Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You.” Till looked up at the noise.  

He didn’t think he was being addressed, just curious who was bold enough to stride into this rough neighborhood and announce themselves so loudly. But lo and behold, a finger pointed straight at him. 

“You play music, right?” 

A strange question — not entirely odd, but bizarre for a stranger to ask someone clearly scraping by at the bottom of the barrel.

Till answered all the same. He had nothing better to do. It's not like sharing his musical ability would put him in some life-threatening danger.

 "Yeah. What of it?" 

He was sure his smile was demeaning — more than intended — but he didn't care enough about the guy's opinion to soften it. He blew smoke freely in his direction. A gift, really. Most people had to pay for second hand contempt.

“I have a son. He's nineteen. I want you to teach him.”

Till raised an eyebrow.

“I can't say it's smart to scout tutors down here, old man," he said, gesturing to the grimy alley behind him.

Till lived in a scrappy apartment nearby, no stranger to these parts. But the more he studied the man, the more sure he was that this guy had never done a hard day's work in his life.

He probably didn’t know how to drive — chauffeured everywhere, most likely.

Till debated blowing more smoke in the man’s face, but then a wad of cash landed at his feet.

“This is a down payment. You can expect triple that per hour,” the man said, “he already knows piano and violin. I'd like you to teach him guitar, of course.”

Till’s opinion of the dude flipped once he counted the cash tossed his way.

Who the fuck had this much money? Let alone on their person to throw around? The guy may as well have been a thief’s wet dream.

There was only one problem.

“I’ve never taught anyone before,” Till said reluctantly, not evil enough to scam the dude (even if it really was tempting) in case he was looking for someone with experience. 

It was the polite way of saying: I am barely qualified to manage myself, let alone anyone else.

“I’ll double my previous offer.” 

Never mind, Till suddenly believed in capitalism again.

He could learn how to teach someone. Probably.

Maybe this wouldn't be that bad. 

________

It was that bad. Perhaps worse. No, definitely worse.

Till had very quickly come to learn three things. One, that stranger who approached him in the alley was named Unsha, one of the richest men in the fucking country. Two, he had a very good-looking son. Three, the son in question was annoying as fuck. 

To be frank, Till couldn’t help but wonder what kind of moron Unsha's son had to be for him to resort to such measures. You'd think if previous tutors failed, he'd look for those of higher quality, not some random smoker who hadn't showered in the past week.

(No, Till was not one of those unhygienic men who embraced ‘natural scent’. He just didn't have enough money for the water bill.)

Either way, he was both grateful and bothered. Grateful because he now didn't need to worry about showering for his next two lifetimes. Bothered, because his boss's son was a freak.

Till wasn't a judgmental person.

Well.

Till wasn't a super judgmental person.

He's no saint, but he's not that much of a dick either. He tried to suppress judgments based on appearance, knowing the age-old saying about not judging a book by its cover, and he really did try his best with Ivan.

Yes, Ivan was his name. The son he had to teach.

In fact, when Till first met him, he'd thought Ivan to be the hottest guy he'd ever seen.

Correction: He still thinks this to be true, he just didn't like admitting it considering his ever-growing list of gripes about the guy.

His image of him started to sour immediately upon their first tutoring session. 

“Hey, hey, hey, I'm bored.”

“Yeah, well, I don't care.”

Till would've liked to say he actually didn't give a fuck, but he decided to word it more lightly in case he got fired on his first day.

“You should care. I care so much that it's honestly sad how much you don't. I'm the biggest carer in the world, you should learn from me.”

Yes, as it turned out, Ivan had never been told no in his entire life. Till swore he wasn’t exaggerating here. Most of the time he felt as if he were dealing with a newborn child and not a fully grown adult. 

Till observed Ivan with the detachment of a scientist studying a volatile compound. The boy’s complaints were performative, each whine calibrated to provoke a reaction. His fingers, slender and unscarred, moved with a precision that belied his tantrums, and he noted the way Ivan’s eyes flicked to him after every outburst, seeking something.

What that something was, Till was still trying to figure out.

“My fingers hurt. I don't wanna play anymore.”

“Till is mean. Till is a meanie! A big, fat, meanie!”

Till, meanie that he apparently was, wanted to slam his head against the wall until Ivan had no choice but to call the paramedics and treat the inevitable brain damage caused by spending so much time with him.

Then he remembered the raven would probably laugh, maybe even livestream his bleeding head instead of offering help like a normal human being.

Yeah, Ivan was fucking annoying.

________

Till hated the elevator. It was too slow. Too quiet. The kind of silence designed for men who needed to hear their own importance echoed back at them.

So, most men.

By the time he stepped into the penthouse, he’d already run through three different excuses for why he hadn’t quit yet. None of them felt even remotely convincing.

Ivan was on the couch. Not waiting. God no. He was practically draped across it. He had that specific kind of expensive aimlessness rich boys mastered before they could legally drive. In his hands was a battered hardcover, spine broken from the weight of obsessive annotation. Probably Musil. Or Mann. One of those miserable Europeans who wrote eight hundred pages about fog and died before reaching their thirties.

The book should not have looked good in his hands. Nothing should have. 

(It unfortunately did.)

“You’re late,” Ivan said, without looking up. A man too important to be burdened with eye contact. 

Till let the guitar case thud against the floor. “You’re conscious. A miracle. Should I alert the Vatican?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Ivan replied, turning a page with all the urgency of a dying aristocrat. “I’ve been awake for hours. I had a call with my godfather in Geneva.”

Of course he did. Because nothing said well-adjusted adult like sunrise diplomacy and a Swiss godfather. Till blinked, slowly, once — because if he didn’t, he might laugh. Or throw something. Preferably at Ivan.

“Did you manage to ruin his day too, or am I special?”

Ivan snapped the book shut. He was still sprawled like he owned the furniture, the room, and the land deed underneath the precinct. If Till didn't know Unsha bought the place, he might've believed it.

“Special, obviously. He likes me.”

Well. That made one of them.

Till didn’t respond. There was no winning with someone who knew they were charming.

What a world. Reading as a performance art. Intellectual striptease. Very tasteful.

“Get your guitar,” Till ordered, already regretting everything that had led to this moment, including but not limited to his birth.

“I’m reclining.”

“Then un-recline.”

Ivan sighed, long and theatrical. The kind of sound that belonged in a cathedral at midnight or a courtroom minutes before sentencing. He pressed a hand to his temple, not because it hurt, but because he liked imagining himself in oil portraits.

“Before we begin,” Ivan said, “can we agree that the word strumming is vulgar?”

“No.”

“It’s ugly. Onomatopoeic in the worst way. It sounds like what a twelve-year-old does to a ukulele.”

Till crouched and flicked open the guitar case’s latches. “I don’t care what it sounds like.”

“I’m just saying. We’re shaping sound, aren’t we? There should be dignity in the language.”

“Pick a new word and shut up.”

Ivan finally leaned forward, sliding the guitar onto his lap with that infuriating ease he wielded like a weapon. Then he smiled — the polite kind, soft and symmetrical, designed in a lab for maximum irritation. 

More specifically, Till’s irritation.

“Plucking,” Ivan offered. “How’s that? Slightly pornographic, but closer.”

Till dropped down opposite him and pulled a pencil from his pocket, tapping it against his knee. He’d given up on carrying a notebook. Nothing the boy did lasted long enough to be worth writing down.

“I’m going to say a chord. You’ll build it.”

“Which tuning?”

“Standard. You’re not ready for modal variants.”

Ivan made a sound halfway between a hum and a sneer — something low and self-satisfied. “I’ve studied theory. You don’t have to spoon-feed me like a feral dog.”

Till didn’t look up. “You’re not a feral dog. Feral dogs learn.”

“Wrong,” Ivan said, calm and unbothered, like the answer had bored him more than offended him.

Till almost smiled. A twitch at the corner of his mouth that didn’t count unless someone blinked and missed it.

“B minor seven,” he said, because biting was frowned upon in professional settings.

Ivan didn’t hesitate. The shape was clean, placement precise, but it was the kind of precision that made Till itch. It had no instinct in it. Just the cold, perfect mimicry of someone who learned fast and felt nothing while doing it.

“No. Again. Your third finger’s riding too high. Barre it cleanly or don’t bother.”

“Maybe you’re projecting,” he said. “Ever consider that?”

“Projecting what?”

“Control. You're not annoyed because the voicing’s wrong. You're annoyed because you can't control how I get to the answer.”

Till narrowed his eyes. He could feel his pulse flicker in his temple. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m philosophizing.”

“You’re being an asshole.”

“Synonyms, in most circles.”

Till reached out and pressed Ivan’s wrist lower to adjust the angle. It was reflexive, nothing more, but something in Ivan’s face shifted — just for a second. A flicker of amusement. Or worse, recognition.

“You know,” Ivan said, not moving his wrist, “most instructors avoid physical correction now. Something about autonomy and lawsuits.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Ivan played the chord again. This time it rang out cleaner, brighter. Till said nothing. He wasn’t going to clap. It was just the bare minimum needed to move forward.

“Better,” he muttered.

Ivan smiled.

Till was going to off himself before the month was over.

________

Today, Till was late. Not for the first time, and certainly not by accident. The city had conspired against him, as always — slow trains crawling through jammed tracks, a spill at the bar that blocked the sidewalk, some overly friendly tourist attempting to pay for his set with empty compliments and a half-smoked cigarette. But none of it was truly unavoidable. He could have made it on time if he’d wanted to.

He hadn’t.

The penthouse door was cracked open when Till arrived, left ajar. 

Ivan, as usual, lay sprawled like something poured out of a silk bottle, one arm casually draped over the curve of the sofa, the other bent under his chin as if cradling his own boredom. His hair hung loose — far too glossy, the kind of pretty that suggested either excessive hair product money or a supernatural pact. In Ivan’s case, either option was possible. 

His guitar rested across his thighs, untouched. He wasn’t practicing as much as he was posing.

“I assumed,” Ivan said without moving, “you’d finally decided to ghost me. I was prepared to feel abandoned. I had a whole speech ready.”

Till didn’t respond. He slammed the door shut behind him, setting his guitar case down with more force than necessary. The latch rattled against the polished floor. The faint smell of smoke clung to his jacket. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t wanted to be here. 

“I waited,” Ivan continued, his voice softer now, almost mocking sympathy, “thirty-six minutes. And counting.”

“You could’ve practiced.”

Ivan turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes — black with streaks of something almost crimson — were heavy-lidded. “What’s the point of practicing if there’s no one here to be impressed?”

Till dragged a hand down his face. “Up. Couch. Now.” 

His patience was thinning, but he wasn’t about to dignify Ivan’s performance with more than a grumble. The way Ivan stretched and fidgeted made him look less like a musician and more like a toddler refusing to nap.

Ivan shifted with the slow disdain of a cat forced off a warm windowsill. He rose in pieces, stretching his legs, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a flash of bare hip and the gentle curve of his ribs. His stomach was unnaturally smooth — too flat to be real — as if sketched by someone who’d never seen a real, breathing person.

He perched on the edge of the couch, loose-limbed. His guitar rested against his thigh, held entirely wrong, entirely on purpose.

“I’m ready,” he said, without an ounce of humility.

Till rolled his neck and crossed the room, his footsteps too loud against the polished floor. He fought the urge to light a cigarette. Barely.

“You’re sitting wrong.”

“I’m sitting like a muse.”

If Ivan were any more spoiled, Till would have found a pacifier, shiny and gaudy enough to match his designer wardrobe, and handed it to him just to speed things up. Maybe even tucked him into a gilded crib while he rehearsed that same bored expression, waiting for someone to applaud his effortless misery.

Instead, he held back multiple curses. “You’re sitting like a brat.” 

Ivan tilted his head. “You’ve missed me.”

“I’ve missed peace and quiet.”

Till crouched next to him, unzipped the guitar case, and pulled out the instrument. The movement was automatic now, muscle memory — his fingers moving like machines when they weren’t wrapped in gauze or sweat.

Ivan watched with all the detachment of a wealthy child watching a grown man fix his toy.

“You’re sulking,” Ivan said.

“How? I’m just breathing.”

“It looks the same on you.”

Till rolled his eyes so hard he almost felt it in his neck. 

“Posture. Left hand. Try the A minor.”

Ivan lazily positioned his fingers with the deliberateness of someone pretending to guess. 

It was wrong. Again.

Thumb too high. Fingers flat. No arch. No pressure where it mattered.

Till stood, stepped behind him, and didn’t ask.

He reached forward and placed both hands on Ivan’s arms. Guided. Adjusted. He pressed his thumb against the muscle just above Ivan’s elbow, pushing it forward, then slid down to re-curl his fingers over the fretboard.

For someone so insufferable, Ivan’s warmth was dangerously disarming.

Ivan tensed — just slightly — but he didn’t resist. His body stayed pliant under Till’s hands. 

Till tried not to think about it.

He adjusted the fingers one by one, holding Ivan’s hand in place with his own. There was no space left between them. Ivan’s back pressed into Till’s chest, shoulders broad and cushioned beneath the stretch of his shirt. He breathed deeper now, and Till could feel each inhale push against his ribs.

He hated how soft Ivan was.

It wasn’t fair. No one that infuriating should be this warm. This weightless. This easy to move.

Till pressed the side of his hand to Ivan’s jaw, turning his face slightly — not because it was necessary, but because Ivan’s neck was too long to ignore when he tilted it like that. A boy built to be looked at. Framed.

“You’re way too stiff,” Till said, voice flat, eyes on Ivan’s wrist.

Ivan didn’t look up. His lashes stayed low, his mouth tugged sideways. “Just focused.”

Till reached down to nudge Ivan’s pinky off the neck. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m thinking about your hand on mine.”

Till grunted and shifted Ivan’s thumb.

Ivan sighed, and the sound curved lazily against Till’s wrist. “You’re surprisingly warm.”

“And you’re ridiculously soft,” Till said, frowning, because the pad of Ivan’s palm was in fact unfairly smooth.

“Delicate, thank you very much.”

“More like pampered.”

He thought about reminding Ivan that soft and fragile were different things, but it would’ve just wasted breath. Besides, Ivan would probably make it about how Till was emotionally fragile instead.

As expected, Ivan smiled, breath hot at the corner of Till’s wrist.

“You touch me like I’m going to break,” he whispered. “Is that on purpose?”

Till pinched the inside of his upper arm — hard.

Ivan yelped. A full, petulant sound. He twisted around to glare up at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted in affront.

“You pinched me.”

It was almost impressive how seriously Ivan took something so trivial, like a full-on show piece calibrated for maximum effect. Till was certain he could hear the faint echo of an invisible audience applauding the theatrics.

Till stepped back, exhaling sharply. “You were slumping.”

“You left a mark!”

“Good. Maybe it’ll remind you how to sit upright.”

Ivan rubbed his arm. His lower lip actually pushed forward, and Till hated how beautiful it made him look. An overripe fruit dangling just out of reach — too perfect to grab without risking a sticky mess, too sensitive to handle without bruising, and yet somehow utterly irresistible. There was a reckless sweetness to it, the kind that promised everything and nothing all at once, daring you to come closer even though you knew better.

Till did not consider himself to be religious, but he briefly found himself sympathizing with Adam and Eve.

“You laughed,” Ivan said.

“No.”

“You did. When I yelped.”

Till scratched the back of his neck, trying not to let the corner of his mouth twitch. “That was self-defense.”

Ivan twisted fully now, propping himself up on his elbow. “You’re smiling.”

“That’s a nervous tic,” Till replied, too fast.

Till caught the flicker of amusement dancing in Ivan’s eyes. He had the kind of grin that said, Gotcha, but without any real victory behind it. Till hated that smile almost as much as he hated how easily Ivan got under his skin, turning every little jab into a game he never wanted to play.

He wanted to tell Ivan to quit looking so pleased with himself, but instead, he just rolled his eyes and moved on. Let the brat have his moment. It was easier than admitting he was actually entertained.

Ivan turned his whole body back toward the fretboard, repositioning his fingers more carefully this time. He was pouting. Actually pouting. His shoulders hunched and small, and his hands — still wrong, but closer — trembled faintly with effort.

Till leaned against the grand piano, watching him. 

(Don't ask why there was a grand piano in the living room, he didnt know either.)

Ivan strummed. It was cleaner than before. Still mechanical. Still too careful. But better.

He peeked over his shoulder like a kicked dog. “That one was fine.”

“It didn’t make me want to rupture my eardrum, so yes.”

“I’m going to sue you for assault.”

“Then I hope your lawyer knows music theory.”

Ivan’s expression shifted. Not a smile. Something smaller. 

He strummed again, softer this time. And it was… fine. Hollow, but fine. He looked up like he expected praise.

Till gave him nothing.

“Still wrong,” he muttered.

Ivan shrugged, unbothered. “Then correct me.”

Till considered it. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after if he miraculously ended up keeping this job.

________

It had been four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Sixteen lessons. Seven migraines. Two rainstorms. One fever. And exactly one moment where Till nearly broke his rule about not punching minors — before remembering Ivan was, in fact, nineteen and legally fair game.

The boy learned fast.

Too fast.

That was the thing that made it bearable, really. The talent. Not just skill; anyone could have skill. Talent was something different. Something feral, precocious, and utterly fucked-up. It lived behind the eyes. And Ivan had it in spades.

Chords came to him as naturally as words. He retained phrasing like melody, able to play back what he heard within seconds. His fingers were still too long, his nails filed to an irritatingly perfect roundness. He was a pest — an overgrown toddler draped in silk, a self-mythologizing heir with god-awful taste in guitar straps.

But he could play.

And Till hated him a little bit for it.

Not because Ivan was good, that was expected. What threw Till off was that Ivan didn’t have to try. He didn’t care about being good. What mattered was Till’s attention, Till’s approval. The chords only counted if Till said they did. Ivan wasn’t playing for the music; he was playing to see if Till was paying enough to notice. Till couldn’t quite figure out why the hell that was enough for him.

For now, he let it be.

The elevator moved at a crawl, silent and cold. Brass fixtures gleamed under fluorescent lights, polished daily by someone ordered not to linger at the security cameras. Till pressed his back to the mirror, neck stiff and sore from playing three sets in a row. His left wrist throbbed with that familiar ache. The kind that came from gripping the guitar neck too tight or the weather changing.

He despised this feeling. The ache. The craving for a cigarette he didn’t have the patience for tonight. But he was going to show up anyway. Ivan’s chords, effortless as they were, still felt like a challenge.

The hallway beyond the elevator was always overlit. Whitewashed. Echoing like a mausoleum for someone whose bones were lacquered in platinum. 

The door was already slightly open, so Till stepped in and let it shut with a whisper-click behind him.

Ivan was on the sofa, limbs thrown wide in disarray, one sock slipping off his heel. His neck bent at an angle that would have looked grotesque on anyone without years of forced grace carved into their spine. He wasn’t reading so much as letting the book rest on his chest, pages closed, as if expecting knowledge to seep through skin and bone.

He had the look of someone suspended mid-rehearsal, too bored to finish performing but too vain to fully stop. Every time Till arrived, Ivan was caught in that same velvet inertia — somewhere between sleep and provocation.

“Nice of you to show up,” Ivan mumbled, eyes still shut. 

Till dropped his gig bag by the door harder than he needed to.

“I had work,” he said. “A gig.”

That got a reaction. Ivan opened his eyes and rolled his head toward him. His expression was the same as always — half-lidded, soft-mouthed, unearned in its calm.

“Work,” Ivan echoed, like it was a foreign word. And to him, it most likely was. “You still do that?”

Till didn’t answer. He walked past him to the window and stared down at the city — its glass towers, its endless traffic arteries. Somewhere down there, he’d spent the night elbow-to-elbow with people who didn’t care who he was, so long as he hit the notes clean.

Ivan made a noise under his breath. Not a laugh. Just a breath dressed in amusement.

“You mean you have another job,” Ivan said. “Outside of me.”

Till turned around slowly. “Yes. I’m not a plant you water twice a week.”

Ivan blinked.

“I just assumed,” he offered, “based on your… lifestyle.”

