somewhere under his thigh and finally opens Sua’s.
“Should we play a game?” Ivan proposes.
No. Till has had his fill of those.
“Yes!! Which game?” Mizi’s eyes light up and she leans forward towards Ivan, as if they’re sharing secrets at a slumber party. When she does, her ponytail gently tickles Till’s shoulder, making his body tense up.
Nevermind. There’s no way he can say no now.
“Do you know ‘Never have I ever’?”
“I do! I’ve played it before!” Mizi turns to Sua, her face transparent in her hesitation. “Do you wanna try it? It’ll be fun! Maybe we can all get to know each other better?”
Sua looks like she hasn’t heard a worse idea in her entire life, but just as himself, she seems to be unable to deny Mizi anything. It’s completely understandable. She just gives a light nod.
“What about you, Till?” Ivan chimes in.
Ivan knows the answer already. He knows that if it wasn’t for Mizi he would have never agreed to attend a party, nor play any sort of drinking game that puts him on the spot the way he’s almost sure Ivan is intending to.
But Mizi’s eyes are shining and Ivan’s are too fucking intense and he’s stuck between both of them like bread in a panini press.
So he just scratches his neck and says, “sure.”
Ivan goes over the rules again, for the sake of Sua and Till. He’ll start with ‘never have I ever… insert statement’ and whoever has done whatever is in the statement must take a sip of their drink.
“For example,” Ivan says, “Never have I ever gotten drunk.”
Mizi is the first one to take a sip –a pretty large one. Till doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. Mizi is an adult, a bit older than him, at that. Even most high school kids have gotten wasted at some point. But not Mizi. He cannot conceive the girl he’s drawn with edelweisses in her hair leaning over a toilet while projectile vomiting all her stomach’s contents the way it has happened to Till at his lowest points. Even trying to picture it is giving him cognitive dissonance.
She must be one of those really personable types of drunk. Complimenting everyone on their outfit and makeup and making silly jokes. Yes, that must be it.
Ivan pulls him out of his own head when he kicks his foot a second time.
Right! He’s supposed to drink too! If she drinks alone, maybe she’ll be embarrassed. It’s Till’s golden opportunity to be a gentleman and step in after fumbling his first chance –nevermind that he’s supposed to drink anyways because of the rules. Fuck the rules.
Till reaches for his beer and takes a shy sip. Mizi lights up, raising her hand for a high five.
“So only us two? Should we help them loosen up a bit?” She throws a mischievous glance at Ivan and Sua, then back at Till. He can do nothing but smile nervously and nod.
This might be a good thing. Till has been so wary of whatever Ivan is scheming that he almost forgets he can put him on the spot, too.
“Your turn, Till,” says Ivan, in perfect timing.
“Never have I ever had feelings for a friend.”
That was absolutely subtle, right?
As soon as he says it, the tension in the room turns palpable. Having both Mizi and Ivan’s eyes on him seems to have burned most of his brain cells, because Till hadn’t even considered that the statement applied to himself, too. But whatever, he won’t drink. Ivan isn’t the only one allowed to lie. He’d probably chicken out too.
Mizi and Sua reach for their respective bottles at the same time. Till doesn’t even have time to register that when he realizes Ivan is oddly silent.
When Till looks at him, Ivan takes a long sip without breaking eye contact, his expression the impenetrable fortress that it has always been.
It makes Till shiver.
Ivan gets along with everyone. If anyone asked him, he’d say he has a ton of friends. But Till knows better.
Helping him with Mizi. Yeah, right.
He’s never been bashful around Ivan –perhaps a little awkward once he put two and two together about his feelings. But now, Till is incapable of holding his gaze any longer. He doesn’t wanna know what kind of face Ivan is making, or whether Ivan himself has started to draw his own conclusions despite Till’s refusal to drink.
When his skin warms up and his palms grow clammy, Mizi descends from the heavens to save him with her delicate, melodic voice.
