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“Coach is here!” Acorn shouts, loud enough to be heard through the ruckus playing in Till’s headphones. “That means you lose, Till.”
Till swears under his breath as Acorn jogs over to him, shit-eating grin on his stupid face.
Till sighs, slowing from his warm-up tempo to a walk, and tugging his headphones down to hang around his neck.
“Alright, fine, what’s the dare?” he says reluctantly.
“Hmm…” Acorn considers, his fingers poised under his chin dramatically, “take the emo out on a date.”
“The emo?” Till asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Evan.”
“Ivan?”
Acorn waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, whatever his name is.”
“You seriously don’t know his name?” Till says. “We’ve all been going to the same school since we were four.”
“Come onnn, just do it. Mizi won’t care.”
“Hey.”
“Jokes, jokes.”
“Very funny. You’re never letting that go, huh?”
Acorn smirks. “Nope. Well, if you ask Ivan out I might have other ammo to make fun of you with, instead.”
Till sighs. “There’s nothing else? No other dare that your tiny, little brain could desire?”
“Nope!” Acorn says, far too cheerily. “Coach actually showed up on time, so you lost the bet, so you gotta do what I tell you.”
“Fuck. Fine.”
“Yippee! Wait, can you record it, too? I wanna see.”
“Go die in a hole.”
—
Coincidentally, Ivan’s locker is directly next to Till’s. It’s typically a point of avoidance for Till, because he’s not exactly vying for confrontation with the most intimidating guy on campus. If they ever happen to be at their lockers at the same time, it’s a completely silent affair with a very deliberate lack of eye contact.
For that exact reason, Till usually skips going to his locker directly after classes, in favor of going after practice. By then, most of the school has emptied out.
Today, unfortunately—or arguably, fortunately—Ivan is there. Maybe it’s because practice ended early, because coach showed up on time, because he needed to leave early for his kid’s doctor appointment. Or maybe the fates just have it out for Till.
Ivan shuts his locker just as Till turns down the hallway. They make fleeting eye contact before Ivan starts walking in the other direction.
“Wait, Ivan!”
Ivan stops in his tracks. Till breaks into a jog to catch up to him, and Ivan turns to look at him.
“Till,” Ivan says.
Till blinks in surprise. He shouldn’t be surprised that his classmate of over a decade knows his name, but he’s stunned nonetheless. Ivan’s voice is also significantly lower than he remembers.
“I, uhhh…”
Ivan sighs. “What do you want?”
“Will you go out with me?” Till blurts.
Ivan stares down at him. (He’s significantly taller than Till remembers, too.) Till gets a little lost in the darkness of his eyes, the slight tinge of red, like blood.
Then, finally, Ivan says, “When?”
“What?”
“When,” Ivan repeats, “and where?”
“Uhh, tonight, at the Garden? There’s concerts every Friday…” It’s the first thing that pops into Till’s head.
Ivan considers him for a few more seconds, while Till shifts uncomfortably. He fixates his gaze on the distant wall over Ivan’s shoulder, bracing himself for rejection.
“Sure.”
“Okay, no wor—huh?”
“Nine o’clock?” Ivan gives Till a once-over. “Don’t be late.”
Till is absolutely speechless. He can’t even muster a nod before Ivan walks silently away.
—
The Garden gets its name from the vines crawling all over the exterior; at one point in its history, a long, long time ago, it was a church, before it was then abandoned and eventually repurposed into an alternative concert venue. They stripped the old, creaky furniture and marble sculptures, but kept the stained glass and ornate archways. Since gaining popularity, it’s become a bit cramped, small for the scale of the weekly turnouts—but that’s just part of the atmosphere. The buzz. (For safety reasons, the hosts will stop admitting people if they hit maximum capacity.)
The plant-covered walls bloom in spring, and at night, the flowers appear almost ghostly under the moonlight. It’s early enough in the year, now, that there’s mostly just white buds and only the occasional blossom dotting the wall. Till snaps a quick picture of the lowest full bloom while he waits for Ivan to show up.