Till raised a brow. “What, because I don’t have a penthouse?”

Ivan looked vaguely embarrassed — just enough to keep going. “Because you don’t even lock your guitar case. And you wear the same boots every time. And you don’t have Spotify Premium.”

Spotify Premium?

What the — how the fuck did he even know that? Till couldn’t remember ever mentioning it. He barely remembered using it in front of Ivan.

Whatever.

The silver-haired man said nothing. He crossed the room, collapsed into the chair across from Ivan, and lit a cigarette with a flick that spoke of habit.

Ivan wrinkled his nose.

“You can’t smoke in here,” he complained.

“Then call the butler.”

“He’s on holiday until next week.”

Till had only been guessing about Ivan having a butler, but the confirmation somehow made it worse.

“Figures. No one in this place knows how to serve anything but condescension.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. He shifted upright, legs folding beneath him with slow ceremony, all posture and no purpose. The book slid off the couch and was promptly ignored, as if its only function had been decorative.

“You’re defensive today,” Ivan observed. “Was the crowd mean to you?”

“They were drunk.”

“Same thing, no?”

Till dragged in smoke, let it settle behind his teeth, hoping nicotine could bleach the memory of Ivan’s voice out of his head.

Rich kids, trust fund prodigies, protégés who thought pain was a costume you could borrow. He’d met all kinds. Most of them blurred together.

But Ivan watched.

Not just stared. Watched. Paid attention in that way that made your skin itch, like being studied under museum lights. He noticed when Till changed strings. Saw every shift in his attitude. Remembered throwaway things Till didn’t even recall saying. 

It wasn’t flattery. It was something colder. Stranger. 

A form of collection.

There was no real privacy with Ivan in the room — just the illusion of it, tolerated until he decided to speak.

Till blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“I play at a bar on Thursdays. Saturdays too, unless the owner's niece is trying to find her inner pop star again.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Gigs, then,” he offered.

“Wow. Observation of the century. It's almost like I said that two minutes ago."

Ivan’s gaze flicked up, amused.

“No, I mean — I thought you were more theoretical.”

What that was supposed to mean, Till didn't know. Then again, the world of the wealthy remained one he wasn't familiar with, so maybe there were businessmen that discussed the idea of jobs rather than actually working them.

“You think in adjectives, don’t you?”

Ivan tilted his head. “Don’t you?”

Till didn’t answer.

Normally, he’d mutter something about needing a raise to endure questions that stupid, but there wasn’t much point. His salary already bordered on unethical — enough to make his past self gag, enough to finance a startup or fund a small coup.

He couldn’t exactly complain without sounding like a jackass. Not that that had ever stopped him. Still, it was hard to play the overworked, underpaid martyr when his monthly deposit could cover rent, groceries, and a spontaneous crisis without breaking a sweat. 

“I assumed you’d be more academic about music,” Ivan said after a moment. “You correct like a… like a professor.”

“I’m not a professor.”

“I can tell.” Ivan's mouth twitched. “They don’t swear half as much. At least my other private tutors didn't.”

Till shot him a look, but Ivan was already moving, pulling his guitar onto his lap.

“You look like you were into painting,” Ivan said, plucking the open G string.

Till blinked. “What?”

“Your hands,” Ivan said, nodding at them. “Calloused in weird places. You smudge a lot. The way you hold your pen — it’s too loose for a pure musician.”

Till frowned. He refrained from asking what the Ivan’s definition of a “pure” musician was.

“I did draw. Once. Art,” Till muttered. “Sketching, mostly. Clay, a bit. Nothing formal.”

The younger nodded like he’d just confirmed a theory.

“Didn’t go anywhere,” Till added. “Pursued music instead.”

Till didn’t want to admit how much the thought of art school still stung. Didn’t want to say it out loud: that it wasn’t talent that stopped him, but money. Art school costs more than a liver, he thought bitterly, and that was saying something. Even if he could pay for it now, was it even worth it?

For once, he was thankful Ivan interrupted his inner spiraling.

“Couldn’t get a scholarship?”

Till looked at him. “Nice joke.”

Ivan just plucked another string.

“So…?”

“So I didn’t go to college. Didn’t go anywhere. Got a guitar from a pawn shop, broke it, fixed it, kept playing. That’s it. End of story.”

Ivan’s posture hadn’t changed, but something in him quieted. Not softened. Just… stilled. Thinking, maybe.

“And now you teach.”

“I play and I teach you. That’s different.”

Ivan’s squinted, clearly not satisfied. “You don’t teach anyone else?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like people.”

Ivan smiled. It was subtle, sly, the kind of expression that made Till immediately suspicious.

“You like me, then.”

Till snorted. “No. I tolerate you.”

Ivan didn't answer. He played a minor sixth and let it ring out. His playing, as always, was surgical. No mistakes. But no hunger, either.

Empty, empty, empty. Sound without passion.

Till studied Ivan's hands carefully.

“You’re too clean,” he finally said. “You never let the chord get messy. You play like it might shame you if it sounds anything less than perfect.”

Ivan met his gaze without hesitation. “I don’t want to play ugly.”

Till shook his head. “Then you’re never going to play something worth listening to.”

Ivan’s lips twisted into an off-putting smile. “How philosophical.”

“It’s not,” Till said. “It’s just true.”

There was a pause.

Then Ivan’s voice came, low, almost careful. “I didn’t think you had anything else.”

“What?”

“I didn’t think your life stretched beyond… this. This room. This routine.”

Till laughed, quick and sharp. “Yeah, well, you’re a real visionary.”

Ivan studied him. Something flickered. Curiosity, maybe. Or something like respect. No, Ivan wasn't the type to respect people. Till hoped it was at least a grudging acknowledgment.

With that thought, he cracked his back, standing.

“C major scale, ascending triplets,” he said. “Let’s get it done.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “Slave driver.”

“Yeah, sure, kid.”

They fell into silence after that.

But the room felt different. Not warmer — never warm — but lived in. Like maybe, just maybe, Ivan finally saw that the guy teaching him chords had a life beyond the walls holding up his family’s gallery of tax evasion and antique clocks.

Even if by only a little, ironically enough, Till felt like he knew Ivan a tiny bit better than before.

________

The first time Till noticed, it was nothing.

He was showing Ivan diminished sevenths because if he had to endure one more pristine E major he might lose his mind and Ivan was extra insufferable. Asking questions he already knew the answers to. Slouching. Picking at his nonexistent cuticles. Pretending to forget lessons Till was sure he’d already taught.

So he snapped. Not with words — he knew better than to give Ivan the pleasure — but with posture. He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head slightly, gaze flat, lips pursed. 

And then, for some reason, Ivan shut up.

It wasn’t dramatic. No theatrical gasp. No visible shame spiral. He just... quieted. Mid-sentence. Mouth half-open. Eyes lifted like he was about to be scolded.

Seconds later, he straightened his spine, picked up the guitar, and played the chord correctly.

At the time, Till hadn’t thought much of it. Chalked it up to tone. Or maybe Ivan finally deciding not to push his luck.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

The next week, they were halfway through a lesson when Ivan started ranting about the sexual politics of fretboard positions ( “You have to admit it’s phallic, Till, just look at it” ), and Till, already nursing a headache from last night’s gig, just… crossed his arms.

Ivan went still, not immediately or obviously, but slowly, as if winding down like a clock. His eyes flicked up and his mouth closed.

Then, as if routine, he reached for his guitar and resumed the exercise Till had told him to repeat.

Till didn’t mention it — not even to himself, not consciously anyway.

But it stayed in the back of his head.

He tested it three more times.

The first, during a lesson when Ivan wouldn’t shut up about how his grandfather’s lake house had terrible acoustics. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Ivan silenced.

The second, when Ivan tried to stall a chord-building drill by showing off an alternate tuning from some band Till couldn’t stand. Arms crossed. Ivan adjusted immediately.

The third, after the lesson, when Till was already halfway out the door and Ivan called after him with a question that wasn’t really a question: “Do you think I’d be good at drums too?”

Till turned around. Crossed his arms.

Ivan blinked. Took half a step back.

Something clicked.

Till didn’t like the sound of it.

And then came the rain.

It was late. Past ten. Till had stayed longer than he should have, the lesson bleeding into conversation, conversation bleeding into nothing. He’d meant to leave an hour ago, but the city was soaked and the storm was only getting worse.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Ivan had said, smug and already smugger, “Just stay.”

Till wanted to say no.

He said, “Fine,” instead.

He didn’t bring pajamas. Ivan offered a robe. Till refused. The robe was probably worth more than his monthly income and had some Italian name embroidered on the sleeve.

Till sat on the edge of the sofa and tried not to look like he was regretting his entire life.

Ivan was on the floor, curled up with a throw pillow and his guitar in his lap, legs bent at strange angles, looking every bit the spoiled lounge baby he was.

They were talking. Sort of. Ivan was rambling. Something about learning theory. About how most composers were just obsessive freaks with better PR.

Till made a sound of agreement and rubbed his eyes.

“You think I’m getting better?” Ivan asked suddenly.

The raven looked up at him with big eyes and the same tone he used when debating whether his hair was “romantically tragic” or “just tragic.”

“Yeah,” Till said, because it was true. “Fast learner.”

Ivan’s expression shifted, just barely, but Till caught it: a flicker of satisfaction, a softness, then a quick withdrawal.

He leaned back as if bracing for the moment to pass, as if praise was something slippery, something timed, something rationed.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Till said nothing. His arms ached from the day, and his back was starting to complain, a slow grind just beneath his shoulder blades. He shifted his weight, cracked his neck, and crossed his arms without thinking.

Ivan froze.

Till saw it clearly this time — the spine stiffening, hands stilling, breath held.

That look.

Like an actor waiting for a line he hadn’t memorized, hoping the cue would just come to him. A fledgling perched on the brink of its first flight, nerves humming in every feather.

He wasn’t waiting to be told what to do.

He was waiting to be allowed.

Till tilted his head slightly.

Ivan jolted, just barely, and stumbled back into speech. His words rushed out unevenly and hurriedly, scrambling to catch up with his sudden alertness.

It was not what Till had meant before — not some warning or calculated threat. It was something far simpler, almost accidental. Crossing his arms was just a habit he fell into when tired, cold, or bored. But Ivan reacted as if a dog flinched at a gesture no one intended to be cruel.

He was not afraid of pain or physical harm. Ivan was scared of something else. Something quieter but deeper. Disapproval, maybe. Distance. The cold snap that came when Till went still and unreadable.

It was Pavlovian, a reflex, hardwired and without reward.

Ivan had learned something Till had never intended to teach. He had encoded it into his body, a silent command embedded in his nervous system.

Ivan’s voice kept going. Rushing. Running over itself like he was trying to prove something.

Till didn’t interrupt. He just watched.

The way Ivan’s hands gripped the throw pillow like a seatbelt. The way his mouth kept twitching toward a smile he didn’t mean. The way his posture straightened automatically, trying to look smaller and taller at the same time. Like he wanted to appear correct, whatever correctness was meant to look like.

It was pathetic.

It was… sort of cute.

Till hated that thought. Wanted to scrub it out with bleach. Because it wasn’t cute in the normal way. It was cute like roadkill arranged in a gallery. A wolf trained to kneel. 

Except Ivan wasn't as much of a wolf as he was whatever it dragged home to eat.

Till didn’t move.

He didn’t nod. He didn’t blink. His arms stayed crossed, sleeves creased under his grip. His mouth stayed shut, pressed flat, the muscles in his jaw steady and still. He kept his eyes on Ivan, unflinching. The silence filled the space between them, heavier by the second. Ivan, who never ran out of words, was already trimming them down, pausing mid-thought, eyes flicking to Till’s face with less confidence each time.

The rambling shifted to structure. The tone softened. The tangents trimmed themselves without protest. Ivan sat impossibly straighter, spoke cleaner, his hands suddenly more interested in folding the hem of the pillowcase than conducting a monologue about modal jazz.

It wasn’t fear. Not shame either. It was instinct — something older than either. Ivan folded in just slightly, a practiced curve of the shoulders that suggested apology without ever offering one. He glanced up once, measuring the silence. His voice had gone soft, but the edge was still there, tucked behind the quiet like a knife under a napkin. Barely concealed. 

Till watched with clinical interest.

He tracked the adjustments with quiet precision. Ivan’s knee shifted inward by degrees, not enough to cower, just enough to suggest compliance. His fingers fidgeted near the seam of his sleeve, performing penance without conviction. Every few seconds, his eyes lifted toward Till’s face, not pleading, but calculating, searching for the edge of permission.

He found nothing.

Not yet.

The silence in the room was not dramatic. It had no need to be. It was orderly, efficient, the kind that follows routine rather than revelation. A familiar rhythm falling back into place. Till had seen this posture before. Not in classrooms or confessionals, but in the living rooms of families with too many sons and not enough time.

It would have been facile to dismiss it as a conditioned response. Till had witnessed enough maladaptive behavior — scaffolded by inept parenting and reinforced by repetition — to identify its residue. But this wasn’t residual.

It was methodical.

Not the aftermath of harm, but the product of discipline.

Somewhere along the way, Ivan had internalized the correlation between posture and power. His body obeyed an invisible directive, calibrated to respond the moment a hierarchy was established.

And right now, that hierarchy positioned Till at the top.

Not by choice. Just… by default.

Till shifted slightly, just enough to let his weight settle onto one leg. A passive adjustment. Comfortable. But Ivan took it as something else.

He stopped moving entirely.

Lifted his eyes, expectant.

Not asking. Not apologizing.

Just waiting.

Till tilted his head barely, barely enough to shift the air between them.

Ivan blinked as if someone had snapped their fingers inches from his face.

“You’re doing it again,” Till said.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move. The words drifted out soft and low, curling through the room like smoke from a dying fire. Till slouched sideways on Ivan’s silk-covered sofa, one boot resting on the table, the other hooked under the carved leg of the couch as if the floor might vanish. His arms folded loosely but with deliberate tension. The leather band around his wrist creaked quietly when he shifted.

Ivan blinked, head tilted like he’d lost the thread. Then — just as suddenly — he kept going. Again. Voice even faster than before, like he had to make up for the slip. 

Till didn’t look at him. He picked at the corner of a peeling sticker on his lighter instead.

Ivan’s voice kept running.

Till let it.

Then, with the same disinterest he used when tuning an amp with a broken knob, he said it again.

Louder.

“You’re doing it again.”

Ivan stopped properly this time. “What?”

Till tilted his head and finally looked at him. Ivan was sprawled across the other end of the couch in a too-soft hoodie and socks that didn’t match. His knees were bent. His book lay forgotten on his stomach, one corner creased. He had that look again. Half a pout, cheeks still flushed from whatever academic tirade he’d been mid-way through before Till cut him off.

The light from the lamp caught on the slope of his cheekbone. Too smooth. Too symmetrical. 

“You always stop talking when I do this,” Till said, flicking his gaze to his own folded arms.

Ivan’s brow pinched. “That’s — no, I don’t.”

“Yeah. You do.”

“That’s not —” Ivan sat up straighter, bristling like a cat who didn’t know why it had puffed up. “It’s not because of you. I just lost my point.”

“You never lose your point.” 

It was true, Till couldn't recall any days where Ivan had run out of things to say.

“Maybe I had too many.” 

“You’re rambling now.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Till said, and that was when he unfolded his arms.

Ivan exhaled. Not loudly, but Till saw the way his shoulders dropped half an inch. The way his fingers unclenched in his lap. The way he shifted — reorganized — like something inside him had been untied.

He didn’t know he was doing it.

Till leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees now. His silver hair caught at the corners, falling into his eyes until he pushed it back with a flick of his fingers, silver glinting off the piercings along his brow, his ears, his lip. He didn’t speak. Just let the weight of the moment press on Ivan’s chest.

Ivan looked down. Then back up, frowning deeper.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mm.”

“It’s not like I’m responding to you. It’s posture.”

Till rolled his lip ring between his teeth, pretending to think. He tapped a beat out against his thigh —calloused knuckles against ripped denim.

“You’re responding to the posture I make,” he said finally. “Which is arguably worse.”

Ivan flushed. That same soft, bratty pink that crept up from his collar whenever Till said the younger thought to be embarrassing or shameful.

“Why are you even noticing that?” Ivan asked.

“I notice when things shut you up.”

“I’m not shut up.”

“Close enough.”

Ivan sat forward like he was going to make a point, then didn’t. His sock slipped halfway off his foot. He didn’t fix it. He just sat there, crumpled, visibly annoyed and confused.

Till reached over and tugged the sock back into place. 

Ivan jerked.

“What are you —”

“It was falling off,” Till muttered. “Don’t get weird.”

Ivan’s mouth snapped shut.

Till let his fingers brush the edge of Ivan’s ankle a second longer than necessary, then pulled back. He didn’t look up.

He didn’t need to.

Ivan’s silence was doing all the talking.

“Maybe it’s just that you look like you’re going to say something mean,” Ivan offered, and his voice had gone thin. Defensive.

“I don’t need to say anything.”

“You’re —” Ivan stalled. “You folded your arms. That’s not a command.”

“No,” Till said, considering, “but you listen to it anyway.”

Ivan bristled. His eyes flashed, but then he hesitated.

Because he had listened. And they both knew it.

“I’m not one of your pets,” he said, finally.

Till didn’t blink, opting to bite back a mean grin, instead. “You’re better trained.”

Ivan sucked in a breath. His eyes darted to the floor. Then back to Till.

“Stop that,” he snapped.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.” He totally was.

Ivan shifted like he meant to stand, but didn’t. Just adjusted his spine again. Sat up straighter. Like that could undo whatever had just happened.

“Do you always respond to posture that way?” Till asked, tone unreadable, eyes on Ivan’s hands where they fidgeted uselessly in his lap. “Or is it just mine?”

Ivan’s fingers twitched once, then stilled. “I don’t respond.”

“You do.”

“I’m being polite.”

“You’re being quiet.”

At that, Ivan’s spine went taut. His mouth closed a little too firmly, as though he could bite back whatever response had nearly slipped out. Three seconds passed. Four. His chin tilted upward with mechanical defiance.

“I hope you fall off a balcony.”

“Duly noted.”

Till stood. The motion was casual in theory, but he knew better. Ivan certainly did. His steps took him around the couch, one palm tracing the carved wood of its back. He passed close enough to Ivan’s ear to rattle the quiet with heat, but made no contact. It didn’t matter. Ivan was already motionless in that way that wasn't relaxed so much as braced. Not for pain. For attention.

He picked up the abandoned book from the floor. The cover was some vintage facsimile of seriousness — too clean to have ever been read properly. He opened it. His eyes flicked across a paragraph. His mind didn’t bother translating. He snapped it shut.

“Are you reading this for the plot or because it looks expensive?”

Ivan didn’t look at him. “Both.”

“Of course.”

He returned to the couch. This time, he sat closer. Ivan didn’t shift. Their knees made contact, the faintest alignment of heat and bone.

Still no movement.

Just that pinched flush in his cheeks, the shallow rhythm in his chest, the flex of his fingers where they hovered too close to retreating. He hadn’t blinked in too long.

Till lifted a hand and pushed at some phantom speck in Ivan’s hair. It gave him an excuse to touch the silky strands again. Pointless, obviously. Ivan’s hair was immaculate. The whole thing was an excuse.

“If I tell you to sit up again, will you?”

Ivan inhaled, held it for a beat, then obeyed.

No protest. No hesitation. No dignity either, apparently.

Till watched the adjustment — the lift of his shoulders, the correction in his posture, the way his thighs tensed just enough to keep balance without leaning back — and felt a grim, unwanted warmth bloom in his chest.

Not satisfaction. Not quite.

Understanding.

And that was worse.

________

Till hated mornings in the penthouse.

They felt curated. Artificial. Bleached of noise and friction. The kind of air that didn’t just smell clean, but filtered. Recirculated. Sterile. Like the walls were trying to erase any suggestion that real people had spent the night there, let alone slept badly, sweated through dreams, or muttered things in their sleep.

