Chapter Text
Have you ever wondered.
What happens if a guy fell in love with a guy?
Or a girl that fell in love with a girl?
How would the world react...?
Till, as usual. Scribbling away in his notepad just before the class. He would always draw a beautiful looking girl with glasses and long pink hair, then carefully shaded the tips of her hair with baby blue into a gradient. Her figure was just perfect, and her eyes are always gleaming with hope and happiness. It was no doubt that she brought joy to those around her. Many could even imagine flowers blooming in her footsteps.
Well she's just so darn beautiful. And cute.
He started imagining himself, holding Mizi's hand as they walked through the school garden together. Talking about their favourite places or best memory together as they sauntered, wasting as much time as they could just to skip class. Suddenly, Mizi would pause in her steps, then turn around to face Till with a look that would give anyone butterflies. She raised her hand to caress his cheek gently, then-
The sound of his teacher's heels clacking against the floor jolted Till out of his delusions. Damn he was just getting to the good part.
The teacher settled her items down on the table, then held out a sheet of paper with who-knows-what on it.
"Class, I hope you have remembered about today's change of seating arrangement, so everyone please pack up." She said into her portable mic.
Till, who never paid attention in class, reacted in shock, together with a mix of happiness.
Does this mean I could sit with Mizi?
Till laughed like a rich man.
He wasn’t rich. Not even close. He packed cold onigiri for lunch and reused his notebooks by flipping them upside down. But in that moment — in that glorious, golden moment — he felt like a prince.
Because clearly, clearly, the universe had aligned.
New seating?
New chance at destiny?
New seat next to Mizi?
Oh, fate was real.
He practically floated as he gathered his things. Carefully tucked away his notepad, as if Mizi would borrow it later and he didn’t want her to think his shading was unrefined. Spritzed his bangs with the water from his bottle cap to make it look “accidentally tousled.” Classic Till moves. Peak charm.
Then, the teacher spoke:
“Till will be seated next to— Ivan. Seat 3-B, second row by the window.”
Record scratch.
Reality slap.
Everything froze.
“I’m sorry, who?” Till said out loud before he could stop himself.
Half the class turned. Someone chuckled.
Mizi looked up, blinked at him, then went back to chatting with Isua.
It stung.
“Till.” The teacher didn’t even look up. “Is there a problem?”
Yes. There were multiple problems. All of them named Not-Mizi.
But Till swallowed it. “Nope,” he said, voice cracked like cheap vinyl. “None at all.”
Ivan was already at the desk.
Of course he was. Of course he was that kind of student — early, neat, quietly judgmental in the way that made you feel like you were being morally evaluated for owning loud socks.
He didn’t even acknowledge Till’s approach. Just stared out the window with that expressionless, perpetually bored face like he was mentally editing the school into a post-apocalyptic wasteland.
Till sat down with a dramatic sigh, hoping Ivan would at least ask what was wrong so he could monologue about love and missed destiny and girls with flowers in their footsteps.
Silence.
“Hey,” Till tried.
Ivan blinked once. “Hey.”
That was it. No sarcasm. No follow-up.
What was he supposed to do with that?
-
They didn’t talk for three days.
Till tried not to care. He still drew Mizi during morning periods. Dreamed up increasingly unrealistic delusions — Mizi saving him from a rogue basketball. Mizi offering him a warm bento under the sakura tree. Mizi choosing him for the school play and not Isua, because of course she could see his hidden talent—
“Hey.”
Ivan’s voice cut into his fantasy.
Till startled. “What?”
“You dropped this.”
A pencil. His favorite one. The one with the cracked grip and the chewed eraser.
Till snatched it back. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
Ivan nodded and went back to reading.
Not a comic. Not manga. Not even a school textbook.
Poetry.
Till squinted. “Are you reading... poetry?”
Ivan didn’t look up. “Is that a problem?”
“No.”
Yes.
Why was that weirdly hot?
Wait. No. It wasn’t.
It wasn’t.
“Just... didn’t expect it.”
Ivan didn’t reply.
Till folded his arms. “Do you do this mysterious loner thing on purpose, or...?”
“I do what I want.”
“Okay, edgelord.”
Ivan actually gave the ghost of a smirk. Barely.
But it was there.
Till looked away first.
And hated that he’d noticed.
-
Later that night, as Till lay on his bed — sketchbook open, Mizi half-drawn — he paused mid-line.
Something about the eyes felt... empty. No spark.
He flipped to a new page.
Let his pencil wander.
He didn’t mean to draw him.
He didn’t.
