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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

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Till’s fingers glide effortlessly over the strings of his guitar as he strums. Around him are scattered music sheets and his sketch pad, filled with half-formed ideas and drawings.

The music club room is empty except for the three of them. And for Till, the room is an outlet; a breath of fresh air that clears his mind when the pressure of his talented peers start to feel overwhelming. The melodies here help him shake off the doubts that cloud his thoughts when he compares his work to the brilliance of his fellow artists, or when he's getting told that he's wasting his time pursuing art. Inside these four walls, there’s no judgment, criteria, or expectations. There’s just freedom.

And Luka’s occasional bitching.

When Till’s eyes land on his sketchpad, his fingers stumble and the gray-haired man mutters a curse under his breath as his frustration bleeds into his guitar notes.

Hyuna's quick to glance at him. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Till. Maybe your work wasn’t chosen this time, but next time, who knows?”

She continues, “You're a good artist. Besides, you passed Anakt’s notorious screening test. That’s something already.” The brunette pauses for a second before adding, “How many students do they accept in your major again?”

It’s Luka who answers her question, “Less than a hundred, out of thousands of applicants.”

“Damn,” Hyuna whistles, impressed. “Thousands of applicants, huh? If everyone from our generation is doing arts and music, who’s going to be curing those fucking diseases?”

At that, Till finally breaks into a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward before he lets out a soft chuckle. He thinks, Ivan.

“That is sampling bias, Hyuna,” Luka replies.

Unlike Till and Hyuna who are both in the fine arts department, with Till majoring in studio arts and Hyuna in theater arts, Luka's the one who doesn’t quite fit the mold. He’s, as Till likes to call him, a finance bro.

Though even saying it makes them both cringe.

“You’re right. I just know too many gay people.” Hyuna looks at Till.

Till snorts, finally speaking when he remarks, “Let's not stereotype. Just because I’m an art student doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

Hyuna and Luka share a glance.

“Sure, Till.”

Till opens his mouth to defend himself, but hesitates. Defend probably isn’t the right word.

It  sounds weirdly aggressive. Homophobic, even. Because why would he defend himself? What’s there to defend about being accused of homosexuality?

(Meanwhile, Ivan’s voice rings inside his head when Till hasn't realized yet that Ivan is manipulating him into thinking that saying he’s not gay is somehow homophobic.)

(And just to be clear, Till is not homophobic. Not in the slightest. Nuh uh. He's not gay either, but he’s the “woke” kind of straight. His old crush turned friend Mizi is a lesbian, and Ivan is gay. He absolutely supports gay rights.)

Before Till can respond, a soft knock sounds at the door, which then opens to reveal a familiar tall figure.

Till scrunches his eyes at the sight.

“Hi, everyone,” Ivan greets, his smile warm and blinding as he steps inside, paper bag in one hand.

Today, Ivan's dressed casually. He's wearing gray sweatpants that fit just right, paired with a black hoodie that drapes comfortably over his frame. His usually styled black hair falls messily around his face, giving him a more relaxed look, though he’s still as handsome as ever. 

Till looks away. “He's like the fucking sun,” he whispers to himself.

Hyuna greets him cheerfully, while Luka only stares in his direction. Ivan nods to them politely before walking over to the couch and dropping down beside Till.

“Hey,” he starts, handing Till the paper bag. “Brought your food.”

Till blinks. “I've already eaten my lunch,” he says. Then with a small smile, he adds, “But thank you.”

“I know,” Ivan replies, still smiling. Till doesn’t even bother asking how exactly Ivan knows because, of fucking course, he does.

He has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to Till.

A freak, Till had once called him, and Ivan just beamed at him, eyes wide and bright as if Till had complimented him.

People may see Ivan as this attractive, cool-headed pre-med student who’s good at sports, too. But Till begs to differ because the truth is, Ivan's really just a freak with an unpredictable side, who also happens to be very, very attractive to the point where it can almost cancel out his... off-putting behavior.

Key word: Almost.

“That’s for you to snack on later. I got you your favorite,” Ivan says.

Till’s eyes twinkle. “Chocolate mousse?” He peeks inside the paper bag before his thin eyebrows furrow in mild disappointment. “Where's my coffee?” Till asks, lower lip jutting out before he can stop himself.

From in front of him, Luka lets out an exaggerated huff, and Till’s cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Just shameless,” Luka whispers.

“You know that too much caffeine is bad, right?” Ivan reaches over to pinch Till’s red cheek. 

“Ugh. I know!” Till rubs his cheek.

Ivan's eyes brighten. “Don't forget to eat later, okay?” When Till only nods, the raven-haired man adds, “Shall I pick you up after your last class? We can stop by your favorite restaurant and have dinner there.”

At that, Till looks at Ivan, then at the paper bag with the cake inside. It's the same cake that Till finds comfort in when he's particularly emotional or rethinking his college choices because picking up a pen and drawing suddenly feels impossible sometimes. Well, most of the time.

The past few days have dragged Till through the wringer.

Till lifts his gaze to meet Ivan’s, and memories from last night flood his mind: Ivan finding him on the couch, energy drink in hand, legs propped up, tugging at his already messy hair, with papers full of crossed-out drawings scattered across the table.

A small, almost invisible smile forms on Till’s lips.

“Nah, no need. I know you're busy with exams, so go study and cure the world, Ivan,” Till says.

There’s a brief pause as Ivan studies his face for a few seconds before finally relenting, letting out a soft sigh. “Alright, if you say so,” is all he says.

Then the raven-haired man stands up, giving Till a lingering look before reaching out to pat him gently on the head. Without another word, he turns to leave the room.

When the door shuts behind Ivan, Hyuna whistles.

“Damn. Your boyfriend really spoils you a lot,” the brunette says.

“Ivan?” Till asks, setting the paper bag on the table. “He's not my boyfriend. You know that.”

Till leans back on the couch and takes a sip of water. He flips through the pages of his music sheet, trying to focus on the notations rather than Hyuna's absurd idea.

It's not a new thing, anyway. Ivan has always been mistaken for something more than just his best friend, the series of misunderstandings following them since high school.

The first time someone said it, Till had nearly spat out his entire coffee. Back then, the idea seemed too bizarre to comprehend. Till is straight, and the mere thought used to bruise what had once been his fragile masculinity. But over time, he grew used to the assumption. 

He hardly bats an eye now, just politely says no and moves on rather than turning beet red, screaming “I'm not fucking gay!” and decking the poor person who thought he was dating Ivan because the raven-haired man was all over him, licking and biting his face.

It’s only been six months since Till met Hyuna—when he joined the music club and formed a band with her—and, unfortunately,  Luka too. With the way the blond man clings to Hyuna, they’re practically inseparable. Till just wanted one friend and somehow ended up with an evil Wasian for free.

In the time they’ve known each other, Hyuna and Luka haven’t really gotten to know Ivan. They’ve never really seen Ivan's oddness firsthand, and only ever hear his name in passing from Till’s stories or catch him occasionally when he brings Till food or coffee.

It’s no surprise that they’ve developed their own assumptions about him.

“Is he courting you then?” Hyuna asks.

Till spits out his water, coughing violently as it sprays across the table. Luka grimaces at the sight, and Till hurriedly wipes the mess with tissues. 

“What the fuck?” Till wipes his lips. When Hyuna doesn’t say anything, Till sputters, “Courting? Seriously? No!” 

Hyuna exchanges a knowing look with Luka. “But he always brings you food and you guys seem so... I don't know... domestic. And you live with him too, right?”

Till can only stare at Hyuna. “Ah,” the brunette says cautiously, “so you guys, uh, really aren’t really a thing?”

Till shakes his head. “We’re not a thing,” he answers firmly.

Luka hums. “But he likes you though.”

Till feels his eye twitch. “I just said that he's not my boyfriend.”

“And I heard you for the first time,” Luka replies, unbothered. “What's that got to do with Ivan liking you?”

“He doesn’t like me,” Till snaps, his voice a pitch higher than he intended. Luka laughs.

Again, Ivan being mistaken for his boyfriend isn’t really a new thing, so Till doesn’t get worked up about it anymore. But people also don't usually insist that Ivan does like him after Till simply says no.

Luka, on the other hand, has the talent to poke and prod at Till until he’s red in the face and dangerously close to strangling everyone he sees.

Hyuna chuckles. “You know,” she starts. “I heard he can be pretty scary when it comes to you. That doesn’t sound platonic to me.” 

At that, Till’s eyebrows furrow.

“Scary?” he repeats.

Hyuna shrugs. “I just heard some stories.”

Till shakes his head. It’s probably just Ivan and his jealous nature.

The same jealousy Ivan insists doesn’t exist. He only rolls his eyes or shrugs it off when Till jokingly brings up his jealousy, but then he sulks when other people get too close to Till, hovering at the edge of every interaction with pettiness that seeps through even without saying a word.

Hovering, but not saying a word.

He’s like a shadow trailing behind Till, if a shadow could be bright and handsome and evil, but Till doesn’t dwell on that side of him much because—

“That’s just Ivan being Ivan.” Till huffs.

Hyuna snickers. “Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“He’s really not my boyfriend!” Till protests.

“Okay, okay! Definitely not your boyfriend.” Hyuna nods.

“Mhm. Not your boyfriend, okay,” Luka repeats.

Till feels his cheek heat up again. He opens his mouth to say something, but Luka is quick to cover his mouth with a smooth hand. Till groans.

When Hyuna and Luka find a new thing to tease Till about, they're relentless. Once, they called him an emo twink for two months straight, and honestly, if they weren’t Hyuna and Luka, Till would’ve thrown hands by day 2. Now, they’ve found something else to tease him about, and Till knows this is going to last for so, so long.

Sure, Ivan is also especially kind to Till. But that’s only because they’ve been best friends for more than a decade now.

He does most of the chores, but that’s only because Ivan’s a neat freak who doesn’t trust Till within five feet of a vacuum or a bottle of cleaning solution. 

He cooks for Till, but that’s only because Till can’t cook for shit to save his life, and would probably die from consuming too much instant noodles.

He wakes Till up every morning so Till doesn’t miss his class, but that’s only because Till’s alarm clock magically doesn’t function when it’s time to wake him up.

Ivan doesn’t even let Till pay for rent or groceries, so freelancing and his occasional commissions cover most of his expenses. And whenever Till worries about losing his scholarship—with so few spots for art students—Ivan tells him that he can just pay for Till's tuition. Some chaebol that he is.

Not like Till would let him.

Ivan even calls himself Till’s housewife and Till laughs because Ivan is only joking, and Till can take a joke and not really think that Ivan is his housewife who likes him so he does things for him and treats him specially.

Ivan has always been Ivan, and ever since, he’s been kind to Till. Well, at least when he's not acting like a freak who thrives off doing weird things to coax Till’s attention. Like punching him (back) when they were kids, or daydreaming about crawling inside Till’s chest.

For others, Ivan's treatment of him may come across as romantic, the very thought making Till shiver in fear. But for Ivan and Till, and for Till and Ivan, this is their very normal, heterosexual way of living.

Besides, Ivan's not always kind to Till. He’s as much a bully as he is caring. 

Till swats away Luka’s hand. “He doesn't like me.”

Hyuna and Luka laugh again.

“Has he told you that, Till?” Hyuna asks.

“No, but he hasn’t told me he likes me, either,” Till replies, sarcastic.

“Doesn’t need to,” Luka says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’re dumb and blind.”

Hyuna grins. “Is that financially ethical? Don’t you guys have, like, financial ethics or something?” 

Till pauses and his eyes glint at the mention of money, his interest piqued.

The idea of a wager isn’t too bad. Besides, who wouldn’t want to pocket an easy fifty bucks? 

The gray-haired man hasn’t even mentally exchanged the dollar to Korean won—mentally berating Luka because he’s lived in South Korea for ten years now, yet he still speaks in dollars—but he's already thinking about how to spend it

“This is Luka we're talking about Hyuna. He doesn’t have any kind of ethics,” Till replies.

Hyuna nods. “Hmm, makes perfect sense.”

Luka only rolls his eyes. “Though you have to pay me fifty bucks too if he does like you.” 

“Easy,” Till responds immediately. The idea of making money off this conversation is too good to pass up. “Well, how do I prove he doesn’t like me? Make him physically say it? I could just ask him right now.” 

The blond man shakes his head, smiling.

“Don’t do that immediately,” Luka replies. “You’ll know when he doesn’t like you, and I’d trust your word on it. Ivan’s patience, his kindness, the special treatment he gives you… there has to be a limit to it all. Ivan can’t possibly like you like that. Right?”

Luka’s voice holds a hint of certainty, like he knows something Till doesn’t—

and Till suddenly feels like he's missing out something important.

“Test those before asking him if he likes you,” Luka says. “I want something creative, so do what you have to do. Go and entertain me, Till.” 

Of course the evil fucker doesn’t want the simple, easy way.

Till sighs but eventually agrees, and the rest of the day drags on easily, Luka and Hyuna's conversation fading into the background as Till makes his way back to his and Ivan’s shared apartment when the clock hits six in the evening.

*

That night, after the teasing fades into a dull hum in the back of his mind, Till finds himself alone in his room, thinking about Ivan. Thinking about Ivan's feelings.

At the thought, Till shakes his head aggressively.

Ivan absolutely does not like him.

He just has to prove it.

The gray-haired man stands up from his bed, an empty sheet of paper in his hand, and walks over to the small pegboard in his room.

He pins the paper to the board and grabs a red marker to boldly write across the top: How to Lose Ivan in 10 Days. The words are encircled, standing out against the white of the paper. Beneath it, he lists numbers one to ten, each followed by a big space, deliberately left blank.

This is easy fifty bucks.

Chapter Text

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Till starts off easy because, well, he’s already kind of mean toward Ivan. 

Ivan has been his best friend for more than a decade, so he’s had his fair share of experiencing Till’s extremely thin patience. Oftentimes, Ivan is the subject of Till’s sarcastic remarks, especially when the gray-haired man is running on zero sleep and hunger, and hunger makes him really fucking mean.

But even in those moments, as Till recalls now, Ivan has always been patient with him.

Huh.

Has Ivan ever even snapped at Till?

Ivan, unlike what most people expect from someone who's known as the polite golden boy, can be mean, but not in the way most people are mean.

He doesn't snap or raise his voice. He's condescending and egotistical, sure, but his rudeness is woven into flowery sentences, the kind that leaves people feeling only vaguely insulted. That’s why people still think that he’s kind, even after he’s just told them they’re a waste of air.

And yet, with Till, that sharpness never quite takes shape.

Sure, the way Ivan’s been taught to behave—the smooth, controlled politeness—never manifests when he’s with Till. He’s weird and off-putting with Till. And while that often leaves Ivan doing some really, really weird shit, it never crosses the line into cruelty. In the end, Ivan’s behavior toward Till is oddly sincere.

Like a child demanding attention, but unsure how to ask for it properly.

At best, Ivan straightforwardly calls Till stupid and judges his dumb decisions. But there’s never any real bite to it, just the smug amusement of a man who knows he’s always right. At worst? He puts his hands all over Till with that insufferable, condescending smile of his, telling Till that he should’ve just listened to Ivan. 

Between the two of them, Till’s the hot-tempered and Ivan is supposed to be the guy who douses him with cold water when his system is fusing with smoke, flashing in red, bold letters: “Do not speak to unless you want to get punched.” But still, Ivan must experience getting annoyed at Till too, right?

He must, but Till can’t truly remember a single time when Ivan snapped at him for being mean.

Till blinks, and then his mind is flickering back on his grand scheme that reminds him of three things: Luka’s money, testing Ivan’s patience, and the only rom-com that Ivan enjoys.

He can’t think of a better—or more creative, like what Luka wants—way to prove his friends wrong than by creating ten steps to drive away Ivan, courtesy, once again, of Ivan's favorite rom-com, and telling them, “Yeah, he wasn’t able to survive those ten Ivan-repellant steps. He doesn’t like me, now give me those fifty fucking bucks.”

So... Till has embarked on a mission.

It’s a simple plan, really. Or, at least, in theory.

No matter how kind or patient Ivan is with him, Till’s convinced that there has to be a breaking point.

This is going to be his big experiment, except Till believes that his hypothesis is already proven right, and step one is already in motion: Till is lying on the couch, pretending to be asleep, and he knows that Ivan is about to wake him up.

When Till feels the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder, it’s followed by a soft shake. He keeps his breathing steady, pretending to be completely asleep, and in his mind, Till thinks, Wow. This is really fucking stupid.

Ivan shakes him softly for the second time and Till cracks his eyes open. 

Through all the fake frustration and grogginess he can muster, Till greets Ivan with a, “What the fuck do you want?” 

Ivan remains unfazed, as if this exchange is routine (because it is.) “You told me to wake you up. You said you’d meet up with Hyuna and Luka.”

“Christ. Talk about annoying. Move out of my way.” Till sighs heavily. He sits up and pushes Ivan with a rude shove. “Did you get me my drink like I told you to?”

Ivan, ever the patient one, only nods and points toward the table in front of Till. 

Till crosses his arms. “You got my order wrong,” he lies.

Ivan blinks. “I didn’t? You told me you wanted your usual iced americano,” he replies, confused.

Till rolls his eyes. “I told you that I wanted matcha, Ivan.”

Ivan stares at him for a moment, as if Till grew another head, before raising an eyebrow. “I like matcha.” Strawberry matcha, Till corrects in his mind. “You don't. Since when did you start liking matcha? You’d rather die than drink that stuff.”

The gray-haired man huffs, shaking his head in fake disappointment. He bites back the urge to say that the matchas Ivan buys aren’t authentic enough. They're more of a strawberry drink, really.

“You just can’t get anything right, can you?” Till asks.

Then he cringes internally.

Objectively, it’s Ivan who can do no wrong.

He graduated valedictorian in high school, was accepted into pre-med on a full scholarship, and he’s the type of guy who could be blindfolded and still ace an exam. He cooks like a professional chef. He's the captain of their university's football team. He’s got the kind of natural talent that’s hard to ignore. 

And he gets everything right, including Till’s drink.

Till expects Ivan to insist that he's not wrong because the guy just loves being right. Being in the biomedical science program on his way to becoming a doctor, it's practically in his blood to hate being wrong. 

When Till hears a soft sigh escape Ivan's lips, he thinks of fifty bucks and early victory.

But there's a sudden pause, and then: “Okay, sorry. I'll just buy you another drink.”

Till’s eyes widen a fraction.

“What? Why are you apologizing?” Till asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can even process them.

Ivan looks at him with a neutral expression, but there’s an underlying patience Till can’t quite read. It makes his face flush.

“You should argue with me. Fight back, say something,” Till says. Why isn’t Ivan putting up a fight? Is he always this mean to Ivan that Ivan has developed antibodies against Till’s meanness? “Shut up!” he says to himself, trying to silence his own thoughts, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

Ivan blinks. “I didn’t say anything.”

Till squeezes his eyes shut. “S-Sorry,” he says. “I’m going out!” 

The gray-haired man stands abruptly, grabbing his coat and avoiding Ivan’s gaze. He heads for the door and slams it shut behind him, not caring about anything except getting out of the apartment.

This is going to be way harder than he thought it would be.

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When Till sees Luka and Hyuna, he immediately tells them about his plan, recounting his little outburst earlier and how he's determined not to mess up again.

Luka raises an eyebrow, looking at the piece of paper in Till’s hands. “This is the Ivan-repellant list?”

Hyuna takes a bite of her sandwich. “Ivan’s a mosquito now?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Till replies, not even sure who he's answering, but the response to both questions is the same. “Step one’s the only thing there for now, but I’ll keep adding until ten.”

“This could use a little more spice,” Hyuna muses out loud as she takes another bite. “Anyway, why ten?” she asks.

At that, Till’s cheeks warms. “Ivan really likes this rom-com called—”

Luka cuts him off, “Barf. I don’t care. What’s the point of this list again?”

Hyuna chuckles. “Ivan likes rom-coms? Didn’t you say he was a pretentious filmbro who claims that his ‘taste’ is too refined?”

“He is pretentious, but I know he secretly loves those corny rom-coms,” Till says, smiling.

The gray-haired man lets out a soft chuckle before turning to Luka. Till sighs at the sight of the evil Wasian.

“You’re the one who told me to not just ask him directly if he likes me, and to test his patience and kindness. That’s the whole point of the list, Luka. I’m supposed to repel Ivan away with all these little things, and hopefully, by the end of it, he won’t hate my fucking guts,” Till explains.

Luka gives him a knowing look. Till wants to punch him in the face. 

The blond man lowers his voice when he speaks. “You’re curious too, aren’t you, Till?”

Till glances up, confused. “What?”

Luka smirks, leaning in slightly. From Till’s peripheral vision, he can see Hyuna grinning. “If Ivan likes you.” 

Till blinks, once, twice, and then he laughs at Luka’s face. “What? No fucking way, dude.”

Luka only shrugs. “Maybe you want to know if Ivan really likes you, even if you’re not admitting it.” 

Till groans. “Luka. You. Are. The. One. Who. Told. Me. To. Not. Just. Ask. Ivan.” He leans forward, staring at Luka like he’s the one being unreasonable.

“You said I should not just flat-out ask, so now I’m testing it with this list, okay? This is what you wanted. Some creative, entertaining bullshit. At least for your evil ass. And how else am I supposed to let you know that I’ve won the bet other than getting a reaction out of Ivan that screams, ‘Till, I am patient and kind to you, but not to a point that I’ll let this thing slide?’ That’s the whole point of this ridiculous list. Making him show me, loud and clear, that he’s not into me and that he’s not going to tolerate whatever stupid stunt I pull.”

Till feels himself pant heavily, and Luka is silent for a good three seconds, his face unreadable as he processes Till’s words.

Finally, the blond man nods and simply says, “Okay.”

Till’s breathing is still heavy. He stares at Luka. “Okay,” he says back, rolling his eyes. 

“Okay. Good luck.”

“Good luck? Good luck to you.”

Hyuna looks back and forth between Till and Luka. “Fucking dumb and dumber,” she mutters to herself.

“Why would I even need that? Dumbass.” Luka laughs. “Trust me, you’re the one who’s going to need that good luck.” His eyes twinkle with the mischief that Till is so used to.

“And seriously? The first one on the list is be mean to Ivan? You’re already mean to the poor weirdo. Give him a break, Till,” Luka says.

Till gives Luka the middle finger.

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Till and Ivan's shared apartment is quiet, save for the faint rustle of papers.

When Till arrives home, he immediately spots the raven-haired man in the living room, sitting on the soft couch. In his hand, Ivan's holding a thick stack of white papers, and on the coffee table are even more stacks of papers.

“Till! Welcome back.”

Ivan scoots over on the couch, immediately making space for Till.

As Till sits down, he’s reminded of a dog. Ivan’s always so eager to make room for him. 

“No need to greet me like I’ve been gone for years,” Till says before reaching over to softly pat Ivan’s head instinctively. 

Ivan leans into the touch, eyes fluttering close for a second, like a cute puppy that’s gotten a gentle pet. His posture is relaxed and the small, involuntary tilt of his head as Till’s combs his soft hair makes him endearing. 

Wow, Till thinks. Ivan’s hair is really, really fucking soft.

Is there anything about him that isn’t just perfect? This guy have truly won the gene pool lottery.

And he’s not just beautiful. He's also the nepotism baby of South Korea’s medical elite. Mister Fucking Trust Fund himself. He's practically a goddamn chaebol. Handsome, rich, smart, athletic. His only flaw is having shit parents, and even that just makes him more mysterious and brooding, like a male lead in some K-drama.

Fucking Ivan.

Till is still in the middle of mentally drafting Ivan’s Wikipedia page (Ivan: The genetically blessed, chaebol-adjacent, twenty-year old trust fund heir to Korea’s medical empire, blessed by the gods), while also appreciating the softness of Ivan’s hair, when he suddenly freezes, remembering his mission for the day. 

He immediately tightens his expression, controlling the small smile on his face.

And in a split second, without thinking, because he’s impulsive and never, never does think, Till pulls a handful of Ivan’s hair.

“Are you a fucking dog?”

Silence fills the room, and for a moment, Till panics internally.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the—

Till’s brain goes haywire. He’s still gripping Ivan’s hair a little too tightly, and now he’s fully aware of how ridiculous he must look.

Till retracts his hand when Ivan whimpers.

Did he really just pull his hair? Is Ivan gonna think he’s actually crazy now? 

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. What even happened to being mean and intimidating? He wasn’t trying to give Ivan whiplash with a hair yank.

Guilt floods his chest, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he’s convinced he’s just crossed a line he didn’t mean to.

Still, he watches closely for any sign of irritation or frustration from Ivan. That’s what he’s hoping for all day, after all. A flash of anger, maybe, or a sharp “What the fuck are you doing?”

Just anything that tells him he isn’t special enough for Ivan to put up with his weird antics. Like pulling his hair randomly and asking if he's a dog.

Till counts the seconds that pass, and then it finally happens: Ivan’s ears redden, a subtle pink creeps up to his cheeks, and his gaze quickly flicks away from Till.

Before Till can say anything, the raven-haired man stands up abruptly, the paper stack in his hands falling ungracefully on the couch. “Sorry, I need to go to the bathroom.” Ivan’s voice is quiet, almost too calm, like he’s trying to brush off the moment. 

Till’s eyebrows furrow.

Is that a reaction? Did he actually get a reaction from Ivan? Then... does Ivan not like him? 

Hold on.

How exactly is he supposed to fucking interpret Ivan's reaction?

Till waits for Ivan to come back. He waits and waits. Fifteen minutes pass, and Ivan still hasn’t come back. Till’s leg starts to bounce as he stares at the empty space in front of him.

He thinks, What the hell is taking him so long? Did Ivan just lock himself in the bathroom to avoid me?

Till’s shoulders slump, guilt still swirling in his stomach as he stands up and decides to head to his room. He shuts the door behind him, hoping to distract himself with something, anything, really.

He wasn’t supposed to feel bad about this. He was just trying to provoke Ivan, to get some kind of reaction, but now that he’s gotten nothing except for a bathroom break, it just feels off.

Till's thoughts keep running in circles, and he can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right. 

And he thought he started easy.

Ugh.

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An hour later, when Till’s stomach growls loudly, the gray-haired man sits up, debating whether to risk heading to the kitchen. He’s not sure what he’s more afraid of. Running into Ivan or not running into him at all.

But just as he’s about to drag himself to the door, he hears Ivan’s voice from the kitchen, calm and steady, like nothing had happened.

“Dinner’s ready, Till!” Ivan calls from outside his room.

Till's eyebrows knit at the nonchalance of Ivan's tone.

He knows he should probably go and apologize, or at least say something, so he stands up and heads outside his room.

To his surprise, however, he finds Ivan standing and putting plates on the table. Ivan's wearing his pink apron, adorned with the text “Kiss the Cook” which makes Till want to yank it off Ivan and burn it to hell, but the kitchen smells like sundubu jjigae and stir-fried vegetables, and for a second, Till almost wants to cry.

The gray-haired man stands there for a moment, staring at Ivan, unsure of how to begin. But then, without thinking much more about it, he just says it, “Ivan, I’m sorry.”

Ivan freezes, his hand mid-air with the plate he was about to set on the table. “Sorry?” Ivan repeats.

Till sighs, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “For pulling your hair. For being mean to you all day…” His words trail off and his gaze drops to the floor as he shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

Ivan stares at him, and the silence between them stretches.

Till begins to wonder if he’s made things worse by bringing it up, until Ivan lets out a small, almost shy laugh.

“It's fine. No need to apologize, Till,” Ivan says, smiling.

Till blinks and sinks into the chair as Ivan sets a plate down in front of him and hands him a bowl of soup before sitting across from him, still smiling.

Till can only chew on his lower lip, trying to work up the courage to say something again. 

“You’re too good, Ivan,” Till finally mutters, though a little more quietly than he intended. “Well, when you’re not being a creep or a bully.” He adds after a few seconds and Ivan laughs.

The gray-haired man continues, “Makes me realize that you put up with so much shit from me, especially when I’m being mean. Start fighting back when I’m mean for no good reason!” 

Ivan gives him a playful look, one thick eyebrow raised. “Are you really feeling guilty, Till? That’s a first.” Till glares at Ivan. “Don’t be. You’re not even really mean. That’s just how you are.”

Till fights the urge to ask, Uhm, what the fuck is that even supposed to mean?

“You’re just naturally hot-tempered,” Ivan continues. “It’s like being mean to your friends because you’re comfortable with them. One reason people are meanest to those they’re closest to is because they think they won't leave or reject them. There are actually various articles about that. Intimacy with family, friends, and partners makes it easier to confront them over trivial matters, which researchers call everyday aggression.”

Till stares at Ivan for a moment, processing what he just said. Till wasn’t expecting to get hit with actual psychology. 

Fucking Ivan and his random, weird science facts. 

“Know-It-All.” Till says, and Ivan grins. His tone becomes quieter when he asks, “So, I’m really mean to you, then? All the time?”

Ivan’s eyes soften, a rare thing reserved for Till. “You have your days,” Ivan says, his voice reassuring but not dismissive. “But you're not a mean person, Till.”

“You’re all bark and no bite,” Ivan jests. When Till rolls his eyes, Ivan smiles. “But you're not a mean person. If anything, you’re kind. You wear your heart in your sleeve.”

Till ignores the sudden fluttering in his stomach.

The gray-haired man’s shoulders slump, the weight that’s been there finally easing up. He exhales a long, relieved breath. “That’s good, I guess,” he mutters. “God, I may have realized today that I don’t like being mean to you.” 

Ivan's snaggletooth peeks out from the side of his grin as he replies, “Well, that’s a shame. I really like it when you’re mean to me.”

“Of course you do, you fucking freak.” Till rolls his eyes, trying to mask the strange feeling in his stomach with annoyance.

Till takes a spoonful of sundubu jjigae, blowing on it before taking a careful sip. “Ugh. Whatever.” Till bites his lower lip, and in a voice that's softer, he adds, “Sorry for being mean again today.” 

“Again, it’s okay, Till. Has college been stressing you out?” Ivan asks, concern lacing his words.

At that, Till forces an awkward laugh. He nods as if he’s convincing both Ivan and himself. “Y-Yeah, college,” he says, his voice cracking slightly.

College is stressing Till every day, but there's something else too, something new, and he’s not about to tell Ivan about the bet. He’s not about to tell his best friend that he’s purposely testing his patience, pushing his limits to see just how much the other will tolerate.

When Till steals a glance at Ivan, the raven-haired man is eating his own food with an easy smile, oblivious.

Till forces himself to go back to his meal, pushing down whatever weird feeling is creeping up on him.

Step one may have failed, big fucking time, but there are still nine more steps left anyway. Till just needs to come up with a second step, preferably one that won’t involve being mean. And he's going to be smarter about it to prove his friends wrong. 

──────────────────

[20:35] Luka: So how did step one go?

[20:37] Till: it went fine

[20:38] Luka: You're such a bad liar, even in texts lol.

[20:38] Luka: He liked it, didn’t he?

[20:40] Till: SHUT UP

──────────────────

Chapter Text

──────────────────

Till sits on the bench, arms crossed, watching as Ivan’s football practice wraps up. 

His focus is entirely on Ivan, who has just stopped jogging across the field, his black hair sticking to his forehead and his red-white jersey clinging to his frame. The fabric is damp with sweat, stretched tight over his chest and arms. His biceps flex as he moves, and Till can’t help but compare them to his lanky arms.

Unlike Till, Ivan’s fit and toned, with just enough muscle definition. He’s not exaggeratedly towering over Till either, but standing next to him makes the difference feel more obvious because of the way Ivan carries himself: shoulders squared and back straight, while Till tends to slouch. 

When Ivan wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, flashing a glimpse of his toned abdomen, Till looks away, his fingers tapping against the lunchbox on his lap.

Nearby Ivan’s football team, the cheerleaders are practicing, too, and Till smiles when he spots Mizi among them.

She easily stands out among the crowd. Not because of her odd, pink colored hair, but simply because she's beautiful in a way that demands attention.

So effortlessly pretty. So much like Ivan.

“Quit staring at my girlfriend.”

Till nearly jumps out of his skin, arms flailing as he grips the edge of the bench. He turns to his side, only to see Sua sitting beside him. 

For a moment, Till thinks he sees Ivan again because the short-haired girl beside him looks so much like Ivan, with the same sharp features and unreadable eyes. But her presence is much, much colder that it’s easy to forget how sensitive she is... until Till remembers junior high school, when Ivan made her cry.

“Hello, Till,” Sua greets, gaze in Mizi’s direction.

“Hi, Sua,” Till replies. “You scared me to death, and I wasn't staring at Mizi.”

“I see you’re still so jumpy.” Sua hums.

Till only gives Sua an awkward smile.

Sua stays quiet after that, so Till does too. It’s clear that Sua didn’t sit with Till to talk, anyway. Her gaze stays fixed on Mizi.

They don’t have much to talk about or much in common, at all. The only thing they seem to share is the mutual agreement that Mizi is something of a goddess sent from above, and that Ivan, well, Ivan is just weird.

Speaking of Ivan, he’s more like Sua, not just in looks, enough that they could pass as siblings, but in how they’re both... off-putting. They're also both observant and reserved, except Ivan is forced, as Ivan likes to call it, into the role of an extrovert because of his popularity. As if he isn’t Yappatron 8000 himself.

People are too busy fawning over his pretty face to notice the evil that lurks under Ivan’s polished surface. Hah.

Till doesn’t mind. They wouldn’t be able to handle him anyway.

How Ivan manages to play the part of an extrovert so well, Till doesn’t know. Sometimes, Till doesn’t believe him when Ivan says that he doesn’t really enjoy socializing with others. It’s hard to imagine someone like Ivan, so effortlessly adored by everyone, not reveling in the attention. But when he says it in his dry, detached way, it almost sounds like a confession.

Till shifts his gaze toward Ivan again, and sees him surrounded by a group of girls.

Ivan entertains them, offering a close-lipped smile, the kind that doesn’t show his snaggletooth. It’s fake and practiced, and Till can see through it.

As if he can feel Till's gaze on him, Ivan’s head whips to Till’s direction and they lock eyes. 

“Till!”

Till straightens up as Ivan approaches. His hair is still damp, and there’s a stupid, satisfied grin on his face so wide that his snaggletooth peeks through. Till can’t help the small smile that forms on his own lips.

It immediately falls, however, when Till notices the small, almost faint discoloration on Ivan’s face. He reaches out to touch it, careful to not apply any pressure. “What happened to your face?” 

Ivan places his hand atop Till’s. “Oh, someone’s arm got in my face,” he replies casually.

Till frowns. “That’s because you don’t wear your protective headgear during practices.”

Ivan’s smile is wolfish. “And deprive you of seeing my face? I could never. You adore this pretty face so much.”

Till glares at Ivan, pulling his hand away to flick his forehead. “That’s why you should take care of it. What if something happens to your pretty face?” Ivan’s eyes brighten. “I can’t exactly admire your inflated ego instead, Ivan.”

Ivan laughs, tilting his head back.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Sua interjects.

Till jumps again. “Jesus! Sua,” he says, one hand on his chest.

“Oh. Hi, Sua.” Ivan smiles at her, unfazed.

Sua offers Ivan a smile so small it's hardly there. “Please don’t mind me. I’d sit elsewhere, but this is the only empty bench,” she says, scooting over to give Ivan space. Ivan, without a second thought, thanks Sua and sits beside Till. 

“What are you doing here, by the way?” Ivan turns to Till. “Shouldn't you be practicing for your gig tomorrow?”

At that, Till smiles, ready to put his plan in motion.

“Here,” Till says, handing Ivan his lunchbox.

The Repel Ivan scheme goes on.

Till may have failed big time yesterday, but he won't today.

After all, he now knows that Ivan likes it when he's mean, so he's going to do the exact opposite: he’ll be kind. But to the point of uncomfortable exaggeration, even insincerity. He’s going to smother Ivan in kindness that’s so bad he’s going to tell Till to fuck off and die.

If Ivan likes it when Till’s harsh with him, then Till will be ridiculously, offensively sweet. Real fucking offensive.

“I made you lunch.” 

Ivan’s mouth gape slightly. “You made me lunch?” he repeats dumbly. When Till nods, Ivan asks, “Why? This is a first.”

Till thinks, I’ll smother you with exaggerated kindness until you’re begging me to leave you alone.

Till says, “Do I need to have a reason? I just care about you.”

Ivan stares at Till, expression unreadable. 

The gray-haired man clasps Ivan’s hand between his own, looking deep into his eyes. “Your well-being is the only thing that matters to me. You are the most precious thing to me, Ivan, and I always wonder if you have already eaten. It haunts my every thought.” 

Hah. That should do it, Till thinks as he pulls his hands away, waiting for Ivan's expression to morph into confusion.

Ivan blinks before he looks down with wide eyes. Then, in a quiet voice, he says, “Thank you, Till.” His voice is practically reverent as his fingers gently open the lunchbox like he's handling something precious like a sacred relic.

Huh?

Huh?

Till fights a scream, but he controls his expression as he waits for Ivan to dig in, watching him with rapt attention because he had definitely sabotaged the recipe, deliberately making it worse than it should be.

He added extra salt and mixed it with a suspicious amount of spice. The kind of spice that only someone like Till himself or Hyuna would be able to bear. 

“Is it good?” Till asks.

Ivan chews slowly, and Till watches with held breath, studying Ivan’s face, hoping for some reaction, but Ivan just continues chewing.

It feels like forever before he finally swallows.

“It’s so good, Till.” A single tear slips from Ivan’s eye.

“Are you crying?”

“Oh? I didn’t notice. It’s just so good that I can’t handle it.” 

Is the food that bad?

Till's resolve snaps immediately. After all, he only wants Ivan to tell him to fuck off, not actually food poison him.

His hand shoots out to snatch the lunchbox from Ivan’s grasp, his fingers reaching for the offensive meal, but Ivan is quicker, yanking the box back.

“I know that it tastes like dogshit, Ivan. Quit it,” Till demands. Ivan ignores him.

The gray-haired man sighs. “You don’t have to eat it, you know? I know that I'm bad at cooking. I might food poison you,” he says. 

“Did I say it’s bad?”

“Your face did, dummy. Now stop eating.”

That earns him a laugh, like he just said something completely ridiculous. “My apologies then.” Ivan says, and without another word, he continues eating, as if nothing’s wrong.

Till groans. “Stop it already, Ivan!”

Ivan finally looks at him, his face calm and composed as ever. “You made it, so I’ll eat it. Simple as that,” he says. And because he's a freak, he adds, “You could make me a drink out of your spit, and I’d drink it like nectar.”

Till jumps at the sound of Sua clicking her tongue loudly. He’s completely forgotten she was still there.

“What the fuck, Ivan?” Sua stands up. She’s been watching the entire scene unfold with a mix of disgust and concern.

Till can already tell that she’s plotting Ivan’s demise in her head and mentally drafting Ivan’s obituary, with the title: “Public Enemy #1: A Threat to Society.”

“What is wrong with you?” Sua asks, disbelief in her voice.

Till just looks at her with pity.

──────────────────

When Ivan finishes taking a quick bath in the communal shower, he accompanies Till to their favorite café before they head to the music club room. The place is only a two-minute walk from their university, built near Ivan’s favorite bookstore.

“I don’t feel like eating cake today,” Till murmurs. 

“Only a drink then? You’re not going to have your usual?” Ivan asks, watching as Till hesitates in front of the menu.

Till scrunches his nose. “I’m not sure. I kind of want to try their new macchiato, but then what if it tastes like shit? Then I should’ve just bought my usual.”

Ivan raises an eyebrow. “They’re both coffee drinks. What’s the difference?”

“You should know, Mr. Matcha Connoisseur.” 

“I’ll just get you both.”

“That’s a waste of money, you trust fund baby. I’ll just have the new drink.”

“Till!”

Till glances over his shoulder and his eyes widen slightly, realizing that it may just be his lucky day.

This is the second time he’s run into Mizi today.

Mizi flashes him a bright smile. She motions for him to sit at her table, and Till sits down across from her.

She’s changed out of her cheerleading uniform. Her long, pink hair is in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing her round-rimmed glasses.

“Mizi, hi,” Till greets with a smile, trying to mask the nervous energy that always seems to bubble up when he’s around her. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

Mizi chuckles softly. “Oh, Till. I’ve been so caught up with college and cheer. You know how it is, always running around trying to keep up with everything. How about you? How are you?”

“I’m okay, I guess,” Till answers. “Drowning in deadlines. The usual.”

Mizi’s expression turns concerned. “I feel like you’ve gotten even thinner from when I last saw you! Are you eating well? Please tell me you’ve stopped treating energy drinks like water.”

The gray-haired man lets out a soft chuckle.

Till knows that he always looks tired, but this month has been especially exhausting. 

Trying to push past art block while also dealing with his shit father is doing wonders to Till’s health. The bags under his eyes have also significantly worsened these past few weeks. 

“I’m eating well, Mizi, don’t worry. I have my own personal chef and nutritionist.” Till doesn’t answer Mizi’s question about the energy drinks.

Mizi leans forward with a smile at the implication of Ivan. “I heard from Ivan that your band’s playing tomorrow. Sua and I will definitely be there!”

”Thank you. I’ll see you guys there,” Till says. “Oh, by the way, I saw Sua just earlier. She was watching your cheer practice.”

Mizi’s eyes widen in surprise, and a soft, almost shy chuckle escapes her. “She was? I had no idea she was there.”

“Mhm.” Till nods with a small smile. “Ivan and I were with her on the benches.”

Mizi’s expression brightens even more. “Speaking of, where’s your hound dog?” she teases.

Just as the question leaves her lips, Till feels a familiar presence beside him. Ivan slides into the seat next to Till, and Till quickly darts his eyes away from the two most popular, most beautiful students of Anakt Garden.

Till grips his drink tightly when Ivan hands it to him.

Ivan and Mizi start chatting, but their conversation fades into white noise against the sheer effort Till is putting into not short-circuiting.

After all, Till can only handle one pretty face in his line of sight at a time. He doesn’t even know why, but it’s always like this when Ivan and Mizi are next to each other. It's like they're blinding.

Till takes a quick glance toward Ivan, and his usual indifference toward most people is nowhere in sight. He looks relaxed, talking easily with Mizi. It’s a rare sight, considering Ivan’s true, often buried, general disinterest in talking to just about anyone that isn’t Till. 

Mizi is Mizi, after all. She’s got that effortless charm that makes it easy to befriend anyone, even someone as selective as Ivan, who’s the most disinterested-in-others-except-Till man to ever walk this earth.

And god, does Ivan know things. He’s the same person who had to suffer through Till’s utterly disastrous crush on Mizi. 

Till cringes at the memory, face warming. Ivan has truly seen it all. Every (his one and only) awkward crush, every questionable decision, all Top 10 Most Embarrassing Moments in Till's life. He’s even had front-row seats to all of it.

And yet, for some reason, he still sticks around.

“U-Uh, excuse me?”

Mizi and Ivan stop talking, and the three glance at the owner of the voice. Standing near their table is an unfamiliar guy, holding out his phone. 

Till already knows where this is going, but with both Ivan and Mizi sitting here, he’s not entirely sure who the guy is about to ask out.

Till watches the guy closely, trying to gauge the situation. When he sees the guy staring at Ivan, Till figures out the answer.

“C-Can I have your number? Or your socials?”

Till rolls his eyes, momentarily forgetting that he’s playing the role of an Ivan-Guy today. “Might as well immortalize this guy’s ego,” he mutters. He catches his slip instantly. Panicking, Till adds, “Please do! Please… immortalize his ego…”

“I mean, look at him, this guy. Ivan. Just the perfect specimen of humility, right? You totally deserve to have your ego immortalized. Like, honestly, who else could carry such a... dazzling level of confidence? Ha... Ha... Ha...”

Mizi looks at Till, confused. Meanwhile, Ivan remains unfazed.

The guy, still clutching his phone, hesitates before blinking in confusion. “Oh! N-No. I meant your number, Till.”

Till pauses.

His number? 

Why would anyone ask for his number?

There’s a beat of silence. Till can physically feel Mizi’s excitement thrumming in front of him, and Ivan… Till swallows. Ivan hasn’t reacted.

“Oh,” Till says blankly. “I don’t really…” He bites his tongue. “Sorry.”

The guy is quick to offer a sheepish smile, looking just as awkward now. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice trailing off as he slowly lowers his phone and turns away.

Till watches the man go. “How does he even know my name?” 

Mizi laughs. “You act like you’re unpopular, Till.”

Till's eyebrows meet. “Well, I’m not popular.”

Mizi shakes her head. “That’s so not true! I’m not sure if you’re just humble or just really oblivious,” she says. “Unknown is the most popular band here at our university!”

Till flusters. He wouldn’t exactly call them “popular,” but he supposes that they’re fairly well-known.

He’s the lead guitarist, Hyuna’s the lead vocalist, Dewey plays bass, and Isaac’s on drums. They’ve played gigs at their university, local clubs, and even small music festivals. They’ve uploaded covers to YouTube, though Till’s never been able to watch them without cringing at the sound of his own playing.

But even then, for someone to take interest in him out of all the members in the band… it feels weird to Till.

Why him?

What's so special about him?

Mizi opens her mouth, but before she can say anything more, her phone suddenly rings.

The pink-haired girl glances at the screen, her expression changing instantly. “Oh, shoot. I need to go,” Mizi says, standing up quickly. “I’ll catch you two tomorrow! Good luck with your performance, Till!”

Before she fully exits the place, she looks back at them again with a smile. “And cheer up, Ivan!”

Confused, Till watches as Mizi disappear from the view before finally dropping his gaze to his drink.

Till takes a sip. Then he scrunches his nose in disgust.

“Ugh. This fucking sucks. It's too sweet. I should’ve just gotten my usual.” 

Ivan, who has been quietly watching Till, speaks up for the first time since the whole phone number ordeal. “Here. Let’s exchange drinks,” he says, nudging his drink toward Till. “Shall we also head out?”

It's only then that Till finally notices that Ivan had actually ordered Till’s usual, iced americano, instead of his own favorite matcha drink. 

“Oh. Thanks,” Till says, taking the drink.

When they leave the café, Till can’t stop thinking about how Ivan dislikes bitter drinks. Sweet things are more his style, and even his matcha is often drowned in the sweetness of strawberries. And yet, Ivan ordered iced americano.

It shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t matter.

Till tries to ignore the strange fluttering in his stomach as Ivan walks beside him.

──────────────────

The walk to the music club room is unusually quiet.

Ivan reaches for the handle, his fingers just brushing against it when Till suddenly steps forward. He uses every ounce of strength he has to shove Ivan aside. Ivan stumbles a bit, caught off guard.

“Let me, please,” Till says as he opens the door for Ivan. He awkwardly gestures toward the door with his hands, adding, “My liege.”

Till cringes.

Ivan only smiles at him. Till watches him enter, and as soon as Ivan’s back is turned, he lets out an internal groan, his cheeks burning in what can only be described as sheer mortification.

Die already from cringeness! Till thinks.

(It might be Till who’s going to die from embarrassment.)

When the gray-haired man steps inside, he quickly sets up his electric guitar, trying to get lost in the routine to distract himself from his own embarrassment. 

Ivan is still quiet, oddly enough, and it makes Till nervous in a way he can’t quite explain. Normally, Ivan’s a loud chatterbox with him, but right now, he’s just sitting there.

Till glances at him. “Uh, wanna try playing?” 

Ivan hesitates, but eventually stands, picking up the spare guitar from the stand. Till watches him with a mixture of dread and curiosity.

Till has taught him some chords before, so he knows how Ivan is with guitars. But he has no idea how to break the silence, so he just blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, not really thinking until Ivan strums the first chord, and it’s, well, real fucking terrible.

Till winces as the notes come out wrong. It’s not just bad. It’s painfully off-key. 

Till knows that Ivan has a talent for music. He plays the violin, he plays the piano, and his singing voice is angelic. But for some reason, he’s... not very good at playing the guitar.

When Ivan sets the guitar down, Till forces a smile. “Good. Amazing. Perfect,” he says. “You perfect human being and your perfect chords. Have you even considered forming your own band? You're a musical genius.”

Till cringes for the hundredth time today.

Ivan hums, as if truly contemplating. He sits back on the couch and answers, “Not really. I don’t have much time for a band.”

“Really?” Till asks. “I thought you'd be too busy being a music god, spreading your musical talent everywhere you go.”

Till half-expects two things: for Ivan to laugh and notice his exaggerated compliments, or for Ivan to finally ask what the hell is going on with him.

He doesn’t expect Ivan, however, to just give him a small smile—his fake, practiced smile—and scroll on his phone instead, ignoring him. 

A soft sigh escapes Till’s lips.

Then he gives in.

(Because he always does, when it comes to Ivan.)

The gray-haired man plops down beside Ivan. He leans back, his arm casually draping over the backrest. “Oi. What’s wrong?”

Ivan looks at him before dropping his phone on the couch. “Nothing.” His voice is flat, as though there’s nothing worth discussing, but the tension in his posture says otherwise.

Till furrows his eyebrows. “Then why are you so quiet?” he finally asks.

“Can’t I be?”

“Well, you aren’t normally.”

“I'm normally quiet, Till.”

“You aren't. Especially not with me, you're not. You're a chatterbox, so why aren't you running your mouth?”

When Ivan doesn’t respond, Till sighs, leaning forward just enough to meet his gaze. “Is this about the guy earlier?” he asks softly.

This isn’t anything new. This has been a constant ever since they were kids.

Till knows that Ivan has always been weirdly possessive of him, the way he doesn’t want anyone else getting too close to Till. Even if Ivan denies it himself.

Back when they were in Daegu, it used to be more obvious. Ivan would roughhouse any kid who dared to ask Till to hang out. It wasn’t malicious, not in Ivan’s mind. He just couldn’t bear the thought of someone else taking his place in Till’s life, even if Ivan insists he doesn’t care.

Ivan has mellowed out a lot since then. Or at least, he’s gotten better at hiding. But every now and then, the cracks show. 

Over the years, Till has learned that this kind of behavior isn't about control or anger. It’s about the fear of losing the one person who’s always been there for him.

People often mistake this side of Ivan for something else. People look at the way Ivan clings to him, the way he seems to get so upset when Till gives his attention to someone else, and they think it’s romantic love. But that’s not it, not really. It’s the kind of possessiveness that comes with having one single, unshakeable bond with someone who’s been with you through thick and thin.

“I don’t even know him,” Till says, his voice quiet but firm. “I couldn’t care less about all that stuff. You know that, Ivan.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them. Till watches Ivan carefully, but there’s something about the way Ivan is looking at him now, like he's processing something deeper.

A shiver runs down Till’s spine when Ivan leans forward and breaks the silence.

“Who do you belong to, Till?”

At that, Till's cheeks flush and he fidgets unconsciously, unsure whether it’s the question or the way Ivan is looking at him that’s making him feel so flustered. 

Who does he belong to?

What kind of question is that?

Till pauses. He considers saying “You, Ivan” to perfectly fit his plan to mess with the raven-haired man by acting overly sweet and making him uncomfortable. But it doesn’t feel right. Not at all.

He can’t bring himself to say it, so he gives up with the act.

Till pushes Ivan lightly. “Myself! I do not belong to anyone. I belong to myself, you fucking freak.”

And then Ivan finally, finally breaks into a laugh. 

He’s handsome as he does, with his eyes crinkling and lips curling up just enough to make Till’s stomach flutter. “That’s right, Till,” Ivan says. “You belong to yourself.” He’s smiling now, snaggletooth peeking out.

“Me, too,” Ivan continues. He brings a hand to gently sweep away Till’s hair. His voice is soft and far too intimate when he adds, “I’m yours, too.”

──────────────────

[17:37] Till: what does it mean when

[17:40] Luka: ?

[17:41] Till: when

[17:42] Luka: Speak. What are you trying to convey?

[17:42] Till: whdbjakaksndkw 

[17:44] Luka: ?

[17:44] Luka: I'm not a mind reader, Till.

[18:02] Till: sorry, phone was under my cat

[18:07] Luka: You don’t have a cat, Till. A dog maybe. Ivan.

seen 18:09

[18:20] Luka: Oh. Is this about Ivan?

[18:29] Till: i’ll kill you luka

[18:29] Till: i’ll KILL you

──────────────────

Chapter Text

──────────────────

Till’s day is going to be really, really long. It hasn’t started, not yet, but he can already feel the fatigue settling into his body.

By eight in the morning, he has to practice with his band for their gig later. At twelve in the afternoon, they’ll be performing as the opening act for Anakt Garden’s foundation day event. After that, Till will head to the studio arts’ booth to sell artworks. And once the day finally decides to end, after he’s overworked, with thoughts of murder in his head and the urge to punch anyone within a three-mile radius because he’s overstimulated and starving, he’s promised to eat samgyeopsal with Hyuna and Luka. 

So, yes, Till’s day is going to be really fucking long, which means that he doesn’t exactly have the luxury of flawlessly crafting a mastermind strategy for his Repel Ivan scheme, and he definitely won’t have the time to execute it so perfectly that Ivan ends up on his knees, begging Till to leave him alone, and finally conceding defeat.

But still, he has to at least try, right?

That’s why Till still hasn’t left their apartment.

He’s sitting on the couch, his gig bag beside him, wearing Ivan’s hoodie, because all of his own are in the laundry, over what he plans to wear for his gig later. Fortunately, this little inconvenience gave him a chance to see Ivan’s wardrobe of designer clothes, and that’s when Till had an idea.

Maybe he could still try and drive Ivan away, even if it’s just this morning. 

As he watches Ivan prepare his things for his class, Till starts to execute his very simple plan.

“Ivan,” Till calls. 

“Hmm?” Ivan replies, not even glancing up as he stuffs things into his backpack.

“Can I ask? What exactly are you trying to do?” 

“As you can see, I’m preparing my things for lab, Till.”

“Not that… I meant your clothes. What are you trying to, uh, achieve?” 

Ivan freezes, glancing down at his outfit.

He’s wearing his usual getup: the red-white jacket of his football team, which makes Till momentarily forget that Ivan is more of a lab rat than an athlete, and beneath it, a simple plain white tee that Till is sure costs more than his entire wardrobe. He’s pairing it with simple pants, but even they scream designer.

Ivan still manages to look like a walking ad for a high-end fashion line with just a white shirt and pants.

Till doesn’t say that out loud, of course. Instead, he bites his lower lip and says, “I feel like there’s too much going on with your outfit, Ivan.”

“It’s a jacket, shirt, and pants,” Ivan deadpans.

“Mhm, and those shoes too.” Till gestures at Ivan’s feet. 

At that, Ivan’s lower lip juts slightly. It’s subtle, but enough to make Till feel like he just stepped on a puppy. After all, Ivan is egotistical about a lot of things, and his fashion sense is one of them.

“These are my favorite pair, though. What’s the problem with them?” Ivan asks, voice small.

Till fights the urge to scream, Nothing! Please just kill me!

Till knows that between the two of them, Ivan is the one with an actual fashion sense. Till’s wardrobe? A single color, shirts streaked with paint, and way too many skull designs. Ivan, on the other hand, wears clothes that look like they belong on the runway.

Except for when it comes to lab days, because who the hell bothers dressing up when they’re just going to cover their outfit with a laboratory gown, right?

“Everything, Ivan.”

“But this is what I always wear to lab.”

“You didn’t wear that because you lost a bet?”

Till counts in his head, ready for Ivan to tell him to fuck off in his own sophisticated way that doesn’t involve saying the words “fuck” and “off” because he’s a dignified chaebol who doesn’t curse. His words are well-chosen and measured, that you walk away questioning whether you’ve just been insulted or complimented.

It’s probably the former. Always the former.

Besides, Ivan's compliments are as rare as a day he's not condescending or egotistical, while his crude, never obvious insults are as common as the days the sun shines. 

Till braces himself, and yet... there’s no response. Ivan simply turns back to his bag.

The gray-haired man opens his mouth again, wanting to say something, but before the words can leave his lips, his phone lights up. The screen flashes with a message from his bandmates.

Till feels a shiver run down his spine. He stands up and bolts for the door. 