He sat at the edge of the kitchen table now, elbows braced against the lacquered surface as if he might fall through if he leaned too hard. It gleamed beneath him, polished to a false mirror, too pristine to have ever seen a spilled drink or a dropped fork. The mug between his hands had long since been drained. He hadn’t bothered to get up for another. 

His hair, overgrown at the temples, was pulled back, but not neatly. A few stubborn strands had broken loose, curling around his jaw like they were trying to make a home there. His eyes stayed locked on the window, where the skyline flickered between cloud and sun like it hadn’t decided whether it wanted to commit to morning or go back to sleep.

Footsteps padded in from the hallway.

Not cautious. Just slow. Whoever they belonged to wasn’t in a hurry and didn’t think they needed to be.

So, naturally, Ivan.

He moved like gravity worked differently on him —barefoot, dragging his heels, one sock still half-on (Till was starting to see a trend here) from where it had twisted in the night. 

His sweatshirt was oversized, swallowing one arm entirely, while the other sleeve had been shoved up past the elbow and forgotten. His hair was a disaster. Static-y and shiny, sleep-creased in every direction.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, not even pretending to ease into it.

Till didn’t look over. His fingers tightened slightly around the mug. “No.”

Ivan crossed into the kitchen, the hem of his pajama pants swishing low across the tile. “You look mad.”

“I always look mad.” It came out flat, but not untrue. Just exhausted.

“True,” Ivan said, with the kind of vague agreement that carried no real commitment. He slid onto the stool across from Till, yawning. His jaw cracked with the motion. “You slept like a corpse. You look like one, too. I think. I've never seen a real corpse before.”

Till let the silence drag for a beat. He wasn't sure if Ivan was trying to insult him or not.

It was safer to assume he was.

“Thanks.”

“I watched you sleep.” The words came lightly, but there was no teasing behind them. Just fact, as if merely offering the weather.

“Of course you did.” Still, Till didn’t turn. He didn’t want to see whatever expression Ivan was making — wide-eyed innocence or smug grin or that tilted-head look he got when he thought he was being charming. Which, he was. Ivan was always charming. It was terrible for people's hearts, especially someone like Till's.

Ivan shifted in his seat, pulling his buried hand free from his sleeve just long enough to tug the cuff back up his wrist. “You kicked me in your sleep.”

“You were too close,” Till muttered, because he remembered that part. Half-conscious, a tangle of limbs, heat at his back he hadn’t asked for but didn't push away.

Ivan’s voice dropped into something quieter, more curious. “You made a noise.”

That got Till’s attention, even if he didn’t show it. He stayed still.

“Like you were mad at me in a dream,” Ivan added, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Not hurt. Not scared. Just... taking notes.

Freak.

“I’m mad at you now,” Till said. He wasn't actually, but watching Ivan's eyebrows furrow in annoyance was very entertaining, especially when he was in such a physical state of disarray.

Ivan had gone soft in the posture, arms folded on the tabletop, cheek pressed against them. He looked too young like that — though not in the way that meant innocence. 

His lips were parted, just enough to suggest thought, breath, hunger. He dragged the spoon through the yogurt with slow, idle movement, pretending not to notice the attention, but his lashes didn’t lower for no reason. His whole body hummed with awareness. His stillness was vanity. His quiet was temptation. He was the serpent asleep beneath the fig tree, dreaming of Eden while already planning its ruin.

Pretty, pretty Ivan.

Ivan would’ve drowned in a mirror if it meant he could watch himself do it. Not out of vanity, but fascination. Narcissus hadn’t loved himself. He’d been cursed to stare. 

Ivan was the opposite — he knew exactly what he was, and still demanded more. More attention. More awe. More proof that everyone in the room saw him. That Till saw him. 

“Why are you staring?” Ivan asked without lifting his head, voice muffled against the crook of his elbow.

“You’re doing the thing,” Till said, watching the way Ivan blinked back at him like a cat pretending not to notice it was being watched.

Ivan squinted. “What thing?”

Till made a vague gesture with one hand, trying and failing to come up with an accurate description, barely moving from where he sat. “The... baby thing.”

Ivan wrinkled his nose, the tip scrunching like he’d smelled something unpleasant. “I’m not a baby.”

“You are,” Till said flatly, not because it was new information but because it had become undeniable.

“I’m sophisticated,” Ivan countered, lifting his head just enough to pout with mock gravity.

“You’re barefoot in pink pajama pants.”

“I wear them because they're comfortable. Don't tell me you have fragile masculinity, Till.”

“Oh, shut up. You wear them because you don’t know how to do your own laundry,” Till said, pushing his mug a few inches away like it offended him now.

Ivan didn’t deny it. Just blinked, slowly, then traced a circle on the table with the tip of his finger, like he might draw something with the condensation.

“I’m hungry,” he announced, not looking up.

Till exhaled through his nose.

“I’m not asking you to cook,” Ivan added quickly, sitting up straighter, already playing defense. “I’m just saying. You stayed over. It's customary to feed your guests.”

“This isn’t my house,” Till muttered, pushing his chair back with a scrape. "I'm the goddamn guest here."

Ivan’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, just a flicker. A reaction.

Still, Till opened the fridge, squinting into a landscape of glass containers, sealed packages, and immaculate rows of imported condiments. He reached past something that looked like it cost more than his last coat and pulled out the most recognizable item: yogurt.

When he turned back around, Ivan was sitting upright now, posture too expectant to be casual. His hands were folded on the table like he thought that might make him look polite.

“Strawberry or vanilla,” Till asked, already peeling the lid back.

Ivan’s reply came syrupy sweet. “Strawberry.”

Till handed it over, along with a spoon, and didn’t say a word.

Ivan looked down at it. Then up at Till. “Seriously?”

“Eat,” Till said, already leaning back against the counter.

Ivan took a spoonful and held it in front of his face. “You’re doting.”

“I’m keeping you quiet.”

“You’re feeding me.”

“You don’t know how to function alone. You should invest in a babysitter.”

Ivan chewed the bite slowly in an attempt to make a point. “This is infantilizing.”

Till tilted his head slightly.

Ivan’s mouth parted, appearing as if he was going to say something else. Then he thought better of it. He lowered his eyes, returned to the yogurt, and ate the next spoonful without comment.

Till watched him. Watched the lazy dip of his lashes, the tiny furrow between his brows as he focused on the yogurt. He finished half the container like that.

He smothered the tiny flicker of fondness in his chest immediately.

Chapter Text

Time stopped making sense.

It wasn’t some big emotional turning point, things just started bleeding into each other once he stopped paying attention. Hours folded in on themselves. Whole days collapsed without warning. Sometimes Till would blink and it'd already be dark outside, and sometimes a single minute would stretch so thin it felt like it might split open.

It made everything feel distant and too close at the same time. Like his head wasn’t syncing up with his body, and his body was the only thing that still remembered how to move.

Till hated it. He hated how— how normal it had started to feel.

One second Ivan was pretending he didn’t know how to tune a guitar and calling Till useless while biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh, and then somehow it was evening. Somehow it was dark out. Somehow Till was still there, sitting too close, shoulder pressed to Ivan’s while Ivan scrolled on his phone, only occasionally glancing back up to make sure Till was still there.

(Stupid, really. Till hadn't moved an inch, where else would he be but right beside him?)

It wasn’t routine as much as it was inertia.

Mondays disappeared. So did weekends. Ivan texted him at times that didn’t make sense — midnight on a Tuesday, seven a.m. on a Saturday — always pretending it was urgent, always pretending it was about work. “What’s that thing called again, the one you said about tonal progression?” Or worse: “Can you come check this? I forgot how you said to plug it in.”

Till read every message with his jaw clenched and still answered anyway, thumb already hovering before he’d finished the second sentence.

It was supposed to be weekly. One hour, maybe two if he felt generous enough, which wasn't most of the time. The point was, he was making a real effort to keep things professional. Keep things easy. He still told himself that was what it was. He still called them “sessions” out loud, desperately hoping that if he said the word often enough it would mean something again.

But he stayed longer than he should. ‘Forgot’ to leave, spouting some bullshit about who knows what. Till couldn't remember what excuses he used half the time, but Ivan never brought it up. He never looked at the clock, nor did he ask why Till was still there at 10:45, eating his food and watching whatever garbage show he had put on just to fill the silence.

(So far, Ivan had him hooked on this really poorly made soap opera he would never actually admit he was invested in. Because. He wasn't. He just wanted to know if the blonde guy was cheating on his wife or not.)

But enough of that, what Till's trying to say is that he wasn’t supposed to be part of Ivan’s life like this.

But somehow, he was.

He was, and it was addicting and no one had told him to stop even though they really ought to.

Time with Ivan didn’t tick so much as it stalled, sitting thick in the room like humidity, pressure behind his eyes. Everything slowed down when Till looked at him.

He was…

…

It was better if Till didn't acknowledge it.

At the present moment, it was late enough that everything felt softened around the edges. Warm pools of lamplight spilled gold across the floor, blurring into the carpet in slow motion, while the low hum of distant traffic bled through the windowpane, quiet beneath the sound of Ivan’s incessant chewing.

The raven had found a pen cap somewhere and was working it between his molars for some reason. Till considered asking, but he refrained as he felt that the answer would somehow manage to piss him off as most answers Ivan gave him did.

Till’s fingers turned the capo in his palm, thumb brushing over the cool curve of metal again and again. He made sure to keep his eyes down.

It was probably a bit overkill considering that the strings weren’t even on the neck anymore, but he refused to lift his gaze. He already knew what was waiting for him across the room.

That being Ivan’s eyes, big and annoyingly persistent, watching him as if he was the only thing left in the house worth staring at.

To be fair, he might've been. With how often Till caught the younger reading, he wouldn't even surprised if Ivan had already gone through every piece of literature in the building.

Quite the impressive feat. Till would be impressed if the downside to Ivan's intelligence wasn't how fucking agitating he was when learning.

The longer Till looked at him without speaking, the bigger his toothy grin grew. Till's mind lagged a second behind, and it wasn't because of his old age.

As always, things with Ivan were dangerous. 

“You have too many piercings,” Ivan announced, voice flat with judgment as he ground the chewed plastic between his teeth.

The elder pondered if Ivan was one of those brats who was too rich to care about dental work with how carelessly he dug his teeth into the dirty thing.

He quickly scrapped the thought, deciding that Ivan was just stupid. After all, Ivan's teeth were perfectly aligned except for a singular snaggletooth, and even that was a pearly white.

Upon noticing Till's lack of answer again, Ivan began to chew even louder on purpose, taking extra care to emphasize the wet noises of his lips smacking together between each crunch of the now deformed plastic.

Till felt his eyebrow twitch.

His grip on the capo tightened slightly, index finger flicking it once against his knuckle before resuming the slow spin. The thing really might have been the most interesting object in the room if only because it wasn’t Ivan.

“You have too many opinions,” Till replied, voice intentionally dry in hopes of conveying his displeasure.

(Not that that would do anything. If anything, Ivan was frequently spurred on by Till's annoyance with him.)

Ivan didn’t react.

Or rather, Ivan reacted in the way he always reacted, which was to completely disregard whatever didn’t serve him. He leaned in instead, expression growing brighter with whatever idea was festering behind his teeth.

“They jangle when you move,” he insisted, voice louder now, pleased with the observation. “Like a sad wind chime. It’s distracting.”

Till blinked slowly, still not looking at him. “Then close your eyes.”

“What are you compensating for?”

That one made Till’s mouth twitch. Not enough to count as a smile, but close enough that he had to bite it back. His thumb pressed a little harder into the metal and the capo spun once more between his fingers.

“Your personality,” he answered, tone clipped.

Ivan gasped as though he’d been struck, scandalized, his whole body jerking back with theatrical force. One hand flew to his chest, fingers splayed in visible offense, the gesture so exaggerated it bordered on performance, but the flare in his eyes made it clear he meant every bit of it.

“Wow,” he breathed, drawing the word out. “Okay. That was uncalled for.”

“So were you, most likely,” Till muttered. He adjusted his grip again and finally let his gaze flick upward again.

That was a mistake.

Ivan’s mouth twisted into a half-pout, half-smirk hybrid that stayed pretty even with the pen cap mangled between his teeth.

“You don’t even take them out,” he observed, eyes narrowing with faux concern. “Do they smell?”

Till wrinkled his nose, the reflex so immediate it bypassed politeness entirely. “Do you?”

The raven gasped, clutching at invisible pearls. “Rude. I showered this morning.”

“Want a sticker?”

“Let me see them properly,” Ivan said suddenly, voice turning sweet in the way that made every muscle in Till’s back clench — though there was no real sweetness in it. “Your ear ones. You always hide the right side. You know that’s suspicious, right?”

“I don’t hide it,” Till replied, already resigned. “You’re just always sitting on my left.”

“Come on,” Ivan coaxed, shifting closer with the kind of fluidity that made it impossible to pin down the exact moment he entered Till’s personal space. “Just tilt your head. I want to catalogue your tragic little constellation of self-expression. That is what it is, isn't it?”

Till recoiled. “That’s the worst sentence you’ve ever come up with.”

“Thank you,” Ivan beamed, teeth bright around the remnants of plastic. Then, with a truly maddening softness, “Please?”

Till didn’t answer right away. He squinted at him, suspicious, the tension in his shoulders settling just beneath the surface of his skin. “… You’re not going to touch me, are you?”

Ivan’s smile stretched wide, all teeth and mischief. “No. Definitely not. I’m just admiring! From a distance. Like a critic. Ooh, do you think I'd be a good critic, Till? Perhaps I should pursue that career path instead of taking over the company.”

Till could already feel the regret blooming low in his ribs. He always knew better. He had known better for weeks. Still, “You’re getting two seconds.” He tilted his head, jaw clenched, already bracing.

Ivan surged forward, moving with the kind of readiness that suggested he’d only been waiting for the barest excuse, his breath instantly warm where it hovered near the side of Till’s neck. The distance wasn’t narrow enough to be inappropriate, not by any rule Till could name at least, but it still felt invasive.

“One, two, three— wait, is that one new?”

“No,” Till answered through his teeth, skin prickling beneath the scrutiny. “You’re just unobservant.”

Ivan hummed lowly, sounding oddly pleased with himself. His voice came out soft, barely raised, but his playful tone was clear as day. “No, I’m selectively observant. There’s a difference.” He leaned in a fraction more, eyes narrowing. “This one looks infected.”

“It’s not.”

Ivan’s mouth stayed in that half-pout and half-smirk, annoyingly pretty even with the abused pen cap lodged between his teeth.

He shifted closer, eyes bright with mischief. “How do you know?” he asked, gleefully mocking now, chewing as he spoke. Till wondered if the plastic improved the flavor. “Did your mom pierce it with a sterilized knitting needle in your childhood kitchen or something?”

Till blinked. The question hit a blank spot in his brain and stalled him long enough that he actually looked at Ivan full on. “What kind of fantasy is that?” His tone came dry, baffled, and utterly unwilling to engage with whatever domestic horror Ivan had just invented for him.

Ivan laughed, and the sound cracked open the space between them. It came quick and clean, pure amusement that slipped under Till’s guard before he could brace. “Just checking for trauma. You’re so cagey it felt like a valid guess.”

“No trauma,” Till answered too fast, reflex surfacing before thought. The denial landed harsher than he meant, mostly because Ivan’s laughter had curled low in his stomach in a way he hated. “I just don't want you breathing on my neck.”

“I am not,” Ivan protested at once, lying through teeth too white to trust, while warm air still ghosted across the skin just behind Till’s ear. “Your hair smells like, like wood smoke. And basil. Weird.”

Ivan had such a way with words.

“That's called shampoo, rich boy,” Till drawled, turning the capo in his palm and pretending the motion required his full attention. “Try it.”

“I do shampoo. I use verbena.” Ivan lifted his chin as if personal fragrance were a moral victory.

“Of course you do.” Till didn't look up, but he could feel the grin anyway.

Ivan leaned in again, affronted by tone alone. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Till warned, finally cutting him a sidelong glance, “if I hear the word verbena come out of your mouth again, I'm going to flick you in the eye.”

“So violent,” Ivan murmured mournfully, though he didn't retreat even a fraction. His gaze tracked the line of Till’s ear with a naked fascination. “All because I'm trying to make you feel pretty.”

“I feel plenty pretty when you shut up.” Till tried to return his focus to the capo but quickly failed and settled for glaring at Ivan’s knee.

Ivan pouted.

Actually pouted. Lower lip out, brows pulling together, full spoiled performance. Till resented the tug in his chest immediately as the raven crossed his arms and dropped back into the couch cushions with theatrical weight. “You know, that's textbook deflection.”

“You're textbook annoying,” Till returned, irritated, but also beating down the urge to squish the boy's cheeks. He thought about what noise Ivan would let out. A squeak, maybe?

Ivan rolled toward him again, elbow propped and chin cupped neatly in his palm as his eyes narrowed in bright assessment. “You just don't know how to take a compliment. It's tragic. You're tragic. You'd be irresistible if you weren’t so… emotionally constipated.”

Emotionally constipated.

That was a new one.

“If I start crying,” Till sighed, letting his eyelids close long enough to fake composure, “will you shut up?”

Ivan perked up like someone had dangled a treat. He's just like a dog, Till thought.

“You cry?”

“I said if.” Till opened one eye, already regretting the exchange. He should've just kept his mouth shut, honestly. The mistake had already been made, though.

“You totally do. You're a stress crier, aren't you? That's so—”

“Don't finish that sentence if you want me to keep showing up,” Till cut in before whatever word Ivan had on his tongue could land. His eyes snapped fully open now, fixed on the other, hoping to discourage him from continuing his earlier thought.

“Hot,” Ivan finished anyway, mouth curling in smug victory.

Christ.

Till dragged in a long breath and tipped his gaze toward the ceiling, counting the light fixtures one by one in hopes of calming down.

“You're exhausting,” he muttered, volume low, mostly for himself.

“I'm trying to make conversation,” Ivan answered, the shift in his voice so abrupt Till felt it physically. The defensive edge crept in fast; the uncertainty in his eyes arrived right behind it.

Till felt the irritation drain out slowly. He studied the set of Ivan’s shoulders, the tension around his mouth, the way he was still chewing on that— whatever it was by now. He should probably take it out of Ivan's mouth before he accidentally swallowed it and choked to death. “You're trying to get a reaction.”

Ivan’s smile returned, sly and knowing now that he had been seen. “Same thing.”

Till sighed.

One day, he was going to end up in a shallow grave because he hadn’t learned how to say no to this brat. And when they found the body, Ivan would be at the funeral, perfectly dressed, holding a mimosa, and claiming it wasn’t technically his fault.

For fuck's sake.

Technically, Till could quit right now.

He reached out to remove the plastic from Ivan's mouth instead.

Another time.

________

Till could already feel the migraine forming, dull and persistent behind his left temple, pulsing in time with every useless note Ivan refused to play correctly.

Across from him, Ivan sat hunched in a posture designed to inspire sympathy (of which Till had none), his fingers plucking petulantly at the strings like the guitar itself had wronged him.

Perhaps it had. Till wouldn't put it beyond the younger to get upset at a less expensive guitar model just for not being up to his standards.

The most agitating part was that Ivan wasn’t even pretending to try.

The kid had everything — money, free time, bone structure that should have been illegal — yet he still managed to look like a Greek statue mid-tantrum.

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

“I can’t focus like this,” Ivan complained, the words drawn out in a tone halfway between a whine and a formal charge. If Till were to close his eyes, he was fairly certain he could semi-accurately conjure the image of a whiny child who'd just dropped his ice cream.

The gray-haired man exhaled smoke through his nose and stared up at the chandelier above Ivan’s head, watching the glass pendants sway faintly in the draft from the ceiling vent.

“Boohoo.”

Ivan shifted, offended, and let his entire face collapse into one of his usual performances of suffering. “No, seriously. I’m distracted. My shoulder hurts. The lighting’s wrong. This pick is the wrong shape. Everything's wrong!”

At times like this, the elder wondered if perhaps his boss had given him the wrong number when informing Till of his son's age. Then again, maybe nineteen-year-olds were just like this now. Was emotional immaturity trending lately? God, he felt old.