“My turn!” She declares. “Never have I ever touched myself to a crush’s picture.”
Till chokes on his own spit and Ivan has the audacity to laugh. Sua gets so red it looks like she’s on the verge of passing out.
Then Mizi and Ivan both take a sip. Now they high five, and Till is the one in danger of fainting.
Sure. Albeit that game is famously just an excuse to ask racy sexual questions, he’d expect something like that from Ivan, not sweet Mizi. Did Ivan coach her to ask that when they went away for drinks, to mess with Till? That has to be it. But then she wouldn’t have drank… Would she?
He doesn’t know what he should process first. The fact that Mizi has a crush who she apparently masturbates to. Or. Or the fact that Ivan took a sip too.
His desperation really shows its face when he looks at Sua in a silent cry for help. The cue is lost. She’s far gone, her eyes staring holes through the coffee table.
Mizi has to ask her if she’s alright, if she should get her some water. All the while Till rests his face in his hands, pointedly avoiding Ivan’s gaze while acutely aware that it’s fixated on him.
He doesn’t know how much time passes until Mizi’s gentle coaxing takes effect and Sua is able to utter coherent words again –centuries, maybe.
“Never… Never have I ever… sung in the shower.”
A sigh of relief escapes Till’s lips. Outside of this party, he’s only talked to Sua a few times while picking Ivan up after his classes. Neither of those times have they gotten along particularly well. However, Till can appreciate her level-headedness. Actual level-headedness, not the one Ivan tries to fake in front of his family and teachers.
They all take a sip, cradled into a false sense of security. Till fails to realize that this is only the calm before the storm.
He should have known better. It’s Ivan’s turn.
“Never have I ever liked a girl in this room.”
Till doesn’t know what he was expecting. There he is, being put on the spot. But Ivan isn’t looking at him, for once.
He’s looking at how Mizi reaches for her bottle. She wears a high ponytail. Despite the dim lighting of the room, Till can see the blush behind her ears and the back of her neck. Sua also picks up her drink, equally bashful. They both take a sip at the same time, looking into each other’s eyes until Mizi’s soft laugh breaks the tension.
“Sua… You too?”
It clicks now, way too late. They like each other. And Ivan asked that question precisely because he’s known this whole time.
There’s a crashing sound before Till realizes his beer slid from his hand.
“Shit,” Till curses under his breath. He gets off the couch and crouches to pick up the glass shards. It’s a great distraction from the noise in his head.
Soon, there’s a second pair of hands helping out. He recognizes them as Ivan’s, and something just snaps.
Till slaps his hands away so hard that he cuts his index with one of the shards beneath him. He couldn’t care less. Ivan has the audacity to look perplexed, as if he didn’t plan this whole thing, as if he didn’t take the chance to, what? Make fun of him? Mess him up?
He has no more patience for it. In fact, the initial frustration and annoyance snowballs until he’s straight up furious by the time he finishes gathering glass on the coffee table.
“I’ll get a mop. And some bandaids,” Ivan says, way too calmly.
“No. Let’s play one more round,” Till snaps back, standing up. He’s raising his voice and there’s blood dripping from his finger. He knows he probably looks a bit unhinged and is most likely scaring Mizi, yet even that notion can’t calm him down.
“Never have I ever been a scheming, manipulative cunt.”
Ivan doesn’t say a word. Only looks at him. Till can’t read the nuance in his expression. It doesn’t matter.
“Drink.”
“Till.”
One thing Till hates about himself is how damn sensitive he is. His explosive anger almost always culminates in crying. As if he wasn’t already embarrassed, there comes that familiar burning at the corners of his eyes, where tears soon threaten to flood.
That’s when he makes a run for it.
“Whatever,” he leaves the room and scurries off to find the nearest bathroom.
Mizi and Sua have enough on their plate, so they don’t question Ivan when he excuses himself to follow after Till.
Fighting is their bread and butter. It isn’t the first time Ivan has pissed Till off royally and it’s not the first time Till has yelled scathing words back at him. When they were kids, those fights would often turn physical.
