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The sunlight that filters sluggishly through the windows signifies that the time had shiften to the cusp of noon after Till had fallen asleep at breakfast.
Great, almost half the day wasted already, he grouses internally, though Till knows that his mom wouldn’t want him going to school feeling this terrible anyways.
Till lifts his head groggily, a spike of discomfort raking sharply into his head like an early consequence for his terrible health. His back aches something vicious from falling asleep at the dining table instead of on the cough like he had planned.
He should have known that running to the bus with Ivan once it had started raining was a bad idea. The two of them had gotten sopping wet within seconds of their sprint.
(Till had brought an umbrella to school, but then he had to give it up to Luka since the guy would most likely crumble into dust under a single raindrop with his victorian constitution and he was not going to get beat up by Hyuna for letting him wander off in the rain.
Plus, Mizi would have given him that sad, insistent look if she found out. It was Ivan’s fault for never bringing an umbrella, damn it.)
Till blinks, squinting until the outline of the room becomes clearer.
The atrocious figure of someone Till unfortunately knows far too well leans comfortably against the hallway wall.
Ah. Thinking of the devil…
Till pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s too early for this. “Why are you in my house?”
“Your mom let me in.” Despite having went through the same rainfall that had totalled Till’s immune system, Ivan looks annoying handsome as always, especially compared to Till’s ailing condition.
“You dumbass, my mom is at work.”
“Does that really matter?” Ivan tilts his head and widens his eyes like Till would really fall for his act. “She would have if she was here.”
“It matters because I want to know how the fuck you got into my house.”
“Same as always.” Ivan shrugs and claps his hands together, looking quite pleased to be encroaching in private property. “Anyways! I heard you were sick.”
“Yeah.” Till coughs. “This is a quarantined space so get out.”
“I’m not afraid of your germs.” Ivan’s steps are level as he comes closer, elegant in a way that makes Till want to punch him as he approaches.
“I hope you get contaminated and die,” he hisses. “I will cough in your face.”
“Oh my, what an honor.” He drops a hand onto Till’s shoulder. Ivan seems to light up which makes him shudder in mild disgust (Till would be lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat used to it by now though). “I’ll take that as an offer to stay.”
“Idiot. Isn’t it a school day?” Glancing at the clock, Till notes that school should have started a hours ago.
“I don’t care,” Ivan shrugs.
“Of course you don’t.” Because Ivan’s effortlessly flawless attendance record meant nothing to him. “Oh my god.”
Despite multiple efforts on his part and a couple threats, Ivan doesn’t leave.
On the bright side, Till gets to put Ivan to work in the kitchen and has something genuinely edible to consume by the time lunch rolls around.
He gets to study the way Ivan flits back and forward to each pot and pan with his ladle, mentally timing each one as he dices at the cutting board and, all the time, chatting Till’s ear off simultaneously about some new cafe he wanted to drag Till to once the weekend rolled around.
The plated dish is nothing less than masterful in a soft, homely way that is amplified by the warm mist of smoke that emits from the soup.
“Oh.” Till examines the contents. “Is this seolleongtang?”
“It’s nourishing,” Ivan says, fixing himself a bowl out of the leftovers and sticking the rest in the fridge for later. “I thought you’d enjoy it too.”
It’s unfair that a rich kid can cook as well as he does, Till jabs his spoon into his bowl and ignores the incessant remarks that spills out of Ivan’s mouth like a fountain. Bastard wouldn’t even have to make meals for himself if he didn’t want to.
The soup was warm, comforting and light with the only heaviness coming from a subtle taste of beef bones that had been simmered to a finer note.
Till wonders if Ivan learned how to do this for Sua, who couldn’t cook to save her life, or if he was naturally gifted. Of course a bastard like him would be able to produce something so effortlessly perfect on a first try.
(Then again, maybe Ivan learned from necessity. Till rarely ever sees him sick other than the times when they were really small and Ivan would sneeze every autumn, but he knows that Ivan’s parents traveled for business a hefty amount of the year. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Ivan had learned through trial and error while providing for himself somehow.
