Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Fuck, where is it? I swear I left it somewhere…” Till scavenges through his bag frantically, his tired eyes scanning each nook and cranny, determined to find his sketchbook that had been jumbled up in his pile of junk. He barely had enough sleep as of yesterday, too busy experimenting on the latest clothing styles and trends, sketching out new outfit ideas for the following week. Monday be damned, he doesn't have the energy to focus on his lectures. His thoughts, now in a tangle of wire, as he finds himself at the pits of frustration once again, his patience thinning with each passing second.  “Well, screw me in the ass.” He sighs, tossing away crumpled notes, lost pen caps and leftover chewing gum, reprimanding himself for not organising his items beforehand. 

What a mess–just like himself.

Eyes fixated at the white board, he thinks that if he stares intensely enough, he would've suddenly remembered where he had left his junk. Whether out of boredom, or from desperateness. 

Typically, Ivan would've made fun of him for committing such a silly mistake and they would bicker it out like children, occasionally landing each other a playful punch or two. Then, Ivan would miraculously return the items Till needed. Somehow, he always had his way of retrieving Till's lost items, almost as if he had a GPS fastened onto his belongings somewhere–something Till could never fathom.  

If only Ivan was here, and not avoiding him.

Till's certain that the damned jock is purposely ignoring him. It must be. After all, Ivan hasn't been replying to his texts since last week, and he even had the audacity to cancel his video calls. As if he had lost interest in Till and decided to ghost him, no longer willing to entertain his antics anymore..To think that he volunteered to be Till's strategist, only to back out last minute. 

For God's sake, it's not like Till craved for his attention or something, he's definitely not the type to attach easily to Ivan's affection, it's just so uncharacteristic for Ivan to just leave Till in suspense. After all, he would've never relinquish the chance to tease Till. Till could even guarantee that Ivan would seize this great opportunity. So what if he’s busy with his studies and curriculars? That doesn’t mean he can't squeeze in some time to properly respond to Till's texts.

So here Till is, preoccupied with his thoughts, trying to rid off the anxiety by drawing. Because that's the only thing he is good at, avoiding confrontation. He just have to sketch his problems away and wait for Ivan to magically pop back into his life. And Ivan would, he's sure of it.

Because Ivan had never given up on him.

“Damn it!” He cusses, earning weird looks from his seat mates, to which he apologises softly for causing a scene. Grabbing his phone, he scrolls through the past messages he had spammed Ivan's DMs with, whether unconscious or not, gritting his teeth when the double checkmark remains gray. Worse, Ivan had not been reading his messages at all. It would've been better if Ivan at least acknowledged him.

He's certain that he had done nothing wrong ever. At least, not done enough for Ivan to just avoid him like a plague. Till didn't even bother to check up on Ivan physically, and he wonders if he should be the one to initiate the first move.

Ivan this, Ivan that–he’s starting to become his fanboy? Ivan’s femboy? No, more like a deranged ex harassing his boyfriend. Suffering from Ivan withdrawal. Now that he had flooded Ivan's phone with hundreds of messages, Ivan could've just filed a police report for assault. How ridiculous. Till mentally chokes at the thought. He's not going to prison for unintentionally being a freak. 

“Luka,” Till calls, finally acknowledging the blond wasian who had been side-eyeing his unusual crash out since the beginning, probably amused by him, as if he's witnessing a live circus. “Have you seen Ivan recently?” He gulps, wringing his hands, hoping that at least Luka would have a clue.

“No.” Of course Luka deadpans at him, Till really could not blame him, he too would not want to deal with a sore loser on a monday morning. “He's probably somewhere dead in a ditch.” He adds without missing a beat, drumming his fingers along the table, half annoyed at Till for wasting his time. Nevertheless, he doesn't leave Till hanging and awkward unlike someone else , and Till is grateful for that.

“Oh. Good for him.” Till laughs dryly, clearing his throat. 

“Ouch. Boarding the Ivan hate train today?” A voice calls, and Luka visibly flinches when a hand is wrapped around his shoulder, the sudden warmth pricking his skin–but that annoyance was soon toned down to fondness when he realized it was Hyuna. “Hiya Till, it's been a while.” Her gaze gentle as spring breeze, just pouring with life. Energetic as ever, Hyuna waves at him with a cheeky grin, to which Luka shot Till a death glare for daring to capture her attention first.

Yeah. Hyuna can have that maniac to himself. Till wishes her luck, and makes a mental note not to mingle in their business anymore.  

“Hyuna!” Till exclaims, at least there is one sensible person in this room, “do you know where Ivan is?” He asks, clinging onto her like his last hope. After all, his social circle is quite pitifully limited. Subtracting Luka, Mizi and Sua, he's left with Ivan and Hyuna. He wonders if he should subtract Ivan from his list of friends now that Ivan is not paying attention to him. 

“No clue. What's the commotion about?” She purses her lips, seemingly lost in thought, trying to recall past interactions with Ivan. “Oh, let me in on the drama please. What did he do this time, to make our guitarist so pumped up?” As always, she teases him until his face is bright pink, laughing at his flustered demeanor. Luka had long exited their conversation, prefering to braid Hyuna's hair rather than listening to Till's vents, humming a tune as his fingers tenderly card through her brown strands. 

“Ack! Luka, be gentle on the ends!” She hisses, tears pricking from her eyes when he tugged a bit too harshly.

“Sorry, I'll be more careful. Can I treat you to a cafe as compensation?” His soft laughter echoes, like a soothing lullaby, and Hyuna finds herself unintentionally blooming red from his invitation. 

Till observes, his face scrunched up in disgust, knowing that he had become the third wheel against his wheel. He gagged internally as if he was trapped in the romantic subplot he never asked to witness. So this was love. Gross.

He never knew Luka could be this gentle around someone else. The way he holds her hand, softly tracing along her fingers, almost as if she's a god he's made to worship. Someone notorious for being indifferent when it comes to socializing; yet at Hyuna's presence, he melts to her knees, quivers under her shadow, and his world restarts anew. That joyous face of his, to say the least, is diabolical. Till swears that if not for his presence, he would bury his head into her stomach and nuzzle her like an obedient dog.

Gross.

“Ivan's not responding to me. If you both could pay attention and help me out, please.” Loud and annoyed, Till breaks apart the lovey-dovey tension between them, tone laced with spite, reminding them that he's not just a piece of furniture watching their show of affection.

“Uh-oh, someone's upset!” She smirks, satisfied with her conclusion, tutting in dismay. “Till, oh Till, you are the funniest person ever.” Worse, she reads him easily like a book, delighted by his despairing groans when he slams his fist onto the table.

“I'm not upset! Just concerned, okay? Why would I be upset anyways?” Till huffs, a childish retort, still irritated by the fact that none of them are taking him seriously. 

“Because you are no longer the center of his attention? Poor Till, just discarded just like that.” Till was caught off guard, his face paled in aghast that Luka would suddenly attack him like that, weaponizing his cold remarks to the fullest. As much as Till tries to deny the fact that he's sensitive, Luka has successfully struck a nerve, and the fight in Till extinguishes like a deflated balloon. The man had barely looked up in his direction, yet his lips were curved up in a mocking grin, having won the war without trying.