In some ways, bloodied lips and scraped knuckles are easier to fix. They just had to patch each other up until they were ready to play again.
Apologies are harder. Especially when Ivan doesn’t even have a good justification for what he did –Till just has the misfortune of bearing the collateral damage of his emotions.
Apparently, Ivan doesn’t have those emotions under control as much as he thought he did.
Till has accused him many times of being out of touch, even with himself. Ivan has to admit that he has a point. He isn’t completely clueless. The concept of jealousy doesn’t go over his head –but jealousy is only logical when one could reasonably imagine oneself trading places with the target of it.
He can’t imagine himself as Till’s muse, or anyone’s at that. Can’t imagine someone like him touching Till’s tender heart and inspiring him to the point of filling a whole sketchbook of portraits with his face framed by flowers. He isn’t made out of all the soft things that Till marvels at and cradles like they’re precious.
Being jealous of Mizi would make him as foolish as those people who lose their marbles over celebrities caught in a dating scandal.
Ivan should know better.
It’s easy to figure out where Till went, Ivan just has to navigate a labyrinth of people to get up the stairs. There’s what he assumes is a bathroom at the end of the hallway, lights on. He knocks a few times.
“Occupied.”
Sure enough, it’s his voice.
“Till?”
Nothing. The seconds stretch into silence. Ivan can almost picture Till holding his breath.
“Can I come in?”
He’s waiting for Till to tell him to fuck off. That’s okay, Ivan is nothing if not patient. Ten minutes, he’s thinking. That’s usually the upper limit until Till gets too bored or annoyed to stay inside.
Neither the cursing nor the wait come to fruition. Rather, the door opens and suddenly he’s being pulled inside the bathroom, slammed roughly against the wall. Till kicks the door closed again and locks it for good measure.
Ivan’s survival instincts must be broken, because the rush of adrenaline running through his veins isn’t connected to fear at all in the way it’s supposed to happen when being cornered in a locked room by a furious man. There’s a reason why Ivan refused to fight him physically after they hit puberty aside from his growth spurt, after all.
“What the hell was that about?!”
“You’ll have to specify.”
A vein pops on Till’s forehead as his fists ball up on Ivan’s shirt. Up close, Ivan can see the swelling of his eyelids and the slightly smudged eyeliner. He’s been crying. Ivan has at least enough tact to not point it out.
“You…” Till starts, teeth grinding. “Agreeing to help me when apparently you knew damn well she liked someone else. When you …”
There’s a hesitant pause before he continues.
“Pretending like you were on my side and even nudging me to make moves just to shoot me in the back like a dog with that last question. You could’ve fucking told me, Ivan!! Did you just want to piss me off? Make me feel like a moron?!”
“You’re a visual learner,” Ivan lies.
The pain on his cheek comes so fast it blindsides him. It’s sudden and hot, making his skin throb. Till is red with anger, tears now running freely down his face. It takes the edge off it.
“What the fuck do you want from me?!”
Once the initial pain subsides, there’s a wet and sticky sensation on Ivan’s face. He touches it, tentatively, and glances down at his own reddened fingertips. It doesn’t seem like he has any cuts.
Right, he never did patch up Till’s wounded finger.
He looks back at Till and his big, intense green eyes and smudged eyeliner.
“Answer me.”
What does Ivan want from him? Apparently, everything. His attention, his art, his smiles, his tears, his body, his heart. He wants to run his fingers across each thread that makes up the fabric of Till’s soul and tie them to his own until it becomes impossible to discern where one ends and the other one begins.
But that’s all too convoluted to explain. And Till is a visual learner.
So Ivan licks the blood off his own fingers while holding Till’s incredulous gaze. He tries to slap him a second time, the movement so much more hesitant that Ivan manages to catch his hand mid air.