Hyuna will extinguish his existence if he’s even a second late.

“I have to go, Ivan. I’ll catch you later! You might want to try matching your socks, bye!”

“They are matched, Till!”

Till laughs as he heads outside. He feels—no, he knows that Ivan is one insult away from telling him to fuck off and die, and Ivan never curses.

For now, though, he’s got a Hyuna to calm down, so he speeds up his pace and runs for his dear life.

──────────────────

Hyuna doesn’t end up killing Till, so he gets to step on the stage with his guitar.

“Let’s break a leg, guys!” Hyuna says, smiling. She gives his back a pat. Ouch. Something else might break.

When Hyuna grabs the mic to introduce their band, Till finally looks at the crowd, and immediately, it’s a fucking mistake. Hundreds of people are watching them.

He wants to look for Ivan, but his gaze drops under the overwhelming weight of attention.

Till’s never been fond of being the center of attention, but the moment the stage lights flicker, he starts to strum and the weight of all those watching eyes fades away. 

Hyuna’s voice carries through the air, Dewey’s bass thrums steady beneath, and Isaac sets the rhythm with his drum sticks. Till’s fingers move instinctively over his guitar, and every chord is a release of everything he can never put into words.

Then comes the solo. The band pulls back just enough, giving Till space, and he lets his hands take over. The sharp bite of each note cuts through the air, and for once, he isn’t thinking about anything else. The world outside blurs, drowned out by the ringing notes of his final riff.

As the moment passes, he falls back into rhythm with the others, his heart still racing but his mind light. He feels light.

When the song ends, applause and cheers crash over the band, and only then does Till realize again just how many people are watching them. His face warms.

He feels a steady thrum in his chest, his heart racing from the adrenaline.

“Till!” 

“Till, let’s take a picture!”

“That solo was fucking insane!”

Till is brought back to earth by Hyuna’s laughter and nudge. “You’re still not used to the attention?” 

Till doesn’t get the chance to answer as their band immediately heads backstage. He hears his bandmates talking, their grins wide with excitement, but the conversation falls deaf to his ears. 

When they reach backstage, the gray-haired man immediately drops onto a chair, still catching his breath. He feels his hands shaking with slight tremor, not from the nerves, but from the sheer rush of playing the guitar. He clasps them together, squeezing tight, trying to calm himself.

Fuck. This makes him so happy. Music makes him so fucking happy.

“Feels good, huh?”

Dewey throws an arm around Till, pulling him closer just as Isaac ruffles his hair. Till swats their hands away, scrunching his nose in mock disgust. “Ugh, don’t touch me, you’re sweaty,” Till says.

“Whatever, princess.” Dewey laughs loudly.

“Your solo was so good, Till.” Isaac grins.

“I knew asking you to join the band was the right call. You’re fucking talented, man,” Hyuna chimes in.

Till blushes, always unused to the compliments. He turns his back to them, pretending to busy himself with his guitar. “Shut the fuck up.” The three only laugh, all too familiar with Till’s, as Luka calls it, tsundere tendencies. Barf.

As he hears them walk away to pack up their own things, Till finally lets himself smile. He fishes his phone from his pocket, eager to text Ivan. He hadn’t seen him in the crowd, but he’s sure Ivan was there, watching. He always is, anyway.

It’s Ivan’s lucky day. Till feels good, so maybe he’ll even treat him to lunch.

Did Ivan like it? Did he think Till played well? The gray-haired man's smile widens even more. 

But as he unlocks his phone, his fingers freeze.

[13:01] Urak: Your mom told me your band’s playing today.

Till’s smile falls. He stares at his phone and thinks of ignoring him, just like all the time.

He thinks of shoving his phone back in his pocket.

[13:05] Urak: Don’t fucking ignore me.

The buzz in his veins dull.

[13:10] Till: we played at our university

[13:11] Urak: So no pay?

[13:11] Urak: You’re already not gonna make anything off your crap art, and now you're doing music for free too. What kind of bullshit is that, Till?

[13:12] Urak: I’m just saying this for your own good. You’ll thank me one day.

[13:12] Urak: Anyway, I need some cash. Your mom’s sick again. I’ll pay you back when she’s feeling better.

[13:15] Urak: I said don’t fucking ignore me, you useless bitch.

[13:15] Urak: A few people clap for your band, and now you think you’re hot shit? Not even caring about your own mother anymore?

Till can’t help the bitter smile tugging at his face.

[13:20] Urak: Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, son. Money’s just tight and your mom’s really sick. 

[13:22] Urak: Forget it. I should’ve known better than to ask you for anything.

Till stares at the message, the words all too familiar, like a broken record playing since he was old enough to dream.

Urak says that art is a waste of time. But music? Music at least has some worth if you’re talented enough. So if Till insists on wasting his life, he might as well choose the thing that pays. 

Though Till never did it for the money or fame. He made music and art because they were the only things that gave him a sense of freedom.

But the freedom art once gave him is now constrained by deadlines and critiques, and his music feels dull whenever he’s reminded of his father, the person who got him into music in the first place. What used to be his escape now feels like just another obligation.

Till squeezes his eyes shut and thinks, Why is every moment of peace followed by something that ruins it?

He exhales, massaging his temple before quickly dialing his mother’s number on his phone. When Io answers, she greets him with a cheerful voice, “Dearest! Did your performance just end?” 

“Mom, are you sick?” 

Io pauses, clearly caught off guard. “No? Why would you think that?” There’s confusion laced in her tone, as if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. Then, “Is your father asking you for money again?” 

When Till doesn’t reply, Io sighs on the other end of the line. “I’m not sick, Till. You know that.”

Something in his chest eases. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“Till, I’m sorry about—”

“It’s not your fault, Mom.”

“Till…” Io’s voice trails off, and she hesitates for a moment, as if contemplating saying something more, but she knows Till won’t let her. Instead, she settles for, “I love you. Please don’t worry about me. Just try to enjoy the day and ignore your father, okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

With one hand ending the call, Till digs into his pocket with the other to pull out a pack of cigarettes. The familiar motion is almost automatic.

A flick of his lighter, and then the first slow inhale. Smoke curls in his lungs.

Then without hesitation, he sends Urak the money.

──────────────────

Till forces himself to not think about his father because at this point, he’s used to it.

Besides, time doesn’t stop when you feel like shit. The day moves on, and you have to move with it.

He fixes his appearance and pushes himself to walk through the halls. After making sure he looks presentable enough, he heads toward the fine arts department's booths.

Till’s booth is set up right next to the theater arts students' area, placing him near Hyuna and Sua. Hyuna, however, is nowhere to be seen, and Sua is busy organizing the goods at her own booth. It’s Till’s shift now, so the other studio arts students have gone off for their lunch break, leaving him in charge for a while.

As Till walks by, Sua notices him and approaches. “Till,” she calls.

“Mhm, why?” Till responds, glancing over at the theater arts student.

It still makes him think how someone who seems so unemotional on the outside, like Sua, can be so talented in theater and embody emotions so effortlessly when she performs. But Till knows better. She’s just incredibly good at acting, even off stage, that she's able to make everyone believe she’s not as sensitive as she really is.

“Nothing. It’s just, you smell like smoke. I thought you quit,” Sua says.

Till smiles. “Well, I don't smoke every day now.”

“Because that makes it okay.” Sua rolls her eyes. “You know that Mizi doesn’t like your smoking habit.”

Till only laughs as he scratches the back of his neck.

Till should have known that this would come up. The Mizi card. The one card that can guilt him into doing pretty much anything at Sua’s bidding when they were in high school. Till’s mind flashes back to the horrors of his past, and he shivers.

Before Luka terrorized his life, his monster under the bed was Sua. Ivan is in his own category.

“Hmm, that used to work a lot,” Sua muses.

“I can hear you, you know,” Till says.

“Whatever, Till.” The short-haired girl crosses her arms before handing Till a large cookie, sealed in a crinkly plastic wrapper. “That's from Mizi's booth. She wanted to give it to you when you finished performing, but we couldn't find you. She was really amazed by your solo.”

Till lets out a smile before thanking Sua and stuffing the cookie in his pocket.

“Anyway,” Sua starts, leaning in. “Does your health freak know? That you still smoke?” Sua asks, her voice dropping to a whisper, like she also fears to unknowingly summon Ivan, but it’s clear that she’s enjoying this more than she should. 

Till quiets immediately, the smile on his face faltering. 

“Huh.” Sua’s eyes flash with a rare glimmer of mischief. “Thought so.”

“Yeah, well, he won’t if we keep quiet.”

“As if he wouldn’t be able to smell the smoke in your clothes, even if you drowned them in a hundred bottles of fabric softener.”

Till grins despite himself, but before he can respond, his eyes catch a familiar figure entering the room. 

“Speaking of the devil.” Sua smiles at Till and the gray-haired man trembles. She reminds him so much of Ivan and Luka when she smiles. Menacing. “Good luck, Tilly.” Sua says before she turns and walks away.

“Till!”

Till braces himself before turning to the direction of the voice.

When he catches sight of Ivan, Till blinks. He thinks, Did he change his outfit?

Ivan’s wearing a long, white coat with black buttons over a white, almost gray turtleneck. His pants are sleek, complimenting his tall figure. His hair is styled, bangs swept, revealing his forehead.

Ivan flashes him with that smile, like he owns the entire damn room because he’s aware that he’s got a pretty face, and starts walking over.

Till’s eyes narrow.

“Hi, Till,” Ivan greets. He looks down at his outfit. “What do you think?”

Till can’t even process his own response. He glances around and, of course, women and men alike are practically drooling over Ivan’s ridiculously handsome face. Some are whispering to each other, others just staring with hearts in their eyes, as if he’s the second coming of Christ.

The gray-haired man can't focus on anything except the small crowd gathering around them. Before he can stop himself, Till reaches up to mess Ivan’s hair in attempt to ruin Ivan's perfect look. The bangs, however, fall in a glorious mess, framing Ivan’s face beautifully. The crowd around them squeals even louder.

Till murders Ivan in his mind. He could draw a dick on Ivan’s forehead, and people would still somehow create a fashion trend over it. Dicks on forehead. Hah.

With a sigh, Till takes his cap off and shoves it onto Ivan’s head, blocking off that stupid, pretty face from the world for a second. Till pulls him towards his booth, away from the forming crowd.

“I’m never going to insult your fashion sense again,” Till mutters.

“What? I didn't hear you.” Ivan asks.

“I said you’re ugly as hell,” Till answers, blushing. “What’s up?”

Ivan raises an eyebrow before saying, “I saw your performance earlier.” Ivan’s voice is warm, and when he says it, there’s this kind of softness that seems to melt Till. “I wanted to go to you right after it ended, but you and your bandmates immediately headed backstage.”

Till scratches his neck shyly. “Well, what do you think of our performance?” 

Ivan doesn’t miss a beat. “What I always think.”

“And what is that?”

“That you’re amazing, Till.” Ivan steps closer, a smile on his lips. “Oh, and your bandmates were okay, too, I guess,” he adds.

And then there’s this strange fluffing, fluttering inside Till's stomach again, like a hamster wheel on overdrive in his intestines. It feels like he’s both dealing with acid reflux and constipation at the same time. It’s really fucking uncomfortable.

“You’re just saying that,” Till mutters, looking away.

“You complain about me being popular, but you don’t realize that you might be even more popular than I am.” Ivan laughs. “If I may be honest, I’d choose to lock you up in my basement and keep you all to myself, but gracing other people with your presence from time to time doesn’t sound half-bad.”

Till doesn’t even flinch. He’s far too used to Ivan’s brand of unhinged honesty.

“Because you like showing off, dickhead,” Till says.

“I like showing you off,” Ivan replies.

“Do me a favor and kill yourself,” Till says as his heart stutters. He flicks Ivan’s forehead. “Just shut up, Ivan. Seriously. What are you even doing here, anyway?”

Ivan smiles. “Your booth is selling artworks, right? I’ll buy everything you made.”

At that, Till frowns, a mixture of embarrassment and defensiveness coursing through him. He clenches his fists at his sides. The words his father echo in his mind: Art won’t bring you anywhere in life. He tries to shake it off, but the insecurity lingers, like a shadow he can never escape.

“They’re not even that—” Till starts, but stops himself before he says something he’ll regret saying in front of Ivan. “Go away, Ivan.”

“What?” Ivan doesn’t move, a small frown crossing his face.

“I won’t let you buy these. Now fuck off.” Till's voice comes out harsher than he intends.

He doesn’t want Ivan’s money, doesn’t want pity disguised as generosity.

He sighs, guilt in his chest already. He knows he’s taking his anger out on Ivan, and he hates himself for it. Ivan doesn’t deserve this, but Till can’t stand the thought of his best friend treating his paintings like charity cases.

“Is something wrong Till? I always buy your paintings, what’s different this time?” Ivan presses on.

“I don’t want your pity this time. Just drop it,” Till answers.

“Pity?” Ivan’s voice is disbelieving, almost offended. “You think I’m buying your artworks out of pity, is that it?”

Till wants to shake his head. He wants to say no because he’s seen Ivan’s room, walls adorned with his paintings. He’s seen Ivan hang them in the living room like they’re paintings at the Louvre. He’s watched Ivan carefully clean the frames when dust gathers, treating them with a reverence that even Till himself doesn’t give them. He knows how much Ivan cherishes them. Maybe even more than Till does.

But he’s tired, and angry, and insecure, and he knows that Ivan's the only person he can push away who won't leave him. So it all spills over before he can stop himself. “Well, why the fuck else would you even want to buy these?”

“Because they’re beautiful, Till,” Ivan answers immediately.

Till bites his lower lip.

“Especially this meteor shower painting.” Ivan’s fingers hover over the canvas. “The red sky…” he murmurs. “It feels like the world’s burning down, but the meteors make it feel hopeful. And these two children beneath the sky…” Ivan’s voice trails off. “It looks like they don’t know if they should run away or stay. It feels lonely, but not completely. This painting is beautiful, Till. All of your works are.”

Ivan’s still looking at the painting, and Till notices the faint redness in the raven-haired man’s ears. 

Suddenly, Till is reminded of a memory from years ago, under the shade of an old tree.

They were just kids then, with Till focused on his drawing while Ivan sat too close to him. Ivan had once admitted, in a hushed voice, that he didn’t like art because it was full of emotions, and emotions were something he struggled to understand. Even when they were in high school, art remained as the only subject he struggled with because interpreting artworks always felt too abstract, too uncertain for Ivan.

Yet now, here he is.

Till exhales sharply, looking away. “You’re so fucking stupid, Ivan. Seriously. So fucking stupid,” he says.

And because Ivan is fluent in Till, he smiles because he understands exactly what Till’s trying to say: Thank you, Ivan.

──────────────────

Ivan sticks with Till for the rest of the day, like a leech that thrives off his attention.

Till doesn’t think much of it when he drags Ivan along to the grilled pork belly place where Hyuna and Luka are waiting. It’s just dinner with his friends anyway. No big deal.

At least, it’s not a big deal until they actually reach the place, and spot the two sitting at their usual booth. And that’s when it dawns on Till. This is the perfect recipe for disaster.

Till freezes in the doorway, and he immediately grabs Ivan’s arm, attempting to turn back, but before they can exit the place, Hyuna spots them. 

“Till, Ivan! Come, come! Sit down you two!” The brunette motions for the two to sit. Begrudgingly, Till lets go of Ivan’s arm, and they make their way to the booth. “You must be the boyfriend,” Hyuna says to Ivan.

Till stares at her, deadpan. “Hyuna, you literally know Ivan.”

Hyuna shakes her head. “Not a lot! Since you never actually introduced us properly. We only ever see him when he brings you food. You realize the only time you introduced Ivan to us was when you pointed at him once and went, ‘This is Ivan,’ and that was it?” 

Luka smiles in that particular way that scares Till. It’s all malice. “You know Till. He likes to keep the things he’s most fond of to himself.”

Till gives Luka the middle finger.

The gray-haired man waves vaguely in Ivan’s direction. “Whatever. Ivan, these are Hyuna and Luka. You know them. Hyuna’s my bandmate, and she’s also in the music club. Luka is her parasite who treats our club room like a lounge. He’s the evil Wasian I told you about. Pay no attention to him.” He gestures lazily at the two, then at Ivan. “Hyuna, Luka, this is Ivan. The roommate.” 

He stresses the last word because he already knows where this is going, and sure enough, Luka and Hyuna exchange a look. “Ah, yes Till. The boyfriend.”

In his peripheral vision, Till can see Ivan smile. “Hi, everyone. I’m Ivan. I’m in the biomed program.”

Hyuna whistles. “Damn, Till. You bagged a hot and smart dude.” Ivan’s smile even widens.

“Please don’t inflate his ego, he’s already so egotistical,” Till says.

Meanwhile, Luka crosses his arms and subtly nudges himself closer to Hyuna, like a sulking kid who just got his favorite toy taken away. Hyuna, ever so oblivious, simply gives him a confused look before ruffling his blond hair.

Ivan is about to open his mouth to say something again when they all hear a familiar, sweet voice.

“Oh, wow! What are you all doing here?”

When Till looks up, he sees Mizi and Sua. Mizi waves enthusiastically, while Sua only gives a slight nod in greeting. Hyuna, of course, practically jumps out of her seat in excitement.

Till can’t even bring himself to smile back. He knows exactly where this is going.

“Mizi! Sua! You guys on a date? Come join us!” Hyuna chirps.

Sua raises an eyebrow at Hyuna, her lips curling into an unimpressed frown, but before she can say anything, Mizi turns to her with a look that could melt ice. She bats her long lashes and Sua sighs in defeat, the two making their way over.

Till shuts his eyes for a moment, as though he’s trying to will himself out of this ridiculous situation. He could barely even handle these three, and now Mizi and Sua will join them.

It’s not like Till doesn’t want them to, it’s just… hard when your different friend groups mix.

The gray-haired man sighs softly, and decides to just make himself busy. He starts placing the pieces of meat on the grill. The heat from the grill makes the meat start to cook, and the first batch begins to sear.

Whatever, Till thinks. 

Four idiots and Mizi won't be able to stop him from hogging all the meat to himself. He deserves to at least eat samgyeopsal after this long, tireful day.

“Luka, you already know Sua. She’s in theater arts too. This is Mizi, her girlfriend. Ivan—” Hyuna begins, her voice trailing off as she glances at Till, and then at Ivan.

“Ivan knows them, we went to the same high school,” Till says.

At that, Hyuna’s eyes gleam. “Oh?” she asks.

Hyuna grabs a bottle of soju from the table and pops the cap open. The sharp sound of the bottle opening cuts through the air, and the brunette pours the clear liquid into the small glasses. The glasses are passed around, and everyone raises to toast.

“What was Till like during high school?” Hyuna asks.

Till can only groan.

“Well, nothing much changed. He’s still as kind and helpful as ever!” Mizi says, grinning brightly. Till feels his face turn red.

“He used to pick fights and go home with a new bruise every day,” Sua says. Mizi elbows her gently. 

“He punched me in our first meeting,” Ivan adds with a weirdly proud grin. “Oh, that wasn't in high school though. We were six.”

“And you fell in love at first punch?” Hyuna asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhm,” Ivan answers dreamily, as if he’s reminiscing about a fairytale moment.

The brunette laughs. “Wow. I knew Till was the most hot-tempered person ever, but I didn’t know he actually threw punches.” Hyuna, clearly loving every second of this, then asks, “What about Ivan here?”

“Oh, he was popular even in high school. Everyone knew him!” Mizi answers.

“He was way weirder back in high school,” Till says. Immediately, he can feel Ivan’s smile without even looking at him.

“He now only needs to be confined away from humanity. Back then, he needed to be put down and killed for everyone’s safety,” Sua confirms. “He’s really kind of tamed now.”

“I won’t say ‘tamed.’ You guys just see each other less. He’s only about 0.0001% less weird now,” Till says, giving Ivan a pointed look.

“Maybe you should’ve killed him back then, Till,” Sua replies, sounding entirely too serious for the situation.

Till scrunches his nose. “Nah—”

“He’d like that,” Sua finishes.

Hyuna and Luka burst out laughing, amused, and Ivan joins in like they weren’t just insulting him.

“Come on, let's be nice!” Mizi laughs awkwardly. Till smiles softly at the pink-haired girl.

“Mizi, was Ivan really that weird?” Hyuna asks, and Mizi flusters.

“W-Well... uhm... Ivan would, uh, often scare and intimidate other students before,” Mizi answers, glancing at Till knowingly, “and he would do a lot of things to Till. He would lick him a lot, and stuff. But I wouldn't exactly say weird! He was just like Till's dog!”

“Oh, Mizi, you angel,” Ivan says, shaking his head with a handsome smile.

“He still licks me, Mizi. All the time. Please save me,” Till pleads.

“It's okay darling, you can say a dog with rabies,” Sua replies.

“Guys!” Mizi protests, blushing, and everyone breaks into a laugh again.

Hyuna and Luka to Till are what Till and Sua are to Ivan. And besides, they are nice to him, considering the two haven’t straight up buried him alive yet. The way they treat Ivan is practically charity.

Till flips a piece of meat. He pauses for a moment, only to glance over at Ivan. “Hey, you want this one?” he asks quietly, moving a perfectly cooked piece of meat toward Ivan’s plate when Ivan nods, heart in his eyes.

“Gross.” Luka scoffs.

“Agreed,” Sua says.

Ivan only beams at them.

As the conversation picks up, everyone starts to talk about random topics.

Mizi starts talking to Luka, and Till warns her that he’s a Biohazard Level 4, a hemorrhagic virus. Just like Ivan. Meanwhile, Sua and Ivan start nitpicking a film, both of them sounding like pretentious filmbros. Hyuna gapes at them, saying that they could pass as siblings, and Ivan smiles while Sua’s face morphs into complete horror.

The clinking of glasses and laughter fills the air, but Till feels his head getting a little heavier from all the noise. He leans back in his chair, and without a word, he stands up, quietly slipping past the group.

Once he’s outside, he leans against the wall and pulls out a cigarette.

Till contemplates lighting it. After all, he's with Ivan.

Ivan doesn't like it when Till smokes, listing all the diseases he could acquire, complete with their pathophysiology. Till, in turn, doesn't like exposing Ivan to secondhand smoke. It's what made him cut back on smoking.

Sometimes, when he really, really needs a smoke and he's in their apartment, he stuffs his mouth with lollipops, and Ivan calls him out for his oral fixation. Till tells him to fuck off.

Just as Till shoves the cigarette pack into his pocket, the door creaks open, and he hears a soft voice calling his name. 

“Till, you okay?”

Till hides a smile. “Why would I not be? I just went out for some fresh air.”

“You smelled like smoke earlier.” 

Huh. So he did notice.

Till chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just, uh, you know, it’s just Urak.” He catches the way Ivan’s eyes darken, so he quickly adds, “He just texted me.”

Ivan steps closer, and reaches out for Till’s hand. His fingers are warm and long, his thumb grazing over the rough calluses on Till’s palm, a contrast to the softness of Ivan's skin.

Ivan’s lips part like he wants to say something, but then hesitates. Till fights the amused smile creeping up on his face.

“Just spit it out, Ivan.”

“I wish I could kill him.”

Till laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Well, that would be a crime. You’d need to be locked up.” He pauses. “Huh. Maybe that would be good for you, actually.”

Ivan smiles, watching Till laugh. Wordlessly, he brings Till’s hand to his lips. 

Till expects Ivan to lick it like the freak that he is, or maybe put it in his mouth, but instead, Ivan just presses a soft kiss to it before letting go.

“I wish I could take your pain away. I wish I could make you see yourself in my perspective,” Ivan whispers.

Till’s stomach flutters strangely again.

“Am I even decent in your perspective?” 

“Oh. You aren’t, actually. You’re naked all the time. But sometimes you have clothes on. A maid outfit.”

Till smacks him on the head and Ivan just laughs, stepping closer to Till to sweep away his bangs.

The gray-haired man’s lower lip juts. “You drunk?” He cups Ivan’s face, his thumb gently brushing over the raven-haired man’s cheeks. 

There’s a slight haze in Ivan’s dark eyes. “No,” Ivan says. He wraps his arms around Till’s waist, pulling him to his chest. The heat radiating from Ivan’s body makes Till’s breath catch, a gentle shiver running down his spine as he leans into the touch.

Till feels lighter now. He doesn’t know if it’s the soju or Ivan.

“Hey, sorry I insulted your fashion sense earlier.” 

When Ivan buries his face in the crook of Till’s neck, his voice comes out muffled when he asks, “Well, do you like it? My outfit now?” 

Till’s eyes widen slightly. He cards Ivan’s soft hair, no longer wearing Till's cap, surprised at the hint of vulnerability in Ivan’s tone. He’s so used to Ivan’s egoistic, cocky persona, but now, standing so close, there’s something different about the way he’s asking. 

“Mhm,” Till murmurs. “You look handsome, Ivan.” The words come out effortlessly, like they were always meant to be said.

Ivan pulls his face away from Till’s neck, and when their eyes meet, the world seems to narrow.

Till notices Ivan’s gaze drop, his eyes lingering on Till’s lips for just a moment. The hand on Till's waist grips tighter, and Till’s breath hitches in his throat as Ivan’s lips hover just inches away. 

He thinks, What the fuck is happening? 

The rational, logical part of Till’s brain is screaming that he should run and get the hell out of here, but the complete opposite side of his brain is lost in thought, fixated on how soft Ivan’s lips probably are.

The kind of soft that could melt someone into a puddle.

What the fuck?

Before Till can spiral any further, Ivan moves impossibly closer, and Till thinks that it’s finally happening.

Ivan will finally crawl inside his chest like he’s always said in the past, and then he’s going to eat him alive.

He doesn't expect Ivan to press a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“Guess I’ll dress up more then,” Ivan says, smiling. “Even if it’s just for a class where I’ll wear a laboratory gown.” He laughs softly.

Ivan’s laugh echoes in Till’s brain like music, and it's Till who looks away first because all he can think of is, No, don't dress up, because then people would look at you even more and I’d feel—

Till’s eyes shut, and without thinking, he rests his head on Ivan’s chest. “I think I’ve gone insane, Ivan.”

──────────────────

[21:30] Luka: Where are you? They’re looking for you and Ivan.

[21:35] Luka: Did you guys head home?

[21:50] Luka: Are you having gay sex.

[21:52] Luka: Please use protection. I feel like Ivan’s sperm may impregnate you. I'm not ready to be a godfather.

[21:53] Luka: And you two owe me money. You left without paying. Talk about manners.

[23:00] Till: my bad lol my stomach was acting up n we had to go home

[23:00] Till: btw, i (20M) have been friends w/ another 20M for more than a decade now. he's always been weird, but now i also /feel/ weird ???

[23:10] Luka: I don’t understand a single sentence you just typed. Where is the coherency in that? Reddit would need more details, then it would throw tomatoes at you. 

[23:10] Luka: But whatever. Yes. YTA. You’re Tfucking Agay. Welcome.

[23:11] Luka: Bi, actually. Please stop texting me now. I need to sleep.

──────────────────

Chapter Text

──────────────────

Till is going to die.

It’s not a question of if, but when, and the when is looking like it could be right now.

He’s sitting on his bed with his legs propped up, an empty can of energy drink dangling from his hand. He’s locked in a staring contest with the clock in his room. It reads: 02:00 AM.

Now, usually—actually, the only time Till stays awake at this god ridiculous hour is when he has to cram finishing an art project or when he’s freelancing. Which, to be fair, is all the time. But tonight (or today, whichever), he’s not even drawing. His mind isn’t spiraling over anatomy proportions or rules of light. He’s not staying awake because of an art project.

He’s awake because of Ivan.

Fucking Ivan.

Till shifts on the couch, groaning. This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Horrifying. Terrifying.

His body is buzzing with caffeine from his energy drink, but it’s not the jittery kind he relies on in a desperate attempt to stay awake and finish his deadlines. No, this is worse. The worst. This is the kind that makes his thoughts loop. This is the kind that makes him way too aware of the fact that Ivan exists, that Ivan has a voice, that Ivan has big hands, that Ivan has an angular jaw, that Ivan sometimes leans a little too close when looking over his sketches—

“Fuck!” Till screams. 

A knock on his door makes the gray-haired man jump.

“Till?”

Till squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks, Please leave me alone before I start shooting everyone, and then myself. “Sorry! Just, uh, art stuff!” he replies, loud enough so that the voice outside his door hears him. 

He can feel Ivan standing on the other side of the door, and there's a pause before Ivan speaks again. “You good?” 

Till has been awake since six in the morning, and the fatigue in his body that should be forcing him to sleep isn’t working, because every time he closes his eyes, he thinks of Ivan, and Till doesn’t even know why.

Why is he still thinking about him after today’s mortifying realization? So what if he hates when people gawk at Ivan? How did that little epiphany turn him into a restless mess, mind tangled up with thoughts of Ivan?

So Ivan, Till is far from good. Thank you very much.

“I'm good! Just, you know, deadlines. Art. Screaming. The usual.” Till forces a laugh. “Didn’t know you were still studying in the living room, sorry.”

“It’s okay. I was about to head to bed anyway,” Ivan replies. “You should also get some sleep too, Till.” 

Till glances at his wall clock again; their sleep schedules have been wrecked for weeks. Till has been buried in commissions and sketches, and often doesn’t realize it’s morning until the sun hits his desk, while Ivan’s stuck with research reports and early morning lab work.

Neither of them is sleeping well, and both pretend it's fine.

When the gray-haired man hears Ivan’s footsteps retreating, he exhales and flops back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. 

Truth be told: this is a complete disaster.

He should be asleep. He should be doing literally anything other than thinking about how Ivan’s voice gets all raspy in the morning.

“Wow,” Till whispers to himself, pulling his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Sleep, sleep, sleep.” He chants under his breath like a deranged man, rolling onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut. “I need to sleep before I start a murder spree.”

He forces himself to relax, inhaling deeply. But just as the merciful unconsciousness starts to settle in his body, his mind betrays him again, and a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re gay.”

Till’s eyes snap open.

“You’re gay for your best friend of more than a decade,” Luka’s voice rings in his head mercilessly.

Till glares at the ceiling. “He’s like my sleep paralysis demon,” he whispers. “Please shut the fuck up,” he hisses, yanking the blanket over his head. 

But sleep refuses to come, and the only gay people he knows are lesbians who, frankly, don’t want to hear about his, god, men problems. Barf. Luka and Hyuna are out of the question, too. And besides, they’re all fucking asleep, and Till needs answers. Now.

So in a last-ditch effort to find an answer and calm his mind, Till does what any other normal person would do.

He opens Reddit.

──────────────────

*

Till huffs as he finishes reading the comments, waving his phone at Luka’s face.

They’re back in the music club room again.

Luka is sipping the overpriced drink that Till had to buy him just to convince the blond man to come along. When Till saw the price earlier, he had seriously considered ditching the bribery and just kidnapping Hyuna from her class, so that Luka would’ve followed willingly and for free.

Instead, Till had to resort to dragging Luka under the guise of needing urgent emotional support because he's undergoing a sexual identity crisis. Which, in hindsight, was a terrible plan because empathy is an emotion completely unknown to the evil Wasian.

“They’re saying I’m gay. Have they even read my post? I can’t be gay.” Till says.

Luka sighs, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “They’re also saying you’re bi. You know bisexuality, right?”

Till furrows his eyebrows. “I know what bisexuality is.” And then, a cough. “Are you saying that I’m bisexual?” When Luka only nods, Till’s eyes widen. “B-But I like girls!” Till argues, his voice cracking slightly.

“B-But I like girls,” Luka mocks him. “And you also like boys,” he deadpans, unimpressed.

“I don’t?” Till blinks, genuinely confused. “I’ve never been attracted to men. At all.”

Luka stares at him like he’s the dumbest person alive. “You don’t?” he repeats, sighing for what feels like the hundredth time. “Well, let’s do some basic math. Ivan is a man. You like Ivan. That equals you being bisexual.”

“For the last time, Luka, I don’t like Ivan.”

“You do. Please just accept it. I’m making your life easier and helping you speed-run your sexuality crisis. You should be thanking me.”

“You said Ivan likes me, and now you're saying that I also like Ivan? You aren’t helping at all, Luka,” Till says, exasperated. He rubs his temples before asking, “How do you even know that I'm really attracted to men, much less Ivan?”

“Okay, fine.” Luka clasps his hands together, settling his drink down on the table. “Well, do you think Ivan’s attractive?”

Till scoffs and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I do,” he answers. “Objectively, he’s very pretty.”

Luka hums. “Mhm. One, you think your best friend is pretty.”

Till narrows his eyes. “That’s hardly a crime. What, I can’t even think my best friend’s pretty now because of woke?”

Luka lifts two fingers. “Two, you get jealous when people flirt with him.”

Till straightens up. “I told you, that was not jealousy!”

The blond man chuckles evilly. “Okay, let’s just call it the mortifying realization that you don’t like it when people stare longingly at Ivan. Indigestion. Acid reflux. Whatever.” He shrugs, lifting another finger. “Three, you treat him differently.”

Till scrunches his nose. “What is with you and this whole 'treating each other differently' thing?” 

“Well, I have eyes, Till,” Luka answers. “Not 'differently' like the way your voice gets all soft when you talk to Mizi. Or how you let Hyuna ruffle your hair without complaint. Or even in the way you're more aggressive toward me than literally anyone else.” Luka watches as Till squirms in his seat. “No, I mean you treat Ivan in a way that is very, very distinct. And that, dumbass, is because you like him. He's very special to you.”

When Till doesn’t say anything, Luka drags a hand down his face, exhausted.

“Till. You let Ivan lick you. Like a dog. If any other person did that to you, you’d cut their tongue out and feed them to the wolves, while the worst you do to Ivan is push his face away and that’s only after your face is already drenched.”

Till’s lips are pressed into a tight line. “That’s just Ivan being Ivan. I guess I’ve just gotten used to his... weird tendencies. He’s kind of a spoiled brat. Sometimes I just let him do things because I know that he wouldn’t let up.”

“See? You even spoil him.” Luka rolls his eyes.

Till shakes his head, and Luka grumbles under his breath.

“Fine. You draw him in your sketchbook. A lot.”

“Well, his eyes are very nice.”

“They're pitch black and terrifying.”

“They reflect the color red sometimes,” Till muses. Then, “Don’t be mean, Luka.”

Luka scoffs and slumps back in his chair, looking both unimpressed and exhausted. Till watches him for a moment before exhaling, and a small, reluctant smile tugs at his lips.

“I guess I do like him,” Till admits. Luka’s eyes widen slightly, looking momentarily shocked. “But because he’s my best friend. We go way back.” Luka tugs at his blond hair.

“Of course I’d unconsciously treat him a little differently compared to others. I’ve known him longer than almost anyone else in my life. I knew him before he turned into an egotistical creep. I can tell the difference between when he's insulting someone and when he's actually complimenting them. I can name all the reasons why his parents need to be locked up. I could probably write a full thesis on his cleaning agent preferences.”

Till pauses, lips pressing together. “I’ve known him for more than half of my life. So I guess, I’m fond of my best friend.”

Luka stares at him long enough that Till shifts uncomfortably, waiting for the inevitable snarky remark, but Luka just lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Fine. Whatever. I won’t even try anymore, but I’m telling you right now, Till, your feelings? Not platonic. What you just said sounded more like a love confession than you saying you’re not gay for Ivan,” Luka says. “Not. Platonic,” he repeats.

“That was plenty platonic.” Till frowns. “What exactly makes my feelings not platonic?” he asks, a hint of frustration finally creeping into his voice.

His stomach churns, not from the familiar discomfort of confusion, but from something else, something unfamiliar.

Why is Luka so adamant about this? Till can’t shake the feeling that maybe he’s missing something important, but he’s not sure what it is.

Luka stares at him dead in the eyes. “Well, that’s just easy. Do you see a future where you still live together?” he asks.

Till nods immediately.

“Do you feel butterflies in your stomach or maybe some jealousy when he gives attention to others?” Till opens his mouth, but Luka shuts him down with a raised hand. “That hamster wheel that won’t slow down inside your stomach are butterflies, and that 'indigestion' you keep talking about? Yeah, that’s just jealousy, sweetheart.” 

The gray-haired man opens his mouth again to defend himself, but Luka doesn't let up. He asks, “Last question, would you let him hit it?"

Curious, Till tilts his head slightly. “Would I let him hit what?” he asks before taking a sip from his cup.

Luka sighs, rubbing his temples. “Would you let him put his cock inside you—” Till spits out his drink. “Oh, too much? Okay, let’s tone it down. How do you feel about kissing Ivan?”

──────────────────

Till comes home with the intent of killing Luka. 

He had asked to meet up because he was having a full-blown sexual identity crisis at the ripe age of twenty, and Luka, ever the helpful, wise, and completely insufferable blond that he is, told him that the answer lies in whether or not he’d let Ivan have sex with him. Typical. Fucking. Luka.

He grumbles his way through the door of his and Ivan’s apartment, hastily kicking off his shoes without care, leaving them messily in front of the entrance, a stark contrast to Ivan’s neatly arranged shoes. 

Ivan’s going to scold him tonight when he arrives home. Whatever. Ivan’s been bugging his mind all day (and night) anyway. Till’s just making it even.

When he enters his room, he decides that it’s time to take matters into his own hands. Because one, Reddit gave him zero real answers, just diagnosed him as bisexual and called it a day, and two, Luka cannot be trusted. So Till opens his laptop and types into Google: How to know if I like men romantically.

The results are mostly “Am I Gay” quizzes, and with a groan, Till scrolls past the sea of it, gaze skimming through the pages until he sees a WikiHow article that catches his eyes. Till immediately clicks on the link.

“Take a closer look at who you’ve crushed on in the past. If you tend to develop crushes on people who are the same gender as you, it could be a sign that you’re gay,” Till reads aloud.

He pauses before musing to himself, “Well, I’ve only ever liked Mizi.”

He scrolls down the page and reads again, “Reflect on your past relationships and how they made you feel. You can be gay even if you’ve had straight relationships in the past. Think about who you dated in the past and how comfortable you felt in the relationship.” 

Till frowns as he finishes reading, scratching the back of his neck. He stares at the words. I’ve never actually dated anyone, he thinks, and the thought makes him feel unexpectedly shy.

Till rubs his temples as he scrolls down even more. “Examine your sexual fantasies to help identify your sexual orientation. Reflect on the type of fantasies you’ve had in the past. Notice what you were doing and who you tend to think about.”

At that, Till stops scrolling.

Sexual fantasies?

Till blinks at his screen.

See, here’s the thing, Till’s never really, ahem, fantasized. Masturbation just isn’t his thing. It’s not that he hasn’t tried. He has. He even attempted to use boobs as material because he thinks that they're very great. He’s sat there, eyes closed, thinking, Alright. Boobs. Let’s go.

But it just... doesn’t hit.

In general, masturbation's just never been that exciting for him. For Till, it’s just mildly entertaining at best. He’s never really beaten his meat while daydreaming about some passionate moment where he’s making out with someone or having hardcore sex because he doesn't get the thrill out of picturing it.

Though Till wouldn’t call himself a prude. He knows how sex works, he believes in free contraceptives, and he supports the cause. He’s masturbated this year maybe once… or twice. There’s barely anything to count, really.

On the rare occasions he has done it, he’s just going through the motions, like it’s an obligation. His brain is a complete blank slate.

Besides, between art school, band practice, and the every day battle to keep his sanity intact, Till doesn’t exactly have time to sit around and beat his meat. Like, when is he even supposed to do that? At night when he’s drowning in assignments, desperately trying not to set his university on fire? Yeah, no. 

Who has the energy for that? Where do people find the time? Is this normal?

Should he have been fantasizing? 

Till blinks at his screen again, and then like a divine revelation, a lightbulb goes off in Till’s head.

He turns to both of his sides to make sure that he’s completely alone before he presses incognito mode and speedily types: gay porn.

The search engine immediately shows Till a variant of interesting videos with even more interesting, creative titles. There is Emo Twink Gives Himself a Facial While Getting Railed by Hot Jock, Dom Prisoner Daddy’s Last Meal is Ass, and Foot Massage with Essential Oils. 

Till flusters, a flush of red creeping up on his neck, and for a few seconds, he debates on clicking the videos.

He knows how gay sex works, but has he watched one? No. Would he watch one? Well, if presented the chance...

Till sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Whatever,” he mutters. “This is purely for educational purposes.”

Till clicks on the Emo Twink Gives Himself a Facial While Getting Railed by Hot Jock.

The video starts with a raven-haired man going on a date with a shorter, gray-haired man.

They’re out in public, holding hands like they’re in a rom-com, and because Till has zero patience for anything, much less a slow burn or plot in a porn video, he presses skip.

Immediately, loud moans fill his room.

“What the fuck!” Till says.

Till panics as he scrambles to jam the volume down, cursing under his breath as he realizes that he forgot his fucking headphones, out of all things.

If Ivan were home, and thank whatever’s out there that he’s not, he would have heard the sounds because of his scarily heightened sense of hearing. He would have known Till was watching gay porn. Till would rather kill himself.

He fumbles for his headphones, shoving them onto his head like his life depends on it before hitting play again, breath already ragged.

After a few sighs and lots of adjusting his headphones, Till forces himself to focus back on the screen.

“A-Ah!”

The tip of Till's ears redden.

The emo twink, the one taking it up the ass, the bottom, as Luka educated him once before, thank you very much, has his legs lifted on the jock’s shoulders, split open on the top’s cock. 

The position is wildly unrestrained. The bottom is completely bared open, head tilted to the side, dazed out and drooling as the jock continues to slam his dick in and out. It’s big, girthy—the top’s cock, and Till almost feels bad for the bottom, if not for his hands clawing at the top’s back and the moans he’s letting out from the onslaught of pleasure.

The bottom looks absolutely mindless, fucked out, and Till bites his lips.

Does gay sex feel that good? Doesn’t it hurt if your ass is stretched over something so… big?

The top drops his hands to either side of the man beneath him, closing his eyes and taking in another breath, as if steadying himself from the intense pleasure of fucking the bottom.

When he opens his eyes again, the top has a glassy look in his eyes. He rolls his hips slowly, grabbing the bottom’s arm and pressing it down against the mattress, pinning him in place. Their fingers brush before the top laces their hands together and sets a brutal pace.

The jock bends the emo in half, impaling him on his cock over and over again, and the bottom just lies down, takes it, filling the room with loud moans, sinking onto the top’s cock with nowhere to go.

The emo’s ass is pressed flush against the jock’s hips, his body trembling slightly from pleasure. Their bodies are pressed together so intimately that it feels like the screen is too small for the raw closeness.

The top grips the other’s chin, forcing the bottom's mouth open with his fingers. And when the top spits in his mouth, Till lets out an almost broken exhale, only now realizing he had been holding his breath this whole time. 

Till looks down on his shorts and sees a tent.

Fucking fuck, he thinks.

His cock is aching, and the verdict is made: Gay sex turns him on.

Guilty as fucking charge.

Till crosses his legs, blushing, and contemplates the meaning of life. It’s like playing whack-a-mole, except the mole refuses to stay down, and he’s losing the battle already because Till, surprisingly, is a weak man when it comes to this. Gay porn. Seriously?

The gray-haired man bites his lip, hand sliding down his shorts to free his cock. For a moment, guilt pools inside his chest, but haze and lust completely overrides it because whatever. What-fucking-ever. He might actually die if he doesn’t get his hand on his dick.

Till curls his fingers around his cock, squeezing the hard on. He lets out a moan, toes curling in his socks. He strokes just enough to make his head feel light.

The top on the video has stopped moving, sitting back as if to admire his work. He runs a hand through his black hair, pumping his own cock at the sight of the bottom before he grips the base of the bottom’s cock, dragging his fist up and down, torturously slow.

The bottom moans, and Till copies the stroke, his half-lidded eyes focused entirely on how the top’s knuckles curl as he drags them up the bottom’s dick. Till makes a soft noise, biting his lip to stop a whimper as he thumbs at his wet cock, pre-cum oozing from his slit.

The top starts to fuck the bottom on a steady, yet languid rhythm again, the man underneath him completely melted. He has one hand on the bottom’s hip, and every thrust he pushes looks heavy still.

The top’s chest glistens with sweat, rising and falling with each uneven breath. His abdomen is tense, and strands of his raven-black hair cling stubbornly to his forehead, damp with sweat. His black eyes are blown wide, red light reflecting on them with every ounce of shove on the bottom.

Till whimpers at the sight. He tries to shake his thoughts away, but they stick persistently, like a reminder he can’t escape. It spills before he can stop himself.

“I-Ivan,” Till moans.

Till’s about to have brain aneurysm. Why the fuck does the guy in the porn video have to look so much like Ivan?

Contradictorily, he increases the speed of his hand even as he wills himself to stop thinking about a certain raven-haired man. Fuck, how would Ivan even feel inside him? 

Hold on.

Till's brain slams the emergency brakes, one hand still going, the other hovering like it’s about to call 911 on himself.

Inside him? Inside? As in, up his ass?

Till bites his lips roughly and shakes his head at the thought, ashamed yet still chasing pleasure.

He needs to stop, but oh, Ivan would be so big and lengthy, stretching his hole full, hitting every right spot as his cock continues to drag along his walls—

“N-No, ah, fuck,” Till whines.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but at the back of his mind, Ivan is holding him with a tightening grip on his waist, having the sheer strength and power to effortlessly haul him up and slide his cock mercilessly, but choosing to let Till ride, whimpering as Till yanks his hair roughly.

God. Ivan would be a whimperer. He’d beg Till when he stops riding Ivan’s cock, and Till would tell him to stay put. And because Ivan’s an obedient dog, he’d fight from bucking his hips up, and let Till grind tortuously slow.

Ivan’s hands would shake with restraint as he waits for Till’s permission. His whole body is wired to please Till. That much, Till knows, just from the way Ivan treats him. He’d be eager to follow and serve, and he would be such a pervert for it too, the way he listens. Wide-eyed and desperate. Hanging off every sound Till makes like it’s gospel. 

And when Till would finally let Ivan fuck him, he’d be reverent in saying thank you before manhandling Till into all fours, large hands holding Till by his hips. He’d kiss the back of his neck, litter his skin with marks, and fuck him until Till cries because the truth is, Ivan is a bully before he’s a dog.

The only thing filthier than how he’d fuck and pleasure Till is how hard he’d beg to be allowed to.

“Fuck, I—fuck,” Till says, voice shaky and broken. 

Till doesn’t even realize that he’s about to come at first, not until his muscles tense involuntarily. And then it hits him, sudden and overwhelming, like a wave crashing over his entire body. His breath stutters, and his toes curl before the orgasm coiling in his gut unravels.

Till leans back in his chair, swiveling it away from his laptop, and letting his head rest as he drapes an arm over his eyes. His breath comes in ragged, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile.

A tingling sensation spreads through his body, making him feel both weightless and too heavy all at once.

In his mind, Till thinks, I jacked off to the thought of my best friend. I jacked off to the thought of my best friend.  I jacked off to the thought of my best friend.  I jacked off— 

Till wants to cry.

When he finally pulls his arm away from his eyes as the guilt continues to settle in his chest, Till blinks against the lingering haze.

The world sharpens around him, and the first thing he sees is Ivan at his door, his feet barely inside the room.

Huh.

Ivan?

Till blinks once, and then twice, as if his vision is playing tricks on him. But before he completely comes down from his high, his brain still sluggish, Ivan shuts the door. 

It’s only then Till realizes that Ivan just saw him masturbating. His breath hitches, his stomach drops, and the realization slams into him like a truck: he was fucking whining Ivan’s name when he was fisting his cock. 

How long was Ivan standing there? How much did he see? Did he hear Till moan his name?

Why didn’t Ivan say anything?

In a moment of panic, Till scrambles to his feet, thrown off balance, unsure of what to do. His eyes dart wildly around the room, desperate for something to ground him, something that isn’t the fact that Ivan just—

His eyes land on the list near his table, and he sees the fourth step, or rather, the empty space where it should be. He never actually wrote it down. He was supposed to come up with something later.

Or maybe, without realizing it, he’s already carried it out.

──────────────────

[16:05] Till: i'm so fucked

[16:10] Luka: Oh? Weren't you just denying your sexuality, earlier?

[16:10] Luka: I guess Ivan works quick.

──────────────────

Chapter Text

(PART ONE)

──────────────────

Till ruffles his hair, his pencil dangling uselessly between his fingers. He stares at the half-finished lines in his sketchbook, and when nothing comes, again, he takes a drag and exhales a slow stream of smoke.

He taps his phone to check the time: 8:00 PM. With a sigh, he lifts the cigarette back to his lips and inhales, the blast of cold air from the convenience store door brushing past him as someone walks out.

The gray-haired man still has over 24 hours to finish his online art project, due tomorrow, Sunday. It’s a simple task, really. With some generic theme about reflections and transparency. It’s so obvious they just assigned it for the sake of having something to submit.

And yet, even then, he still can’t bring himself to draw.

He hasn’t even pinpointed the exact reason for his art block, the one he keeps pushing through forcefully with drawings he barely likes. Is it the looming self-doubt again? His lack of motivation lately? Perhaps it’s the repetitive routine. But whatever the reason is, Till knows that his current headspace will only make it worse.

His mind is already cluttered with too many thoughts, most especially about the, ahem, situation with Ivan.

And as it resurfaces in his mind, Till can't stop the heat rising to his cheeks. He shuts his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Just kill me now,” he groans.

“With pleasure,” Luka chirps.

Till jumps.

Right. He’d dragged Luka along for the second time today, and, once again, forced him to sit through yet another story of his pathetic life. His now pathetic and homosexual life.

Till groans again.

Luka had told him he should start charging Till for therapy fee. Till argued that whatever this is, it’s the complete opposite of therapy. But at least Hyuna’s with them now. She has enough basic human decency to balance out the evil that is Luka.

Hyuna smiles. She tilts her head slightly and asks, “So… Ivan caught you touching your dick while moaning his name?” 

Till glares at her. “Could you be any louder?” he hisses.

Hyuna beams. “I can.” Then in a louder voice, she starts, “SO IVAN CAUGHT—”

Till slaps a hand over her mouth. “Shut up!” He leans in, eyes darting around the place like Ivan might materialize out of thin air. “No, I don’t know if he heard me whining his name, and frankly, I’d like to keep my dignity intact here, Hyuna, so would you please lower your voice?”

When Till pulls his hand away, Hyuna laughs loudly. “What did Ivan say?”

Luka leans back into his chair. “He liked the show a lot. Rated it 5 out of 5.” 

“Fantastic. I’m glad to know that my humiliation is getting rave reviews.” Till lets out a strangled noise. “I don’t know, Hyuna. He closed the door, and I sneaked out of our apartment through the window.”

Luka’s face morphs into both concern and fright. “Isn’t your apartment on the third floor?”

Till waves his hand, shrugging off Luka’s question. “Whatever, Luka. Point is, I jerked off to the thought of Ivan.” 

The gray-haired man takes a slow pull from his cigarette. He leans back as the smoke curls in the air, expecting an immediate reaction from his friends, but a heavy silence follows instead.

Hyuna only nods, while Luka scrunches his nose in disgust, both encouraging Till to continue in their own ways.

Till takes one last measured puff before dropping the cigarette into the ashtray. He clasps his hands together.

“So after some post-nut reflection, I think that gay sex turns me on, I find men attractive, and I might be bisexual,” Till announces. He nods to himself. “Yeah. That’s about it—”

Before Till can finish, Hyuna squeals excitedly, jumping out of her seat to hug the gray-haired man. By the time she finally lets go and plops back down, Till is gasping for air. “Welcome to the club!”

“T-Thank you,” Till manages to choke out, clutching at his chest.

Till turns to Luka’s direction when the blond man sighs. “Congratulations, I guess. Though, honestly, I was expecting you to have at least a little bit of internalized homophobia first. You know, with your dramatic denial just earlier.”

Till’s thin eyebrows furrow, almost offended at the idea. 

“It’s not like that,” Till says. “It wasn’t like I was terrified of liking men or anything. It just really never occurred to me. There wasn’t room for anything else, anyone else. I wasn’t sitting around questioning my sexuality because I was too caught up in her. And then after high school, life just got too busy. I didn’t have time to sit down and wonder if I liked men.”

Luka crosses his arms. “So, you were too busy to be bisexual?” 

“No, you fucking idiot,” Till says. “I’m saying I didn’t think about it because I didn’t have to. My attention was always elsewhere.”

The blond man shrugs. “Okay. That’s too bad, I was expecting tears, maybe a little existential crisis. Something with a bit more flair.” 

“Something homophobic?” Hyuna offers.

“Mhm,” Luka replies with a smile.

Till groans. “Great. Now I’m homophobic.”

He rubs his hands together, then brings them to his lips, blowing warm air into his cupped palms.

When he lowers his hands and glances up, Luka and Hyuna are still staring at him, their expressions expectant, like they’re waiting for him to say something else.

“What?” Till raises an eyebrow.

Hyuna blinks. “Uh... the whole jerking off to Ivan?” 

“Yeah?” Till replies, feigning nonchalance as he rubs his hands again for warmth, trying to ignore the heat on neck. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the Ivan thing. 

“Aren’t you going to elaborate on that?”

Till huffs. “What’s there to elaborate on? I jerked off to Ivan because he looked like the guy in the porn video,” he explains. “The end.”

When Luka and Hyuna don’t say anything, Till sighs and throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. Jesus. I may have some sort of attraction towards Ivan,” he admits.

Hyuna’s mouth opens, her face already lighting up with excitement, but Till is quicker, cutting her off before she can say anything. “And, no. This isn’t a romantic attraction, okay? This is a purely objective attraction because he is an objectively hot person. I am attracted to his face—”

“And dick, apparently,” Hyuna says.

“Shut up,” Till says. 

“Just his face and dick?” Luka asks.

“Kill yourself, Luka,” Till replies.

The gray-haired man pushes forward. “I’m attracted to his face, but that’s just it. I think Ivan is hot, but I don’t want to, like, date him or anything. It just so happens that he looks like the guy in the porn video I jacked off to, and then, midway through, I suddenly thought, holy shit, Ivan is hot.”

Hyuna squints at him. “Till, that’s still attraction,” she says. The brunette turns to Luka and says, “We can work on that.” 

“Work on what?!” 

“Your unimpressive denial,” Hyuna answers.

Till shakes his head aggressively. “No one’s working on anything,” he snaps. “This sexual attraction that I feel—”

Luka grimaces. “Can you not say sexual attraction? It sounds like harassment, Till.” 

Till rolls his eyes. “Ugh, fine. This unromantic attraction…” he corrects. “I’ll make sure to stomp it out before it turns into something uglier. I don’t want to make things weird between us.”

The blond man sighs, taking off his glasses and pushing them up onto his head. He rests his arm on the table, chin propped on his hand.

“Okay. You’ve recently discovered this, uh—Ew, ‘sexual attraction’ might be the only word.” Luka concedes and Till huffs at him. “But Till, isn’t it possible you’ve always liked him? From the way I see it, you’re not just physically attracted to him. Maybe you’ve always been romantically into him, you just didn’t notice that you had even an ounce of attraction until your brain decided to drag your dick into the equation.”

Till pauses at Luka’s words, and he fights the urge to tell that, of course he has always liked Ivan.

Platonically. In a totally straight, brotherly, no-funny-business way. 

His best friend may be egotistical, mean, impossible to read, and weird as hell, but Till is fond of him. Always has been.

But romantically?

Till swallows and shakes his head. Luka’s only confusing him more. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He should be focusing on murdering any and all un-platonic feelings he has toward Ivan, not delving deeper into his emotions and figuring out whether he actually likes Ivan like that.

His inner turmoil must have been showing on his face because Hyuna moves closer to Till. She ruffles his hair gently before asking, “Hypothetically speaking, if you do like Ivan romantically, what’s so bad about that, Till?”

Luka, noticing Hyuna’s glare at his direction, relaxes his posture. In all the kindness he can offer, what he manages to say is, “Is it your insecurities again?”

“Luka!” Hyuna chastises. “Can you be kinder with your approach?”