Till stared at the capo sitting beside his thigh and considered the logistics of fitting it into his own eye socket. “You picked it.”

“I picked it under duress,” Ivan snapped, one hand sweeping through the air with all the flair of a dying aristocrat.

So, not much.

“I was emotionally compromised. I’m delicate.” His wrist lingered midair for emphasis, as if the sheer force of his fragility needed space to breathe. Considering this was Ivan, it probably did.

Till took a long drag from his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs until the buzz pressed just hard enough against the inside of his skull to flatten his nerves. “You’re bored.”

“And in pain,” Ivan added quickly, volume climbing. “My wrist’s locking up. It could be carpal tunnel. Or nerve damage. You’re going to feel awful when I lose a hand.”

Till closed his eyes for a beat. He pictured the ocean. A quiet alley. The bottom of a lake. Anywhere.

“If you lost a hand, you’d find a way to blame me and demand a replacement in snakeskin.”

Ivan’s expression brightened with sudden interest. “Wait, is that an option?”

Till stood with a groan and rubbed a hand down his face. “Give me your arm.”

Ivan exaggerated a gasp, clutching at his wrist. “Oh my god, Till. Buy me dinner first.”

Till leveled a look at Ivan that could have corroded metal. “I’m going to realign your entire spine with a wrench if you keep talking.”

Ivan held out his wrist like it was shattered, fingers twitching slightly for effect. “Do your worst, Doctor. I’m frail. Treat me gently, okay?”

Did he have to say that so seductively?

Till dropped to one knee behind him, muttering under his breath, and grabbed Ivan’s arm with more pressure than necessary. His fingers dug into the soft inner bend, and Ivan let out a sound that hovered dangerously between a squeak and something worse.

Till, ever the professional, ignored it.

Or, tried to. The heat that bloomed in his chest made that impossible. He really should have asked for hazard pay when this whole mess started.

“You’re so rough,” Ivan breathed, every word soaked in false innocence. “I said gently, you know. Is your hearing rotting with your old age?”

Till clenched his jaw and spoke slowly, the way one might address a stubborn child. “If anything, it's your hearing. You’ve been holding the neck wrong for weeks. I already told you. Your angle is off. Your elbow is too low.”

Ivan tilted his head just slightly, the movement practiced. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he purred.

“Maybe I need more hands-on instruction.”

Oh, if only Ivan knew what Till would give to put his hands all over—

Till snorted quietly, more exhale than laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Try paying attention for once in your life.”

He guided Ivan’s elbow upward, fingers pressing into the soft skin near the crook of his arm. Ivan didn’t move right away. He held still, likely on purpose, letting the contact linger just long enough to make Till regret every decision that led him here more than he usually did.

The elder leaned in without thinking. He didn’t touch anything else or breathe too loudly, but Ivan was smiling all the same. Till could feel it in the air between them. That smug, quiet satisfaction. That glimmer of victory.

Maybe that's what concerned Till the most. Ivan seemed to see this as a game. There were multiple consequences that came with losing a game to Till, he'd just been gracious enough to let Ivan keep winning.

His patience thinned with every hour.

“You know this is the closest I’ve been to you all day,” Ivan murmured, voice low and smooth, curling under Till’s skin.

“Tragic,” Till muttered, barely resisting the urge to push him off the stool.

Ivan twisted, head tipping back, eyes catching on Till’s face like they had been waiting for this moment. His lashes lowered just slightly.

“Suspicious.”

As always, the gray-haired man immediately got defensive.

“You think I’m avoiding you?” Till scoffed, heart thudding harder than it had any right to.

Ivan smiled, infuriatingly sure of himself. “I know you’re avoiding me. You haven’t insulted my posture in thirty minutes, and I've been slouching on purpose. I thought you were sick, to be frank.”

To be frank. And Till was the old one here.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. “I’m rethinking my rates.”

“You’d miss me if I fired you,” Ivan declared, his voice threaded with unbearable confidence. What gave him that confidence was unknown, but he appeared to be very sure of himself.

Till shifted, trying not to show how much heat had crept up the side of his neck. “No, I’d get a week of silence and a thousand dollars I didn’t earn. It's a good deal, actually.”

Till could already hear the words on the tip of Ivan's tongue, one thousand dollars is a lot to you? Would you like me to inquire with my father about raising your salary?

Unexpectedly, Ivan’s eyes softened. The change was immediate, sudden, and it made something snag behind Till’s ribs. “But you’d miss me,” he said quietly.

…

Till didn’t answer. His throat was too tight and his mind too muddled. Instead, he stood quickly and turned away, not risking eye contact. “Just shut up and hold the chord.”

Ivan sighed in mock offense but positioned his fingers anyway.

Every joint was wrong on purpose.

Till knelt again, jaw already clenched. “You’re still dropping the joint. Lift your ring finger.”

Ivan blinked at him, too innocent to be anything but annoying. “Which one’s the ring finger again?”

Till gave him a look that could have soured milk. “You’re so full of shit.”

He reached forward before thinking about it, thumb brushing into Ivan’s palm as he gently adjusted the shape of his hand. The contact lingered for a second longer than it should have as he registered the sensation of warm skin pressed into his.

Till elected to ignore the tiny hitch of Ivan's breath and faint tremble in his fingers, if only for his own sanity. He pulled back slowly, trying not to let just how intensely he was restraining himself show.

Thankfully, Ivan was considerably quiet for the rest of their session.

________

Another month had passed, and summer was almost in full-swing. It might've been exciting to anyone else, but it really only served as an inconvenience to Till.

His apartment had dogshit air conditioning, so he almost always ended up sweating his ass off wearing the smallest clothes he owned.

And for the record, Till didn't own a lot of small clothes. Not that he wasn't small himself— as much as he hated to admit it, he could be considered short— but that's irrelevant.

What was relevant was that there was only one place Till knew of that had good air conditioning, and it was the very place he'd been trying to, as Ivan pointed out last month, avoid.

He hadn't been very successful in that endeavor.

When he'd arrived, they ended up outside because Till refused to go upstairs. Ivan hadn’t argued, just hummed and led them out to the balcony, barefoot on the stone tile, loose cardigan falling off one shoulder. (Till wanted to bite it to see just how clear the indents of his teeth would be on such pale skin.)

The city was yawning open below them in a hundred shades of expensive, a world once not privy to Till, now brushing his doorstep.

It wasn’t as hot as he expected it to be outside, but that was probably because of the excessive amount of fans Ivan owned. You'd think Ivan ran warm if he required that many, but from what Till had found, the truth leaned towards the opposite.

With a sigh, he lit a cigarette, half for the warmth, half for the excuse to keep his hands busy. Ivan leaned against the railing with both elbows, eyes on the skyline, once again looking so absurdly pleased with himself it made Till want to flick ash in his hair. He'd had that expression on an awful lot lately, and the elder couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

“Don’t lean too far,” Till muttered. “You’ll break your neck and I’ll get arrested.”

Ivan didn’t even glance back. “If I fall, it’s your fault. I wouldn’t be out here without you.”

“You invited me.”

“You weren't required to agree. It was simply a suggestion.”

Till exhaled slowly, watching the smoke unravel over Ivan’s shoulder. The way he stood there all soft-spined, off-balance, trusting the rail far too much — made something tighten under Till’s ribs. He kept trying to pinpoint what it was, but his brain kept offering up stupid words like delicate and pretty, all of which were exceedingly unhelpful.

He flicked the ash and tried not to notice the way Ivan’s wrist bones jutted up.

When Ivan finally turned around, he wasn't wearing the grin Till expected him to. Instead, his face had settled into something quieter. His mouth had lost its curve, and his eyes didn’t sparkle with mischief or superiority.

There was a weight to the way he looked at Till, something almost searching beneath his usual polish. It landed heavy in Till’s stomach. He looked away, chest aching with something too sharp to name.

Ivan spoke calmly, the sound folding easily into the quiet. “You always smoke when you’re nervous.”

The cigarette was still in Till’s hand. He hadn’t realized it'd burned so close to the filter. The paper had gone brittle where it met his calloused fingers.

Smoke left his mouth in a long, slow ribbon, curling past his lips and drifting faintly through the city air. “No. I smoke when I’m near you.”

Somewhat true. Till smoked outside of that, too, but that conclusion seemed obvious enough for Ivan to come to without his help.

The raven made a small sound, something caught between a hum and a laugh, but he didn’t push. He stayed quiet for a moment, his weight shifting lazily against the wall behind him. The sleeve of his cardigan brushed against Till’s elbow.

It wasn’t much contact, barely even qualified as touching, but Till felt it anyway.

When Ivan spoke again, his voice had dropped slightly. There was a familiar curl to it. Till was beginning to wonder when the air had changed, or if the tension had been this high since his arrival. “Are you scared of being in my penthouse?”

What a silly question.

Till kept his eyes locked on the horizon where the skyline fractured into artificial light. His cigarette tasted bitter now, all ash and heat and no longer proving an effective distraction. “I’m scared of losing brain cells. It's a common side effect of my job.”

Neither of them laughed.

Ivan tilted his head slowly, just enough to let the light catch the curve of his cheekbone. After a few long seconds, his mouth curved, subtle and smug, that same unbearable expression he wore whenever he thought he had found an opening. No, knew he had found one.

“Because it’s mine, or because you’re into me?”

It took Till's entire body to resist the urge to react. He stayed still with great effort, shoulders squared, jaw locked tight, and did his best to breathe through it.

One second passed, then another, and still the heat climbed under his skin in slow, crawling waves. He hated how Ivan could do that — inject heat into nothing, stir it up with only his tone, and make it impossible to breathe without sounding guilty.

Not that Till was innocent. No, he was completely guilty here. He just didn't think they'd be talking about it now of all times.

Ivan moved again, not far, but enough to pull back from the railing and shift sideways. His spine pressed against the brick wall beside Till, posture loose and unaffected.

Till didn’t say anything right away. There was no good answer, and Ivan knew it. That was the entire point. Making sure there wasn't an out for Till to take, because God knows he loved to run. To hide. To push back and ignore any inconvenient feelings that disturbed his daily life until they went away.

He'd only kept coming for the money.

That's what he kept telling himself.

The gray-haired man kept his eyes on the skyline, but the view meant nothing now. It blurred at the edges, washed out by the soft press of heat along his side where Ivan hovered.

The city stretched open in front of them, all glow and noise and expensive sprawl, but it felt distant. They might as well have been floating in space. Till exhaled slowly through his nose, the end of his cigarette flaring orange before it dimmed to a dying ember. His fingers itched to flick it away, to do something with the restless current under his skin, but he stayed still. Moving felt like conceding.

What could he even say? The truth was not one he was ready to acknowledge.

Ivan crossed his arms, elbows tugging his cardigan tighter across his chest. He didn’t look at Till, not this time. His gaze shifted to some fixed point far beyond the edge of the balcony. Something in his posture had gone still, as if he was holding a thought too tightly and didn’t know how to let it go.

Till noticed that shift instantly, because it was rare.

Ivan rarely held anything back.

Eventually, though, he spoke — filling in the silence Till had been too cowardly to do himself.

“My father used to say I was soft,” Ivan murmured. The words came out without force, unannounced, almost hidden beneath the hush of the wind. “Too sensitive. Too... unfocused.”

Till didn’t interrupt. If he wouldn't speak, the best apology he could offer was listening.

“He didn’t mean it cruelly. It was just fact. I don't resent him for it.” Ivan’s tone wasn’t flippant, not the way it usually was when he was trying to disarm something with charm. This was different. Strained and even, barely held together. “So I got sharper. Stricter with myself. Eventually, I didn’t need him to say anything at all. I’d already made the correction.”

A bitter smile graced his face. “Papa was good to me. Is good to me. I hope this doesn't make you think otherwise. But…” Ivan trailed off, seemingly gathering his words.

Till focused on the tile again, its surface uneven in the dark, grout lines interrupted by the toe of Ivan’s slipper.

“Control became normal,” Ivan said. “It made things quieter in my head. It was easy, having others think for me. It still is.”

There was a silence after that. Then Ivan added, quieter still, “I suppose what I'm trying to say is that, if I act like I need rules... it’s because I’m used to being punished for not following them. I… I don't wish to disappoint you, Till.”

Disappoint him.

Was that even possible? Had Ivan ever disappointed him?

There was a lot Till wanted to say, but he found that no matter how hard he tried, the words wouldn't leave his mouth.

Because Ivan's life wasn’t Till’s to fix.

He knew that. He knew better than to reach out for things that weren’t his, even if he wanted them desperately.

Stupidly, his hand itched to find Ivan’s sleeve. To feel the fabric where it had slipped down and pull it back into place.

He finally pressed his long-dead cigarette into the ashtray instead and crushed it. “That’s fucked,” he said, because those were the only words he could choke out.

They weren't great by any means, but it was something.

Ivan smiled faintly, eyes low. “Isn’t it?”

Yes, he thought. It is.

Instead, Till replied, “You don’t have to be like that anymore.”

Ivan nudged his foot again, barely a brush of contact, like he needed something physical to remind himself he hadn’t disappeared.

“I know,” he said underneath his breath. “But sometimes I don’t know what else to be.”

Till stared at him, breath snagging.

He didn't know either, but… it clicked suddenly.

The posture.

The way Ivan straightened every time Till crossed his arms, shoulders squaring, mouth going still.

It hadn’t made sense before. Just a twitch of performance. A tic of entitlement. But... maybe it wasn’t that at all.

Maybe it was discipline. Maybe it was learned. Maybe, somewhere along the line, Ivan decided that being scolded only hurt if he didn’t beat himself to it first.

Till reached forward carefully and finally tugged the cardigan back over Ivan’s shoulder.

It wasn’t an apology and it certainly wasn’t reassurance, but it was contact.

A correction with no punishment tied to it.

Ivan didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.

He just stood there, letting it happen.

Ivan didn’t say thank you. He only shifted his weight, slow and casual, the fabric settling against his collarbone in a way that suggested comfort but carried something deeper. The warmth from Till’s fingers lingered there, invisible but unmistakable, and even without contact, his own hand twitched slightly at his side. 

Till stepped back instead, retreating into the safe space of distance, into the silence that didn’t require him to name any of his feelings.

Ivan watched him go. He didn’t speak right away. His face didn’t change much, but something at the corners of his mouth softened. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t quite detachment either. Just something small and suspended, as though he was balancing the moment between his teeth, unsure whether to bite down or let it dissolve.

Eventually, he tilted his head slightly and said, “So. You don’t want to go upstairs. Is it the marble floors? The view? The possibility I’ll seduce you in my bedroom with its pristine decorations and fancy wallpaper?”

Till let out a breath through his nose, too tired to disguise the laugh that slipped through. “I think the problem's you, not the wallpaper.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re expensive is what you are. I'm not equipped to spend six figures on a spoiled child like you.”

Ivan pouted.

“You think I’m not worth it?”

Till felt the smile forming before he could stop it, so he looked down instead, mouth twitching in a way Ivan definitely saw. The boy’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction, his expression shifting toward something sly, but not unkind.

He tilted his head again, slowly, with that deliberate elegance he used when pretending he didn’t care. “You’re acting like I’d make a move.”

Till didn’t look away. “You're saying you wouldn't?”

That earned him a flicker of surprise. It passed quickly, replaced by a smile that was smaller than usual, more thoughtful in its edge. Ivan’s voice came soft and unbothered — leaving Till entirely unprepared for the next words that left his mouth.

“You think I want to fuck my tutor?”

This kid and his fucking mind games, holy shit.

Collecting himself, Till leaned back against the railing, resting his forearms against the cold metal and brushing invisible ash off his palm with the heel of his hand. He didn’t meet Ivan’s eyes, but he didn’t need to. “I think you want attention. Fucking’s just one of your languages.”

This did nothing to discourage the younger. If anything, he seemed more engaged now that Till was indulging him. Something he absolutely should not be doing.

“And you’re fluent?”

“No,” Till replied, still watching the street below. “But I can read.”

Ivan laughed again, barely louder than his breathing, eyes still trained on the skyline as if the city could cool his skin better than the air between them.

He crossed his arms tighter across his chest, but the angle of his body never shifted away. He stayed tilted just enough toward Till that the space between them felt dishonest.

Another small movement followed, almost absentminded. Ivan tugged the loose edge of his cardigan so the neckline slipped lower again, falling down the same shoulder Till had just covered a minute ago.

Asshole.

Though it probably wasn't on purpose. It felt deliberate in the way nothing about Ivan ever was. Performed without thought, casual in a way that still carried consequences.

Till’s gaze dropped. It stayed there longer than he allowed, and by the time he looked away, he knew Ivan had caught it.

“Don’t stare,” Ivan said, his voice light, but not light enough to cover the intention behind it.

Till flushed slightly as he averted his gaze. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Ivan replied, clearly enjoying himself now.

“Get over yourself,” Till muttered, already regretting the way his voice gave himself away. Had he really lost his touch over the years? Till swore he used to be better at lying.

Ivan turned toward him slightly, slow and satisfied. His smile wasn’t wide, but it was so certain it made Till’s teeth itch. “If I took my shirt off right now, you’d flinch.”

“Anyone would be startled if you started undressing. And if you took your shirt off, I’d call the cops,” Till said, trying to ignore the heat that rose in the pit of his stomach.

“On what charge?” Ivan asked, his tone smooth, unbothered, still half-laughing.

“Indecent arrogance,” Till answered flatly, though his pulse was already too loud in his ears to enjoy the delivery.

Ivan’s laugh slid under his breath, warm but controlled, as if he was trying not to enjoy himself too much. Till wondered why that was.

Before he could continue that train of thought, however, Ivan stretched slowly, arms rising overhead in a way that made his shirt ride up, the hem sliding over his stomach and flashing a strip of skin so smooth it made Till’s brain short out for a second.

The hardest part about resisting Ivan was that the man didn’t always flirt with precision or calculation. He didn’t really need to. His body just... did things.

Seduction was baked into his bones from birth. Every elegant movement was second nature, learned without lessons. And Till, idiot he was, always noticed.

Which wouldn't be a problem if he weren't always looking, but alas, he very much was.

At Ivan's stomach. Ivan's waist. The subtle tension in Ivan's ribs when he breathed. The curve of Ivan's spine when he leaned.

None of it was fair. None of it was even important, but it took up space in Till’s mind anyway, crowding out things he actually needed to think about. Like the fact that he could lose his damn job.

Ivan dropped his arms with the kind of overdone sigh that made Till want to smack him. “Anyway,” Ivan said, tone almost conversational, “I think you’re scared.”

Till didn’t respond right away. His jaw stayed clenched, eyes fixed on a crack in the tile near Ivan’s heel. The words rolled around in his head without landing.

He had a hundred comebacks, but none of them got far enough to use. “Of what,” he asked eventually, voice rough at the edges.

“Of me.”

The words didn’t surprise him, not really. Ivan had been circling this for weeks. Testing. Pushing. Measuring Till’s reactions with the same precision he used on his scales. But hearing it spoken aloud did something strange to Till’s chest. Something tight. He couldn’t tell if it was defensiveness or dread or something worse. He shrugged, or something close to it, forcing a sound out that was almost a laugh. “That’s generous.”

Ivan didn’t rise to it. He didn’t smirk or wink or toss his head like he usually did. He just stood there, perfectly calm, voice quiet but confident in a way that made Till’s throat feel tight. “It's true. You're scared, Till.” Ivan giggled, gentler now. “Because I know you want to kiss me. And you’re trying really, really hard not to.”

Well, shit.

Till looked at him.

Not on purpose (never on purpose), his body just really hated him and made decisions without his permission. Their eyes met and something in Till's stomach that turned warm and horrible all at once.

It felt like being caught. Not by Ivan’s words, but by the fact that he hadn’t denied them fast enough.

Not that denying them would make them any less true.

“You should go back inside,” Till said after a long moment, his voice lower than it should have been. 

Ivan didn’t move away. He stepped closer, enough that Till felt it. Not the contact, but the shift in pressure between them. The weight of a choice beginning to form.