Shamelessly, Ivan takes Till’s bloody finger inside his own mouth. It’s neither hygienic or of sound mind –Ivan hasn’t been the latter in his whole life, especially not tonight– but he no longer cares. Iron floods his taste buds as he twirls his tongue around Till’s index, licking it clean.
“What– What the hell are you…?”
He would have expected not a slap, but a punch by now. Yet, the tears stop abruptly and Till looks at him with that same expression he had back when Ivan popped the bottle open with his ring. He couldn’t read it the first time. Now he can guess.
Want. Till is flushed pink. He holds a deep frown between his brows, lips trembling ever so slightly –not from anger, exactly. He’s picking up on Ivan’s desire and responding with his own.
The shudder that runs down Ivan’s spine is visible. It’s no coincidence that Till instinctively looks down once Ivan releases his index. He swallows when he’s faced with Ivan’s tented crotch.
“Seriously?” Till says, a little out of breath. “You’re gross.”
Ivan checks Till out in turn and is delighted to find him in a similar situation. He leans closer to Till’s ear, lips grazing his warm skin as he whispers, “I can get worse.”
Till’s eyes go wide when Ivan pushes him against the sink and goes down on his knees.
Next thing he knows Till’s pants are down to his ankles and his cock is in Ivan’s mouth. It’s not as easy as it looks in porn, though just about as obscene. Ivan licks him like a hungry animal, sucks and slurps at the head as if he’s enjoying the best food he’s ever had in his life –because it is.
Till, in turn, holds onto the edge of the sink with one hand while the other makes a fist on the back of Ivan’s hair, desperate for some kind of anchor.
Precum mixes with his own saliva, and Till’s dick swells up even more between his lips. Even with all that, the best part by far is looking up and seeing Till’s expression twist from the pleasure of his touch.
That may be presumptuous.
It’s a sloppy blowjob at best, with too much teeth in his haste, but Till’s eyes are full of tears again, regardless. He switches from biting his lips to gasping to whispering curses under his breath.
“ Fuck…” Till groans when Ivan presses the tip of his tongue on the slit. “H-Hurry up…”
But Ivan doesn’t. It’s the last thing he wants.
Best case scenario, Till will let Ivan blow him enough times to make him a pro, maybe even return the favor at some point so he can live vicariously through the memories. Worst case scenario, or more accurately, the most likely scenario, Till will eventually grow out of their friendship and marry a nice, lovely girl who won’t give him head in a stranger’s bathroom. Ivan will then go on to become his one token gay college experience, a funny anecdote for when he moves on to the real world.
Because of that, and because he very much enjoys watching Till grow impatient, Ivan chooses to edge him. His tongue circles around the tip, hand slowly stroking the length that his mouth can’t yet cover while his other one squeezes Till’s upper thigh so hard he knows it’ll bruise.
It trembles under Ivan’s palm.
One more gentle flick of his tongue and Till is done with him. He yanks Ivan’s hair hard and it gets Ivan’s cock throbbing so good he almost cums untouched.
At the very least, it does make him too ravenous to wait any longer. Ivan bobs his head up and down, taking as much as he can until the tip is touching the very back of his throat.
Till’s grip on his hair is painful, there’s drool dripping down his chin and he’s out of air. It’s perfectly chaotic, nothing short of paradise to witness Till open mouth panting, eyes rolling back and muscles going lax once he cums in Ivan’s mouth.
He makes it a point to swallow every last drop.
For a while after it ends, none of them dare to speak. This is a boundary Ivan had never dared cross. Fooling around is casual, uncomplicated, all the things that his relationship with Till is not.
Surprisingly, it’s Till himself who breaks the silence after pulling his pants back up.
“Get up. Stop staring at my dick.”
Ivan huffs a laugh and obliges. His own is very much still bulging in his pants.
“But you can stare at mine?”
Till stumbles over his words when he tries to deny it. What ultimately comes out is a huffy,
“I’m not returning the favor.”
Had Till been considering it? Interesting.
