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Loving someone like Till was easy: it came like the flow of a breeze from the first moments of breathing the same air with him. He was loudly considerate, outrightly supportive, humorously clever. If Ivan came home from a bad day, Till fixed it by making two cups of coffee, grabbing a blanket, and opening Ivan’s favorite movies. If Ivan had to sit in front of his laptop and revise scripts until late hours of the night, Till usually fell asleep on the couch because he didn’t want to go to bed without him. And if Till, by some miracle, didn’t have early morning shootings, he made sure to stay in bed and cuddle with Ivan for as long as they could.
And learning to live with someone like him wasn’t hard when Ivan loved him so dearly. Because being with Till brought a speciality to every mundanity. From making breakfast to late night pillow talks, driving downtown to shopping for furniture, and even those moments they sat together in silence as Ivan wrote scripts and Till memorized his lines. Everything was growing to be a memory in the back of Ivan’s mind, once it was with Till.
Love, he found, was like this. It didn’t require effort: not at all times. It didn’t require flower bouquets or expensive rings. One peck on the cheek was enough to say I love you. Doing the chores in the other’s stead was enough to say I care about you. Staying in on a saturday night and toasting their cheap drinks was enough to say I want to be with you.
And Ivan wouldn’t change this to anything.
By the time Till had come home from a shooting, Ivan was in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
“I’m home,” Till called as the door closed behind him.
Ivan was stirring the rice cakes of tteokbokki , simmering them in the chili sauce Till loved so much. “Welcome,” he called back. “How was the shooting?”
Till sighed in boredom from the hallway. “I’m exhausted. The amount of times we retook scenes is not even funny.”
Ivan opened up a cabinet to take out plates. “I can give you a massage, if you want,” he offered playfully.
Till laughed. “I would love that,” he said, coming into the kitchen. As soon as he did, he inhaled the warm scent of the food. “It smells so fucking good,” he mused, walking up to Ivan. He hugged him from behind and tipped his head on his back. “Are you making doenjang ?”
“I am,” Ivan said. “I also made tteokbokki for you.”
Till’s arms around his waist tightened, a sign that he was glad to hear that. “I’m starving,” he said.
Ivan turned the stove off. He turned in Till’s arms to face him. His lover’s show makeup was still intact, his gray hair styled with setting spray. The shirt he wore used to belong to Ivan, but in the past year, it had become more Till’s than it was his. Not that Ivan could complain. He liked to see it on Till.
With a smile, Ivan leaned in to press a soft kiss on his lips. “Let’s set the table and dig in,” he mumbled.
But Till caught his lips again, kissing him deeply, as if to make up for the entire day they spent apart. So, Ivan let him. He closed his eyes and cupped Till’s cheeks, letting himself get enveloped in his touch.
When they pulled away again, their eyes met.
Till was smiling, a sight that helped Ivan’s heart beat stronger.
“Want to city gaze after dinner?” Till asked.
It had become some sort of their thing, a word Till had come up with six months into sharing an apartment. Practically because there was no chance of seeing a single star in the sky of Seoul, but there were more than enough glowing towers that winked from the horizon. And to sit on their cushioned seats in the balcony while talking about everything and nothing could be the greatest gift to both of them after working all day.
“Of course,” Ivan said, kissing Till’s forehead before turning back to their freshly cooked meal. So, Till took it as his cue to take out two glasses from the cabinet and pour soju into them.
Ivan, meanwhile, put the tteokbokki into a serving plate and poured the remaining sauce on top of it. The bibimbap he had made earlier and doenjang-jjigae went into bowls before Ivan carried them to their dining table.
Having ground to ceiling windows brought an incredible cityscape into their high rise apartment. Till turned off the bright, white lights of the living room and changed them with the dim, golden led lights they’d installed instead. They usually used them for movie nights where they didn’t want too dark of an environment, or, well, during those evenings they wanted to romanticize.
Ivan assumed tonight to be the latter.
“So, how did your production meeting go?” Till asked, taking the plates in Ivan’s hand to place them.
“Without any trouble,” Ivan said. He walked back into the kitchen to get the remaining plates. “The director is a nice man. He has offered several names for the casting. And surprisingly, he doesn’t have a problem with any of the scenes I’ve written. Not even the sex.”
Till giggled at that. When Ivan brought the stews, Till had already sat on his side of the table with one leg pulled to himself on the chair. “Well, you wrote it good. Maybe not as good as ours, but still.”
Ivan rolled his eyes, though he was grinning. He sat across Till. “What about your shooting?” he asked. “Why did you have to retake so many scenes?”