“What?” Luka asks. “It can be a factor. He might think that Ivan, great and mighty, wouldn’t like him back. Till has always had low self-esteem.”

Till chuckles awkwardly as he scratches his neck. “It’s not like that,” he admits. “It’s…” his voice trails off, gaze dropping.

Sure. Till gets insecure about a lot of things. His art, his body, his music. There’s always that gnawing feeling that he’s not enough. But never with Ivan. With Ivan, he’s solid. Steady. Certain. 

And that’s the problem: Till doesn’t question his place in Ivan’s life. Maybe he used to, back when they were young and stupid, and Ivan still felt like an enigma. But now? He is Ivan’s best friend.

When he reached out his hand all those years ago, when Ivan took it, that was it. 

He is important to Ivan. Perhaps Ivan may even love him—if ever that’s the right word, if Ivan is even capable of love—in his own twisted way. It’s strong, but it isn’t romantic. After all, Till is Ivan’s only source of something close to familial love. He’s the only person Ivan has ever been allowed to have by his side.

And maybe that’s why it feels so dangerously close to something else. Because Ivan has only ever known anything resembling love through Till.

But whatever he feels for Till, it’s born from desperation. It isn’t a choice if Till was the only option.

And if Till were to mess with that, if he were to take his own feelings and twist them into something else, something selfish, he might break the only thing Ivan truly has.

Till sighs. “I just can’t. I can’t like Ivan.” 

Hyuna frowns. “But what if he already likes you?”

At that, Till feels his shoulder slump. He doesn’t answer Hyuna.

Who else has Ivan ever had? Till is the only person he’s ever been able to hold on to.

If Ivan were to think he liked Till romantically, would it even be real? Or would it just be a result of Ivan never having the chance to know anything different? To know anyone else?

His chest feels tight at the thought.

──────────────────

When Till arrives back to his and Ivan’s apartment, he silently shuts the door behind him, careful not to make any sound.

His eyes land on Ivan, who's fast asleep on the couch, a book in his hand. For a moment, Till just stands there, breathing out a quiet sigh of relief.

He turns to slip away to his room, but before he can take a step, Ivan stirs.

Till’s eye twitches. Of course even the faintest sound wouldn’t escape Ivan’s freakishly heightened sense of hearing.

“Till, you’re home.” 

Till whips his head away from Ivan’s direction, completely ignoring the brief flash of surprise on Ivan’s face, and starts to walk faster.

He shuts his eyes and prays. Ghost, he’s a ghost. Pretend you can't see him, he thinks. 

A warm hand wraps around Till’s wrist, halting his escape. He swallows hard, keeping his head turned away, but Ivan tugs him lightly and shifts his stance so they’re both facing each other. 

The gray-haired man catches a glimpse of Ivan’s face. His expression is unreadable, and Till promptly locks his gaze onto the wall behind him instead, appreciating its uninteresting beige color

Ivan frowns.

“You had clearly seen me,” the raven-haired man points out. “Were you avoiding me on purpose?” he asks. “Why aren't you looking at me in the eye? Is something wrong?”

“Uh,” Till starts, racking his brain for an answer. Then— 

A lightbulb flickers inside Till’s head. 

Ivan had just handed him the perfect idea on a silver platter, and his Repel Ivan scheme continues.

And really, what better way to repel a guy than by ignoring him?

If Ivan does like him, then surely losing Till’s attention will kill whatever interest he supposedly has. No one enjoys pining after a brick wall. And if Ivan doesn’t like him? Then ignoring him back should be easy. No complaints or frustration. This is a win-win situation.

Thank you for the suggestion, Ivan.

“Till?” 

Till blinks. “I'm not ignoring you,” he lies.

Ivan raises one thick eyebrow. “Well, why won’t you look at me then?”

“I’m looking at you, Ivan,” Till lies. Again.

“Why—”

The rest of Ivan’s chatter fades into the background.

Blearily, all Till can think of is, Because I jerked off to you and you caught me, and now I have to die. Because I realized I feel some kind of attraction to you. Because if I act upon any feelings of attraction toward you it would be selfish of me.

“Till. Seriously, what's wrong?” Till bites his lower lip. “Would you at least please look me in the eye?”

Ivan's tone holds a tone akin to sadness that Till doesn’t know what to do with.

His shoulder tenses, thoughts continuing to race.

Because when Hyuna said that you might have feelings for me, and I actually thought about it seriously for the first time, I felt like throwing up from the guilt. 

“Can’t. I can't look at you.” 

“Why?”

“Don't ask me why.”

“Well, why not?”

“Ivan!”

Ivan blinks, and then his face twists. First in confusion, then exasperation. He drags a hand down his face. “Why aren't you looking at me in the eye? Am I Medusa now? Is that what we’re doing?” he asks.

Medusa?

The small frown on Till's face eases as another lightbulb turns on inside his head.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to completely ignore Ivan if he kept invading Till’s space like this. So why not just avoid his eyes like the plague if the man insists on being noticed?

Step one: ignore him completely. Step two: if all else fails and he’s forced to interact, like this very moment, then avoid eye contact at all cost.

Huh. Ivan's pretty creative.

Thank you, Ivan.

The taller of the two inhales sharply. Slowly, Ivan starts, “Is this about what I saw—”

At that, Till’s cheeks immediately heat up.

Till shoves Ivan before he can finish his sentence. “Fuck off!” he says, flustered. He pivots on his heel and walks away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his desperation to escape. Without looking back, he adds, “You're a moron!”

The moment Till steps into his room, he slams the door shut and grabs his sketchbook, flipping it open in a desperate attempt to calm himself. But nothing comes. Again and again. His mind is blank, and his fingers are useless. 

He throws his sketchbook across the room.

──────────────────

Till decides that today is the day that he's going to (1) cure his art block, and (2) murder all his attraction toward Ivan.

Before the sun has even fully risen, he’s already stuffing his sketchbook and pens into his bag, shoving his shoes on, and pulling his cap over his face. He escapes through the window again, wary of running into Ivan preparing for his morning jog if he leaves through the door like a normal person. 

The world is still asleep when Till starts walking toward the train station. He boards without hesitation, sliding into a seat near the doors. It takes him an hour and a half to reach his destination, Daegu, and then another thirty minutes of ride before he reaches the city's more rural parts.

As Till walks through the familiar environment, his initial hurried and long strides become gradually slow. The air in Daegu is different. It’s cleaner, and the streets are still empty at this hour. He sees recognizable establishments and nostalgia swims inside his chest.

And at the end of the street, he sees their house, just as he remembers it. 

The sight of it sends Till a feeling akin to both warmth and fear.

At first, he debates on going inside, but when he sees Io on the other side, all the ugly feeling dissipates inside him.

Io stops watering the plants at the sound of the gate opening hesitantly. The breeze sweeps through her short gray hair, dyed the same shade as Till’s. Her teal eyes brighten as she calls out, “Till?”

“Hi, Mom,” is all Till says.

“My dearest!” Io greets, happiness dripping in her voice as she runs toward Till. She tiptoes to wrap her arms around her son, kissing Till on his cheek with a smile. 

When she pulls back, however, the joy in her eyes flickers. Her smile falters as she removes Till’s cap and holds his face between her hands, tilting it sidewards to inspect him. “You look pale, Till,” she says. “Are you eating enough? You’ve gotten thin.” She frowns. “Did something happen? Are you sick? Why are you here so early?”

Till lets out a soft chuckle as he gently pries Io’s hands off his arms. “It’s good to see you too, Mom,” he says. Io huffs, crossing her arms over her chest as she narrows her eyes at him, feigning annoyance, but unable to fully mask the worry in her eyes. “I’m fine. Can’t a boy just miss his mother?”

At that, Io laughs. “My son misses me, huh?” She repeats and instinctively reaches out to smooth down Till’s hair. “Then something must have happened.” 

Till doesn’t bother denying it. There’s no arguing with his mother, after all.

He follows Io as she turns on her heel, leading him inside the house without another word. When he steps inside, Till immediately smells the faint scent of brewed coffee.

Their house hasn't changed a lot. It’s still the familiar space he knows, with off-white walls adorned with his childhood photos and proudly framed music awards. There are potted plants everywhere, and the room feels warm. It doesn't look like a place that a deadbeat gambler would own.

“Do you want something to drink?” Io asks.

“No thank you, Mom,” he answers as he plops down on the soft couch, sitting beside Io.

For a second, Io only looks at him silently. Then his mother smiles gently. “Did you have a fight with Ivan?”

Till’s eyes widen. “W-What? No!” Io laughs, her eyes crinkling into crescents. “Why’d you even think that?” Till feels his face grow hot.

“Till, when did you ever visit without that sweet boy?”

Till huffs softly. “Ivan’s just busy. I didn't have a fight with him,” he answers, and at least that much is true. “I came here to… uh, calm my mind and draw.” 

Io hums in understanding. She doesn’t push nor pry, and just watches him with quiet patience. As if carefully picking the right words, she asks, “Are you experiencing it again? Was it what you called an art block?”

The fact that she remembers makes Till smile.

“Yeah, but it’s nothing serious,” he lies.

On the rare occasions Till visits his hometown, it’s always to seek inspiration for his art. Daegu has a way of making him feel creative. 

There’s something about the familiarity of the streets, the colorful old alleyways, and the quiet hum of the riverside near their home that makes his hands itch to sketch. The nostalgia tugs at him, but it never feels quite like home. It’s a paradox. Daegu grounds him, yet he wants nothing more than to escape it.

What he doesn’t mention is the other, far less poetic reason he’s here: Ivan.

Till had come to Daegu as a man with a mission.

First, he's going to magically cure his art block. Second, he's going to breathe in some less polluted air, compared to Seoul, in hopes of calming his mind about Ivan.

Because surely, with enough distance, enough silence, and enough seeing nostalgia-colored memories of Ivan and him running through these very streets and house as kids, he’s going to remember that Ivan is, first and foremost, his best friend that could have even passed as his brother when they were kids. Just his best friend.

And by the time he returns to Seoul tomorrow, he'll be refreshed from all the un-platonic nonsense he's feeling. He'll be clear-headed, and free of Ivan. 

Till throws his head back to laugh, proud of his intelligent plan.

Io looks at him with concern. “Are you truly fine, dearest?” 

Till clears his throat. “I am,” he answers. “Anyway, how are you, Mom? Have you been eating well?”

Io smiles warmly. “Yes, I have been eating well,” she assures him. “And I’ve been quite busy these days. Crocheting, planting, sewing.” She lets out a soft laugh, her hands resting neatly on her lap.

“That’s nice to hear,” the gray-haired man says. He thinks, At least she has things to keep her occupied.

“And I’ve also been babysitting our new neighbor’s son,” she adds. “They moved here just last month, just the three of them. Hana's a preschool teacher, and her husband works until late at night, so I offered to babysit her son from time to time.” She smiles. “He’s six years old.”

Till frowns. “Isn’t babysitting tiring? I don’t think you should stress yourself—”

Io laughs before he can finish his sentence, brushing off his concern when she says, “You worrywart. It’s a child! Besides, I raised one.” She reaches over, carding her fingers through Till’s hair like she used to when he was small. “And I miss having someone to take care of.”

At that, something tightens in Till's chest. 

He bites his lip and looks down. “Sorry, Mom.”

Io’s expression shifts instantly, eyes widening. “No, no.” She exhales softly, shaking her head. “That’s not what I meant, Till.”

He offers her a small, knowing smile. “I know,” he says. “Just… sorry for barely visiting.”

Io looks at him gently, and cups her son's cheek. “You have to breathe and live, my love,” she murmurs. “I understand that.”

Till  nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat. His mother’s hand lingers on his cheek for a second longer before she pulls away.

The clock ticks, the wind outside shifts against the windows, and for ten fleeting seconds, the house feels peaceful. Almost warm. Almost like home.

Then a voice cuts through it.

“Ah, so you do remember where home is.”

When Till whips his head to the direction of the voice, his skin turns ice-cold. Till’s grip on his wrist tightens instinctively, nails pressing into skin. He shouldn’t be here, is what he thinks first.

He knows that Urak shouldn’t be here, not on a Sunday, at least. That’s why Till came today in the first place.

Home, Till echoes inside his mind. He bites his tongue and fights a snicker.

That word doesn’t belong to this house. Not since the first time he realized that love, in this place, came with conditions.

“What are you doing here?” Urak sneers at the sight of Till, slipping on his shoes and adjusting his tie, clearly getting ready for work.

“I was visiting Mom,” Till manages to say evenly, forcing the words past the knot in his throat. He ignores the way his voice feels too small in the presence of a man who always made sure to be larger than life.

“How generous of you, gracing us with your presence. What’s the occasion? Finally guilty for running away from home? Or have you finally been kicked out of college?”

“Urak,” Io warns.

Till doesn’t answer. He refuses to play into whatever sick game Urak thinks they’re about to have.

Urak isn't the only reason he doesn’t visit. Most of all, it's the way he reminds Till that he's selfish. Selfish for leaving. Selfish for chasing his dreams. Selfish for telling his father that he doesn't only want to do music.

Till's silence doesn’t go unnoticed, and Urak clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he glances around the room. “Where’s that boy?” he asks. “Not with you?”

Urak doesn’t wait for Till to respond. He scoffs, adjusting his cufflinks. “Do you still live with him?” He barely gives Till a second to react before continuing, slipping his watch onto his wrist. “Can you even pay for rent?” 

His father chuckles lowly. “Does doodling your life away put food on the table? Or do you pay that boy with your body?”

The words land hard, sinking into Till’s ribs like a punch he’s learned how to take, but he doesn’t flinch anymore. He just sits there, staring past Urak, waiting for the moment to pass. Like always.

Io puts her hand atop Till's. “Urak, please.” 

“You coddle your son too much, Io,” Urak says. “That's why he turned out to be so useless.” 

Till chooses to not respond, and Urak lets out a short, humorless laugh again. “Figures. Not like you’d survive doing any real work. Running around with a fucking paintbrush, pretending that’s worth a damn.”

“You think some guy’s gonna take care of you forever?” Urak continues, voice dripping with disdain. “That’s the dream, huh? Flash a pretty little smile, open your legs, and let someone else handle the hard part? Pathetic.”

Till feels his mother’s hand tighten around his. Till still doesn’t say a word.

“You’re lucky you were the first one to pick him up. Lucky you got to be his friend before anyone else could, huh? Now, you have a roof over your head, and you’re studying in Anakt. Must be nice to have his parents pay your way into that damn university.”

Till clicks his jaw. That’s not true, is what he wants to say. 

“What would you even do without him? Hell, what if he gets tired of you? Could your shit art feed you? Besides, the only reason he still keeps you around is because he’s too damn soft to throw you away like the trash you are.” Urak laughs. “He may be on his way to becoming some fancy doctor, but he’s always been a little dumb, huh? Keeping someone like you around this long.”

At that, Till’s vision flashes black, and his body moves before his mind catches up, his fist already drawing forward.

“Stop it, Urak!” Io's voice cuts through the haze, sharp and alarmed. 

“Don’t fucking insult him.” Till’s breath stutters as his fist stops, inches away from Urak’s face.

Urak doesn’t flinch. “Why? I’m only telling the truth,” he says, shaking his head like Till’s the one being unreasonable. He shoves Till away. “All I want is the best for you. You fucking know that.”

“What a waste of time.” He turns away, dismissing Till with a scowl. “I told you not to come back here, you selfish brat.”

When Urak walks away, Till feels the coldness of his own skin, despite the hot anger simmering beneath it, and a small, awful part of him wonders if Urak's right.

He takes a breath, then another, like it might steady him. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, but the tremble in his fingers won’t stop. Before Till can recover, a gentle hand lands on his shoulder.

Io is there, her brows drawn together in quiet concern. She doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, she just guides him back to the couch, the same spot they sat in earlier. 

The distant hum of Urak’s car starting outside fills the silence between them.

“Till—”

Till's reply is immediate and practiced. “It’s okay, Mom, I don’t mind.” 

Io looks at him sadly, and Till averts his gaze.

He doesn't like the pity in people's eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Io says softly. “It slipped my mind. I forgot to tell you that he was home today. I was just so excited to see you.”

She reaches out to brush through his hair in comfort, but Till shifts away. Io stills, and Till keeps his gaze firmly on the floor, afraid that if she looks into his eyes, she’ll see everything he’s trying to hide.

“Seriously, Mom.” Till sighs. “I'm okay, really.”

Without a word, Io leans closer again, this time letting her hand rest lightly on her lap.

It takes a few seconds before Io speaks.

“Have I ever told you the meaning of your name?” she asks.

Till lifts his gaze at that. He can only shake his head in answer.

“It means power,” Io says. “Because I was always weak…” Io’s voice trails off, and she laughs softly when Till attempts to glare at her. She continues, “I wished that I would have a brave son, someone strong enough to lead, but kind enough to listen.” 

Her fingers brush against his cheek, as if tracing the features of the child she once held in her arms. “And when you were born, when I wished that you’d be brave and strong, I still prayed to God, that even if my boy grew up to be those traits, please give him a gift; that he’d still have someone who would love him a lot and protect him, because bravery isn’t about standing alone.” 

Till gives her a small smile. “Well, did I live up to my name?”

“Very much.” Io chuckles. “You would always come back home with a new bruise on your face when you were a kid, telling me the same reason, and I never knew what to do with you. Should I have scolded you for fighting? Or should I have praised you for standing up for others?” 

“My brave boy,” Io whispers, kissing Till’s forehead. “You were always so fearless when you stood up for others when you were small. And now, seeing you chase after something you love, even when people don’t understand, it reminds me that bravery isn’t just about taking hits for others. It’s about standing up for yourself, too.”

Io smiles. “It’s okay for you to leave, Till. It’s okay for you to go after what you want. That’s not selfish, that’s brave, and I don’t want you to feel guilty for wanting more. It’s okay to want more.”

When Till hugs his mother, Io gently rubs his back, and the tension in his body melts away.

Io chuckles softly, wrapping her arms around Till. He’d shot up in the past years, towering over her now, but in this moment, he still feels like her little boy.

“Why don’t you go rest in your room for a bit? I’ll head to the market later and cook you lunch.”

Till can only nod.

──────────────────

Till groans as he scrubs a hand over his eyes, rubbing them to dryness.

“Fucking asshole. I should have punched him in the face,” he whispers regretfully.

He drags his hands down his face harshly, shaking his head as if trying to physically rid himself of the lingering weight of the conversation.

Unceremoniously, he turns on his heel and walks into his childhood room with a frown. But the moment he steps inside, his mood shifts, and his anger bleeds into nostalgia.

Till’s childhood room is small.

It’s barely even half the size of his current apartment bedroom. But despite the years, the space remains spotless. 

Soft light filters through the open window, casting a glow over the table filled with his old pictures. He walks over, his hand hovering above a framed photo from when he and Ivan were kids. It’s their first picture together: Till with an almost shy smile, and Ivan with a completely blank face.

Back then, Ivan had been smaller than Till. But as the photos progress, the changes become clear. Till’s shy smile fades into a scowl, like a teenager who doesn’t want his mother taking his picture, while Ivan learns how to smile politely, already capturing the hearts of people in middle school. Then at some point, Ivan shot past him. One picture showed Till taller, the next had them at the same height, and in the one after that, Ivan stood taller and broader.

Till had come here hoping that nostalgia would dull the weight of Ivan in his mind, that revisiting these old memories would remind him of who Ivan was. Just his best friend, nothing more.

But as he looks at the photos now, something else simmers.

Ivan has been by Till’s side since the beginning, and every picture, every frozen moment of their lives together is creating an unfamiliar, unsettling ache in his chest.

The feeling is restless, but it's also warm.

And Till isn’t sure he’s ready to name it.

The gray-haired man exhales, rubbing at his temple. He’s too tired for this. He’s too tired to think, so with a slow shuffle, he drops onto his bed.

His body relaxes almost instantly. Then he dreams.

*

Till punched Ivan the first time they met.

He had been six years old, tear-streaked and sniffling, his breath hitching as he dropped to the ground, like it was the other boy who swung his fist and hit his face.

Till’s small hands hovered over the crushed petals of what had once been a single anemone.

He was allergic to flowers. That was why he never played with them, but anemones were fine. They were small and pretty, and they only made his eyes water.

“Why did you step on it?!” the gray-haired boy asked, thin eyebrows furrowed.

Instead of crying from Till’s punch, the smaller boy crouched down beside him, gaze shifting from the ruined flower to Till’s face. He looked calm when he said, “I’m Ivan.”

Till already knew that.

Ivan was the child of the family that had moved in across the street five months ago, into a house so pristine and polished that it stood in stark contrast to their own. Till had seen him before, watched from his porch as the new neighbors arrived. 

He had noticed Ivan then, while Till had been holding onto Io’s hand, and Till had thought he looked pretty. But more than that, he looked sad. Then after the day of his arrival, Till barely saw him anymore. He was always cooped inside the big mansion.

Back then, Till had wanted to be his friend. But now, looking at his crushed anemone and Ivan's unreadable expression, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“I don’t care!” Till shouted.

*

After their first interaction, Ivan now wouldn’t leave Till alone.

Every time Till sat under the big tree near the riverside, Ivan always followed him. 

He hadn’t even apologized for stepping on Till’s flower.

It was always like this: Till drawing in his sketchbook, with Ivan impossibly close to him. Their day would end when the sun was about to set, and Ivan’s mother would come to pick him up.

When Till saw Ivan’s mother approaching on the fifth day that Ivan started following him, he finally addressed Ivan again. “Your mom looks young,” Till said.

Ivan looked at him, and his eyes looked brighter than Till remembered. He replied, “That’s my maid. My mother is in Seoul.” The raven-haired boy tugged lightly at Till's shirt. “But I’m originally from Busan.”

Maid? Seoul? Busan? What were those?

Ivan used big words that Till didn’t understand.

*

“Why do you keep stealing my pencils?” Till huffed, pushing himself up. His small hands shot forward, trying to snatch back what was his.

Ivan was quicker, holding the pencil just out of reach. He stared at Till, his expression unreadable. 

Ivan asked, “Why do you keep drawing Mizi?” His voice was steady, but there was something strange about the way he said it.

Till felt his ears grow hot, his fingers curling into his palms.

Mizi was the prettiest girl in their class, with her long hair and her cute eyeglasses. It made sense that he’d draw her, right? But now that Ivan had pointed it out, the whole thing felt embarrassing.

“Do you like her?” Ivan asked.

When Till didn't answer, Ivan’s grip on the pencil tightened. He took a step forward, closing the already small distance between them. “Why? I was the one who played with you. Not Mizi. Not them. Me.”

Ivan was confusing sometimes.

*

“Who was that scary lady?” Till asked, tilting his head as he watched the beautiful, long-haired woman disappear down the street.

“That would be my mother,” Ivan answered.

Till’s eyes twinkled. “She’s going to stay here now?” he asked, leaning forward with anticipation.

Ivan shook his head. “She’s only visiting.” He kicked a small rock by his feet, watching it roll away.

“Why wont you go with her then, Ivan?” Till asked, his small hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He scratched his head, trying to remember the word Ivan had used before. “To… Seoul?”

He looked up at Ivan expectantly. Ivan had told him it was a place.

“She doesn’t want me to because I’m dumb, so I’m here in Daegu.”

Till’s eyes widened, his mouth parting in shock. “That’s a bad word, Ivan!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in alarm. 

Till’s hands balled into fists at his sides, like he wanted to fight someone on Ivan’s behalf. “And you aren’t like that! You’re the smartest person I know!” He hesitated for a second before he added, “Next to Mom...”

Ivan only looked at him, giving him a smile like he didn’t quite know how to.

*

“What are you losers doing?” a voice sneered from behind them.

Till and Ivan both looked up from where they were crouched in the dirt, hands hovering over a tiny red ladybug crawling up a blade of grass. The bug spread its delicate wings before settling back down.

Ivan looked at Till. “What’s a loser?” he asked.

“A loser is a moron without any friends,” Till answered proudly. It was rare for Ivan to not know the meaning of words.

Till kept his focus back on the ladybug, watching with great anticipation as it inched forward, until Ivan hummed and said, “That is you, then.”

Till froze. The words sank in, and before he could stop himself, warmth rushed up his face. His stomach twisted, an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and something else he didn't know what to call.

Till shot to his feet, startling the ladybug. He tackled Ivan to the ground, and hit him. It's a habit he learned from his father, but this time, the blow came weaker. 

Ivan didn’t flinch. Instead, he blinked up at Till, his dark eyes as unreadable as ever. “Why’d you hit me?”

“Because you’re a moron!” Till huffed, standing up. “And confusing! And a moron! You’re a moron, Ivan!”

Ivan tilted his head, unfazed. “You already said moron.”

“Because you are a moron!” Till snapped before spinning on his heel and stomping away, leaving Ivan.

The tiny ladybug was nowhere to be seen.

*

Ivan hated Till.

He wouldn’t leave him alone, kept stealing his things, kept picking through his stuff. And he said that they weren’t friends.

That meant Ivan hated him. There was no other explanation.

*

When Till opened his eyes, he was in his father’s arms. They were in the living room, and his mom and dad were talking, their voices a gentle murmur in the background. 

The warmth of his father’s embrace was comforting, lulling him back into a drowsy state. He closed his eyes again, his father didn’t seem to notice he was awake.

“They said he was slow for his age,” Urak murmured. His voice was quiet, careful not to wake the boy in his arms.

Io scoffed. “Slow? Ivan’s a smart kid. He’s not slow. He's smart, takes after his parents. They're those doctors, aren't they?”

Urak hummed. “You noticed too? Yeah, they’re that family, but apparently, he had a hard time with speech and reading before.”

Io blinked.

(And then she thought about the way Ivan always chose his words carefully, how he sometimes paused before speaking, like he was making sure he got it right. She thought about his parents, how they never stayed long, how they never brought him back with them. Then the pieces clicked together in her mind.)

“That’s why…” Her voice trailed off. “They left him here in Daegu?” 

“Heartless, aren't they?”

Io was silent for a moment before she spoke again. “I hope the boy at least has some friends. Till and him play sometimes, right?” she asked, hopeful.

“Till called him weird.” Urak laughed. “Said Ivan follows him around a lot and picks on him, but I think that boy likes Till. Just has a warped way of showing it. But with parents like that, how else was he supposed to turn out?”

Io sighed. “He probably doesn’t even know what affection is. He probably doesn’t even know how to act around other kids, much less make friends.” She ran a gentle hand through Till's short hair. “Maybe Till will warm up to him eventually.” 

*

Till didn’t really understand what his parents were talking about. Their words felt big and far away, like a story meant for grown-ups. But from the little bits he did understand, he realized something. 

Ivan didn’t know what affection was, but Till did.

His mother had taught him that big word.

It was when she kissed his forehead before bed. It was when his father carried him on his back after a long day of practicing music. It was when his friends held his hand and played with him just because they wanted to.

And when Till saw Ivan again, something in him just got it: Ivan was weird. But Ivan was just being Ivan.

“Ivan,” Till called. At the sound of his name, Ivan shifted closer, eyes flickering toward Till, quiet and waiting. “You’re my friend.”

Ivan blinked.

Then in a soft voice, the raven-haired boy asked, “I am?”

When Till nodded, Ivan’s eyes brightened, wide with something Till couldn’t quite name. Till felt his cheeks warm.

“I really am?” 

Till flicked his gaze downward. He stared at his half-finished sketch, then without a word, reached out his hand toward Ivan. “Mhm. And if you're good, we can even be best friends. Just no stepping on flowers and bugs, Ivan.”

Ivan stared at Till's hand, but didn’t hesitate for long. He shifted closer and gently took Till’s hand, like it was something delicate.

The smaller boy moved closer, curling up beside Till. He pulled his knees up, resting his chin on his arms, his whole posture folding in on itself like he was trying to make himself smaller than he already was.

Carefully, Ivan nuzzled against Till’s side. “Okay, Till,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”

*

Till wakes to the sound of knocking at the gate.

At first, he tries to ignore the knocking, but when it comes a fifth time, he sighs, realizing that Io must have gone to the market. Reluctantly, he pushes himself up. His movements are still sluggish as he makes his way downstairs.

With a yawn, he pulls open the door and steps outside, the air cool against his skin. As he nears the gate, expecting a delivery or a neighbor, he stops in his tracks.

Till yelps, “What the fuck are you doing here?!” 

And Ivan, stupid, confusing, handsome Ivan, has the audacity to look just as shocked as Till. “What are you doing here?”

──────────────────

“You haven’t answered why you’re here,” Ivan says, settling beside Till on the couch. He frowns when Till immediately scoots away, like he’s avoiding a contagious disease. “Can you make it more obvious?” he mocks.

Till rolls his eyes. He could just ignore Ivan completely, but that would make it too obvious that he’s doing it on purpose.

So instead, he settles with his Medusa plan, with looking anywhere, but at Ivan’s eyes.

“I came here to draw,” Till’s answer is short. He doesn’t tell Ivan that he also came to Daegu to purposely avoid him, and maybe even clear his mind from thoughts of the raven-haired man.  “And you? What are you doing here, acting like you own the place?” 

Ivan laughs. “I visit Auntie frequently.” He replies simply and Till’s mouth gapes at his answer. “Since you never do.”

Till shifts on the couch so he’s now facing Ivan, one leg tucked under the other. He's still avoiding Ivan's eyes. “You know why, moron,” he mutters. 

Ivan, on the other hand, stays as he is, with his body still facing forward, relaxed like he has no plans of leaving. He reaches for the bowl of oranges on the table, plucking one up.

“That’s why I go. I wasn’t trying to make you guilty.” 

“You’re just a blunt asshole, huh?” 

Ivan’s eyes twinkle. “Maybe,” he says. “Think of it like visiting Auntie in your stead.” Ivan smiles. “I cook with her sometimes. Keep her company. Someone has to.”

Till ignores the strange warmth in his chest.

Ivan’s fingers dig into the peel. “And I also come here in Daegu from time to time to check on my old house. Clean it up a bit.” 

The light filtering through the window catches on Ivan just right. It softens the sharp edges of his face, and turns his features into something almost gentle. Till grabs his sketchbook.

The gray-haired man clears his throat. “What do you two even talk about?” Till asks, curious. His fingers idly drum against the cover of his sketchbook, though he hasn’t flipped it open yet. “It’s not like you’re the most sociable person in the world.”

“She talks about your embarrassing childhood stories,” Ivan answers. Till groans. “I remember them all anyway. I was there when they happened.”

A beat passes before Ivan speaks again. “And you? Have you had the time to talk with Auntie?” His voice is light, but there’s something careful about the way he asks. Till nods. “And?” Ivan prompts. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Nosy asshole,” Till murmurs. “Nothing much, really. Just caught up with one another. She asked me what the hell am I doing here like it's a surprise for her only child to visit her. Well... it is a surprise. Whatever. I told her that I visited because I wanted to draw some creative inspiration again from this horrible place.”

Till doesn’t tell Ivan that his hands are itching to draw right now. To draw Ivan. He drops his sketchbook on the couch, and continues, “And, hmm, what else? Oh, she's babysitting for her new neighbor,”  Till pauses and laughs, “and she also told me the meaning of my name.” 

“Auntie is very fond of that, no? Names and their meanings.”

Till raises a thin eyebrow at Ivan. So Ivan does visit a lot.

The gray-haired man averts his gaze again. He asks, “Did she also tell you yours?”

Ivan doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he continues peeling the orange, fingers pressing into the rind, splitting it open. He digs his thumbs in, tearing away the peel piece by piece. 

Till considers getting a small knife for Ivan. He knows Ivan doesn’t actually like getting his hands dirty. The sticky residue clinging to his fingertips has always been something he avoids.

Ivan nods. “Mhm. She said that my name means gift from God.” 

“More like from the devil.” Till retorts and Ivan laughs.

When the first orange is peeled, the citrusy scent fills the space between them. Without a word, Ivan hands a slice to Till, watching as he takes it between his fingers and pops it into his mouth.

Ivan waits, patient as ever, only speaking again once Till is done chewing.

“Well, now that I’ve run into you here, I might as well make things clear between us.”

At that, Till feels his stomach drop immediately.

He tenses instinctively, gripping the hem of his shirt as if it could somehow shield him from whatever is coming next. Ivan’s voice is casual, but there’s a certain weight behind his words.

Is Ivan going to—

“Were you ignoring me yesterday because I caught you in the act of masturbation?”

Till’s brain short-circuits. Heat flares up his neck, burning through his ears and settling on his cheeks like a goddamn fever. 

“W-What?” he chokes out. “I-I…” He bites his lower lip. “No,” he lies, voice weak.

Ivan raises an eyebrow. “You cannot lie to save yourself, Till.”

Till catches Ivan’s eyes for a second, and he sees the earnest, patient look in them. “Please don’t ignore me over that,” Ivan says. “If you’re feeling embarrassed, don’t be.”

Till’s stomach twists. Embarrassed? He’s mortified.

“It’s completely normal to have urges,” Ivan continues, his voice steady, as if this is just some casual conversation about the weather. “It’s normal to participate in self-pleasuring activities.”

“Masturbation can actually be good for your health, both mentally and physically. And it's pretty much the safest sex out there. There's no risk of getting pregnant or getting an STD. When you have an orgasm, your body releases endorphins, which are hormones that block pain and make you feel good,” he explains.

Till thinks of sewing Ivan's mouth shut.

Of course Ivan's going to educate him about the health benefits of fucking masturbation. Some fantastic pre-med student that he is. 

“Not so embarrassing, right?” Ivan asks.

Till doesn’t respond. His tongue still feels like lead in his mouth, and if he dares to open it, he’s afraid of whatever humiliating sound might escape.

“Now that I’ve made it clear there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Ivan murmurs, his tone achingly sweet and painfully patient, “would you please look me in the eye, Till?”

Till clenches his jaw.

He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t fucking want to.

But he gives in to Ivan, anyway.

(Like he always does.)

Slowly, Till lifts his gaze, and the moment their eyes meet, he’s trapped. Ivan’s dark, unreadable eyes hold him with something Till can’t quite place. 

“Not so embarrassing?” Ivan repeats.

Till bites his lower lip before shaking his head. “…No,” he agrees eventually, voice barely audible.

Ivan leans in, his fingers brushing against Till’s flushed cheek. “I don’t like it when you ignore me, Till,” he says, thumb ghosting over the warm skin. “If you have a problem, if something’s wrong, communicate it with me. We’re way past miscommunication, aren’t we?”

At that, Till manages to let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Are we?” he asks, because it has been a constant in their relationship for years. “I doubt that.”

“We are,” Ivan replies, his pupils dilating as Till leans into his touch. “We’re not some stupid kids, who are too immature to communicate, anymore.”

“We’re way past that,” Ivan repeats. Then in one swift motion, he brushes his thumb over Till’s lips. “So if I may ask, why exactly were you whining my name while touching yourself, Till?”

Till’s entire body jolts. His eyes widen. His face burns. His breath turns shallow. And worst of all, he sees it now.

The slight twitch of Ivan’s lips, and the way his eyes gleam with barely contained amusement.

The sick bastard is enjoying this.

Chapter Text

(PART TWO)

──────────────────

Till is going to kill Ivan.

He’s going to lock him in a dust-cold basement, subject him to agonizing torture, chop his body into pieces, and dump them into the sea, never to be seen again. Then Till will live an Ivan-free life. Fucking finally.

But first things first, Till has to calm the hell down, because right now, the only thing that he's capable of murdering is his own already-tattered dignity. His face is burning with warmth, and his forehead is damp with sweat. 

The gray-haired man’s hands curl helplessly at his sides, desperate to keep himself from showing more because Ivan’s black eyes are already laser-focused on him, already too entertained by this.

Till is really, really going to kill him.

Ivan watches him intently. His eyes are bright, and he has a shit-eating smile plastered on his annoyingly handsome face.

Till breaks under his gaze.

“Stop enjoying this, Ivan.”

“I’m not enjoying this,” Ivan lies, lips curling. His eyes flicker with something mischievous, like a cat playing with a cornered mouse, and he moves even impossibly closer to Till.

Till whips his head away, averting his eyes, his body following suit like an instinctive retreat. Unfortunately, Ivan is faster. And bigger. And stronger. Before Till can fully twist away, Ivan snatches his arm with practiced ease, his long fingers curling around Till's wrist. 

“Ah, ah,” Ivan tuts. His grip is firm but not forceful as he tugs Till back enough to see his face again. “Come on, Till,” he prods, voice warm with amusement. “Answer me. Why were you moaning my name?”

At that, Till feels his face grow even hotter. He digs his nails into his palms as he attempts to not lose his mind over the way Ivan is looking at him, like this is funny.

“No,” Till spits out.

“No?” Ivan repeats.

“I wasn’t—” Till’s voice cracks.

“You weren’t saying my name?” Ivan tries. Till averts his gaze again. “I see you're back to treating me like Medusa.” 

“I’m going to fucking punch you.” 

Ivan lets out a stuttering breath of a laugh, like a freak who likes the idea of getting punched. His fingers don’t loosen on Till’s wrist. “Come on, Till,” Ivan repeats. “Please. You’ve been torturing my mind since yesterday.”

Till blinks, his brain screeching to a halt as his eyebrows furrow.

Till is torturing him?

He’s not the one cornering people. He’s not the one grabbing wrists and demanding answers about why his best friend was moaning his name. He’s not the one who’s being mortifyingly embarrassed. If anyone’s doing the torturing here, it’s Ivan, and it’s Till who's being put through hell.

And yet, Ivan is just laughing about the whole situation like it isn’t making Till feel physically sick. But it is. It’s making him very, very sick because this thing, his attraction to Ivan of any kind, might spiral into something even bigger and completely irrecoverable.

It’s not funny. Not to Till.

Would everything they’ve built crumble to nothing because Till is an idiot who can’t keep his dick in check? His feelings in check?

Till’s chest tightens at the thought, his body screaming at him to fix this, fix this, fix this. 

He wrenches his wrist back with more force than necessary. “Ivan, drop it. Seriously.”

At that, Ivan’s amusement falters immediately. “Till?” Ivan calls softly. The way he says Till’s name is almost careful, like he already knows that something is off because, of course, he does.

Till can feel Ivan studying him, picking up on every little tell, like the way his fingers twitch as if they don’t know whether to throw a punch or reach for an escape.

Till is always under Ivan’s gaze, and it makes him want to shrink away because Ivan sees too much, and Till always gives away too much.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve,” Ivan had once told him, voice light.

If Ivan notices everything, how long will it be before he notices this? This quiet, creeping feeling that has started curling around Till’s chest. This feeling that he can’t even name anymore. If Ivan notices—

Till steals a quick glance at Ivan, and the taller man’s lips part slightly again as if about to say something Till doesn’t want to hear.

He can’t tell if Ivan is weirded out. He can’t tell if he’s grossed out. If he’s just toying with him, humoring him before he inevitably pulls away, and it all crashes down on Till.

The heat in his face doesn’t just burn now, it also stings. Till’s vision blurs, and he doesn’t realize why at first. Not until the first tear slips down his cheek.

“Fuck you,” Till spats, voice weak. 

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

His best friend is laughing at the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Fuck you,” Till repeats, louder this time as he shoves Ivan away. “You think this is funny? You think it’s funny that I—” His stomach twists unpleasantly, and the words physically refuse to leave his mouth because if he says it then it’s real, and it’s pathetic, and it’s disgusting, and he’ll never come back from it.

Till aggressively wipes his eyes. “Fucking pathetic.”

The raven-haired man just watches him in silence for a moment. He says nothing at first. Then once Till’s eyes have dried, he reaches out carefully like Till might bolt at any sudden movement.

His fingers curl around Till’s wrist again, but this time, his grip is gentler. He tugs Till forward. Before Till can even process it, Ivan pulls him down, shifting until Till collapses into his lap, his weight settling awkwardly against Ivan’s thighs.

Till tenses, and his hands instinctively grab at Ivan’s shoulders like he means to push him away, but he doesn’t, anyway.

He can’t. 

He presses his forehead against Ivan’s shoulder. “I hate you,” Till spits out weakly, exhausted.

Ivan's arms curl around his waist. “I’m sorry, baby,” Ivan murmurs, voice quiet, right against the shell of Till’s ear. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t think that this is funny.”

Till is too tired to react to the pet name, too drained to pick a fight over it with Ivan and himself for the strange feeling it sends through him. His hands encircle Ivan’s neck, his cheeks are blotchy and damp, and his breath still comes out uneven. 

His voice is small when he finally speaks again. “You think I’m weird.”

“No,” Ivan replies immediately. “I don’t.” 

“Liar.”

“It’s the truth, Till.”

“But you have to.”

“You’re deciding what I feel now?”

“I was moaning your name, Ivan.”

“I think I've made it clear that I heard.”

“And you're not… weirded out?”

“Shocked is the word. Flattered, even. But weirded out? I don’t think so.”

Bit by bit, Till feels himself calm. His breath steadies, and he presses closer to Ivan. “Of course you’d feel flattered. You egotistical maniac,” he mutters. And then in a softer voice, like the words might break apart if he says them any louder, he asks, “So you’re not really weirded out? You don’t hate me?”

Till feels Ivan’s presence shift. “I could never. You know that. You must know that,” Ivan answers.

“Besides, hate you over masturbating?” Ivan continues, completely too serious for Till to justify punching him. “I told you, it's completely normal—”

The tip of Till’s ears redden. “Shut up!” 

When Ivan chuckles softly, Till’s head starts to clear. He lets his body relax against Ivan’s, even as his mind tries to fight it.

“I thought you were going to hate me...” Till finally admits. “I thought that would ruin everything.” The words hang between them, and before Ivan can respond, Till lets out an awkward, humorless laugh. “Sorry for, uh, crashing out. Sorry for getting so worked up. I've been overwhelmed lately. I don't know.”

Ivan makes a quiet noise, and suddenly, he’s shifting again, adjusting Till’s weight on his lap so he can hold him more securely. “Nothing’s ruined,” he replies. “Not unless you want it to be.”

The gray-haired man shakes his head immediately, eyes squeezed shut. He doesn’t want that. 

Till buries his face in the crook of Ivan's neck again, and a firm hand starts rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back.

Ivan doesn’t rush him. He doesn’t try to force words out of him. The raven-haired man just stays close, his warmth a quiet reassurance, and Till doesn’t say anything either.

For twenty blessed seconds, Till thinks Ivan might actually let it go. Maybe he’ll just pretend this never happened. Maybe, miraculously, Ivan will show some mercy.

But then Ivan, ever the devil that he is, clears his throat and breaks the silence. 

“So? Will you ever tell me why you were moaning my name?” 

“I’m really going to kill you now.” 

Ivan barks out a laugh, and Till's neck burns, his face practically on fire again. Of course Ivan wouldn’t let him leave quietly. That would require basic human decency, and Ivan is constitutionally incapable of that.

He knows Ivan, knows that if he doesn’t answer, the bastard will never let it go, and he will needle him relentlessly until Till caves. It’s inevitable.

So Till groans, and his mouth moves before he can stop it. In an almost shy voice, he admits, “You looked like the guy in the porn video.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Huh,” comes Ivan's reply.

Till waits for the inevitable: mockery or a smug remark. But Ivan just sits there, thick brows slightly furrowed. The disappointment in his tone doesn't escape Till when he finally asks, “Was he good?”

At that, Till staggers in disbelief. His arm slips free from Ivan’s neck. “Was he good?” Till echoes. 

What the fuck kind of response was that? Why does Ivan sound disappointed? What does he mean by that? Is he sad because he wasn’t in the porn video? Is this some weird Ivan ego thing again?

“How the fuck should I know? I wasn’t the one getting fucked in the ass!”

Ivan’s lower lip juts slightly. “You liked his face?” he asks.

Till blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what kind of psychological warfare this is. “What the hell are you saying?” Ivan doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t fucking know, Ivan. It’s nice, I guess. What the fuck?”

“You like my face,” Ivan says, but something in his voice is different now. He looks down for a second, like he's thinking about something he doesn’t want to say out loud. Then in a voice that almost sounds careful, he asks, “Which one’s prettier?” A pause. Then softer, “Mine or his?”

Till’s brain threatens to explode, but there’s no teasing in Ivan’s tone this time.

And Till doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t feel so funny anymore.

“I don't know how many ‘what the fucks’ I have left in me, Ivan.”

“Till.”

“Yours! What the fuck?”

And just like that, Ivan beams. The weight in his expression vanishes, and his grip on Till’s waist tightens, pulling him closer like he’s won something.

Till huffs. “Maybe you’re the weird one then.”

Ivan laughs softly, his breath warm against Till’s skin. “If we’re keeping score here, Till, I think it’s a little weirder that you thought I’d hate you over this.”

Till bites his lip. “You really don’t?”

“Not even a little.” Ivan’s voice dips lower. “If anything, it’s kind of—” He stops himself, then lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Forget it.”

The gray-haired man rolls his eyes. “Oh, absolutely not! You don’t get to drop that after cornering me earlier and demanding me for answers.” 

At that, with the permission Till doesn't even realize he was giving, Ivan’s eyes flicker with something dark, and Till immediately regrets pushing.

“Just… it’s nice,” Ivan says, voice slow and deliberate. He tilts his head slightly, studying Till in that unnervingly focused way of his. “Knowing you were thinking about me.”

Till stares at him before his brain fully and completely shuts down. 

This is definitely an Ivan ego thing. It has to be.

“What,” Till says intelligently. He laughs awkwardly. “Because you like being the center of attention? Right?” he tries. “You egotistical pervert.”

Ivan smiles. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Till's eyebrows furrow in unexplainable confusion. He shifts in his place, but at the exact moment he moves, Ivan does too.

It’s subtle. Just a shift of weight, but the effect is immediate. Their bodies press together more firmly. First, Till feels the heat of Ivan’s chest against his own, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Then Till feels it.

Ivan doesn’t move nor does he say anything, but his grip tightens, and Till knows. The raven-haired man makes a sound, soft and low in his throat, and his hands flex against Till’s hips, like he’s resisting the urge to pull him down.

A new kind of panic sparks through Till.

“You—” His voice is an octave higher than usual. “Seriously? Ivan!”

Ivan huffs out a small laugh, but there’s something rough about it, like he’s just as thrown off as Till.

The fabric of Till’s shorts is thin enough as it is, doing absolutely nothing to serve as a barrier between him and Ivan. And Ivan’s damn gray sweatpants? Useless. His sweatpants are doing a god awful job at keeping Till from feeling just how hard Ivan is beneath him.

Till’s pulse hammers in his ears and he stays frozen, locked in place and hyperaware of the way Ivan’s cock presses against the curve of his ass, unmistakably big and heavy.

“Well,” Ivan starts, completely at ease even with their entirely inappropriate positioning. His fingers continue their absentminded movements against Till’s sides, rubbing slow circles, like he doesn’t have a hard-on pressing right up against him. “You are sitting on my lap. What do you expect?”

Till gawks at him, scandalized. “Hah?! I’m expecting nothing, you pervert!”

“This is purely biological, Till. You can’t blame me.”

“Oh, so this is biology now? This is science?”

Till’s words are quickly drowned out by the fact that, without realizing it, Till keeps shifting slightly on Ivan’s lap. His body moves, trying to adjust and pull away, but it only seems to make things worse.

He catches himself mid-movement, face going redder than before. “I wasn’t—” he stops, completely mortified, not sure whether to stop or just disappear into the ground.

And then, to make matters worse, Ivan shifts slightly beneath him, like he’s testing something, and Till feels Ivan’s cock again. The friction sends a jolt of something hot up Till’s spine, and before he can stop himself, before he can even think, a sound slips out of his throat. 

Till whimpers, and Ivan’s fingers twitch from where they’re resting.

Ivan lets out a slow, measured exhale. He groans, dropping his head back against the couch, fingers tightening where they rest on Till’s waist. “Till, you’re killing me here.”

Till flusters. “I’m killing you?” he asks. “You’re the one—” He gestures wildly at Ivan’s lap, whole body hot with embarrassment. “This is your fault!”

Till is absolutely, certainly, a hundred percent going to die. He’s sure of it. Right here, right now, on Ivan’s lap, pressed so obscenely close.

This is how he dies: mortified and horny. Because Ivan keeps moving. Not a lot, but enough. Enough that Till feels his huge cock.

The shift of Ivan’s hips beneath him, and the subtle, intolerably slow drag of their bodies pressing closer makes Till suck in a sharp, shaky breath. His fingers dig into Ivan’s shoulders, probably leaving marks, but he can’t focus on anything except the way Ivan’s cock continues to twitch against his.

He's fucking big, Till thinks, scared and weirdly aroused. He just walks with this thing between his legs? What the fuck?

Till’s head drops forward before he can stop it, forehead pressing into the crook of Ivan’s neck as he shudders.

Ivan laughs, low and pleased, his breath warm against Till’s ear. “You know that you can just move away from my lap, right?”

At that, Till shuts his eyes.

Ivan is right. Very, very right.

But Till’s body refuses to pull away, refuses to create any kind of distance between them. It’s like some stupid, traitorous part of him is leaning into it, craving more of the contact, and he can’t help it. It feels too good already.

This is just biology, he tells himself. This is just a physical reaction, nothing more. It’s nothing real. It doesn’t mean anything. It's all just hormones. Like they're fucking teenagers all over again.

It's not like he has feelings for Ivan or anything. Till bites his lower lip hard at the thought. He doesn’t.

He’s not giving in to anything deeper. 

“Do you want me to push you off?” Ivan asks, like Till is incapable of pulling away himself. The raven-haired man's hands hover, fingers twitching like holding back takes every ounce of strength he has. But he’ll do it. He always does.

Ivan listens to Till like his words are law.

And yes, is what Till should say.

But then Ivan moves again, his hips rolling up into him with devastating precision. His fingers flex against Till’s waist, like he’s struggling and wants to be careful, but restraint is quickly slipping from his grasp. His breathing is heavier now, ghosting hot against the side of Till’s neck.

Ivan’s cock is hard and hot between them, pressed right against the inside of Till’s thigh, sending a shock straight to his spine. Till’s breath stutters in his throat, panic and heat coiling into something dangerous, and his own cock starts to stir.

Ivan groans, soft and low, like he didn’t mean to let it slip, and Till—

Till have officially gone insane.

He presses himself closer to rub his ass against Ivan's dick, and Ivan jerks beneath him, grip tightening like a vice. Ivan’s head tips back again and his lips part, his pupils blown with something dangerously close to hunger. “Till,” he grits out.

Till shakes his head, embarrassed. Yet even then, he puts his arms around Ivan’s shoulders, clutching tightly before he pulls Ivan closer with his legs. His hips twitch, then twitch again, until he’s thrusting almost rhythmically against Ivan.

“Till,” Ivan pants, his voice hoarse like he’s just barely keeping himself in check. He swallows thickly, eyes dark and half-lidded as they meet Till’s. “Do you even know what you’re doing to me?”

Till does know. That’s the problem. His whole body feels wired, and his heart racing so fast it almost hurts. He clenches his hands around Ivan’s shoulders, trembling, his nails pressing into the fabric of his shirt. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His body moves instinctively. Thoughtlessly, Till's hips press down again, shifting and rolling in a way that sparks something electric. He arches his back slightly, and drags himself up and down. It’s embarrassing, really, how easy it is to lose himself in the heat of it, in the way Ivan’s heavy cock rubbing against his.

Till gasps when Ivan leans forward, trailing kisses across Till’s flushed cheeks, down to his jawline, then lower, breath warm against skin. He mouths at Till's neck, the press of his lips making Till shudder. He licks a stripe, panting and desperate but still holding back. 

Holding back in the way Till’s the one moving more, the one grinding closer, while Ivan only grinds up in these small, almost shy rolls of his hips, like he can’t help himself, but won’t go any further without being told to.

Ivan's whole body is wired tight, eager to keep going and to please, but still waiting, like he always does. Because Till’s permission is the only thing that matters in his world.

“Till, can I kiss you?”

The spell breaks.

Till freezes. He goes still in Ivan’s lap, breath caught in his throat, the heat of the moment abruptly suspended. His heart pounds in his chest. He blinks.

Kiss?

Till’s thoughts scatter, trying to latch onto any explanation that makes sense. 

Why?

Kissing is something people do when they’re in love, when they have feelings for one another. It’s not a casual thing, not something you toss around in the heat of the moment, like an afterthought or an accident. At least not to Till.

Could this just be a physical thing for Ivan?

Is this just his primal impulse that doesn’t mean anything? 

The idea that this could all be a mistake, a moment of weakness on both their parts, starts to eat away all his thoughts, and Till is suddenly stuck in the moment, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to pull him closer.

But god, Till wants to kiss him too.

Every part of him aches to lean into it. But Till’s conscience is holding him back because it’s one thing to feel drawn to Ivan in the moment, but if this thing inside him grows, it’ll spiral into something he can’t control. 

Till averts his eyes.

“Ivan,” he starts, but his voice falters immediately after, refusing to continue what he can't even put into words. His lips part, but nothing comes out.

Ivan’s gaze softens. Without another word, he leans forward. Instead of pressing his lips against Till’s, he gently kisses his forehead. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say yes,” Ivan says. “We don't have to.”

“Till?”

The rustling of the gate outside cuts through the haze like a slap to the face.

Till’s brain takes a full five seconds to reboot. Five precious seconds where he’s still sitting on Ivan’s lap, still panting against his lips. And then his stomach drops.

“Oh fuck,” he wheezes, shoving at Ivan’s chest with the force of a man who has just remembered he has a mother.

Ivan barely moves. His grip on Till’s waist tightens, like he’s debating something, before he finally lets go as he blinks down at Till, dazed. “What?” Ivan asks, like he’s just been rudely yanked out of a dream.

“The gate, you moron,” Till whispers, scrambling up so fast that he almost falls off the couch.

His knees are weak. His hands are shaking. His mouth is still tingling.

He is so fucked.

“Till?” Io calls from outside again. “Can you open the door, darling?” Till hears the sound of keys jingling, followed by her murmuring.

Till's hair’s a mess, his shirt’s all wrinkled, he is not presentable. And he is not opening that door looking like this. Absolutely not.

“I got it.” Ivan says smoothly, and before Till can stop him, the bastard is already unlocking the door.

Till barely manages to react, frantically smoothing himself down, heart still pounding in his chest.

The door swings open, and his mother beams. “Oh! Ivan, you’re here!”

She sounds delighted, like she just walked in on two good, well-behaved boys studying and not… well, whatever the hell that just was.

Ivan, of course, looks completely relaxed. There’s not a single trace of the sinful, panting mess he was just seconds ago visible on his face.

“Hi, Auntie,” he greets casually, stepping aside to let her in. “Need help with the bags?”

“No need. I’ve got it, sweetheart.” Io waves him off before setting her bags down by the table. She glances between the two of them. There's a brief pause that makes Till's heart beat faster. But Io only smiles.

“Oh dearest, I forgot to tell you that Ivan sometimes visits during weekends. Anyway, are you boys hungry?”

Till doesn’t miss the amusement in Ivan’s eyes when he answers. “I just ate, but I could go for seconds, Auntie.”

Till moves before he even registers it. One second, his hands are empty. The next, he’s grabbed the nearest couch pillow and hurled it to Ivan's direction.

Ivan barely dodges. The pillow collides with his chest instead of his stupid, smug, handsome face, but it still knocks him back slightly. He catches it with an easy laugh, looking far too entertained for Till’s liking. 

“Till!” Io chastises.

──────────────────

Till may be a pervert.

Again, he came here to Daegu as a man with a mission. A clear, logical, well-thought-out mission.

He's supposed to be neutralizing, no, killing whatever physical urges have been bubbling up inside him. Whatever kind of attraction he has toward Ivan. He's supposed to be distancing himself from any kind of un-platonic feelings he has or is growing for his best friend. He's supposed to be treating this whole trip as a way to remind himself that he and Ivan are just best friends.

And yet, what did he choose to do? The exact opposite of it, of-fucking-course.

He should not have, god, dry-humped Ivan. He knows that. Rationally, logically, as a human being with enough brain cells and some semblance of self-control, he knows that.

And yet, in that moment, his dumb, horny (dick) heart, which clearly has no interest in self-preservation, had taken full control of his limbs and overrode his already barely-there common sense.