He doesn’t want to spare that hypothetical much though. Till would rather believe the truth lies in something that would annoy him instead of one that meant that Ivan had suffered alone. It didn’t suit someone like him and made something twist in Till’s gut.
Next time that Ivan was sick, maybe Till would stop by and make something himself. It wouldn’t be anything special, perhaps vaguely inedible, but he thinks that Ivan would appreciate it nevertheless.
Not that it meant anything, he just couldn’t stand the idea of Ivan’s cooking getting any better than it already was.)
“Ah,” Ivan sighs. “You look lost in thought. Are you thinking about me, Till?”
Till’s head snaps up. “Why the hell would I want to waste more time on you than I have to?”
“Who knows?” Ivan lays his head against his palm, eyes creasing with a fondess that makes Till feel sick in a way that’s different from the way his disease was making his head fuzzy. “I can only make assumptions based on you were staring at me.”
“Me? Staring at you?”
“I know, right? How the tables turn— can’t say that I’m displeased, though.” He brushes a hand through his hair and poses.
Till gags and the goofy look he gets in return, where Ivan’s grin turns crooked and his snaggletooth pinches his bottom lip, is admittedly more attractive than the one before.
Ivan suddenly snaps his fingers, dropping his elbows on the table. “Ah, we can stare at each other. Romantic, yes?”
Why does Till even hang out with this guy?
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t shut up.”
Ivan gasps, spoon halfway to his mouth. “In the way that a housewife poisons her husband?”
“Why am I the— no.” Till glares. “In the way an axe murderer lops off a guy’s head.”
He frowns, perhaps reimagining the scene for himself. “Quite tasteless, in my opinion.”
“Like your soup.”
“Really?” Ivan leans over the table, dropping his elbow against Till’s forearm and brings his spoon to his mouth.
“We’re literally eating the same thing—“
Ivan ignores him. Till catches a glint of his snaggletooth when he swallows. “Tastes fine to me. I could make you something else instead though, if you want.”
“It’s fine.” Although the idea of making Ivan cook up a dozen more meals was enticing, it was only entertaining to tease someone who wouldn’t actually drop everything to do whatever he said.
Till pushes Ivan away until he relents and drops into his chair instead of lazing in his personal space. “You’re totally going to catch my cold though.”
“I don’t get sick,” Ivan declares proudly, making a last ditch effort to press his face against Till’s cheek before retreating.
Till pinches his nose with a flat reminder, “You infected Sua with your cough last month because you kept stealing her snacks.”
“She should have put them away properly. That’s not my fault,” he whined, crossing his arms.
Yeah, right. Likely story, Till thinks.
Sua wasn’t the kind of person to leave her stuff lying around the house, especially with a brother like Ivan who goes through everything like a starving dog despite recieving three square meals a day and the fact that she was viciously territorial on what was hers, so Till sincerely doubts that it was an error on her part.
Then again, nothing was genuinely Ivan-proof. Till knows that from personal experience which was why he had locks on his cabinets for whenever Ivan came over (which was unfortunately almost a daily routine) in case the idiot went scrounging through his things.
Ivan scrutinized Till’s face with his strange, unreadable look again. The effect was only amplified by his eyes that radiated the darkness akin to a moonless night, though Till was already quite familiar with that kind of stare. “Hey.”
“What,” Till grumbled.
“Are you tired?” Ivan stands up and clears Till’s bowl. His brow creases as he leans down in from of Till’s face, placing a careful palm against his forehead. “You seem a little warm, Till. Maybe we should get you to bed. Have a nap,” he muses.
Till could feel Ivan’s breath against his face, minty like the gum that Mizi likes to bring to class for sharing. Somehow, Till correlates that familiar scent moreso with Ivan nowadays.
Instances where they’re sitting on top of a fence in the late afternoon, settled in nothing but the sound of cicada buzzing and Ivan’s cheerful whistling that’s too close to his ear because he refused to move a couple inches away.
Or times where they’re both splayed over Ivan’s bed at his apartment disecting the newest magazine editions that Till knows Ivan doesn’t particularly care for, but always keeps a subscription to because he likes making Till come over to read them.