But when he looked down, there he was.
That sharp jaw. That unamused brow. That faint smirk, like he’d won an argument you didn’t know was happening.
Till slammed the book shut.
No. Nope. It’s just proximity. Like static. Nothing more.
Ivan wasn’t special. He wasn’t as charming as Mizi. He wasn’t Mizi.
He was just... someone Till sat next to.
Right?
RIGHT?
Totally.
Definitely.
Till stared at the ceiling for fifteen whole minutes convincing himself of that.
Then stared at the shut sketchbook for another ten.
Then opened it.
Then shut it again.
Then threw it under his bed like it was a cursed object.
The next day, he showed up to class early.
Not for any reason, obviously. Not to impress anyone. Not to scope out Ivan’s seat and definitely not because he wanted to see what book Ivan was reading today.
He was just… you know, responsible. Mature. A changed man.
He stopped at the door.
Ivan was already there, as always. Hood down, hair tousled like he slept on philosophy and disappointment. This time he wasn’t reading poetry.
He was sketching.
Till’s stomach did an Olympic-level flip.
Wait, wait, wait. Ivan drew?
Since when did Ivan draw? That was his thing. Till was the sketch guy. He was the artist of vague longing and impossibly idealized girls with pastel hair and sparkly eyes.
Ivan couldn’t be—
No.
But he was.
Ivan was hunched slightly over the paper, pencil dancing with smooth, intentional lines. His expression was calm. Focused. His fingers tapped rhythmically as he shaded.
Till’s throat went dry.
He didn’t know what Ivan was drawing.
But he wanted to.
Which was… a problem.
A big, stupid problem wrapped in black hoodie fabric and peppermint breath.
-
Till threw himself into his seat and slammed his bag down louder than necessary. “Morning,” he muttered.
Ivan blinked up at him, unbothered. “Morning.”
Till pretended to dig for something in his bag, but his eyes kept flicking sideways.
Ivan was still sketching.
It was probably a still life. Probably boring. Probably nothing.
Till leaned over, casually.
“What’re you drawing?”
Ivan turned the page away.
Rude.
“Come on,” Till said. “I let you see my art.”
“You didn’t let me. You left it out.”
“Same thing.”
Ivan didn’t answer. Just capped his pencil and slid the sketchbook into his bag like it was sacred.
“You’re annoying,” Till muttered.
Ivan hummed. “So I’ve heard.”
The next time Till tried drawing Mizi, he couldn’t focus.
Her smile felt too wide. Her eyes too bright.
It felt fake.
He erased the whole thing.
Twice.
Then gave up and just… stared at the blank page.
His hands felt restless.
His chest felt weirdly heavy.
That weekend, he went out for takoyaki with Hyunwoo — the only upperclassman he could tolerate (and only because Hyunwoo sometimes paid).
Till stirred his drink with the straw. “Hey. Can I ask something dumb?”
Hyunwoo didn’t even look up from his phone. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”
Till ignored that.
“Hypothetically,” he said. “If someone thought they liked someone — like, really liked them — but then they started getting… distracted. By someone else.”
Hyunwoo raised an eyebrow. “Like, someone else you also like?”
“No!” Till snapped too fast. “No. Obviously not. It's just… a distraction. You know. Like when you want pancakes but then someone brings waffles and now you don’t know what you want and maybe you never really liked pancakes to begin with.”
“…That analogy sucked.”
Till groaned. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Never mind.”
Hyunwoo put his phone down.
“Look. If pancakes never made your heart do weird backflips but waffles suddenly make your head hurt and your hands shaky, maybe you’ve been lying about what you actually like.”
Till scowled. “That made it worse.”
Hyunwoo shrugged.
“You asked.”
Monday came with rain. Grey clouds. Muddy shoes. Cold sleeves.
And something heavier.
Till had been having dreams.
Weird ones.
Not about Mizi.
Not even about love.
Just… stillness. A quiet room. Pencil on paper. Fingers brushing too close. The weight of someone’s eyes on him before he woke up sweating.
He didn’t want to admit who the eyes belonged to.
He didn’t want to admit anything.
When he reached his desk, Ivan wasn’t there.
Which was weird, because Ivan was always early.
The bell rang.
Still no Ivan.
Till tried not to care. He tried really hard.
But every five minutes he found himself glancing sideways — only to be met with an empty chair and the sound of rain against the windows.
That was the moment it hit him.
He missed him.
Which made no sense.
And made too much sense.
And maybe — just maybe — was the beginning of the end of everything he thought he knew about himself.