He’s only a couple minutes early. He had nothing better to do after practice (and his incredibly, incredibly awkward interaction) than to take a quick shower, change into new clothes, and show up to the… the date. With Ivan.
So he’s a few minutes early.
He peers into the entrance, around the small queue. It’s already decently filled, likely because the show had started around an hour ago.
It doesn’t take long for Ivan to arrive. He rounds the corner, dressed in a layered collage of dark leather and fishnet and metal: a distressed tank and several chain necklaces under a leather jacket, ripped jeans, and black, leather boots that have far too many buckles to be practical. It’s similar to what he wears to school, but it’s definitely more eye catching.
Very eye catching. (Consider Till’s eyes caught—)
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Ivan says. “Parking was a mess.”
“You’re fine!” Till squeaks. “I just got here.”
Judging by the expression on Ivan’s face, he doesn’t believe Till for a second, so Till turns to the host waiting at the front door and pulls out his wallet, searching for any excuse to switch topics.
“How much is the cover?” Ivan asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” Till says. “I’m paying.”
“Are you sure?”
Till nods resolutely. The gesture is not quite as chivalrous as it appears: if Ivan is being swept up in Till’s mess, it seems only fair that Till pays for it. It does little to assuage his guilt, but he would hate himself even more if he didn’t, at the very least, cover Ivan’s portion.
“Thanks,” Ivan says.
“No problem.”
“That’ll be twenty for two people,” the woman says.
Till hands over a bill, and the woman gives him back two white wristbands.
“Thanks,” Till says, even though the woman has already turned to the next person in line.
Till and Ivan step aside, and Till holds out one of the wristbands. Ivan moves to take it, but Till interrupts him.
“Give me your wrist,” he says.
Ivan shoots him a curious stare, but he offers up his arm anyway. Till peels the adhesive backing off the strip of paper, and then wraps the band around Ivan’s wrist, making sure the two ends are lined up nicely before pressing them together.
Till starts positioning his own wristband—a little awkwardly, with only one hand—and Ivan holds out his palm.
“Let me.”
Till pauses. “O-okay.”
Ivan deftly sticks Till’s wristband on. His hands are so much larger than Till’s. Till’s mind immediately jumps to how easily Ivan could hold a basketball, and then to less appropriate places, like how easily he could grip both of Till’s wrists in one hand, or his waist…
“Ready?” Ivan asks, snapping Till out of his thoughts.
Till swallows. “Yeah.”
Without giving himself time to overthink it, he grabs Ivan’s wrist and tugs him into the throng of people inside.
It’s abuzz with noise and chatter, aglow with strobe lights and soft ambient colors. The only light source that helps with visibility more than vibes are the dim spotlights pointed at the chancel-turned-stage. Till drops Ivan’s arms, trying to poke his head around to get a glimpse of the musicians. Before he can get a good look, Ivan says something that Till can’t really hear.
“What?” Till yells. Even speaking at full volume, he can barely hear himself.
Ivan leans in to speak more directly into Till’s ear: “Do you come here often? You seem familiar with the place.”
“Uhh, kinda,” Till shouts back, decisively ignoring the goosebumps tingling down his spine. “I assume you do?”
Ivan shrugs. “No, I tend to prefer Taylor Swift.”
It takes a second for Till’s brain to compute that Ivan is being sarcastic. He bursts into a bout of surprised laughter.
“Yeah, okay, fair enough,” Till says. “That one’s on me.”
“Yes, I come here often,” Ivan amends. “I was honestly surprised that you suggested this. You don’t seem like the type.”
“Excuse me!” Till says, feigning offense. “The stuff I listen to is somewhere between death metal and hyper-pop.”
Ivan stares at him, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m being serious! It’s good for running,” Till exclaims. “…And I have some friends who are pretty involved in the local alt music scene, I guess.”
“Ah.”
“Bruh. Now do you believe me?”
“Yep,” Ivan says, popping the p. “So, running?”
“Yeah,” Till says. “It helps me stop thinking.”