“Hey! Shut up, lover boy!” Till snarls, scavenging and protecting his last shred of dignity, having nothing left. 

“Okay, loner boy.” Luka murmurs, shooting him a deliberate wink, slow and exaggerated, like a punchline to a joke only he found funny. He then fakes a gasp,  “oh, oops, must be the wind.” As if he wasn't the one who grilled him on the spot, like a madman. 

“You–” Now he's even more infuriated that Luka can come up with a brilliant comeback, all while having a gorgeous girlfriend and being the top of their course. The universe is not fair, and if the world adores Luka; Till is a hater, and if Luka has no haters, he would be deceased.

“Okay, calm down, both of you.” Hyuna sighs, continuing the topic, leading them right back on track, a tired smile plastered on her face, “you need to be more specific, Till. Details please?”

“Luka would make fun of me!” He knows Hyuna would too, but Till chose to omit that part because he's nice and Hyuna is doing it for a good cause, unlike some lovesick bastard. 

“It's my favourite hobby.” Luka hums, stirring a reaction out of Till, who's already balling his fists with his ears fuming, ready to combust from Luka's provocation. Yeah, Ivan's right, as much as he hates to admit he's too hot-headed for his own good. 

“Okay Luka, stop riling him up.” Hyuna tuts, pinching the bridge of Luka's nose with her fingers, flicking the tip playfully as a warning—if only that works as planned, because he merely laughs, surprised by her antics.

“Ew. Anyways,” His eyebrow twitches in annoyance, yet all he could do is sigh in exhaustion. One day, this would be him and his love too, and he's manifesting it to happen. That day would not be far away. “Ivan hasn't been contacting me for the past week. I tried calling him and spamming his DMs, still no clue why he's… avoiding me on purpose. I don't think I've done anything wrong. Could you guys try texting him?” He didn't dare to look at their expression, scared to read their thoughts, would rather stare at his static shadow instead.

“What have you done for the past few weeks before this?” Hyuna arches her brow, analysing the root of the problem, snapping her fingers to get Till's attention.

“Oh he–” Luka hums, wanting to continue with the narrative, but it takes a split second for him to keep his lips shut to watch the drama unfold. He wouldn't want his love to gush over an emo femboy when he, the perfect boyfriend, is right here, ready to pounce into her arms. 

“Long story. Just that I relied on him to do something for me, and now he's suddenly cutting me off contact. We were perfectly fine the week before this happened too.” Maybe he was a bit harsh on the delivery, but that's what Till truly had felt. He's being toyed with, for God's sake! Still, he doesn't believe he was at any fault. 

“Hmm, sorry Till, you are on your own on this one.” She shrugs, shaking her head in dismay, clicking her teeth.

“Huh? Why?!”

“He's not responding to me either. So don't worry, perhaps you are not the one receiving the ‘special treatment’.” She reassures half-heartedly, tilting her phone screen towards him as proof that she's not lying just to make him feel better, which Till is grateful for.

So Ivan is not contacting his friends either.

This is both comforting and worrying.

What the hell has gotten into him?

“I–fine, thank you Hyuna. I will get this sorted out soon.” He leaves the room with his heart heavy, not even paying a farewell for the couple, too lost in his own thoughts. He'd cussed when he accidentally stubbed his toe, but pretended to be fine like always, because he's not a sore loser, but a matured adult. 

He can handle this.

“Hope that they can resolve their issues soon.” Hyuna murmurs, sighing when Till's shadow slowly fades away, turning her head towards Luka, albeit still wearing a face of worry. It's rather unusual seeing Till this dejected, as if he just got his life sucked out of him, leaving an empty, hollow shell. 

“Don't even bother with them, Noona. Ivan is just scheming something again. It's awfully funny how that dumbass doesn't realize that he's being set up.” Rolling his eyes, Luka is glad that now Till is gone, he can finally spend his time alone with his beloved. Finally, at least Till knows how to read the root.

“You sure know a lot about him.” 

“That's not a compliment. Gross.” 

She laughs, and pulls him into a tight embrace.

Why is Ivan giving him an attitude for? Sure, he may not be the best friend ever, but it doesn't warrant him to ghost him like that. 

Till had been fighting off this weird feeling gnawing at his heart while sauntering his way home. Like an invisible blade, it stabs and twists into his heart, not enough to bleed, but just enough to sting. His focus dissipates as he wanders off, his judgement clouded and vision blurry. Despite trying his best to play pretend as if everything reverted to normal, he couldn't help but be nosy enough to worry. He comforts himself, thinking that he's just overthinking it like he always does. Ivan's probably just caught up with his work again, like the busy person he is. He would never purposely ignore Till. 

He has no choice but to cling onto this belief.

“Bastard…” Till mumbles, anxiously pressing the call button, only for it to hang up seconds after dialing through. “Ugh, why do I even bother?” Dead silence follows, and Till cups his face, groaning agonizingly. Any moment now, he might just crash out.

The late afternoon air did little to calm him. Till hadn’t meant to walk this far around campus, away from his usual route. One minute, he was aimlessly weaving through alleyways, dodging his thoughts. Next, his feet carried him to the university's gym. It looked old but not run-down — its glass windows slightly fogged with age and heat, the walls echoing with muffled music. He pauses, about to turn away, until he catches a glimpse of pink hair. He'd mindlessly stroll around campus, trying to take a breather, only to have his breath taken away.

Movement. Rhythm.

Drawn by curiosity, Till approached, peering through the smudged glass. 

Mizi.

She moved like music made flesh — fluid and wild and completely unaware of the world outside her rhythm. Her hair, tied into a long ponytail, spun with her turns, her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. 

His idol, in the center of the spotlight. 

Till froze, one hand resting against the doorframe. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. She's just right there, so close within his reach. This might just be the closest he's ever gotten to her without Ivan or Sua's assistance. Should he just ask for an autograph now? Is it appropriate?

Then again, Mizi danced like she didn’t need an audience. And Till watched like he couldn’t be anything else.

He ducked behind a bush near the window, heart hammering with each beat heavier than the previous. He didn’t dare approach—not like this. He felt too worn down. Too frayed.

He probably looked like a creep, crouching there. But he didn’t care. Not when, just for a moment, the chaos in his head quieted.

His eyes lit up with awe, watching her practising with a set of pompoms in her cheerleading outfit. Batting her eyelashes, she raises the pompoms in celebration, her heartfelt laughter sending butterflies in his stomach. 

Her charisma and stage presence is insane. The prettiest and the coolest person ever.  If only he could be someone like her. 

Eventually, he works up the courage to approach her, awkwardly knocking on the door before entering the gym. Voices buzzed around him. Athletes milled about, mostly members of the basketball team taking water breaks or tossing glances his way — some confused, some amused. He paid no attention to them and slowly approached her, his footsteps as gentle as a cat to not interrupt her flow.

Before he could utter a word, she's already waving in his direction, ecstatic as ever. He's been caught red handed. Till gulps, his breath quickening, as he musters an apology. 