“Oh, because we needed a ton of costume changes. Summer is approaching too. I hate working in heat.” Till stabbed his fork into a spicy rice cake on the center of the table, dipping it into the sauce properly before taking a bite.
“I know you do,” Ivan said. He put one elbow on the table, cheek pressed into his palm as he watched Till affectionately. To watch him enjoy the food Ivan made was something that couldn’t be topped. Or maybe, Ivan just loved watching Till in general. It came to the same result either way.
When Ivan took his glass, the clear alcohol swirled inside. “Come on,” he said. “A toast.”
Till smiled. This was another habit both had adopted like a tradition. Making a toast every night at dinner, because they didn’t need a special occasion to clink glasses; instead, clinking glasses made the occasion special. It would be for anything: from winning an award one of them were nominated for to just having a pleasant night together. Neither of them really cared about the purpose when what mattered was the action itself.
“To the director who liked the sex scene,” Till said as he raised his glass.
Ivan couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “He didn’t like it, he just didn’t take it out of the revised script.”
“Oh believe me, that means he liked it,” Till prompted.
Upon that, Ivan leisurely brought his glass to clink with Till’s. “Then, to the director who liked the sex scene,” he agreed, adding, “enough to keep it.”
Till leaned back on the chair as he brought his drink to his lips. “You know, I’m quite excited to see it in theaters,” he said before taking a sip.
Ivan raised a brow. “The sex ?” he mocked.
“The movie ,” Till fixed. “What’s a sex scene when you can do it better?”
Now, it was Till who was mocking him. Blood rushed to Ivan’s cheeks. “ Till .”
“What?” Till insisted. “Don’t blush, it’s the truth! You may be good with words, Ivan, but you’re good in bed too. Amazing, even.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s a compliment,” Till remarked.
Ivan averted his eyes. “Still, embarrassing,” he mumbled.
At that, Till scoffed. “I love you too, dumbass.”
. . .
The clock had struck twelve at night when Ivan was lying on his side of the bed, scrolling through his phone. In a minute or so, Till walked into the room. He had taken a shower (partially because they had city gazed for a long while in the balcony, and when Till had sneezed once, Ivan had insisted he should take a warm shower to prevent illness) and brushed his teeth for bed. He took off his shirt before climbing into the bed.
“Now that I’m thinking,” he said as he got under the covers, “I talked to Mizi the other day. She’s inviting us to France in late summer. You’ll probably be busy with the movie but maybe we can clear our schedules for a week or so?”
Ivan clicked his phone off and turned to Till on the bed. “Of course. We’ll do that.”
Till tucked his phone into the charger and put it on his bedside table, next to the Oscar award that shone golden under the nightlight. It had been a long time since he won that award, although it still felt like yesterday to Ivan. One night so unforgettable that he found himself smiling every time he remembered about that statuette with Till’s name written on it.
“I was also thinking about a summer vacation,” Ivan said. “Your birthday is around the corner, too. Anywhere you want to go in June? We can fly to Los Angeles again, if you want.”
Till hummed as he laid down on the pillow. He briefly stared at the ceiling before shooting a sideways glance at Ivan. “Actually, how about we go to Moscow?”
Ivan blinked at the unexpected request. “Moscow?”
“Yes.” Till turned to him. He found Ivan’s hand under the sheets to interlock their fingers. “You know, we went there during the world tour, but couldn’t really get to travel around because of… well, my hospitalization.”
Ivan didn’t like to think about that night. Still, to this day, the pain was vibrant in his chest. The idea of losing Till was much more than what he could handle, and he would rather not live that fear ever again. He was just so glad to be here with him, right now. Without having to worry about any of that.
“You were so excited for me to see your hometown,” Till went on. “So, maybe we could go there again. This time, just the two of us. And you’ll show me around.” He brought Ivan’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles softly. “Plus, we still have a promised dinner at your dad’s.”
Ivan smiled. “You remember.”
“Of course I do,” Till said. “So, what do you say? A trip to Moscow this summer. We will celebrate my birthday, too.”
Those words were warm and inviting, in a way that made Ivan sink more into the pillow, get lost in the green of his lover’s eyes. “I like that,” he whispered.
Till leaned in to give him a kiss: an intimate, quiet touch of lips, reserved for the bedroom only. He then laid his head on Ivan’s shoulder, his hand finding its place on his chest.
Ivan chuckled as he accepted the embrace. He slid his hand down to Till’s bare waist. “What’s up with being so touchy?”
Till snuggled in closer. “I’m making the most of you before the deadly summer heat prohibits us from cuddling,” he grumbled into Ivan’s shoulder.