“Are you going to kiss me if I don’t?” Ivan asked, voice soft and even, not teasing this time.

God, is he trying to kill me? What I wouldn't give to taste his sweet, pretty, plump—

“No.”

Ivan’s gaze didn’t shift. “Are you going to kiss me if I do?”

I really fucking want to, holy shit, the things I would do to this man are downright—

Till answered again.

“No.”

Never had Till struggled so much to utter a single word before. At the back of his mind, he supposed there was a first time for everything.

Ivan’s hand drifted toward the railing. It nearly touched Till’s. The space between them shrank to the smallest distance that could still be called apart. The skin on Till’s knuckles burned from the proximity.

“You think I’m kidding,” Ivan murmured, his voice quiet, threading through the tension without cutting it.

False. Rather, it was the fact that he knew Ivan was being serious that was the issue. That and how Till would very much like to take him up on his offer.

But he couldn't. It was wrong, right? Ivan was his student. That kind of relationship would be inappropriate. The faster Ivan got out of his hair, the better.

Till’s jaw clenched. “You think I’m not.”

They stood there in the open air, caught in the silence that stretched out far longer than it should have. The city gleamed below them, loud in its own way, but none of that sound seemed to reach the balcony.

Till kept his fingers on the metal. His grip was too tight, but he also couldn’t seem to loosen it. He was too busy getting lost in his mind, something he'd found himself doing far often than he used to.

Ivan’s presence pressed into the space between them. It wasn't insistent or demanding, just…patient.

Why?

That was the question Till so desperately wanted to ask, yet it wouldn't leave his lips.

Why was Ivan waiting for him? What point was there? Till's probably just a fleeting attraction that'll go away before the year ends. Ivan's a teen. Teens do… teen stuff. Like make bad decisions.

Till was most definitely that bad decision.

And yet, Ivan was eerily calm. As if all Till had to do was lean a little closer and he would be there to meet him without even blinking. As if Ivan had always been tilted in that direction. That there were no second thoughts to be had. That there was no need for doubt or worry. That Till was being his same old, stupid self and overthinking.

Even if that was the case, Till didn’t trust what would happen if he moved towards Ivan. At the same time, he didn’t trust what would happen if he didn’t.

So he turned away 

“I should go,” he muttered, and the words came out harsh with restraint.

Till didn't look back and Ivan didn’t chase him. The raven didn’t say anything sharp or clever. He just leaned against the railing again, spine relaxed, arms loose at his sides.

It shouldn't have bothered Till so much that the other was seemingly unsurprised by this outcome.

“Text me when you get home,” Ivan replied, so gently it almost didn’t sound real. “If you don't, I'll assume you got into a car crash and died.”

How reassuring.

Till paused mid-step. He didn’t let himself turn around. He just stood there with the back of his neck hot and his lungs refusing to cooperate. That single line twisted low under his ribs and stayed there, humming.

Because he was a fool, he didn’t answer. He committed to his original plan and left instead. Feet too heavy. Another cigarette already half-lit before he made it down the block.

The smoke hit his tongue, bitter and thin, and Till told himself it tasted the same as always.

He didn’t believe it. Not for a second.

________

The stove top clicked before the flame surged to life, a rush of blue licking the bottom of the pan. Till’s hand hovered for a beat too long before he wrapped his fingers around the handle, the tension already sitting in his knuckles.

Ivan stood to his left, barefoot on the marble, posture tilted inward under the pretense of reading the recipe from his phone, which he held at the worst possible angle, tilted more toward his own chest than the counter top.

They hadn’t agreed to this. This was never part of the deal. No one had ever said come over and teach me how to make carbonara.

Okay, well. Ivan had said that word-for-word, but what Till's trying to say is that that was not in his job contract.

But again, Ivan had asked, voice soft and persistent in that specific way Till never seemed able to push back against, and now they were both sweating in a sterile, architectural kitchen that probably hadn’t seen flame before today outside of private chefs.

Ivan admitted once that he'd never learned how to cook, was never taught how. This was something Till assumed since the very first time he slept over and was in charge of making Ivan breakfast.

His incompetence was truly inspiring.

Then again, from what Till had been seeing, it didn't seem as if Ivan's parents were jumping to teach him much of anything useful. I mean, playing guitar was cool and all, yeah, but unless Ivan wanted to be a musician, it wouldn't do him much good outside of being a party trick or random talent.

So far, Ivan hadn't expressed much interest in working at all. It was usually the same spiel about his father's company, how he was set to be the heir and all that. Till didn't care. He didn't. His mind just so happened to lock onto the useless detail that was Ivan's disinterest in his own future.

And cooking, apparently, because the fucker was getting real touchy for a budding chef.

Case in point, Ivan’s shoulder bumped Till’s each time he shifted. His wrist kept brushing against Till’s forearm when he handed things over, always too slow, too careful. At one point he reached across the counter to grab a bowl, and his hair — still damp from his shower, floral and warm in the rising heat — dragged across the side of Till’s throat.

Till should get a standing fucking ovation for his professionalism, thank you.

Once the bacon had started to crisp. Till pressed at it with the tongs, the fat snapping and spitting. His hands held steady, but something in his chest didn’t. This was mainly because he felt Ivan’s eyes again, and it was quite the challenge to focus on any sort of task when you have someone of his caliber (Don't read into that) giving you undivided attention.

Unnecessary attention, Till's mind corrected.

“You’re doing that too fast,” Ivan murmured, voice low enough to cut through the hum of the range fan, closer now than he'd been a second ago.

Till didn’t turn. His grip on the handle stayed fixed. “It’s supposed to brown.”

“You’ll dry it out.”

“You’re not touching it.”

Ivan exhaled behind him. The breath hit skin instead of empty air.

Till's mind froze for a second before his fingers closed tighter around the tongs.

“Then show me,” Ivan whined, his voice no louder, but undeniably closer.

Till didn’t move, but Ivan did.

His chest pressed to Till’s back, and Till could very unfortunately feel stiff nipples pressing against his shoulder blades.

Ohmygod.

The contact didn’t ask for anything. It just existed. Till could feel the heat of him followed by the faint give of fabric against his shirt. Then Ivan’s hand slid over his on the tongs, fitting into the shape Till’s fingers had already made.

“Go... ahead,” Till muttered, his jaw aching. “Impress me.”

Ivan’s hand shifted, palm pressing lightly to the back of Till’s, guiding the tongs down into the pan. Till felt every muscle in his wrist tense. Ivan moved as if he had all the time in the world, fingers only tightening enough to be noticed, the sizzle of bacon filling the room in short, crisp bursts. He breathed in as he moved, focused in a way that made Till’s skin itch.

“Like that?” Ivan asked, the words thinner now, worn down to something quieter.

Till nodded, swallowing back any and all irrational thoughts threatening to exit his body.

They stood like that for far too long, but neither of them were in a hurry to fix it. Ivan still had Till hands on him, and he showed no signs of letting go, because why would he? Letting go would imply he understood the concept of boundaries, or had any interest in pretending this wasn’t exactly what he wanted. Which, it totally was.

The air smelled thick with salt and grease, old heat and something sweeter buried underneath it, something that clung to Till’s skin and made it harder to breathe. The back splash caught a hazy version of them in its shine, warped by the tile but still easy to recognize if you knew what to look for.

When Ivan finally stepped away, his hand didn’t lift cleanly. His fingertips dragged across Till’s hip on the way, featherlight, casual enough to be denied if Till wanted to deny it.

He didn’t.

“Alright, chef,” Ivan said lightly, but there was a catch in it now, something thinner at the edge of his voice, words scraping their way up through a dry throat.

Till turned to him. The pan behind them kept hissing, still on low and half-forgotten, the bacon left to blister unattended. Ivan stood with one hand braced against the edge of the counter. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his skin had gone faintly pink from the heat. When Till stepped in closer, Ivan didn’t move. He just looked up, mouth parted slightly, still trying to catch his breath like something invisible had knocked it out of him.

“The eggs,” Till began. His voice didn’t sound right in his own ears, but it was the best he could manage. However, the slight flush gracing the raven's features was rewarding enough. “You separate them.”

Ivan didn’t move for the bowl. His gaze drifted lower instead, straight to Till’s mouth.

“Teach me,” he murmured.

There were not enough words in any human language that could even begin to hope to describe the want that continued to build up inside of Till.

Ivan was the worst kind of student — eager but distracted, too soft with his grip, too strong with his force, and somehow not paying attention until it was already too late.

He cracked the egg too hard.

It wasn’t a disaster, just a mess. A jagged split ran crooked down the shell, and the yolk broke the second it passed through his fingers, plopping into the bowl of whites Till had already set aside. A little wet sound, quiet and final. Ivan froze, and for a second, neither of them spoke.

“Okay,” Till muttered, stepping in. “Move.”

“No, wait. I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix a broken yolk.”

Ivan pouted. A real, spoiled, full-lipped sulk, the kind of look that probably got him out of actual consequences on a regular basis. “You could be more supportive.”

“I could be somewhere else,” Till replied, but he didn’t back up. He reached for another egg and nudged Ivan’s elbow out of the way with his own, the contact light but firm.

Ivan didn’t take the hint. He stayed where he was and pressed in close. His arm brushed Till’s again, slower this time, and stayed there.

Till ignored it. Or tried to. He cracked the new egg with practiced ease, let the whites slip into the right bowl, and passed the empty shell to the side with one hand. His focus stayed fixed on the motion, but he could feel Ivan’s gaze tracking it closely, like every twitch of his fingers held significance.

“You make it look easy,” Ivan said. His voice had gone soft again, the tone careful, almost reverent, like he didn’t want to puncture the quiet atmosphere they'd somehow created.

Till rinsed his hands in the sink. “It is easy.”

“Not for me.”

“That’s because you’ve never had to make anything in your life.”

Ivan bumped their hips together, a gentle tap that could have been playful, but the warmth lingered. “Now I’m trying. Isn’t that enough?”

Was it?

Till handed him the towel, the fabric warm from the heat of the stove and the humidity of the room.

“You get points for effort,” Till replied, and the words left him slower than they should have.

Ivan lit up at once, pleased in that familiar, overconfident way that made Till’s chest feel tight. “So I’m passing?”

“You’re not failing,” Till hummed. He should have stopped there. Instead, he gave in to something quiet and irrational, the part of him that kept responding even when he swore he wouldn’t. “Yet.”

Ivan’s expression changed instantly. Smug again, but brighter now, touched with something soft. He looked so pleased with himself it made Till want to make the expression melt into something else — surprise, maybe. Something stripped down and undeserved, something only Till got to see. He wanted to mess up his hair, lean in, and kiss the nape of his neck while he was holding a whisk, just to hear what kind of noise would slip out.

Instead, Till turned toward the stove. He stirred the pasta water with the wooden spoon, watching the surface churn. The bubbles snapped against the edge of the pot, sharp little bursts of heat that left his arms damp.

Ivan followed, quiet but not distant, leaning close enough to peer over his shoulder again. He still hadn’t put his shoes on since his shower. His toes flexed against the tile like he thought friction alone would make them warmer. He smelled of his usual unnecessary, expensive cologne and the back of Till’s throat was starting to remember it.

“I like cooking with you,” Ivan muttered.

Till stirred slower, hand tightening around the spoon.

“It feels... normal,” Ivan added. “Like a life. Like something people do.”

What a naive thing to say, Till thought. How little of the world did Ivan know? Would he ever know anything Till didn't teach him?

That was a stupid question. Of course he would. There were other people in his life that, regrettably, were not Till.

Yet, cruelly, his heart triumphed over the strange possessiveness, betraying his mind as it fluttered at Ivan's expectant smile.

Till swallowed.

His chest felt too full, the kind of pressure that had nowhere to go, no exit that wouldn't sound wrong or sound too much like the truth. He nudged Ivan’s foot with his own, a quiet nudge that passed as casual, then pointed toward the small bowl of grated cheese on the counter.

“Stir the, uh… ahem, stir that into the yolks,” he cleared his throat lamely. His voice came out more cracked than before. “Slowly.”

Thankfully, Ivan didn't make a joke about it, though such a choice was unusual coming from him. He just nodded, then took the bowl and moved the whisk in slow but efficient motions. His grip tightened slightly, focus narrowing, and his bottom lip caught gently between his teeth.

Till leaned his hip against the edge of the stove and pretended to watch the water instead of watching Ivan, though he could feel his gaze shifting every few seconds, dragged toward the angle of Ivan’s hands or the way his eyebrows creased when he concentrated too hard.

It was cute.

The bowl tilted slightly. The cheese folded in. Ivan looked up once, just briefly, and there was something shy in the glance, as if he had not meant for it to be noticed.

“Still passing?” he asked, cheeks coloring ever so slightly.

So fucking adorable.

Till nodded. “Barely.”

“You’re mean.”

“You like it.”

The gray-haired man really shouldn't keep indulging the younger like this, but he can't help it.

Ivan grinned in response, flushed and pink around the edges, with the side of his shirt slipping down. That seemed to happen a lot. Did Ivan frequently buy clothes too big for himself?

Without thinking, Till reached out and pulled one side back up over his shoulder. Somehow, his fingers caught on the inside of Ivan’s forearm, dragging against warm skin.

He noted how Ivan's skin had faint freckles that only showed up in this kind of light. His pulse beat against the underside of Till’s thumb.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“You missed some shell,” Till murmured, closer to Ivan's ear than he intended.

Thumpthumpthump.

Ivan blinked and looked down at the bowl, startled. “Where?”

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthum—

Till tapped his nose, smearing a little dot of flour that had probably been there the whole time. Ivan made a choked noise, part laugh, part affronted whine, and swung the towel at him without any real commitment. He took a deep breath before responding.

“Jerk.”

Till didn't flinch. He turned back to the stove, half-smirking, letting it pull at the corner of his mouth without showing teeth.

He felt the bump of Ivan’s shoulder a second later, light and familiar, just enough to close the space again. Ivan leaned in.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he whispered.

The spoon slipped out of Till’s hand and dropped into the pot. Water surged up with a thick splash, scalding across the back of his hand before he could yank it away.

“Shit—!”

Despite his curses, Till didn't move immediately. He just stared down at the pot, hand burning, skin flushed, and tried to regulate his breathing. Strangely, Ivan didn't comment on that, either.

Till reached for the strainer, movements mechanical, and muttered, “We’ll see if you still do after you taste this.”

The pasta drained with a wet hiss. Steam rolled upward in thick clouds and caught on the edge of his glasses. He neglected to wipe them, opting to let the fog settle and tell himself that was the only reason why his face felt hot.

That was all it was.

Just water. And air.

Right.

Behind him, Ivan hummed something without melody. His voice barely carried over the soft hiss of the faucet, tuneless.

Till turned around only when the steam cleared. By that point, Ivan was standing on the tips of his toes (Ivan would definitely call them his tippy toes, Till's brain unhelpfully supplied) to reach for the plates on the high shelf.

His shirt had slid down again, collarbone bare under the light from above. From where Till was standing, he could tell Ivan's hair still had yet to dry properly from his shower. There remained a damp curl clinging to the back of his neck, dark and soft against his skin, and Till could not look at it for too long without fantasizing about bringing his hand to the back of his neck, wrapping his fingers around it, and giving it a rough squeeze.

Till licked his lips and dragged his tongue along the roof of his mouth. He tasted flour and cheese.

“You could’ve asked,” The elder eventually replied, rolling his eyes. He reluctantly reached up and took both plates from Ivan with one hand.

Ivan blinked at him like the thought had not occurred to him. It probably hadn't. “You were busy.”

“I wasn’t busy.”

“You were in the midst of a conflict with your spaghetti.”

Stupid kids and their stupid vocabulary. Till scoffed.

“It’s rigatoni.”

Ivan grinned. He leaned back against the counter with his arms folded across his chest.

“Right,” he said, dragging out the word obnoxiously like the little piece of shit he was. “I forgot how serious you get about the shape.”

“Because the shape matters, jackass.”

Was Till seriously arguing with someone almost half his age?

Yes, yes he was.

Ivan scooped another forkful with exaggerated elegance and chewed with mock interest. “I think you just like correcting me.”

Till didn't grace that with a response. He gripped the wooden spoon and spooned the sauce over the pasta like he hadn’t heard it. His focus shifted to dragging the spoon through the pan slower than necessary, his hand tightening every time the raven leaned a little closer than was reasonable.

Ivan’s breath was warm against the side of his neck, and even if he didn't say anything, the awareness of that proximity pulsed through every motion Till made.

They ended up eating on the floor, but not by choice

Well, not by Till’s choice. Ivan had yanked one of the couch cushions down and thrown a blanket over the tile like they were planning some kind of cozy indoor picnic in the middle of the most aggressively expensive kitchen Till had ever stepped foot in. (Also the only other kitchen he had stepped foot in, excluding his own.)

He complained the entire time, but he still sat down. His knees cracked when he bent them, and he exaggerated the noise just to be irritating.

Ivan chewed loudly and smirked through it. “You’re old.”

“You’re spoiled.”

“You’re going to die first.”

“Good.”

Ivan laughed into his next bite, mouth still full, and slid the water glass toward him without any prompting. His foot nudged against Till’s beneath the blanket. Till didn’t pull away. He could feel the rhythm of Ivan’s toes tapping occasionally, brushing against his ankle.

The fork scraped against the ceramic as Till finished his bite. Across from him, Ivan sat with his elbow resting on his knee and his cheek tilted into the palm of his hand, eyes pointed but quiet.

“You don’t cook for others often, do you?”

Till lifted his eyes and stared at him, the kind of flat stare that used to get him out of trouble in middle school, meaning it had lost all use by now. Ivan smiled around it, clearly delighted with himself, and sipped from his glass.

“I don't cook often, no.”

Till finished before Ivan and leaned back slowly against the base of the cabinet, letting his shoulders fall loose. He was too tired to sit like a person or to think about where his spine was supposed to go. Ivan stretched out next to him, long legs half-covered by the blanket, toes still doing the same flexing motion and brushing against Till’s shin every few seconds.

It was annoying.

It was fine.

“You should take a nap,” Ivan murmured, still looking forward.

Till raised an eyebrow because he didn't feel all that tired.

“I’m not sleeping on your kitchen floor.”

Ivan pouted.

“There’s a guest room.”

“Yeah. That’s not going to happen.”

Ivan turned toward him, lips parted, voice lighter now. “You look tired, though.”

“I’m always tired.”

“Maybe you’d sleep better if you weren’t so repressed.”

Till turned his head, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. “You're saying I'm the repressed one here? Go talk to your therapist. Actually, do you even have a therapist? You should.”

Ivan blinked, caught for a beat, then let a grin stretch over his face like he was proud of the insult, not embarrassed by it. “That’s rich coming from someone who refuses to admit he likes cooking with me.”

A lame comeback, but effective in infecting Till with another case of heart palpitations.

“You’re the one who said it 'felt like a life'.”

“It does.”

Till opened his mouth and closed it before deciding not to respond.

Ivan didn't chase the silence. He dropped his gaze and started folding the corner of the blanket in slow, uneven triangles. His fingers moved with too much care. His mouth pressed into a tight line, quieter now. The floor had started to cool beneath them, but if Ivan noticed, he paid it no mind.

Till watched him from the side.

“You should eat slower,” he said eventually. He was never all that good at small talk.

Ivan looked up quickly, a smile slowing creeping up his features. “You sound like my grandfather.”

Till didn't know how to argue with that, so he didn’t try.

Instead, he rolled his eyes and pushed up to his feet, bending to collect the empty plates. He stacked them carefully in his arms. “At least I make a good fucking carbonara.”

He stepped toward the sink before Ivan could answer, but the silence didn’t last. Ivan appeared beside him the second the water turned on, bumping their elbows together softly.

How on Earth did he get up so fast?

Young people, these days.

“I liked it,” Ivan murmured, voice quiet but close. “The food. The… the rest, as well.”

Till didn’t turn to look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the stream of water spilling over the first fork. “Yeah. Me too.”