Because why not throw years of friendship and dignity straight into the flames of hell, and grind on Ivan like some touch-starved idiot? Why not make everything infinitely worse for himself?

Has twenty years of virginity made him so deprived, so utterly down bad, that the mere proximity of Ivan’s hard and huge dick turned him into a feral animal with no sense of self-preservation?

Till lets out a strangled noise at the thought. “Fuck.” 

“Dearest, mind your language,” Io says.

Till flushes, the reprimand snapping him back to reality. He pinches his cheeks and watches from his seat, chin resting against his palm, as Ivan and Io move around the small kitchen. 

The smell of simmering broth fills the space as Ivan carefully stirs the pot of sundubu jjigae, its red color popping against the white tofu. Besides the raven-haired man, Io is busy at the frying pan, flipping golden-brown mandu with ease. 

Ivan smiles at Io. “Your mandu is my favorite, Auntie. No one makes it like you.” 

Till almost jumps at Ivan's voice.

Don't react, don't react, don't react, he thinks to himself.

Ivan, of course, looks perfectly normal. Like he didn’t just commit a federal crime against the boundaries of friendship. So Till needs to look normal, too. Unbothered. Un-homosexual. 

What happened earlier? That was nothing. Just heat-of-the-moment nonsense. A blip. A weird little blip brought on by hormones and poor judgment. Nothing more. Bros being victimized by biology. Happens all the fucking time.

Io beams at Ivan. “Sweetheart, you're such a polite boy,” she says, tiptoeing to ruffle Ivan’s hair.

Till huffs at the sight. Polite?

Even his own mother has been manipulated into believing that Ivan is some well-mannered, golden boy. Sure, he’s golden, but he’s also evil, and this is Ivan’s long con. The man could probably commit arson and still be praised for his supposedly good manners.

Because really, what kind of polite boy dry-humps his best friend in his childhood home? In the very public living room, no less?

(On Till’s shoulder, angel Till is shaking his head at the gray-haired man. Wow, Angel Till thinks. This guy's a fucking hypocrite.)

Till rolls his eyes. “He’s just sucking up to you, Mom.”

“Me? Never.” Ivan’s voice drips with faux innocence as he rolls up his sleeves, making his way toward the kitchen counter to gather more ingredients. 

When Ivan tosses a glance over his shoulder, meeting Till’s gaze, he smiles smugly and Till’s face morphs in horror.

He mouth at Ivan, What the fuck are you doing? 

Ivan only smiles again.

Till scoffs. He hates this, but he has to admit, Ivan looks… weirdly good doing this. Sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing slightly as he works, focused but relaxed. 

Till pauses. “What the fuck?” he asks himself in horror.

“Dearest!” 

“Ah, sorry.” 

The gray-haired man looks away from Ivan.

He's officially back to implementing his Medusa Strategy: do not make eye contact, or perish instantly from embarrassment. It's the only way to save the shreds of his dignity. Well, not that he really has a choice. Locking eyes with Ivan right now would be like willingly remembering what happened earlier.

“Till, you should really learn how to cook from Ivan,” Io says.

Till slouches into his chair. “Why? He cooks for me.”

Ivan nods. “That’s right. You never have to worry about cooking, Till.”

The gray-haired man narrows his eyes. “That’s not a threat, right?” he asks.

Ivan hums. “What do you think?”

“It sounded like a threat,” Till answers.

“Me?” Ivan asks, all fake innocence. “I’d never. I’m just saying if you marry me, you’d never have to worry about cooking.”

Till gawks. “Marriage?!” he turns to his mom in betrayal. “Do you hear him, Mom? He’s evil. He’s plotting.”

Io, completely used to their nonsense, just pats Ivan’s arm. “Oh Ivan, you’re such a good boy.” Ivan flashes her his annoying, infuriating, god-forsaken smile. “He’s offering to cook for you for life, Till. That’s very sweet.”

Till groans as Ivan’s laughter fills the kitchen. Shaking off his frustration, he moves to set the table, ignoring the smug presence behind him.

Ivan finishes plating the sundubu jjigae, while Io arranges the mandu neatly on a serving plate. Once everything is ready, they settle into their seats. Io clasps her hands together briefly before reaching for the mandu, and Till begrudgingly spoons himself a serving of the stew. 

Across from him, Ivan eats at a steady pace, utterly at ease.

The meal continues in comfortable silence, and it takes a while before Io speaks up, breaking the peaceful lull.

Io smiles. “So? How’s Seoul and Anakt Garden, boys?” she asks.

“Good,” Till replies shortly.

“Seoul is fine, Auntie. It’s way busier and larger than Daegu. Anakt is as expected,” Ivan answers, more composed. “It’s very prestigious. The facilities are state of the art.”

“That’s good to hear.” Io nods approvingly before shifting her attention. “Ivan, does Till help you with the chores?”

Till nearly chokes on his broth. His ears redden instantly. “Of course! I wash the dishes.” Io raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Ivan, the traitor, laughs. “You know how Ivan is with cleaning,” he grumbles, stabbing at a piece of tofu. “I’d rather not get in the way of that clean freak.”

Io sighs. “You spoil him too much, Ivan.” The raven-haired man beams. “How about your studies? Is everything going well?”

Till doesn’t look up. “Mhm.”

He doesn’t want to elaborate. He made this choice himself, after all. He has no right to complain, especially not to his mother, who still sends him an allowance from time to time even if he insists that his commissions and freelancing cover his expenses just fine.

A silence follows, and Till feels the weight of Ivan’s stare pressing on him like an unspoken question. 

“Anakt’s art program is brutal, Auntie. It’s extremely competitive, and most people can’t handle the pressure, but Till’s doing fine. More than fine, actually. Till won’t say it himself, but his professors know he’s good. He's qualified for another scholarship next semester. There were barely any slots, but they picked him.”

Till lifts his gaze for the first time, and he relaxes when he sees that Ivan isn't looking at him anymore. Instead, he sees Ivan with an earnest look directed at Io like he actually means every word. 

Till's face warms.

This couldn’t possibly be the same guy who had been rubbing his scarily huge cock against Till's ass earlier. Seriously.

Io smiles, small but genuine. “Well,” she starts, “I’m glad, Till. You’ve always been great. I’m happy that you’re in an environment where you’re thriving.”

Till just nods, the warmth in cheeks settling to his chest.

Io turns to Ivan. “Ivan?” she probes. “Not having a hard time?”

Till snorts before he can stop himself. “Him? Having a hard time? That guy’s a genius, Mom. He's practically born to cure cancer.” Then in a quieter voice that doesn’t escape the other two, he adds, “That’s why he’s got a massive fucking ego.”

(His brain adds: And massive length, too. Shut the fuck up, please! Till screams internally.)

Io elbows him gently. “My dear, please, your language.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, it’s good that Seoul is treating you two well. It’s a big city, but it can feel lonely if you’re not careful. I’m glad you have each other.”

Io pauses, tilting her head slightly as she studies Ivan. “Have your parents been visiting you at all? I know they get busy, but surely they’ve made time to check in on you, right?”

Ivan takes a bite of mandu before answering. “Barely. But they’re quite busy as they are.” Then after a moment, he adds, “You should visit us too, Auntie.” Io glances at Till, who stays quiet, eyes downcast. “Till would like that.”

Io's lips twitch into a subtle, knowing smile. One that’s both fond and grateful. She doesn’t miss the way Ivan deliberately fills in the gaps Till refuses to, nor the way he gently nudges where Till himself refuses to tread.

She glances at Till. “What do you think, Till? Should I visit you two in Seoul?”

Till scrunches his nose. “Whatever you like,” he mutters, his voice casual, though the tips of his ears burn faintly. “You don’t have to or anything. It’s just… the travel can be tiring, you know?” 

Io hums, her smile widening. “Oh? Not that you wouldn’t like it, though?”

Till’s chopsticks pause mid-motion before he scoffs, turning away slightly. “I didn’t say that.” He picks up another piece of mandu and quietly places it on Ivan’s plate before returning to his own meal.

The conversation drifts, fading into a comfortable rhythm as they continue eating. Io chats idly about her neighbor’s garden, and Ivan listens, giving Io gardening advice because, of fucking course, he’s well-versed in fucking gardening too.

Till, on the other hand, focuses on his plate, the warmth in his chest still thrumming steadily. When he finishes eating, his gaze flickers to the wall clock. A beat passes, and then he stands up, pushing his chair back with a quiet scrape against the floor.

“I’m heading to my room,” he says, already turning away. “Sorry, I need to start drawing.”

And ignore Ivan, is what Till doesn't say.

He doesn’t wait for a response, but as he steps away, he catches Io’s gentle voice behind him. “Good luck, Till.”

Till only lifts a hand in acknowledgment, his steps fast as he makes his way upstairs.

Inside his room, Till tosses himself onto the bed as he runs a hand through his hair. His fingers are itching. That’s why he went upstairs immediately; he can feel the rush inside him, the rare need to create, and he doesn’t want it to slip through his fingers.

Inspiration is a fleeting thing.

While adjusting himself on the bed, his fingers pause mid-motion against his hair. Something’s missing.

His fucking sketchbook.

He glances around, checking the usual spots. The desk, the bed, even the chair, but it’s nowhere to be found. “Fucking great,” Till whispers.

With a sigh, he heads back downstairs, padding as quietly as possible toward the living room, and that's when he hears it: Io and Ivan’s voices.

He stops outside the kitchen, instinctively staying out of sight.

“Does he eat a lot in Seoul, Ivan?”

Till can’t see them, but he doesn’t need to. He can picture it. Io is probably giving Ivan one of her knowing looks, the kind that makes people admit things they don’t want to. 

“Mhm,” is Ivan’s reply. 

There’s a brief clatter of dishes being stacked before Ivan continues talking. “He eats fine. Complains a lot, but still eats. He likes the street food stalls near our apartment. Orders way too much tteokbokki, then complains when they’re not spicy enough.”

Io laughs, and Ivan continues talking. “He has a lot of friends there, and he’s pretty popular. His band does gigs outside Anakt too.”

Their conversation flows with an easy rhythm, the kind that comes from years of familiarity.

“I guess you didn't tell him that you visit Daegu frequently?” Io asks, tone gentle.

“I didn’t tell him,” Ivan admits. “He’d feel guilty, Auntie. If he knew I was visiting, he’d think he was failing you. Like he wasn’t doing enough, and he already carries too much of that weight on his own. So, no. I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t need another reason to feel bad.” 

At that, Till swallows. He should move, should stop listening, should actually go find his damn sketchbook, but instead, he lingers. 

His heart kicks against his ribs, and for a second, he wonders if they can hear it.

Daegu used to be warm. But the moment he first stood up for himself, everything changed.

Till wants to visit more often. Really, he does. But it’s just too much. So he settles for sending his mom gifts, calling her often enough that she doesn’t worry too much.

And Ivan understands that.

“Till saw him earlier,” Io says. “I can feel that he’s still feeling guilty for leaving, and I don’t want that.”

Till stares at the floor. He should really, really leave.

“He carries it with him, I know he does. Even if he doesn’t say it. He still thinks about it, about this place. About me.”

Till clenches his jaw. He does think about it. Every time he hesitates before dialing her number. Every time he buys a gift and second-guesses if it’s enough. Every waking day, he wonders if she resents him for leaving her behind and choosing himself instead.

Io exhales slowly. “I want the best for him. I want him to go, to move forward, to live his life. I never want him to think that staying here and suffering would somehow make him a better son to me.” Her voice tightens. “He’s not selfish for wanting to be free.”

She continues, “Earlier, I told him that it’s okay to want more, and it’s okay to be selfish. But knowing Till…”

Till doesn’t have to see Ivan to know that he’s smiling, the kind of quiet, knowing smile. “You know he’s too good for himself, Auntie,” Ivan says.

“Thank you, Ivan,” Io murmurs. “For always looking out for him.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Auntie.”

“I do. You’re good to him. So much.”

Ivan huffs a quiet laugh. “If anyone’s good to who, it’s Till. He’s the one who—” He stops himself, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “He doesn’t even realize it.”

“He’s all I have, Auntie. He’s always been the only one I’ve had, and I don’t know who I’d be without him,” Ivan admits. “Some people have gods. I had Till.”

Till pauses.

Somehow, instead of making him feel warm, Ivan’s words make something in Till’s chest ache. Like he’s not sure he deserves it.

──────────────────

Till sits cross-legged on his bed, his sketchbook balanced on his lap.

His fingers move without hesitation now, finding their rhythm again after weeks of frustrating stillness. The lines flow easier, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight of his art block doesn’t press so heavily on his chest. 

Instead, what's pressing on him is… everything else.

It’s Ivan.

It’s the things he’s feeling but doesn’t quite understand.

When the door creaks open, Till doesn't need to look up to know that it's Ivan who steps inside. The raven-haired man doesn’t say anything right away, and just watches Till with an unreadable expression before his eyes flick down to the sketchbook in his lap.

“You're drawing again,” Ivan observes, sitting on the bed.

Till drags his pencil over the paper one more time before letting out a small, noncommittal hum. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

He continues sketching, eyes flicking over the lines, though some part of him isn’t really paying attention anymore. Ivan’s presence is steady at his side, close enough to feel but far enough not to press. It grounds him, and it distracts him.

Till’s pencil pauses, and the gnawing feeling inside of him continues to simmer.

“Ivan,” Till calls before can stop himself.

Ivan hums in response, shifting a bit on the bed.

“Why don’t you ever date people?”

“What?”

“I mean…” Till doesn't look at Ivan, feigning casual interest. “You have the looks. It’s not like you don’t have women and men practically falling at your feet. Why don’t you date?” Till presses on before Ivan can respond. “How about that engineering senior who was spamming your phone? He seemed nice. Why don’t you give him a chance?”

Till bites his lip the moment the words leave him. He knows he’s being impulsive again, and poking at something just to deflect.

Just to protect himself.

Ivan's thick brows knit together. “What brought this?” he asks, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he leans in closer. “You won’t look me in the eye again.” 

Till grits his teeth.

“Is this about what happened earlier?” Ivan asks, low and careful, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear it from Till anyway.

The question hangs heavier than it should.

Till doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly, like he could physically push the guilt down by moving.

He had gone with it earlier, has let himself be pulled into the tension and heat, but now, it feels like he’s truly crossed a line he didn’t even realize he’d drawn until it was too late, and the realization crashes over him all at once: Ivan means too much.

This friendship means too much, and if he’s messed that up and blurred the lines beyond repair, he’s not sure he can forgive himself.

“It was stupid,” Till says, voice small. “I shouldn’t have… we shouldn’t have done that.”

Ivan's tone is unreadable when he asks, “Because it didn’t mean anything?” 

Till swallows hard, then nods. “Just biology, right? Fucking science. Stupid hormones. That’s all it was,” he tries, but the words taste sour in his mouth.

When Ivan doesn't say anything, Till sighs softly. “Look, Ivan.” His voice trembles a little, and he hates it. “You’re important to me, and I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want things to change between us. So let’s just forget what happened earlier, okay?”

“Forget?” Ivan repeats, his voice suddenly strained. He sighs, and Till hates the vulnerability in his voice when he speaks again. “I told you, Till. Nothing’s ruined unless you want it to be.”

At that, Till lifts his head slightly and finally meets Ivan’s eyes.

And for a second, just a split second, something clicks inside Till. There’s softness in Ivan’s gaze, a quiet intensity that wasn’t there before. Something honest. Something pleading.

The silence stretches between them, and in it, Till feels the shift in the air.

It all starts to thread together in his mind—

all his actions that Till had always chalked up as friendship.

It was in the way Ivan’s eyes always lingered a little too long during quiet moments. The way he stood just a little too close, always reached out first, always looked at Till like he was something more than who he was. The way he always looked after him. The way he always, always put Till first.

But maybe, maybe it was in the way Ivan always searched for him first in a crowd, too. Maybe it was in the way he treated Till’s paintings with this quiet reverence, like they were something precious. Maybe it was in the way Ivan had touched him earlier. Almost devoted. Like it was something Ivan wanted to memorize. Something sacred.

Oh.

Oh god.

Till feels the blood drain from his face. He doesn’t want to name it yet. Doesn’t want to believe it, not fully. Not until Ivan says it out loud. But he’s afraid he already knows.

He’s afraid he’s known for a long time and just refused to look it in the eye.

His grip tightens again around his pencil. Before he can stop himself, he averts his eyes from Ivan, and the words slip out, soft and raw and aching. He whispers, “Please don’t say that you like me, Ivan.”

Ivan’s eyes widen for a split second, caught off guard, like Till had peeled the words straight out of him.

There's a beat of silence before he lets out a low, humorless chuckle.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Ivan admits quietly, almost like it costs him. His gaze flickers away. “I would’ve carried it to my damn grave, but—” 

(When have I ever denied you, Till? is what Ivan doesn't say.)

Ivan stops himself and forces out a breath. “Took you long enough, Till,” he says, voice rough, like he’s trying to make light of it.

Till’s chest clenches. The confirmation hits harder than he expects. He doesn’t know what he thought Ivan would say, but hearing it out loud, undeniable and real, makes everything around him tilt.

“Ivan, you can’t.” Till's voice cracks halfway through. “You’re just confused.”

At that, Ivan actually laughs, sharp and disbelieving. He leans forward, and Till, on instinct, shifts back just slightly. “And next thing, you’ll be saying this is just a phase. Huh?” He almost sounds mean.

“That’s not what I meant,” Till says quickly, guilt flashing in his eyes.

“Yeah? Then what do you mean?” Ivan asks, voice tight with frustration. “That you were okay touching me when it didn’t mean anything? That I’m supposed to pretend it’s all fine now because you’re scared?”

“This phase of mine has been going on for a damn decade, Till.” His voice is steadier now, lower, like he’s exhausted from the weight of it. “And earlier, I actually thought that you—” He stops. “It doesn't even matter. Just... please don't tell me that I can't, because you have no idea.”

“You don’t know how many times I’ve told myself that. How many times I’ve tried to convince myself that I wasn’t capable of this. You don’t know how many nights I stayed up, trying to figure out if this was just some passing thing or if I was—if I am—really this gone for you. Trust me, I convinced myself I wasn't capable to even feel it, and that it would go away. But it didn’t. And I had to sit with that. Again and again. Until I finally let myself admit it.” Ivan takes a shaky breath. “So don’t act like this is impulsive. Like I haven’t thought about it enough.”

Till squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

“I’m not asking you to like me back,” Ivan says, voice dipping quieter. “I’m not even asking for anything, Till.” 

Till bites his lip. He shuts his mouth and stops himself from asking, But what if that's not real? 

Till was Ivan’s first friend. His only anchor. Of course Ivan would cling to him.

What if Ivan had only said these things because he never got the chance to explore, to wonder, to want someone else? 

What if it’s not real? What if Ivan only thinks he likes him because Till is all he’s ever known? Because he was the first one to stay and to offer a hand when no one else did? It’s easy to mistake safety for affection, familiarity for love, when you’ve never had anything else to compare it to.

Till exhales. He can’t let himself go there. He won’t.

“You can’t like me, Ivan,” Till repeats. The words sound pathetic even to his own ears. “You don’t.”

Ivan smiles, but it isn’t smug. It's almost painful. “Yeah, I don’t,” he murmurs, “what I feel is worse.”

Till’s throat closes up.

“I didn’t know, I-I didn’t realize. I’m so fucking stupid. You’ve been feeling this way and I didn’t even notice—”

Ivan cuts him off. “You’re not stupid, Till.”

“I am,” Till insists, frowning. “I was right in front of you this whole time. I didn’t mean to...” His voice trails off. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.” Till continues, and he misses the pained look in Ivan's eyes. “This is all my fault. I’m ruining everything.”

“I told you,” Ivan says gently, his voice steadier than Till expects. “Nothing’s ruined. Not unless you want it to be.”

Ivan lets out a quiet, breathy laugh. It's tired and bittersweet, and his black eyes drift down to the sketchbook in Till's lap, lingering on the drawing. Ivan doesn’t say anything when he sees himself on the paper.

The raven-haired man crouches down, just enough to be eye level with Till, his smile small when Till refuses to meet his eyes again. “You look even sadder than I do, Till,” Ivan says, trying to lighten the air, but there’s a fragile tremble beneath his words. “Why?”

It’s rhetorical, Till knows that.

Ivan’s not really expecting an answer, but Till’s breath hitches anyway. Because how does he say it? How does he tell Ivan that he’s sad because maybe, just maybe, Till loves him.

But it hurts, and it knots in his chest, and all he wants to do with it is to tear it apart.

──────────────────

Chapter Text

──────────────────

Till is quiet on the ride back home.

The bundled lunch boxes in his hands radiate warmth, heating his calloused fingertips. It’s a sharp contrast to the ice-cold air inside the nearly empty train.

Io had handed them to him with a soft scolding to eat properly, and a familiar reminder to try sleeping earlier for once. If she had noticed the sudden tension between her child and Ivan, she made no comment on it.

Outside the window of the moving train, the familiar scenery begins to blur into unfamiliar buildings.

Ivan is facing the window, eyes fixed on something beyond the glass. There’s a noticeable space between him and Till. He should be pressed up against Till's side by now, head resting on the shorter man’s shoulder, mouth running nonstop. But instead, it’s the silence that's pressing between them.

Till stops himself from heaving a sigh. He counts from one to ten, and when Ivan doesn't say anything, he forces himself to speak.

“Ivan.” Till bites his lower lip. “Nothing’s ruined,” he says, more to himself than to Ivan.

Till feels his throat close when Ivan turns to him just slightly, enough to meet his eyes. They're pitch-black, and the red of the emergency light near the train door reflects in them.

Ivan's voice is calm when he says, “Nothing’s ruined.”

It’s barely an assurance, with the small, trained smile on Ivan’s face. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes and show his fang.

And Till wonders if it’s selfish to want comfort from the same person he pushed away.

Till had left him alone in the room after telling the raven-haired man that he can't like him, offering no explanation nor kindness, just the soft, cowardly plea for Ivan to not to. It was hardly an outright rejection, not in words, but somehow, it's everything already.

It’s enough to break a heart if Ivan has one. 

Yet here is Till, hoping for something steady in return. For an undeserved comfort.

“And this won’t change anything?” Till asks hesitantly, the question catching in his throat.

“No,” Ivan replies. “This won’t change anything.”

Without another word, Ivan turns to face the window. His expression fades from view, swallowed by his blurry reflection on the glass.

The space between them feels even wider now.

──────────────────

Ivan has always been a liar, so Till should’ve known better than to believe him. Because five days pass, and whatever happened in Daegu changes everything.

So Till scraps his 10-step plan for two reasons:

First, Ivan likes him. There’s nothing left to prove Luka wrong about.

Second, he’s already, maybe, lost Ivan.

──────────────────

The morning after their one-day trip to Daegu, there's no half-grumbled “good morning” from the living room when Till exits his room, no clutter of notes in the living room, and no faint smell of over-brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen.

There's just silence, and a space where something used to be.

When they have dinner that night, there's an unmistakable weight in the air.

The raven-haired man doesn’t look up from his phone, and barely glances at the plate Till pushes to him. Till tries to make small talk by asking Ivan how his day went, but the conversation falls flat before it even begins.

Ivan’s responses are clipped and polite. He doesn’t even launch into one of his usual commentary about some new groundbreaking research Till couldn’t care less about, and that silence says more than anything else.

By ten in the evening, Till catches himself waiting in the living room, hoping Ivan’s door will open, half-expecting him to say something, anything, that might bring things back to normal. But the door doesn’t open, and the longer it stays closed, the colder it feels on the other side, where Till is waiting.

*

Till tries harder on the second day.

He takes his time learning how to cook bulgogi during a lecture he pays no attention to, and he leaves campus a little earlier to make sure it’s ready before Ivan gets home.

He sets the table carefully, placing the bowls just right, adjusting the chopsticks even though no one will notice, except Ivan, who's annoyingly sharp-eyed about these things. The kind of person who’d tilt his head slightly and say that the spoon’s off by a centimeter.

When Till's finished cooking, the apartment fully smells warm and sweet, like something that Ivan likes.

The gray-haired man keeps glancing at the door, waiting for it to open, and when it finally does, Till realizes that he's been holding his breath for too long.

“You’re home late,” is what Till says first.

“Mhm,” Ivan hums in response, not even bothering to look up as he slips off his shoes.

“I made dinner. Do you want to eat? I can heat it up for you,” Till asks.

“I already had dinner,” Ivan replies, heading to the direction of his room without pause. “I’m going to study now. Good night, Till.”

Till bites the inner of his cheek. “Oh, okay,” he says, voice barely audible. “Good night.”

The sound of Ivan’s door clicking shut echoes louder than it should. 

Till’s shoulders sink, and after a few seconds of just standing there in silence, he turns away and bites down on his lower lip, hard, eyes falling on the meal he spent hours preparing, still sitting untouched on the skillet.

“Well,” he mutters under his breath, “how the hell am I supposed to eat all of this by myself?”

His hand reaches out to take the food away, his movements slow and quiet.

But just as he’s about to start putting things away, he hears the soft creak of Ivan’s door opening again. Footsteps pad into the kitchen, and Till turns, startled.

“Ivan?” 

Ivan doesn’t look at him right away. He simply walks over to the table, picks up a bowl, and begins to serve himself a portion of the food without saying a word.

Till can only blink.

“I thought you had dinner already,” he says, eyes on Ivan.

Ivan doesn’t look at him. “I changed my mind,” he mutters, setting the serving spoon down with a dull clink. “I’m not full,” Ivan says, this time a little softer.

Till doesn’t move, his heart thudding stupidly hard and loud in his chest. For a second, neither of them say anything. But in the quiet, fragility lingers, like the smallest of apologies hidden between the lines.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough for the night.

*

On the third day, the sadness in Till bleeds into frustration.

Till sits on the couch, a pencil in hand, his guitar resting beside him. Sheets of handwritten music notes and chord progressions are scattered across his lap and the coffee table.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the door creak open. Ivan steps out of his room, a stack of papers in his hands; textbooks, notes, and highlighters all clutched against his chest.

It’s clear that he’s planning to study in the living room, but when he sees Till, Ivan pauses just a few steps from his door. His eyes flicker toward the couch, then to Till, as if he's weighing whether to keep walking forward or turn back. His grip on the papers tightens. It doesn't escape the gray-haired man's eyes.

And Till hates it.

He hates how carefully Ivan tiptoes around him, but most of all, Till hates how selfish it is to hate how things are now.

He knows Ivan has every right to pull away. He understands it, but understanding doesn’t make it easier.

He just wants to go back to the easy conversations, the shoulder nudges, the quiet laughter in the kitchen. He wants Ivan the way he was: warm, close, present, and it is selfish to still want that.

Everything inside Till feels tangled and knotted, guilt and longing and anger all at once. He knows he has no right to expect things to go back to the way they were. But still, deep down, there’s this desperate, aching hope that maybe Ivan could just try. Just a little.

Till exhales sharply. “You can sit here,” he mutters, not looking at Ivan. “This is your apartment anyway.”

Ivan doesn’t move, and Till’s fingers twitch. “Seriously,” he says, more bitter than he means to sound. “You don’t have to keep acting like I’m intruding.”

Till stands up, the papers slipping from his lap and falling onto the floor. He doesn’t bother picking them up.

“I’ll go to my room,” he says flatly, brushing past Ivan without another glance.

When he enters his own room, Till immediately gets his sketchbook, begins to draw, and tries to convince himself that at least this way, he could still keep Ivan in his life.

Except now, it doesn't feel like Ivan is in his life because Till wasn’t selfish enough to hold onto Ivan in a way that might break them both. 

Till thought that by rejecting him, he was protecting what they had, and that Ivan would understand. But now, he sees the flaw in that logic, the impossible contradiction of his own desires. He wants Ivan to stay close without asking for too much.

And isn’t that the cruelest kind of selfishness? 

*

Ivan initiates a conversation on the fourth day.

But it’s barely a conversation, if you could even call it that.

“Fuck!” Till’s voice rings out loudly from inside his room.

Seconds later, Till stumbles out of his room, clutching one hand in the other, his face contorted in a wince. He doesn’t even seem to notice the blood trailing down his fingers, dripping quietly onto the floor.

“I—Where the hell did I put those bandages—” Till mutters, eyes scanning the shelves near the kitchen as he moves around.

He sees Ivan enter the kitchen and when their eyes meet, Ivan immediately rushes forward to him.

Till blinks at him in surprise, but before he can protest, Ivan is already in front of him, hands reaching out instinctively. He takes Till’s injured hand gently in his own and pulls it closer, inspecting the cut.

“It’s fine—” Till starts, but Ivan isn’t listening.

“Sit down,” Ivan says firmly, guiding him to the couch on the living room. He grabs a clean kitchen towel and presses it against Till’s palm with careful, steady pressure. His brows are furrowed, mouth drawn in a tight line.

“You didn’t even notice it was this deep,” Ivan murmurs, voice low, almost scolding.

Till doesn’t say anything. He just watches Ivan quietly, breath caught in his throat. Not from pain, but from the sheer closeness of Ivan.

Ivan’s hands are warm, steady. Gentle.

“Really, what am I supposed to do with you?” Ivan mutters, eyes fixed on Till’s hand. “You’re clumsy. You're stubborn. You can’t even cook.”

Till frowns. He thinks, What the fuck does cooking have to do with this? 

He bites back the lump in his throat, and tries to find solid footing in his own voice again.

“And whose fault is that?” Till asks.

The silence that follows hangs heavy, just long enough to make Till wonder if he’s said too much.

Ivan blinks at him. “Whose fault is that?” he repeats.

Till hadn’t meant to say that, not really. But it’s like the words had been waiting to be spoken out loud.

“It’s yours,” Till snaps. “You made me like this.” His voice cracks, and he hates the way his frustration bleeds into desperation. The words come out too sharp, and yet they still sound small, too much like a child whining for attention and comfort. “And instead of taking responsibility, you’re ignoring me.”

Till shuts his eyes for a second. He knows he's being childish and irrational. But whatever. Seriously. Whatever.

He hadn’t even realized how much he needed to say it, how much he needed something from Ivan. Anything.

“I’m giving you space,” Ivan replies evenly.

“Space is not what I want,” Till says, the words coming out too quickly.

Ivan’s eyes finally meet his, sharp and mean. “Then what about me?” he asks. “Have you considered that maybe space is what I want? God, you confuse me, Till.”

And just like that, something shifts.

Ivan suddenly seems to realize what he’s doing. That his hands are holding Till’s. That his fingers are stained with Till’s blood. That he’s too close, too careful, too tender. He pulls back abruptly, the towel still pressed to Till’s hand but his own fingers no longer there.

“Once you've cleaned the wound and stopped the bleeding, apply a clean bandage,” he says before standing up.

When Ivan turns away and heads back to his room, Till curses under his breathe. And on the next two days, Till doesn't see Ivan in their apartment at all. 

──────────────────

Monday

[10:05] Luka: Hyuna wants to get coffee with you.

[14:10] Luka: Are you still in Daegu?

Tuesday

[11:11] Luka: Do you want to get lunch? It’s on me.

Wednesday

[16:13] Luka: Did you die.

Thursday

[15:25] Luka: I haven’t seen you on campus lately. Don’t tell me you’ve been skipping classes again, Till.

Friday

[09:05] Luka: I'm starting to sound like a desperate ex.

[19:05] Luka: Hyuna says she misses you.

Saturday

[18:09] Luka: Open the door.

──────────────────

“You’re a mess,” is what Luka says first the moment he steps into Till's room, his eyes scanning the messy space with mild disdain.

“What the fuck!”

“It's good to see you too.” 

Till scrambles to set down his paintbrush, the bristles smeared with streaks of blue and orange. Luka’s gaze drifts to the canvas perched on the easel. It’s a painting of a fishbowl. 

The gray-haired man wipes his hands on his already paint-streaked tank top, then pushes aside the mess on his bed without a care, making just enough room for Luka to sit.

“I’ve been texting you since Monday, and you’ve been off radar,” Luka says, his tone sharp and impatient, but there's concern beneath it. “You didn't even come in the music club room. What the hell's going on with you?”

Till chuckles, but the sound is awkward. He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy enough to ignore us for five days straight? Hyuna's worried.”

Till doesn’t even try to defend himself. He just shrugs, gaze fixed on some paint-splattered corner of the floor. “How did you even get inside?” Till asks, trying to shift the conversation.

“How else? I picked the door lock,” Luka replies. Till cracks a tired smile. “Obviously, Ivan let me in.”

At the mention of Ivan’s name, Till visibly winces. It’s subtle, but Luka catches it anyway. Luka raises an eyebrow at the reaction.

“I was going to start with some pleasantries, really, but god, you’re an open book, Till,” the blond man says. Then with a sigh, he adds, “Let’s get to the point, then. Well? What happened between you and Ivan?”

Till squeezes his eyes shut for a second. Ah.

“Nothing—”

“Cut me with that bullshit. Tell me.”

“Ugh! Really, nothing happened!”

“Till.”

“Fine, you asked for this, Luka.”

“Jesus, why do you sound like you’re about to throw a punch? I’m just asking you to vent, not to swing at me.” 

There’s tension in Till's shoulders, in the way he stands at the edge of his bed like he’s not sure if he’s about to sit down or bolt for the door. But the moment has already cracked open, anyway.

With a heavy sigh, Till drops down beside Luka and rakes a hand through his hair. He leans forward, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor, then quietly, he starts to speak.

Till tells Luka that Ivan likes him, how he found out, how he knew even before it was said aloud, how it terrified him, and how he shut it down before it could take shape. He hadn’t even offered Ivan an explanation, hadn’t had the courage to soften the blow. Just a plea that was gutless and unfair.

Till doesn’t leave out the part that shames him most: the way Ivan had asked why Till looked sadder than he was, and how it was because Till has feelings for Ivan too. At that, Till expects Luka to react quickly, but the blond man doesn’t say anything, so Till continues.

The gray-haired man tells Luka about the way Ivan said nothing would change, like it was meant to be comforting. But everything changed anyway. And Till, with a quiet voice, admits that he still clings to the idea of things going back to how they were, even though he knows it’s foolish. 

When Till finishes talking, he chews the bottom of his cracked lip, and guilt starts to settle in his chest again.

Luka leans back slightly, processing it all. Then, “So? What’s exactly the problem?” His tone isn’t unkind, just puzzled.

“You told Ivan that he can’t like you. He listened. He stopped doing all the weird shit he was doing before. He’s not acting on his feelings anymore. So... what’s the problem?” Luka repeats the last part slowly.

Till swallows. “If you put it like that, then there’s no problem.”

“Because there really is no problem, Till. You can’t expect him to bounce back to being your personal leech just because you’re uncomfortable with the sudden distance between you two now,” Luka says. “He admitted his feelings, and you told him, and I quote, ‘you can’t like me.’”

“I know,” Till says. “It's just... I don’t fucking know,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of his own frustration.

Luka lets out a short laugh. It's not mocking, just quietly amused by the irony of it all. “You’re having withdrawal symptoms. From Ivan stopping terrorizing your life.”

Till smiles, small and tired. There’s something oddly comforting about Luka saying it like that; putting a name to the ache in Till's chest.

The gray-haired man glances at Luka, eyes weary but still glinting with a familiar hint of mischief. “By the way, I do not have fifty bucks.”

Luka huffs. “Fifty bucks isn’t even enough for the brain damage I’m getting from the both of you.” 

Till snorts, shoulders finally relaxing a little for the first time in days. “Dude, you’re rich as fuck. You don’t need fifty bucks.” He pushes his shoulder against Luka's.

“That’s not the point,” Luka says. “I at least deserve compensation. Emotional reparations. Therapy consultation fee. A fruit basket.”

“You want a fruit basket?”

“Peace of mind would be good, yes.” 

“You're no peace of mind yourself,” Till says. Then he laughs quietly. “Okay, how exactly can I give you peace of mind?” 

Luka rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t fight the grin tugging at his lips. “Honestly? We’re both awful at this, Till. I may not have the right words, but I know someone who does, and if you listen to her, then maybe I'll get my peace of mind.”

Till’s face twists in suspicion.

“Put on some clothes,” Luka says, already standing and heading for the door. “Let me introduce you to an expert before you make a bigger mess out of this.” 

──────────────────

The bar is dimly lit, humming with loud music and the occasional clink of glasses. Red lights spill from overhead fixtures.

Till stares at the pink-haired girl in front of him and Luka.

It’s obvious that she had just been pulled away from another table; her seat still warm, half a cocktail left behind, and a group of friends casting curious glances from across the room. Her presence here wasn’t pre-planned, not really. More like Luka had cornered her mid-night out, and dragged her into whatever conversation he had cooked up for the night.

She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Mizi smiles like this is all perfectly normal, like playing therapist to Till is just another part of her weekend plans.

“The expert is... Mizi?” Till asks.

“Mhm,” Luka replies. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Till raises an eyebrow at Luka, then at Mizi who’s sitting in front of them with a wide, cheerful smile. 

“Since when did you become friends with this entity?” Till mutters.

Mizi laughs. “Since we were introduced over samgyeopsal!”

“You do know this man is a hemorrhagic virus, yes?” Till asks, eyes narrowing at Luka.

“Mizi and I are literally best friends now,” Luka replies without missing a beat.

Till turns to Mizi slowly, eyes full of betrayal.

He doesn’t bring up the fact that when Mizi first saw Luka months ago, she had whispered to Till that the blond man looked like bad news.

And the thing is, Mizi liked everyone. Mizi could make friends with a brick wall. So for someone to leave a bad first impression on her without a word? Mhm. Luka just screams evilness even without opening his mouth.

“Best friends?” Till repeats with a frown, his brows pulling together. He doesn't know why, but he feels like Mizi punching Luka would’ve made more sense than them being friends. They’re extremely different.

“Come on you two, shush,” Mizi says with a smile, reaching over the beverages and handing each of them a drink. She cracks open her own with practiced ease. Till recognizes the move. She’s clearly no lightweight, much like Till. “So? Luka texted me about your situation with Ivan, Till.”

At that, Till flushes red. “Luka, what the fuck? You can’t just air out my business like that to people.”

A flicker of hurt passes through Mizi’s eyes, subtle but visible.

Luka, on the other hand, fights back a smirk. “Mizi isn’t just people.”

“I–I know!” Till quickly turns to Mizi, guilt creeping in. “It’s not like that, Mizi! I just don't want to… burden you with my problems.”

Mizi’s small frown softens into an understanding smile. “Oh, Till. Don’t worry about it. I want to help! You and Ivan are two of my closest friends. Of course I care.” She shifts a little closer. “I’ve been watching from the sidelines for a while, you know?”

She continues without pause, “So maybe it’s time I gave you a little advice. Not to meddle, but because I care. You’ve been holding so much in, Till. But in the process, you’ve been hurting yourself. And whether or not you want anything to change between you and Ivan… don’t you think you owe it to both of you to stop pretending you don’t care as much as you do?”

Till blinks.

“Uhm,” is Till's intelligent reply. “I want to say this in the nicest way possible, but what the fuck, Mizi?” 

Mizi and Luka burst into laughter.

“You’re so straight to the point,” Till grumbles, crossing his arms. “Maybe some pleasantries first? A ‘hello, Till, how have you been?’ or ‘wow, you look terribly sleep-deprived today, what’s new?’ Something?”

Mizi just shakes her head. “I’ve been watching you two for more than a decade. I think I’ve earned the right to skip the pleasantries. Do you know how exhausting it is to watch you two? I deserve a loyalty award at this point!”

Till squints at her, and before the gray-haired man can say something, Mizi speaks up again, “I don't need details, don't worry! I’ve been thoroughly oriented by Luka while you two were on your way here, yes. But I also have eyes, Till.”

Till throws Luka a sharp look.

Luka shrugs, unbothered. “What? I figured I should pull in the one person you’d actually listen to instead of biting my head off. Desperate time calls for desperate measures.”

Till groans and covers his face. “This is so embarrassing.”

Mizi laughs. Her gaze lingers on Till for a moment. Fond, knowing, and just a little serious beneath the grin.

“Do you want me to be honest?” Mizi asks.

Till nods, accepting his fate. “Go on, fucking shoot at it, Mizi. Give me your honest advice.”

“Okay!” she says brightly. Then she adds, “What you’re doing is selfish, Till.”

It lands like an arrow in Till’s head.

“You’ve grown accustomed to Ivan’s warmth,” she continues. “But you can’t just tell him to stop liking you and expect him to act the same way. You do like the attention and affection, but Ivan probably stopped all of that because he thinks you’re uncomfortable. Besides, you’re asking Ivan to compartmentalize his feelings. That’s unfair, even if not intentionally cruel.”

Two more arrows land in Till's head.

“My only advice,” Mizi says carefully, “is to be honest about your fears. Instead of telling Ivan that he can’t like you, how about being honest and admitting that the truth is, you’re scared his feelings aren’t real? If Ivan truly cares, he’ll work through those feelings of yours with patience.”

Till presses his lips together.

“You don’t have to jump into anything you’re not ready for,” Mizi adds. “But you could at least give space for Ivan’s feelings to breathe, instead of smothering them out of fear. Your feelings are valid, but so are his. Don’t you think he deserves a chance? A chance to know what’s really on your mind, and to prove his feelings too? Well, what do you want to do? The ball is still in your court, Till.”

Till exhales shakily, gaze dropping when Mizi’s hand rests over his. 

“I... I don’t want to lose him,” Till admits. “I thought pushing him away would protect us from the mess, but it just made everything worse.”

He swallows, eyes flickering between Mizi and Luka. “I miss him. And, I don’t know, I’m still confused about everything. But what I do know is… I have feelings for him too.”

Mizi squeezes his hand gently. “Then take your time to figure it out, Till. You don’t have to have it all sorted right away. Just don’t kill it off completely before you even give it a chance.” She laughs softly.

The pink-haired girl turns to Luka with a knowing look. “You know, Ivan was a menace during high school. It used to be him who was emotionally stunted. Well, not that he’s completely fixed now, but when it comes to Till? He’s learned how to be honest, painfully honest, even.”

“They used to misunderstand each other. A lot. And they had this massive fight back in high school. Like, almost friendship-ending, and after that, Ivan took the time to learn how to communicate. In his own Ivan way, at least.” Mizi shakes her head, amused. “Who knew Till, of all people, would end up just as emotionally constipated?”

Luka chuckles, nudging Till lightly with his elbow, as if to say she’s not wrong. And for a moment, Till feels a strange warmth settle in his chest.

He remembers how Ivan used to shut down every time emotions got too loud. Not out of coldness, but because he didn’t know what to do with the feelings he couldn’t name.

He never talked about what hurt, and never explained what he needed. Till, for a while, had taken it personally. He’d cried once, and told Ivan he thought he hated him. And something must’ve cracked in Ivan then because after that, he started trying. Slowly. Clumsily. But he did. Bit by bit, Ivan learned to put his feelings, the more simpler ones, into words, if only so Till would never have to wonder again.

When Till looks at Mizi, the patience and understanding in her eyes remind him of Ivan.

Something lifts inside his chest. Like a knot that had been sitting tight for days finally loosens. 

Mizi gently tugs his hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let's get things off your pretty little head for tonight.”

Till lets out a reluctant chuckle, shaking his head, but he doesn’t pull away.

Over the loud music, the pink-haired girl insists they should party, just a little. 

They end up on the dance floor under pulsing lights, laughter echoing between beats, their movements blending with the crowd. The music is loud and dizzying, and for the first time in days, Till lets himself go.

Things start to blur. Some guy tries to hit on Till, leaning too close with a grin that Till doesn’t return. Luka steps in with a hand slung casually over Till’s shoulder, and the stranger backs off immediately. They laugh about it afterward, drinks in hand, though Luka keeps a quiet eye on Till and Mizi throughout the night.

After a while, they find a couch in a quieter corner. Till rests his head on Luka’s shoulder without thinking, eyes half-lidded and warm from the drink. Till doesn’t get drunk, he never really does, but he’s had one too many, and the weight of everything slowly drags him down. He doesn’t notice Luka snapping a picture of them—Till curled up like that, looking soft and tired—and using Till’s phone to send the photo to Ivan.

By the time Luka lets out a quiet, evil laugh, Till’s fast asleep.

[21:30] Till: image

[21:30] Till: This is Luka. I'll take Till to my apartment.

[21:31] Till: Well, unless you aren't busy and can pick him up.

──────────────────

Till remembers someone saying it’s time to go. He remembers someone cursing softly, and warm hands helping him up.

And now, when the gray-haired man blinks his eyes open again, the world is in motion, and he’s on Ivan’s back.

His breath hitches. “What the fuck,” he croaks, brain short-circuiting. “This is too soon.”

“What's too soon?” Ivan asks. Till flusters.

It's too soon to face you, is what Till doesn’t say.

He thinks, I should’ve gathered my thoughts. Cleared my head. Sorted through everything before I talked to you. But now you’re here, and I’m going to panic again.

Till nuzzles closer.

“You don’t have to carry me,” he says, ignoring Ivan’s question, groggy but aware enough to protest. He shifts slightly. “I’m not drunk.”

“I know. You're a very heavy drinker.”

Ivan gently steadies him as he lowers him to the floor, one arm still looped securely around Till’s waist as he guides him toward the couch. Till's legs are uncooperative and his steps are loose.

“Mhm,” Till mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “Not drunk,” he repeats, “just tired.”

“Tired enough to sleep in a loud bar,” Ivan says.

Till chuckles softly, sinking into the couch with a sigh. His body sinks deeper into the cushions as his head tips back, eyes fluttering shut like he might drift off then and there.

For a second, everything is still. Then he feels movement near his feet; Ivan kneeling quietly in front of him, fingers brushing against the edge of his shoes. He doesn’t say anything, just carefully slips them off one by one, setting them aside without fuss.

Till feels the light buzz of the alcohol in his veins.

“I miss you, Ivan.”

Ivan freezes for a heartbeat before sitting down beside him. “I haven’t gone anywhere,” he replies.

Till turns his head slightly, eyes meeting Ivan’s. “And I don’t want you to.”

Ivan chuckles under his breath, soft but tinged with ache. “Aren't you just cruel, Till?” he asks.

Till’s heart pounds so loud it drowns out the quiet hum of everything else. He’s tired of dancing around it, tired of pretending he doesn’t want more, even when it terrifies him.

And maybe it's the alcohol that's making him brave right now. Or maybe he’s just too emotionally wrung out to keep pretending anymore. But it doesn't matter. One way or another, he needs to let it out.

Till steadies his breathing. Counts from one to ten. Then he forces himself to speak.

“I’m scared,” Till says quietly, voice raw. “Scared probably is an understatement.” He lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “I'm fucking terrified, Ivan.”

Ivan blinks, caught off guard, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I’m scared you only like me because I was the first person in your life. Because I was the first person who stayed,” Till says. “It’s stupid, I know. But sometimes I think, what if it’s not really me that you like? What if you’ve just attached yourself to the first person who gave a shit?”

Ivan’s brows furrow, lips parting like he wants to speak.

Till keeps going. “Do you remember when we were kids? When I said that I wanted to be president.” He huffs out a half-smile. “And you said you wanted to be the first husband. You said it so seriously, like you’d already decided your whole life would just revolve around mine.”

Till’s voice cracks. “And as a kid, I was so flattered back then. But now I’m just… terrified. Because what if I mess this up? What if you’re only still here because you never looked at anyone else long enough to realize I’m not what you want? What if I’m just convenient familiarity?”

He finally looks up at Ivan, eyes searching. “I didn’t say all that shit to hurt you, Ivan. I said it because I was afraid. And I still am.”

It takes a full ten seconds before Ivan reacts.

When the raven-haired man laughs, it's bitter, almost disbelieving, and Till flinches at the reaction.

He knows that exact laugh. It’s the kind of laugh Ivan uses when he’s about to be mean and make it hurt.

“So that’s what you think of me? That I’m some emotionally stunted little orphan who just clings to the first person who paid him attention?”

Till feels his heart break. “Ivan—”

“No, really, Till. Do you think I’m that small? That incapable of having my own goddamn feelings?” Ivan’s voice rises.

He continues, “You think I’ve been sticking around you for years just because I’m starved for affection? You think I’ve spent all this time, caring and worrying about you just because I didn’t know any better?”

Till opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Ivan shakes his head, frustrated. “You think it’s easy for me to feel like this? You think I haven’t sat myself every night and forced myself to believe that my heart doesn’t beat for you? I chose you not because you were the first person in my life, but because you’re the one I want in it. But sure. Reduce everything I’ve ever felt to some childhood trauma bullshit. That really makes me feel great.”

Till winces when Ivan curses. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

Ivan smiles meanly. “But you said it like that. You don’t get to pick apart my feelings, then act like I’m the irrational one.”

Till fumes, eyes starting to burn. “Well, fuck you! What the fuck do you even see in me then?” His voice cracks with frustration. “You said it yourself. I’m clumsy, I'm stubborn, I can’t even fucking cook! And, god, I'm always angry, so oddly competitive, I’m a disaster, and you know it!”

“And I love you,” Ivan says plainly. Softly. Steadily. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Till feels his breath still in disbelief, and then with ache. “But you love me?” 

“And I love you,” Ivan corrects. “I love you because of those reasons, not in spite of them.”

“Don’t tell me I don’t, or that I can’t because I’ve spent my whole life navigating this. Picking it apart, testing it, questioning it to make sure it was real. To make sure it wasn’t just comfort or dependency. To make sure I’m even capable of feeling it.”

“I’ve lived with it, fought it, and every time, I’ve come back to the same place: you. I know you Till, and you know me. You know I’ve always struggled with this, emotions, and I don’t…” Ivan’s voice trails off. “I don’t say things like this lightly. It’s love. Has always been. And I’m not afraid of saying it. Not anymore.”

Till bites down on his lip, hard, like he’s trying to keep everything else from spilling out.

The gray-haired man’s voice wavers. “If you were to open yourself to other people, give them a chance, explore your options, you wouldn’t choose me. You’d realize that we were better off as best friends. That this, whatever this is, was just comfort. Familiarity. Fucking nostalgia.”

Ivan takes Till’s trembling hand without hesitation and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Till’s breath hitches. Ivan’s quiet tenderness should soothe him, but it only makes the panic worse. Because it’s too much. It's too sincere and safe.

He can’t stand how exposed he feels under Ivan’s gaze. How everything in him wants to believe it and yet refuses to. How badly he wants to tear it down before it can disappear on its own.

So Till does the one thing he’s good at.

He reaches for something cruel and ugly.

Till's fingers twitch in Ivan’s hold before pulling away. He stands abruptly, his strides taking him into his room, and his eyes land on the crumpled sheet on his pegboard.

He grabs the paper roughly before exiting his room and throwing it at Ivan’s chest.

Ivan catches it midair, startled. His brows knit together as he unfolds it slowly.

Till’s voice is flat when he admits, “Luka and I made a bet over you.”

Ivan’s head lifts sharply, eyes narrowing, confusion flashing in them before going cold.

“If you noticed that I was acting weird lately,” Till continues, “that’s why. Fifty bucks on your fucking name.”

Ivan’s eyes flick back to the paper, scanning it. The silence stretches heavily between them before the raven-haired man speaks again. “To push me away?”

Till nods once, and Ivan doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just keeps looking at the note. His jaw tenses slightly, but he doesn’t crumble nor lash out.

“What exactly were you trying to prove with this list?”

Till’s throat feels tight. “That you don't have feelings for me,” he answers. He wants to yell, to scream, to ask why Ivan isn’t mad, why he won’t just walk out like he’s supposed to. “But that’s not the point. We made a bet to test you until you break.”

“Ten steps,” Till says. “Ten stupid, pathetic steps designed to piss you off, to make you hate me, to prove that whatever you feel for me isn’t real. It's just habit. Leftover affection from our bullshit childhood.”

Still, Ivan says nothing.

Till’s breathing grows uneven.

“You’re not angry yet?” Till scoffs bitterly. “Seriously? I bet on your feelings like they were a fucking game, and you’re still just standing there like you’re above it all?”

“Come on, Ivan,” he pushes. “Yell at me. Call me selfish. Call me cruel. Tell me I’m a fucking coward because I am. You should be furious.”

Ivan stares at him. There’s a flicker of something—hurt, yes, and frustration too—but underneath it, there’s still that maddening patience and goddamn love Ivan claims to feel.

That’s not real, Till thinks.

Love doesn’t survive all the ugly parts. It shouldn’t survive the yelling and the fear. It shouldn’t still be there in Ivan’s eyes after everything Till’s done to push him away.

“You want me to be angry?” Ivan asks quietly, and Till braces himself.

The raven-haired man continues. “Fine. I am angry. I’m angry that you think so little of yourself. I’m angry that you’d rather burn everything down than let someone in. I'm so angry at Urak I could kill him.”

Ivan takes another look at the paper again and lets out a laugh, low and breathy.

“You are the most stubborn person to walk this earth, Till. Do you really think a stupid bet and a few cruel words are going to make me hate you?”

Till’s eyes flick back up to meet Ivan’s, and Ivan has a crooked sort of smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. It’s almost fond.

And Till’s heart aches.

The raven-haired man takes Till’s hand again. “If you ever tell me, really tell me, that you want me to hate you, that you want me to go and leave, I’ll leave.” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “If you don’t feel an ounce of anything for me, I’ll walk away. No questions, no anger.”

Till opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The words won’t form. Not because he doesn’t want to say them, but because they’d be a lie. A cruel, empty thing that would crumble the second it leaves his lips.

He wants to say it, and end this before he falls any deeper, but the truth lodges in his chest. He can’t say it.

Because it’s only now, in the heat of this moment, with every instinct screaming to pull away and protect himself, that Till finally feels the uncertainty that’s been lingering on his mind and heart come to a halt and steadies. 

Then it crashes to him, loud and unrelenting and messy.

Till does love him, and it’s not a maybe anymore.

But the words lodge in his throat, too big to speak and to hand over just like that. So instead, Till just looks at Ivan with wide eyes, conflicted and vulnerable, and somehow, that’s enough.

Because Ivan knows him like the back of his hand. He knows every nuance, every flicker in his expression, every word he doesn't say. He reads Till’s silence like a language only the two of them share.

Ivan’s gaze softens. He squeezes Till’s hand. “But if this is just fear talking, then I’m not falling for it. I’m still going to be here.”

“I've known you for fourteen goddamn years, Till. I’ve seen you at your worst, at your loudest, at your most stubborn. And I still want you. Every stupid part.” Ivan smiles. “I've known you for fourteen years,” he repeats, “so if you need time, I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it.”

He shifts closer, eyes locked on Till’s like he’s trying to carve the truth into him. “Just say the word, and I’ll stay. Just... don’t tell me I’m not allowed to love you.” His voice breaks slightly. “Please don’t do that because I’ve already said it to myself, thousands of times, yet here am I.”

Till doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath, not until the silence stretches, and he sees it: the way Ivan is just waiting, steady and open, like he’s not truly expecting anything. Just Till's honesty. 

When Till finally speaks, his voice is quiet but threaded with disbelief and tenderness. “You’re more stubborn than I am.”

Ivan huffs a breath of laughter, shaky and small.

Till swallows, gaze flicking up to meet Ivan’s. “You won’t leave?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Even if it takes me years to figure out what I want to do with… everything I feel?”

Ivan smiles. “Even if it takes a lifetime. I’m not leaving. Not unless you ask me to. As long as you'd have me, I'm here,” Ivan says again, firmer now. “You, you’re where I want to stay.”

“So go ahead. Try to make me hate you. Throw your every fear at me. Tear me apart if you need to. Push, shove, scream. Make a thousand bets.” Ivan places the crumpled paper gently into Till's hand. “Do your worst, Till.”

Ivan's hand rises gently to cup Till’s cheek, fingers brushing just beneath his eye. “So I can prove that this, this isn't blind devotion. It's the clearest decision I've ever made.”

──────────────────

[23:02] Luka: Text me when you wake up, so I can know that you didn’t die from alcohol poisoning.

Message not sent!

[23:02] Luka: And btw, I’m the one who texted Ivan, lol. You can thank me tomorrow, Till.