“You started thinking? When?”
“Hey!”
Ivan chuckles. “Kidding. That makes sense, I guess. That’s what music does for me, too. Composing and stuff.”
That catches Till’s interest. “Composing?”
Ivan glances away. “I write songs, sometimes.”
“No way, that’s so cool! Can I hear?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, I’d love to listen!” Till pauses, and reels in some of his enthusiasm. “No pressure, though. Of course.”
“Hm, next time,” Ivan says eventually.
“Yayyy,” Till says, throwing his hands into the air, bobbing to the beat.
Ivan just kind of… stands there. Till makes an exaggerated frown.
“Come on,” Till says, “dance!”
Ivan glances away uncomfortably.
“You’re telling me you come here regularly to just… stand?” Till asks.
“I normally sit are the bar,” Ivan says. “Order a drink, talk to people I recognize.”
“Okay, well today is special,” Till says. He grabs Ivan’s hands. “You write songs, which means you understand music basics, right?”
Ivan raises an eyebrow, but he lets Till maneuver his hands freely. “Yes, Till, I know music theory.”
“Great! So dance with me, idiot.” Till pumps their hands in the air, feeling the bass thrum through his veins. “Let the rhythm move your body. It’s all in the hips.”
“I don’t see why my participation is relevant,” Ivan says, all too seriously.
Till drops Ivan’s hands. “Bruh. Okay fine, let’s go get drinks, then.”
Ivan follows Till to the bar, the two of them pushing and weaving through the hordes of people. There’s a bit of a crowd—somewhat of a line—around the bar.
While they wait, Till asks, “What do you want?”
“Tonic with lime,” Ivan says.
Till mentally repeats Ivan’s order to himself. Once he manages to work his way to the front, he recites it to the bartender along with his drink, a ginger ale.
“Open or closed?” the bartender asks, handing him two plastic cups filled to the brim with ice and bubbly liquid.
“Closed, please,” Till says, handing over his card.
The bartender takes his card to the cash register, and Till hands Ivan his drink. The head-banging, fast-paced song comes to a roaring end, and the singer starts saying something about a quick intermission.
The bartender returns, handing Till his card and receipt.
“Thanks,” Till says, relieved to be able to communicate at a normal volume.
He signs the receipt, pockets his card, and takes a couple gulps of his drink. The last thing he needs right now is to spill on himself—or worse, on Ivan. Then, he and Ivan work they way back onto the makeshift dance floor.
The interim music is slightly less body-resonating, bass-echoing, and certainly less vocal. Definitely more conversation-friendly.
“Do you know a lot of people here?” Till asks.
“Define ‘a lot’.”
Till sighs. Ivan and his stupidly convoluted answers. “Okay, how many people do you talk to on average?”
Ivan considers. Then, “Half a dozen, maybe?”
“Damn, okay,” Till says, mildly impressed. He takes another sip of his drink. “Why don’t you talk to people at school?”
Ivan gives him a questioning look. “I do?”
“Really?”
“Yes, Till,” Ivan chuckles. “Just because I don’t talk to you, doesn’t mean I don’t talk to anyone. And need I remind you, you also talked to me.”
“I—well, yes,” Till sputters, “but that—”
Crowd movement behind Till jostles him forward, sending him stumbling into Ivan’s chest. Ivan’s drink-free hand flies to Till’s hip to steady him, and Till has to figure out how to breathe again.
“Shit, sorry,” Till says quickly, trying to back up, but there’s no room. The floor is packed with people.
“It’s okay,” Ivan replies.
They’re jammed so closely together that Till can almost feel Ivan’s words—or maybe that’s just leftover vibrations from the concert. Phantom rumblings, like after images or sea legs. Still, the feeling sets Till adrift, and he finds himself leaning into Ivan’s hand, still firm on his hip.
Till looks up. As always, Ivan is looking down at him, with that stoic expression Till can’t dissect.