Ivan’s fingers brushed the back of his wrist as he reached for the sponge. The contact was too fleeting to be accidental, but neither of them stepped away. The sink hissed between them.

Ivan rinsed one of the plates too quickly. Water splashed up and soaked the front of his shirt, a bloom of darker fabric spreading beneath the collar. He didn’t react. His posture stayed focused, almost overly so, mouth pressed into a tight crease of determination, knuckles tensed around the sponge.

Till reached over and took the plate from him. He rinsed it again, slower, turning it under the stream until every trace of suds slipped away. He didn’t speak until it was done.

Ivan watched him without blinking. His expression didn’t shift when Till took over. There was no sulk in it. No offense. Just that same quiet amusement that always sat too close to something else.

“You don’t trust me with the dishes?” Ivan asked, tone lighter than his grip had been a second ago.

“I don’t trust you with anything ceramic. So, no.”

“I haven’t broken anything yet.”

Till stifled a laugh at the whiny tone Ivan's voice took on.

“You haven’t been unsupervised long enough.”

Ivan smiled with his eyes more than his mouth, the overhead light catching in his lashes. He handed over the next plate slowly, like he wanted their hands to touch again, and they did. The brief press of skin between fingers.

No longer an accident.

“Supervise me longer, then.”

Till didn’t lift his eyes. He scrubbed at a thin streak of oil on the next dish and attempted not to let himself acknowledge the way the words sat differently this time.

Ivan had a habit of silently asking to be watched, but not the way most people did. It wasn't for attention or praise. It was need, plain and simple. A need to be seen and kept and kept close.

A need to be owned.

The water had gone too hot. It soaked into the fabric of Till’s sleeves, clinging to his arms through the cotton, but he didn’t bother rolling them up.

Fuck, Till should've just swallowed his pride and let them use Ivan's fancy-pants dishwasher. Now he was all wet. Fantastic.

Lemon soap lingered in the air, but underneath it, garlic hung sweet and stubborn in the warmth. There was something else too, something soft, something that hadn’t come from any ingredient. It made the silence stretch in a different direction.

Ivan reached out again, but he didn’t grab a dish. He touched the sponge instead, ran his thumb slowly across the ridged yellow edge like he was checking the texture. He didn’t press down so much as feel it.

“Do you always eat dinner alone?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Till turned his head slightly. The question didn’t make sense at first. “That’s a strange question.”

Ivan gave the smallest shrug. “I'm curious.”

Till thought to himself for a few moments before answering.

“Everyone eats dinner alone sometimes.”

Vague. Too vague for Ivan wanted, it seemed, as there was a swift reply to that, as well

“That’s not what I asked.”

Till dried his hands on the towel Ivan had just used. He folded it halfheartedly.

It'd been a while since he thought of those nights as anything in particular. There was a consistent routine that came with them.

The fridge opened. Something microwaved. One chair pulled out. One show he didn’t finish. One plate. One fork. No conversation. Alone.

“I guess I got used to it,” Till said eventually, voice flat. “Eating alone.”

Ivan leaned in, hip resting against the counter just enough to share the space. “That doesn’t sound like something people would enjoy.”

“It’s not really about enjoying it.”

The younger's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, making him look more and more like a chipmunk by the second. Inconvenient, annoying, but cute and loved by all.

“Do you miss it?” Ivan asked. “Having someone there?”

Till let out a breath, not quite a laugh. “That’s another weird question.”

“You’re good at weird answers.”

Till didn’t respond, focusing on folding the towel properly this time. He smoothed each side down, creased the edges together, and set it over the oven handle with far more care than necessary.

Ivan shifted next to him, slow enough that Till could feel the movement through the air. “I always had people around when I ate,” Ivan began. “Staff. Kitchen people. Plates already set out. Someone standing behind me in case I dropped a napkin. I wasn’t supposed to talk to them unless I needed something.”

Internally, Till gagged at the thought of having so many people watch him eat.

Externally, Till glanced at him. His tone was too casual for how bleak that was. “That’s awful.”

“Mm,” Ivan hummed, barely smiling. “It never felt like eating. More like finishing a task, if anything.”

The gray-haired man knew the answer to the question, but asked it anyway.

“You ever cook for anyone before?”

As predicted, Ivan shook his head once. “No. I didn’t even know how to boil water until you made me.”

Till snorted.

“You think I made you?”

If that's what Ivan thought Till making him do something would look like, he was sorely mistaken.

Ivan averted his eyes when he replied. “I think I wanted to know what it was like.”

“What what was like? Boiling water?”

“Sitting on the floor with someone,” The younger continued, quiet now. “Doing the dishes. Listening to you complain while I ruin my own kitchen. People things.”

Till looked down at his hands. Ivan still held the sponge, fingers damp, grip soft, like he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. Till reached out and took it from him gently. He dropped it into the sink behind them and turned the tap off with the side of his wrist.

“Come on,” Till murmured. “I got some more time to spare. I’ll show you how to make tea.”

Ivan’s face lit up immediately like a kid on Christmas morning. He swiftly followed as Till moved to the stove.

When Till filled the kettle and set it on the burner, Ivan was already hovering again, that same intent focus narrowing in on the way Till’s hand moved when he turned the knob.

The burner clicked once, then lit.

Till passed Ivan the box of tea with two fingers, watching the way Ivan took it with both hands like it might be something delicate.

He turned it over and read the label with a little crease between his brows. “Peppermint?”

“It helps me sleep,” Till replied, surprising himself with the contentedness in his tone. He leaned on the counter beside him and didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to.

Ivan pulled out two bags and held them in one hand, fingers draped lazy over the box. “Are you going to stay long enough to finish it?”

Are you going to leave? 

The real unspoken question.

Till hesitated, but not in a way that looked like hesitation. Just the slightest shift of weight through the soles of his feet, a pause long enough to feel but not long enough to question.

“I don’t like wasting hot water,” he replied, not quite looking at him as he avoided a direct answer.

Ivan smiled at the cabinet. Not showy or smug, just a small upward curve, self-satisfied.

They drank their tea at the table this time.

Even if only for a small moment, it was peaceful.

________

Ivan fell asleep on the couch later. A soft-edged drift that started when someone stopped trying to stay awake. His eyes would close for too long, then open again like the effort cost him something. He had called Till over under the pretense of an ‘extra lesson’, one that lasted maybe thirty minutes before he’d dropped his head back with a groan, thrown himself lengthwise across the cushions, and muttered something about his brain being fried.

Now he was wrapped in the corner of the couch, one arm was tucked under the throw blanket, the other curled near his chest. His face had turned toward the light of the lamp, half-shadowed and flushed. His hair stuck up along one side and his breathing had slowed to something even but not quite deep enough to call sleep. Additionally, Ivan's knee was hooked over Till’s lap sometime after he stretched, one long line of leg bare from the thigh down, skin brushing against Till’s jeans.

Till hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

The remote was still in his hand, thumb hovering over a volume button he'd no intention of pressing. The show on screen had gone black-and-white a while ago. He couldn’t remember what the plot was or if there had even been one. He had turned the sound off after Ivan started yawning and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

The blanket shifted every time Ivan twitched in his sleep, and with it came a wave of warmth that radiated directly into Till’s hip.

He could feel the shape of Ivan’s leg. Not just the pressure, but the structure of it. The weight of his thigh, the slope of his calf. The arch of his foot brushed against the inside of Till’s wrist, soft and unconscious. Every now and then Ivan moved just slightly, and each shift sent a small jolt through Till’s system.

He had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to do with that.

Even worse, the blanket had slipped, just barely, and there was skin exposed above the waistband of Ivan’s shorts. Only a few inches, but enough. A dip in his stomach, the top of his hip, the edge where soft skin met the fabric. Bare and breathable. Completely thoughtless.

Till’s grip on the remote tightened.

“You’re still awake,” Ivan murmured, voice barely there, eyes still closed.

“Unfortunately,” Till muttered, but his voice was lower than it should’ve been, scratchier too, like something caught in the back of his throat hadn’t quite cleared.

Great. Pathetic and honest. His two least favorite things. This was going awesome. 

Ivan stretched a little beside him, tipping his hips and brushing his foot against Till’s thigh.

It was with great effort that Till beat down the strangled noise threatening to escape his throat.

“You could’ve left,” Ivan said simply.

“I tried.” He didn’t even bother trying to make it convincing.

“No, you didn’t.”

Of course he hadn’t. Till finally looked down, expecting the usual look — a tilt of the mouth, an air of arrogance that came too easily — but there was nothing cocky waiting for him. Ivan’s eyes were open now, albeit barely, and the light caught in them in that strange way it always did.

Till's stomach did a flip.

“Do you want to go?” Ivan’s voice didn’t crack. It just sounded clean. Exposed. A question pulled straight out of the center of him and handed over with no wrapping.

Till’s fingers loosened on the remote before he noticed he’d been clenching it. The plastic edges dug roughly into his palm.

“I don’t know what I want,” he responded, because that much, at least, had always been true.

He wanted the warmth, the quiet, the stupid foot pressed against his leg, yet he also wanted it gone before it killed him.

His mind wasn't making sense.

Ivan nodded. He wasn't disappointed or smug about being right. Rather, it was as if he’d known that was the answer before asking. His hand slipped out from under the blanket and rested on his own stomach, easy and thoughtless. There wasn’t anything odd about it, but Till’s eyes dropped to it anyway, magnetized.

Indeed, Ivan was magnetizing.

The younger tapped his fingers against his skin.

One. Two. Three.

(Thump, thump, thump.)

Ivan’s fingers started moving again. They dragged a lazy shape across his stomach. It was both uneven and slow, just rhythmic enough to look like it meant something. He wasn’t even facing Till anymore. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes low, mouth slack, but the breathing had shifted again. It wasn't deep enough for sleep, but... watchful?

Till’s gaze then dropped to the hem of Ivan’s shirt. It had pulled up higher without fanfare, bunched under his ribs where the fabric creased, thin and soft with wear. The skin was pale under it, smooth and warm-looking, rising and falling with each inhale. Just above his navel, the muscles twitched when his fingers slid a little higher. They grazed the underside of his chest, then disappeared again like nothing happened.

Till’s mouth dried out instantly. He blinked. Naturally, it didn’t help.

The elder reached for the water on the table. His hand didn’t shake, but only because he forced it not to. The glass still felt too smooth in his grip, too breakable, and the water didn’t help when it touched his tongue. When he set it down, the coaster caught the sound.

Ivan stretched again, but it was considerably slower this time. More certain. Of what, Till didn't want to know, but this was the type of movement that knew exactly what kind of space it occupied. His spine shifted against the cushion, shoulder rolling. The leg draped across Till’s lap bent slightly, pressing higher, tighter, up into the hollow between Till’s stomach and hip.

And to think he once claimed to have standards.

There was no line to cross when the whole room was already Ivan’s body language. Christ, he seriously needed Ivan to stop moving like that or commit to it fully so Till could at least die with closure.

Still, the elder didn’t let himself react. He lifted his gaze forward. He clenched his jaw hard enough to feel it up through the sides of his head. Every muscle in his neck had gone high-strung. He felt like his own skeleton was trying to hold him still. When he died, hundreds of years later his bones would be found crumbled to the ground from the weight of tension in his body.

Till finally looked at him again, and this time, he let it land. Not just a glance, not the sideways sort of flicker he could dismiss as accidental, but a full, helpless return of Ivan’s stare. He didn’t brace himself for it, though maybe he should have. There was no preparation for being looked at like that, not by him.

Ivan’s eyes were open, fixed on him in a way that felt too deliberate to be passive. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even curious. He looked as if had been waiting for this exact second and had no intention of blinking through it.

Look at me, Till could hear him say, even as the other's mouth didn't move. Please look at me, Till.

Till’s lungs pulled in too much air and couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with it.

His fingers traced slow, barely-there lines across his stomach, following some invisible route up to the base of his chest and back down again, each motion light enough that it might not have registered at all if Till hadn’t been so completely, horribly focused.

“Ivan,” Till breathed, and even his name in Till's mouth felt intrusive. Parasitic.

Ivan didn’t shift. Rather, his gaze stayed level, shoulders remaining folded loosely against the couch cushion. “I know.”

The words landed so cleanly it made Till feel flayed open. 

“I shouldn’t—” 

“I know.”

Ivan’s voice was soft in a way that didn’t ask for gentleness. It wasn’t pitying. It wasn’t resigned. It just accepted what was true between them and left it there, untouched.

Till didn’t move. He physically couldn’t. Ivan’s thigh was still slung across his lap, all the weight of it pressed warm and unyielding against his jeans. The shape of him was defined in every point of contact, each breath making it clearer. His fingers still rested on his stomach, twitching slightly with the rhythm of his pulse.

The heat between them felt ancient. Not electrifying, not something that could be waved off with a clever line or a joke at Ivan’s expense. This had been building in pieces, slow and patient and stupidly consistent, stretching through every touch that wasn’t supposed to be a touch, every look that lasted a second too long, every study session that turned into something more breathless without either of them acknowledging why.

Till let his hand hover just above the blanket, not fully reaching, just letting the air carry the weight of his indecision. The back of his knuckles grazed the surface, slow and uncommitted, feeling the shift from fabric to warmth without crossing into full contact. Ivan didn’t lean in. He didn’t draw back either. His mouth parted slightly, and the breath that escaped was near silent, not meant to be heard.

Till’s exhale followed, shaped by the clench in his chest. It wasn’t quite pain, but it lived in the same neighborhood. Cousins, maybe.

Ivan’s chest rose again. His fingers traveled up to the soft slope below his ribs and back down in a lazy, unconscious rhythm. It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a request. It was an answer to a question Till hadn’t even known he was asking.

This was not an accident. This had never been an accident.

The thought came fully formed and so loud that it startled him, not because he hadn’t known, but because he’d let himself pretend otherwise for far too long. What was he waiting for, exactly?

Ivan was always waiting for Till. Ivan had never stopped waiting. He just did it in ways the other could ignore until now.

And now there was no ignoring it. Not with the way the couch dipped under their weight. Not with the heat trapped between them. Certainly not with the pulse in Till’s throat pushing against the inside of his skin, begging to be acknowledged.

His hand twitched. His fingers curled around nothing.

He could feel it, crouching under his skin, that sick warm want that had nowhere to go, and if Ivan shifted again, if Ivan made even one more of those sounds in his throat, unknowing of what it did to him, Till was going to fucking snap.

It wasn't a matter of how, but a matter of when.

________

Ivan wasn’t supposed to be nervous.

It was just a bar. People went to bars all the time. It was probably grimy and full of noise, yes, but that was part of the experience. Ivan had rehearsed this already, multiple times, in the mirror, in his head, even on the ride over. There was nothing to be afraid of.

He was there to observe.

That was the justification he repeated while adjusting the cuffs of his sweater outside the entrance. He’d never heard Till sing, not even once, and it had started bothering him. That he didn’t know what his tutor sounded like when he wasn’t slouched on the edge of Ivan’s loveseat, sighing at bad fingering.

(Okay, maybe not the best wording to use, but it's not like Ivan hadn't thought about that before either. He actually thinks the other would be rather skilled.)

Till’s hands could move so confidently over the strings but Ivan had no reference for what came out when his mouth opened. That wasn’t fair. If Ivan was expected to practice, then he was allowed to understand what he was aspiring to.

Besides, it wasn’t like Till would see him.

He had dressed carefully, in soft tones and unassuming layers — his pale blue sweater hung off one shoulder (the same shoulder Till constantly scowled at each time his shirts slipped downward), just enough to suggest ease, and his skirt was dark and pleated, pressing tight around the dip of his waist, flaring slightly over his hips.

Ivan had gone down quite the rabbit hole during his research, and he'd never experimented with skirts before, but he wasn't about to let that stop him from blending in. If people wore skirts to bars, then he could, too!

Beneath it, his thighs peeked clean through white tights that bit into the skin under the hem, little bows stitched where the garters clipped underneath. His boots were tall and slightly scuffed, which made him feel like he belonged even though he absolutely didn’t.

Well, more like they assisted in his disguise. He'd feel out of place no matter what he was wearing.

Still, he’d worn them.

I mean, this was what people wore at bars or parties, right?

Reddit wasn't the greatest source, even Ivan knew that! But his other searches were proving useless, only showing him ads for clothes made with less fabric than a small ball of yarn. Ivan was trying to be modest here, thank you very much.

Though, to be honest, Ivan still didn't know what to expect. He'd only ever been to the events his father took him to. He'd never complained. If Mama and Papa were happy, then Ivan could learn to live with it.

Ivan could be good.

Right now, Ivan was not being very good.

His parents disliked when he did things under their radar.

But Ivan was just too curious. Till. That's who he was here for. He knew he was pushing, knew he'd been pushing (far more than he should've), but he couldn't help it.

For the first time in his life, Ivan actually wanted something. Someone. He'd been raised a very specific way, and the number one thing he'd been told was that there was nothing in the world he couldn't have.

Ivan was well aware that the statement was not always true, but it was true enough for him to make an effort. 

Ivan wanted Till, and he knew Till wanted at least something from him. He just... didn't know what it was. He was working on that part.

No harm, no foul.

The bar was smaller than he expected. Narrow. Cramped. There was no entryway, save for a front door that opened directly into the mess of it. It was hot, wet, and crowded, thick enough to drag along the skin.

Then there was the smell, which was considerably worse. If the raven had to describe it, he'd say it's akin to beer soaked into unfinished wood, heightened by too many people breathing closely to one another.

Ivan hated it.

He hated the stickiness of the floor, the buzz of conversation right out of earshot, the way the lights dangled, one exhale away from falling.

He hated the music leaking from the speakers, loud and grating as whatever band had been on before walked off stage.

(What was the point of playing pop music when they'd pause it again for the next performer, anyway? Simpletons.)

Most of all, Ivan hated that he didn’t belong here.

Didn't belong where Till was. What a thought. He'd really stepped out of line here, hadn't he?

But he stayed.

The stage wasn’t a stage as much as it was a low platform shoved in the corner, with a stool and a mic and one of those sad black amps with peeling corners. Nothing about it screamed importance. In fact, it barely whispered of competence.

Ivan had been expecting more. Or maybe less. Something that made sense. Surely they were just waiting on repairs, right? Only an insane person would actively use such low quality equipment.

It wasn't until the house lights dipped slightly and the murmurs thickened into anticipation that he noticed him.

And there he was.

Till walked out with his guitar slung low. The mic adjusted lazily. He didn't bother with a greeting or a smile, seemingly disinterested in whatever the audience thought of him. Ivan thought people might be upset by this, but it seemed to only feed into whatever mysterious image the elder had crafted of himself.

There was no smile, no introduction, just a brief pull of his sleeves and then—

Sound.

One chord, then another. Effortless in a way that made Ivan’s spine straighten without meaning to.

Ivan’s brain didn’t register Till's singing at first.

He wasn’t prepared. It wasn’t what he expected, to say the least.

Till's voice was too rough, too low, something dragged from the chest instead of the throat. A sound that appeared to have lived inside of him too long and just began clawing its way out.

Ivan felt alive. Ivan felt enamored. Ivan felt—

Ivan felt annoyed.

Irritated that this was the version Till never showed him. Irritated that he didn’t know Till could sound like, like this. He didn’t even have the vocabulary for it! Till had always been sarcasm and cigarette smoke, indifference wrapped in denim, but this… this was different. This was—

No. No, it was fine. Objectively. He’d heard better. Yeah. Cleaner sound. Voices. Whatever.

He wasn’t going to fall to pieces over a gritty alto and a minor progression like some kind of bar fly with daddy issues.

(Though, statistically, Ivan did have those.)

Still. Something itched under his skin.

Till didn’t look at the crowd. Didn’t need to. He didn’t perform. He inhabited. Every syllable slipped out like it belonged to him. Like the lyrics were borrowed organs he’d decided to make permanent. Ivan hated it. He hated how still he'd become. How everything narrowed (the room, the crowd, his own breath) until it was just him and the outline of Till's voice.

His fingers curled in his lap. There was an unexplainable heat gliding across Ivan's skin, dancing across his cheekbones, circling the back of his neck, and drifting down his chest.