Message not sent!

[23:15] Luka: ?

Message not sent!

[23:15] Luka: Why are my messages not sending?

Message not sent!

[23:37] Luka: Did he block me on your phone. What the fuck.

Message not sent!

[23:37] Luka: IVAN I’M LITERALLY ON YOUR SIDE.

Message not sent!

──────────────────

Chapter Text

Ivan sat in the thick haze of cigar smoke filling the limousine, watching as Unsha exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the glowing embers before they crumbled into ashes.

Across from Unsha, his wife, Noeul, sat rigid, her red lips pressed into a disappointed line.

“He seemed like the most promising one,” Unsha said, his voice calm as he took another slow drag. 

Noeul scoffed. “Promising?” She turned her sharp gaze to the small boy. “Look at him!”

“He doesn't talk,” she continued, voice laced with nothing but distaste. “And that crooked tooth of his…” her voice trailed off. “Even his eyes are unsettling. God, Unsha, couldn’t you have picked someone,” Noeul cleared her throat, “less terrifying? The press will eat this alive.”

Unsha laughed, shaking his head as he tipped his cigar away from himself. “A picture-perfect child wouldn’t be so convincing, my love,” he said. “What do you think people want to see? Some pristine little doll? Of course they’d want to see some child who needed saving.” 

Noeul sighed sharply. “This is a mistake.”

“No,” Unsha replied. “This is strategy. What better way to secure the trust of people other than this little thing?” 

“And besides, he’s obedient.” Reaching out, Unsha ran his fingers through Ivan’s black, almost unkempt, hair. “Aren’t you, boy?”

Ivan lifted his eyes and simply nodded. 

“He’s quiet, yes,” Unsha agreed. “Doesn’t talk much, but that’s better. Easier to shape. To mold into exactly what we need. You can dress him up however you like. Make him pitiable, charming. Whatever sells the best story. I’m sure he’ll look just the way you want,” he said. “Neat little clothes, designer, I don’t care. But pity... pity is what we need today.”

Unsha tapped his cigar against the ashtray. “And don’t touch his crooked tooth. At least not now. That little fang of his makes him look human, somehow.” The man let out a low, humorless laugh.

Ivan remained still, his hands resting in his lap as he sat and waited.

When the limousine stopped and the doors opened, the flashing lights of cameras greeted them, and a perfectly orchestrated scene unfolded: South Korea’s medical elite, press members murmuring in approval, and the immediate admiration from the general public.

Noeul stepped out first, her expression sorrowful but poised. She was the picture of a woman who had suffered, yet still found the strength to give.

Unsha followed, leading Ivan forward, and the cameras clicked in rapid succession.

“He is a gift to us,” Noeul announced. “A miracle in our darkest time, when we thought we’d never have one again.”

Unsha placed a firm hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “We wanted to open our home and hearts to a child in need, and it is our honor to give him a better life.”

Ivan did not flinch when Unsha lifted him, nor did he stiffen when Noeul pressed a trembling kiss to his cheek.

Ivan did not react because he understood the performance—a grieving woman, robbed of motherhood, finding salvation in a child who had nothing, and a man of influence and benevolence, extending his hand to the forsaken.

He had always been good at adapting. It was how he had survived in the slums, after all.

Ivan's earliest memories were not of a mother’s warm cradle, but of hunger and its gnawing persistence. He learned young that crying did nothing. There was no mother to soothe him, and no gentle hands to brush away his tears. The world did not stop for his pain, so he stopped acknowledging it.

Emotions were nothing but liabilities, weakness invited punishment, and Ivan learned to read people instead.

To gauge their tempers in the sharpness of their eyes, the clench of their jaws, the subtle movement of their fingers before they struck. He learned when to beg, when to run, and when to disappear into the cracks of the city. Obedience had kept him safe. Usefulness had kept him fed.

And when Unsha came for him, Ivan understood, with the same sharp clarity that had kept him alive all these years, that this was not salvation but a transaction.

He was not their son, he was their investment.

But Ivan didn’t care about titles; he could be whatever they wanted him to be, so long as he never had to go back to the slums.

──────────────────

조선일보

20XX

Cure Industries’ CEO Adopts Busan Slum Orphan

In a heartfelt display of generosity, esteemed medical professionals and Cure Industries CEO, Dr. Unsha Lee along with his wife, Dr. Noeul Lee, has officially adopted a young boy from the slums of Busan three years after the tragic death of their only child. The couple, known for their groundbreaking contributions to the healthcare industry, shared that their decision was driven by a deep commitment to embracing parenthood once more.

The public has responded with overwhelming admiration, praising the couple for their compassion, and commending them for providing the child with a second chance at life.

Following this wave of goodwill, Dr. Unsha Lee has formally announced his candidacy for a position in the Ministry of Health and Welfare (MOHW).

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조선일보

20XX

Ivan Lee Takes the Spotlight with First Endorsements

Just three months after his first public appearance, Ivan Lee has already begun making waves beyond the political sphere. The four year old child, admired by the general public for his charm, has landed his first endorsements. 

Brands have taken notice of his growing appeal, with many eager to associate their names with the child. From luxury children’s clothing to philanthropic campaigns, Ivan’s presence is quickly spreading everywhere in the nation.

There are even talks of the child entering the acting industry, with renowned directors and producers reportedly expressing interest in featuring him in upcoming projects. While no official statement has been made, speculations continue to grow.

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조선일보

20XX

Ivan Lee Celebrates Fifth Birthday

One year after his first public appearance, Ivan Lee has become nearly unrecognizable from the frail child first introduced to the world. Now celebrating his fifth birthday, he has grown into a healthy, well-mannered young boy.

Many have noted his striking resemblance to the late son of Minister of Health Dr. Unsha Lee and Cure Industries CEO Dr. Noeul Lee, a similarity that has only deepened public affection for the child. His poised demeanor and exceptional academic progress at his small age have led to widespread praise, with some calling him the heir to the Lee family's remarkable medical legacy.

In a recent statement, Dr. Unsha Lee described Ivan as nothing short of a miracle, saying, “He is a blessing to us, just like our son before him. We see the same brilliance in him. He was truly meant to be part of our family.”

As Ivan continues to grow under the care of one of the nation’s most esteemed families, the public watches with great anticipation for what his future may hold.

──────────────────

조선일보

20XX

Ivan Lee: A Prodigy or a Well-Crafted Lie?

Despite the widespread admiration for Ivan Lee’s remarkable transformation, quiet murmurs have begun to surface regarding the young boy’s development. While publicly praised for his intelligence and grace, some speculate that the child may be struggling behind closed doors.

Sources close to the Lee family have talked about possible speech difficulties, with claims that Ivan speaks less than expected for a child his age. Others suggest he faces challenges with reading, fueling speculation that his early years in the slums may have left a lasting impact.

Though no official statement has been made, rumors have sparked debate among experts and the public alike.

Is Ivan truly the prodigy the nation has embraced, or has his brilliance been carefully crafted by the Lee family?

──────────────────

Noeul didn’t come to say goodbye.

For two years now, she had been playing the role of a mother to Ivan, but it had never become more than that. There was no warmth in her touch. Ivan had never been her son, only a shadow of the one she had lost. A very poor imitation, in her words.

Over time, Ivan had come to notice the stark difference in how his benefactors treated him. 

While Unsha showered him with lavish gifts, poorly disguising his ulterior motives, Noeul spent her days nitpicking every little thing Ivan did. The couple often fought over him, with Noeul always insisting that they fix Ivan’s crooked teeth. And now, as Ivan was being sent away, Noeul didn’t even spare him a glance. 

“I’ve fed and dressed you well, haven’t I?” Unsha’s voice snapped Ivan back to reality. “I’ve given you everything you could possibly need.”

Unsha crouched down before Ivan. The weight of his hand was deceptively gentle as it smoothed over Ivan’s hair. 

There was no need for an answer. It was not a question, but a reminder.

“Once you’re fixed, you can come back here.” Unsha’s hand withdrew.

“You could come back,” he repeated. “After all, you’re my child. But for now, while you’re still faulty, you’ll be living in Daegu,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me, Ivan.”

When Ivan was escorted into the car, he didn't look back to Unsha, and when they reached Daegu, with his appointed guardian guiding him out into unfamiliar streets, only one thought remained in Ivan’s mind: he wasn’t going back to the slums.

Not ever again.

──────────────────

Ivan was not Ivan Lee in Daegu.

At least, that’s what his guardian told the rare few who thought he looked a little too familiar, like a certain child star whose face he didn’t just resemble, but whose name he shared too.

But most people never noticed anyway.

He was a popular kid on the mainland, but despite being in the urban city of Daegu, he was sent to the more rural outskirts of it, with ample population and facilities to blend in, yet still enough for Ivan to keep a low profile. People barely noticed, really.

Still, Ivan was always told that he shouldn’t leave his new shelter. But he didn’t mind. He wasn’t here to go around and sightsee anyway. 

In Daegu, he was something to be fixed. A project waiting to be shaped into the perfect image of what Unsha needed him to be.

Every second of his day was accounted for. His mornings began with strict speech exercises, each syllable drilled into him until his tongue obeyed. And speech alone wasn’t enough. His tone had to be controlled as well, so they made him sing. He spent hours in front of a mirror, his voice guided by an instructor who cared little for his comfort and everything for precision. 

Reading lessons followed, and every stumble over a word was met with strict correction and longer sessions.

Intelligence was not optional, it was demanded. But it wasn't just about his speech or intelligence; Ivan’s smile was trained. He was told when to bare his teeth, when to soften, when to let it linger just long enough to seem genuine but never too much to be questioned. His mannerisms were corrected.

All of these things were ingrained into the little boy so deeply, so that when he returned to Seoul, no one would question him. Not his intelligence, and not his right to stand beside the Lees.

And so, Ivan learned to erase more than just his flaws, and Unsha continued to send him lavish gifts.

──────────────────

Ivan had already taught himself, long ago, that emotions were nothing but hindrance. In the slums, they made him weak. But here, they were something worse. They were proof that he was not perfect.

His first year of being adopted had been about learning how to be human. Now, the lesson had changed. It wasn’t enough to be human, he had to be perfect. Everything had to be calculated, as though his existence was a performance, and every moment had to be rehearsed.

People had desires, they had limits, and they needed love. But Ivan was not allowed the same privilege. Desires, limits, love, dreams, emotions—

they were liabilities, and Ivan could not afford liabilities.

Liabilities end up in failure, and failure meant being discarded. And if suppression was what it took for him to survive, then suppression it was.

──────────────────

Then six-year-old Ivan met Till.

And for the first time in his life, Ivan learned what it’s like to want despite the hollow certainty that he was never meant to.

──────────────────

As a child, Ivan had learned to watch and predict people, but all of his perceptions were just about the external cues: someone's body language, the crease on their forehead, the click of their tongue. When it came to understanding what they felt and why they did so, Ivan struggled.

But Till, the boy who lived across his new shelter, was different.

Till didn’t need to be read.

Everything he felt was right there, written all over his face. There was no calculation nor attempt to conceal. When Till was happy, he laughed. When he was upset, he cried. He never held back, never hid.

Ivan didn’t understand him.

It wasn’t just strange, it was completely reckless. Dangerous, even. Because leaving yourself open meant leaving yourself vulnerable. It was an invitation to be hurt.

People could use what you felt against you, yet Till never seemed to care, and Ivan told himself that it was stupid, the gray-haired boy's carelessness. 

But he watched anyway.

Watched the way Till’s entire face lit up when he was excited, the way his nose scrunched when he was annoyed, the way his cheeks reddened when he was embarrassed, the way his brow furrowed when he was thinking so hard his thoughts might spill out of his mouth.

Ivan watched, and for some reason, he could never look away.

──────────────────

Maybe it had something to do with his family, Till's carelessness.

Because as Ivan observed Till with his parents, he could tell that they were different from others.

The small, raven-haired boy had never seen a family like Till's before, and he had seen families of all kinds. But Till’s small family was different. It was his first time seeing a family that felt easy, like love wasn't something that had to be earned through achievements or proved through suffering. 

Ivan had never truly understood what love was supposed to feel like, anyway.

He had only learned about the word in Seoul, when Noeul would tell him she loved him during her interviews, and Ivan would watch on the TV, trying to fix the meaning in his mind.

For Ivan, emotions always felt out of his reach, as if they were something distant. Something he could observe, but never truly experience.

But Till often said that he loved his family, and with what little Ivan understood of emotions, maybe Till was right. Maybe this was what love was supposed to look like.

Not that it mattered. Love was an indulgence, and indulgences were not meant for Ivan.

“What are you thinking, Ivan?” Io asked, her voice gentle but curious.

Ivan gave her a smile. Practiced, effortless. “I'm thinking about how your mandu tastes great, Auntie.”

Io chuckled softly and placed another generous serving onto Ivan’s plate without a word, as if feeding him was a given and not a calculated exchange.

“I'll help you with the dishes later, Auntie,” Ivan offered.

“Oh, you sweet boy.” Io chuckled. “You can barely reach the sink! Help me when you're much taller.”

The gray-haired woman leaned in closer and smiled. “By the way, are you the one who bought those kitchen gloves?”

The raven-haired boy simply nodded. “Mhm,” he answered without thinking. “Your hands become red whenever you wash the dishes.”

At that, Io ruffled his hair and pulled at his cheeks gently. “Sweet, sweet boy,” she repeated. 

Ivan only smiled and continued to eat. Io always called him sweet, and he never really knew why.

He had now become a frequent visitor in their household. Though Ivan had moved in Daegu five months ago, it was only now that he started going outside because he met Till on a chance encounter, and Till preferred playing outside than inside Ivan’s large, cold mansion. 

Ivan didn’t mind it even when his guardian often scolded him for it because Ivan discovered that he preferred playing outside, too. 

From across the table, Till suddenly yelped, and both Ivan and Io's attention turned to the boy.

“Agh! It’s so hot!” 

“That’s what you get for being impatient.”

Till whined, still chewing, and Ivan watched him in quiet fascination.

Urak reached over to wipe Till’s face, shaking his head at the mess Till had made of himself. There was no reprimand, and Ivan, again, didn’t understand them. But this warmth that surrounded them, this effortless, unquestioning affection, made Ivan feel like Till was deserving of it.

Not like him, no. He could never imagine such unconditional warmth being directed his way.

──────────────────

“Practicing your smile again?”

Ivan took one last look at his reflection in the puddle, his fingers pulling at his cheeks to widen his smile. Then with a satisfied nod, he turned away and dropped down beside Till, pressing against his side as the gray-haired boy drew.

“Picasso's here again,” Ivan said, leaning in closer to see what Till was sketching.

When Till smiled at the nickname, Ivan tilted his head. “Picasso wants to be Picasso,” Ivan murmured, his voice full of curiosity as he watched Till's careful strokes.

Till's smile widened. “I wanna be Picasso.”

The gray-haired boy gently nudged Ivan's shoulder. “I want to be him, so I decided that I'll go to an art school in Seoul when we grow up, Ivan.” After a brief pause, as if considering something important, he added, “Near a cake shop! A chocolate cake shop!”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Where would you even live in Seoul?” 

“In some expensive apartment,” Till answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “With tall windows and paintings everywhere.”

Ivan only smiled.

It had become a habit now, the two of them sitting under the tree near the riverside, ever since Till declared that Ivan was his best friend.

(Ivan wasn’t so sure, though, because he had thought Till didn’t like him.)

When Till winced, so slightly most wouldn’t have noticed, Ivan’s gaze flickered downward. A small bruise stained Till’s leg. Without a word, Ivan pulled a bandaid from his pocket and carefully placed it over the bruise.

“There, there.” He patted it softly, imitating the way Io did whenever she patched Till up.

Till huffed. “Why are you carrying bandaids?”

“Why are you tripping everywhere?” Ivan asked, not answering Till’s question. After all, he only carried them because it was a nuisance otherwise. Because Till was always getting himself hurt, and it was easier to deal with than hearing him complain. That was all.

It had to be.

The gray-haired looked away with a pout. He had once told Ivan that he didn't like being fussed over, and Ivan wished him luck because Io was his mother.

“Will you move?” Till grumbled, nudging Ivan’s shoulder again, as though he couldn't stand being cared for. “And stop staring at me. You’re so creepy!”

Ivan laughed, something he had learned to do around Till. “You noticed.” He kept his voice low, barely more than a murmur.

Till frowned. “How could I not? You’re literally right there, just watching me! All day! It’s weird!”

Ivan paused for a second. “Well, you never really look at me,” he answered after thinking.

That made Till falter. His ears went red, just a little, just enough for Ivan to notice. His pencil twirled between his fingers before he huffed, voice quieter this time. “You’re always there anyway,” he murmured. 

Ivan smiled again. Till was confusing sometimes.

“You’re so hard to read, Till.”

Till blinked, finally turning to glance at Ivan. “Read?” he repeated, frowning slightly. “How can you even read me? Are you secretly a mind reader?”

Ivan let out a breath that was almost a sigh, almost a laugh. “You’re stupid, Till,” he replied before pulling the gray-haired boy's cheeks to see them redden.

“Stop it! I told you that that’s a bad word!” Till swatted his hands away, his face heating up in a way that made Ivan’s smile widen even more.

Ivan didn’t understand it, not really. But he liked the way red looked on Till’s cheeks, how it spread from his ears down to his neck, and how his irritation made his face brighter. Ivan didn’t understand why it made him want to keep staring. 

Perhaps it was just curiosity about Till and the many expressions he could make.

Ivan looked away at the thought, and for a while, neither of them spoke. The sound of Till’s pencil moving filled the silence.

Ivan listened, content just to sit there, just to exist in the same space with the other boy.

Then softly, as if it were part of their routine now, because it is now, Ivan asked, “Am I really your friend?” It wasn’t a random question, but one he’d ask whenever he didn’t know what else to say, but still wanted Till to talk.

Till’s pencil stopped.

His brows furrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. “How many times are you going to ask me that? Will you keep asking me that every day?” Then after a moment, his voice softened. “You’re my friend. Am I yours?”

At that, something unexplainable curled in Ivan’s chest, just as it always did whenever Till answered his question.

Ivan didn’t understand it, yet he shifted closer, pressing his side against Till’s, leaning into the warmth of him, nuzzling ever so slightly. “You’re my friend,” Ivan answered, voice soft. Then again, quieter this time, “My friend, my friend, my friend.”

“Okay! Okay!”

──────────────────

Ivan always knew that he didn’t have the privilege to want because to want meant to reach, and to reach meant to take, and he was never meant to take. He’s supposed to give, to beg, to be useful.

And Ivan knew that Till wasn’t really his, even when Till said that he was Ivan’s best friend.

Till wasn’t really his best friend, no.

But even an empty thing like Ivan could take in a secret, and so he did. He took every scrap of closeness, every press of a shoulder, every lingering second before Till pulled away. He could hoard it, tuck it deep inside himself like a fragile thing. A thing no one else could see.

And he never understood why he did so.

──────────────────

Middle school was easy for Ivan.

He had perfected every aspect of his presence: his speech, his posture, the way he carried himself. Every rough edge was smoothed away until he was nothing less than the embodiment of what people expected.

Sometimes, Unsha would bring him back to Seoul, but never for more than three days. Just enough to parade him at dinners, events, and private occasions. Never for public endorsements, never for anything official. Just enough for people to remember he existed. Flawless. Obedient. Unsha’s dog.

Unsha continued to praise him, visiting Daegu from time to time and always promising Ivan that he’d be able to fully return to Seoul for high school. Ivan knew it was because the elections were on that year, but he didn’t mind it.

The thought of leaving Daegu didn't bother him. Not when staying in Daegu meant being with Till.

Besides, the people in their small town had taken a liking to him.

The ahjummas called him handsome, and he helped them carry their things. Every kid on their block wanted to be his friend. Even Io had taken a great liking to him.

Till had called him out once, teasing that Ivan’s head had grown bigger because of the attention that he was constantly receiving. Ivan would only reply that he had grown bigger than Till, who was once taller than him. 

And Ivan never did tell Till that he only liked attention when it came from Till himself.

“Oi,” Till called, tilting his head. “What’s going on inside your head again?”

Ivan snapped back to reality and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. Are you done feeding the cat?”

“His name’s Freddie,” Till corrected, frowning at him.

Ivan raised a brow. “Why bother giving it a name?”

“He's a he.” Till scowled. “Come here, Ivan. Carry Freddie. I’ll bring him home 'cause I don’t have enough cat food with me.”

Ivan hesitated for a moment before complying, scooping the small cat into his arms. Freddie nuzzled against him without fear, settling into his warmth as if he belonged there.

“He’s like you,” Ivan mused, watching the way Freddie tucked his head under Ivan’s chin. “You’re like a cat, Till. Do you know that?”

Till blinked. “What’s that even supposed to mean?” Then Freddie nuzzled against Ivan again, and Till smiled, soft. “Freddie likes you.”

Ivan swallowed, his arms stiffening slightly around the small, warm body curled against his chest.

Freddie liked him? Why?

Animals were supposed to be instinctive creatures, drawn to warmth and kindness. Ivan had none of that.

He wasn’t like Till, who fed stray cats without hesitation, whose affection and kindness came so easily it never seemed to run out, even if Till himself tried to deny it over and over again by wearing a scowl on his face and acting like he didn’t care.

And yet, here was this tiny creature, pressing against him without fear. It made no sense.

But Freddie just purred, and Ivan, for once, let the warmth settle in his chest without questioning it.

──────────────────

Everyone in town knew Ivan’s name. But he didn’t care. Not really.

Besides, as middle school continued, Ivan had to be polite every single time. That was the expectation, after all. Smile when necessary, and don’t let your expression waver even when someone says something utterly, utterly stupid.

But beneath his carefully practiced politeness, Ivan had realized early on just how sharp his tongue could be, and if he couldn’t say something outright, he’d learn how to weave it into something more subtle. (Till, on the other hand, would always complain whenever people called Ivan polite.)

And Ivan, with this newfound awareness of his own sharpness, realized something else. 

With everyone else, Ivan had to measure his words and hide behind a carefully crafted smile. But with Till, he was free, saying whatever was on his mind without thinking it through a hundred times. Yet, despite the lack of restraint, his words were never sharp. Not when he's with Till. There was no cutting edge to Ivan, just raw honesty.

Because with Till, he didn’t need to guard himself.

Till, who never once seemed to care about being liked. Till, whose easy laughter and free spirit drew people to him effortlessly. Till, who wasn’t concerned with what anyone thought. Till, who spoke freely with a confidence that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than just casual disregard.

Till didn't even realize it.

He threw an arm around people without a second thought, pulling them into his orbit like gravity itself, and Ivan watched him from a distance; Till, surrounded by people, bathed in some sort of effortless light, and something in Ivan twisted. 

He didn’t understand it. It wasn’t irritation, no. Till could do whatever he wanted.

But there was this gnawing feeling in Ivan's chest that wouldn’t leave. An ugly, unfamiliar sensation that curled inside him when he saw Till giving pieces of himself away so easily, so carelessly.

Ivan hated it because he didn't understand why. But most of all, he hated that he couldn’t understand why it felt like something was being taken from him. Because Till was not his. Till could never be his.

And at age twelve, Ivan knew the truth he wouldn’t dare admit aloud: Till could discard him whenever he wanted. Till didn’t need him the way Ivan needed him. Till didn’t even understand that there was anything to be needed, and the idea made Ivan feel ugly.

Curiosity, Ivan repeated to himself. That’s all, he thought.

He didn’t need Till. He couldn’t. That was ridiculous. There was no room for need in his life. People like him didn’t have the luxury of needing anyone. He didn’t have the space to love, or to be loved. That was something for people who were whole. 

It was just curiosity. The way his gaze always found Till in a crowded room, the way his chest felt lighter when Till laughed, the way something in him calmed when Till was near. He was just trying to figure him out, that was it.

His damned curiosity.

At the surge of unfamiliar emotions, Ivan found himself blanking out, lost in that twisted mess inside him. The next thing he knew, he was tugging someone by the collar of their shirt, some nameless guy he gripped with a rough hold, telling him to stop hovering around Till. To leave them alone. As if Ivan had the right.

And when the other boy fought back, Ivan just let him, his smile twisted in mock. He let the guy swing first, let the punch land.

He had already won anyway.

The door opened and Ivan’s gaze shifted toward it, bright. When Till walked in, his eyes immediately found Ivan’s. The look on Till’s face darkened, then softened as he rushed over, cradling Ivan’s cheek with careful hands.

“Ivan!” Till’s voice was laced with concern. “Are you okay?”

Ivan could hear his heart pounding as he felt the warmth of Till’s touch, and for a brief moment, he let himself lean into it, nuzzling his face against Till’s palm like it was the only place he wanted to be. “Mhm. I’m okay, Till.”

Ivan moved closer. “But I don’t think you should hang out with him.”

Till shot a sharp, angry look at the boy who had thrown the punch, his expression darkening again. Ivan could see the way his eyes shifted: hurt, confusion, but also something else. Still, without a word, Till helped Ivan to his feet, guiding him to the infirmary.

Ivan hid the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips as he followed Till’s lead.

It wasn’t until Till was cleaning his wound that Ivan was reminded of Unsha, and how this was going to be reported to him by his guardian here in Daegu.

Well, not that it mattered.

Everyone in this school knew him, anyway.

His reputation, carefully built and meticulously maintained, would not disappoint him. Maybe all those years of molding himself into perfection, of existing in a constant state of performance, had its advantages. No one would doubt him if he say that he didn’t start the fight.

“What are you smiling for?” Till asked, his hand still stained with blood from cleaning Ivan's wound.

Ivan looked at Till, his eyes flicking down to the blood on Till’s hand. Without thinking, he licked it, tongue dragging across Till’s warm skin. “Nothing,” Ivan answered, his voice low and controlled.

The tip of Till’s ears reddened. “Fucking creep,” Till murmured, but didn’t pull away. “Stop smiling! You’re a freak.”

Ivan’s smile only widened, and thought, You made me like this.

It was pathetic really, the way Ivan always found himself scraping for Till’s attention since they were kids. Doing the most absurd, ridiculous things just to get a reaction, just to make Till look at him, just to make sure Till saw him.

And yet, every time he got it, every time Till’s gaze landed on him, full of exasperation or amusement or something softer, Ivan had to shove it down.

Because wanting Till’s attention was one thing. Admitting it out loud was another. And Ivan did not want it. He wasn't allowed to, after all.

Curiosity was just an awful, awful thing.

──────────────────

(Ivan didn’t often admit things. Not to himself, and definitely not out loud.

And Till, despite knowing Ivan better than anyone, sometimes took his silence the wrong way, and when that happened, Ivan forced himself to speak. Never about everything, but just enough.

Just enough to make sure Till wasn’t thinking the wrong things, wasn’t assuming the worst.

Even if it meant swallowing down the instinct to hold back, and forcing the words out through the tightness in his throat.

Till, his sweet, cruel Till, always made Ivan go against his own words. His own promises. His own beliefs.)

──────────────────

Some time, Ivan stopped hiding his grave dislike for those who sought Till’s attention.

He still roughhoused with other kids, only in private, of course, when there weren’t too many eyes around. But now, Till was watching, too. And sometimes, Ivan would pick a fight just because he liked seeing Till watch, yet still stay.

(When Till asked if he was jealous of his other friends, Ivan would scoff. Jealous? He wasn’t jealous. Why would he be? Till wasn’t his. He had no right to be.)

──────────────────

Soon, Ivan learned that it wasn’t just curiosity that was awful, it was also everything that it uncovered.

It had been a few days since Till returned from the singing competition in another city, wearing a thick jacket despite the warmth of Ivan's house, and Ivan had noticed how Till’s movements seemed just a little slower, his usual energy a little more subdued, but he hadn’t thought much of it at first. 

Till was always tired when he went back from his competitions.

But when Ivan found himself on the couch, sitting beside Till, his curiosity—his god awful curiosity—and as crazy as it sounded, his instincts, pulled the gray-haired boy closer, and his hands moved without thinking.

He grabbed the sleeve of Till’s jacket, tugging it up. As the fabric shifted, Ivan's eyes locked onto Till’s arm, and the sight froze him.

Bruises. Dark purple splotches scattered across Till’s skin like a constellations, each one a stark contrast against the pale hue of his arm. There were too many to be mere accidents. 

Ivan's breath caught in his throat, a sick feeling swirling in his stomach.

“Ivan, don't.” The raven-haired boy hadn't even said anything. “You know how my dad is now. Fucking tough love, you know?”

Ivan's eyebrows met. “Tough love,” he repeated. “Is that what it really is?”

“Yeah, that’s all it is,” Till said, his voice growing softer, as if he were trying to convince himself, too. His eyes were darting anywhere but Ivan’s face, refusing to meet his gaze.

“You really think that’s love?”

“He’s just trying to make me strong. He cares about me,” Till reasoned.

“You really believe that, Till? You really think that’s love?” Ivan repeated.

Till’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his shoulders sagged. “What do you know? You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like.”

Ivan smiled. Till could be cruel sometimes.

“No,” the raven-haired boy replied. “I don’t get it, but I know you don’t deserve this.”

Till’s face flushed red, and his eyes dropped to the ground again, unwilling to meet Ivan’s gaze. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice low. “It’s just the way things are. He doesn’t mean it, Ivan. He just… wants me to be better.”

Ivan’s hand dropped to his side. When he looked at Till, he saw the brokenness in his best friend's eyes; the quiet resignation settled deep within him.

For a moment, Ivan wasn’t sure what hurt more. Was it the fact that Till had been carrying this all on his own, or that Ivan had never noticed?

He was always looking at Till. Always. He watched him like he was the only thing worth seeing. So how had he missed this? 

Ivan had always thought everything showed in Till’s face. He was expressive, wearing his emotions like an open book. But now, as he looked closer, Ivan realized he'd been wrong.

Maybe Ivan wasn’t the only one hiding pieces of himself.

──────────────────

High school brought change as it always did. 

But for Till, the changes were more drastic than most. 

He picked up habits that screamed rebellion: eyeliner that darkened his eyes in a way that made them look sharper, piercings that marked his ears, clothes that hung just a little too loose, and a tendency to pick fights.

(They used to fight a lot as kids. So when Till started getting into fights again, sometimes Ivan wasn’t an exception. But that didn’t last long.

Ivan stopped indulging Till, eventually realizing their size difference wasn’t so small anymore. It wasn’t like when they were kids.)

Till’s father was a constant reminder of everything that had changed, and Till's rebellion was an attempt to claw back some control.

And Ivan, perfect, useful Ivan, found himself saying no when Unsha told him to return back to Seoul.

Because Seoul meant being back in the world Unsha controlled, where every move Ivan made was scrutinized, every decision manipulated to serve Unsha's needs.

Still, Ivan knew, had always known, that his purpose had been tied to meeting Unsha’s expectations, fitting into a life that was never truly his.

But Ivan didn’t want to leave Daegu because Seoul also meant being away from Till.

“College,” Ivan started, his voice flat. “I’ll go back for college, and then you can throw me into whatever medical school you want. Make me work for the company, smile at your parties, show up to your dinners, parade me around like everything’s perfect.”

“But not now,” he added, tone unwavering.

Unsha chuckled, a sound tinged with something colder beneath it. “And what happens when I say no? What can you do? I’ve fed you and housed you, and now you’re making negotiations? When I tell you something, you do it, boy.”

Ivan’s voice remained monotone, his words deliberate. “Then you’d have to drag my body to Seoul. I won’t go there willingly, and you’ll cast me away again in three days, just like always.”

Unsha’s laugh was sharp. “You’ve grown a fang, huh? You're lucky I've grown quite fond of you.”

Silence followed, thick and heavy, and then there was Unsha's cruelty. 

When Unsha left the house, the door shutting behind him with finality made Ivan’s shoulders sag. The cool air outside hit Ivan’s skin like a slap, but he didn’t move. His gaze shifted past the gate, to where Till stood, waiting silently like he always did.

“You can come inside now. Come on, he bought me a new game,” Ivan said.

Till didn’t respond immediately. His hands were shaking a bit, perhaps from the coldness of winter. Ivan continued, “Don't just stand there, you'll get cold, Till.”

Ivan walked toward him and tied his own scarf around Till's neck to warm the gray-haired boy. “You get cold easily,” he murmured as he tightened the scarf around Till.

Till's eyes flicked down to the ground, then back up to Ivan.

There was something in the way Ivan stood, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His clothes, slightly torn at the edges now, shifted as he moved, revealing a bruise.

As Urak’s cruelty continued, Ivan found himself caught in a struggle of his own. He was still Unsha’s obedient investment, but more and more, he realized he didn’t want that life if it meant leaving Till behind.

It wasn’t Daegu that he didn’t want to leave, it was Till, and even if Ivan knew that the other boy didn’t need him, not at all, Ivan didn’t care because Ivan needed to protect Till.

And more so, though he didn’t know why, Ivan couldn’t stand the idea of being away from Till. 

Still, Unsha was his benefactor, his master, the one who had given him everything he had. 

Yet when Till walked into his house and settled beside him on the bed, the noise and chaos outside faded away. It was just the two of them, tucked into their own small world, and in that quiet, Ivan realized Unsha was only his benefactor. But Till was his—

anchor.

(Maybe this wasn’t just curiosity anymore.)

──────────────────

“Happy Valentine’s, everyone!”

Mizi’s voice rang through the classroom as Ivan held the door open for her. She moved from desk to desk, handing out chocolates.

Till, who had been lazily doodling on the corner of his notebook, felt his face heat up the moment she stopped in front of him. Sua, sitting across from him, smiled softly at Mizi, accepting her chocolate with a quiet, “Thank you, Mizi.”

Till's gaze flickered to Ivan, whose hands were completely full with boxes of chocolates, with some threatening to spill onto the floor.

“Did you rob a convenience store?” Till asked, raising a brow.

Ivan only shrugged, looking entirely unfazed.

Sua smiled evilly. “That’s his way of saying he’s jealous.”

“Hey!” Till shot her a glare, his embarrassment only growing. “I’m not jealous! I don’t even care about chocolates!” Lies.

Ivan laughed. “Not jealous of Ivan,” Sua corrected. “Jealous in another way, Tilly. Ivan, do you remember when Till would go around and tell everyone he’d make you his wife when we were kids?”

The raven-haired boy nodded. “I'm still up for it, Till. Propose anytime you want.” 

Till’s entire face went red, and Mizi giggled behind her hand. Ivan, for his part, only looked vaguely amused.

“I’m going to kill you,” Till muttered under his breath, glaring at Ivan and then at Sua as she cackled at his expense.

Ivan only ignored him and placed every chocolates he received on Till’s table, pushing them toward him with a quiet gesture, while Mizi turned to Till. “I heard you received a love letter, Till!” the pink-haired girl said, smiling widely.

Ivan stayed quiet, watching them. Till’s eyes met his without a word, then he turned back to Mizi. “I don’t really care about that stuff, Mizi.”

“Have you not moved on from Mizi?” Sua teased.

“Hey!” 

Sua grimaced. “You’re a player,” she teased, shaking her head. “Liking everyone in our group. For your information and for your reference in the future, I’m a lesbian too, Till.”

Till’s face flushed at her words, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath as both Mizi and Sua laughed. 

Life wasn’t always ugly. Sometimes, it could almost feel like it made sense.

──────────────────

Ivan first dreamt of Till in high school.

In his dreams, clear and unsettling, Till was always red, the warmth of his body radiating through every inch of his being. His warmth almost felt real under Ivan's hands.

There was an ache in Till, an almost tangible pain that radiated from him, and Till, dream Till, would always tell Ivan that only he could relieve it.

Till's skin was always bare, smooth, and glistening, his lips slick with a sheen that Ivan’s mind couldn’t quite make sense of. And when Till reached out, his hands pulled Ivan in closer, and for a moment, Ivan would feel a rush of heat, a press on his lips and his body. Then his eyes would open.

He'd be drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest.

And for a while, while these dreams continued, Ivan convinced himself that he finally understood it.

This was curiosity. Again and again. A natural extension of the same restless intrigue he'd always had towards Till, only louder now, more demanding with age. A quirk of his mind that his body craved.

Lust, perhaps.

A shallow craving for something his body wanted, something he could easily push aside when it was inconvenient. After all, his emotions didn’t run deep. They couldn’t afford to. Not with Till. Not with anyone.

Even after all these years, Ivan still wasn’t suited for something like love.

It was safer this way, anyway. Keeping everything shallow.

──────────────────

“I think I'm attracted to men,” Ivan said as Till played on his PSP.

Till didn’t react right away, still focused on the game, his fingers tapping against the buttons.

For a second, Ivan thought he hadn’t heard him. But then Till stopped, eyes still on the screen as he said, casually but firmly, “That’s cool.”

“Cool?”

“What? You want me to throw a party? Or arrange your funeral?” Till finally glanced at him, one brow raised. “Do we like it or not?”

Ivan let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “It’s okay, I think.”

“Course it is.” Till didn’t look at him again, but Ivan saw the slight curve of his lips, the way his shoulders relaxed just a little. “You can like anyone you want, and I’d support you. Well, as long as they’re your age and treat you nicely.”

After a beat, Till added, “I guess someone in our friend group likes men.” 

Ivan and Till chuckled, and for a while, the gray-haired boy didn’t say anything more, and didn’t make a big deal out of it. But his presence was steady and certain, as if nothing about Ivan could ever be wrong.

──────────────────

When their high school graduation finally arrived, Ivan and Till celebrated the occasion with Io.

Ivan was adamant about reserving a table at a fancy restaurant for the three of them, insisting that a grand milestone of Till deserved an equally grand celebration. But Till immediately shot the idea down, shaking his head with a laugh. “No way. We’re eating samgyeopsal and having soju with my mom,” Till had replied. 

Ivan, unlike Till and Io, had an embarrassingly low tolerance for alcohol. So naturally, Till ended up drinking his share, and by the time night fell, they were sprawled across Till’s bed, the air thick with the scent of the faint burn of soju on their breaths.

Ivan lay on his side, watching Till, who was flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

“You moved the plates to the lower cabinet,” Till murmured, voice slow and drowsy.

Ivan only hummed in response. “Auntie couldn’t reach them. You barely could either.”

Till turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him. “Is this your house?” he asked dryly. When Ivan only chuckled, Till continued, “You’re leaving, then? Really leaving for Seoul?”

Ivan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out and gently smoothed a stray lock of hair away from Till’s forehead. “Don’t give Auntie a hard time,” Ivan said eventually. “Learn how to cook.”

“After you begged me to let you cook for me for the rest of my life?”

“Help your mother with the chores.”

“Is my mom your best friend now?”

Ignoring his comment, Ivan continued, “I bought you new brushes and pens, and I fixed your daylight lamp since you keep insisting I shouldn’t buy you a new one.”

“I peeled your oranges and stored them in the fridge,” Ivan went on, his voice softer. “They should last you for the next three weeks.”

There was a long pause before he added, “Call me whenever you want. Call Sua, call Mizi. They’re gonna miss you too.”

Till’s lips curled slightly. “Too?” He turned fully on his side, facing Ivan now, eyes lidded but teasing. “Are you saying you’re going to miss me?”

Ivan smiled, but didn’t stop talking, “I know you don’t like me buying you things, but I got you headphones. Noise-canceling ones, just in case Urak—”

Till exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Ivan.”

“And don’t even bother taking your umbrella out of your backpack. That way, you’ll never forget it again.”

Till scoffed, but Ivan still wasn’t finished. “And,” Ivan continued, “I put my spare key in your backpack. Just in case you ever lose yours and Auntie isn’t home.”

The words hung in the air, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of unspoken things.

Ivan shifted slightly. The room was still, save for the faint rustle of the leaves stirred by the cold wind that slipped through the open window.

It made the room feel colder.

Till didn’t speak for a few minutes. He didn’t reach out or moved to close the gap that had suddenly opened between them. Then after what felt like forever, Till broke the quiet with a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“You really love me, huh?” Till asked.

Ivan stilled. His mouth opened, but no words came out. The raven-haired man just stared at Till, the air suddenly heavier between them.

Love?

Ivan couldn’t possibly.

He had spent so much time, his whole life, convincing himself that he wasn’t capable of something like that, of giving love, of receiving it. Because he couldn’t—wasn’t capable.

And yet, right now, lying here, with one single statement, with Till looking at him with a small, lopsided smile—

A wave of calmness washed over Ivan.

It wasn’t a grand revelation, not some dramatic moment. It was the kind of calm that made someone feel lighter.

The weight he’d carried for so long and the walls he’d built around his heart suddenly didn’t feel as necessary because of one single statement from Till. It was barely a statement, too. More so a question, yet every single cell inside Ivan’s body is screaming yes to Till’s question.

In that fleeting moment, Ivan realized, with a quiet certainty, that maybe, maybe it was okay. It was okay to feel this. To let himself feel this.

Because Till himself said it. Because Till himself felt it.

And when has Ivan ever denied Till?

His chest wasn’t tight. There were no walls nor hesitation. And for the first time in his life, even without needing Till's reciprocation, Ivan chose to be selfish.

“Yeah, I do,” Ivan said softly, the words slipping out with surprising ease. His voice was steady, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “I’m going to miss you, Till.”

(He was going to leave Daegu anyway.)

──────────────────

Meteors streaked silently across the sky.

Ivan's black suitcase lay open on the floor, half-packed, a mess of neatly folded clothes and scattered belongings surrounding it. He had saved the last of his packing for today, his final day in Daegu.

The weight of leaving hadn’t quite settled in yet. Or maybe it had, and he was just ignoring it.

As he folded a sweater and placed it into his suitcase, the door creaked open.

Sua stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “Figured I’d stop by,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “I wasn’t able to give you this. It's from the kids in our class.”

She tossed something onto his bed, a small package wrapped in paper. Ivan picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was soft, but he couldn’t quite make out the shape. “What is it?” he asked.

Sua shrugged. “I don't know. Open it later.”

Instead of leaving, she sat down on his bed, crossing her legs. “So, you’re really leaving,” she mused, scanning the room as if memorizing it. Then she glanced at him. “Till’s gonna be pissed.”

Ivan snorted. “He’ll live.”

Sua hummed. “You’ll miss him, you can say it.”

Ivan chuckled, a sound that was a little too quick to be entirely convincing. “Of course I will, what do you think I am? Some heartless guy?” He gave Sua a small, playful smile.

Sua nodded, her eyes steady on him, almost too knowing. “You are. You made me cry once.” She said, her voice uncharacteristically high, and Ivan chuckled louder.

Then in a quieter voice, Sua spoke again, “It’s a shame, you know. The four of us could’ve gone to Anakt together if it weren’t for Till’s shitty father.” Her words hung in the air, a little too casual, but there was something in the way she said it that made Ivan pause.

He couldn’t help, but feel the sting of regret that lingered in his stomach.

“Yeah, well... at least he’s still going to art school. Seoul or not. That’s what matters to Till.” His words were almost automatic.

He had always said Till’s future mattered most. It was easier to say it than to face the gnawing feeling that maybe things weren’t going to turn out the way they’d imagined.

A beat of silence passed between them, the kind that seemed to stretch longer than it really was. 

“Art school?” Sua repeated, her brow furrowing slightly as she looked at him.

There was confusion in her voice, and Ivan’s stomach twisted. The raven-haired man frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he turned to face her fully. “Yeah?”

Another pause settled in between them, and then Sua let out a short, almost exasperated breath, shaking her head slowly.

“Till’s not going to art school.” Sua’s words hung in the air, blunt and matter-of-fact. There was no softness in them, just the hard edge of truth. “To college.”

“He’s gonna focus on music,” Sua continued. “Not even playing,” she clarified, “but producing, selling what he makes. Urak said—”

Something in Ivan’s chest tightened.

Till hadn’t said anything.

He hadn’t said anything.

The next thing he knew, Ivan was bolting down the stairs, the front door slamming behind him as he ran. Above him, the red sky shimmered, streaks of light slipping past clouds.

The cold bit at his skin, but he barely felt it, his pulse hammering as his feet pounded against the pavement. By the time he reached Till’s house, he barely gave himself a second to catch his breath before raising a fist and knocking loudly.

When the door opened, Till’s eyes widened at the sight of him, but Ivan didn’t even let him speak.

Ivan's chest heaved. “Should we just run away?” 

“What?”

“I said,” Ivan panted, still catching his breath. “Should we just run away?”

Till blinked at him, still standing in the doorway, the warm light from inside casting a soft glow over his confused, tired face. “What the hell are you saying?”

“You’re not going to art school?” Ivan asked, his voice raw.

Till hesitated. Then quieter, sadder, “No, Ivan. I’m not.”

Ivan exhaled sharply. He let out a slow breath, then met Till’s eyes again. “Do you like music?” he asked.

A knowing look flickered across Till's eyes. “Of course, I do.”

“No,” Ivan replied, his voice cutting through the tension because Till couldn’t lie to him like this. “Not when you’re forced, right?”

Ivan knew Till loved music. The gray-haired boy came alive when he sang, when his fingers moved over the strings of his guitar, when he wrote music for Io. But never when it was forced. Never when it reminded Till of his father.

After all, music was his way to be free.

“Is this about—”

“Till.”

“Ivan, it's okay. Really. My dad—”

“Till.”

“Listen! My dad told me that—”

“Christ, you're so stubborn.” Ivan cut him off. He turned away for a moment, running a hand through his hair, as if the weight of the world had just pressed against his chest. Without warning, he reached out, grabbing Till’s wrist. “What do you want?”

Till frowned, his eyes a mixture of confusion and something deeper. “What do I want?”

“You want to go to art school, right? Near a damn chocolate cake shop? Be Picasso?” Ivan pressed, stepping closer. His voice was firm, urgent. “Leave Daegu, and live in some expensive apartment in Seoul with tall windows and lots of paintings?”

Till let out a breathy chuckle, confused. “Why does that matter?”

“Do you want it?” Ivan asked, his voice quieter this time.

“It doesn’t matter,” Till answered.

“Do you want it?” Ivan repeated, his gaze unwavering, searching for something in Till’s eyes.

“Ivan—”

“Do you—”

“Yes!” Till finally snapped. “But it doesn’t matter what I want.”

Ivan didn’t even think. He just reached out, gently letting go of Till’s wrist before holding out his hand, open and waiting. His other hand moved to brush damp hair from Till’s forehead, fingers lingering for a moment against his skin.

“Okay,” Ivan murmured, voice steady now. “Then I’ll give it to you.”

Till blinked rapidly, as though he was just waking up from a dream, the weight of Ivan’s words sinking in. A flicker of something he couldn’t name passed through his gaze.

Then slowly, carefully, he placed his hand in Ivan’s.

Like he always did.

And that was all Ivan needed; before Till could say a word, the raven-haired man was already pulling him along, leading him outside the gate with a sense of urgency, as if there was no time to waste.

I'll give it to you, Ivan thought again, the words repeating in his mind like an oath as the sky burned red with meteors. After all, Ivan was not made to be loved.

He was an investment. Something useful, something that had to beg for scraps, and prove his worth over and over again.

A giver.

And if he could give Till everything, if he could take Till’s dreams into his own hands and carve out a future for him, then maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

──────────────────

It was love. It had always been love.

──────────────────

When Ivan wakes, the first thing he notices is warmth.

The soft weight of his arm drapes over Till's waist, and when he shifts, he feels the familiar press of Till against him, curled into his side, holding onto him even in sleep.

Till’s face is peaceful like this, free of the furrowed brows and sharp words he wears when he’s awake. 

Without thinking, the raven-haired man lifts a hand and cards his fingers through Till’s hair.

He thinks back to Daegu. To the years of silence, of repression, of convincing himself that what he felt wasn’t love. To every moment he swallowed down the truth.

It took Ivan years to accept his own feelings, yet he could go another decade, and hundreds more after that, proving them to Till. It doesn’t even matter if Till likes him back or not.

Because for as long as Till lets him, Ivan will stay. For as long as Till allows it, Ivan will give him everything.

Seoul, art school, a chocolate cake shop, an expensive apartment with tall windows and paintings, and, if Till is willing to take it, even Ivan’s damned heart.

Chapter Text

──────────────────

Till wakes to the smell of kimchi bokkeumbap drifting in through his slightly ajar door.

Carefully, he pushes himself up, squeezing his eyes shut when the movement makes the dull pain in his head flare sharply.

The bathroom is the first place he heads to, his slow footsteps dragging against the floor almost unwillingly. He brushes his teeth timidly and winces at the coldness of the toothpaste. Then warm water runs over his hands and face, his palms pressing hard against his cheeks as if it might push his headache away.

When he lifts his head to look at the mirror, Till grimaces.

His hair’s a mess, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. 

Till peels his clothes off and digs through his closet messily, pulling out one of Ivan’s large white shirt. The shirt hangs loosely around his thighs and gapes wide at his neck, and the sleeves practically swallow his lanky arms.  

He hugs the soft cotton around himself for a second, breathing in the familiar scent clinging to it. Faintly like laundry soap, fruit, and Ivan.

At the thought of his roommate, the gray-haired man heads outside his bedroom and sits into one of the chairs at the dining table.

He stares blankly into space, his mind still foggy with sleep, and only blinks back to life when Ivan sets a bowl of kimchi bokkeumbap in front of him.

“Hi, good morning,” Ivan greets cheerfully. “How was your sleep? Do you have errands today?”

Till frowns. Must be nice to be a morning person, he thinks.

“I don’t feel like talking. I just woke up and am feeling a deep, personal animosity towards the world,” Till replies, shoveling a mountain of rice into his mouth. “I don’t have errands today.”

Ivan smiles. “Okay, fair enough.”

Without saying anything else because he knows that Till’s short temper is always at its peak during mornings, Ivan moves over to their kitchen counter to set up the coffee machine.

Ivan returns to the dining table holding Till's black mug. He sets it down in front of the gray-haired man, then leans over and casually wipes the corner of Till’s mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray grain of rice.

Still half-asleep, Till mumbles a quiet thank you and wraps his hands around the coffee mug, taking a slow, cautious sip to wake himself up.

And so, he does.

When Till finally lifts his gaze, he meets Ivan’s eyes for the first time. And then he's hit by the memories of last night.

“You won’t leave?” Till’s voice drops lower, rougher. “Even if it takes me years to figure out what I want to do with… everything I feel?”

“Even if it takes a lifetime. I’m not leaving. Not unless you ask me to. As long as you'd have me, I'm here,” Ivan says again, firmer now. “You, you’re where I want to stay.”

The gray-haired man freezes in his seat before his whole body wakes up, and very, very gracefully, he half-chokes, half-spits his coffee out, spraying some across the table, coughing miserably around the rest that's still in his mouth.

Till feels his cheeks burn hot as he grabs a tissue from the table, hurriedly wiping up the splattered mess, dabbing frantically at the table, then at his mouth. He half-expects Ivan to pull that faintly horrified, tight-lipped face he usually reserves for when people say something dumb in front of him or when he finds a crumb on the counter. God bless the neat freak that he is.

“S-Sorry, god, sorry,” Till apologizes, face warm. 

It warms even hotter when he hears Ivan chuckle softly, voice low and almost rough in the early morning.

The raven-haired man leans his chin on his hand, utterly unbothered, and says, “No, no. Your spit for breakfast? I'm honored.”

Ah. 

Good. 

Ivan’s still Ivan. Still borderline insane and would love to taste Till’s bodily fluids.

Till feels his shoulders sag, tension bleeding out of him all at once. (And at the back of his mind, the gray-haired man is horrified as he realizes that what he considers as Ivan’s state of normalcy involves Ivan being honored about ingesting Till’s spit.)

Whatever.  

Maybe, maybe what happened last night doesn't have to change anything after all.

Till squeezes his eyes shut for a second, just long enough to gather himself and arrange his thoughts. When he opens them again, he can’t bring himself to look at Ivan.

Maybe if he focuses on the way the morning light spills over the countertop, or the gentle sound of the kettle cooling down, he can pretend that—

“Hey,” Ivan whispers softly. “You’re good, Till. We’re good.”

Till looks up from his coffee mug, only to meet Ivan’s kind eyes.

Ivan has never been easy to read. That’s why he and Till often fought as kids. His dark eyes, especially, have never been easy to read.

There’s always been a kind of detachment in them, sometimes a flicker of mischief behind indifference, and a cold mask that even strangers could notice. Even when Ivan smiled, there was a slant to it that warned people to stay wary. But now, in the quiet hush of morning, with soft light filtering through the curtains, Ivan’s pitch black eyes are… clear. And full of something Till never thought he’d see directed at him, like patience and fondness.

Till bites his lower lip as his stomach flutters.

His fingers tighten around the mug, like it’s what’s anchoring him. But it isn’t, really. It’s Ivan.

Ivan, who’s sitting across from him. Ivan, who made him his favorite breakfast. Ivan, whose feelings are as clear as the day, so unlike the boy who used to shy away from them. So unlike the boy Till used to cry over because he could just never read him.

Although there's no mistaking it now, Ivan's feelings.

And maybe if Till had dared to really, really look at Ivan sooner, he would’ve seen it then. Because now, in the quiet hush of the morning, Till doesn’t want to run. He just wants to look away, not out of fear, but because it’s too bright, and warm, and tender.

Has Ivan always looked at him like that?

Till digs his fingers into his skin at the thought.

The gray-haired man clears his throat. “So,” he starts, the word catching awkwardly on its way out. “Do we, uh, talk about it?”

He doesn’t wait for Ivan to answer. “Ivan,” he calls. “You know, last night, what I said... my feelings...” Till's voice falters and for a second, it feels like the words will never come. “Fuck. How do I fucking put this into words?” 

Ivan laughs softly, handsomely, and Till fights a frown because the weight of everything is still too big for Till. He feels vulnerable and exposed, yet Ivan still has the audacity to laugh handsomely, and all Till wants to do is play his laugh inside his head like music forever.

“Like I said,” Ivan says, “I’ll wait, so take all the time you need.” 

“I feel like I have to repeat this, so I will: I’m not expecting anything from you, Till,” he adds with a soft smile. “I’m not holding out hope that once you figure out what you’re feeling, what you want to do with it, it’ll be about me. I just want to let my feelings out in the open. What matters to me is that you feel loved.”

Till’s cheeks redden at the brazen statement, heart thumping loudly as the word love repeats in his mind. 

But just as quickly, the message underneath Ivan’s words presses against Till’s chest, sharp and clear.

It doesn’t matter if you like me back or not, is what Ivan’s trying to say.

“And what about you?” Till asks.

Ivan blinks at him. “What about me?” 

Till scowls at that, a crease forming between his brows. “You say you don’t expect anything, but isn’t that still a little unfair?” 

Ivan presses his thumb softly against the crease on Till’s forehead, smoothing it out. “Why would it be unfair to me when I get to love you?” 

Till's breath hitches. “You’re giving something away like it costs you nothing. Like you don’t matter in this. And I...”

The gray-haired man stops with a sigh, altogether angry and aching to do something, to shake Ivan out of that calm, selfless composure that he always wear. Ivan, who's so willing to love without demand, without needing anything in return.

Like he’s carved himself hollow just to make room for Till’s mess.

“This fucking idiot,” Till mumbles. I love you too, is what he doesn't say.

He pauses, looks away, and stirs the coffee in his mug.

He feels like it's too early, like he hasn’t thought it through, but he needs to say it while there’s still bravery in him. Because underneath all the layers of what he feels, this is what he truly wants Ivan to know:

“I need you to know that I’m going to be a mess, Ivan. I’m not going to have all the right answers, and I’m going to doubt myself more than I should. Some days I’ll want to run, and some days I’ll want to stay. I’m going to fumble through this while I figure out what I really want.”

“And I don’t know if I’ll be this brave again tomorrow. Or next week. Maybe I’ll back out and pretend none of this happened. But right now, I mean every word. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard because I want to try. With you. Even if I get it wrong sometimes.”

“Sorry, I’m rambling.” The gray-haired man licks his lips and lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “What I’m trying to say is—”

I love you too, Till thinks again, and the words burn inside his chest. But I’m scared, and I don’t want you to wait because I don’t want you to settle for something you don’t deserve just because I’m too scared to give back. 