From this angle, from this close, Till observes that Ivan’s lower lashes are quite long. He hadn’t really noticed before—maybe he just wasn’t looking closely, or maybe they just blend in with the dark smudges around Ivan’s eyes. But they’re pretty; they frame Ivan’s intense eyes perfectly.
For some reason, the observation makes Till’s throat go a bit dry. He chugs the rest of his drink as a distraction.
Ivan glances down at Till’s now-empty cup. “Want me to get you another?”
“Oh,” Till says eloquently, “uh, sure. Thanks.”
Ivan offers a hand, and Till gives him his cup.
“Be right back,” Ivan says, his hand slipping from Till’s waist.
In comparison, the spot feels cold.
Ivan slips through the crowd like oil through water. Till tries to recenter himself. He barely gets enough time to get a full breath in before a familiar face pops up in front of Till.
“Hi, Hyuna” Till says. “Great concert. I like the new album.”
“Thanks!” Hyuna says.
Till hopes that Hyuna is just here for one of their friendly catch-ups, but he can see something conniving and devious in her eyes. She must’ve spotted him from the stage.
“So…” Hyuna begins suggestively.
There it is.
“It was a dare,” Till says preemptively.
Hyuna laughs. “Mmmhm, okay. Sure. You know, I’ve always had a hunch that you swung for the other team, too.”
“Hyuna, it was a dare,” Till repeats.
“I’m not judging!” Hyuna throws her palms into the air. “You know I am a dilettante of all genders. But it is curious, you’re still here? It looked like the two of you were having fun.”
“We—” Till pauses. He is having fun, come to think of it. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
Till nods.
Hyuna beams at him. “Well. Happy to see you thriving, my guy. It’s about time.” She slaps Till’s shoulder reassuringly. “And you didn’t hear this from me, but from the way he looks at you, he seems really into you. Does he have a name, by the way?”
Till flushes. “Uhh, Ivan.”
“Okay, Till. Hope you and uhh Ivan enjoy the rest of the night.” She wiggles her eyebrows and walks away.
Till groans.
“Do you know her?” Ivan’s voice asks from behind him. “She’s the lead singer, right?”
Till spins around, startled. “Ah—I, yeah, she is. We went to the music school for a few years. We’ve been friends for a while.”
“Cool,” Ivan says. He holds a cup out for Till.
“What is it?” Till asks, accepting the drink.
“Secret recipe,” Ivan says.
Till eyes the carbonated liquid dubiously. He looks between Ivan and his cup, debating whether or not he trusts Ivan not to poison him.
Ivan laughs, and his fang catches the light for a split second. “It’s sparkling water, orange juice, a shit ton of lime, and mint,” he says.
“Hm.”
Till takes a cautious sip. It’s not bad. In fact, it’s surprisingly refreshing.
“Good, right?” Ivan asks.
Till nods.
With an ear-bleeding screech of feedback, Hyuna and her band mates climb back onto the stage. The audience cheers, surges, shifts as the energy in the church climbs higher.
Till takes another sip. He studies Ivan’s cup; in the less-than-adequate lighting, it’s hard to distinguish much, but the contents are bubbly and translucent, like Till’s drink.
“You got the same thing for yourself?” he asks.
Ivan nods.
“Did you come up with the recipe? Or is this like, a standard mocktail-type concoction.”
“Well, I’m probably not the first person to have ever combined those specific ingredients, but yes,” Ivan says.
Ivan and his stupidly, stupidly, stupidly convoluted answers. For some reason, it feels familiar to Till. Something about when they were younger, much younger; elementary school, pencils, fistfights… Their interactions all suddenly feel a little bit nostalgic. Wallowing in blurry memories, Till doesn’t realize he’s basically downed his entire drink.
“Well, I’m glad you liked it,” Ivan says, humor laced in his tone. “Do you want another?”
“Nah, I’m gonna have to piss if I have another drink,” Till says. “I’m gonna throw out my cup. You done?”
Ivan nods, handing Till his empty cup with a quick, “Thanks.”
Till weaves through the crowd until he reaches a wall, and then he follows the wall until he finds a trash can. He tosses the cups in.