“Mizi, I didn’t mean to interrupt your cheer routine–”

“Till! Have you heard about Ivan’s football match tomorrow?” Strands of her pink hair framed her face like they knew how perfect they looked doing it. That smirk — sharp and utterly magnetic — tugged at the corners of her lips as she waved him over. She wipes off her sweat with a towel, and playfully elbows him by surprise, darting him a playful wink. 

“Oh! You are cheering for that bastard?” He blurted, the words slipping out sharper than intended. The mention of Ivan again makes him uneasy. Just when he thinks that he can brush away his worries, it comes crashing again like a tide. He might just drown right here and call it a day. “Wait, he has a football match? He didn't inform me about this.” It makes no sense for Ivan to just hide this from him. Ivan had never left him out of anything, never kept in the dark just like this. How is he the last person to know about this? Like they were no more than strangers. It felt like being ghosted by gravity itself — like the world kept spinning but forgot to keep him grounded.

“Yeah, he's the ace of our school after all! We need him to win, as much as you regard him as a bastard!” Mizi says, completely missing the confusion flickering across his face. She chuckles softly along with her own words. Till is probably wearing a sour expression right now, so she spares him the sight by quickly changing the subject. “Besides, Sua likes seeing me in this outfit! She's so stressed from her projects recently, I just want her to relax a bit, you know? Be her cheerleader.”

“Oh,” Till coughs, “I– also think you look cute–”

“Thank you!” Mizi beams confidently, accepting the warm compliment. “Do you have free time tomorrow?” 

His eyes widened in disbelief, jaw hanging agape, his trembling figure painting him as a weirdo.

Mizi is asking him out. 

To think that he would be deserving of this. To think that she would spend her time on an outcast like him.

He thinks he might just ascend to heaven, right here, right now.

Perhaps he's the chosen one? His hard work finally paid off? Should he buy a lottery ticket on his way home? No, he should be getting flowers, chocolate, anything Mizi prefers!

“O–of course! Why wouldn't I?” He sounds so stupid right now, stammering and babbling nonsense, trying his best to suppress the joy in his tone. He's just so ridiculously tense. If Ivan is right here, he would definitely tease him and mock his disposition. He scowls at the thought.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Mizi sighs of relief, her tensed shoulders finally relaxed as she grabs him by his hands, thanking him for listening to her whims.  The moment her fingertips grazed over his, Till freezes in an instant, retracting from her grip, his hair now standing on ends, shaking with excitement.

Is it finally the time?

Hah, take that, Ivan. He could confess without needing his help at all!

“Mizi, I–”

“I have a favour to ask from you, Till! Please help me out! It’s very urgent!” She cuts him off abruptly, her palms pressed together as if she's begging him for help, hints of desperation laced in her tone. 

Favour? From someone like him? Shouldn't it be the opposite instead?

“Mizi, please calm down!” Till could feel his brain overheat, wires tangled and screws coming loose as his breath quickens with each second. “What do you need help with? I'll do my best, you have my word. Just ask away!” He could do this!

“I’m going to assign you an important duty.” She remarks seriously, taking a deep breath before her eyes meet his, burning with passion. 

“Yes.” He's being assigned an important task. He will take this on with honour and march to death if it requires so. 

“Till, I need you as a cheerleader for tomorrow.” 

Huh…?

Eh?!

Till startles, riddled with confusion, frozen into place. 

This is not within what he had expected. Nevermind, he will adapt and compromise.

“Huh? I'm sorry, I don't quite get it.” He scratches the back of his nape, now embarrassed, “why?” Perhaps the maid event was too impactful on her, that she thought that he would be the best candidate?

Seriously, Ivan was right all along? 

Still, a cheerleader? Someone like him? It would be a miracle if he doesn't bring down anybody's mood, actually. He's not even being sarcastic.

“One of my teammates backed out at the last minute. We need a replacement as soon as possible. The match is tomorrow, and we need you, Till! You were the first one that came to my mind for this activity!” She reasons, her eyes glossy, probably from sweat or desperation. 

“Me?! Really?!” The first choice that came to her mind… Till just melts in excitement and accepts the invite, “s-sure! Count me in! But I don't know how to dance…” He would've consulted Ivan if not for his sudden disappearance. 

No, now's not the time to focus on that jock!

“Duh, I’ll teach you, silly! Thank you so much!!” Mizi finally reverts back to her cheerful self, Till is just relieved seeing her pumped up and ready for tomorrow.

“You should try on the outfits! Oh, I picked one for you, you'll look great!” Mizi grins, leading him to the dressing room, where the uniform is hung. 

“Yeah!” Matching outfits with Mizi?! Isn't this a bit too fast?! He had barely confessed! 

He's just so damned lucky today! 

“Oh, you are beautiful!” Mizi clasps her hands together in awe, her eyes gleaming with hope when Till exits the dressing room, now that they are both back at the dance hall. “It fits you well!” She nods, satisfied with the overall presentation, her grin wide and confident.

“This is a bit over the top… don't you think so?” Till winces, pinching the neat pleats of the skirt, rubbing the polyester fabric with the tips of his fingers. The material isn't that bad per se, just that the hem of the skirt barely covers his rear, only an inch away from him flashing his boxers. No wonder he hears the girls complaining about the cheerleader uniforms—it's ridiculously short. For a second, he contemplates wearing white pantyhose to adorn his legs and compliment the outfit, perhaps even accessorizing it a bit to make it less boring—however, the thoughts were immediately discarded. He is adamant on not getting addicted to this mini dress up game. It's just temporary. Nothing permanent at all. There's no way, in hell, that he actually enjoys dressing like this.

“Mizi– is there really nothing else I could wear? No male uniforms?” Despite his reddened complexion, he managed to muster enough courage to suggest a change, his knees shaking from the cold breeze, still not accustomed to his new attire. Mizi laughs along the trembles of his tone, and slaps him on the back tauntingly.

“Don't worry, Till. You look great! I'm sure that you will kill it on the field tomorrow!” She gently pats Till on the shoulder, reassuring the emo goth that he had done his best. Still, Till knows that the only thing he will kill is the mood. He might just not live up to the weight of her expectations.

“Yo. Who's that, Mizi? A newbie?” A guy whistles—probably from the basketball team, interrupts their conversation, eyeing him up and down with an impressed huff. Mizi scowls in response, and stands in front of Till protectively. “Oh, you're really pretty for a dude. Such a killer waist. You're cheering for us, cherry pop?” The crowd bursts into wolf whistles, clearly feeding off Till’s flustered reaction. But he doesn’t flinch. He glares daggers at them, jaw clenched, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Mocking laughter erupts—louder now. As if this is some kind of game. His face scrunches at the corny pickup lines, goosebumps prickling his skin. God, if only Ivan were here—he’d knock the smug off their faces. Maybe break a nose. Or two.

“That’s enough,” Mizi snaps, voice tight. She gulps as more basketball players start to circle them, their curious, lecherous stares crawling over Till like insects.

Disgusting.

“We’re just admiring the beauties,” Buzzcut chimes in mockingly, clearly ignoring the warning. “We’ll get back to practice in a minute.”