Yet I love you, and I want to be selfish, and I want to keep you by my side until I’m not scared anymore. Until I can say it the way you deserve to hear it.

Till continues, “If I pull away later… it's because I’m scared. And even then, you don't have to put up with all my shit. If you get tired, if you decide it’s too much, I’ll understand. You don't have to wait until I figure out what I want to do with my feelings.”

A pause, and then comes Ivan's intelligent reply: “Wow.”

Till feels his eye twitch.

“Wow?” Till repeats, his cheeks reddening. “I'll have you know that it took everything in me to say that!”

“I know, I know,” Ivan replies, smiling. “You aren’t exactly the best at communicating.”

“As if you are!”

Ivan laughs. “I’m not as well,” he says. Then more seriously, he adds, “I’m just honestly surprised and grateful that you said that. That you trusted me enough to say it out loud.”

Till swallows, surprised by how much those words mean to him.

Ivan’s voice softens. “Thank you, Till. For trying. I know it’s not easy for you.”

Till's heart pounds loudly. I know it’s not easy for you either, Till thinks.

I want to work through this. I want to understand this fear and face it down instead of letting it decide what I get to have. What we get to have. 

The gray-haired man exhales slowly before he meets Ivan's eyes again. “You said you’ll prove your feelings to me, right?” he asks. Ivan nods immediately, and Till lets himself smile.

“Okay. Then fucking let it all out. Don’t hold back.”

──────────────────

Three days after Till’s permission, to let Ivan act on his feelings for Till freely, the gray-haired man debates about taking it back because... well...

Ivan’s actions have always been bold. Violently fucking bold. He was the kind of guy who hovered too close, made crude jokes about Till’s saliva, and daydreamed about eating Till whole.

And Till never really gave a shit. Not back then, anyway. Because Ivan was just weird like that. That was his baseline, and Sua is right: Ivan’s version of normal would probably send a Victorian child into a coma. He’s the type of man who should, by all accounts, be kept under strict observation for public safety. 

But again, Till never really gave a shit.

Yet now, something’s shifted.

Yes, Ivan is still as bold as ever, even after his confession. The awkwardness Till had braced for never came, and for that, he’s thankful. Still, something's different now. For one, Till has become hyper-aware of Ivan’s every move. 

He notices the way Ivan lingers a little too close, how his smirks don’t quite reach their usual teasing level, and how his words, though still threateningly flirtatious, now carry a hint of something softer. There’s a quietness to his actions, sometimes a hesitance, as if he’s trying to gauge just how much of his usual self he can still show without overstepping.

And Till, who used to roll his eyes or shove Ivan away with an insult, who only ever offered a sigh and told Ivan to jump off the tallest building he could find, now finds himself standing still, just watching and letting it happen. All while his cheeks reddened with warmth.

Fucking hell.

“Is there something on my face?” Till finally snaps, voice laced with annoyance and embarrassment.

When Ivan only shakes his head, Till lets out a frustrated sigh. “So why do you keep on staring?” 

Ivan’s expression doesn’t shift. “You said that I don’t have to hold off on my feelings. To let it out. This is me letting it out,” he replies smartly. “I want to burn your face forever in my memory.”

Till stiffens. His mouth opens, then closes again, searching for a retort that won’t give too much away. He goes with, “Are you insane?”

“Do you want me to stop?” 

There’s a beat of silence before Till grumbles under his breath, avoiding Ivan’s gaze.

“I don't give a shit.” 

A smile curls at the edge of Ivan’s mouth, pleased. “Okay.” The raven-haired man says softly, and he shifts closer on the couch, closing the space between them. His knee brushes against Till’s, and he doesn’t break eye contact.

Till debates on strangling Ivan.

Letting out a quiet grunt, Till decides to ignore Ivan. His pencil resumes its movement over the page of his sketchbook, sketching the sharp lines of a Grecian sculpture he’d started earlier.

Meanwhile, Ivan leans in a little more, his side pressing gently against Till’s. He offers no commentary, just quiet proximity, like he knows that staying close is louder than anything he could say.

When the gray-haired man finishes his drawing, he sets the sketchpad down on the coffee table and reaches for the remote control to turn the television on.

He scrolls through the options without really looking, settling on the first random movie he lands on. Some B-grade action flick with too much gunfire and not enough plot. It's the kind of film Ivan would absolutely hate, and would probably write a thousand-word essay about on Letterboxd just to prove why it’s a personal insult to the art of cinema itself.

But it doesn’t matter. Till just needs the noise because of the man sitting beside him, because Ivan still hasn’t moved nor spoken, because Till needs some sort of distraction.

Ivan's just… there, quietly existing beside him. Like he has all the time in the world to wait for and watch Till.

“Fuck. Seriously, man. I can't do this.” Till clears his throat and shifts, turning fully toward Ivan. “Don’t you have classes?”

Ivan shrugs with a lazy smile. “I don’t today.”

“Lab shit then? Fucking reports or research or whatever?” Till snaps back, a little sharper than intended. He’s flustered, not mad. He just needs Ivan to do something else. Anything other than staring at him like that.

Aren’t pre-med students supposed to be drowning in work?

“Already done them.”

Till scoffs. Of course he has. Mr. Always-Ahead-By-Three-Weeks. Breezing through the biomedical science program. Probably color-coded his notes too. 

“Football practice?” Till tries in one last desperate attempt.

“I told my coach I’m taking the day off.”

“Hah?! Why?”

“To stare at your face all day. Why else?”

Till sputters. “Y-You—what—you're making fun of me! Fuck off,” he chokes, face flaming already. Ivan laughs. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” 

Ivan smiles. “You sound like you’re adding a seventh step to the list,” he mutters, voice soft as if he’s insane in the head.

Because who the hell doesn’t get mad when the person they like makes a goddamn bet about their feelings? Who doesn’t lash out, slam the door, disappear? 

Fucking Ivan. Seriously.

Till stares at him. At Ivan. At the man who should be pissed—no, angry.

Unconsciously, the gray-haired man mutters, “I should’ve made way more violent steps.”

Ivan tips his head back and laughs, a little louder this time. “You can still add more violent steps,” he says, grinning like a total lunatic. “The bet’s still up, no? Didn’t you say yesterday that it was supposed to be ten steps? One for each day, in the course of ten days.” 

Before Till can respond, Ivan raises a brow. “Oh, it’s been over ten days now. What are you even doing? You should’ve just titled it Ten Steps, not Ten Days. Or did you forget to count again?”

Till doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at Ivan, lips twitching and jaw tight like he's holding back either a laugh or a breakdown.

He looks away and mutters, “It’s named after your favorite rom-com.”

Ivan blinks. “My favorite?” he repeats, like he’s not quite sure if he heard right. 

Till huffs. “You quoted it all the time, how could I not know?”

Ivan doesn’t laugh this time. He just looks at Till before breaking into a soft smile.

With a lazy reach, he stretches forward and pats Till's head. And Till, with warmth in his chest, doesn’t pull away. “So?” Ivan asks casually, now carding his fingers through Till's hair. “Four more steps?”

Till lets himself smile at that, just a small one, but real. It’s not just him who’s stubborn anymore. More than a decade of friendship, arguments, fistfights, and late-night walks has rubbed some of his competitiveness off on Ivan, too.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, glancing up at the raven-haired man through his long lashes.

Ivan's snaggletooth peeks out. “Hurry up then. When’s the next one coming?”

Till rolls his eyes before laughing. “You want me to lose you faster?”

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Huh?” Till blinks at him. “So randomly?” he asks, voice quiet, but he doesn’t say no.

When Ivan doesn’t move, Till bites his lower lip, gaze flicking down. He wants to say something. He wants to ask, why ask now? 

Because before, Ivan just reached out. Grabbed his wrist. Slung an arm around his shoulder like it was second nature. But now, after Ivan’s confession, after the shift between them, Ivan’s been asking. Out loud. Clear. Blatant permission where there used to be none. Like he’s drawing a line he’s afraid to cross.

And while Till understands, it still makes something in his chest clench.

Because Till never asked for space. He just didn’t know what to do with all of Ivan’s boldness before, but now that Ivan’s pulling back, now that he’s treating Till like something fragile, like something he’s afraid to break, Till finds that he misses it.

The a hundred percent unfiltered, shameless Ivan. The one who made everything feel infuriating and impossible, yet safe.

Till looks up and meets Ivan’s eyes. “You don’t have to ask. Not for this,” he whispers.

Ivan’s hand hovers for a moment, unsure, before he gently squeezes Till’s fingers. There’s a flicker of something vulnerable in Ivan's expression. 

“But I want to hear you say it,” Ivan murmurs, his voice softer than usual. “I need to know that you want this too, Till. That it’s not just me pushing.”

Ivan exhales like he’s been holding his breath. He reaches out and laces their fingers together, slow and careful, like he’s touching something precious, and Till lets him.

Till takes a breath as he pulls Ivan’s hand closer. “I want it,” he says. “I want this.”

“Okay,” Ivan whispers, his smile returning. He sounds nonchalant, but the redness in his ears doesn’t escape Till. “Back to what we were talking about then.”

Till blinks in confusion, his mind still swirling from the unexpected shift in their conversation. Before he can speak, Ivan lifts his hands, guiding them together. 

Ivan’s hands are steady, and Till feels the difference immediately: Ivan’s hands are bigger, yet they’re soft and gentle. His own hands, by contrast, are rougher, calloused from years of playing guitar.

Ivan, ever so careful, brings Till’s hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of it. “You’re not going to lose me, Till,” he whispers. “I told you, right? Do your worst.”

His thumb brushes over the back of Till’s knuckles in that familiar slow, deliberate motion that makes Till’s breath hitch. His touch is gentle, but there’s something electrifying about it.

The raven-haired man smiles, eyes alight with dare, provocation even, as though he's daring Till to try to make him leave, knowing full well that no bet in the world can make him go. “Have you already thought of the next step, then? If not, want me to help suggest one?” 

Till only laughs.

In the back of his mind, he thinks that any normal, sane person would've hated him for this. For the bet. For making something real feel like a game. Anyone else would've left.

But not Ivan. 

Ivan’s still here, grinning like a fucking idiot. Laughing like he's in love and completely fine with the mess Till made, and he absolutely is.

That’s what makes Till want to scream. Or maybe cry. Or maybe just lean in and kiss Ivan stupid.

──────────────────

It's Thursday when Till executes Step #7.

In hindsight, Till knows that he should be more creative if he truly wants Ivan to give up (and he doesn’t want that, not really).

Still, Till knows Ivan better than most. He knows him the best and he's memorized the little things that push his buttons, and they’re not particularly complicated. They’re very simple things.

Take movies, for instance. Ivan has no patience for what he calls “a great insult to cinema,” the kind with bad writing and lazy cinematography. Till could pretend to love those, maybe even organize a watch party featuring the worst-rated films he can find. But Ivan would just spend the whole time yapping in his ear about why every frame is a crime against film, and by the end of it, Till’s ears would practically be falling off from all the unsolicited commentary.

There’s also Ivan’s carefully constructed routine, a strict schedule that could rival a military operation. Till considers asking Ivan on a, ahem, date and rescheduling plans last-minute, but even Till has limits. He’s not heartless enough to mess with a pre-med student’s precious time just to prove a point.

Then there’s Ivan's hatred for mess, but twisting Ivan’s dislike for mess isn’t exactly feasible for Till either. The gray-haired man can be a messy roommate sometimes, god forbid he’s a struggling art student, but even Till himself doesn't enjoy wading through dirty laundry.

There weren’t many brilliant ideas floating in Till’s head. He just has a rotating list of maybes that didn’t seem quite cruel enough to work. He couldn’t think of anything Ivan truly disliked that he could use against him.

Until last night.

*

Till was in the living room, surrounded by a mountain of unfolded laundry, when he caught the muffled sounds of Ivan opening and shutting the door of his room a little too hard. Then came the muttering.

“He just doesn’t listen,” Ivan said, his voice low but tight with barely-noticeable irritation. “Every idea I give, he shoots it down. It’s like working with a wall. A wall who orders me around. Nonstop.”

Till’s hands stilled mid-fold. His ears perked up.

“Let’s do it my way, just trust me,” Ivan continued, mocking a high-pitched voice. “As if I didn’t send him all the research already.”

The gray-haired man chuckled softly. He patted the space beside him on the couch, wordlessly inviting Ivan to sit. Like a large, tired dog, Ivan flopped down immediately and rested his head on Till’s shoulder.

“Bad day?” 

“Group project. My groupmate's a control freak. Won’t collaborate. Thinks he’s smarter than everyone. It’s exhausting.”

Sounds like someone I know, Till thought.

“So you hate bossy people,” Till said carefully, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. When Ivan let out a soft hum of agreement, Till laughed. “Sounds like someone I know,” Till said, out loud this time.

At the implication, Ivan lifted his head and frowned. “At least when I boss people around, I’m actually right.” His forehead creased. “I hate being talked down to. I hate people who don’t listen. I hate being told what to do.”

“Who does he think he is? Treating me like his own personal research assistant,” Ivan continued.

“Personal assistant? Are you also bringing him coffee now?”

“Research assistant,” Ivan corrected flatly, as if the term personally offended him. “Which is even worse than bringing someone coffee every day.” 

“And he sends me these long messages with bullet points, like I don’t know how to write a basic outline. Then he acts surprised when I contribute something useful. Honestly, I should be the one surprised when he’s useful.”

“You could always ask to switch groups,” Till replied even if he knew that Ivan wouldn't do that.

“And give him the satisfaction of thinking I bailed because I couldn’t handle him? I’ll just outwork him.”

Till chuckled. “You and your pettiness.” He smoothed a hand through Ivan’s hair. “Well, good luck surviving the rest of the project,” Till said with a small, warm smile. “Don’t stress too much. I’ll treat you to something nice when it’s all over, okay?” 

At that, Ivan perked up immediately, eyes lighting up as he grinned and nodded. “Deal.”

Till laughed airily at Ivan's reaction, masking the way his brain had just gone into overdrive. At the back of his mind, he’s laughing evilly, and thinking, Thank you for the idea, blockhead.

*

Back to the present time, Till begins the first step of his totally scientific, definitely foolproof plan with a simple line: “Ivan, can you please hand me my phone?”

The raven-haired man glances up as he finishes stacking his neatly labeled lab reports. “Okay, hold on,” he says, unsuspecting of the chaos Till intends to unleash on his peaceful existence. After a beat, Ivan looks up again. “Is it inside your room?”

“On the table.” 

Ivan nods and walks over, only to pause, blink once, and then reach forward to pick up the phone lying directly on the table in front of Till. As in, not even a full foot away. As in, well within reach of Till's very functional arms.

Without a word, Ivan hands it to him and Till takes it with the straightest face he can manage. He stands up afterwards and walks to the door. Behind him, he hears the soft scuffle of Ivan putting on his shoes. Then the familiar pause. 

Till can practically feel the moment Ivan realizes what’s happening.

Ivan looks from Till to the door in front of him, then back again at Till, who’s standing there like he’s suddenly forgotten how doorknobs work.

He moves beside him, eyes flicking from Till to the door, then back once more.

“Oh,” Ivan says, smiling faintly like he's just solved a riddle. “Of course.”

Ivan opens the door for Till.

The trap has been set.

──────────────────

Till pushes open the music club room door, the hinges letting out a creak as it swings inward. 

Inside, it’s just Hyuna and Sua. The two girls sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by highlighted scripts set on the couch, tangled earphones, and an empty bag of chips.

Hyuna is a year ahead of Sua and Till, but they're probably working on the same theater production right now.

“Oh,” Till says, unsure if he should step in or back away slowly.

Hyuna looks up. “Hey, Till!” She gestures vaguely toward the mess. “Rehearsal got a little... chaotic.” When Till only hovers in the doorway, Hyuna chuckles. “You can come in. We don’t bite.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sua mumbles, but her focus remains on the printed pages in her lap. 

Awkwardly, Till walks over to the other couch and flops down as he pulls out his sketchbook. He flips it open to a blank page, pen already in hand. “What are you guys doing?”

It’s Sua who answers him, still calmly highlighting lines as she speaks. “We’re just going over the scripts. There were barely any chairs left in the library, and the study rooms are full. I hope you don’t mind.”

Till gives her a crooked, easy smile. “It’s okay. This room’s practically Hyuna’s anyway.”

Hyuna laughs. “It’s yours. You’re the one who sleeps in here all the time, like you’re paying rent.”

Sua raises an eyebrow, catching the implication instantly. “Still skipping classes, I see,” she murmurs.

Till flusters. His mouth opens to explain that it’s not like he’s always skipping. He hesitates, then simply shuts his mouth and shakes his head.

Sua's lip tugs in feign distaste, and Hyuna laughs loudly before her mouth curves into a sly grin. “By the way Till, Luka’s mad at you, you know,” the brunette says.

At that, Till’s brows draw together. “Mad? Why?” His thoughts spiral fast. He thinks, Is that why I’ve barely heard anything from him for four days?

“Said you blocked him,” Hyuna answers simply. She’s back to looking at her script.

“Blocked?” Till echoes, already pulling out his phone and scrolling down. Sure enough, Luka’s name is greyed out. He mutters a curse, immediately unblocking him. He quickly starts typing a message: Sorry, didn’t mean to, I must’ve pressed it by accident—

But before he can hit send, the door creaks open again.

“Oh? Ivan!” Hyuna calls out with surprise, waving enthusiastically.

“Hyuna.” Ivan smiles blindingly, holding a paper bag in one hand. He nods politely to Sua. “Hi, Sua.” Then he walks straight toward Till. “I brought your brunch.”

What a familiar scene, Till thinks.

Hyuna clutches her heart dramatically, and Ivan just gives her a small chuckle. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he sits beside Till and hands over the paper bag.

Till looks inside, already recognizing what Ivan bought: his usual iced americano, one small mercy in an otherwise Ivan-approved meal, and a veggie stir-fry bowl. It smells like something like he’d never pick for himself, but Ivan insists on keeping him alive with this so-called balanced diet, playing the role of personal nutritionist with all the stubbornness and none of the pay.

The gray-haired man sends the text to Luka first before greeting Ivan. “Thanks,” he says, then hums contentedly as he stares at the meal for a few seconds—

before purposely slumping his shoulders.

Ivan notices immediately, and Till holds back an evil smile.

“What’s wrong?”

Till frowns down at the bowl, then looks up like it physically hurts to admit: “I can’t eat this with a spoon.”

Ivan blinks.

“...What?”

Till bites his lip. “Chopsticks,” he says. When Ivan just stares at him, he raises his voice ever so slightly. “Chopsticks, Ivan.”

He’s dropped the please now.

In front of them, Sua lets out a quiet, disgusted hah without looking up from her script.

Ivan’s thick eyebrows knit together as he exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to laugh. He stands up. “Okay. Wait here. Put it back in the paper bag so it won’t get cold. I’ll be fast.”

When Ivan exits the room, it's Hyuna who speaks first. “The hell?”

The gray-haired man's cheeks redden at that.  Of course it must’ve looked… questionable to them. After all, they don't know that Till's mimicking the actions of Ivan's nameless groupmate who likes ordering and bossing the raven-haired man around. 

“Is he your errand boy now?” Sua asks, incredulous.

Till opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He could try to explain, but what would he even say? “No, I’m just impersonating one of Ivan’s condescending groupmates so he’ll finally get sick of me and stop being nice.”? Yeah, that would go over well, but only for Hyuna who knows about his Repel Ivan scheme. 

Till only chuckles awkwardly.

Without a word, he peels open the paper bag, pulling out the food container and setting it down carefully in front of him. He sees the plastic spoon tucked neatly under the napkins, and grabs it to start eating.

──────────────────

(When Ivan returns to the room, Till’s already finished eating. 

Till doesn’t apologize nor explain to Ivan, and Hyuna keeps frowning at him, soft but judgmental. Till pretends not to notice.

Ivan only smiles, setting the chopsticks down. He tells Till that it's okay. At least the food was eaten warm.

And Sua watches the exchange: the warmth in Ivan’s grin, the amused glint in his eyes, and the faint red color of Till’s ears. She doesn’t know what’s going on, not exactly. But something slides into place anyway.

She narrows her eyes slightly and says, without a trace of teasing now, “Your boyfriend’s more evil than you, Ivan.”

Till doesn't correct her this time.)

──────────────────

“Step seven?” Ivan asks as they walk.

Till chuckles. “You catch on quick,” he says.

Ivan's eyes twinkle. “What’s the exact step this time?” he prods.

Till doesn’t answer. He just grins wider, like he’s holding onto a secret too stupid or too brilliant to say out loud. With the smooth confidence of someone absolutely abusing his power, he hands Ivan his backpack.

“Not gonna tell you,” he says.

Ivan takes the bag wordlessly, slinging it over his shoulder. And without warning or regard for social fucking norms, he grabs Till's wrist to lean in and lick his cheeks.

“Ivan!”

“What? This is me letting it out. You’re so cute when you smile, Till.”

Till only picks up his pace, and Ivan follows—loyal, curious, and just a little bit doomed—like a lovesick dog trailing after him.

Behind them, Sua and Hyuna walk in stunned silence. Sua barely bats an eye. She’s long since stopped asking questions. 

Hyuna, on the other hand, looks like she's not very used to seeing Ivan do that. After all, she's only heard about it, re: Ivan's unhinged weirdness, in stories from Till himself.

The brunette's eyes are wide. “Did he just lick him?”

“Yeah,” Sua says, deadpan. “You’ll get used to it, or you won’t.”

──────────────────

By the time they arrive at the field, it’s already packed. The bleachers groan under the weight of students, professors, and random onlookers.

Till and Ivan squeeze onto a bench halfway down the bleachers.

“Is there a game before your practice?” Till asks.

“Yes, but this is only a practice match too, actually,” Ivan says, eyes already on the game. “They're up against another university. Coach divided our team into two squads to test chemistry. This is the first batch.” He turns to Till and grins. “Wanna watch?”

Till shrugs before nodding. He doesn’t really get football, but Ivan looks excited.

Even though it’s technically a “practice” match, it’s anything but casual. Helmets crash roughly. The players bark signals and sprint like their scholarships depend on it. 

The quarterback, Till decides, throws a pass so clean and it lands in the hands of his receiver. The bleachers erupt.

Till startles slightly at the noise, glancing around. Even he has to admit, the tension is getting to him. Ivan, on the other hand, is laser-focused. His body is leaned forward just slightly, elbows on knees and eyes tracking every movement.

Till watches him for a moment, and smiles because for all that Ivan is a big science nerd, buried in medical school textbooks and juggling an absurd list of refined hobbies like singing, violin, and piano—most of which were pushed onto him by his parents—football is different.

Football is one of the few things Ivan actually chose for himself, and it shows.

There’s a bead of sweat on the raven-haired man's temple, and there’s a boyish grin tugging at the corner of his lips, unguarded and real. His eyes are alight, not with the calculating gleam he gets when he’s studying, but with something freer.

It's like watching someone watch the final moments of a season finale, and that’s when Till leans over and taps Ivan’s arm.

“Can you get me a Diet Coke?”

Ivan’s expression breaks for the first time all day. 

“...Huh?”

“Diet Coke,” Till repeats, pointing vaguely behind them. “I’m really thirsty.”

Ivan flicks his gaze between Till and the field. “Uh... right now?”

Till nods cheerfully, even adding a sweet little smile for good measure. “Thanks,” he says.

For a second, Ivan doesn’t move. His gaze darts back to the field where the quarterback’s arm is already in motion. The crowd is holding its collective breath. It’s the kind of moment you only get once in a game.

Ivan sighs once, presses a kiss on Till’s hair, then he stands up and bolts.

Till blinks, still feeling the press of lips on his head, warm and unthinking.

He watches Ivan weave through the crowded steps, dodging knees and snack boxes with alarming speed. 

Back on the field, Anakt Garden scores. The crowd explodes into cheers, whistles, and a few people actually jump out of their seats. Till only sits back, holding onto the moment.

Till keeps his gaze fixed on the path Ivan took, barely registering the announcer’s voice or the sound of brass instruments blaring another university's chant.

People shout all around him, but there’s a strange stillness inside him.

He wonders, for the first time, how far Ivan would run if he asked. Or if he even needs to ask anymore.

Till tries to count the minutes in his head in a poor attempt to distract himself. One, two, three... His eyes keep darting toward the walkway Ivan disappeared into. Seven... eight... Was he counting seconds or minutes now? Somewhere around the cheerleader with the glitter pom-poms, he loses the rhythm entirely. He starts over, gets to twelve for the fifth time before—

Ivan returns, shirt clinging to his back with sweat and hair slightly damp at the temples.

“Sorry,” Ivan huffs, catching his breath between words, “the vending machines weren’t working. I had to go outside to find one.”

His chest rises and falls like he just ran drills, and there's a red flush across his cheeks. He hands over the can with a triumphant little grin, like he just completed a side quest.

Till takes it, fingers brushing briefly against Ivan’s. The metal is still cold from the store, and somehow that only makes it worse.

Ivan turns back toward the field with a smile, scanning the players with calm eyes, despite still visibly trying to catch his breath.

“So, who won?”

Till feels it hit him in the stomach: that smile, the way Ivan looks so damn happy just to have made Till pleased with a fucking cold Diet Coke.

The gray-haired man clears his throat, hoping it hides the way something inside him just tripped over itself. “It’s not over yet,” he says, voice steady only because he’s practiced hiding things longer than he’s known how to name them.

He cracks open the Diet Coke, the hiss oddly loud beneath the roar of the crowd, just to give himself something, anything, to do with his mouth.

Because the truth is, if he doesn’t keep drinking, he might just lean over and kiss Ivan stupid right here, in front of everyone. (Blearily, Till thinks about how often he's thinking about kissing Ivan these days.)

And, of course, that’s exactly when someone stumbles past and bumps into him from behind, jostling his arm. The can jerks, fizzing wildly, and a cold splash of Coke soaks into the front of his shirt.

“Shit,” Till hisses, jerking back instinctively as droplets run down his chest.

The match is still at its peak with players tearing across the field, the crowd roaring with every miss. It’s the kind of chaos that demands attention, but Till can barely focus.

His shirt clings uncomfortably to his chest, sticky and cold, while Ivan is now crouched in front of him, blotting at the mess like it's the most important thing in the world. Till blinks at him.

Wordlessly, Ivan stands up, offering his hand to Till. “Come on, I’ve got an extra shirt in my locker.”

Till's eyebrows furrow. “But the game’s not over,” he says weakly to finally give Ivan an out. To make him stay and finally enjoy the game.

Ivan gestures again, hand open and steady. “It's okay. I don’t want you catching a cold because of a spill,” he says simply.

Ivan's concern feels warmer than the sun, and Till finds himself wanting to take his hand more than anything else.

──────────────────

“Here,” Ivan says softly, holding out a shirt to Till.

Till stares at it, his damp shirt clinging awkwardly to his skin, before taking the jersey shirt carefully. It’s not one of those overly tight, padded football uniforms. 

Ivan's football team’s colors ran across the shoulders in bold stripes, and on the back is Ivan’s name above the number 45, slightly cracked from repeated washes. When he holds it up, Till realizes just how much bigger the shirt is; clearly meant for Ivan’s broader frame. 

“This is gonna swallow me whole,” Till says.

He turns slightly, pulling his wet shirt over his head and tossing it onto the sideline. The locker room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the game still going on outside. He slips Ivan’s jersey on, the fabric brushing softly against his arms and torso.

It hangs long on him, loose at the shoulders and roomy through the sleeves. The hem almost hits mid-thigh, and the collar sags a little too low around his neck. No matter how many times Till hogs Ivan's shirts and hoodies, it still feels strange, wearing something that clearly belongs to someone way broader than him.

He looks down at himself, then up at Ivan. “You’re so huge.” 

Ivan stiffens. “Can you stop saying things like that?” 

Till eyebrows meet. “The hell do you mean?”

Ivan's mouth opens, maybe to tease him or to say something about how ridiculous he looks drowning in his jersey, like he always does, but nothing comes out. He just stares at Till.

Till, who's standing there in Ivan’s jersey, collar hanging loose.

Without a word, Ivan turns away. He pulls open his locker and begins rummaging through it, pulling out his football uniform and setting it down on one of the benches with a soft thud.

Till walks over quietly and sits on the edge of the same bench. His shoulders are slightly hunched, and the jersey shifts over him like it doesn’t belong there. He doesn’t say anything either.

Ivan grabs his helmet next, wiping it down and inspecting it for cracks. He moves with practiced efficiency, but his back stays turned to Till the whole time.

The gray-haired man watches him in silence. He wonders if he pushed him too hard today.

Till bites his lips. “...Tired?”

Ivan turns to face him. “From what?”

Till doesn’t answer. He just huffs and turns his head away. His fingers are still fidgeting with the hem of the jersey.

At that, something clicks in Ivan. A soft smile spreads across his face, warm and knowing. Then he sits beside Till, close enough that their knees touch.

“No,” Ivan says quietly, “I’m not tired.”

Till feels the words settle in his chest. Guilt bubbles up, sharp and fast, but he tries not to show it.

Because maybe this is his problem. This whole damn thing.

He keeps cycling through his stupid steps just to prove a point. He sets up little tests, just to watch Ivan walk into them and fail. Because it would be easier if he did. Simpler. Safer.

But Ivan keeps proving him wrong, and every time he does, Till feels it: the guilt, the shame, and the stupid hope he can't seem to kill.

Because it’s not fair, is it? Expecting someone like Ivan to keep proving himself just so Till can feel a little more certain. A little more wanted. 

Someone like Ivan, who boldly, almost carelessly, says he loves Till. Who shows it in everything he does. Whose pitch-black eyes are steady and sincere. What’s left for Ivan to prove?

Till bites his lip.

Is it because of the way Till was raised? Or is there just something inherently broken in him? Something that twists every act of care into something suspect. He doesn’t know, not really.

“Till?”

Till blinks back to life, pulled from the spiral of his thoughts. Ivan’s voice anchors him. He looks up to find the other man watching him, eyebrows drawn slightly together.

“You’re thinking,” Ivan says quietly.

“A very hard thing to not do when you have a brain,” Till replies.

Ivan doesn’t let it go. “About?”

Till hesitates. He could lie like he usually does.

But instead, he says, honest and low, “About how unlucky you are.” Ivan’s brows pinch tighter at that, a crease forming between them at the implication. His mouth opens to argue, but Till cuts in before he can. “And about how lucky I am.”

(But with the way Ivan looks at him, with that unshakable devotion, Till wants to try.

He’s made it clear to Ivan, and he’s making it clear to himself now, and every damn time he feels even a little afraid to love.)

Till smiles, soft and a little crooked, when Ivan’s eyes widen the tiniest fraction.

“I was trying to imitate your groupmate,” Till finally says.

At that, Ivan laughs. “What?”

“Yeah.” Till breathes. “You said you hated bossy people. And being told what to do.”

Ivan laughs even harder. “What?” he repeats. Then, “Oh. I see.”

“Mhm.” Till hums, watching him. Handsome, stupid Ivan. “You passed, by the way.”

“That’s it?” Ivan asks, smiling. “You sure? Didn’t even feel like anything.”

“Hmp,” Till says, brushing Ivan’s hair back gently. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t like making you run your ass off.”

Ivan raises an eyebrow, as if to say You sure? Till responds by punching his arm lightly. “It’s okay,” Ivan says, his voice softer now. “I said I’d prove my feelings, right? You could do worse.”

“No,” Till replies. “Step seven’s absolutely over now. I give you your grade: pass with flying colors.” He reaches out and pinches Ivan’s cheeks.

“Step seven’s boring.” Ivan laughs, catching Till’s hand and pressing a kiss to it.

“Ivan.” 

“What? This is me letting it out.”

Till sighs, fond. “How many times are you going to say that today?”

Ivan just grins, snaggletooth peeking out, before going back to wiping his helmet. There’s still about an hour before his game.

Without thinking, Till reaches out, fingers brushing against the helmet resting in Ivan’s lap.

“Let me do that for you,” Till says suddenly, voice low. Maybe if he just do something, take something off Ivan’s hands, it would help settle the guilt crawling under his skin.

But before he can get a proper grip, Ivan shifts. Just slightly, but enough to turn the helmet away and out of reach.

He laughs, easy, boyish, a little high in pitch. Huh.

“I got it, Till,” he says.

Till blinks, a little startled at the quick dodge. He squints at him, confused, but something’s different in Ivan’s posture now.

The raven-haired man's holding the helmet a little lower, a little tighter against his lap, and there’s the faintest flush in his ears that wasn’t there a moment ago.

Till’s eyes narrow, trailing down, putting it together.

Oh.

Oh.

The cheers from outside make Ivan jump. He grips the helmet even tighter, holding it suspiciously low.

“Are you hard?” Till asks intelligently, mouth slightly agape. “Why?”

Ivan’s ears are a soft pink now. “Why?” he echoes, voice pitching up.

Till almost laughs. Ivan sounds exactly like Sua when she’s about to panic, voice going all squeaky and ridiculous.

“You’re wearing my jersey,” Ivan says, like Till shouldn’t even need to ask why.

The gray-haired man watches Ivan with a small, amused smile curling his lips. Ivan’s being a little bit funny. He wears Ivan's shirts all the time like it’s his second skin. What’s the difference now?

Till doesn’t quite know where the sudden confidence to speak up is coming from. Maybe it’s the steady thrum of his own heartbeat, or the way Ivan looks back at him, or even the fact that this won't be the first time that they've done something intimate. If they do.

Whatever it is, it pushes him forward and strips away any hesitation.

“Want me to give you a hand?” Till asks, straightforward.

Ivan’s eyes widen. “What? No.” His voice cracks halfway through, ears practically glowing now.

And just like that, the air shifts.

Till’s smile falters. “Oh,” he says, voice quiet. Flat. “Right.”

Ivan doesn’t notice at first, but when he looks up, Till’s no longer smiling, and he's got that look.

The one Ivan’s seen a few times before. The one where Till folds in on himself just a little. 

Ivan exhales. “Hey,” he starts, heart suddenly pounding for a whole different reason, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Till says, too fast. “I was just messing around, anyway.”

Ivan breathes another sigh, as if restraining himself. “Communication,” he whispers to himself and then, “no, Till. I would love for you to help.”

“...What?”

Ivan makes a small, wounded noise in his throat.

“Wait. No. That’s not... I didn’t mean, I mean I did, but not like, you know, physically help? Or not that I wouldn’t want that. I do. Very much. If you, uh. But also, not now. Not here. Not in the locker room—”

“I just meant—yes, I am physically suffering right now,” Ivan barrels on, “and yes, the thought of your hand anywhere near my area is deeply appealing, but also, I respect you a lot. And I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of walking hormone, even though you're probably already thinking that, but that’s not the point—”

“I don’t want you to think you have to do anything. No. You don’t owe me.”

Ivan’s words echo between them, clumsy and breathless, and somehow, Till understands.

Because just as much as there's something broken in him, there’s something in Ivan too. Something fragile beneath the ego and confidence, like Till could never truly want him.

Like he’s already resigned himself to being the one who loves, gives, asks for nothing. 

It mirrors Till's own insecurities.

Till breathes in, letting the weight settle inside him.

“Owe you?” Till repeats gently. When Ivan doesn't say anything, he shakes his head. “Do you want me to help you?”

The gray-haired man stares at Ivan, and Ivan's face, usually smug, composed, all ego and lazy smirks, is flushed red to the tips of his ears.

His normally sharp, eloquent vocabulary is collapsing into breathless, half-panicked rambling.

Huh, Till thinks.

For all his teasing and bravado, Till always assumed Ivan would be the kind of pervert to pounce the moment he got permission, greedy hands and roving eyes and not a shred of shame. But this?

This is a surprise.

“Ivan,” Till calls. “What will it be?”

“I just... I want our first time to be special, and not a panic attack in the locker room.”

“First time?” Till chokes. “I’m asking if you want me to lend you a hand! A hand only, Ivan!”

“...Oh.”

It’s Till’s turn to go red. He huffs, “What the hell were you thinking? Wow, you’re really a pervert, huh?”

“Pervert? Me? You’re the one who offered me a handjob, Till.”

Till goes even redder. “Well, I’m so sorry I want to help you!”

Ivan laughs softly, shaking his head in disbelief. Before Till can react, Ivan leans in close. There's a question in his pause, and he only fully leans when Till nods. Then the faint scent of sweat and something uniquely Ivan starts to surround Till, intoxicating and warm.

Ivan’s lips brush teasingly along Till’s jawline, slow and deliberate. His mouth drags lower, over the delicate skin of Till’s neck, making goosebumps rise in his wake. And Till, already breathless, wonders if Ivan has some kind of switch.

One moment he’s flustered and falling over his own words, ears bright red and helmet clenched in his lap like it’s the only thing shielding his dignity. The next, he’s composed and confident again.

“I’ll kill you.” Till whispers and Ivan chuckles, the sound low and vibrating against Till’s skin. 

He cups Till’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, before pressing a feather-light kiss just shy of his lips, close enough to make Till’s pulse spike, but not quite crossing the line the raven-haired man has made.

“Sorry,” Ivan murmurs, voice low and almost sultry. Then he repeats, softer, “Sorry.”

Till puffs out a breath, trying to sound stern but failing spectacularly. “Whatever, I’m gonna leave. Have fun jerking yourself off.”

Ivan shakes his head with a boyish grin. “No, please, baby.” Till bites his lip, caught off guard by the tenderness in that single word. “Please help.” Ivan presses another kiss along his jawline. “Mhm?”

“Shut up.” Till flusters. “And lock the door.” 

*

For all of Ivan’s nonsense, he’s tense beneath Till.

The gray-haired man’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches down, fingers fumbling at the zipper of his jeans.

Till watches him. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” Ivan lies.

Till doesn't say anything. He doesn’t really know what he’s about to do, but the want in him is stronger than the uncertainty, and it pushes him to explore anyway.

He reaches out and frees Ivan’s cock from the constraints of his pants, earning a shaky exhale from the latter. His cock is thick and heavy, just as hot as Till figured it would be. Till licks his lips. It'd be even heavier inside his mouth, and the thought makes him giddy.

Ivan speaks, breaking Till away from his vivid imagination. “I just don’t want this to be... weird. Or stupid. Or rushed.”

“Aren't you a gentleman,” Till deadpans. 

Ivan doesn’t deny it, just puffs out a breath, the strain in his posture still there. He’s trying hard to keep composed, but Till can see it in the tightness of his jaw.

“You were always kind of a pervert,” Till teases, voice low. “What’s stopping you now?”

“This isn’t exactly where I imagined you’d give me a handjob, Till.”

“Oh?” Till tilts his head. “Where, then? Some fancy penthouse? With candles and rose petals?” That earns Till a real laugh from Ivan. “Aren’t you romantic, Ivan?”

But even as Till jokes, he watches Ivan carefully. There’s something almost painful about how hard Ivan's trying to stay respectful and composed, like he’s fighting every instinct in him not to pounce, not to ruin it.

His eyes are dark and focused, but his lips are pressed into a tight line and his knuckles are pale from how hard he’s closing his fist.

Till knows that look. Knows how strong Ivan is. Ivan’s the type of guy who could toss him over a shoulder without breaking a sweat, the kind whose biceps fill out a shirt a little too well. And yet here he is, holding back with an almost painful gentleness. Being a gentleman when he doesn’t have to be. When it would be so easy to give in.

Till feels his own cock stir to life.

“Then stop making it weird,” Till mutters after awhile, a reply to what Ivan said earlier. “Just let me take care of you, moron.”

Till wraps his fingers around Ivan’s cock, the sensation dry and a little awkward at first. He pauses, eyes flicking up to Ivan's face not out of hesitation, but because he wants to see the effect he's having.

Ivan's head falls back into Till’s shoulders, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a stuttered apology he doesn’t know how to finish.

Without a word, Till leans down, and spits into his dry, calloused palm. It's unceremonious, but there's something oddly intimate about it, too. He returns his hand to Ivan's veiny cock, throbbing with every press, fingers slick now as they curl around Ivan again. 

The length is warm in Till’s hand, his thumb curling over the slit to spread the beads of precum along with his spit, pressing just enough to coax a whimper out of Ivan before starting to pump the shaft up and down almost messily.

Till’s movements are guided more by instinct than skill, but to his surprise, Ivan’s expression softens into something blissful, as though he feels pleasure.

Ivan’s hand reaches out, clumsy, and lands on Till’s thigh. He squeezes gently like he needs to ground himself, or maybe he’s just desperate to touch him back in any way. “H-Have you done this before?”

Till takes the question as a good sign, a shaky sort of encouragement that he must be doing something right. Ivan's fingers tighten when Till twists his wrist just so, breath stuttering.

“You jealous?”

Ivan looks away. “No.”

Till laughs.

Even now, he’s denying it—though his actions always speak otherwise—because he thinks he has no right to be. Just like how he’s probably assuming Till’s doing all this out of pity, out of some misplaced sense of guilt or responsibility.

They mirror each other in a way that’s almost scary.

Till leans in, his mouth brushing just beneath Ivan’s ear. “Well, you’re allowed to be, is what I'm trying to say.”

Ivan doesn’t say anything more, and Till continues.

The gray-haired man adjusts his grip, tighter now, firmer, thumb dragging just under the head in slow, teasing circles. Ivan arches slightly into it, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

The rhythm is steady, almost languid. Till’s strokes are almost slow, coaxing rather than rushing. Ivan’s breath catches in his throat, chest rising and falling with every slick pass of Till’s hand. His long lashes flutter, head tipping back just slightly as he surrenders to the sensation.

When Ivan thrusts into Till’s hand, the gray-haired man thumbs Ivan’s slit. “Don’t move.”

Ivan heaves a sigh. “But I want to cum,” he says, honest.

Warmth settles low in Till's core, slow and aching. “Already?” Till asks.

“Yes,” Ivan answers immediately.

“Pathetic.”

Ivan whimpers at that. “Can I? Please, Till. Hmm?” he asks.

Till shifts a little from where he sits, suddenly hyper-aware of how tight his pants have gotten. His pants strain just slightly, heat pooling low on his stomach. “If you behave,” he answers. “Maybe I’d even let you cum on my face.”

Till's hand stutters for a moment, feeling the way Ivan's almost-red cock throbs against his hand excitedly.

Seriously. What a fucking pervert.

“Okay,” Ivan’s reply is instant. “I’ll behave. I’ll be good for you, Till.”

The muscles in his thighs twitch, straining as he tries to stay still, but Till’s hand is merciless in its tenderness, almost methodical and unhurried, like he’s learning Ivan’s every reaction by heart.

The raven-haired man's jaw clenches, hips twitching under the attention, but he doesn’t move. His huge cock keeps throbbing hotly against Till's palm. And Till knows it, Ivan's pleasure, feels it in the way every part of Ivan leans into his touch like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground.

He’s burning up from the inside out, every nerve drawn taut with the effort to stay still, to let Till lead. It’s reverent in a way, the way he listens to Till, not from shame or uncertainty, but from pure want. From the aching desire to feel exactly what Till wants him to feel, exactly how Till wants to give it.

Till's eyes turn fixed on Ivan's large cock, watching the way it shifts beneath his touch. His fingers adjust instinctively, gliding along its length, feeling the veins.

Ivan's cock yields easily beneath his touch, warm and hard. Till's other hand moves to steady the base, and his movements grow steadier, more confident. His own breathing deepens without him realizing, jaw slightly slack.

Ivan's frozen in place, jaw tight, hands clenched against Till's waist now. His hips jerk upward in a subtle, involuntary roll. 

“Till—”

“I said don’t move. Listen to me.”

“Till,” Ivan tries again, his voice rougher now, catching on the back of a breath. “Ngh—Please. Fuck.”

Till leans in slightly, close enough to feel the heat between them. “Not so boring now, huh?” he murmurs.

And in the haze of lust clouding Ivan’s eyes, Till catches it: the flicker of amusement, barely-there but unmistakable. He's enjoying this. Of course he does. Some pervert that he is.

Ivan could break away in an instant. He's way stronger than Till physically, and no matter how deep he lets himself sink, control clings to him like a second skin. 

But not with Till. With Till, Ivan could relinquish everything. He’d hand it over eagerly, because with Till, surrender doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like worship.

He’d wait, too. For as long as Till wants him to. Every second Till makes him wait, he soaks it up with wide eyes, hungry and aching for the moment he’s finally allowed to touch, to please, to ruin Till exactly how Till wants.

“Pervert,” Till murmurs.

“Your pervert?” Ivan offers.

Till shifts, wordlessly lowering himself, knees pressing against the cool floor. He looks up once, just briefly, and he catches the expression in Ivan's pitch-black eyes: focused, dangerous, and reverent. “Unfortunately,” Till replies.

Ivan doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t dare. Instead, he tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut as Till continues his motions, slow and deliberate now. The closeness is dizzying. Ivan’s hand tightens on his own thigh to anchor himself.

It’s quiet, save for the faint sounds outside: cheers from the field, footsteps in the hallway, the world still spinning while everything inside this moment stills. And through it all, Ivan never moves. 

“You gonna cum?”

“Please,” Ivan answers like a broken record.

“Okay,” Till whispers, his voice low and steady. He pauses, fingers still wrapped gently around Ivan, and presses a tentative, soft kiss to the tip, careful and equally reverent. He lets his arms rest lightly on Ivan’s spread thighs, grounding himself as much as Ivan. “You can cum.”

He inches his face closer to Ivan’s huge cock, and his hand resumes its motions, faster now, thumb tracing circles just beneath the tip while his fingers pump the shaft.

Till’s rhythm doesn’t falter, his touch coaxing and careful, until Ivan’s breath catches sharply, eyes fluttering closed. A soft, involuntary sound escapes him, trembling and raw, as tension breaks and washes over him in a wave. 

Ivan’s cum suddenly spurts and hits Till’s face in a messy, unexpected splash. Thick, pale dollops slid down his forehead and cheeks, dripping onto his shirt. 

Without thinking, Till wipes at the mess with the back of his hand, then hesitates as he brings his fingers to his lips, tasting the tangy flavor.

“Till!”

“What?”

Without saying more, Ivan gently guides him toward the bench. The movement is careful, like Ivan’s afraid of startling him. As Till sinks down, he grimaces at the sudden discomfort of the slightly wet patch on his pants, making him shift.

“Swallowing semen isn't generally safe. You know, some people have semen allergy, and some may experience minor gastrointestinal discomfort,” the raven-haired man scolds gently. Till rolls his eyes.

“Health fucking freak,” the gray-haired man insults, fond.

Ivan’s hands are gentle as they reach up to brush a stray lock of hair from Till’s forehead, then trail down to his cheeks, wiping away the faintest traces of sweat. His touch is tender, grounding.

“Here,” Ivan murmurs, pulling a clean towel from his gym bag. He presses it softly to Till’s skin, his fingers lingering as if reluctant to break contact.

“Thank you,” Till whispers.

“How about you...?” Ivan's eyes are on Till's hard-on, bright. “You haven't finished. Let me help.”

Till blinks.

He should’ve known, really. The eager-to-please nature has always hovered around him, aching to serve and to help Till. Ivan’s eyes are almost pleading, his hands twitching like he’s seconds away from begging to get on his knees if it means wringing pleasure out of Till. 

It’s only now that Till feels the strain in his pants, the ache he’s been ignoring catching up to him. His eyes flick to the clock on the wall, and he bites his lip. He's been too focused watching Ivan drown in pleasure that he forgot his own.

But then Ivan’s pleasure is his.

Not that he’s ever going to say that to a pervert like Ivan.

“It’s okay. Your match is about to start.”

“You sure?” Ivan asks softly like a kicked puppy, eyes wide.

Till exhales, shoulders tense from the hot, strained feeling, but lips twitching into a fond smile. “You look like a kicked puppy, yes, Ivan. I'm sure,” he says. 

“Okay. Can I eat you out later then?”

“Ivan!”

“What? This is me—”

“Letting it out! Yes, I know!”

Till blushes. Of course beneath the puppy eyes and the gentleman act is something far worse: the true Ivan. Horny. Evil. Intent. Till almost forgot that that's how he's always viewed Ivan, anyway.

Ivan laughs, deep and easy, and it’s not fair how good he looks doing it. He leans in close again, his voice softer this time, “I love you.” 

Till blushes. “You’re just saying that because I jerked your dick off,” he says.

“Trust me when I say that I’d still kiss the floor you stepped on even when you bite it off,” Ivan replies.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Till rolls his eyes and Ivan smiles, something small and blindingly warm, and then leans in even closer. Not with hunger this time, but with something gentler. 

He presses featherlight kisses across Till’s face: the corner of his eye, the apple of his cheek, the spot just beside his nose. 

Then wordlessly, the raven-haired man takes his hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles like he’s some fragile thing that deserves reverence. He loves kissing Till's hand, kissing Till, achingly so.

Till exhales shakily, then glances at the clock again. “I’ll go now. Your game’s about to start in thirty.”

“Okay,” Ivan replies, smiling.

The gray-haired man only stands, hesitates for just a moment—

then closes the distance and presses a soft, sure kiss to Ivan’s lips.

It’s barely a kiss. It's so light it could’ve been mistaken for the wind, but it lingers and it knocks the air out of Till and Ivan more effectively than anything rough ever could.

“Good luck,” Till whispers against his mouth.

──────────────────

By the time the final whistle blew, the scoreboard was a massacre in Anakt Garden's favor, and Ivan had single-handedly carried the team with a record-breaking number of touchdowns.

──────────────────

[19:34] Till: no reply? :( are you still mad...?

[19:42] Luka: My answer depends whether you'll treat me and Hyuna to coffee or no.

[19:42] Till: ugh fuck off

[19:43] Luka: It's cheaper than 50 bucks, no?

[19:43] Till: meet me in 20 :D

──────────────────

Chapter Text

Till, in truth, doesn’t know how they ended up like this.

One innocent kiss turned into two, to three, and suddenly Ivan has him pinned against the wall, the bed, the couch—any surface he can get his hands on, with Ivan’s mouth crashing roughly onto his, tongue grazing and lips pulling him under like current.

It always starts sickeningly innocent, too. A lazy hold in his hand, Ivan’s long fingers slipping between his, or a head resting on his shoulder when they’re sprawled on the couch or bed. But it never stays innocent for long.

'Cause Ivan’s a fucking pervert. 

The touch lingers longer than it should, then Ivan’s mouth is brushing against his jaw before he leans in and captures Till’s lips, slow and sweet at first before it turns into something filthy and consuming, like Ivan’s set on eating him whole. 

Till can’t believe that this is the same man who trembles under his touch, so rigid with restraint. 

But still, he knows that Ivan wouldn’t move unless he gives him permission, and it’s ridiculous how far Ivan would take it, sitting there with desperation but keeping his hands to himself. He could take Till apart in a second, but he doesn’t.

Not until Till allows it.

*

“Is it good Till?”

When Ivan pulls away from Till’s leaking cock, his lips are sheen with spit and pre-cum. 

He’s in between Till’s shaking thighs, now dragging his tongue across the divots of Till’s abdomen, littering the warm skin with even more bites, as if unsatisfied with how he’s already marked him earlier.

Ivan’s focus drifts to the sensitive inside of Till’s thigh, biting roughly before soothing it with the wet, sloppy glide of his tongue. 

“Ivan,” Till calls weakly. 

Ivan pulls back, sitting on his knees to admire the mess he’s made: Till’s naked, slender body marred in teeth marks, his pale skin a canvas of darkening hickeys. The contrast is striking. Till is undone and bare, while Ivan remains prim and proper, clothes still on, with only his forearms exposed where he’s rolled up his sleeves.

Till had been shy at first, hesitating under Ivan’s gaze. But now, stripped bare and flushed beneath Ivan’s hands for more than once or twice, there’s no room left for shyness.

At the sight, Ivan’s hands settle possessively on Till’s waist, feeling the stark difference in their frames, his eyes gleaming like a maniac. 

All it takes is one breathless permission from Till, and Ivan’s paradox unravels. His greedy, gnawing hunger that’s barely leashed snaps taut under the weight of Till’s consent. With it, he’ll devour every inch he’s allowed to. As long as Till allows him to.

So much for being a gentleman.

“What is it, Till?”

Till’s breathing comes ragged. He manages to furrow his thin eyebrows, sweat slipping past through his jaw. “Come on,” he tries.

“What?” Ivan presses, feigning innocence as his hands roam shamelessly over Till’s body, fingers tracing circles and toying with a hardened nipple just to watch Till shudder under him. His grin widens and his fang flashes. He doesn’t wait for an answer, and gives the nipple a sharper roll. “Put my mouth on your cock? I thought you didn’t like it, Till.”

Bastard. That’s what Ivan is.

When Till doesn't say anything, Ivan's finger rolls the nipple again. His other palm presses flat along Till’s hip, holding him there like he belongs under Ivan’s touch. “What do you want, Till? Say it,” Ivan murmurs. 

Ivan leans in to graze the corner of Till’s jaw with his teeth, and Till feels the press of Ivan’s hard cock against his thigh, big and heavy and just within his reach. “Come on, say it,” Ivan whispers again.

His hand skims along Till’s thigh now, fingers digging. “Say it, Till,” Ivan murmurs, voice dipped low with velvet, but rough with the kind of need he’s trying too hard to lace in mockery. His breath fans hot over Till’s skin as he speaks again. “I’ll give it to you. Just say you want it, too.”

And for all the control and restraint Ivan pretends to hold, for all his wolfish grin and mocking tone, it bleeds through. His little act cracks under his own desperation. The hard line of his cock strains under his pants, and his hungry eyes are blown wide.

Between the two of them, only one is begging right now. And it isn’t Till.

“Till.” He presses a kiss on Till’s warm cheek. “You’re so beautiful.” His lips drift to the corner of Till’s mouth to press another kiss, just shy away from everything Ivan wants but refuses to just take.

“Please,” Ivan finally begs. Say you want me too, is what he doesn’t say.

At that, Till reaches for Ivan, threading a hand through his black hair before his calloused fingers cradle his jaw. He drags Ivan in, mouths colliding, tongue slipping past Ivan’s lips, messy and greedy. 

Ivan shudders, chasing the sweet taste of Till like it’s nectar. By the time Till pulls away, they’re both breathless, a string of saliva still connecting them, breathing heavy between parted mouths.

Till’s cheeks burn, but he forces himself to speak. “Use your mouth again,” he says. His palm cups Ivan’s cheek, thumb grazing the flushed skin as Ivan leans into it. “Come on, Ivan. Mhm?”

Ivan exhales sharply, Till’s words knocking the air from his chest. “Okay,” the raven-haired man whispers. His hands shake as they settle on Till’s hips, steadying himself. “I’ll give it to you, Till. Whatever you want. I’ll be good for you.”

It’s all Ivan says before he lowers himself again, his lips parting as he takes Till’s hard cock into his mouth. Slowly, Ivan inches forward until he’s taken Till whole. His throat tightens briefly before he steadies his breathing, then he starts to move. 

Ivan bobs his head up and down in a steady rhythm, and the wet heat of his mouth has Till tipping his head back, back arching beautifully.

Till’s fingers tighten at the white sheets, breathing becoming heavier at the wet cavern of Ivan’s mouth, and the glide of Ivan’s tongue on his cock.

When Till lightly thrusts into his warm mouth, Ivan groans, and the vibration on Till’s cock makes the gray-haired man moan loudly. 

“Shit, ah, Ivan—”

Ivan pulls Till’s hips toward him, encouraging Till to use and fuck his mouth. The gray-haired man bites his lips as the heat in his stomach pools. His hips roll, chasing the heat of Ivan’s mouth. And Ivan lets him. 

Each thrust into Ivan’s mouth presses deeper, and the sound of the wet drag fills the room. 

“I-Ivan,” Till moans. “C-Close, oh, that's it. Yes.”

Ivan pulls away.

The sudden loss of heat leaves Till burning. His hips jerk up. “Bastard!”

Ivan’s hand replaces his mouth, but the movement is maddeningly slow. Ivan's long fingers are barely giving enough friction to soothe the ache simmering inside Till.

It’s not enough, nowhere close, and Till’s hips buck up again pathetically in frustration, a whine tearing from his throat.