“I didn’t expect you to,” Ivan confesses, belatedly realizing how incriminating that is. In a sense, it leaves him more vulnerable than when he was down on his knees. Sex doesn’t mean anything by itself, but meaningless sex is always strictly transactional.
He now understands Till’s tendency to run when he’s overwhelmed.
“Let’s go,” Ivan says, not waiting for Till’s answer.
“That’s it?” Till asks before Ivan can unlock the door. “Sucking me off isn’t an apology. I’m still angry at you.”
“I’m sorry,” Ivan responds. It falls flat even to his own ears.
“No, you’re not,” Till puts his foot down.
“Not only are you not sorry but I know you’d do it again.”
Ivan can’t exactly deny it. Till looks like he has more to say, too, so he just allows him to continue.
“Sure, I might not have known that much about her, and she might be gay, and my feelings might seem silly to you, but they were mine!!” He takes a fist to his own chest. “Even if she didn’t see me like that, they made me happy, not… confused. Or frustrated. They didn’t hurt so damn much.”
Till’s expression is pained, more serious than he’d seen it in a long time.
Ivan is silent as his brain works on overdrive, putting together the pieces of an entirely new puzzle.
He’d been so busy trying to keep his feelings buried that he hadn’t looked outside his own head. It must be a misunderstanding. Clearly.
“Wait.”
“You took that illusion away. You stole my things and my time and my attention and the only Valentine’s chocolate I ever received–”
“You knew about that?”
“–And what’s it all for? Be honest for once in your fucking life! If you’re gonna keep taking from me then give something back already, dammit!”
Till punches the wall right next to Ivan’s head. He’s wearing his heart on his sleeve while Ivan’s pale as a ghost, no longer able to gaslight himself into denying what the other is spelling out for him. It doesn’t make it any easier to process.
“Till,” Ivan says somberly, eyes wide, throat dry. “You don’t like me.”
Till’s frown deepens, and so does the flush on his face.
“Don’t tell me what I feel. What the fuck do you feel?” As if he can recognize the storm in Ivan’s mind, he reformulates the question. “What do you want?”
It’s only fair to admit defeat.
“You.”
There’s a slight tremble on Till’s lip. Whether it’s tears or a smile that he’s keeping at bay, Ivan can’t tell, he just knows it twists his heart in a knot all the same.
Till never fails to surprise him.
“How?” He asks, voice strained.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me now, or I’ll never forgive you.”
Ivan smiles. It’s not a happy gesture. He cups Till’s face with delicate hands and stares into his eyes.
“You don’t understand,” Ivan says. “You’re the only thing I ever think about.”
Till’s breath hitches in his throat.
“Continue…”
“I want you to be mine and no one else’s. I want to dissect your brain and learn every little detail about you. I want to eat you to the bone just so that you’re always with me. If I had it my way, we’d grow old and be cremated together so we can have our ashes mixed and scattered in the Pacific Ocean. If that’s what you’re asking.”
Till’s skin is warm under Ivan’s palms, almost feverish. His eyes are wide and bright, lips parted.
“I want to kiss you, too,” Ivan adds.
“Then hurry up and do it.”
Ivan doesn’t waste any time closing the gap between them.
Their kiss carries the hunger of Ivan’s decade and a half of wanting, deep and desperate. Ivan holds Till’s waist to help him stay up on his toes and Till clings to the front of his shirt so hard it almost rips.
He would have thought Till to be a shy kisser, but he eagerly welcomes Ivan’s tongue when it pushes between his lips, working hard to keep up with the demanding rhythm of their exchange.
As it turns out, oxygen is overrated and they do not stop until there’s insistent knocking on the door. Till kicks it with a vengeance and yells at the poor attendee to fuck off. Ivan laughs, hogging his mouth again just a second later. This time, he takes proper care to savor the moment.
He’s breathless by the time they stop, riled up from the shared heat of their bodies. Till looks fairly pleased with this development.
“I’m not letting you eat me.”