Till doesn’t wait.

“Fuck off.”

He grabs the guy by the collar and slams a punch into his face. He knows he’s not the strongest, but he’s not about to stand there and take it. Not when Mizi is right there.

“Damn, you're a feisty bitch alright. Okay okay, no need to bare your fangs at us. Chill.” Said person snickers, catching his fists with ease, peering at his waist, all up until his balled fists. “You call this a punch? Seriously? You can't even land a scratch with these scrawny arms.” 

“Why not step closer then? So I can gouge your eyes out and shove it up your rectum for you to see how much of an ass you are.” 

“Enough now.” Sua cuts in, breaking the thick, awkward tension. Her stare was much for colder, much more intimidating compared to his, as much as Till is afraid to admit. The crowd finally disperses, leaving behind a trail of annoyed groans and muttered complaints. Soon, it's just the three of them, exiting the gym and walking towards Sua’s dance studio.

“But if you want a fun time, do contact us, sugar.” 

Till promptly flips them off with a scowl.

“Mizi.” Sua clicks her teeth impatiently, pulling her aside from Till, who had been distracted by the earlier commotion. “Does Till really need to join you? Also, you should've just punched those bastards down like how you wrestled Luka.” Her fingers are practically buried into Mizi's shoulder, her gaze seeping with concern—Mizi thinks that if she doesn't let go there would be a permanent scar. 

“Awe, don't worry about me, Sua! I'll fight if necessary, but thank you for looking out for me.” She coos softly, in an attempt to comfort, then embraces her tightly, knowing that she's in the wrong for making her worry. “I'm trying to be a good wingman for Ivan! Trust me!” Her whispers were soft enough for the two of them to hear, and Sua visibly flinched uncomfortably.

“Please don't be mad at me. I promise, this is just a one time thing!” She pecks her on the cheek, and Sua blooms pink, realizing what she had done. Her rosy lip gloss leaves a faint trail of wetness on Sua's face, her touch still lingering, and Sua finds herself vulnerable to her whims once again—she simply melts in her arms, losing herself in the scent of her sweet, intoxicating perfume, hoping that if she latches hard enough Mizi would imprint herself onto her. 

Till stares at them for a second or two, processing the situation, confused to why both of them were suddenly kissing and hugging. Perhaps it's a best friend thing among girls? Yeah, that seems to be the most reasonable case, after all they are the closest to each other, so who is Till to judge? 

“Oh right! The cheer routine. Sorry for making you wait, Till.” 

“Not sorry.” Sua mumbles, puffing her cheeks—Till could only smile awkwardly. What else is he supposed to react with?

“Mizi, do you know what happened to Ivan?” In the midst of practising, Till finally asks, breathless and body aching all over.

“Well, we'll find out tomorrow!” 

Ah, she's so positive, Till can be said to be jealous, even.

Till arrives before the crack of dawn on the next day, in hopes to see a familiar bastard and talk things out before the competition. He inspects the courtyard, lecture halls, garden, and gym—still no presence of Ivan. He texts him again, and calls—a dead line. 

Stupid Ivan. 

Till resents him. Hates him so much for making him feel this way.

Worse, nobody knows what Ivan's up to. As if everyone had collaboratively decided that Till should be kept in the dark.

It's almost half an hour before the match, and still no response. Maybe, just maybe he looks forward to a text. An excuse. A sign that he's doing okay even without Till.

Fine. If Ivan wants to ignore him, so be it.

He storms into the changing room, and gets himself dressed, locking his heart and throwing away the key. There would be no errors, he would not mess up for everyone.

The arena is crowded, and Till was sandwiched amongst people, trying to enter his lane while shuffling through the crowds. He eventually finds Mizi, who had given him a fist bump to motivate him for the long day ahead. He sits on the nearby benches, and waits, counting seconds as the players enter the field gradually. 

“Till…?”

Oh. Now he wants to talk .

Till stares at him, his smile as dry as desert. 

Ivan had the audacity to gasp. To look fazed, even. As if he wasn't prepared for this, wasn't the reason why he's dressed like this today.

“Alright, Mizi, I'm ready.” He glances over him, and saunters off, leaving Ivan frozen in one place, until his teammates are there to knock some senses into him.

Is it possible for someone to be this pretty? Divine, even? Ivan gulps, his whole body trembles, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe—Till had stolen the air from his lungs, all while wearing a sly smirk. Mercilessly. Effortlessly. 

The cream-colored cropped top clings to Till’s light-pinkish skin, sweat shimmering under the sun, and Till just looks so glazed, as if he's bathing in syrup. Ivan’s gaze drifts lower, and his breath catches at the sight of a belly piercing he never knew Till had. He pants heavily at the sight of the toned waist, still glistening with sweat, trying to compose himself, to not ravage Till in the middle of the field. The short skirt punctuates his waist just right—snatched and perfect—and so is Ivan’s attention, utterly fixated. It's so short. And the safety shorts? Even shorter. Ivan's jaw tightens, his gaze darkening with worry—what if someone else saw him like this? What if someone tried something?

And then there are Till’s smooth, plump thighs, one wrapped in a thigh garter. Ivan almost has to choke himself to stop from storming over and wrapping his jacket around him.

Till is like candy wrapped in foil—and Ivan wants to tear it open. To bite it, to gorge himself on the sweetness until he’s drunk on it. Suddenly, his throat goes dry. Scratchy. Sore. Like he's in the middle of a drought, and Till is the only source of water.

The football match had barely begun, and he wonders if this is the real challenge he would have to endure. 

The football match had barely begun, and already, Ivan knows—this is the real challenge.

God. He’s going to get sick from this. A full-body fever. Diagnosis: Till.

“Captain!”

“Coming.” Ivan answers. Yeah, he's coming alright. Definitely.

The whistle blows, a loud reminder.

Ivan flinches like it’s a gunshot. The match has officially started, but he can’t move. Not really. Not when Till’s stretching at the sidelines, arms overhead, revealing just a sliver more skin—his torso taut, glistening, shimmering like temptation itself. Like it's begging Ivan to hold. Ivan grips the hem of his jersey, nails digging in.

Focus. Focus.

But his head is full of the way Till’s skirt flutters with each bounce of his cheer, how it flared when Till raises his leg a bit higher, how his laugh rings like chimes and how Ivan would willingly throw himself into traffic just to hear it again. At least let him reincarnate as Till's thigh garter, so he could wrap himself around the thighs.

His teammates are yelling, the ball is rolling, and somewhere deep in his brain, Ivan knows he’s supposed to be doing something. Blocking. Running. Breathing.

But then Till catches his eye.

Just for a second.

He squints in mockery. Then, like the cruel angel he is, Till calls out for his other teammate. 

Someone else. 

Dewey or something, Ivan had forgotten his name, too fixated on Till.

And then, finally, he turns to him. A catty grin plastered on his face, as if he didn't know the consequences of his actions.

It’s over. Ivan’s a dead man. Right there on the field, laid to rest beneath the weight of a single, devastating smile. 