The gray-haired man attempts to glare, though it lacks bite with his glassy eyes, unshed tears threatening to fall along his lashes. All he manages is a weak, “Fuck you.”

Ivan has the audacity to laugh lowly, and Till curses Ivan’s switch.

For all his kicked puppy act, the trembling reverence, the whispered I’ll be good for you, the shaking hands gripping Till’s hips—beneath them are his fangs. 

He’s always liked to pick on Till before he kisses his feet.

“Till,” Ivan murmurs, leaning in close, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Till's flushed skin. His lips press soft kisses along Till’s cheek, trailing toward his ear, before his tongue flicks out, tracing the curve. It sends a shiver rippling down Till’s spine. “Remember what I said last week?”

“What?” Till grits out, barely hearing him, brain fogged with need, every thought dissolving as his hips continue to thrust in shallow motions, Ivan’s deft fingers stroking his cock languidly.

Ivan pulls back to meet his eyes. “Can I eat you out?” 

Till flushes.

Ivan presses another kiss to his jaw. “You know what that means, right?” he teases. “'Eating out' is just a euphemism. What I mean to say is that I want to put my mouth at the opening of your anus. Then inside.” 

“I know what it means, asshole!” Till snaps, face flushed deeper now. 

“Exactly. Asshole, that’s where my tongue’s going—”

“Kill yourself!”

Till stares as the bastard chuckles again, torn between throttling him and giving in, his pulse roaring in his ears. But oh, he wants to come so badly.

“I’ll make you feel good,” Ivan whispers, his voice warm and low. His mouth is at Till’s neck now, lips brushing the flushed skin before his teeth scrape along the curve, biting down just enough to make Till shudder beneath him.

Till’s brain is still fogged, heavy with want and even heavier with frustration, but even through the haze, that quiet voice in the back of his mind reminds him: he’s never done anything like that.

No one’s ever touched him there, never teased the idea, and never even asked.

Hell, Till himself hasn't even put his own fingers inside his, as Ivan likes to call it, anus.

(He really should tape Ivan’s mouth sometimes.)

But with Ivan… 

Ivan’s different.

He always has been. Every moment Till shares with him is handled with care and patience. He spoils him, teases him relentlessly, pushes his buttons, but never crosses a line Till doesn’t want crossed. Every time, Ivan gives him exactly what he needs. More than he ever thought to ask for.

And god, his body’s betraying him now, hips restless and skin burning.

He trusts him. 

So Till bites his lower lip, and lets his head fall back against the pillows. His voice comes out quiet, but clear enough.

“…Okay.”

Ivan swallows audibly, and Till fights the urge to laugh even through his embarrassment.

Seriously. This guy has the audacity to offer to tongue his ass, but turns shy the second he's given permission.

Ivan’s a paradox Till will never get used to adoring.

“So,” Ivan clears his throat. “How do you want this?”

Till glares at him. “Don't ask me,” Till snaps before looking away. “J-Just... however you like. I don't know shit about this, dude. I trust you, okay?”

Till misses the flash of something dangerous in Ivan’s eyes at his permission. “Okay.”

The raven-haired man dips down between Till’s thighs, one hand sliding to rest near his knee, fingers curling lightly against his inner thigh, folding him. He guides Till's legs toward the gray-haired man's chest with steady pressure.

His other hand settles flat against Till’s lower abdomen, holding him steady, keeping his hips and Till exposed. Till can only yelp, startled by the shift, the openness of it making heat flood his face as his lower back arches slightly off the bed.

“And please don’t call me dude right now,” Ivan mutters with a stupid smile. 

That's all Ivan says before dipping his head down, licking against Till's tight entrance.

Till gasps, embarrassed by their position, but weirdly aroused at the new sensation he's feeling. He tries to bite his lower lip to stop himself from moaning but fails when Ivan's tongue starts lapping against his entrance.

His hole is dry at first, but with the dampness of Ivan's tongue prodding sensually around his entrance, Till's wet in no time and Ivan's tongue finally slips inside Till.

“Fuuuck,” Till moans. 

Ivan presses a hand on his stomach to keep him pinned and folded, fingers flexing lightly as if to feel his abdomen. Till's pulse quickens at the touch, whole body on fire. His breathing comes more ragged now, fingers dinging themselves in Ivan's soft hair. Ivan withdraws his tongue before thrusting inside again, and Till pulls Ivan's hair. 

They maintain a steady, but rough rhythm: Ivan's tongue thrusting back and forth, swirling inside to deliver a brutal wave of pleasure that has Till curling his toes helplessly, and Till rewards Ivan by his loud moans, uncaring and wild.

As Till submits to pleasure, Ivan's eyes are entirely on him, drinking in the sight of Till. Chest heaving, eyes rolled back, and lips parted, a trail of drool slipping past through. He's beautiful like this, and Ivan doesn't even have to palm his own cock to be pleasured.

Ivan withdraws his tongue again, teeth sinking near Till's entrance before he starts sucking lightly at Till's wet hole. Till's hand tightens around Ivan's hair, and when the raven-haired man's tongue enters him again, Till’s inner walls pulse warmly.

Till keens, shifting as if to move away from the intense onslaught of pleasure, but his hands find themselves pulling Ivan's hair and pushing the raven-haired man's face against his hole, more.

Ivan's hungry eyes are still on Till as his back arches beautifully, head tipped back in pleasure. He's shoving himself against Ivan's mouth desperately, and Ivan could come like this. 

When Till's hole starts clenching against Ivan's tongue, Ivan pushes even deeper, one hand moving up past to stroke Till's weeping cock. 

“Holy shit,” Till groans. 

Ivan moans, pulling his tongue away. His fingers maintain a rough flow, spreading Till's pre-cum all over his cock and thumbing at his slit before stroking him up and down. All while Ivan's mouth is lapping against his entrance, biting and sucking.

Ivan moans. “This is a good look on you, Till. You're this crazy over my mouth and hand. Just imagine my cock inside you.” 

At that, Till's breath stutters, his vision going blurry as the heat coiling in his stomach starts to unravels.

“Yeah? You like that?”

Before Till can stop it, there's a sound ripping from his throat. Heat and pleasure floods through his body like a surge of electricity, and he cums all over his stomach.

He feels the entirety of his body buzz, legs twitching as he comes down from the high. He covers his eyes with an arm, chest rising and falling heavily.

His breath hitches at the aftershocks, and Ivan gives him the mercy by pulling back entirely and removing his hand from Till's spent cock.

Till's thighs tremble, and for a moment, all he can hear is his heartbeat.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?”

“I did my research.” 

Till doesn't have the strength to roll his eyes.

When he finally blinks up at Ivan, the raven-haired man's eyes are blown wide. His mouth is parted, breath shaky. His hand still rests flat against Till’s stomach, but his other hand’s nowhere near himself. He hasn’t even touched his own belt. And yet…

Till’s gaze drops, and oh.

“Are you,” Till’s voice cracks, still raw from everything, “seriously?”

Ivan lets out a rough, unsteady breath. His hips twitch faintly, and his jaw clenches.

There's an unmistakable wet patch on his pants.

Till's too tired to glare properly, though the thought crosses his mind: pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And yet, weirdly, it makes something hot twist low in his stomach all over again.

But his body feels boneless. He's too tired to think.

“I could cum from just you talking, Till.”

“I'm sure.”

He's long past turning red at Ivan's bizarre horniness. 

Ivan leans down again, towering over Till’s sprawled figure, his grin wrecked, already kissing along Till’s flushed face like he might actually die if he can’t have his mouth on him every time. 

“I’m tired, Ivan,” Till manages, eyes slipping half-shut. “I don’t think I can go for another round.”

Ivan laughs. “Another round? What are you even thinking?” His voice curls with amusement, his lips brushing along Till’s jaw. “I’m just kissing you. You’re so cute when you’re wrecked.”

Till huffs weakly, but he doesn’t argue. His body sinks deeper into the sheets, heavy and pliant. He closes his eyes, letting himself drift as Ivan peppers him with more kisses.

When Ivan finally pauses, Till cracks his eyes open, and Ivan’s already leaning in again, capturing his lips without hesitation.

A low heat coils sluggishly in Till's abdomen. His thighs twitch faintly, hips instinctively shifting beneath Ivan’s steady hands—

Then Ivan's phone rings, cutting through the room.

Till flinches. 

“Ivan,” Till calls, pulling away. The phone keeps ringing, and Ivan’s mouth catches his mid-word, tongue gliding slow, sensuous, stealing the sound right from his lips.

Till pushes Ivan softly. “I-Ivan, your phone.”

Ivan ignores him, mouth sliding to the curve of Till’s neck, tongue warm and teeth grazing Till's skin as the raven-haired man's hips rut forward, grinding against Till’s thigh without shame.

Till moans, but his palm presses to Ivan’s chest, shoving him just enough to force a space between them.

“What?” Ivan snaps, the sharp edge to his tone makes Till smile, like Till just dragged him out of some perfect, filthy dream.

Till fights back a laugh. “Your phone’s ringing,” he says, voice still rough. “What if it’s something important?”

Ivan’s gaze drags over Till’s naked body: the flushed skin, the hickeys painting constellations along his chest, his throat, his hips, his mussed hair, his swollen lips.

Ivan groans, collapsing forward and burying his face against Till’s neck. His arms wrap tight around Till’s waist like he might never let go. Till laughs, threading his fingers through Ivan’s hair as Ivan lingers there, holding on for a second longer before the raven-haired man forces himself to pull away.

With a grumble, Ivan snatches his phone off the nightstand. “Someone better be dying,” Ivan mutters into the call, lips still slick with Till’s taste. Till flushes, thighs snapping shut.

There’s a pause before Ivan straightens slightly, expression shifting. “Oh,” Ivan says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing down at Till. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

When Ivan ends the call, he turns to face Till. “Turns out someone’s actually dying.” Till can only blink, still breathless. “Critical case. They’re doing an emergency op. The surgeon’s letting me shadow if I want in.”

At that, the fog in Till’s mind clears.

Shadowing at second year pre-med. Nepotism is truly wonderful for building resumes.

Till swallows, legs pressed tighter together now. “Okay, uhm… good luck?” he tries, the haze in his mind finally cracking just enough to let the reality of their current situation sink in.

Yes, after their first kiss, things had gotten more intimate—a quick blowjob during mornings or a long makeout session on the couch—but nothing as filthy as this. Not even close.

And sure, this isn't the first time he’s been naked in front of Ivan (he still remembers the flushed, awkward mess he’d been when Ivan gave him his first blowjob), but it doesn’t mean the nerves magically disappear. Especially after the deed has been done.

He thinks, Don’t make this awkward, don’t make this awkward, don’t make this awkward.

For a moment, Ivan only stares at Till, gauging his facial expression. Then he brings a hand to Till’s cheeks, pinching the warm skin. “You act so cute, I can’t help but want to eat you.”

Before Till can reply, Ivan leans in, kissing him again. When he pulls back, he's smirking like an idiot. “Don’t you think that we should do something intimate every day? So you’ll stop being so shy about it. We can improve your stamina, too.” His black eyes brighten. “We should practice more, Till.”

Every day? Till’s brain short-circuits for a second.

He does not have the stamina of a jock like Ivan. He’s barely surviving as is.

Ivan presses one last kiss to the corner of Till’s mouth. “I'll go now. Try not to miss me too much.”

Till's cheeks redden again. “As if!”

──────────────────

It’s been three days, twenty-four hours, seven minutes, and fifty-nine seconds since the, ahem, Anus Eating Incident.

It’s also been exactly three days, twenty-four hours, and—Till checks his phone—eight minutes since Till last saw Ivan in their apartment during an evening.

Not like Till’s counting, really.

Not like college has ripped Ivan out of their home, with tight schedules, endless research, and absolutely no time for making out on the couch.

Well, not like Till misses Ivan.

──────────────────

[19:08] Ivan: Have you had dinner? I think I’ll be home late again today. 

[19:08] Ivan: My other card's in my drawer. Use it to buy dinner ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) 

[19:30] Till: 👍

──────────────────

Four days after the Anus Eating Incident, Till finally catches sight of Ivan in their apartment.

Ivan’s barely removed his shoes off before collapsing onto the couch, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. His stupid, pretty face.

By now, they’re both sprawled in the couch with some tangled mess of blankets, the air heavy with... opportunity.

And Till?

Till is suffering. His brain is fried from four days of spiraling, fueled by withdrawal symptoms from Ivan’s mouth, Ivan’s hands, Ivan’s everything.

Right now, he’s pacing the edge of his own dignity, one heartbeat away from doing something humiliating.

Like initiating for once.

Well, okay, not once. He's initiated a few times before. But it’s always Ivan giving him those stupid bedroom eyes first, practically inviting him in, and Till just… folds. Huffing and pretending like because he’s being dragged along.

And maybe that’s why, this time, Till finds himself moving first.

Till's hand sneaks over Ivan’s thigh, tentative. His breath catches when Ivan turns to him. Immediately, his eyes drift down to Ivan’s lips, soft and parted already. And—

Ivan collapses right onto Till.

For a split second, Till just blinks. Then he hears Ivan's quiet breathing, his large body sprawled across Till.

Is Ivan fucking sleeping? 

Till looks at the ceiling before he heaves a sigh. Of-fucking-course Ivan would pick now to pass out on him. His chest rises in an easy rhythm; he's truly out cold.

But despite himself, Till presses a soft kiss to Ivan's hair.

“Should I just murder your entire department?” he mutters. “Would that solve this?”

Ivan, oblivious, snuggles in closer.

(This, as in, okay, maybe Till misses Ivan. Not like he'd ever admit it.)

──────────────────

[19:40] Ivan: It’s raining heavily. I hope you're home already!

seen 19:41 

──────────────────

Till’s a fuse waiting to be lit. He’s always been like that: quick to anger, and even quicker to deflect.

So because he misses Ivan, his first instinct isn’t to reach out. It’s to ignore the messages, leave the calls unanswered, and pretend that this is Ivan's fault. 

After all, anger’s easier to feel and carry. It's so much simpler than sadness.

──────────────────

“Someone’s pissy today.”

Till looks up, instantly recognizing the voice. The crease between his brows softens when he sees Sua approaching, a small, knowing smile on her lips, and a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” Till asks, adjusting the strap of his art bag over his shoulder. Her major’s building is closer to the university theater, nowhere near this building.

“Bringing Mizi her coffee.” 

“Oh? She’s our model again today?”

“Yeah,” Sua replies, falling into step beside him. Her pace naturally slows, and unconsciously, Till matches her rhythm. “Not even a smile at the mention of my girlfriend. So… why are you pissy today? You were glowing just last week.”

Till’s eyebrows knit together again. “I’m not pissy.”

“Someone bumped into you accidentally, and you gave them a death glare, Tilly.”

“This is just how I look!”

“And now you’re yelling.”

“What? No!” He cuts himself off with an exasperated sigh. He's not going to react to Sua's game of psychological warfare today. Nope. “Stop messing with me, Sua. I’m not in the mood.”

Sua tilts her head slightly. Her expression is neutral, but amusement is dancing in her eyes. “You’re even talking back to me now. I wonder what’s got you all worked up. Didn’t Ivan give you a morning kiss?”

Till glares at Sua, and the short-haired girl laughs softly. He says nothing as they reach the classroom door, holding it open for her without a word.

Inside, Till spots Mizi already setting up near the model’s platform. He gives her a quick wave before heading to his place and unpacking his canvas and materials. Sua doesn’t tease him further, and simply slips away when the professor arrives and Mizi takes her place in the model's platform.

Mizi’s face, by now, is a fixture in every art student’s sketchbook. She has probably modeled for more than ten times now.

Till's strokes come easy now, too. The art block that’s clung to him for months feels like a distant memory, cracked open since that trip to Daegu. Since he found inspiration in the way light fell across Ivan’s face.

It’s the first time in a while that Till actually enjoys drawing. No frustration or crumpled papers piling up by his feet. God bless Mother Earth.

Time dissolves easily, and when the class ends after an hour, Mizi immediately hops down from the platform.

“Oh my,” Mizi starts. “Is that still me? Your talent is really on another level, Till!”

Till smiles, glancing down at his canvas. “Just drawing what I see,” he says.

Mizi isn’t having it. She leans in, pinching his cheek with an exaggerated, “Aigoo, look at you.”

Till laughs softly, shaking his head as he starts packing away his brushes, careful with each stroke of the bristles as he tucks them back into their case.

He can feel Mizi's gaze lingering on him, heavy with curiosity.

“So?” Mizi prompts, crossing her arms. “Sua told me you’re fighting with Ivan.”

At that, Till flusters. “What? We’re not fighting. She has the wrong idea.”

Mizi narrows her eyes, studying him. Then, as if a switch flips, she lets out a delighted squeal and throws her arms around him in a tight hug. Caught off guard, Till only smiles in confusion. He thinks, What the hell is happening?

“Well, fighting or not,” she interrupts his thoughts, pulling back just enough to beam at him, “that’s totally normal in relationships.” Her grin widens. “I’m so happy you’re finally dating Ivan!”

Till’s smile falters.

Dating Ivan? Dating?

Ah.

The petty annoyance Till’s been feeding, the irritation at Ivan being too busy, the way he’s been practically vibrating at home waiting for Ivan to get back, craving the brush of lips... they die instantly under the weight of that word.

Dating.

Till flinches inward, suddenly way too aware of the way he’s been acting. He’s been embarrassing.

Right. They’re not dating. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

Mizi pauses at Till’s lack of reaction, ever so observant. She pulls the chair near Till’s, plopping down with concerned eyes. She sits and motions Till to sit as well. 

“It’s,” Till starts, “we’re not dating.”

“…Then?” Mizi prods gently.

“Well, I don’t exactly have the word for what we are.”

“But not dating?”

Till nods, hesitant.

Mizi doesn’t say anything at first, and when the silence stretches, Till lifts his gaze, meeting her eyes. Her expression is softer now. She gives him a small, almost shy smile, then taps a finger against her neck. “Friends with benefits then?” she says, voice careful, but still laced with amusement.

Till’s hand snaps up to his neck like he’s been burned, cheeks going red. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I told him not to leave them where people can see!” Mizi only laughs.

The gray-haired man is still blushing when he speaks again. He forces himself to clarify, “I wouldn’t want to label us that. That’s not what it feels like. Not to me.”

He’s not for that. Casual things don’t stick well to someone wired like Till who's too soft in all the wrong places. 

Mizi’s smile settles into something gentler. “I know.” 

Till exhales. “It’s just… I don’t know, Mizi. I’m still working through stuff. There are days I feel ready. Like I could do it, actually be with him. But then I get caught up in my own head.”

“You’re still doubting his feelings?” Mizi asks.

Till smiles, genuine. “Ironically, no. I actually feel kind of stupid now because…” 

“Because his feelings are clear as the day?”

Till lets out an almost embarrassed laugh. “Yeah. Maybe I would’ve realized it sooner if I’d really looked at him.”

“To be fair, no one can blame you for being oblivious, Till.” Mizi leans in a little, elbow nudging his side. “Ivan used to show affection in the weirdest ways. Remember when we were kids? Him punching you with that stupid smile? You’d practically be bruised and he’d laugh. Yeah, no one could blame you for not noticing.”

“Mixed signals. Classic Ivan. But at least now you know. He’s just an idiot with feelings he doesn’t know how to show ethically—” Mizi coughs and Till laughs. “I mean properly.”

“He's a moron,” Till says. My moron, is what he doesn't say. 

Mizi chuckles. “You know, I honestly thought he'd die without ever confessing to you.”

Till smiles faintly. He knows exactly what she means. “Mhm. I think he wouldn’t have confessed if I didn’t ask him straight up if he had feelings for me.”

Mizi’s eyes soften. “Okay… so… it’s not about you doubting Ivan’s feelings anymore.” Her voice lowers with gentle curiosity. “What’s the problem now?”

(What are you waiting for?)

Till pauses.

“There is no problem,” Till replies. “Right now, it already feels like we’re already dating. We live together, we kiss, he’s always... he’s good to me. He’s patient, he's…” his voice falters. “It feels like we’re just missing that label, that final step.”

“But what happens if I give him that?” Till asks, eyes dropping to the floor. “What if I do that? Let him in all the way, call it real, and then he—”

Notices I’m like this, Till thinks.

Notices how quick he is to anger. How missing someone turns him needy. How he feels too much all the time and barely knows what to do with it.

Mizi frowns, leaning in, but doesn’t interrupt.

“What if we date and then he’d wake up one day and realize he made a mistake? The second this happiness, this bubble, this shine wears off… when I stop being normal or convenient or even useful—”

Mizi reaches over, gently placing her hand over his clenched fist. “Hey, Till. Ivan’s not him. You know that, right?”

Till smiles weakly. “I know.”

I just don't want my love to be taken away, he thinks.

“I’m working on my stuff. I promise,” Till says. “It’s not an easy fix, whatever’s wrong with me. But what we have right now, we’re… exclusive. I just don’t want to rush things.”

Mizi squeezes his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you, okay? Baby steps, right?” She continues, “Besides, you already said it yourself. Whatever’s going on with you and Ivan kinda already feels like dating, doesn’t it? Live it, then. Experience it. See how it feels to let Ivan care for you.”

There's a pause before Mizi's shy laugh.

“And maybe try showing some affection back, too. Test the waters if you can handle acting like an actual boyfriend. Poor Ivan’s out here throwing himself at you, thick-faced, and you,” She pokes his chest lightly and Till chuckles, “are emotionally stunted, shy as hell. That, I know.”

“Go with the flow. Baby steps,” Mizi repeats. “Just don’t make him wait forever, okay? Ivan's my friend, too, Till!” She pouts.

Till grins. “Mhm. Don’t worry. I know Ivan’s not my father. I know Ivan won’t hurt me,” Till says, more certain now, even if the words still sit heavy on his chest. “That’s why I’m working on it, myself. And when I’m sure, when I've faced my fears, I won’t waste any time.”

“I know,” Mizi says, squeezing his hand once more before letting go. 

Till gives her a small, real smile, but when Mizi’s expression shifts, he already knows she’s not done yet.

“So were you really pissy this morning because Ivan didn’t give you a kiss?”

Till’s face flushes instantly, ears burning. “Mizi!” 

“Sorry. Sua really wanted to know.”

(Ivan did not, in fact, give him a good morning kiss.)

──────────────────

When Till receives a new notification from Ivan, he’s quick to read it.

[19:27] Ivan: Still being held hostage by research tonight (˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥)

[19:30] Ivan: I think I’m going to spend the night outside, too. Unsha’s asking for me. Some stupid party again </3

Till bites his lower lip, turning his phone off, then opening it again not even a second after.

After all, he’s not allowed to act childish, like he misses Ivan after just a few days of not spending a lot of time with him.

Ivan’s done so much for him. He’s waited—waiting for him, steadier than anyone else Till’s ever known, and here he is, with the audacity to sulk, to spiral, and to act like some brat with his feelings all tangled up.

His fingers hover over his phone’s keyboard, and this time, he replies.

──────────────────

When the music club room is infested, as Luka puts it as if he's a member of the club, with other people, Till heads to his and Ivan's favorite café near campus, the same one where Hyuna and Luka always camp out between lectures

The place hums with soft chatter, and Till's sitting at the booth near the entrance, pencil moving almost on its own. His sketchbook is cracked open beside an untouched cup of iced americano. His hands are drawing again.

These days, he never seems to stop drawing.

Till pauses, staring down at the page he’s been drawing on, before flipping back and forth through the sketchbook. His sketchbook that's filled with guitar notes, scattered doodles, hand studies, and a whole bunch of… Ivan doodles.

Chibi Ivans with his ridiculous coconut-husk hair and that stupid, dumb smile. Candid portraits of Ivan. Ivan's eyes. Over and over. And over.

Till takes another look at the pages. Then he laughs awkwardly, disbelief in his tone. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“What’s so funny?”

Till slams his sketchbook shut. “Nothing. What’s up?” he says, forcing his voice steady as he glances toward the source of the voice, Luka.

Luka raises an unimpressed eyebrow, while Hyuna just grins knowingly. The two settle into the seats across from him, setting their iced drinks on the table with soft clinks. 

Luka barely spares him a glance before his eyes flick to the closed sketchbook. “You’re drawing Ivan again?”

Till’s cheeks heat up immediately. “I’m not…” He fumbles, thoughts tangling. “Again? I don’t always…” his voice trails off, embarrassed. 

Hyuna sighs, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “You two are practically eating each other’s faces these days and you still get shy when someone calls you out, lover boy?”

“Who the fuck’s a lover boy?” Till asks, tries, forehead creasing. His friends only laugh at him, and he feels his face heat up even more. 

Seriously, fuck whatever’s going on with his face and the damn blood vessels underneath it, dilating whenever someone so much as breathes near him. He’s always a blushing mess. Stupid increased blood flow. Stupid Ivan too, who’s constantly spewing physiology bullshit into his brain these days. Well, the past few days. Last week, actually. He hasn’t heard Ivan rant about pretty much anything for a week now.

Fuck Ivan, and everything, and everyone. Seriously.

I miss him, Till thinks miserably.

“Wow,” Till breathes, raking a hand through his hair to mess it up. “I need a smoke,” he mutters.

His hands move on instinct, patting himself down and digging through his pockets for a cigarette and lighter, only to find neither. Of course. He’s been cutting back, after all, because Ivan bitches about smoking and its health risks, coughing dramatically the second someone lights up near him.

And Till, hopeless and an utter embarrassment to society, would rather chew glass than expose Ivan to secondhand smoke.

Till’s fingers brush against something inside his pocket. He fishes it out and groans under his breath. A damn lollipop. His pathetic replacement for nicotine and his unrelenting oral fixation.

“You,” Luka says, eyes dropping to the lollipop, “are a lover boy.”

“Trying to quit smoking for your precious Ivan, but you’d finish a whole pack and light one beside me when I’m the one who’s actually sick.” Luka clutches his chest dramatically, feigning betrayal.

Till only rolls his eyes, voice flat. “Smoking primarily affects the lungs, not the heart.”

Hyuna snorts, covering her mouth with her hand as laughter bubbles out. Luka only scoffs.

Till groans, still itching for a smoke. He drags his hand down his face. “Why’d you guys even want to see me today?”

Hyuna and Luka share a look, the kind that immediately spells trouble, before Hyuna’s smile widens. “The steps!” she exclaims, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

Hyuna’s elegant handwriting flows across the piece of paper, and Luka’s annoyingly perfect cursive, too. Till’s handwriting, in comparison, looks like it’s been scratched by chickens.

“Last time, I told you I’m officially in charge of the steps, remember? Well, me and Hyuna, of course,” Luka says, tapping the paper. “Has it been almost two weeks since then?“

Till’s face contorts in fright. “And who decided that exactly?”

“Us.” 

“Ugh.” 

Hyuna cheerfully hands him the paper, eyes glinting with mischief. “There’s a bunch of ideas listed. Just pick one for Step 8!”

Till takes the paper and starts reading.

Use the most cringe pet names while maintaining aggressive eye contact. Baby voice is mandatory. Bonus points for “Daddy,” “Snookums,” “Bugaboo.” 

Threaten him with PDA. Smother him with clinginess in public. Wrap your arms around him in public like some needy koala.

Pull up in a “His Property” t-shirt.

Act like the most jealous bitch on earth.

Weaponized flirting in a maid outfit.

Till crumples the paper. 

“Nope,” the gray-haired man says, firm.

“Aw, Till!” Hyuna protests. “We thought about those a lot,” she says, pouting slightly.

“Mhm. I’m sure you two wasted hours of your lives refining the genius that is… the maid outfit step.”

Luka unfolds the crumpled paper, expression calm but annoyingly persistent. “Come on, just pick one.” When Till only shakes his head, Luka’s eyes roll. “Have you even thought about what your Step 8 is?”

Till shrugs. “Sort of,” he lies.

Yeah, he hasn’t really thought about Step 8 because his time spent with Ivan has been cut lately by Ivan's research that should really fucking cure the cancer at this point if it takes Ivan away from him all the time. And Till wants to spend what little time they have normally—letting Ivan sleep in—instead of subjecting Ivan to The Horrors.

Hyuna exchanges a knowing glance with Luka before turning back to him. “Let me guess, threaten Ivan with murder if he gets within two feet of you?”

Till hums noncommittally. “Could work,” he mutters.

“Till!”

“What?” 

Hyuna sighs. “Your steps are… kind of aggressive,” she says slowly, choosing her words with care. “Like the type of aggressiveness that makes Ivan think you’re looking for a restraining order.”

Till blinks. “Well, that is the point, isn’t it? To lose Ivan?”

Hyuna leans back, arms crossing loosely. “Yeah, maybe weeks ago, before Ivan went and dropped the ‘I’ve been in love with you for years’ bomb.”

Till blushes.

“And before you became lovesick,” Luka whispers.

“Go to hell!” 

“Shh, you two,” the brunette hushes, cutting through the bickering. She turns toward Till. “Okay, listen. We’ve decided the point has changed.”

“Before,” Hyuna continues, “the goal was to lose Ivan, right?” Till doesn’t deny it, and just gives a slight shrug. “Well,” Hyuna says, voice brightening, “the point technically stays the same. But now it’s more like… ugh, how do I even explain this? The steps aren’t about murder, or public humiliation, or giving Ivan a heart attack anymore. It’s more sweet.”

“But,” Luka cuts in, voice dry, “still ‘might terrify him a little’ kind of sweet. So the ‘losing Ivan’ thing isn’t entirely gone.”

Till presses his fingers to his temples. “What the fuck are you two even saying? My head’s gonna explode.”

“Look, you have feelings for Ivan,” Hyuna says plainly. “But you’re still figuring it out, right? If you actually want to be in a relationship with him.” Till exhales through his nose. He doesn’t confirm or deny it, but his silence is already loud enough. “You’re testing the waters, Till. But no commitment. Not yet, at least.”

“So as you can see,” she continues, “the steps? They’re basically stuff you’d do if you were actually dating. Well, exaggerated stuff. But still dating stuff. Disgusting nicknames? Acting like a clingy boyfriend? PDA? Stupid jealousy?” She ticks them off on her fingers. “All couple things.”

At Hyuna's explanation, Till remembers what Mizi said earlier: Test the waters.

“It’s literally just dating stuff, but dialed up to how much Ivan can survive.” Hyuna smiles. “So you get to test the waters. Act like a boyfriend and see if you can handle it, too.”

Till pauses. “Like… a dating trial?” 

“Exactly!” Hyuna beams. “Boyfriend trial. You act like his clingy, annoying, maybe-too-sweet boyfriend, but it’s still the steps. Still the plan of scaring Ivan away. Exaggerated and ridiculous. Still messing with him.”

Luka nods. “It’s safer this way, right? You mess with him, but you figure your shit out too,” he says. Then casually, “Besides, this would make you show some affection to Ivan, exaggerated or not.”

Till frowns, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a lover boy, Till,” Hyuna chimes in, grinning wide. “But you’re extremely shy, too. I wish I could just tell Ivan, ‘Oh, Ivan, don’t worry, Till’s totally into you too. Here’s his sketchbook full of your face.’”

Till flushes. He knows exactly what Hyuna means.

The typical, sweet acts still make Till flinch.

“We just assumed you’ve been treating Ivan normally,” Luka says. “Minus the intimacies. But not really showing affection.”

“I do show affection!” Till protests.

“Like a cat,” Hyuna fires back instantly.

Till frowns, completely lost. “Ivan knows I like him.”

Luka laughs. “You didn’t exactly expound on that when you told him you ‘have feelings,’ you know.”

Till’s huffs. “I said I wanted to try! With him! I’m trying! That's basically saying I love you too!”

Hyuna’s grin softens. “I know. He knows. Well, maybe, he knows, But we gotta be a little more aggressive here.”

Till blinks. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Don’t overthink it.” Hyuna waves him off like it’s obvious. “Just listen to us. Step 8? Act like a boyfriend. Not just to test the waters for yourself, but to give Ivan something too. You know, assurance. Not just in words.”

Till hesitates, lips parting, but Luka’s already cutting in, expression unreadable. “What if Ivan’s thinking you only want him for his body?”

Till scowls, foreheads creasing immediately. “Hey, watch your fucking mouth. He’s not thinking that—”

“Have you ever even told Ivan that you miss him?”

Till stops at that.

Wait.

He glances between them: Hyuna grinning from ear to ear, Luka’s expression calm but unmistakably evil underneath. Then he sighs, defeated, but most of all, confused.

“But can I really do that?” Till blurts before he can stop himself.

Hyuna blinks. “Do what?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He waves his hands vaguely, frustration bubbling. “Show affection? Be clingy? All that corny shit?”

She stares at him for a beat. “You mean… act like you like him?”

Till scowls. “I do like him. Obviously. He knows that, in a way. Probably.”

“So what’s the problem?”

He shrugs. “It feels stupid. Am I allowed to be fucking corny and shit when we're not even dating?”

“Okay, but liking someone doesn’t come with a prerequisite list. You’re allowed to show your feelings, even if you’re not calling it dating.” Hyuna smiles at Till like he's stupid. “Seriously, what’s the worst that happens? You act clingy, like a real boyfriend, and…?”

“And then he, I don't know. Gets tired of it? Of me?”

Hyuna shakes her head with a knowing smile. “If someone gets tired of you for caring, that’s not your problem. That’s theirs.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Luka adds.

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously,” Luka flicks him on the forehead, hard enough to make him wince. “It’s not just Ivan who gets to 'let his feelings out.' You can too. You’re allowed to be clingy. You’re allowed to want stupid, corny shit.”

Till groans. He lies, “Feels gross.”

“Clearly,” Luka agrees. “But you like him, yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

“And he likes you.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re exclusive.”

“Yeah.”

“Then stop making it weird and just let yourself miss him,” Luka says, matter-of-fact. “Text him. Say gross shit. Be clingy. He’ll like it. He's fucking Ivan, you dumbass.”

“Shut up and text your boyfriend! Agreed!” Hyuna cheers.

“He’s not—”

“Exclusive partner. Situationship. Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Same thing. Quit spiraling.”

Then, “And you’re not going to fool anyone, Till. You call being affectionate gross, but we all know you’re a lover boy.”

“Shut the hell up!”

──────────────────

When Till finally returns home, it’s to an empty apartment. No Ivan sprawled on the couch, no absurd amount of books and papers on the coffee table.

He removes his shoes off, thoughts still tangled in Luka and Hyuna’s words from earlier.

Till fishes his phone from his pocket, screen lighting up the dim room. No new messages.

He hesitates, thumb hovering over Ivan’s contact.

Then he types before he can talk himself out of it.

[20:08] Till: what time are you coming home? 

The reply comes faster than expected. Ivan's probably on a break. 

[20:09] Ivan: I don't know (ㅠ﹏ㅠ) We're not finished yet.

[20:09] Ivan: I'm eating dinner btw <3 

An image pops up, a photo of some convenience store kimbap and canned coffee.

Till frowns. Couldn’t Ivan at least eat some heavy meals? He’s already so busy. He should be eating more.

[20:09] Ivan: Sorry you have to order something again :'( If you miss home-cooked meals, just say the word. I think I can cook in the morning. 

Till stares at the message, heat crawling up his neck, a blush already creeping across his cheeks.

God, Ivan’s so... he’s so soft about this. So ridiculous and casual, like cooking for someone in the morning is the easiest thing in the world. Like he'd do that for Till every single, waking day.

His fingers hesitate for a second before he types, slower now, but meaning every word.

[20:15] Till: worry about yourself. you should be eating more.

[20:16] Till: i miss you.

The message hangs there, sent. His pulse quickens. His heart’s in his throat.

But the corners of his mouth tug up, despite himself.

Baby steps.

Till sinks onto the couch, phone in hand, eyes locked on the screen, giddy anticipation settling in his chest as he waits for Ivan’s reply.

But not even two minutes pass, and the giddiness turns into panic.

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Till mutters under his breath. He chucks his phone away and groans, dragging his hands over his face in mortification.

Feelings are so hard.

*

“Till?”

The sound of Ivan’s voice sends Till’s heart lurching. His head snaps toward the door, panic crawling up his spine.

Shit. He thought he had more time. He thought Ivan wouldn’t be home for at least another hour.

But of course, Ivan's fast. Quick. Already stepping through the front door, cutting across the living room.

Before Till can bolt or make himself look normal, Ivan’s in front of him already, hand pressing lightly against his forehead, brows furrowed.

“Are you sick?” Ivan asks.

Till’s eyebrows meet in confusion. “What? I’m not...?” his voice falters, brain lagging behind the sudden question.

“Ah, so that was you who sent the message earlier—”

“Fuck off!” Till snaps, whirling away, already retreating to his bedroom.

Ivan’s laughing behind him, fast on his heels, catching Till before he can shut the door completely. His arms loop around Till’s waist, pulling him back into a hug.

“I’m just kidding, baby,” Ivan says, voice too soft to be fair.

“Die in hell,” Till grumbles, face burning, but he doesn’t shove him off.

Ivan only hums, eyes heavy with exhaustion but still shining, that dumb, lopsided smile pulling at his lips. “Mhm. I missed you too,” he murmurs as he noses Till’s hair, making Till’s stomach twist in that embarrassing way.

When Ivan pulls back, there’s nothing guarded about his expression. Just tired eyes, dark smudges under them, and that glowing, stupidly soft smile on his handsome face. And something inside Till clicks.

That he did that: he made Ivan smile like that. Just by saying he missed him.

Till’s allowed.

To miss Ivan. To show his feelings. To be needy.

It’s Till, for once, who holds tighter, burying his face in Ivan’s shoulder. “I missed you,” Till finally says.

──────────────────

When Ivan’s completely asleep on the bed, Till carefully untangles himself from the loose hold around his waist. He slips off the mattress and walks over to his desk.

His list, crumpled and half-forgotten, sits there. Next to it is Hyuna and Luka’s list.

The gray-haired man exhales through his nose, grabbing a pen and smoothing out his paper before he starts writing.

Till thinks, letting it settle fully this time, I’m allowed to let my feelings out in the open, too. He loves me.

His gaze drops back to the paper. Affectionate, huh?

Fine.

“I’ll show you affectionate,” Till whispers under his breath, helplessly in love. And a little bit evil.

Chapter Text

──────────────────

Ivan is a pretty reserved person.

Well… kind of. It's easy to mistake him for an extrovert, and maybe he is one.

The professors adore him. Freshmen students ask him for advice. Even the cafeteria ladies give him larger servings, god bless. Till would then sneer at him and mumble something about the unfairness of fucking pretty privilege, to which Ivan would respond, “You think I’m pretty?” 

Truthfully, Ivan’s not only pretty. He’s effortlessly charming, too, and he’s always, always around, making conversations with people.

At times, however, it’s a one-sided conversation. Ivan will talk, and people will just stare. Sometimes it's because his face is too blinding up close. Sometimes it's because they genuinely have no clue about what he’s even saying. 

Though here’s the thing: people could talk to Ivan for hours, days even, and still end up not knowing a thing about him. 

Sure, he occasionally talks about the social structure and hierarchies of insects, and how modern cinema has lost its art, but aside from his intelligent (and often useless) commentaries, he listens more than he shares and deflects personal questions smoothly. 

People think they’ve figured him out, until they realize they haven't even scratched one-fourth of his surface.

There are only a handful of facts that everyone seems to officially know about him: he’s twenty years old, he’s in pre-med, he’s a nepotistic baby of hotshot parents, and he likes classical literature. He’s a textbook chaebol, if chaebols swapped boring personalities and trust-fund arrogance with Nike cleats and the ability to quote Austen.

Even the classic lit he likes isn’t the bleak, pretentious kind where every chapter is just about misogyny and existential dread.

(Performative male final boss, Till would say. Ivan would only frown and ask what that even means, and Till would groan. He’s not even chronically online. We get it, Ivan.)

But that's basically all of it.

Yet because there are a handful of people who are particularly interested in Ivan’s life, hundreds of rumors about the raven-haired man have formed over time. 

Some say he used to be a child actor. Some say his family is actually mafia who threatens Ivan's professors, which is why he’s always ranked first in his year. Some say that he’s a blood-sucking vampire who’s killed hundreds of people just to stay so effortlessly pretty—ahem, youthful. 

Essentially, Ivan’s always, always around, even when he’s not physically there.

It’s in the way all the corners of Anakt Garden seem to whisper his name.

*

“I heard Ivan’s dating someone.”

Mindlessly, Sua continues to scroll through her phone, waiting for Mizi and pretending she didn’t just hear that.  

The sun is high over the campus, the birds are chirping, and apparently, Ivan is dating yet another nameless student he himself probably doesn’t even know. 

The usual.

“You know he never dates,” another voice, slightly higher in pitch, replies.

“It’s real this time,” the original voice argues. “Look!” 

That actually makes Sua lift her head, curiosity getting the better of her. 

She scans her surroundings until her eyes land on Ivan. The nerd has a dumb smile etched on his face, his invisible tail practically wagging, as he looks at… Till?

Sua blinks. Hard. 

For once, her expression cracks, caught between disbelief and awe. In her mind, she excitedly thinks, Did they finally get it right?

“Ah, him? Till’s just his roommate! That rumor has been debunked.”

“Debunked where?” 

As if to prove the voice right, Ivan excitedly runs over to Till’s direction. The gray-haired man barely glances at Ivan, tossing his bag in Ivan’s direction wordlessly, and starts walking ahead. Ivan scoops up the bag without complaint, trailing behind like a samoyed.

A samoyed with an extremely wide smile that’s lighting up his entire face. His smile, usually controlled and almost princely, is so warm.

“Oh… I see.”

“Right? But Till actually doesn’t like him,” the original voice adds with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, dating probably isn’t the word. They say it’s a one-sided situationship.”

The other voice gasps in disbelief, and Sua…

Sua throws her head back and laughs loudly. Too loudly. 

She thinks, Does Ivan even know what a situationship is?

Sua’s laughter makes both voices stop chatting, and when she turns around, the girls are staring at her like she’s lost her mind. Thankfully, before the moment gets any weirder, Mizi appears at the top of the stairs.

“Hi,” Mizi says as she jogs over. “That’s a big smile. Did something good happen?”

Sua shakes her head as she slips her hand into Mizi’s. “Just heard something funny.”

As they walk away, the last thing Sua hears is one of the voices saying: “Ivan could have anyone, and he picks someone who doesn’t care? Look at how he’s treated! He should be angry!”

Sua laughs even harder, almost bending over. Then she sighs, bitterly amused. 

He doesn’t care? The guy who lets Ivan get away with anything?

Get fucking real, man.

──────────────────

Rumors reach people fast, even someone as seemingly uninterested in gossip like Ivan. (Till would argue that he’s a quote-unquote nosy fucker, and that’s exactly why he’s so inclined with research.)

Which is why the raven-haired man felt compelled to research the word situationship.

Hah.

At first, he tried using research websites, expecting rich insights. But alas, this particular social trend has yet to earn the attention of academia. So with a reluctant sigh, he turned to Till’s arguably favorite website: Reddit. 

*

*

After fruitful discussions with strangers on the internet, Ivan reached a conclusion that it’s… preposterous, to say the least.

The word struck him as a disservice to what he actually feels. But maybe, in some ways, the rumor is true. 

Ivan does remember Till saying he needs time to figure out his feelings. 

He knows they engage in things only couples do. He's acutely aware that Till doesn’t push him away, not even during intimacies. In rare moments, he notices the softness in Till’s gaze.

But assurance is never simple for a man like Ivan. He’s never been good at reading social cues, and the absence of clear words leaves him in doubt. And with this, he feels pathetic. Not because he’s left hanging like a dog waiting for a bone, but because he has already resigned himself.

He doesn’t care whether it’s reciprocated, and all he wants is to make Till feel loved.

Yet his heart aches anyway.

(No matter how much he tries, his heart is a stubborn thing.)

In hindsight, Ivan partly agrees with what people say. He knows he should be angry. 

Not because he’s being treated one-sidedly, as people claim, but because he has spent years of sleepless nights dissecting his own feelings, wondering if they were even real or just pathetic imitations of what he saw around him. And Till, of all people, had gone and bet on them.

And for what? A measly fifty dollars? Sixty-nine thousand won? 

Ivan should really, really be angry. 

But he isn’t, anyway.

His first instinct back then wasn’t even anger. Nor was it to laugh meanly and congratulate himself because someone else besides his rotten mind has told him that yes, he’s broken beyond repair, and Till himself has confirmed it. 

Ivan has been telling himself the same thing for years: his feelings are shallow, and tainted, and unreal. Still, it hurts. Not because his feelings had been stomped on, but because Ivan’s spent his whole life believing he’s the broken one, yet Till…

Till is the one who, even in a world as wrecked as this one, is still meant to be loved all the way through. 

So for Ivan to catch even the barest hint that Till thinks he’s like him—that Till thinks he’s just as fucked up, just as undeserving and unlovable as Ivan, that he needed to earn love and can only be loved when he’s useful—it knocked the air out of him and Ivan wanted, more than anything, to prove that this, this is love.

Not the shallow, tainted imitation Ivan had always assumed it to be. Not a debt, like Till seemed to think it was.

Ivan’s first instinct back then, when the gray-haired man had confessed about the stupid bet, was to hold Till.

Because that’s what love is, right? Or at least, Ivan’s definition of it. 

It’s not some clean, perfect thing like movies depict, but a bone-deep longing to take care of the person who’s breaking your heart.

Ivan’s already given his heart to Till, after all. What’s sixty-nine thousand won compared to the way that Till has made his heart beat?

──────────────────

In his mind, Ivan acknowledges the truth. He is in a situationship.

Ah, how preposterous.

──────────────────

Ivan’s body is conditioned to wake up at five in the morning. 

His first class is at seven, which means he’s carefully carved out two extra hours for running, hitting the gym if he doesn’t have exams, squeezing in an extra round of studying at times, and cooking Till’s breakfast—all while Till is still asleep. 

So when he gets back to their apartment after his run, at exactly six in the morning, he’s surprised to see the lights already on.

His first thought is immediate and, frankly, ridiculous: Did someone break in?

Then he catches the strong smell of something burning. Oh god, the apartment’s on fire, Ivan thinks.

His legs move before his brain does, and then he sees Till standing there in their kitchen.

The gray-haired man is barefoot on cold tile, flipping something in the pan. He’s humming a song while dressed in another loose shirt. Ivan’s shirt. 

Ivan’s first instinct isn’t to ask why Till is burning their beautiful kitchen.

It’s to wrap his arms around Till from behind, press his face into his shoulder blade, and stay there. Let their kitchen burn to the ground, and pretend that mornings like this can last forever.

He should really put his instincts on a leash, no?

“I think they’re cooked enough.”

Till jumps at Ivan’s voice. Cute, Ivan thinks. “You’re back already?” Till asks, back still turned to Ivan.

Ivan only hums in response. He leans a little, peeking over Till’s slouched figure. He taps two fingers against the curve of Till’s spine and the gray-haired man straightens automatically.

Ivan finally gets a glimpse of the hotteoks. Or at least, something that once dreamed of being sweet pancakes. They’re not golden anymore, but burnt beyond recognition. 

The raven-haired man stares at them pitifully for a beat, then at Till like he’s lost his mind. “Aren’t you—” Going to stop burning them? stays unsaid. 

It gets stuck in his throat the moment he notices the faint blush creeping up Till’s neck, spreading onto his cheeks. 

“Why is your face red?” Ivan asks instead, and Till goes even redder. “Are you thinking about something perverted?”

Till makes a face. “It’s six in the morning and that’s your hypothesis?” 

Ivan shrugs. “Is there a proper schedule for provocative thoughts? Frankly, I think about you naked at all hours of the day. Consistency is key.”

“Consistently deranged,” Till spats.

“Imaginative,” Ivan corrects.

When Till only scoffs, Ivan prompts again, “So? What are you thinking of?”

The gray-haired man glares at him over his shoulder, huffing as he turns off the burner. “Just…” his voice trails off. “Big day today,” he finally answers. Ivan raises an eyebrow, mouth opening to say something, but Till is quick to speak again. “Just sit down over there.” 

When Till sets the plates on the table, Ivan’s is stacked higher with a pile of burnt hotteoks, completely black at the edges and drowning in his favorite strawberry syrup. At the top most pile, there’s a questionable… thing? Shape?

Ivan squints at it. The food looks like someone had splattered blood and decided to call it a day, and oh, is that a heart?

The raven-haired man looks at Till, but doesn’t say anything when he sees the faint blush on his cheeks again. He’s so cute, Ivan thinks. Then, I want to eat him instead.

Ivan finally takes a bite of the hotteok, and it tastes like if charcoal and strawberry were purposely merged to kill someone.

He smiles through the pain, anyway, and racks his brain for his talent of weaving insults into flowery words. He settles with, “If you wanted breakfast, you should’ve just asked me to cook.”

Till huffs. “I didn’t cook for myself.”

Ivan’s eyes twinkle, lips twitching upward teasingly. “So you cooked for me?”

“‘Cause you’ve been eating less these days,” Till mumbles. “You preach about eating healthily, but then skip meals. Convenience store food isn’t exactly healthy, you know.”

The raven-haired man chuckles. (He is eating healthily, though Ivan decides to keep that to himself childishly so Till can keep worrying about him.) “But energy drinks are?” He asks and Till only huffs louder. Then quieter, Ivan teases, “So you care about me?”

Silence stretches between them for a few seconds, but the air doesn’t become heavy. 

The teasing still comes easy, even after Ivan’s confession, and he’ll hoard whatever reaction he can get. They’re only scraps that don't last, but he hides them away as though they matter, because they’re all he has of Till. 

Ivan takes another bite of the food. When he looks up again, Till is blushing like he expects, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

Ivan smiles. 

What’s Till going to say?

As if? Fuck you? Maybe offer Ivan to dream on with his cute middle finger—that Ivan would very much like to bite, by the way—and Ivan would actually dream on selfishly. About Till caring for him, about getting to keep him close like this, even if it was only in banters and physical intimacies. 

He’d take anything.

“Yeah,” Till says, voice barely above a whisper. “I do. I care about you.”

Ivan freezes, hotteok halfway inside his mouth.

He looks at Till, really looks at him, and the world narrows for a second. 

His brain kicks into autopilot, and he starts to study Till’s face: his pupils look normal. There’s no weird dilation or sudden constriction. His breathing’s steady. No signs of panic. No signs of hallucinations, either. Maybe Ivan is the one hallucinating? 

Ivan can only blink.

“Huh,” comes his intelligent reply.

You’re weird Till, is what he doesn’t say. You’ve been weird since you said you missed me.

Ivan’s still halfway through deciding if he should say something back when Till suddenly stands up.

The gray-haired man slaps his hands onto the table, steadying himself. His expression is deadly serious, mouth pressed in a determined line. 

“Prepare yourself today, Ivan.” 

Ivan stares at him, blinking slowly again. His mind is still buffering.

Prepare himself? For what?

As in... mentally? Emotionally? Spiritually? Physically? God, Ivan hopes not physically. He would love to top Till instead if that’s on the table, thank you very much. 

“What do you mean?”

“Just prepare yourself!”

“My psychological state, darling? Or are we talking about something involving fingers and lube?”

“What? No, you pervert! Shut up! I’m going to band practice!”

Till turns to his heels, and Ivan follows him to their doorstep without a word. The raven-haired man just watches Till while he shoves on his shoes like he’s about to march into battle.

“Just be ready, okay?” Till says again, a little quieter this time. 

Till opens the door, but before stepping out, he leans back just enough to look Ivan straight in the eye. His eyes are blown in that way that always makes Ivan want to press his thumb into Till’s cheekbones and cradle his beautiful face. 

“Ivan,” Till calls. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Ivan replies smartly.

That’s all his mouth can manage, anyway.

He doesn’t even know what’s happening anymore. He’s just agreeing with Till at this point.

Before the door shuts, Ivan’s hand shoots out. He catches Till’s wrist, tugging him back gently, chin tilting toward the coffee table in their living room where Till’s sketchbook rests. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Ivan asks. 

Till pauses at the door. He turns around, eyes narrowing sharply, and Ivan only tilts his head when he catches the glare. 

The gray-haired man heaves a resigned sigh before taking a step closer to Ivan. Then, on tiptoe, he presses a quick, almost shy kiss to Ivan’s cheek.

“There. Happy now?” 

Without saying more, Till slips out the door, and when it clicks shut, Ivan stays frozen in place.

Then his ears go hot.

He crouches, knees bent and both hands covering his face. His heart’s racing for no reason at all, except that it’s Till, and everything about him makes Ivan feel like a teenager again.

Which is absolutely ridiculous because Ivan’s stone-cold, nonchalant, and unshakeable. He’s totally, practically, technically, all-the-ly very chill. And unreacting. And unaffected by any form of mortal whims. And—

Has he mentioned that he’s nonchalant? He should probably mention it again. Nonchalant. 

Muffled behind his palms, and absolutely not red in the face, Ivan groans into his hands. “I meant your sketchbook, moron.”

──────────────────

“It’s so cold outside!”

Hana’s voice cuts in from across the laboratory room when she enters. Ivan doesn’t look up, and only swabs the sterile cotton across the agar plate with even strokes, smooth and mechanical.

In all honesty, his mind is still hung up over what happened this morning.

Situationships are truly wonderful—ahem, absurd! 

Extremely dangerous, if Ivan may add.

From beside Ivan, Doyun hugs himself through his thin gown. “It’ll probably snow soon, huh?” 

Ivan nods with a smile, even behind a mask. It’s automatic. He picks up the forceps next and grips an antibiotic disc. “Most likely,” he replies.

With the forceps, he steadily presses the discs into place, one after another. The agar dimples just slightly in a small, perfect circle. He puts the lid on, labels it with neat handwriting, and sets the dish into the tray for incubation.

Doyun nudges his stool closer to Ivan’s. “Noona,” he calls. “I hope we get to see the first snow together this year.”

Hana blinks at him, eyes narrowing just a little before she chuckles. It's the kind of laugh that says Dream on, cheeky brat.

Instead of answering, she settles into the empty stool on Ivan’s right. “Are you done, Ivan?” she asks.

“Mhm,” he answers. “But I’ll probably finish these worksheets before heading out, noona.”

Hana nods approvingly, while Doyun sighs, slouching. “Do you ever do anything besides studying?” he grumbles.

Ivan smiles. “If you spent half as much time studying as you do trying to get noona’s attention, you might actually impress her.”

“Y-You!”

Hana only chuckles at the two, shaking her head. Ivan says nothing and instead just watches the color bloom in Doyun’s cheeks, lips twitching upward in amusement. What poor deductive skills, he thinks.

It’s so obvious that Hana likes him, too. 

Ivan’s not an exact expert at reading social cues, but he's always been good at mapping out someone’s body language. Hana’s tells are easy: blushing when teased, and eyes darting away quickly when caught staring at Doyun. It’s textbook math.

Then there’s Till, Ivan’s lifelong subject with too many variables. 

Ivan’s been studying him for decades now. Yet even after all this time, Till still catches him off guard. 

There are no patterns when Till’s involved, and Ivan’s never been good at handling variables he can’t predict.

“What about you, Ivan?”

Hana’s voice cuts through Ivan’s train of thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

“Mhm?”

“The girls are asking, you know,” Hana says. “If you’re also waiting to witness the first snowfall with someone this year.”

At that, Ivan blinks and says, “I’m not sure I understand what’s so special about seeing the first snowfall. Is it some kind of tradition here?”

Doyun huffs. “There’s a popular superstition that says if you witness the first snow with someone you like, you’ll fall in love and be together forever.”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious,” Ivan teases.

Doyun’s eyebrows meet in annoyance.

“Besides,” the raven-haired man adds, “the chances of that happening are statistically low. Snowfall, especially its first drop, is extremely unpredictable. You’d have to be outside at the exact right time with the exact right person. Which implies either coincidence or obsessive planning. Neither of which strikes me as romantic.”

“That’s what makes it romantic!” Doyun complains. “It’s not about statistics, genius. You just hope because you want it to happen.”

Ivan frowns slightly. The idea of hoping for something out of his control makes his skin itch. “That sounds inefficient,” he says.

“Love isn’t about efficiency, you robot.”

“Wow. Please do enlighten me with your vast experience.”

