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Ivan rarely falls ill. Fortunate genetics, a well-balanced diet, and a disciplined exercise routine seldom leave him vulnerable to sickness — making it all the more surprising that a mere cold has managed to bring him this low. He’d argue it’s nothing serious, a minor inconvenience, but as it stands, he’s weak-limbed and red-faced, lounging uselessly on his couch. Mourning.
This isn’t how he envisioned his winter break, far from it, but he supposes it makes sense. Stress stripped away, body no longer running on borrowed energy. Still, he’d much rather spend the time with his most precious; sweet, sweet Till, likely lost in yet another composition. Would Till relent if Ivan were to probe at those carefully constructed walls, ask for a listen? Or maybe, he’d appear unbidden, sharing his work with no need for coaxing, wearing that rare, endearingly bright smile when he’s truly proud of himself.
Fuck, he misses Till.
Then, by some miracle, or an angel answering his unspoken plea, the jingle of keys catches his ears. The only spare one he’s ever entrusted was to Till, and sure enough, a tuft of gray peeks from behind the door before the rest of him steps inside. In one of Ivan’s sweaters nonetheless, slightly worn from frequent wearing, hanging loosely on Till’s smaller frame — the very embodiment of warmth.
Such a lovely sight. A shame Till’s aggravated, eyes narrowing into a glare the moment they settle on Ivan. Still pretty. Adorable. Even as he storms toward him, shoes kicked off somewhere near the entrance in his rush.
“You’re sick.”
If Ivan didn’t know better, he’d think it’s an accusation, sharp and chastising. But he does, therefore replies calmly, “It’s a cold.”
Wrong answer, because the next moment Till is over him, one hand braced on the backrest, a knee slotted between his legs. Distracting, but then again, when is Till not?
“Still sick, dumbass. And there’s a good chance it’s gonna worsen over the day.”
At this, cold hands move to grasp Till’s waist, tugging the smaller down to sit on his thigh. Unable to resist, Ivan slumps forward, head dropping onto his shoulder as though surrendering to the throbbing ache pressing against his temples.
“Why are you even here? Love having you around, love you, don’t get me wrong. Just wondering. Rare of you,” he mutters, inhaling deeply to try and catch Till’s scent beneath the lingering traces of his own cologne. The only downside to Till wearing his clothes.
Silence fills the room, and Till fidgets under the disguise of adjusting, likely contemplating whether to be honest or face whatever makes him this bashful. So damn cute. Ivan would love to glance upwards, find that sweet blush, but his body is adamant on resting, eyes fluttering shut.
“You didn’t message me. This morning.”
Oh. There’s a hint of sulking in Till’s murmur, and Ivan’s unsure whether the rise of his body temperature comes from his condition or his boyfriend’s utterly adorable confession. Whatever the cause, there’s no denying the wave of cute aggression Till provokes — needing to actively refrain from squeezing the smaller in his arms.
“Needy much?” Ivan teases, a traitorous smile tugging at his lips before he adds on, a tad softer, “Sorry, precious, it slipped my mind. Thank you for checking up on me.”
With that, he eases away, pressing a palm to the small of Till’s back to steady him as he adjusts him to instead sit on the couch.
“No, none of all that suave gentleman crap— you sit down and let yourself be taken care of.”
Till is rarely assertive. He tries, adorably so, but he’s quick to fold under pressure, that deep-rooted people-pleaser in him clinging on despite how often he denies it. Yet, when it truly matters, he’s likely the most stubborn person Ivan’s ever met. And to be the target of such determination, oh how fortunate he is, tips of his ears reddening from the warmth in his chest.
Or perhaps it’s just the telltale sign of an impending fever. Before he can fully withdraw, Till catches his wrist, expression tumbling through emotions; startled, at first, followed by conflict, landing on worry.
“You’re burning up,” Till states drily, enclosing Ivan’s hand in two of his, “Sweaty too.”
“You like me sweaty.”
Unimpressed, Till lets go, rises to his feet in the same breath. “You stay put. Heed, or whatever the fuck gets you to listen.”
It doesn’t take much for Ivan to comply with Till, if anything at all. So, of course, he stays seated, head tilted upward and mildly curious.
“What do you usually have when sick? Porridge? Soup? Something else?”
The question is unexpected. Though, oddly enough, not entirely out of character. “Porridge,” comes easy, after just a heartbeat of a falter.
Till’s reaction is just as delayed. He narrows his eyes, squints at Ivan, then relents with an ever-dramatic sigh. So expressive. “Alright. I’ll strangle you if there are missing ingredients,” behaving every bit like the disgruntled cat he is, Till strides toward the kitchen.
Leaving Ivan alone with his thoughts, each one inevitably circling back to Till. Specifically, to the question of why Till is somehow… adequate, for lack of a better word — not quite the jittery thing he usually is when out of his artistic element.
Ivan would earn a punch to the chest for that comment.
Though, he doesn’t linger on the thought for long, because after what feels like only a minute, Till’s already back. There’s something endearing about the sight. Domestic, even, watching him step over the threshold of his kitchen, dressed in loungewear and a steaming bowl held carefully in his hands.
“That was quick.”
“Just microwaved oats— what household has no rice?”
Well. His, apparently.
Deeming his answer, or rather lack thereof, sufficient, Till sighs. Puffs his chest like a disgruntled cat, then exhales, face scrunched in mild irritation. So cute. He wants to bite his cheeks. Push him down the couch and—
“Anyway,” Till cuts in, glares accusingly, “I sliced some fruits… figured you’d like it sweet.”
So sweet. Caring. He wants to marry him.
It’s with ears red all the way to the tips that Till reclines on the couch, and it’s only due to his wretched state that Ivan scoots away. As much as he adores riling Till up, being the reason he ends up bedridden isn’t appealing, and he says as much.
“Then let’s be miserable together.”
“Sounds like marriage to me.” This might be the only time Ivan appreciates this sick-fog loosening his tongue as he tests the waters, gaze flitting to the right to gauge Till’s reaction.
Unfortunately, a spoon’s shoved directly before his face, efficiently shutting him up and causing his eyes to water from the sudden burst of steam.
“Next time…,” Till starts, quietens down into a mumble, “Call me… the next time. I’m your boyfriend, your partner, so… so let me take care of you.”
Ivan can count on one hand the number of times Till’s rendered him speechless The last was a surprise ‘birthday’ party — not the frivolous, boisterous ones he’s acquainted with, but something small and sincere. Now, he hits the pinky finger; stunned as Till’s words sink in, filled with a similar kind of warmth.
With a smile playing on his lips, he accepts the spoon. It seems nasty colds aren’t too gruesome.