He turns too late. The ball slams into his chest with a dull thud, knocking the air from his lungs. He coughs, and visions spiral from dizziness, trying to grasp a sense of his surroundings.

“Jesus, Ivan!” someone yells.

He wheezes, bent over, stars flickering behind his eyes. Not from the impact—from Till, who’s now giggling from the sidelines, his hands over his mouth like he didn’t just commit a felony with that look.

Mizi had even given him a thumbs up, a ‘knew you would appreciate this, Ivan!’ Look. Oh, how he adores her, but knows that he would destroy everyone's effort to win the trophy of this season if Till keeps seducing him like that. Unintentionally, even. Is it to get back at him for not responding to his texts? Vengeance, or something sort, which costs Ivan's pride and sanity.

Ivan stumbles back into position, heat climbing up his neck like wildfire. He tries to shake it off, but it’s useless. Every breath tastes like sugar and sweat and want. This isn’t a football match.

This is survival.

And Till? Till is the storm and the prize he yearns to seize.

Ivan looked so fucking stupid.

Till laughs, like he's never seen a person this dumbfounded before. Seriously, he got knocked over just because of a smile?

“Mizi, he's so pathetic.” I'm so much better than him, is what Till wanted to say, but he knows better than to disregard her friendship with Ivan. 

“Guess why?” The fact that Mizi didn't even defend Ivan had Till celebrate his victory by pumping his fists, in this case, his pompoms. Still, Mizi's question left him confused, as he couldn't pinpoint her an answer.

The match continues, the players getting aggressive as time passes by, knocking down each other swiftly, trampling over one and another if anyone gets in their way. It's gruesome, Feeling a sense of chill tingling his spine, Till discards that thought, knowing that the cheer had to go on.

Right. Now moving onto the main task. Impressing Mizi.

Every time their team scores, he cheers a bit louder, not caring if the skirt had hiked up his thigh. Doesn't react when Ivan's heated gaze rests on him, boring into his soul. Mizi shared the same dedication as him, even more now that Sua has arrived, watching her from her seat.

They surely are inseparable, Till thought. 

Just like him and Ivan—no, not that bastard.

He's still mad at him for ghosting him.

Let this be a lesson.

“Hey, what's going on?” Mizi furrows her brow, watching their team underperforms. That's strange—she thought that Ivan would've been more motivated having Till here, now dressed in a cheerleader outfit too. To think that she planned everything carefully only to obstruct him in the end, sigh. Is it because Till didn't call his name? Her best friend is truly childish, she couldn't help but snicker.

His usual rowdiness was thrown to the back of his head, now succumbed by stress. He's embarking on his own expedition, without cooperating with his teammates. 

A loud shout erupts, cheers of victory from the opposite team, and the rival team scores, now reaching a tie.

This has never happen before. At least not when Ivan was around. 

“This is strange.” Till swallows a gulp, his eyes fixated on the players on the field, the captain specifically. Ivan looked so damned upset. Dejected. Betrayed.

Huh. Weird.

“What should we do, Till?” Mizi frowns, worried, “he's never been this… sulky before.”

He's starting to feel anxious as well. Worse, the anxiety stemming from Ivan’s performance is not induced by Mizi. Ivan hadn't been contacting him, coupled with his underperformance today—just what had gotten into him? Why must that bastard play hero and make everyone worry?

Regardless, he needs to turn the tide before Ivan descends to despair and jeopardises his score. 

“That bastard…” Till could feel a vein throb in his temple, nerves tightening his grip on the pompoms until they rustled softly in his hands. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t standby watching Ivan fumble the very sport he had poured himself into—training every day, honing his skills, only to have it all unraveled by a minor mistake. Ivan who had dedicated everything into perfecting his model student title—If Ivan fails now, everything would be over. 

Besides, he still needs his strategist. 

“Don't you dare fucking lose! Ivan! Cheer up!” He doesn't even realize that he had raised his voice, only when people started staring at him weirdly, as if he's some sort of a freak. He couldn't be bothered at this point, even if he had expressed profanity that would trample his reputation ever. It didn't matter, as long as his voice could rip through the crowds and pierce through Ivan's stubborn demeanor. “You better win, got it? I'm cheering for you!” He raises the pompoms, attempting to draw Ivan's attention back to him, inviting more gossip and murmurs. “For you! Specifically!” Perhaps he should have omitted the last part, but he thinks the freak would've appreciated it. 

“So vulgar.” Sua leaned onto her seat, her face burning from second hand embarrassment, but nevertheless smiled when Mizi waved at her direction. Hopefully now Ivan had his shit together. 

“Ivan!”

Said person halts, his attention solely focused on Till. Beads of sweat rolled down Till's chin, flush of redness flared across his face, whether from the blazing sunlight or sheer embarrassment. He knows Till too well. Knows that he's an introvert who likes to keep to himself, who's also too prideful to lose face in front of everyone. Yet, at this very moment, Till's fierceful gaze was too passionate, burning, desperate. It carried a quiet plea, along the lines of want, and need. And just like that, It rekindles the spark and fight in Ivan, who once again finds solace in Till's flames.

“Till…” Ivan laughs, feeling more pumped up than ever, “when did I ever lose?” The crowd erupts with cheers, now that Till had managed to snap Ivan back to his senses. The emo sighs, massaging his temples to soothe the growing headache, and gave Ivan a ‘you better keep your word or I'll strangle you on the spot’ stare.

Yeah, Ivan knows better than that. 

“Yo, Till is cheering for me, specifically. I can't lose.” Ivan declares to Dewey with smugness written all over his face, emphasising hard on the ‘specific’ part. Dewey merely rolled his eyes in response, and punched Ivan on the shoulder to taunt him. 

Right, Ivan still has to win Till over. 

“This guy…” Mizi groans, almost suffering from a heart attack from his sudden shift of moods, her tensed nerves now relaxed as she sighs in relief. “He's only ever hot headed when it comes to you, Till. Seriously. You are like his goddess or something.” She waves her pompoms in joy as Ivan destroys the opposite team, back to his usual demeanor, “go Ivan! Go!”

“Huh?!” Taken aback, Till almost bit his tongue from her comments, hissing in pain. “That's only because he likes making fun of me. Nothing good ever comes out from that bastard.” He murmurs truthfully, cringing internally when Ivan blows him a kiss from the field. His mouth itchy, trying his best not to throw up right here and right now. Isn't this a bit too far now? 

“Ivan genuinely loves you, Till.” Mizi pauses, “I've never seen him this motivated before.” The audience jolts in joy as Ivan scores again, though Ivan is only ever focused on Till. From the beginning, it has always been like this. Mizi just knew. 

“Bah!” Till scrunches his face in disgust when he imagines doing intimate activities with Ivan, like kissing, or holding hands. Still, would that bastard be good at kissing? After all, he seems he’d be a pro at it, with that witty tongue of his, as much as Till refuses to admit. “You’re just making fun of me, Mizi. I mean, no offense, Ivan's just confused.” Till softens his gaze, waving at Ivan now that the raven was pouting from lack of affection, “he just… wants intimacy. He can't differentiate a romantic relationship from a platonic one. Yeah, typical Ivan. You know him. He's only clinging onto me because I don't put him on a pedestal. Because I see him as an equal. Because I tolerate his michieves. Because he can take from me as much as he wanted to.”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? You're quite stubborn, Till.” 