“Agh!”

Hana leans forward, sliding her hand between them like a referee breaking up a scuffle. “Okay, that’s enough teasing, Ivan.” She sighs, then sits back again. With a softer tone, she rests a hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to Doyun. I’m sure you’re romantic in your own way.”

“Being unromantic isn't exactly an insult to me, noona,” Ivan says.

The brunette smiles knowingly. “But you are, though.” She tilts her head. “Was his name Till?”

At that, Ivan stiffens.

Doyun’s eyes widen, his whole body perking up like a dog. “Oh! So that’s his name?”

The raven-haired man’s expression breaks slightly. “Why are you so excited?” he says, unthinking. Doyun blinks at him, confused, and Ivan speaks again to change the subject, catching his slip. “You two know him?” 

Doyun nods eagerly, practically bouncing in his seat. “The guitarist of Unknown!” he blurts out, overlapping with Hana’s response: “The one you’re always texting during lab?”

Ivan’s ears tint red, but his tone stays flat. “Noona.”  

Hana glances away, feigning innocence. “And the one you’re always with,” she adds. Her eyes return to Ivan. “This campus is rather small.”

Maybe Till is right. 

Having an inclination toward research is just a fancy way of being nosy.

“So what’s really the deal between you two? You dating him or what?” Doyun asks.

Ivan pauses.

How does one even begin to answer such question?

He thinks, Technically, we’re not dating. And yet we engage in behaviors generally associated with couples. We live in the same house. We eat together. We go to the groceries together. We share trivial arguments. I have put my tongue inside him.

I've confessed my love for him, yet I haven’t received a proper response beyond some vague “I’ll figure out my feelings.” And still, I don't care. This arrangement is enough for me. As long as I have him, with proper labels or not. Oh, are we dating? In my opinion, yes. We're married.

Ivan answers truthfully, “I'm not.”

Hana looks surprised. Doyun, oblivious as ever, just grins. “So those really are just rumors, huh? Cool! My friends were wondering if Till’s single.”

Ivan only smiles.

(In his mind, Ivan wonders if Reddit has murder advice too. Surely there must be a subreddit for perfectly efficient murder, no?)

(Just kidding. Of course, he's just kidding.)

“Ivan?”

“Oh, sorry. Can you repeat that again?”

Doyun sighs. “I said can you give me his num—”

Ivan’s eye twitches.

“Ah.” Hana waves her hand like she’s smoothing the air. “Doyun, let’s not... I don’t think it’s nice to ask for Till’s number.”

Doyun tilts his head. “Why? He’s single, no? I’ll give it to my friends. They’re interested in—oh, is that him?”

Ivan’s gaze immediately shifts.

Outside the lab’s sleek glass, stands someone who very clearly doesn’t belong to a laboratory room. Someone with black ripped jeans, a top hanging too loose on narrow shoulders, and intimidating boots.

His arms are crossed, sharp eyes scanning the place with his brows pulled in tightly. And yet, Ivan sees right through his intimidating expression. 

Behind his scowl, Till’s eyes are soft and searching, and Ivan’s already standing before he even thinks to. 

The raven-haired man peels off his lab coat and strips off his mask, grabbing his bag like it’s all muscle memory. “I’m going now, noona,” he says simply.

Hana doesn’t even react. She just smiles, nodding excitedly.

Meanwhile, Doyun’s mouth hangs open. He stares long enough for Ivan to be outside, smiling brightly at Till. 

And for a while, the two left behind only observe the men outside the lab. One with a scowl, and another whose smile could rival the sun itself.

Doyun is the first to react.

“Not dating him, my ass,” he mutters.

Hana chuckles. “Ivan’s really handsome, especially when he smiles, huh?” 

Doyun makes a face, finally grabbing his worksheet. “Noona, stop. You don’t stand a chance anymore.”

Hana bursts out laughing. “Doyun, you’re stupid and blind.”

“I’m just saying!” Doyun protests, pointing a pen vaguely toward the window. “Just look at Ivan’s face. It’s over for you. Find some other guy instead.”

They both turn to look out the glass again. Ivan’s practiced smile has melted into something softer, so rarely seen it's almost shocking. He looks unguarded.

“Mhm. You’d never want to marry into Ivan’s family anyway,” Doyun adds, voice quieter.

Hana turns to glare at him weakly. 

“It’s basically an open secret.” Doyun shrugs, but he backs off anyway.  “I’m telling you,” he says, practically whining now, “you don’t stand a chance. Look at Ivan. He’s so unrobotic.”

Then softer, more concerned, “Agh... Ivan. Why’d you have to fall for a band guitarist? They do nothing but break hearts. Aigoo, our Ivan.”

He continues, “I can’t believe those fucking rumors were real. It’s really one-sided, huh? Jeez, is he even excited to see Ivan?”

Hana only shakes her head, and her eyes stay on Till.

He’s not smiling, but his expression is steady, warm in a way that doesn’t need a wide smile to be understood. His eyes are glinting as Ivan talks. 

“Yup. Blind,” she repeats.

*

“What exactly are you doing here?”

At that, Till actually frowns, his eyebrows meeting and lower lip jutting out in a cute, subtle pout. “Nevermind,” he huffs, already turning away.

Ivan lets out a chuckle. He catches Till’s wrist, fingers curling around it gently.  “Always so quick to run away,” he tuts with a smile.

“Clearly you don’t want me here.” The gray-haired man rolls his eyes, but doesn’t pull his hand back.

Ivan slides his hand up, pinching Till’s cheek. “You’re so cute, Till. Do you know that?” His fingers squeeze the skin harder.

“You make it known to me hundreds of times every day.”

“Good.” Ivan smiles. Till doesn’t bother swatting Ivan’s hands away, so Ivan forces himself to pull back. “So? You haven’t answered me. What are you doing here, Till?” 

Till shifts in his stance, as if he doesn’t know the answer either.

He averts his gaze and answers, “I don’t know. I don’t have any excuse. I guess I just wanted to see you.”

Ivan pauses.

Why? is his first thought.

He thinks of saying, But it’s only been a few hours since we were together, Till, and the practical part of him—the part he truly, strongly believes makes up most of who he is as a person—searches for a sensible answer. A reason or some kind of justification. Some logic behind Till’s illogical actions.

But behind all that logic, buried under the need for answers, Ivan can only think: 

Me too. I wanted to see you because I love you. Does that make sense? 

It doesn’t. Nothing ever makes sense when it comes to Till.

The thought feels both obvious and impossible for Ivan, and it still surprises him that he has the capacity for wanting, for softness, and for love. It’s like a glitch in his system. But then he sees Till again and thinks, hell, how could he not?

For someone who has deeply relied on rules, Ivan has found himself pulled toward Till, who’s all chaos and impulse. The gray-haired man doesn’t fit into Ivan’s rules and predictions, but somehow, Ivan doesn’t feel like he’s losing control around him. With Till, everything quiets, and what’s left is something freer.

Freedom, but not of the reckless kind. It’s the kind of freedom that lets you finally breathe and just stop thinking. With Till, Ivan doesn’t have to practice every word or expression. And yet, that kind of ease is its own kind of fear. 

Still, in the end, without meaning to, he handed over his heart. 

He doesn’t know why he can’t just tug it back and guard it safely under his ribcages again. He only knows that Till still has it, and Ivan’s never really wanted it back.

Again, it doesn’t make any sense, not at all, and a soft chuckle slips out of him before he can stop it.

“What’s so funny?” Till asks, pulling Ivan back to the ground.

Ivan breathes. “Just... why?” he finally asks. He meant it to sound teasing, but his tone betrays him as it softens. “Why did you want to see me?”

He slips his hand into Till’s to feel his own pulse quicken.

Maybe this is why Ivan says these things aloud. Maybe this is why he teases, and why he pushes. It’s not just for Till, but for himself, too. This is evidence that the thrumming in his chest is not just some strange malfunction.

(You feel this, Ivan. It’s real, and it’s yours.)

“I told you, I don’t know,” Till answers. “Do I need a reason to want to see you?”

“You have a talent for dodging questions, Till,” Ivan says.

Till huffs. “And you have a talent for asking questions you already should know the answer to.”

The raven-haired man blinks. He opens his mouth to speak, but Till suddenly leans in, and Ivan feels his heart thump again. 

“How do you feel about PDA?” Till asks.

Ivan stills.

“…PDA?” 

“Public displays—”

“I know what that is.”

“Then?” Till prompts. “How do you feel about it?”

Ivan's brows meet, but when Till doesn't say anything, he starts considering. “Well, in general, I find public displays of affection to be inefficient. Unnecessary, even. They serve almost no purpose.” 

At that, Till falters just a fraction. It’s subtle, but Ivan notices it anyway. 

His mind stutters, why’s starting to flood his thoughts again. But before he can stop himself, the words slip out of him: “But if it’s with you, I don’t think I’d mind.”

Ivan almost startles at his own voice.

He’s always been able to reason his way out of things, but he can just never explain this insistence in his chest to give Till more than logic. 

And worse, it’s useless because he’s certain Till doesn’t feel the same. Yet when he sees that falter in Till’s shoulders, something in him aches to smooth it over in the only way he knows how. To offer himself and hope he’s enough.

Till chuckles softly. His cheeks aren’t red, but there’s a hint of shyness in his expression.

He glances around, as if to make sure no one else is watching. Then, without warning, he loops an arm around Ivan’s biceps.

Immediately, the raven-haired man glances down at Till, scanning for any sign that Till might collapse—slackness in his face, wobbly legs, trembling in his grip. 

He thinks, concerned, Is he about to faint? 

Ivan’s brain runs through a list of possibilities, all while his heartbeat is quick to catch up with his thoughts, throbbing fast.

But like a cat trying to get a gentle pet, Till shifts a little. Adjusts his grip. Loosens it. Tightens it. Repositions his cheek against Ivan’s sleeve like he’s testing how to get comfortable. 

Finally, the gray-haired man mumbles, “Okay. I can do this.”

Ivan can barely hear Till with how loud his heartbeat is. “What, cling to me like a panda?”

Till huffs. “Koala,” he corrects. “This is PDA,” he says, though Ivan’s fairly certain he’s muttering it more to himself than to Ivan. As to why, Ivan's not so sure.

Ivan swallows, composing himself for a second. “I must admit, when you mentioned the term PDA, I anticipated something considerably more provocative.”

Till groans. “You’re insufferable.”

“And I forgot that you’re so cute,” Ivan replies. “My expectations should have been cute, too.”

“I’m trying, okay?” Till blurts, voice muffled, surprising Ivan once again. “This is me trying. It’s not like I’m thick-faced enough to make out with you in public. This is PDA for me.”

Ivan stills for a beat. Then he grins like a devil. “Make out? Curious. I hadn’t realized that was even on the table.” He leans in a little, fang showing. “And I’m the pervert. Sure.”

Till flusters. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—Ugh!”

When Ivan lets out a soft chuckle, Till stops flailing around and just groans, pressing his cheeks harder into the taller man’s sleeve.

Neither of them notices the faint redness blooming on the other’s ears.

──────────────────

So… It’s unlikely that Till is experiencing some kind of muscle weakness. 

The muscles in his cute cheeks are working just fine as he chews a mouthful of tteokbokki. 

“It’s so fucking spicy!” Till exclaims, eyes watering. 

When Ivan picks up another piece of rice cake, Till instinctively opens his mouth again. His cheeks are flushed red, and Ivan frowns in concern as he feeds him. “Why do you torture yourself like this?” he asks softly.

“‘M not torturing myself.” A bite. Then another. “I love this so much,” Till says. A single tear escapes his eye, and Ivan’s thumb brushes it away.

The gray-haired man’s arm is still looped around Ivan’s biceps, more loose with its hold now. He tiptoes toward the bite, and Ivan lowers his hand instinctively to help. 

Currently, they’re at the food market near their university. Till has finished a total of two servings of tteokbokki, and he’s still clinging to Ivan. 

Ivan wants to ask again: Why?  

Why Till won’t let go, why he’s clinging so tightly. 

Still, Ivan chooses to keep quiet, afraid that if he asks, the peaceful lull between them will break and the warmth on his arm will fade away. 

He glances down when Till leans closer, snatching the remaining tteokbokki from his hand. Then—

“Do you want me to f-feed you, too?”

Ivan blinks.

His mind races, What the hell is going on?

Till kissed him on the cheek this morning. He went out of his way to pick Ivan up just because. He’s clinging to him, and now he wants to feed him.

“...” Ivan's sentence dies in his throat, but because he’s a weak man, he nods, utterly confused yet secretly expecting a cute, gentle moment.

But what comes next is anything but gentle. Till shoves the piece toward him, practically poking his mouth. Yet his eyes are wide and earnest. “Bite,” he... orders? Demands?

Ivan obeys and immediately regrets it. The spicy sauce hits hard, and his tongue burns.

“Is it good?” Till asks. 

Before Ivan can swallow and reply, Till leans even closer. “Here, try this one, too.” Till grabs another piece, holding it out with the same soft, hesitant tone, but completely unaware of how forceful he actually is. 

By the time the last bite is gone, Ivan is blinking through unshed tears. 

Till, still holding onto his arm, looks up at him. His cheeks are pink, and he fidgets for a second before blurting, “So… wasn’t that kind of sweet?”

Ivan's aghast.

“Sweet?”

Till nods. “Me feeding you. Us sharing it. That’s affectionate, right?” His tone is uncertain, but there’s a quiet determination underneath, as if he needs Ivan to acknowledge it.

Ivan studies him for a beat. He thinks that the food has burnt his tongue, but he smiles anyway and answers, “Yeah. It was very sweet.”

“Did you like it?”

Ivan pauses. He isn’t sure what it refers to—the food that nearly killed his tongue, or the almost forceful, aggressive way Till had fed him. Maybe both. And truthfully, it probably doesn’t matter. Even if Till’s “affection” ended with him getting food poisoning, Ivan has the sneaking suspicion he’d still say yes.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I liked it.”

When Till’s lashes flutter, relief smoothing over his face, Ivan exhales, finally piecing it together. 

This must be part of Till’s plan, right? 

The eighth step in his cursed list designed to challenge Ivan’s feelings, the one Ivan is determined to disprove to hell and back.

Some kind of step that Ivan has to figure out on his own before Till decides to tell him, just because he likes solving puzzles. While Till’s steps are usually, ahem, dumb, they’re fascinating in their own way for Ivan.

For him, they're unbearably cute. 

He really wants to figure it out, but for now, Ivan decides to just watch as Till licks a smear of sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Till's cheeks are still pink from the spice, his lips faintly reddened. “Oh, wait,” Till says softly, tilting his head. “You have something on your lip too.”

Before Ivan can ask where, Till’s hand is already there. 

His fingers brush the corner of Ivan’s mouth, swiping at the smear. Ivan goes still, and then, almost absentmindedly, Till raises his finger to his lips and licks it clean with his tongue.

The gray-haired man looks back at him, his lashes long and dark. His eyes are slanted in that way that makes them sharp and soft at once. 

Ivan feels himself leaning in before he even realizes it, and all at once, Till’s cheeks flare more, realizing what he just did.

“Ivan.” Till’s voice is almost panicking. “Be normal. We’re in public.”

Ivan catches himself. “I am normal,” he says after a pause. His voice is rougher than intended. You’re the one who’s not being normal stays unsaid.

Till frowns. “You’ve got that look again,” he accuses, though he doesn’t move away. 

“What look?” Ivan asks, but he suspects he already knows.

Can you blame him? His cuteness aggression is at an all-time high whenever Till is in his line of sight.

“Like you’ll eat me alive,” Till mutters. His grip on Ivan’s arm tightens ever so slightly. 

Ivan smiles.

Till has a way with words that’s almost like Ivan’s own, though his words are innocent and maybe Ivan’s just a pervert, like Till accuses him. 

“Can’t I?” Ivan teases.

Till’s eyes widen a fraction before he quickly looks away, heat creeping to his cheeks once again as the implication dawns upon him. 

Ivan watches every flicker of his reaction, and it’s all so endearingly sweet that Ivan’s chest aches with the urge to just lean in and taste that warmth. 

It makes him want to tease Till more. He wants to make those cheeks stay flushed for him forever. He wants to paint him red, then sink his teeth in and consume him whole.

If this is all he’s ever going to get—these fleeting, unspoken moments of Till flustered and close—it’s enough. 

But Till’s eyebrow arches, his gaze flicking around the busy market like he’s actually considering it. Then he bites his lower lip and surprises Ivan with, “I-In here?” 

Ivan freezes.

The teasing retort he had prepared vanishes. His throat goes dry. His brain lags, hard, because Till’s reply was not one of the four possibilities he was expecting:

A. Die in hell! (Meant to sound vicious, but comes out as high-pitched and whiny.)

B. Fuck off!  (Snapped like a cute cat, with his red cheeks puffed out and little fists cutely clenched.)

C. You wish! (Stammered out as he very obviously tried, and failed, to hide a blush.)

D. [CENSORED]

Ivan blinks rapidly. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Closes it again.

“Hah…”

The sound of a loud, unimpressed sigh cuts through the air. 

In front of them, the tteokbokki vendor sets down her ladle with a loud clack and shakes her head. “Kids these days,” she mutters. “Aigoo.”

There’s a long pause before they both purse their lips like idiots, stifling their laughter. Without another word, they shuffle away from the stall, bumping shoulders as they go.

The two men keep walking, checking out the other stalls, but every so often their eyes meet, and they both have to look away fast before they start laughing again.

Somewhere along the way, Till’s hand has slipped into Ivan's, and Ivan counts his steps just to keep himself from thinking too hard about how perfectly their fingers fit together.

He hopes that Till can’t hear how loud his heartbeat is.

*

Their next stop is at a boba tea shop, and Ivan is about to take out his card when Till stops him.

“I’ll pay,” Till says. At that, the raven-haired man raises a brow. “What?” Till hisses.

Finally, Ivan asks, “Is this a part of your plan?” 

“What?” Till repeats. Then firmer, “N-No!”

Ivan raises an eyebrow again before he speaks. He insists, “I’ll pay.”

“I said I’ll pay!”

“I’ll pay? Okay—”

“Pft.”

The two men stop. Shifting their gazes, they find the cashier smiling behind the counter. “Oh!” the woman says. “Sorry, you two are just so cute.”

Ivan only gives her a smile, while Till takes the moment to hand his card to the cashier, stubborn as ever. 

The last time Till treated him to a drink, it had been part of some convoluted plan of his. But now, as Ivan quietly catalogs every ridiculous thing Till has done today, he can’t seem to find a pattern, unable to deduce Till’s exact step.

Ivan finally relents, though he makes a mental note to take Till somewhere nice soon, to an expensive restaurant for a proper meal. Something more than this.

His eyes flick to the menu, and mechanically, he chooses the cheapest drink.

“Would that be all?” 

“Yes,” Till replies. “Thank you.”

The cashier smiles again. “Okay. Have a good day!” Then, “Your boyfriend’s really sweet, by the way.”

Ivan pauses. He opens his mouth to gently correct her, but she’s quick to add, “And handsome.”

Till stiffens for a few seconds. His lips part like he’s going to argue, but instead of denying it, he lets out a soft chuckle and nods instead. “Mhm. He’s really handsome.”

Ah, Ivan thinks.

He hopes, desperately, for the hundredth time today, that his cheeks aren’t red. He presses his lips together, unwilling to risk his voice betraying him.

Till turns, shoots him a quick glance, then looks back at the cashier. And then, out of nowhere, in the most exaggerated voice imaginable, Till says:

“My baby’s sooo handsome!”

The raven-haired man opens his mouth in utter horror.

“What—”

“Look at him! Doesn’t he look so shy when he’s praised? My muffin! He's just so precious!”

Ivan nearly dies on the spot.

The cashier's smile has dropped, and Ivan wants to split open the ground and bury himself.

In the most respectful way possible, he wants to throttle Till.

Instead, he just stands there, maintaining a perfectly neutral expression, or so he hopes, and waits for the sky to strike him down. In his mind, he repeats like a mantra: I am nonchalant. I am calm. I am unaffected. 

He stares at Till, expression impeccably controlled. Every flicker of embarrassment, every tiny urge to flinch, is buried beneath decades of practiced composure. He will not break.

This is definitely a part of Till's plan, and he's not going to let Till win.

Till, apparently still unsatisfied, continues, “My booboo bear is so—”

“Yes, sir. Here's your drink. Good bye.”

Till stops, and Ivan immediately steps in, snatching the drinks and bowing a little too fast as he thanks the cashier. He drags Till outside before he can humiliate him any further.

He is absolutely not burning alive from the tips of his ears down to his chest.

After getting the drinks, they find themselves at a small table just outside the shop. Ivan takes his first sip to calm himself; it’s too sweet even for him and his mouth almost twists, but once again, he smooths his expression into neutrality. 

When he looks up, he catches Till watching him, chin propped on his hand against the table. Like he hadn’t just murdered Ivan a hundred times over inside.

The only telltale sign that Till is just as affected as Ivan is the faint pinkness of his ears.

But the gray-haired man’s smile is quiet and unbearably soft, and all that throttling in Ivan's mind disappears. He lets go of questioning Till’s public humiliation.

(He wants to kiss him instead.)

Fondly, he wonders what kind of stupid step did Till plan today.

“I’ll treat you to something nice next time,” Till says. “My art comms have been sluggish lately. Freelancing’s been the same.”

Ivan shakes his head. “This is nice.” He takes another sip despite the cloying sweetness of the cheap drink.

“Really? Do you even like your drink?” Till asks, as if the taste of the drink matters more than anything else.

And Ivan, the hopeless fool that he is, feels warmth coil in his ribs. “Yeah, I like it,” he answers, though it’s not about the drink at all.

(In his mind, Ivan thinks that he could be embarrassed, called by the deadliest pet names in public, and even forced to eat burnt hotteoks for the rest of his life, and he’d still feel content.

So long as Till is the one sitting across from him at the table.)

──────────────────

Something about today feels like a date.

A real, real date.

Sure, Ivan has taken Till to Seoul’s most expensive restaurants and art galleries, but those weren’t dates. Those were completely platonic hangouts. Sure.

Today, however, feels different. Even with the catastrophic embarrassment back at the boba tea shop, today does feel like a date.

(Ivan's just going to bury that experience six feet below the ground.)

Till’s not the most expressive person. Well… scratch that. He actually is. He’s been falling into Ivan’s ragebaiting traps for over a decade, and he flips off so easily. He also blushes at the slightest provocation—as Till likes to call it—that even something as simple as a “you look nice” has him stuttering. Essentially, he has two emotions: anger and embarrassment. Both make him red.

But when it comes to genuine affection, Till shy away.

Which is why now, with Till holding onto his arm and smiling in that soft, unguarded way, Ivan can’t help but think he’s hallucinating. Because Till doesn’t do this. They don’t do this. 

Ivan clears his throat. “Can you even draw properly like this?”

Till stops his ministrations and looks at Ivan. “Like what?” he asks.

Ivan looks away. “Nevermind.”

Right now, with both his stomach and heart full, Ivan’s at their usual communal table in the quiet quadrangle with Till drawing on his side. The only difference today is that Till’s one arm is still clinging onto his.

The place is nearly empty and quiet at this hour, there’s just the faint rustle of leaves and the scratch of Till’s pen. It’s quiet and peaceful until—

“Ivan?”

The raven-haired man lifts his gaze and sees three of his teammates standing a few steps away.

Ivan feels the small jump in his shoulder when Till startles. He knows what will happen next and wishes it would not. 

Till’s arm slips away anyway.

Ah, of course. It’s only okay when strangers are watching. When it’s a scene, a joke, a little spectacle for someone else’s eyes. But in front of people they actually know? No. Not then. 

Ivan forces himself to smile at his teammates. “Hey.”

“Till!”

The tallest of the bunch, Dewey—their team’s new recruit and Till’s bandmate—drops his bag onto the table with a thud and, without a shred of hesitation, sits right across from Till. Jacob and Hyunwoo follow.

“What are you guys doing here?” Dewey asks. Ivan is about to answer when Dewey grins and adds, “We aren’t crashing your date, right?”

Ivan pauses.

His first thought is, Yes, you are. Now fuck off—I mean be gone, fiend. Then, We look like we’re on a date? To other people? The word fizzes in his head. Before he can stop himself, he feels giddiness bubble inside his chest.

He presses his knuckles to his mouth. Hard. He will not smile. 

Meanwhile, the gray-haired man straightens, eyes wide. “We’re not on a date!” he exclaims.

Too passionately, if Ivan may add.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dewey cuts in, unfazed. “Hyunwoo, Jacob—this is Till, my bandmate. You guys know each other right? In a way?” 

“Hi,” is Till’s simple greeting. “Yeah, I know them. Hyuna and Isaac’s younger siblings, right?”

The two men mumble greetings, though neither seems all that subtle about their curiosity.

Hyunwoo’s cheeks are pink. “I-I’m a big fan,” he says.

Ivan's lip twitch unconsciously.

Jacob, on the other hand, leans forward with a grin. “Oh? So this is Lucky.”

At that, Ivan freezes. His mouth opens, then snaps shut, like he’s about to intervene but can’t find the words fast enough.

Dewey, unfortunately, nods eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah! This is Lucky.”

Hyunwoo chuckles under his breath. Jacob laughs outright. Till just blinks, confused, his brows knitting together. 

“Ivan’s lucky charm,” Jacob explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Our captain scores the most when he’s trying to show off for you.”

Till only laughs, though there’s a faint pinkness on his cheeks again. “I don’t think so. Ivan’s just good.”

Jacob whistles and Dewey shakes his head. “God bless your heart. You seriously have no idea that Ivan—”

Ivan smiles, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. It's dark and sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright. That’s enough, everyone,” he says.

Or I’ll make you run twenty laps at the next practice stays unsaid, but the message is clear in the razor-thin curve of his mouth. Hyunwoo’s laugh dies in his throat, and Jacob leans back slowly. 

Even Dewey clears his throat and decides that the sky looks interesting for a few seconds. It lasts all of three seconds. Then his mouth is running again. “So,” he drawls, “what’s the score between you two? People are dying to know.”

Till blinks.

“People? What people?”

“Uh…” Jacob scratches the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Ivan. “Just about everyone?”

Panic flashes across Till’s face, and Ivan sees it immediately.

The raven-haired man feels something unpleasant coil in his chest, and cuts in before Till can spiral. His voice is as calm as it can be when he says, “It’s nothing, Till. People are just nosy.”

Till whirls on him, snapping, “You know this?”

The sting lands hard, heavier than he expects, and before he can swallow it down, the words slip sharp off his tongue. “Oh, it’s that bad?” His voice is cutting, but he doesn't mean it. “God forbid people think we’re actually dating, right?”

The second it’s out, his chest sours. He catches himself, but it's too late. 

What the hell is he doing? It’s pathetic. He's pathetic.

He’s spent all this time resigning himself to the fact that whatever Till gives him will never mean anything. He’s the one who swore he didn’t care if Till loved him back. Yet here he is, proving himself a hypocrite and twisting the knife anyway, just because he can’t help being mean.

Till’s mouth falls open. “That’s not—”

Ivan smiles without warmth. “Relax. I get it. I was just joking,” he says, tries.

The table goes rigid. Dewey glances between them, clearly regretting ever opening his mouth. Jacob stares at the ground. Hyunwoo actually winces.

Till, however, looks panicked. “That’s not what I meant,” he finally mutters.

The gray-haired man swallows hard. “You don’t get it. You’re you…” his voice trails off. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that, okay? Do I really have to spell it out, Ivan?”

Ivan schools his features into something detached, like he doesn't care. 

He opens his mouth, ready to say, You don’t have to spell it out. Ready to shove the conversation down into something safe that won’t corner Till or scare him off.

But the words catch in his throat because Ivan isn’t a mind reader. He can’t translate half-finished confessions. He can’t guess at what Till is trying to say all the time.

So instead of saying what he wants, or what he fears, he says nothing at all.

(What Ivan doesn’t notice, though, is Till studying him. Studying the eerie calmness stretched over his features like glass about to crack. 

What Ivan doesn’t know is the conviction Till swore to himself.)

Till surprises Ivan when he speaks.

“It’s not like that, Ivan. I’m… wouldn’t it be embarrassing for you? To be seen with me? I’m not exactly...” Till cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek, as if he can't find the right words.

But the meaning hangs there anyway: not enough. Not for you.

Ivan feels his entire world pause. “Till—”

“Oh, Till!”

Ivan jerks sideways as Dewey barrels past him, practically shoving him off in his hurry to squeeze in beside Till. Jacob takes the opportunity to wedge himself on Till’s right, while Hyunwoo remains across the table, misty-eyed.

Tills face reddens. “What the fuck?”

“Oh, Till!” Dewey repeats, throwing an arm dramatically around his shoulders. “Dude, don’t think like that!”

Jacob nods, eyes shining with… tears? He says, “Yeah! What’s a football captain compared to the lead guitarist of Unknown?”

“And,” Hyunwoo blurts out, “you’re extremely handsome, too!”

The table goes quiet for half a second.

Till freezes. Jacob stares. Dewey lets out a low whistle.

Ivan’s gaze snaps to Hyunwoo, sharp enough to cut steel.

Till blinks. “Uhm, thank you?”

Dewey sniffs. “Yes, yes. Till, my brother, the rumors aren’t even like that in the first place. No one’s saying you’re dirt compared to Ivan.”

“I wasn’t even thinking that far, but thanks.”

“Oh... Anyway! No one’s saying you’re embarrassing Ivan. To be honest, the rumors are just saying that you don’t—Agh!”

Ivan’s palm smacks across Dewey’s mouth before the words can land. Not hard, but firm enough to make Dewey sputter.

The raven-haired man grips him by the shoulder and drags him back beside Hyunwoo across the table, then slides into the space beside Till again like it was always his spot.

Till blinks at him, too rattled to notice the daggers Ivan is silently hurling across the table at his teammates.

“Oh,” Till says after a beat. His voice is small and can only be heard by Ivan when he asks, “And you don’t mind? The rumors?”

Ivan's expression is unreadable. “Why would I?”

His tongue catches on the words he doesn’t let slip: Do you? Do you dislike the idea of dating me?  

“It’s okay then? For other people to know about… us?” Till asks, hesitant.

“My feelings for you aren’t a secret, if that’s what you mean,” Ivan answers.

The questions in Ivan's mind continue to press sharp against him, threatening to spill, but he swallows them down, and only turns his head.

Dewey rubs his cheek where Ivan’s hand landed, muttering something about “brutal captains.”

Jacob, on the other hand, leans in to Till, voice gentle. “Seriously, man. Don’t be insecure. You’re Till.”

Till frowns, still utterly confused and oblivious. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re kind of a big deal,” Dewey answers cheekily. “We’ve got fans. You’ve got fans. A band people actually talk about.”

Jacob nods. “Dude, I literally had your covers on loop before I even knew Ivan was living with you. Your guitar riff? Insane.”

The raven-haired man watches Till from the side, and for a second he swears Till might actually fold into himself and disappear between the cracks in the ground just to escape. But then, almost stubbornly, Till doesn’t. He breathes out.

It strikes Ivan as something quietly brave: this tiny refusal to hide, even when his instinct is to bolt. 

Ivan wishes he could be like that.

Ivan wishes he could be brave and ask, Are you scared? Are you embarrassed? Do you dislike it when people think we’re together? Do you dislike me? What do you feel for me?

But he only sits, tongue caught between his teeth.

“Speaking of our band,” Dewey says. “You guys should come tonight at The Rebellion,” he says, sudden. “We’ll be playing there tonight.”

Jacob grins. “Nice. Wouldn’t want to miss your performance, Till,” he says.

“I'll be there to cheer you, Till!” Hyunwoo adds.

“How about me?!” Dewey cries.

Till only chuckles softly. 

Truth be told, it's nice to see Till like this. He never basks in attention and brushes off compliments, convinced every good thing he’s called is a lie. To see him sit here and actually soak them in is a rare sight.

This is the version of Till Ivan wishes everyone could see. Not the intimidating, defensive figure they assume he is, but this warm, magnetic person he truly is.

And it’s nice. It’s really, really fucking nice. 

Ivan reminds himself of that over and over as Till tilts his head and listens to someone else ramble, eyes soft with interest. Dewey and Hyunwoo lean in a little too close over the table, and Ivan pretends it doesn’t make his skin itch. 

Because Till deserves attention. He deserves to be seen and admired.

Even when Ivan catches the obvious admirers gawking at Till, even when he feels that sharp, ugly feeling in his chest, he’s never said anything. He’s never tried to stake a claim he didn’t have in the first place.

That would go against everything he’s always wanted for Till: for people to finally see what he sees. 

It’s not just Ivan carrying this quiet, breathless awe for Till. And he tells himself that’s enough. That it should be enough.

“You okay, man?”

Ivan lifts his gaze from the table and smiles at Jacob mechanically. “Yeah,” he lies.

*

When Ivan finally excuses himself to head to his next class, he detours to the bathroom first.

He's surprised to see Jacob follow a beat later.

Jacob's question is straightforward: “Why didn’t you tell him what the rumors are about?” 

Ivan doesn’t answer right away, but he can feel Jacob waiting, so eventually, he forces himself to speak. “Because then Till will feel like he has to say and do something. And if he doesn’t mean it, if it’s just because he’s cornered, what’s the point of that?”

He doesn’t want Till pressured into anything. Not into wanting him, or into pretending he does.

Affection that comes out of obligation isn’t worth a damn thing. 

And even if the rumor is true, even if Till doesn’t like him like he does, what matters more is what Ivan already knows: Till likes him, in his own way. His feelings may not be the same as what Ivan feels, and they may not be what’s expected of affection, but Till’s feelings are there. 

They may not be loud, but Ivan would rather have that than any version of Till molded by pressure.

Ivan's hand tightens against the door. “Hell, the rumor might even be true. Maybe he doesn’t like me, not like that. And that’s fine.” 

He pushes the door open, leaving Jacob blinking after him.

Jacob exhales loudly, shaking his head, voice dripping with disbelief as he addresses the empty air. “How is he so smart and stupid at the same time?”

──────────────────

[19:05] Till: r u still coming to our gig later?

[19:10] Ivan: Of course! 

[19:11] Till: ok good. don't hate me.

[19:11] Ivan: ? What do you mean by that.

[19:15] Till: nothing 😊❤️

[19:15] Ivan: What do those ominous smiley face and heart emojis mean?

[19:20] Ivan: Till?

──────────────────

Ivan’s not made for parties. There are too many voices, and too many bright lights.

He’s learned how to mask it, of course. To anyone else, he probably looks like he’s enjoying himself. But underneath, it’s anything but enjoyable.

Which is why he rarely ever goes to bars, even when it’s expected of him as the captain of the football team. A textbook jock who spends his weekends shit-faced drunk.

The only reason he shows up to loud events at all is because of Till’s gigs. And so, here he is, in a place buzzing with red lights.

Among the crowd, sweaty bodies sway and jostle around. There’s so much heat and movement; glasses clink, and people shout over the music. Everything is just too loud, pressing against Ivan’s skull.

Then he finds Till.

For a moment, Ivan’s brain goes still when he registers Till’s outfit—worn black jeans and heavy combat boots. A strap hugs tight around his thigh, and at his waist, chains hang loose. He's wearing a different choker, and his black tank is tucked, the skull design fading. And over it is his varsity jacket. Ivan’s jacket. 

Red and swallowing the man whole.

Ivan’s pulse thunders in his ears. 

On stage, with his guitar slung across his shoulders, Till hits his solo. It’s anything but calming, yet for some unknown reason, his music feels like anchor being dropped in deep water. 

With all these unrelenting noises, Till’s music doesn’t get lost in them. And as Ivan focuses on the familiar sight of Till under the stage lights, his breathing turns steady.

When the first set ends, the crowd roars in cheers. Ivan is still in trance, standing still as the band upstage thanks the audience. His gaze is locked onto Till whose cheeks are dusted red.

His reverie is broken when the girls in front of him shift, shuffling to make room. One of them bumps into Ivan, hard enough that her beer sloshes.

He steps back automatically. “Oh, sorry,” he mutters.

The girls whirl around, startled. “Oh, no! Sorry! Sorry—” one blurts out.

Ivan shakes his head, a small, polite smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s fine.”

Their eyes lift from the floor before they suddenly go still. Their mouths open. “I-Ivan?” 

Ivan blinks, surprised to be recognized.

“Ivan?”

When a group of voices calls his name, his head jerks to the side. As his eyes adjust to the lights, he realizes it’s some of his football teammates again, though he can’t seem to find Jacob and Hyunwoo. 

His teammates are scattered among a pack of cheerleaders and a few guys he doesn’t recognize. 

Mizi is there too, her long hair tied high in a ponytail. The moment she spots him, her smile widens, and Ivan makes his way toward them.

One of the guys claps him on the back. “The fuck are you doing here, man?”

Ivan’s smile comes easy, practiced. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s handsome as he does. 

Mizi steps forward and tips on her toes to hug Ivan. Pulling back, she grins. “It’s nice to see you here.” Before he can reply, she tugs at his hand, smiling knowingly. “Come on! Join us for a bit before you disappear with Till.”

Ivan nods and lets himself be pulled into the circle. 

Around him are high standing tables with half-finished drinks. The group closes around him easily, laughter and conversation spilling over.

He entertains without effort, stealing a look at the stage, where Till’s performing, every so often.

Mizi, though, is swept up in her own cluster of friends, leaning in to gossip with another cheerleader. Still, she glances back his way to make sure he’s comfortable.

“You look good,” one of the guys says, leaning close. Ivan doesn’t recognize him. “Are you from Anakt too?”

Before Ivan can answer, someone presses a drink into his hand, grinning. “Didn’t know you were into these kinds of places. You should’ve come out with us more.”

Some other girl is already complimenting his outfit. A different cheerleader is asking what he's drinking. 

It's inviting in a superficial way. They’re pulling him into the conversation, attention circling him like sharks to blood in the water.

Ivan wants to go home.

“Are you here for Till?”

The question cuts through the chatter. The circle stills, attention swinging toward Ivan. It comes from a girl who had been talking with Mizi just seconds before. 

Ivan doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he answers.

Murmurs and knowing glances pass between the group, and someone lets out a drawn-out, “Oh, so the rumors are true.”

Another voice chimes in, “So, are you dating?”

Ivan has lost track of how many times he’s heard that today. 

Before he can shape an answer, a hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and unfamiliar. One of the guys leans in. His grin is all teeth. “I heard he’s not even taking good care of you. Why don’t you be with me instead tonight?”

Ivan’s jaw tightens. 

“Here, drink. Come on and loosen up a little, pretty boy,” he insists, tipping a glass toward Ivan’s lips.

Ivan imagines grabbing the arm slung over his shoulder, twisting until the bone cracks beneath his grip. Back in high school, back in Daegu, he wouldn’t even have thought twice.

But now, he only stays silent. Till wouldn’t like it if he caused a scene during his gig.

Mizi is cutting her way toward them, anyway. He'll let her do his dirty work tonight. Till would be more lenient on her. 

The pink-haired girl's ponytail is already swaying around—

Then a voice cuts through the noise, low and familiar.

“Having fun?”

When Ivan turns around, he sees Till. The gray-haired man has an unreadable smile on his face, sweat glistening on his neck. His bangs are pulled back, showing his forehead. Up close, Ivan can see his piercings more clearly.

He does look intimidating.

The red varsity jacket is still on him, but it’s his eyes that hold Ivan still. They’re fixed, not on him, but on the guy with his arm draped heavily across Ivan’s shoulders.

The grin on the nameless man’s face falters as Till steps closer. 

Till says nothing, but the air tightens anyway. In one swift motion, he snatches the glass from the man's hand and downs it in a single go. 

In the silence that follows, the man’s confidence fades away. His hand slips from Ivan’s shoulder, the movement quick but unsteady in the shakiness of his hand. He moves along past the group.

“Till!” someone calls from behind him.

“Man, you were so good up there!” another voice compliments.

The crowd shifts, and all the attention pivots toward Till. His teammates and the cheerleaders are all clamoring for a chance to say something.

Mizi and Till exchange a few words in passing before Mizi steps back to her friends. 

Normally, Till’s usually a blushing mess when hit with praise, but he’s steadier tonight, smiling coolly, like he’s learned how to keep his cool under the weight of too many eyes. 

Ivan wonders if anyone else sees the way his own fingers twitch against his side, like he’s holding something back, or reaching for an anchor.

As if on pure instinct, sensing it, Till does look at Ivan.

Then his hand slides around the raven-haired man’s bicep. 

The grip is firm and deliberate, enough to draw attention and make Ivan still. The chatter doesn’t stop, but the voices lower down, and a couple of glances flick between Till’s fingers and Ivan’s arm.

“Did you like my performance, baby?” 

Ivan blinks.

At first, Ivan can’t help but notice how impossibly hot Till looks—serious, focused, and radiating that quiet confidence.

For a brief, dizzying moment, all Ivan can do is stare in awe.

Then it happens. 

“Snookums? Did you like it?”

Till's serious tone turns sickly sweet.

The gray-haired man clings tighter to Ivan’s arm, his cheek nearly brushing Ivan’s shoulder now. Then his voice dips into something high-pitched, almost whiny… like he’s using baby talk. “Bugaboo?”

Till is all piercings and silver chains, black nails catching the stage lights, hair pushed back messily from sweat, his whole getup screaming intimidating. 

And yet here he is, cooing baby talk. 

Ivan closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, he thinks, Ah. This is another public execution aimed straight at my dignity.

“Munchkin—”

“Yes, yes.” Ivan grits. His hand finds Till’s on his bicep, and he squeezes it before leaning in and whispering, “Darling, time out?”

Till looks at his pleading eyes, but refuses to relent.

Instead, Till gasps and slaps a hand against Ivan’s chest. “Oh! Stop it, you’ll make me blush!”

Ivan stills, caught somewhere between disbelief and mortification. 

For a moment, he wants to ask Till how someone as shy as him can pull this off in pubic.

His urge to murder Ivan might simply be stronger than the embarrassment he feels.

Every eye in the circle flicks between them, but he can’t pull away. Till only leans closer, and Ivan’s pulse races from confusion and embarrassment, and maybe from something else he doesn’t want to admit.

Ivan’s eyes flick to Mizi, silently pleading for backup, but she only turns away with both confusion and horror in her eyes. What a traitor.

This is definitely Till’s plan.

Some of the people surrounding them haven’t left; they’re still lingering, eyes glued on them. Ivan can’t help but wonder what they must look like from the outside.

(Him, trapped like a hostage, and Till, in an all-black fashion, speaking in a baby voice.)

A brave one steps forward, a blonde cheerleader, and smiles at them. “Aw!” she says. “Honestly, I didn't think cutesy was your thing, but hey! You guys look cute.”

Till giggles—actually giggles—and gives Ivan’s chest another playful push, though his other hand never leaves his arm. “He just likes me so much. He can’t help himself.”

Well, okay, Ivan thinks, he's not wrong.

“He’s so clingy!”

Okay, Ivan thinks again. That’s enough.

“He’s always touching me, you know? Last night he literally wouldn’t let go. I was like, ‘Ivan, I can’t breathe, I’m dying,’ and he just cuddled harder. He even snores in my hair sometimes. My hair!”

The blonde cheerleader blinks. “Uhm. Okay. Wow. That’s… a lot.”

Ivan grips Till’s hand on his bicep so hard he’s either grounding himself or considering homicide.

Till beams up at him. “See? He can’t stop. Look at him holding me right now. He’s obsessed. He kisses the ground I walk on.”

Briefly, Ivan wonders what rumors will spread about him tomorrow. The meticulously crafted facade he’s built over years—careful nonchalance, effortless cool—threatens to crumble under Till’s desperate, clingy display. 

But even as he imagines his composed image fracturing, he can’t bring himself to care entirely.

Truthfully, if Till wants to embarrass him, humiliate him in front of everyone, then so be it. Even with his ears burning, if Till wants him to perform some ridiculous trick, he will.

One of the girls lingering nearby steps closer when the blonde cheerleader takes a step back. It’s Haneul. Ivan recognizes her as the cheer captain. 

Haneul grins, glancing between them. “So the rumors weren’t real after all.”

Ivan stiffens.

“…Rumors?” Till echoes, still utterly blind to what the rumors are truly about.

The girl tilts her head. “Yeah? People were saying that you don't—”

That makes Ivan's stomach drop.

“Okay!” Ivan blurts, too loud and fast. “Uh... Haneul! Hey. I remember we were supposed to talk about t-the… ah! The field schedule, right? It’s, uhm, actually better to,” He gestures wildly, “check with Coach. Really, he’s the one who knows all our schedule for next week.”

Haneul’s eyebrows knit together. “What are you talking about?”

Truth be told: Ivan wants to die.

Maybe if he wishes hard enough, he’ll be transported to a different timeline, preferably one where Till has no mouth.

But no, Till’s mouth exists. And worse, it’s still moving. Ivan can practically see the moment where the next disaster formed inside Till’s creative brain.

“Might as well get a room!” 

A couple of voices from nearby tables look over at them again, the sudden attention prickling at Ivan’s skin.

Ivan blinks down at Till. “…What?”

“You think I didn’t see it?” Till jabs a finger toward him, letting go of his arm. “You’re hitting on her!”

“What?” he repeats, confused. Mortified.

The girl holds up both of her hands instantly. “Oh, I don’t think so. I'm pretty sure he knows I’m a lesbian.”

Till gasps. “You’re hitting on a lesbian?!” He spins back to Ivan, eyes wide. “You’re a pathological flirt!”

Ivan feels his brain go dizzy. “Five seconds ago, I kiss the ground you walk on, and now I’m a pathological flirt?” Ivan exhales slowly. “Baby, you’ve got more than enough personalities to keep me completely occupied.”

Till huffs. “So now I’m too much for you? Is that what you're saying?” He turns away half a step, arms crossed.

“No?” Ivan says, incredulous.

“No?” Till repeats his confused, questioning tone. “See, you aren't even sure! I get it! I’m too much for you! You don’t even love me—”

That does it.

The raven-haired man lets out a long, low sigh, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose.

Then without thinking, Ivan slides his arms under Till, lifting him carefully, and in one smooth motion, he shifts Till over his shoulder. 

“H-Hey? Put me down! Hey! Ivan!”

Till flails for a moment, kicking more than once, twice. But when Ivan ignores him, he goes stiff for a heartbeat before his body finally relaxes against Ivan’s, hands curling into the fabric of the raven-haired man's top.

Ivan moves toward an empty booth, and when he settles Till down, letting him sit on his lap, he’s fast to speak.

“You’re not too much for me,” is what Ivan says first.

The gray-haired man’s shoulders shake, and then a sound slips out. 

Till drops his hands and wheezes, laughter bursting out like he can’t hold it back. “Your face! I-I can’t! I was joking! Joking!”

Ah. Of course.

Ivan knows that, yet he can't help himself, anyway.

Till only shakes his head, and Ivan knows that he's supposed to be mad. He’s supposed to tell Till he’s impossible. But against his will, his lips twitch. And then he’s laughing too. 

Till leans into him slightly. The laughter fades into a quiet hiccup, and Ivan lets himself relax just enough to meet Till’s gaze.

“This counts as PDA, no?” Till asks.

“Yes,” Ivan replies, his hand settling lightly on Till’s back.

Till leans closer. “Cool. Wanna make out?”

Ivan instinctively pulls back, scandalized. His hands stay firmly on Till’s waist, guiding him away just enough to keep control.

Seeing his reaction, Till laughs again, soft and genuinely amused. “Oh, this feels nice,” he says, voice full of wonder. “I actually feel light.”

Ivan's eyebrows meet, confused. “What feels nice?”

“Just letting it out.” Till answers, and Ivan isn’t sure what it refers to. “And making fun of you,” Till adds, grinning, before leaning in to press a quick, shy kiss to Ivan’s lips. “And sitting on your lap.”

Ivan’s ears burn. “Why are you so scandalous today?” 

Till sticks out his tongue. “I see. So you can write me haikus about wanting to crawl inside my chest, but god forbid I show affection. I’m so scandalous.”

“I was being poetic,” Ivan argues.

When Till covers his mouth, stifling another laugh, Ivan leans closer, hiding his face in the curve of Till’s neck. His breath brushes warm against Till’s skin as he asks, “What was the step this time?”

“It’s a secret this time,” Till answers, carding his hair. “Though it has something to do with… practicing.”

“Practicing?” 

“Mhm. Practicing,” Till says, “and wanting to know if I could do it.”

Ivan pulls back from Till's slender neck, unsure, again, what it refers to. He thinks that it could refer to many things all at once. “Were you able to, though?” he asks.

Till exhales a small, relieved sigh. “Mhm. I can do it. Hell, I might do it every single day from now on.” Then, “So? Did you feel embarrassed at all today, Mr. Nonchalant? Have I lost you?”

“No,” he answers. “You would have to increase your attempts to embarrass me by a hundred times to even approach cracking my nonchalance.”

Till leans in with that mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Before Ivan can fully react, Till presses a soft kiss to his lips, then quickly to his cheek, then the corner of his eye.

“Oh, because you’re so nonchalant,” Till teases, grinning. He presses another kiss to Ivan's lip, chaste.

Till’s lips move to trace along his jawline. “So unaffected.”

When the gray-haired man returns to his lips once again, Ivan can’t help but tilt his head to deepen the kiss. Their lips move together chastely, then in a relentless, hungry rhythm, tongues brushing. But just as Ivan’s mind drifts to haziness, Till pulls back, his lips hovering just above Ivan’s. “So unshakable.”

Till lets out a soft laugh, amused.

Ivan blinks, caught completely off guard. His ears burn again.

Wordlessly, he leans in and buries his face against Till’s neck again, hands encircling Till's lithe waist. Unsure of what to say or do, he only continues to press, “Come on, Till. Tell me your step this time.”

Till shakes his head with a grin. “Nuh uh.”

“Acting batshit crazy?” Ivan tries.

Till laughs. “That’s one of them, yeah.”

“Them,” Ivan repeats, something in his mind clicking. “That’s why I couldn’t guess. It’s not one single step.”

“Kinda, yes,” Till replies. “Pretending to be jealous was one of them, too.”

At that, something stirs in Ivan, a strange twist of unpleasantness curling in his chest.

“So that was pretending?” he asks, though he already knows. 

The exaggeration gave it away. Still, he can’t help but hope, pathetically and stubbornly, that even the tiniest fraction of it was real.

“Does it suit me? Acting childish was fun,” Till says.

The word childish repeats inside Ivan's mind.

He forces out a laugh that doesn’t sound like his own, and the only words he can manage lands weakly. “Maybe tone it down?”

“Okay,” Till says with feign obedience, standing. He reaches for Ivan’s hand. “Let’s get out of here, cupcake.”

*

The door swings shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the venue. They find an empty bench a few steps away from the bar and sink down onto it, the cool night air wrapping around them. 

Ivan glances at Till as he pulls out his snack. Till unwraps it quickly, famished after his band’s performance.

Meanwhile, the raven-haired man watches, half-amused, half-wishing it to be true.

He wants the absurdity, the wild accusations, the pet names too sweet to be anything but unreal. He wants jealousy, even in its most foolish form, because jealousy is proof. Proof of feelings.

If Till were truly jealous, then Ivan mattered enough to Till to provoke it.

“Ah, I’m beat!” Till says. “I feel like I could sleep for a month.”

Ivan just stares, watching him slump slightly.

Till takes another careful bite of his burrito. “Want some? Don’t you like this?”

Ivan only shakes his head, though his mind spins.

Childish, Till had called it.

Ivan wonders, briefly, if that is what he is: childish. If the jealousy that coils so naturally in him is a mark of immaturity, a flaw he should have long since discarded.

“Okay. That's it,” Till snaps. “You’re oddly quiet.”

Ivan forces a smile, and Till’s eye twitches.

“What’s with that smile? Is something wrong?”

“What’s wrong with my smile?”

“I know that look,” Till says, firm. “And that smile.”

Till’s eyes narrow. He continues, “You may have conned every other person on this earth, but not me, Ivan. To me, you’re a horrible, horrendous liar. Talk.”

For a moment, Ivan says nothing, yet the command feels familiar, almost inevitable, like a secret plead he’s heard from Till a hundred times before. 

Just so they could understand each other.

His lips twitch into another practiced, weary smile. It’s handsome but hollow. “Just let this go, Till. It’s stupid and childish.”

“Then be stupid and childish,” Till replies instantly. “Do I not let you be?”

The words land heavier than Ivan expects. 

The fight in his posture slackens. He shuts his eyes briefly, and when they open again, there’s a flicker of surrender in them.

“I’m jealous,” Ivan says at last. 

Ivan can see the surprise in Till’s face, but it doesn’t last long. It ripples into something softer.

“I’m jealous of everyone else trying to get your attention,” Ivan continues. “And I,” he swallows hard, eyes darting down, “I hate that I can’t turn it off. It’s an ugly feeling, but I can’t help it, Till. No matter how much I try to act like I don’t care, I… I care. So much.”

When he finally stops, his chest heaves like he’s run a mile.

He doesn’t expect the quiet chuckle that slips from Till.

“Feels nice to let your feelings out, huh?” Till smiles.

Ivan’s brows pull together. “What?”

“I’m saying it’s okay to feel jealous. You’re human after all,” Till whispers.

“I’ve always noticed it anyway,” Till goes on. “That tendency of yours to be jealous. Sure you don’t do or say anything, but you aren’t so sneaky when you look at someone like you want to commit murder, Ivan.”

Heat crawls up Ivan’s neck.

“I’ve always noticed,” Till repeats. His hand shifts to Ivan’s back, thumb brushing circles. “But I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my secret to drag into the open, because I know how much you hate being exposed.”

“But you know,” Till keeps going, “you already admitted you love me. That was the hard part, no? So why are you acting like being jealous is worse than that?” He pauses. Then, gently, firmly, he speaks again. “What I’m saying is, it’s okay to feel. Contrary to your popular belief, Ivan, you aren’t a brick wall with no feelings. You're allowed to be childish sometimes, too, dummy.”

The words cut through Ivan’s defenses sharper than anything else could. 

There’s no mocking edge in Till’s voice. Just permission. 

Permission that Ivan has never given himself.

“So it’s not childish?” Ivan asks.

Till shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

“But you called being jealous childish earlier,” Ivan argues.

Till laughs awkwardly. “Well, that was earlier. Let’s not get stuck in the past, booboo bear—”

Ivan presses a hand to his mouth, and Till laughs.

The gray-haired man stands up, grabbing Ivan by his hand once again. Once Ivan’s on his feet, Till steps forward and folds his arms around him.

Ivan doesn’t resist. He rests his weight against Till’s body, his hands slipping under Till’s jacket. His jacket. 

Ivan’s palms flatten against Till’s back from the inside. “Do you ever get jealous, too?” he asks. 

There’s a pregnant pause before Till answers. “Not really,” he answers.

Ivan presses his face against Till’s neck, letting himself be small and childish, knowing, somehow, that he’s allowed. He pouts, voice muffled. “Aren’t you above us all,” he says.

That makes Till laugh, and the sound has Ivan’s hands on Till’s waist tightening.

Then softly, something touches his hair. He blinks, pulling back slightly. 

Snow.

Till tilts his head back too, awe crossing across his face. “Oh. It’s the first snow,” he murmurs as more flakes begin to fall.

Ivan swallows, his gaze locked on the flakes. 

Then he remembers the superstition he’d dismissed. 

But standing here, pressed against Till’s chest while the first snowfall of the year falls around them, Ivan feels something unravel inside him.

His heart claws for it, desperate. And in his mind, he thinks, Please let it be true.

──────────────────

When Till slips back into the bar to say a quick goodbye to his bandmates, the music has softened, and the place is less crowded.

Halfway across the floor, he pauses. His gaze locks on the guy: a brown-haired, shit-faced figure lounging on a booth. It’s the same man who had draped his arm over Ivan earlier. 

Unceremoniously, Till walks toward him, eyes narrowing. He stops a few feet away, and when the man notices him, a faint shadow crosses his features. 

“If you go near Ivan again,” he says, eyes flashing, “I’ll break your arm.”