He turns back to face the mass of people, and it quickly dawns on him that he made a grave error in leaving Ivan behind. He tries to retrace his steps, but he quickly becomes lost in the current. He scans through his surroundings, searching for… black and leather, fuck, everyone is wearing black and leather.
“Ivan?” Till calls out. “Ivan?”
He spins around, disoriented. There’s too many people, too many flashing lights.
From out of the wall of strangers, a hand grabs Till’s waist and hauls him backward until he hits something—someone—with a small oof.
“There you are,” Ivan says.
“H-hi,” Till says, staring forward, limbs frozen.
“You okay?”
Till nods, the movement jerky and robotic.
“Alright.”
Ivan’s hand slides off Till’s stomach, but Till can still feel Ivan behind him—his body heat, the solidity of his body when they accidentally brush together, swaying to the music. Till lets his head fall back against Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan freezes for the briefest moment, and then continues like nothing happened.
They stay like that for a while.
And then Till’s breath catches in his throat as Ivan’s hands slide over Till’s hips. It’s not a forceful grip; it’s palms resting over Till’s hipbones, fingers drifting across the top of Till’s thighs. It takes all of Till’s willpower and focus to keep moving. Ivan flows with him.
“All in the hips, you said?” Ivan says quietly. Realistically, he probably spoke at a normal volume, but here, it’s barely audible.
“Yeah,” Till says shakily. Then, louder, “You better be dancing.”
Ivan makes a not-very-assuring “Hm.”
Till lets his eyes drift close, sinking into the sensation of it all: Ivan’s hands on him, the heat of the crowd, the flashing lights, the thumping of the bass. In the back of his mind, a little voice tells him that Hyuna picked this song on purpose, just to get to him. She doesn’t have many songs below a hundred bpm.
Maybe he should thank her, later.
The sea of people shifts again, and this time, Till almost falls over. Ivan catches him just in time. Till looks back, finally, and Ivan’s stare is dark, all-consuming. It makes Till feel like he’s being eaten alive.
The moment passes.
Ivan hoists him back upright, and then asks, “You wanna get out of here?”
Till nods gratefully.
Ivan leads them out, his arm still wrapped around Till’s waist.
The calm, open air is a relief after the show’s lively yet feverish atmosphere. It feels nice for a second, and then Till shivers. The outside temperature has dropped a few degrees since they first arrived, and the cold of night prickles at his bare arms.
“Are you cold?” Ivan asks. He starts shrugging off his jacket.
“Oh, I’m fi—”
Ivan drapes his jacket over Till’s shoulders. The leather is warm and soft, and there’s a gentle scent that comes with it.
“Uh, thanks,” Till stammers. He most definitely does not stare at Ivan’s arms, at the lean, sculpted muscles curving under the fishnet.
Ivan smiles. “Are you hungry?”
Till hadn’t really been thinking about food, but now that Ivan has mentioned it…
“Yeah, actually,” Till says. “Do you like kebab?”
—
Till orders a gyro meal. Regardless of the cultural authenticity of french fries, this place makes really good ones, so he always gets the meal deal. (This is his favorite late-night spot. The food is cheap, fast, and tasty, and conveniently located only a few blocks from the Garden.)
“Anything else?” the cashier asks.
Till steps aside to let Ivan order. He gets a little distracted, defrosting from the cold, and he doesn’t realize what’s happening in time.
“Hey, wait—”
Ivan taps his phone on the card reader.
Till sags, pouting.
Ivan glances at Till and chuckles, and then finishes the transaction. “Don’t give me that, you paid for the concert.”
“Still,” Till says sullenly.
Ivan turns away from the register, holding their order number card, and he uses his free hand to flick Till lightly on the forehead.
“Calm down, princess,” he says, walking toward the seating area.
Till follows in an embarrassed, slightly-flushed daze.
Ivan sits down at one of the booths along the wall, and Till slides into the seat across from him. He can feel Ivan’s eyes on him. He refuses to look back until he’s a little bit more sure that his face isn’t red, instead focusing on examining each and every grain in the wooden table.