For a moment, the temperature between them drops a few degrees, and Till wonders if he had accidentally said something wrong, because Mizi seemed to have toned down now…and she looks, upset? In a way, with her eyebrows knit together.

“Huh? Did I say something wrong? I apologise…” How could he have been so oblivious? Now that he’d unintentionally caused Mizi discomfort, he had to rebuild the fragile progress between them. He must have said something wrong—she had paused, and in that moment, his words felt like a single droplet falling into still water, shattering her calm and sending concentric ripples of tension racing across her gaze.

“Who knows?” She blinks back to composure, but something’s shifted. “For now, let's do our best to cheer them on.” Till nods, knowing not to pry further.

Of course Ivan had won the match, it was natural for it to happen. Black irises filter the crowds thoroughly, in search of the teal-haired cheerleader. “You never disappoint, Ivan! I was worried for nothing after all.” Mizi chimes in, high-fiving him. He didn't mean to respond to her half-heartedly, just that he was desperate to find that special someone. The heatwave was making him uneasy.

Till had bought some cold drinks from the convenience store nearby, and to his luck, Ivan's favourite beverage was still available. He had bumped into Sua on the way, and they both had awkwardly walked together to find Mizi and Ivan. Till coughs loudly, and shoves a bag of her favourite snacks and Mizi's preferred soda into Sua's arms, to which Sua immediately gets the memo, giving him a nod of approval.

“Mizi!’ She rushes into her arms with the items, and Mizi’s response was immediate and exuberant—she enveloped her in a warm hug, returning her enthusiasm tenfold.

At that moment, relief washed over Till. His shoulders relaxed; the tension he'd been holding seemed to melt away. He could finally breathe.

“Guess that's another big win.” He shrugs nonchalantly, handing Ivan a drink and a snack bar, his skirt swishing with each step as he walks towards him. The changing room is too packed, Till decides that he might just wear this uniform until the crowd has dissipated. Not that he wants to pry a reaction out of Ivan, of course.

“What's on your head just now?” He strikes up a conversation, hopping onto the bench, his skirt flaring up with the sudden movement. He glanced at Ivan, who was still stunned on the ground, jaw clenched and eyes wide. Not that he cared much, Ivan and him were both men, there was no way Ivan could have been aroused by someone like Till anyways. At least that's what Till thinks. He knows he's not desirable, painfully average to be exact, especially when it comes to Ivan, who had a myriad of selection, each candidate better than him in several aspects. 

“Hello?” Till asserts, his voice bolder now, concerned at Ivan who had been too quiet for his own good. As if his brain is fried, error in rebooting his system. And Till is right, because Ivan is desperately trying his best to suppress his horny thoughts.

White, laced panties. That’s what Till’s wearing beneath his safety shorts—a teasing flash of untouched innocence, now slightly semi‑sheer from sweat. The lace must’ve itched; faint imprints of the delicate pattern mark his skin, like pressed flowers. It’s a deliberate choice, and Ivan can feel the heat of it all. Since when did Till start experimenting with feminine undergarments? Till's such a tease and he doesn't even realize this, so of course Ivan is the only one malfunctioning. 

He grabs his drink and downs it in one go, like a man stranded in drought. It barely helps. The water tickles his throat but does nothing for the burn building low in his gut.

“Drink slowly, big guy, no one's rushing you.” Till tosses a towel at Ivan’s direction, crossing his legs, now Ivan could see the thigh garter better. Ivan is not better than a creep, because he just stares, and swallows, and continues staring. “What? Anything on my face?” It's starting to make Till uncomfortable, the way Ivan is behaving like a stoic robot. 

“No. You are perfect, as always.” Ivan reassures him, to which Till scowls in response. “Can I claim my reward now?” He slams the empty bottle onto the bench, the loud thud frightening Till. His gaze shifts onto Ivan's broad palm, and he swears that there was a vein popping, pulsing with need. “What do you want?” He snarls defensively, trying to back away, only to have his back pressed against the concrete walls, with no way to hide.

“Sit on my shoulders. I want to rest on those pillows.”  Ivan suggests, back to his own freaky self—Till should've never been worried at all in the first place. “At least let me have a bite?”

“No. Absolutely not. Don't even explain. I don't want to know.” Till hisses spitefully. He doesn’t flinch, not even when fingers curl beneath his garter and broad palms settle on his thigh. The warmth on Ivan's palms sent a shiver down his spine, but Till had bit his lip hard enough to not whimper.

“Can't I just bury my head here?” Ivan had always been touchy around him, Till had been so conditioned to it as long as Ivan didn't take it too far. Ivan his best friend, there was a layer of trust there. “If you want to have your perfect reputation ruined, be my guest.” His smile is wicked, alluring even. Not an invitation, but a challenge.

Ivan doesn't risk it. For the sake of his sanity and Till's.

“What about you reciting the cheer routine for me but in private? It's a pity I can't focus fully on you just now.” Ivan whines, his gaze lingering from Till's V-neckline to his flustered face. Now that he's much closer, he could hear Till's hammering heartbeat and quickened breaths. Oh, how could he forget the belly piercing? He wants to try tugging on it, but retracts his hands when Till slaps it hard. He sulks, still wanting to play with the garter a bit more, to tease the reddened skin underneath. 

“So you can abuse it as blackmail? I'm slow, not stupid, Ivan. Don't even bother.” He snorts, painting Ivan as a madman. 

“I never said you were stupid, Till.” His face folded just slightly—brows drawn in, eyes dimming like the words had landed too heavy. 

“Uh-huh.” Till shoots him a judgemental glare, and Ivan keeps his lips sealed, humouring him.

“Okay, for real now, I want a hug.” That's a surprisingly wholesome request, especially coming from a freak like Ivan. He's not disappointed, just curious to see if Ivan's trying to do anything funny. He's wrong once again when Ivan extends his arms out, waiting for Till to pounce into his embrace, his smile now soft instead of mocking. “Reward for the champion, please?”

Till bites his lip, wondering if he should cave in.

Fuck it. Who is he kidding? He fucking missed Ivan, even if he's still pissed at him. If Ivan wants a hug, so be it.

“Fine.” A swift hop from the bench, Till throws himself into Ivan's arms like a collapsed star, his head buried into the raven's broad chest, tip-toeing closer with breathless pants. Ivan’s arms close around him, and Till winces slightly as broad hands grip his waist, coarse palms pressing into his skin like he’s something precious.

“Yo, Ivan, that’s your trophy? Seriously? That emo loser?”

Till’s about to turn, ready to flip off whatever rando just ruined the moment—but Ivan doesn’t even let him move. Not budging. Not even an inch. 

A strong hand reaches for Till’s lower back, tugging down the hem of the skirt to cover his vulnerable spots, shielding him, possessive. Protective. He doesn’t let the guy see a thing.  Till squirms, his breath hitches, as Ivan's palm tenderly caresses his ass.