And now, when Till feels Ivan close to his face, the gentle wind of his breathing light on his neck. “You’re too close, I can’t think.”
“Are you flustered?” Ivan teases, raising an eyebrow. His eyes, dark and cutting, almost dance with amusement now. He rarely sees that kind of emotion on Ivan’s face with many others.
Till wasn’t sure how to feel about that, being one of the few that Ivan really shows himself to.
Such an annoying fucking guy.
Till kicks his foot pettily before he stands up, which Ivan doesn’t really seem to care about. “I’m sick, don’t flatter yourself. Though, I guess having some sleep would be nice.”
“I’m aware,” Ivan nods to himself. “I just know you that well, I’m afraid.”
“Truly terrifying.” Ivan follows him into his room, a space both of them were pretty familiar with considering how Io had somehow gotten the idea that the two of them were friends into her head and now cheerfully allows this maniac into his space without question.
Till stops at the doorframe, blocking it with his body as he leans against the wooden form. “Are you going to go so I can get some rest then?”
Ivan blinks. “Why would I leave?”
“You— whatever.” He’s too tired to argue with Ivan or to kick up a fuss and slam the door in his face for today. Till could complain about it tomorrow after his head feels less like it was splitting open with cotton wads.
Till drops bonelessly onto his bed, not bothering to move his feet up in order to free his blankets from underneath.
Completely content to just lie there, he almost forgets that Ivan was still in the room with him until the guy begins to carefully shuffle him to the side in order to free the covers.
Till cracks an eye open. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to get cold.” Ivan says as he drapes the blankets over Till with unnecessary percision. He smooths it down and pats Till on the back, looking quite proud of himself.
Huh. Till almost thanks him before Ivan suddenly gets the terrible idea to steal the other half of the bed and tucks himself in right next to him.
“What the fuck, Ivan? Get out of my bed!” He jerks upright to shove Ivan away. Ivan catches his hand and, with a wide grin, pushes him backward as his response.
“But then I’ll be cold too,” Ivan replies, his eyes carrying a deep sadness as if Till had betrayed him and he wasn’t wearing his letterman jacket over his hoodie in the middle of a well-heated apartment. He picks up one of Till’s pillows like a weapon and flings it at his face.
They tousle for a while until Ivan hits his head against the bedside table and almost knocks over the lamp.
“You’re so mean.” Ivan says, laying down on his stomach. He rubs the side of his head with a frown.
“I literally don’t care. Give me space,” Till demands.
Ivan huffs, closing his eyes with a severity similar to someone who had just been told the world was ending, and promptly shifts roughly two inches to the right.
Till considers kicking him out right there and then, an almost thirteen year friendship or not.
“Whatever. If you steal a corner of my side of the blanket, you’re actually dead,” Till warns.
Ivan chuckles, sitting up to thread his fingers through Till’s hair to give it a ruffle. “I can accept those terms.”
He remains halfway upright while Till simulates a pillbug in order to conserve heat. Ivan doesn’t stop patting his head, which Till reluctantly accepts since it’s nothing much to complain about.
“Are you comfortable. Do you want water maybe?” He offers. “I could get you water.”
Without thinking or opening his eyes, Till says, “Why do you like me so much?”
He’s not sure why he asked that, but it’s been a quiet question that bubbles up every once in a while. It’s hard not to wonder when he’s known Ivan for more than half of his life and very few interactions had ended without then bickering, arguing, or a mediocre brawl that leaves them both looking bedraggled.
Then, even rarer than their moments without disputes, did a day go by where Ivan didn’t offer to walk him home afterward.
Even rarer were the times that Ivan didn’t look over at him like he hung the moon despite how Till chews him out over the stupidest arguments and runs away after catching a glimpse of him approaching at the speed of a bullet train in the hallways (which typically leads to full-out sprints in the school that Luka serves them detentions for). He can’t even think of a time where a day like that had even gone by.
And yeah, maybe it’s because Ivan’s secretly annoying as hell under his studious, charming facade and Till’s one of the only people that have ever stuck around long enough to see it, but it didn’t serve as a justification for such a bewildering adoration like the kind Ivan undeniably holds for Till.