“Have you been here before?” Till asks, tracing over the table with his fingertip.
“No, actually,” Ivan says. “I don’t usually go anywhere after the club.”
“Except today,” Till points out, glancing up. Getting food had been Ivan’s suggestion, after all.
“Like you said, today is special.”
If Till has learned one thing from tonight’s outing, it’s that Ivan is not afraid of eye contact. It’s a little bit terrifying. Their eyes meet for a split second, and then Till immediately goes back to studying table.
Fortunately, the cashier soon comes up to their booth with two steaming baskets of food, placing one in front of Ivan, and one in front of Till. She takes the order number card.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asks.
“I think we’re good, thanks,” Till says.
“Yeah, thank you,” Ivan agrees.
Till immediately yoinks a fry and stuffs the whole thing into his mouth in a single bite. He sighs, decompressing. Just as good as he remembered. He watches Ivan tear open a disposable cutlery and napkin packet. From what Till can see, it appears he ordered a kebab plate. (What a newb. Till always orders a wrap, which is clearly the superior food delivery method. Who needs a fork when you have pita? Then again, Ivan seems like the type to eat food extremely neatly.)
They eat in relaxed silence. Till is more hungry than he realized. As he eats, he melts into the booth a little bit, sagging with the onset of a food coma. He manages to finish the wrap, but the fries, no matter how delicious, are starting to get to him.
Ivan watches him, clearly entertained. He’s cleared out most of his own basket.
“You okay?” Ivan asks.
“Yeah,” Till mumbles. He nibbles on another fry.
The cashier approaches their booth with a friendly smile. “Excuse me, sorry, just letting you know that we close in ten minutes,” she says. “Would you like a box for your leftovers?”
“Yes, please,” Till says, relieved, and the cashier turns back to get a container. Till glances down at his phone, muttering, “I could’ve sworn they closed pretty late…”
And—well. It is pretty late. It’s almost midnight.
“Huh,” Till says, mostly to himself.
“Time flies,” Ivan says.
“…Yeah.”
The cashier returns with a box, and Till dumps the remainder of his fries into it. He steals Ivan’s open napkin—it is, indeed, untouched, stupidly neat eater—to wipe the grease off his fingers. They get up from the booth, collecting their used napkins and utensils in their baskets.
“Did you drive here?” Ivan asks.
Till shakes his head. “I live pretty close by, so I walked. I can run, less time out in the cold.” He fakes a shiver.
“You want a ride back?” Ivan tosses the contents of his basket into the trash, before placing it on the designated tray.
“Oh! Um, I’m fine, but thank you,” Till says, knocking the parchment paper liner into the bin, and then stacking his basket on top of Ivan’s. “I don’t want to be too much of a bother.”
“You just exaggeratedly shivered at the thought of going back outside.”
Almost on cue, like he’s trying to prove his point, Ivan holds the door open. As soon as Till steps outside, the frigid air begins crawling into his bones. He bites his lip. Touché.
The door jingles shut behind them.
Ivan continues, “I’d spend more time worrying that you’re freezing your ass off than if I just dropped you off.”
“Well, yeah, but still, I’d feel bad…”
“Let me take you back, Till,” Ivan says.
Till swallows. “…Okay.”
—
Ivan’s car is nice. Really nice. It’s a sleek two-door; dark, silvery-grey, with gleaming silver rims.
“Tinted windows?” Till asks. “Is that legal?”
Ivan shrugs. “My parents’ decision. Technically my car, but it’s all their money.”
“Damn. Emo boy’s loaded, huh.”
Ivan unlocks the passenger door and holds it open. He looks at Till. “Emo boy?”
“Yeah, emo boy. Or do you prefer Swiftie?”
Ivan huffs a laugh, and Till climbs into the passenger seat. Ivan closes it behind him.
The inside is just as elegant as the outside, with gentle lines curving along the matte interior. There’s a wide screen in the center console, amidst the array of buttons and dials. And—somewhat to Till’s surprise—the windows don’t appear at all tinted from the inside, despite seeming nearly opaque from the outside.