Ivan shifted in his seat. Crossed one leg over the other. Then uncrossed. He could feel the flush finally reach his throat, the sweat behind his knees, the way his tights clung just a little too tightly now.

How inconvenient.

Ivan hadn’t come here to be... affected.

He'd miscalculated the effect a far away Till would have on him. If anyone had been hypothesizing, it appeared that there was no difference in reaction. As long as Till was somehow involved in anything ever, Ivan would lose his composure.

It was impossible not to. Impossible not to think about the way Till’s mouth moved around vowels like he was tasting them. Or about the scar on his knuckle that caught the light every time he shifted chords. Especially about how that voice might sound half an inch from his ear instead of echoing across a shitty speaker system.

He wasn’t thinking weird things. He was studying. For his lessons. Yeah! 

...

Then Till looked at him and Ivan was going to be sick, he had never felt so stupid in his life.

The eye contact lasted maybe four seconds. Five, at most. But it rearranged something. He could feel it. A shift, low in his gut, like something delicate had been knocked off a shelf inside him and no one was rushing to catch it.

Till was still singing. Technically. But his focus had already veered. It was obvious. He wasn’t scanning the crowd. He wasn’t looking past Ivan. He was looking at him. 

And his gaze was traveling… down.

Oh.

Ivan caught it in the way Till’s eyes moved. That slight drop, lingering where they had no business lingering.

Ivan’s spine straightened.

He'd chosen the skirt because it was the only thing in his closet seemingly suited for the outing according to his research. The sweater because it hung loose in the right places. The tights were a last-minute decision — and the boots, well, those were supposed to make him look like he belonged in a place like this.

He hadn’t expected to be noticed. Now what was he supposed to do? God, this was embarrassing.

Till kept singing, but Ivan didn’t hear it anymore. His thoughts were too loud, roaring past the bass line, skipping over lyrics. Every breath he took wasn't enough. Every movement felt wrong. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugged the sweater’s edge closer to his side like that could shield him from the sudden intensity of being seen.

The song was ending.

He could hear that much. The rhythm pulling back, the last chord lingering. Ivan turned away from the stage, heart hammering, and started toward the door.

The crowd didn’t part.

Why would it? That would be way too convenient and why would anything go Ivan's way ever throughout the entirety of his life?

(Most, if not all things had gone his way since birth. He's just panicked.)

Ivan pushed forward anyway, trying to make his body smaller, less conspicuous. If he could just get to the back, to the alley maybe, or the bathroom, anywhere with a door and a lock and no eyes, he could breathe again.

He hadn’t made it two feet before running straight into someone’s chest. Ivan bounced off with a muttered apology, already trying to pivot away, but the man turned around and smiled as if the interruption had been part of some larger plan.

“Easy,” he said, lifting his drink out of the way. “Didn’t expect to get tackled tonight, but I’m not complaining.”

Ivan’s skin prickled. The guy was older, probably pushing sixty, with close-cut hair and a tight flannel shirt that strained around his arms. He looked like the type who clapped when a plane landed.

So, effectively, not Ivan's type. Or anyone's, for that matter.

Ivan tried to sidestep, but the man moved too, mirroring him without thinking.

“You alright?” he asked, easygoing in the way people were when they assumed familiarity would make you feel safe. “You kinda looked like you were about to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” Ivan gritted out. He forced his tone flat, hoping it would be enough to send the message.

It wasn’t.

The man only smiled wider, a smile Ivan had come to associate with rich divorcees and hedge fund interns — smug, performative, and far too convinced of its own charm. His gaze lingered, clearly pleased by what he thought he’d found.

“Sure you are,” he said, taking a slow sip of whatever was in his cup. “You just look like you could use a little... company.”

Ivan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He had already started to turn away, a half-pivot that suggested polite disinterest without giving the guy the satisfaction of a full dismissal.

Then something touched him, and all that posture went to hell.

It wasn’t the stranger, thankfully. Ivan didn’t need to look to know that. Rather, it was a palm, big and warm, fitting perfectly over the narrow curve of his waist.

... You've got to be kidding.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

His pulse jumped hard against his collarbone, and the breath in his chest lodged somewhere deep.

Ivan knew the shape of that hand too well, the weight of it, the contradictory mix of insecurity and confidence that always sat just beneath the surface.

Till.

When had he crossed the room? Hadn’t he still been on stage? Ivan hadn’t seen him come down. Hadn’t seen him move. Hadn’t seen anything, actually, and now Till was behind him, close enough that Ivan didn’t even have space to flinch.

The man in front of him — shirt too open, beer in hand, still wearing that stupid smile — was staring past his shoulder now. That alone should have been satisfying, but it wasn’t. It just made everything more real. This was an event that was happening and not some terrible nightmare.

“You need somethin', old man?” Till’s voice came low, not loud enough to draw attention, but clearly irritated if the way his grip tightened was anything to go by.

Ivan shivered. He could feel each individual finger on his waist, even through the fabric of his sweater.

Suddenly rendered useless by a single touch, the raven stared forward at the man he’d just been trying to shake off, and watched in real time as that confidence deflated.

“Didn’t realize he was, uh,” the guy started, gesturing awkwardly. “Sorry.”

He backed off, eyes wide, shoulders raised, and clearly eager to put distance between himself and whatever tension he’d just stepped into.

Ivan could feel the weight of Till’s gaze even before he turned.

When he finally did, he was met with exactly what he didn’t want: Till, standing far too close, his eyes dark and annoyingly unreadable, mouth quirked like he was debating whether or not to smirk.

Now that he had Ivan in his hands, Till let his gaze wander a bit again, just like on stage.

His eyes dragged unhurriedly down Ivan’s sweater, then to the hem of the skirt, the bare skin where it rode high above his tights, the subtle strain where it clung a little too well to his hips.

He didn’t even pretend not to be staring.

How indecent.

Ivan narrowed his eyes, resisting the urge to squirm and press his thighs together.

“What?” he asked, feigning annoyance to mask his anxiety.

Till’s eyes snapped back up to his, though he didn't seem the least he ashamed.

After a few long seconds, he replied.

“You’re dressed like you want to get mugged.”

Ivan scoffed. “I’m dressed like a person. This is what people wear at bars.”

That got a laugh out of Till.

“Where? In strip malls?”

Ivan flushed, biting his tongue momentarily to ground himself, and rolled his eyes. “You know full well I've never been to a strip mall before.”

Till smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked distracted. His gaze dipped again, lingering just a moment too long before returning.

“You gonna explain why you’re here?”

Starting off strong, then. 

“I was curious,” Ivan said. “And bored. Which I still am, for the record.”

“Uh-huh.” Till shifted slightly, and the motion brought him closer. Ivan didn’t move. Not because he was being brave or anything, but because his legs quite literally were not cooperating with him.

Till's knowing look made the younger get the urge to defend his actions, even if his excuse was reasonable enough.

“It’s not that serious,” Ivan insisted quickly. “You said you played on Thursdays. I had a Thursday. I used it. End of story.”

Till seemed more amused than convinced, and Ivan still couldn't decipher the look in his eyes. All he knew was that it made him feel hot in a way that was inappropriate for a public setting.

The gray-haired man replied after a few long seconds of consideration. “Calm down, pretty. You're acting like a threw out an accusation.”

Ivan immediately tensed, body doing the exact opposite of calming down.

Pretty?

He had to remind himself to keep breathing so he could hear what words Till said next.

“I didn’t think you actually listened when I talked.”

“I usually don’t,” Ivan blurted out, if only to distract himself. “But occasionally you say something useful. Accidentally.”

Ivan tried to hold his ground, but that same look Till was giving him made that increasingly difficult. There was a sharper emotion behind it. Curiosity edged with... something else. His jaw moved, like he was about to say something more pointed, maybe something that would’ve knocked Ivan off his balance entirely.

But he didn’t get the chance.

“Oh my god,” someone behind them said, way too loud. “That’s the guy from on stage, right? The one with the guitar?”

Ivan didn’t turn, but he could hear the energy shift around them. A few heads tilted. People started moving in closer. A girl reached into her bag, probably for her phone. Someone else said Till's name, tentative, like they weren’t sure if it was safe to say it out loud.

Huh. So the Till was pretty popular around here, then.

The elder muttered something under his breath, likely a curse of some sort.Then his hand dropped from Ivan’s waist, but only for a second. As he reached lower, caught Ivan’s fingers, and curled his own around them— wait, what?

Ivan barely had time to register the contact before Till was moving, tugging him through the crowd with zero ceremony.

“What are you—?” Ivan started, stumbling after him.

“Shut up.”

Had it been any quieter, Till might've heard the sound of Ivan's teeth clacking together from the force at which he'd shut his mouth. 

They ducked through a side doorway near the edge of the bar, Till holding his wrist now, not tightly but with a grip firm enough to make it clear that letting go wasn’t on the table.

The hallway they entered was narrow and lit by an angry yellow overhead, half the bulbs flickering off and on. The bar should probably get that checked out. If Till liked it enough, Ivan wouldn't mind endorsing it.

Wait, was that even legal?

Ivan didn't have any more time to ponder on the actions he could take while being below drinking age as Till moved fast and purposeful, dragging him past a stack of empty amp cases and through a chipped green door that opened into a cramped backstage room.

There were people inside — a few guys, one girl, all sprawled on mismatched couches, half-laughing, half-smoking, one of them holding a mostly-empty bag of chips. They looked up briefly as Till entered, eyebrows raising, glancing at Ivan only for a second before going back to what they were doing.

Till didn’t acknowledge them, so Ivan assumed they were of little importance.

Ivan felt himself get pulled, no, yanked inside before hearing the door shut behind him.

He blinked, heart beating a mile a minute. 

He could still feel the shape of Till’s hand around his wrist, as well as the ghost of it on his waist and thigh.

Still in the process of gathering himself, the raven folded his arms and forced his voice not to waver. He was somewhat successful in the endeavor.

“Why are we here?”

Till turned around slowly, leaned back against the door, and finally looked Ivan in the face properly for the first time since dragging him across the bar.

His gaze was sharp this time. Not a hint of teasing or trace of amusement. He was just focused.

“You came to watch me,” Till reminded him. “In case you forgot.”

Ivan tilted his chin up. “Don’t flatter yourself. I came to see what kind of people let you near a microphone.”

Till’s eyes dropped again.

Ivan didn’t follow them for the sake of his heart. He'd had too much of an adrenaline rush already. Instead, the younger stood his ground, pretending his pulse wasn’t still skipping like a record in his throat.

Till didn’t say anything else at first, just kept watching him. He looked more relaxed now, leaning more casually against the door, one arm crossed over his chest, the other raised so his hand could tug loosely at the chain around his neck.

Ivan was hypnotized by the movement momentarily before regaining his senses. He forced a scoff, mostly to break the silence.

“Well. Congratulations. You kidnapped me in public, and now I’m here. In a...” No, seriously, where were they? “...storage closet with a couch.”

Till huffed out a laugh. “It’s not a storage closet.”

“It has folding chairs stacked in the corner and someone’s shoe on the floor.”

“It’s a green room.”

“Right. Because this shade of flickering yellow really screams luxury hospitality.”

Till didn’t respond. He stepped forward instead, as if having made a decision.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed.

“What are you—”

Till grabbed his wrist again, less like he was asking permission and more like he was collecting something that already belonged to him.

Ivan, regrettably, didn’t resist. He wasn't sure that his body would've listened to him if he'd tried, anyway.

He could have. His voice worked, his legs were working now (he's pretty sure), but none of it translated into actual resistance.

He let himself be dragged across the room, past one of the band mates who gave him a once-over but didn’t comment, and toward the sagging faux-leather couch at the center of the room.

Ew.

“Okay,” Ivan said, digging in his heels a little, “no. I’m not sitting on that. I’m not about to contract tetanus from your couch.”

Till sat down, dropping into the couch with his legs sprawled. His arms draped over the back in an unfairly attractive way.

Ivan's heart froze up, and was about to make another snide comment before he felt himself being pulled.

The raven yelped, actually yelped, as he was dragged downward without warning, landing hard against Till’s chest, his knees catching awkwardly over one thigh.

“Are you—!” he gasped, bracing himself with both hands against Till’s shoulders. “What on Earth is your problem!?”

Till paid Ivan's flailing no mind, which was somehow more humiliating than it would've been if he had. 

“Sit still.”

“I am not sitting anywhere!”

He tried to push off, but Till’s arms were already around his waist, one locking him in place and the other sliding down to his thigh. The grip was was bruising, right at the edge of restraint, and Ivan felt the air catch in his lungs.

His whole body went rigid. More heat climbed up his neck so fast he thought he saw stars for a second. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what he looked like at the moment.

It took a minute for the rest of his body to catch up and for him to come to a realization.

Ivan wasn’t just sitting in Till’s lap. He was sitting directly on his— on his—

No, it was too crude to say, but Ivan could feel it. Not just vaguely. Directly. Right underneath him, warm and solid through two layers of fabric and zero emotional preparation, pressed right up against where his tights were thinnest, was the bulge of Till's cock. The skirt offered no protection.

Was he actually that big? Surely not.

Ivan’s thighs twitched involuntarily, which made everything worse. Moving shifted things, making the point of contact change and whole body light up like a faulty wire.

He was steaming through his ears.

Ivan could feel the sweat building under his tights, heat crawling beneath his sweater, his hands trembling slightly against Till’s chest where they were still braced like he might spring up at any second and vault across the room.

But he couldn’t.

Because Till was holding him. One hand still resting low on his waist, the other now splayed across the side of his thigh, fingers spread wide, thumb pressing in ever so slightly with each subtle shift of Ivan’s hips.

Which he wasn't doing on purpose, by the way! Ivan was seriously just nervous!

“What’s in that box?” one of the guys called across the room, gesturing toward a battered case propped up near the wall.

Till didn’t miss a beat, responding in a tone far more under control than Ivan felt.

“Pedals,” he informed, and then, with zero warning, added, “Ivan, don’t let me forget to take those home.”

The raven's head snapped up. Why was he being included in this?

“I— what?” he managed, voice cracking instantly.

“Pe-dals,” Till repeated, sounding out each syllable slowly as if speaking to a toddler. “Remind me.”

“I’m not—” Ivan turned, looked at him incredulously, “I’m not your secretary.”

Till didn’t look back, laughing instead. “But you’ve got such a good memory.”

Ivan actually whimpered. It came out pathetic and small and he couldn’t even hide it. Every word out of Till’s mouth felt like a live current running straight through him. His brain had fully exited the conversation. There was nothing left in there but white noise and an ever-expanding fog of spiraling nonsense.

Perhaps he had realized just a bit too late that there were consequences that came with poking the bear. But Ivan was so young, was it really his fault? He didn't know any better, save for the fact that he absolutely did.

He wanted to see Till lose his composure so very badly. He wanted Till.

Ivan shifted again.

He had to. His leg was falling asleep. That’s all it was. Just adjusting for circulation. And maybe airflow. And dignity. None of which helped, because the second he moved, Till’s fingers on his thigh flexed and dragged just a little closer to the hem of his skirt.

Ivan stopped breathing altogether.

“You okay?” Till asked, voice low enough that only Ivan could hear it.

Ivan nodded once, stiff and mechanical. “Fine,” he choked out, which would’ve been more convincing if he hadn’t sounded like a dying teakettle.

“You’re real warm,” Till commented casually, fingers tapping once against his hip in a thinking manner.

Ivan stared forward, blinking furiously, trying to will himself into some higher state of being. He could not think about what that meant. He could not acknowledge how warm he was. He was fine. He was unbothered. This was nothing.

It was fine. He was fine. He wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown while perched on his guitar tutor’s lap like some kind of obsessive groupie. (Is that what they were called? Ivan was still new to all this lingo.)

That would be stupid. And weak. And beneath him.

Despite all his talk, Ivan couldn't hide the way his whole body shaking. His legs gone soft, having forgotten how to carry him. Even if Till let go of him this very moment, the best he'd be able to do is collapse into the floor. 

The gray-haired man hadn’t said anything in the last few minutes. He was just talking to his friends, solid beneath him, fingers still stroking lazy little arcs into the side of Ivan's thigh without a second or much-warranted third thought.

Ivan hated this.

He hated this.

He—

His face crumpled, and before he could stop himself, he buried it in the nearest available surface: the curve of Till’s shoulder, right where his neck met the collar of his shirt.

It was instinct, not decision. His body had decided it needed shelter and this was the only option left.

Till stilled beneath him for a moment. His breath hitched and he shifted slightly, arm wrapping more securely around Ivan’s waist. His other hand moved to Ivan’s lower back, palm broad and somehow hotter, rubbing in slow, maddeningly soothing circles.

Ivan could feel lips near his ear and trembled.

“You’re real sensitive tonight,” Till murmured, voice low.

Ivan shuddered at the vibration and air hitting the sensitive parts of his ear. 

He didn’t lift his head. Couldn’t. His face was burning. His ears were hot. His eyes were starting to sting for no reason he could justify.

Ivan felt like a child. Some helpless, over-tired little brat who couldn’t handle the smallest bit of attention without getting overwhelmed and collapsing. And Till was making it worse — not by teasing, but by being gentle.

God, it was so humiliating.

While Ivan was lost in thought, one of the band mates spoke from across the room, shaking himself out of his head and back to reality.

“Who’s the kid?”

Till didn’t hesitate. “Student of mine.”

Ivan had to bite his tongue when the urge to clarify that he was actually Till's first and only student arose.

“He gets like this sometimes,” Till added easily, still stroking Ivan's back like he was calming down a fussy toddler. “A big baby. It’s cute.”

What.

The guy snorted. “Damn. Thought he was your fan or something.”

“Nah. He’s too snobby for that.”

Ivan didn’t lift his head. His tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth, and the words I’m not a baby were right there, ready to leap out — but they didn’t. Because Till’s hand was still tracing circles against his back, and the voice he used was just a little too fond, and every nerve in Ivan’s body was still squirming from contact.

The band mate laughed, said something about packing cables, and let himself out.

When the door clicked shut, the sound echoed a little too loud in the small room, and then it was just the two of them. 

Ivan should’ve moved. That was the logical next step. The room was empty now. There were no witnesses. Nothing stopping him from scrambling upright, adjusting his skirt, and pretending none of this had happened.

Except he didn’t.

Neither did Till.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, shifting Ivan higher on his thigh. His hand settled low on Ivan’s back again, right above the hem of his skirt, and his other hand was already fishing a cigarette from the pocket of his coat.

Ivan blinked. Despite his previous struggle to speak, he now found he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

“You’re not seriously about to light that in here.”

Till gave him a look like he’d just been asked whether he intended to breathe. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and patted his pocket for a lighter.

Ivan pressed his palms against Till’s chest and pushed — gently, out of instinct more than effort — but didn’t actually go anywhere.

“You can’t smoke in a dressing room. It's inappropriate and unprofessional.”

“It’s not a dressing room,” Till scoffed. “I told you before, it’s a green room.”

“There’s no ventilation.”

“I opened the window earlier.”

“It’s opened a crack. That’s not the same thing.”

“Don’t be so whiny,” Till muttered, sparking the lighter.

Ivan hissed as the flame caught. The heavy smell of tobacco hit his nose immediately, followed by the telltale burn of irritation curling in his sinuses.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re still on my lap.”

“That’s circumstantial.”

The cigarette was burning slowly in Till's fingers, not hurried, never hurried, just another extension of him, another thing that lingered where it shouldn't, smoke curling up toward the ceiling before spilling back down in warm ribbons.

Ivan had just managed to breathe in through his nose again when Till tilted his head and exhaled straight into his face.

Ivan reeled back like he’d been slapped. His eyes stung immediately, watering on impact, and he made a noise somewhere between a choke and a shriek.

“You—! You absolute—!”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t. His eyes were full of tears and he was too busy wiping them furiously against the sleeve of his sweater to form words.

Till looked delighted.

“Sensitive and fragile,” he laughed, watching Ivan dab at the corners of his eyes. “Is that what you wore the skirt for?”