Ivan, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He actually looks a bit delighted to have been asked that, though they’ve all found that he inevitably brightens when he talks about Till. “Do I need a reason? I mean, I have plenty of them that I could tell you, but then we’d be here for a while and you’d probably kick me out after the first… ten minutes?”
“As if I would let you go on for five,” he points out.
“Fair enough.” Ivan closes his eyes with a content exhale.
“But seriously, you have like, a thousand other things you could be doing right now.” Till knows that Ivan was booked until evening on a good day. “So why are you here of all places?”
He’s pretty sure that Thursdays meant student council, ice skating practice, and a chess club meeting.
They have a shared calendar. It wasn’t Till’s idea and he had only accepted the invitation after daily pleas and the realization that he would be able to avoid Ivan easier if he knew where the punk was at all times.
It didn’t really matter in the end. Honestly, it would be impressive how, despite his insane schedule considering how Ivan genuinely didn’t shun his responsibilities, he made time to pester Till if it wasn’t so annoying.
“It’s where I want to be,” Ivan looks over at him and there’s something so honest in his eyes that Till can’t think for a moment. It’s always been Ivan with his teasing gaze and careless impulses, so it always makes Till’s chest shudder when he suddenly looks so warm instead.
“Your loss, I guess,” Till grumbles. Who the hell would want to miss a thousand activities to watch their miserable friend try to take a nap.
Ivan clicks his tongue. “I’d hardly call this a loss,” he says, like leaning over Till to pick up a couple tissues when his nose starts running was the same thing as winning the lottery.
“You’re such a weirdo.”
Ivan bats his eyelashes, swabbing a tissue across Till’s face. “Only for you.”
“That’s such a big fat lie,” Till protests.
“Ah.” Ivan nods. “Especially for you, then,” he corrected himself. He gives Till a half-lidded gaze as he presses his cheek into his palm like what he had just said was something tragically romantic instead of admitting to his own insanity.
Till twitches. “Ew.” He rolls over on his side so he doesn’t have to look at Ivan’s face anymore. “I’m going to sleep. If I wake up and you’re still staring at me, I’m going to file a complaint.”
“Ha,”Till can feel the subtle vibrations of Ivan’s voice through the mattress and he takes how it’s slightly soothing. He blames it on his exhausted state. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He’s pretty sure that he hears a quiet wish of “good night” as he falls asleep as someone shifts the blanket to lie around his shoulders more comfortably.
There’s a voice that rushes over Till’s consciousness like a river, unrelenting and smooth. Despite how easy it was to sink back into the nothingness that claimed his weary bones like an embrace, the specific timbre sent a shiver of urgency down his spine in a way that shocked hazy thoughts back into his mind.
He feels like that voice, despite how he can’t pinpoint the words or person, had to belong to someone that meant something to him. There was no other explanation for the way his heartbeat jumped into his throat after continuing monotonous for quite some time, or the urge to spur into action.
Or maybe this man just incites a heart attack within Till with his voice alone.
A warm hand settles onto his forehead, the kind of touch that he’s grown to expect today. “I’ll bring an umbrella next time, or at least a coat for you to hold over your head.”
The touch flutters to tuck a stray stand of hair behind his head and a warm chuckle shakes the bed when Till exhales at the contact. “It’s your fault for not running fast enough,” it continues. “You know that I was already going slower so I could match your pace? I think my notes got all soaked.”
“Though, I can’t say that I really mind. Not when I’m here with you now and this is how I got to spend my day.” And of course it was Ivan who was saying all this because who else would sound so pleased to be wasting the day away taking care of Till?
In the haze of sickness, Till finally recognizes that it’s Ivan’s hands that are carding so gently through his hair.
Ivan’s voice, emitted in hushed, soft hums between quiet words, “I love you, you know.”
He says it so carelessly that it sounds like it’s a fact of the universe, as if Ivan had truly been infactuated with him from the day that they had met. That he had made his peace with his affections and it was now a part of his being.
I do, Till thinks as he drifts off once more, and I think that I might love you too.