Ivan slides into the drivers seat and starts the car, and the engine rumbles to life, low and powerful. He turns the passenger seat warmer on.
“Where to?”
Till rattles off his address, and Ivan types it into the fancy screen. The GPS says it’s a seven minute drive, which seems about right.
The car ride is a nice kind of quiet. Till stares out the window, watching the buildings scroll by. Soon enough, Till’s house slides into view. Ivan pulls over, shifts into park, and unlocks the doors.
Till turns to face him, unsure what to do or say. (Now that he thinks about it, he’s never been on a real date before. How does one end a date?)
“Well, thanks for driving me back,” he says eventually.
“Of course,” Ivan replies smoothly.
“It was… fun.”
Ivan nods.
“Okay, uh. Well.”
“Don’t forget your food,” Ivan says.
Till unbuckles his seat belt and takes off Ivan’s jacket, and Ivan reaches down to pick Till’s takeout container off the floor near Till’s feet. Ivan holds it up, still leaning in toward Till. Their faces are so close. Too close. Till can count each of Ivan’s lower lashes. If he moves just the barest bit forward, just a little bit more…
“Was this part of the dare?”
Till freezes. “…What?”
He shifts back, and Ivan does, too. Ivan is staring. Till manages to not look away, despite the insistent disquietude of being scrutinized.
Ivan blinks.
Till has never been a great liar, anyway.
“…No,” he finally answers. “It wasn’t.”
Ivan cocks his head slightly. “Then, why?”
“What?” Till is very confused. “Wait, hold on—if you knew it was a dare, why did you accept?”
“Call it morbid curiosity,” Ivan says slowly.
Till raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
Ivan ignores his question, instead asking, “Why did you try to kiss me?”
“I didn’t—that, I wasn’t—” Till sputters.
Ivan leans ever so slightly closer. Till momentarily stops breathing.
“Why are you lying?” Ivan says.
Till flounders for words. His mind is racing a mile a minute, and yet he can’t manage to form a complete thought, much less put a coherent sentence together.
“How about this, Till,” Ivan says. “Do you want to kiss me?”
Till just stares.
He does. But he doesn’t know if Ivan does. Till can’t tell what Ivan is thinking in the slightest. He is a complete mystery—a gorgeous mystery, maybe, but a mystery nonetheless.
“Yes,” Till whispers. The answer surprises him; he hadn’t really made the conscious decision to speak, it just spilled out.
Ivan doesn’t say anything.
Till swallows nervously. Maybe this humiliation is his punishment for lying to Ivan. His personal dose of karmic justice. After too many moments, he hesitantly peeks his eyes open to glance up at Ivan.
He’s as still as a statue.
But then Ivan’s lips curve up into a slight smirk, a glint of devilish fire in his eyes that lights Till’s soul on fire, and he pulls Till in by his neck.
Ivan kisses him.
It takes Till a split second to process, and then he’s kissing Ivan back, leaning in, hands clutching at Ivan’s shirt. The feeling of Ivan is overwhelming: his scent, his warmth, the slick of his tongue trailing over Till’s lips, the sharpness of his fang catching on Till’s skin.
Till whines in annoyance when the gear stick digs into his side, so Ivan reaches over to unclip his own seatbelt and turn the engine off, and then his hands drift down to Till’s waist, roughly pulling Till over the center console and into his lap. It’s not exactly a smooth process—Till might be shorter than Ivan but he’s not that short, so it takes some maneuvering. He might have some bruises tomorrow, but he finds that doesn’t really care once Ivan’s lips are on his again.
Ivan is hot, Till is burning up, and he’s very suddenly, brutally aware of how many layers of fabric are separating their bodies. Desire pools in Till’s gut. His pulse thumps loudly in his ears. He wraps his arms around Ivan’s neck, and Ivan squeezes Till’s ass hard, dragging a moan from Till’s throat.