Ivan sputtered. “This is what normal people wear. To bars. I told you already, blockhead. I did research.”

Till hummed noncommittally. “Your research lied to you, clearly.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Mm.”

Till took another drag, his fingers relaxing slightly where they rested against Ivan’s lower back. The warmth of them was unbearable. Not just because of the contact, which was bad enough, but because Ivan could still feel the damp spot where his crotch had been pressed against Till’s jeans for the better part of fifteen mortifying minutes.

For the record, it was subtle. Probably invisible to anyone else. But Ivan felt it. The cooling patch of moisture. The humiliating evidence of just how thoroughly he’d lost control of his own body.

He prayed Till hadn’t noticed.

If he had, he'd yet to bring it up.

Ivan didn't know which was worse.

The younger stayed still, stiff and bristling, every inch of him focused on pretending the stain didn’t exist. He kept his hands tight in his lap. He didn’t shift his weight. He didn’t look down.

Till glanced at him sideways.

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

Ivan didn’t respond.

“You usually don’t shut up for this long.”

Still no response.

“Am I supposed to guess what you’re thinking?”

Ivan inhaled sharply, regretted it immediately, and coughed through the smoke.

Till smiled cruelly. His mouth pulled wide at one side, skin creasing hard into his cheek, teeth showing just enough to feel exposed, not welcoming.

“Was that a yes?”

“You’re disgusting,” Ivan repeated in a mutter, voice hoarse.

“I’m relentless,” Till corrected. “You’re the one who’s disgusting, if you take the time to think about it. But you don't think about anything, do you?”

He flicked ash into a dented tin cup on the table beside them, then turned slightly, enough that Ivan had to catch himself with both hands against Till’s chest again. The movement dragged his thighs across Till’s jeans and the friction, no matter how subtle, made Ivan clench his jaw so tight he saw white.

His face burned more and more by the minute.

Till, mercifully, didn’t comment.

He just leaned his head back against the couch and took drag after drag, eyes lidded, fingers still tracing those stupid, lazy, soothing half-circles over Ivan’s back. Ivan— Ivan didn't need to be soothed. He wasn't a child!

Yet still, he sat there, wet and flushed and completely humiliated, wondering how long it would take to physically reassemble his ego after this.

Till didn’t seem all that bothered.

In fact, he didn't seem bothered at all.

He hadn’t said anything for a while, which would’ve been fine — welcome, even — if it didn’t feel so deliberate. Like he was letting Ivan stew. Letting him marinate in whatever horrible soup of embarrassment and arousal he was currently drowning in, while he smoked… whatever he was smoking. Ivan wasn't far gone enough to be able to recognize cigarette brands by the cigar.

Eventually, the raven sniffed, wiped at his still-damp eyes again, and tried to rally.

“You’re going to smell so gross after this.”

Till glanced at him, unbothered. “Well, you already do. What's the difference?”

Ivan scowled, puffy eyes squinting the best they could between his drying tears. “Excuse me?”

“You smell like sweat, nerves, and whatever hot shot body wash you use. Is this one verbena, too?”

“It’s called sandalwood,” Ivan snapped. “It’s a classic.”

“It’s pretentious.”

“You’re pretentious.”

Till chuckled, looking a bit crazed.

“Do you even know what that word means?”

Ivan bristled. “I'll have you know my vocabulary is far more extensive than yours.”

“And you know this, how?”

“Lucky guess.”

Till took another drag, then flicked the ash again without replying.

Ivan folded his arms, sulking now. One of Till's hands stayed warm against Ivan’s lower back. His fingers twitched occasionally, clearly thinking about something.

Ivan narrowed his eyes.

“What,” he said finally, “are you thinking about?”

Till exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and stared at it for a long moment. His lips parted as he looked back down and the edge of his mouth curled up.

“Have you ever smoked before?”

The question was so unexpected that Ivan didn't even have the mind to point out the textbook deflection his past self had spoken about Till's issue with. 

Ivan blinked. “What?”

“Cigarettes,” Till clarified. “Weed. Vapes. Life-ruining vices.”

“No,” Ivan replied flatly, wrinkling his nose. “That’s detrimental to your well-being.”

Till grinned, bright and amused. “So you’ve never tried?”

He looked way too happy for Ivan to feel safe with whatever he was planning. “Why would I?”

“Because it’s fun.”

The raven rolled his eyes at the idiotic response.

“An activity being fun does not always mean it is something you are encouraged to engage in.”

Till sighed, almost mocking of the way Ivan did when he was frustrated or looking to piss off the elder. “As always, you're so uptight. A shame.”

Ivan glared. “I’m not ruining my lungs just to fit in with your little band of chain-smoking degenerates.”

Till laughed condescendingly. “Just say you’re scared. It's okay, I'll understand. You are young, after all.”

Ivan sat up straighter, affronted. “I’m not scared.”

“You’re practically trembling.”

“That’s because you blew smoke in my eyes, not because I’m scared of some dumb cigarette.”

Till tilted his head. “So if I offered, you’d take a hit?”

“I just said—”

“Not directly,” Till interrupted. “Through me.”

Ivan blinked. His eyes felt dry. “What does that even mean?”

Till didn’t clarify. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and held it there. His chest lifted, ribs expanding under Ivan’s hands where they rested, still caught on the slope of his torso.

Then he leaned in.

Ivan’s back stiffened immediately. Every muscle from his shoulders down went tight. He didn’t know where to look. His breath stopped short.

Till’s hand at his lower back slid upward, palm dragging heat across his spine. His other hand lifted with purpose, fingers settling along the side of Ivan’s face, skin-to-skin, warm and dry. His thumb found the line beneath Ivan’s chin and tilted upward, steady and precise. The contact was quiet but firm. He wasn’t pushing. He was arranging Ivan the way he wanted him, like some sort of doll or puppet.

“Shotgun,” Till murmured. His breath touched Ivan’s lips when he spoke.

Ivan parted his mouth to ask what that was. He didn’t get to.

Till leaned closer. Their faces met at the center, mouths a fraction apart, the space between them filled instantly. For a brief moment, the raven thought the other was about to kiss him, but then smoke left Till’s lungs and passed directly into Ivan’s. The breath came full and unfiltered, heated from his chest, expelled with focus. 

The warmth reached Ivan first, brushing over his tongue, pulling past his teeth. He inhaled reflexively. His chest accepted it before his brain caught up, body betraying him completely.

The smoke caught at the back of his throat, clung to the soft tissue, and spilled into his lungs before he could pull away.

Ivan could taste it, feel it settle, thick and bitter across the roof of his mouth. The pressure of it traveled down his chest and his diaphragm convulsed.

He coughed hard, the sound bursting from his mouth too wet and too loud. His shoulders jerked forward, lips parting wider from the force. His breath skipped again. He sucked in air that still tasted like Till’s.

Minty.

Till didn’t flinch. His hand didn’t move. His thumb remained at Ivan’s jaw. His fingers rested along the hinge, still holding him in place. His face stayed close, his lips slightly parted, the end of his exhale still lingering on the edge of Ivan’s skin.

Ivan gasped again, not from need, but from panic. His lungs ached. His throat burned. The smoke hadn’t left yet, clinging behind his palate while eyes prickled with moisture for the second time that night.

Till watched him, expression unchanging. If Ivan wasn't so out of it, he might've noticed the rapid darkening of the elder's gaze as he watched on.

Ivan's lips were slightly damp from the breath they had just shared. He hadn’t blinked. He lifted his sleeve and rapidly wiped at his mouth. His hand was shaking and his chest heaved with another shallow breath. The heat still pooled beneath his skin and he could feel the shape of Till’s fingers even after they dropped from his face.

He could also feel the trace of that breath across his lips.

Till appeared utterly unrepentant, still holding the cigarette between his fingers like he was considering doing it again.

“What the hell was that?” Ivan wiped his mouth, but it didn’t do anything. His lips still felt hot. His jaw still remembered where Till’s hand had been.

“Shotgun,” Till said, like it was obvious. “Didn’t I say?”

Ivan pulled back farther, not all the way off his lap, but just enough to breathe better. His lungs still burned. His pride burned worse. “You can’t just—”

“You breathed it in,” Till cut in, not giving him the chance to finish. The same mean smile from before resurfaces on his face. “Didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t know you were going to assault me with your lung rot!”

Till hummed. “Oh, well. You know now, right? Aren't I so nice?”

Ivan scrambled for dignity he couldn't find, possibly because he'd never had it to begin with.

He wiped at his mouth again like that would erase the heat still clinging there, even though it was pointless. The smoke hadn’t even been the worst part. It was Till’s fingers, still gentle on his jaw, not trying to tease, just holding him still. 

Ivan looked away.

Till didn’t say anything at first and the raven hated how comfortable he looked. How right he looked, slouched in that god-awful leather sofa, one hand on Ivan’s hip, the other lazily holding a cigarette like he didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that Ivan was still sitting in his lap.

Ivan sniffed.

“You’re different,” he muttered.

Till glanced at him. “That’s vague.”

“On stage,” Ivan clarified. “And here.”

A pause.

“Oh yeah?” Till exhaled, smoke drifting between them.

Jesus, that was hot. Why was that hot? Why was Till hot? 

Ivan shrugged. “You’re louder when you sing.”

“That’s usually how that works.”

“Not what I meant.”

Till didn’t press. He just waited. Like he knew Ivan would keep going if he let the silence stretch long enough.

He was right, of course.

Ivan crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, then shifted like he might get up, but didn’t. 

“You act like you don’t care about anything,” Ivan muttered. “But up there it’s—” He cut himself off, suddenly annoyed with the sound of his own voice.

Till tapped ash into the tin on the table. “It’s what?”

Ivan pretended not to hear him.

He focused on smoothing the hem of his skirt instead, his fingers dragging across the fabric like that would give him something solid to hold onto. It didn’t. The room felt weirdly small all of a sudden, like the air had thickened around them without permission. He hated how hot his legs felt. How warm his lap was. How his knees were still brushing against the outside of Till’s thighs like it was allowed.

He shifted again.

Till didn’t say anything, but the hand on his back pressed in a little, a subtle nudge that meant: don’t.

Ivan inhaled through his nose, suppressing a shudder.

Surprisingly, Till didn’t tease him for it. 

“I didn’t expect it to suit you,” Ivan said, softer. “But it does. Being around people. Even though I only really want you to be around me.”

Ivan glanced sideways, already regretting what he’d said. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. Some playful remark, maybe. A scoff. Something shallow he could push back against. But Till didn’t do that. He was still just watching him, waiting to see what Ivan would do with the silence.

Ivan couldn’t do anything with it.

He squirmed instead, posture tightening as if that could somehow put distance between them.

Till exhaled smoke, soft and thin, curling out between them.

Then, “Give me your hand.”

Ivan frowned. “Why?”

Till didn’t answer. He simply held Ivan’s gaze and extended his hand, waiting.

Ivan hesitated, because he had a natural instinct to do the exact opposite of whatever it was Till wanted him to do. He should’ve said no. Better yet, he should’ve gotten up.

But his own hand moved anyway, drifting upward just a little, hanging between them with no direction, as if some part of him hadn’t gotten the message that he wasn’t going to reach for anything.

Till caught it before he could change his mind.

His touch wasn’t rushed. He turned Ivan’s hand palm-up, adjusted the angle, and wrapped his fingers neatly around his wrist. His grip was steady, not tight. Just secure. 

Then, without raising his voice or giving the moment any kind of ceremony, he brought the lit end of the cigarette down and pressed it directly into the pad of Ivan’s index finger.

The pain hit fast. A clean line of heat that made no room for delay.

Ivan flinched hard. His whole body recoiled on instinct. His breath stuttered against the edge of his teeth and broke on a soft, involuntary gasp that didn’t sound like anything he had meant to make.

He yanked his hand back, the motion messy, awkward, rushed by panic. His other hand flew up to cradle the one Till had touched. “Ow—”

His voice cracked at the end. He winced at how it sounded. That should have been the worst part, but it wasn’t.

“Why would you—” He started to ask, but the shape of the question got stuck in his throat.

Till didn’t move. He flicked the cigarette into the ash tin, unfazed.

Ivan stared at his finger. It wasn’t even that bad. There was barely a mark, only a little welt forming in the skin, but it stung.

For some reason, his brain gave him the image of his old nanny crouching beside him after he fell in the hallway as a child, one knee to the floor, her voice perfectly measured. It’s okay, young one. Whenever you get hurt, ask for help. We can’t have someone of such importance getting harmed.

Ivan didn't know how to ask for help right now, so he just said the sentence at the forefront of his mind.

“It hurts,” he whimpered, voice quieter now, but still pitched high with indignation. He didn’t even realize he was pouting.

“Aw,” Till said, drawing the syllable out just enough to make it sting. “Do you have a boo-boo, sweetheart?”

Ivan’s face went hot all at once. His ears, his neck, the edges of his scalp. All of it burned deeper than the welt on his finger. He barely had time to pull back before Till reached again.

Till caught his wrist in one hand. His grip didn’t tighten, didn’t yank or restrain, just steadied Ivan’s arm with an ease that made it feel practiced. His fingers wrapped around the joint with just enough pressure to remind Ivan that he could pull away, but wasn’t.

Then his mouth lowered to the burn.

The contact was immediate. His lips sealed over the sensitive skin with a heat that felt deliberate. Wet, but not messy. Soft in a way Ivan hadn’t expected. The warmth of his breath clung to the spot before his tongue moved, slow and patient, circling the welt with such unnerving care that Ivan’s brain dropped straight out of his body.

Thumpthumpthumpthump—

Ivan’s breath got stuck somewhere in his chest. His hand twitched once, instinct jerking upward in a half-formed retreat, but Till’s grip held.

Ivan, ever the fool, let him.

The sting didn’t leave, but it dulled. It blurred. The pain folded in on itself and dissolved into something less defined. Ivan couldn’t tell whether his skin still hurt or if his attention had just gone elsewhere. The heat from Till’s mouth didn’t fade after he pulled back. It spread lower, coiling warm in his stomach.

Till pulled back slowly.

His lips parted like he meant to say something.

He didn’t.

He just looked up at him.

Ivan’s breath hitched. His hand was still hovering between them, wrist caught in Till’s fingers, his pulse skittering under the surface, nowhere else to go.

He was so warm he could barely think.

Till hadn't moved, and neither had he. Ivan could still feel the ghost of his mouth on his finger, the damp imprint of it, like it had marked him. His thoughts were fraying, getting louder and messier, pushing in all at once. He didn't know what he was supposed to say.

He also didn't know why he wasn't getting up.

“I don't understand you." The raven finally muttered.

Till hummed, a noncommittal sound, and took another slow drag from the cigarette.

Ivan shifted against him, just a little, but the movement made everything worse. He was all too aware of the way his thighs ached and how the back of his neck was sticky. His skin buzzed with a kind of hotness that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“You act like I’m the one who’s— who’s always making things weird,” he added, quieter. “But you’re the one doing this.”

“Doing what,” Till asked, lazy.

“This.” Ivan waved his hand, still caught in Till’s grip, vaguely and without direction. “The touching, the smoke, the—whatever that licking thing was.”

Till grinned at that part, only continuing to contribute to the growing heat in Ivan's stomach.

“You were upset. I helped.”

“You burned me!”

“You let me.”

Ivan made a sound in his throat. It slipped out before he could stop it, high and messy, too close to a whine to defend. “That doesn’t mean anything! You can’t just do things and then act like I asked for them.”

“Mm.” Till took another drag. “But you did ask that time.”

“No, I didn’t—!”

“That so?” He tilted his head. “You gave me your hand.”

“I thought you were going to— I don’t know, hold it?!”

“Why would I hold your hand?”

Ivan flushed. “I don’t know. You’re the weird one, not me.”

A bold-faced lie. How brave.

“Didn’t say you were weird,” Till replied. “Just very dramatic. Exaggerative.”

Ivan just barely but back a comment about Till using big boy words before replying in a hardly convincing voice.

“I’m not exaggerative.”

“You’re in my lap whining about being touched while still letting me touch you. That's contradictory, you know.”

Ivan opened his mouth, blinked, and forgot what he was going to say.

Till’s mouth curled again. “Or do you want to complain about that, too?”

Ivan blinked at him, disbelieving, as if the question alone was an act of violence.

His mouth opened, probably to argue, but the words tangled on the way out and dissolved before he could form a single one. He looked away instead, like hoping that breaking eye contact might make the heat in his face back off.

It didn’t.

“You think you’re so clever,” Ivan muttered, voice thin, all the edges sanded off.

“No,” Till said, taking another slow drag. “Just observant.”

“Right. Of course.” Ivan tugged at the sleeve of his sweater. “You just go around setting people on fire and breathing smoke in their faces for observation.”

Ironic, considering how the desire to observe is what got Ivan into this situation to begin with. He was a raging hypocrite.

Till just chuckled lowly in a way that pressed against every one of the younger's nerves, butterflies once in his stomach now flying up to escape his throat.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

Ivan curled in slightly.

He wasn’t sure when his throat got so dry. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Till was still holding his hand, thumb resting so lightly against his palm it didn’t even count as a touch, save for the fact that Ivan could feel it everywhere. His whole arm felt numb and his legs were worse. One of them was still stretched across Till’s lap, and if he moved, it would mean something. If he didn’t, it would mean more.

He watched the side of Till’s face. His lashes looked darker from this angle. How unfair and unnecessary genetics were. And this was Ivan saying that.

Fine. Ivan could be unfair, too.

“You gonna keep holding my hand, or are you waiting for a proposal?” The younger said, shy smile gracing his features.

Till didn’t answer. His jaw tensed like he’d chewed glass. His grip didn’t loosen either.

Ivan lifted his knee just slightly, thigh nudging up into Till’s side. 

“You kissed me,” he murmured.

“I kissed your burn,” Till responded, finally. His voice was flat, but Ivan could hear the thinly veiled restraint behind it. He was so close. “Don’t get excited.”

Ivan’s stomach twisted. Just a bit more.

“You kissed me,” he repeated, slower this time. “You didn’t have to.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But you did.”

Till exhaled through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just saying, you held my hand first. You kissed first. That was all you.”

Till let go.

Ivan didn’t move his hand, opting to leave it there, hovering in the space where Till’s fingers had been.

“I’m not the one with boundary issues,” Ivan added, lifting his eyebrows. “You can’t play the mature adult and then do stuff like that. It’s misleading.”

Till turned toward him. His expression wasn’t angry, exactly, but his eyes had that look again — the one that made Ivan feel warm and exposed in ways that had nothing to do with the smoke. It made his skin prickle.

“You want me to be more clear?” Till drawled.

Ivan’s mouth went dry again.

“I just think,” he tried, forcing his tone back up, “if you’re gonna flirt with me, you could at least commit to it. Instead of making me do all the heavy lifting.”

Till didn’t smile. “You think you’re lifting anything right now?”

Ivan shifted his weight, letting his leg drag a little further across Till’s lap. “I’m lying here with my legs on you. You think I do this for anyone else? Some people would kill to be in your position.”

Ivan's fear of being unwanted was momentarily quelled by the flare of possessiveness that rose in Till's eyes at the implications of his words.

“You’re a brat,” Till growled.

“And you like it,” Ivan shot back, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling.

Till didn’t respond. His eyes dropped, slow, to where Ivan’s shirt had slipped down over his collarbone. His stare stayed there for too long, as usual.

Ivan licked his lips, not even trying to be sensual. They'd just gotten too dry. Till's eyes tracked the movement anyway.

This time, Ivan wet his lips on purpose. “You’re looking again.”

“You make it hard not to.”

The words landed lower in Ivan’s stomach than he expected. He swallowed and leaned in a little, elbow digging into the cushion, voice nearly smug now.

“Then maybe stop pretending you don’t want to touch me.”

Till's grip tightened to the point where one of his veins was visible, tensing on his arm.

“Ivan.”

Ivan smiled, wide and sweet, all teeth. “What?”

Till’s stare didn’t waver. His hand clenched once, jaw tight again.

Ivan let his voice drop, just a little. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”