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Ivan leans back easily against the tiled wall.
Till’s lips twists in displeasure at the potent smell of soap, in discomfort at the weight of Ivan’s attention which lies solely on him, and, truly worst of all, deep embarrassment. He opens his mouth, stuck but unable to resist the push of perpetual motion that comes with their interactions—the tug of Till’s hands on Ivan’s sleeve earlier that day, the uneven lift of Ivan’s lips, the suspicious scowl of Till’s, the sly push of Ivan’s toes against the back of Till’s heel, the graceless stumbling of Till’s feet, the meaningless bickering, now the lowering of Till’s gaze, the squinting of Ivan’s amused eyes. It’s that look he always has, so goddamn snide, like he’s got something over Till. It makes the words tumble out of him before he can think.
“Stop bothering Mizi,” he says, nose bridge pinching.
Undeterred, if not even more entertained, Ivan innocently tilts his head.
Till presses onward. “I don’t know if you’re– Trying to get back at me. And when you're the one who said we should stop fighting… Even though you always start it.” Here, Ivan hums, sharp and quick, like he doesn’t agree. Till’s face pinches until his cheeks hurt. “You do. And now, because of you, M-Mizi won’t– She won’t… Play with me anymore.”
This much is at least enough to make Ivan’s face shift, though not into anything apologetic; it blanks. The smile returns as a wide sneer. “Is that really why you dragged me to the bathroom?” A brown-haired boy in the corner turns on a gushing tap and flinches away when Till glares at the sound.
This won’t do. Till grabs Ivan by the collar and goes for the nearest stall, pushing his overgrown limbs in until he’s fit over the toilet’s closed lid. The space is small, so Till stands, back against the door, hand over the lock, and legs in between Ivan’s knees.
It’s not a comfortable position since Ivan has, with his growth spurt, started taking up so much space. An image springs to mind of Ivan laid against a tree, Mizi using him as a sizable body pillow while he flit his fingers in the air. Till’s lungs seize at the memory. He brings himself closer to Ivan in retaliation, an intimidation tactic.
“What’re you doing?” Ivan says, pulling back with the wide-eyed look of a coward. He must be feeling guilty.
“Just– Avoiding attention, okay?”
Slowly, Ivan says, eyes fixed on where Till’s hip brushes against his knee, “By pulling me into a closed stall with you?” He stares like Till’s the stupid one then says, “Really, Till. You’re such a bully.”
Till lifts his leg with a scowl, pressing his knee on top of Ivan’s thigh with force. That shuts him up quickly.
“Anyway, leave Mizi alone. She looks happier when you’re not there,” Till says petulantly.
“Are you projecting?” Till’s eyebrows arch. Ivan, in typical fashion, only proceeds when he knows how to hurt him best. “You know, Mizi never played with you in the first place.” It takes Ivan a long moment to continue, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes watching the corner furthest away from Till intently. “I was the one who played with you.”
That’s right, Till thinks for a moment. Why don’t you anymore?
He chews the insides of his cheeks as a distraction. His teeth grind down too hard when his leg jolts with pain. He slips, slapping Ivan’s hand away from where it’s pinched his leg. He tastes blood in his mouth.
“Are we done here?” Ivan asks, rubbing his reddened ears. “I’d like to go.”
“No!” Till yells through the flavor of iron, throwing himself forward, arms braced on each side of Ivan. This freezes him solid.
He regains himself with a frown. “What a pitiful attempt at throwing a punch.”
“I’m not–“ Till adjusts himself, aware of the way Ivan’s bangs flutter with every breath he takes. “It’s not– Can you just– If you really want something to do, come bother me instead.”
When Ivan tilts his head, it leans against Till’s forearm, which burns underneath. “How heroic.”
Till chooses to ignore him. “You can ask me stuff, too. You suck at Expression of Music.”
“I’m average at worst.” Ivan rubs against Till’s arm until he scowls.
“If you weren’t so damn prideful, I could help you out.”
“I assume you’d want me to do your Religion and Music homework in return?”
“And what of it?” Till says with a pout, licking inside his wounded mouth. “Then, what do you want?”
“Well, you can get on your knees and beg, for a start.”
“Like hell I’m doing that,” he shrieks. He has half a mind to spit on Ivan, blood and all, if only to stain that pristine conceited demeanor. “Ask for something else!” When Ivan makes a show of thinking deeply for too long, Till steps on his foot. Contemplating, Till forces out, “I can help you actually practice your guitar chords. Instead of whatever it is you do.”
Ivan blinks. “Pardon?”
Till hesitates. Lifting his hand in the air, he says, “You know, your,” fingers swatting terribly. He’s seen Ivan do it many times when distracted. He’s never seen Ivan so much as pick up an instrument, but it wouldn't be unthinkable. It's a habit Till developed mindlessly himself.
For just a moment, Till recalls that, as a kid, Ivan had a strange habit of following and mimicking him endlessly, both to his pleasure and annoyance. Back then, this would’ve been the first conclusion Till would’ve jumped to. Now, it only crosses his mind as a distant possibility. What business did Ivan have doing that these days except to mock him? At the very least, he would have to appreciate that Till’s the best at guitar in their class.
“You would?” Ivan asks almost hesitantly.
Till pauses. “S-Sure.” He runs his molar against the cut. “But you’ll have to wait until I’m free, so we can’t practice based on your schedule. It’ll be based on mine. And… You’ll come to my room. Too many people try talking to you when we’re in the garden. So. It has to be just the two of us.” Till puffs his chest out, crosses his arms over it, ignores the pressure of his triumphant beating heart.
“Hm,” Ivan says, not disagreeing.
“And you’ll leave Mizi obviously,” Till remembers to add.
“Obviously.”