“My loser. Got a problem?” Ivan's smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The teammate clocks the shift in mood and backs off without another word.

He doesn’t even know if that’s a good thing. Maybe? Ivan doesn't even deny the fact that Till is a loser. That stings a bit, even for someone like him. At least he's protective. That counts for something. And now, in the sudden silence between them, with only their breath to fill the gaps, Till can still feel Ivan breathing against him—sharp, almost trembling.

Ivan hugs him like the world is ending.

Till hugs back like Ivan is his world.

His vein pulses, heart throbbing with life. As if Ivan had breathed something into him. Not air. Not relief. Something quieter. Stranger. It settles beneath his skin like light through a crack—warm, but unwelcome. New, but already part of him. He doesn't know what to call it.

“Okay. That's enough, Ivan. I'm sweating all over.” Till finally pushes the jock away, wiping his sweat, trying his best to not look into those dreamy eyes or he would start panicking again. 

“Damn it. Time for another cold shower.” He needs to wash off those thoughts now, fast. 

“Let me lick it off you.” Ivan mumbles playfully, as if he wasn't the one inducing those unpleasant thoughts. Not uncomfortable, just weird. It bubbles inside Till and fizzes out like soda. It takes part of Till with it and leaves him dry and empty.

Till glances over, and to his expectation, Mizi had already left with Sua. He sighs, knowing that his luck had expired, today is another failed confession. And a new discovery—he keeps that part to himself.

They walked towards the exit, his heart still heavy from the hug just now. Till shouldn't have been this confused, yet here he is, trailing after Ivan's shadow, until they reached the parking lot. Only then Till realized that he's been unconsciously following Ivan, forgetting to change back to his normal outfit. Just great. No wonder Ivan had kept his walking pace slower, just to match up with him. 

“Want me to fetch you back?” Ivan asks, voice casual as he spins his car keys around one finger, whistling as he waits for Till to agree. He starts counting down, glancing at Till amusingly, his invitation still valid.

Till rolls his eyes. Of course Ivan offers a ride like it’s a favor, not a ploy. 

“Fine.”

The car door clicks shut behind him. He slides into the passenger seat, doesn't even bother to adjust the skirt that had hiked up his crotch. He sinks into the seat, the leather annoyingly soft. Ivan starts the engine with a low purr, like even his car knows it’s expensive.

Till yanks the seatbelt across his chest with a sigh, clicks it in place. Silence sits between them like a third passenger. But for now, there's only the hum of the engine and the sound of their breathing, just slightly out of sync.

Ivan switches on the AC and reclines his seat, his sore muscles finally relaxing after a long day. His eyes trailed to Till's complexion, who's fidgeting from awkwardness and frustration, wringing his hands and looking out of the window. 

“Till, you should've told me you were performing.” Ivan shatters the silence between them, “I thought you were always uninterested in sports. What made you have a change of heart?” 

Till doesn't answer. As if he's giving Ivan a hint. A chance to redeem himself. A moment to reflect.

“No response? So cold to me.” Ivan taps on the rim of the steering wheel impatiently, darting an amused glance at Till. 

His face is puffed up. Cheeks full, irritated, a little sulky. 

Ivan thought that it was quite cute.

And Till flares with anger, dropping the act. 

“You didn't even answer my texts and calls and I'm cold to you?!” Till shouts, his voice cracking more from hurt than anger. He grips the hem of his skirt so tightly his knuckles pale. His eyes stay downcast, shadowed by frustration and humiliation — like he’s trying to hide from Ivan’s gaze, that gaze that always sees too much. “I called you! And texted! More than 15 times! And you didn't even respond at all!” Ivan hears a soft wail, almost akin to a sob, and before he could reassure him Till punches him in the chest, right on the centre. He wheezes in pain, but nonetheless accepts it. 

“Do you think this is kind of an experiment of some sorts? To test my attachment towards you, to challenge our friendship, to… ” Till hates how blissfully unaware Ivan is, because he's there choking on his sobs, yelling, snot runny and eye tearful, yet Ivan seems unfazed, surprised even. “First, we lost contact for a year. Now, once I finally get to be your friend again, you— you start to avoid me? Once you see me in my most raw, vulnerable, humiliating state, and reassuring me that we will never drift apart again—” The anger that Till’s been swallowing down for weeks finally spills over, fast and uncontrollable, like a dam bursting. “You’re the worst! Argh!” All the carefully stacked walls inside him come crashing down at once. His voice rises with every word, louder, sharper, like he’s trying to be heard for the first time. He’s not just mad. He’s hurt. He’s wrecked.

Ivan had wrecked him. Fuck, he underestimated how much Ivan had meant to him. Now that his best friend is back, he doesn't know whether he wants to strangle him, cook him alive, or make sure that he never leaves his sight again. Is Ivan getting revenge on him? For leaving him? That was all way behind in the past, when he had let go of Ivan's hand, rejecting Ivan's offer just because of his stupid crush.

Now he regrets it. He really does. Ivan's one of the most important people in his life. 

“You–!!” Till swallows a breath, his tears wiped away by a gentle hand, the apologetic gesture sending tingles down Till's spine. As if Ivan is trying to make it up to him for neglecting him this whole week. And tears just spill further, from frustration, and relief. Ivan's eyes darken, caught somewhere between awe and guilt, as if mesmerized by the way Till swallows— the subtle bob of his throat, the way he trembles beneath his touch. Finally, he gathers the courage to look at Till properly, his grin radiant. 

“What are you doing?” Till bites, now that Ivan is staring directly at his soul, he couldn't help but tremble ever so slightly. He gasps when Ivan's broad palm reaches for his thigh, as if to punish Till for not paying attention to him. For Till to notice him. 

“Were you worried about me, Till?” Ivan chuckles, “you cared this much, for me?” Till couldn't understand why Ivan was exuberant, face flushed red and eyes gleaming with adoration. Like a maiden in love. 

Till is crying.

Ivan is happy. 

“Are you serious?! You're my best friend! Am I supposed to just ditch you or something?” Till glares—the audacity of Ivan to question their bond. Till would've opened himself up and let Ivan crawl in if Ivan wanted to, only because Ivan is special. Unlike his other friends. Ivan had always been clingy around him, and Till had always accommodated him. This was a perk only Ivan could've been bestowed with. Because only he can handle Ivan, no one could've possibly gotten this close to his best friend, obviously.

He shoots him a stink eye and swats the palm off his thigh. Ivan grumbles but doesn't move away. If anything, his grip tightens — stubborn and intimate. Till feels the pressure where Ivan's fingers dig in, the soft give of his skin spilling slightly through the spaces between them. It’s too much. Too personal. He whines, part protest, part something else he doesn’t want to name.

Till caves in, like he always does. Allow Ivan to push further, to ruin him one way or another. Only because that's his best friend, and Ivan gets his own privileges.

“Whatever. Drive me back home, I'm tired.” Till's tired, doesn't even bother to hide the crankiness in his tone. He wants a shower and drifts into heavy slumber. Now that Ivan is not avoiding him, he can properly rest.