The noise dissolves into a small yelp when Ivan’s seat suddenly slides back, and the only reason Till doesn’t fall is because of Ivan’s hold on his hip. Ivan then reclines the seat, leaning back and pulling Till down over him. Till is more than happy to oblige, lying down over Ivan’s chest, letting his body weight press their mouths, their chests, their hips together.
Still gripping Till’s ass, Ivan drags him up and down in short, harsh rutting motions. Till can feel how hard Ivan is, and frankly, Till isn’t fairing any better—he’s pretty sure he’s ever been so turned on in his life.
Till opens his mouth and Ivan licks into it, sucks, teases with his tongue, like he’s trying to eat Till alive. The grinding, the pressure—it sends sparks up Till’s spine, rips moans from his throat. He can’t stop whining, can’t stop twitching, can’t stop breathing out Ivan’s name like a mantra. It’s barely intelligible through the kiss, anyway.
Far more quickly than Till would like to admit, he gets close; at this rate, he’s going to cum soon. Very soon. He tries to push off of Ivan, but Ivan’s grip on his waist and ass is steadfast.
“Ivan, Ivan wait, I’m gonna—ohhh—”
Ivan’s hips roll at a particularly salacious angle, pressing into to Till just right, reducing Till’s futile protests into whimpers. His eyes flutter closed.
“Yeah?” Ivan says softly, his breath hot, mixing with Till’s.
And fuck, Ivan’s voice is low and sultry and does not help to keep Till from cumming. Till mewls against Ivan’s mouth, his hips twitching uncontrollably against Ivan’s.
“Gonna cum,” he manages, high, almost squeaky. “Ah—”
“Fuck, Till,” Ivan mutters.
“Ivannn—”
Till shudders violently, cock spilling into his pants, pulsing, throbbing, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Ivan keeps rubbing against him, sliding Till over him, until Till is gasping and shivering with overstimulation.
Till clutches at Ivan’s shirt, at his arms, crying out, “T-too much, too much, Ivan, I can’t—wait, ngh—”
Ivan curses but doesn’t slow down, chasing his own release. Till forgets how to speak, and he goes limp in Ivan’s grasp, save for hypersensitive spasms and twitches. With what little consciousness he has left, Till clings around Ivan’s neck. Everything in him is on fire, bliss scorching his veins, it just keeps burning and burning—and then Ivan is groaning loudly, right next to Till’s ear, and he cums. Till whimpers back weakly.
Ivan’s thrusting slows to a stop, and they both breathe heavily, limbs tangled together. Till is essentially lying on top of Ivan, but neither of them seem to mind. Ivan rubs soothing patterns over Till’s back.
Eventually, Till gathers some of his wits, and sits up slightly, propping himself up with his forearms. He looks down at Ivan, who is staring back at him. His eyes are darker than usual, and his hair is tousled and just the slightest bit damp with sweat. His lips are pink, courtesy of Till.
Till collapses back onto Ivan’s chest and groans. Of course Ivan would look sexy after sex. Of fucking course.
“What?” Ivan asks. Till can feel the word rumble through Ivan’s chest.
“Nothing,” Till says, words muffled against Ivan’s shirt. He turns his head to the side so he can speak more clearly, “Don’t wanna get up.”
“You don’t have to,” Ivan says.
“Mm.” Till huffs, and then pushes himself back to sit on his knees. He reaches for the door handle and tugs on it, and the door swings open. They must be quite a sight, but Till’s neighborhood is basically deserted at this time of night. And Till, still flooded with serotonin, couldn’t really give a fuck, anyway.
He climbs over Ivan to get out, almost falling out of the car completely; Ivan saves him yet again, grasp steady on Till’s arm. (Till swears he’s normally more coordinated than this. He’s the athlete here!)
Ivan doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls Till back in, pressing a quick kiss to Till’s lips.
“Let’s do this again sometime, Till,” Ivan says, and finally relinquishes his grip.
Till smiles. He grabs Ivan’s face with both hands and kisses him, and then stands up and starts walking toward his driveway.
“Definitely.”