“I already did.” Ivan smirks, and Till kicks his leg. “What about the rest?”
“Hmm… I don’t know,” Till says. “Guess you’ll have to start by asking me out and then we’ll see.”
It’s the best answer Ivan could have hoped for.
Still high on dopamine, he takes Till’s hand.
“Let’s get out of here first.”
Dating Ivan is like getting caught by false advertisement. He’d been so tight-lipped and emotionally constipated enough to wait for ages to confess –only after literally being backed into a corner– that Till anticipated he’d act similarly reserved and aloof in a relationship.
What Till actually gets is an overgrown, overly clingy, near constantly horny puppy. Not like he can complain –that bastard just has to be good at everything he decides to master, so it doesn’t take that much practice for the sex to become toe-curling kind of amazing.
In that area, at least, they’re perfectly synchronized. Although Till whines about it, he very much enjoys Ivan’s newly discovered possessiveness, being pinned down and marked and fucked to tears. Beats their old fights by miles.
It’s Ivan’s most honest love language, he learns.
That, along with rather childish things like matching trinkets. Custom made matching keychains of their own mascots that Till doodled on a notebook when they were twelve –how Ivan got a hold of them is anyone’s guess. And the latest one, a choker and necklace combo, one of those corny ones where one person wears a padlock and the other one the key. Very on the nose. Till entertains it anyways just because the choker, to his dismay, fits his style perfectly. Black leather with spikes all around that make the padlock in the center look unassuming.
Mizi compliments him on it when they’re grabbing coffee after class –once Till got over his crush, the two of them growing closer as friends happened organically. Not thanks to Ivan.
It seems silly now, looking back at all the assumptions he’d made about her in comparison to the real her. She’s bold, but just as much of a nervous wreck as Till himself. She passionately tells horror stories that’d make a grown man double check that there isn’t a ghost behind him in the mirror —it’s him, he’s the grown man. She’s more into sea-life motifs than flowers, although she still appreciates the latter. She’s a good listener, but terrible at keeping secrets. She’s far from the idealized girl Till used to sketch, but still wonderful in her own way.
She curiously pokes the little padlock after her comment.
“Ah, thanks,” Till says, a bit self conscious. He still isn’t used to compliments, even with Ivan tormenting him with those regularly. “It’s Ivan’s gift.”
Her eyes go wide with realization.
“Ah! Is that why his necklace had a key?”
“Yeah,” Till sighs. “He can be surprisingly corny.”
“Ivan is so lucky,” Mizi says, beaming as she leans closer to examine Till’s neck. Just like Ivan, she has little regard for personal space. He’s starting to understand why they get along so well. “Sua is too shy to wear a sub collar in public.”
Till goes pale, until his skin blooms with color.
“... A what?”
He has to sit through five entire minutes of Mizi explaining what a sub collar is and what it implies and he wants nothing more than to chop Ivan into bite sized pieces and flee to Nepal. Is he not satisfied with the giant purple hickey on the base of his neck? Greedy bastard.
“I’m gonna kill him.”
As if summoned by Till’s vengeful aura, Ivan enters the café with his stupid placid smile. He ignores Till’s murderous gaze and leans down to greet him with a kiss. When Till bites his lip as petty revenge, Ivan doesn’t seem at all surprised by it.
More accurately, he looks like this was exactly what he expected to happen. He knew Mizi would tattle.
His penchant for scheming hasn’t changed one bit.
“Ready to go, love?” Ivan says, discreetly licking over the bruised corner of his bottom lip. Till can clearly see that incriminating sparkle in his eyes.
While Till can’t legally chop him into little pieces, he can tie him up and edge him until he’s the one crying and begging Till to ride him.
“Sure am.”
Ivan slings Till’s backpack over his shoulder and offers his hand to help Till up, playing gentleman. Till hates how much the gesture works to mellow him.
“Have fun.” Mizi waves with a smile after they say their goodbyes.
Ivan doesn’t let go of his hand for the entire way home.