“Sorry, Till. I've been busy with practice and haven't had the chance to reply. I was too occupied—” That bastard actually apologises, ridden with guilt. Well, that's new. 

“Well that's an awful excuse. You always text me regardless of how shit life is. Not like I fucking cared, life has been better without your constant annoying messages bombing my phone.” Till grunts, his final act of saving grace, “finally some peace.”

“Awe, I missed you too, Till.” Ivan’s voice is low, teasing, but there’s a sincerity under it that makes Till freeze. Then Ivan cups his cheeks— both palms warm, firm, grounding. His gaze lingers, not on Till’s lips, but on the soft flutter of his lashes. Like he’s memorizing him. He leans in slowly, his breath brushing Till’s mouth, light and deliberate. His nose nudges against Till’s — a touch so gentle it barely counts, but to Ivan, it’s something else entirely.

An indirect kiss.

Till’s breath hitches. The air feels thinner.

“Hey! Back off! Don't get too close!” Till snaps out of Ivan's grip, his face burning from Ivan's sudden intimacy. Almost. They had almost kissed. Ivan should stop teasing him like this, even if it's a best friend thing, really. Till might just explode.

Besides, he has a crush on Mizi. He's very sure that he's only into girls. If Ivan asks why his heart is pounding rapidly, it's only because Ivan had gotten too close. Crossing something thinly veiled between them. Ivan doesn't rip it off, not daring to tore it into pieces. He just lifts it, like a curtain, as if Till had given him implied permission to do so. And Till allows Ivan to continue. Blurring the lines of boundaries. 

It feels selfish. For both of them.

Ivan, who reaches out but never quite asks.

Till, who pulls back but never really says no.

But if Ivan’s content with this, then Till supposes he can entertain it too. For now. Until Ivan finds someone else. Until Till finally confesses to Mizi. Until the illusion cracks. Until the shards slice their skin open and crimson bleeds like rivers. Until then, Till will provide what Ivan reaches for. Or maybe, Ivan is the one indulging in Till instead.

Intimacy in the spaces between.

As long as Ivan doesn't cross the line. The non-existent boundary that Till allows Ivan to redraw. Every single time.

As long as Ivan doesn't drift away from him.

“What's gotten into you? Seriously, a while ago you were cold and distant, now suddenly you want to lean closer?” Till jabs dryly, shaking off the thoughts buried in his mind. He’s content with the relationship he has with Ivan now. Best friends, yeah, that's what they are. He seals away what Mizi had said to him about Ivan in the back of his head.

“Hah,” Ivan breathes, “probably a change of heart. Usual Ivan stuff, you know, Till?”

“I– nevermind. Give me your damned jacket.” Ivan shrugs off his jacket without needing to be reminded twice, draping it gently over Till’s skirt like a makeshift blanket. That gentlemanly gesture had Till humming in delight. At least Ivan is actually trying to make up to him. “Okay. Now drive me home. Damn it, how am I gonna explain to mum… ”

“Oh, Aunty Io, it's been a while since we talked! She's still lovely as always.” Ivan laughs, steering the wheel, driving along the sunset. 

“No shit. She thinks you are her son.”

“Aw, I miss her too. She's a literal saint.”

“Then why don't you visit anymore?”

“Aw. Is this an invite?”

“No.”

“Wow, you wounded me. I bet Aunty Io misses me more than you do.” Ivan teases him, but Till knows what Ivan is truly asking for.

“Of course she does. I am manifesting your demise.” 

“So witty today.” Ivan indulges in Till's sarcasm.

“Guess the reason why.” Till coughs, loudly this time, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, okay, my fault, alright? Sorry.”

“You better be.” 

“I am, truly. If not, I will reincarnate as a parasite and molest your organs.” 

“Gross.” Till snarls, this time with a smile on his face.

“Are you sure this would attract Mizi. I'm pretty sure she only complimented me for being cute.” He switches the topic ever so suddenly, now that the misunderstanding between them is cleared. 

“Don't be greedy now, Till.” Ivan turns on the radio, the music doing the talking. 

“Fine.” Till doesn't press further, instead opts to play with the embroidery of Ivan's jacket, the loud scratching easing the gaps of silence between them.

Ivti.

Huh. What a weird name.

When will this end? This intimate partnership between them. This foolish play. Where Till leads, and Ivan succumbs.

He's not an innocent victim. Knows the grip he has on Till. The tension he stirs. He thrives in it. In the ache. In the push-and-pull. Because as long as Till keeps dangling the maybe, Ivan can still have a slither of hope.

That quiet week without messages was meant to create distance. Ivan’s wrapped up way of testing the waters. Determine how far Till had sunk deep into the trap Ivan had laid bare. Of course, Till aches for him, and Ivan couldn't be more ecstatic. 

That yearning is mutual. Even if this is temporary. And Till, as much as scowls in Ivan's touches, never really displayed aggression. 

“I think you're cute too.” Ivan adds, “you should do this more often. Preferably only with me as your audience. So you don't embarrass yourself in public.” 

“Fuck off.” Till sighs, hands covering his face, “you are lucky you're the one driving.”

“When are you going to get your license?”

“Not sure yet. One day.”

“Poor Till, are you going to be my passenger princess forever?” 

“Passenger victim, you mean.” 

“Awe.” Ivan snickers, “okay, my dearest victim.” Quite literally, that's what Till is. Ivan would've felt bad, but he doesn't. Not when he wants to take more than Till has to offer.

“Ivan, I will jump out of the car.”

“Want to get dinner first?” He locks the door, and Till hisses at him.

“I want jjajangmyeon. And I want to try the new crepe cake nearby my house. And also get flowers for mum.” Till mumbles, counting his fingers, planning his new schedule. Ivan watches him blabber about, Till's lips parting open, as ripe as cherry. He just realized that Till is wearing lip gloss today, the glittery kind. 

“Sure. Don't drain my wallet too much, after all, you still have to repay me for the dress last time.” Ivan recalls ever so cruelly, a tease that bursts Till's bubble.

“Hey! No need to remind me, I will work on it!”

A wicked part of him wants Till to be indebted to him forever, so his selfishness will be justifiable. If all of this was just an act, Ivan wants to hold him longer before the script ends. Before Till completely closes the curtains between them, Ivan would just hug him close and listen to his drumming heartbeat.

If only he could peel off Till's flesh and rip open his heart, then maybe he can see what Till is hiding from him. Then maybe this raw, unfiltered, savage love could be returned fully. Then maybe Ivan doesn't have to pretend that he's actually happy for Till, who wants to seek solace in somebody else. 

Till keeps leading him on, and Ivan blindly follows, because all he knows is worshipping his goddess, even if he needs to force devotion down Till's throat. Now's not the time. Not when Till had just newly discovered this feeling. This mutual yearning. Not when Ivan still has time and patience left.  

“Are you even listening to me?” Till groans, flicking Ivan's forehead, “never make me worry again! Answer my damned texts!”

Till needs him as much as Ivan does.

“Yeah, I am, sorry– just a bit distracted.”

So he laughs, like his wish has been fulfilled.