Ivan didn’t complain. He just kissed Till’s hair and pulled him closer. “I love you,” he whispered.
He could almost feel Till smile against his skin. “I love you too.”
As Ivan drifted into a comfortable sleep, all he could do was to imagine visiting Moscow again with Till. To visit museums and historical landmarks. To see his dad. To give Till the best birthday ever.
Right . He better started thinking of something for his birthday, because time flied in the blink of an eye and Ivan wanted to be prepared.
He wanted to give him the greatest gift.
But what would that be?
As he was lost in countless ideas and possibilities, sleep started to take over. And sometime between that mess of thoughts, Ivan gave in to it.
. . .
Ivan was right about one thing: time did fly.
In the blink of an eye, summer had come. And by the time it was the twentieth of June in Korea, Ivan and Till were packing their bags to fly to Moscow.
As soon as Ivan had called his father to let him know they were going to visit, Dimitri had been incredibly happy. He had immediately told Ivan that they could stay at his place if they wanted, and that had allowed the two to get the accommodations out of the way.
Now, after the last award show they had flown to, this was the first time Ivan and Till were in a plane.
And of course, Ivan had brought a book with him.
“Remember this one?” he asked, extending the book to Till. “When I told you that it was the first queer book in Russian literature to have a happy ending, you’d said that you wanted to read it.”
It was Wings by Mikhail Kuzmin. Ivan had read it in his school years, as in a partial act of justifying the feeling awakening inside him for boys. And this book itself had helped him warm up towards Mikhail Kuzmin, who was arguably the first writer in modern Europe to claim homosexuality was not immoral.
At the time, it really had helped Ivan. As if these pages written in his native tongue were some sort of a safe space. As if the main character Vanya was a mirror reflection of his own heart.
“Holy shit, it’s in English too? Where did you get it?” Till asked, grabbing the book.
“In the airport,” Ivan said. “I saw a bookstore on my way to the bathroom and couldn’t help myself.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Till said with a soft smile. “Come here, let’s read it together.”
One good thing about having convinced Till to improve his English was to be able to read and watch anything together. At some point, Korean subtitles weren’t necessary while watching a show, and Till had started grabbing random books from Ivan’s shelf without having to ask if it had a Korean copy. And truth to be told, it fulfilled Ivan on some other level; to be able to share the literary feeling of art with the love of his life without the need of translation. (Well, Ivan still thought Till could learn a little bit of Latin to help things get easier, but Till strictly rejected that, claiming English was hard enough.)
The two spent the entire flight reading the book, occasionally discussing which parts of the novel could be based on Kuzmin’s real life, sometimes sleeping as they listened to some soft music, and making out a traveling plan for all the places Ivan wanted Till to see.
It was nice to be with him, Ivan thought, as he did every morning in the same bed, every evening on the same dinner table.
And there were times it crossed his mind to take this to one step further.
They were already living together, sharing every part of their daily routines. What was missing was a vow and a ring.
It wasn’t like Ivan hadn’t thought of proposing. On the contrary, he had been so into the idea that he had to hide it from Till. Because Till was an actor on the rise, on the dazzling peak of his career. He surely wouldn’t want to get engaged, let alone married, when the entire media would be running after the news.
So, they hadn’t properly talked about it before. But it was fine. What they had going on was good enough. Ivan didn’t really care, despite wanting it. And if Till had noticed the amount of marriage themed movies Ivan was watching recently, he hadn’t brought it up, either.
It was fine, Ivan told himself again.
The time for that would come, too, eventually.
Hopefully .
. . .
After a long flight, they had landed at Moscow Airport. Ivan was thankful for the timezones, because by the time they landed, it was still noon, while it probably would’ve been nearing the evening in Seoul.
They were now at the door of Dimitri’s house, so they could settle down before going out in their rental car (of course, a Ferrari due to Till’s fondness for luxurious sports cars) to travel around the Kremlin.
“Boys! How are you two doing?” Dimitri asked as soon as he opened the door. He gave Till a sincere, paternal hug before hugging Ivan. “Till, you can leave your suitcases in the first room down the hall. It’s Ivan’s room.”
“On it,” Till called, grabbing both of their bags.
Dimitri looked back to his son, the creases of his eyes appearing alongside his smile. “I’m so glad you two decided to come here,” he said in a low Russian.
Ivan smiled back. “Me too,” he responded. “Tomorrow is Till’s birthday. We’re going to spend today together, but I was wondering if you could help me with an organization for tomorrow, papa. You know, the cake and everything.”
“Of course,” Dimitri said as if it was nothing. “Leave that to me. We’ll talk the details out, alright?” He winked, tapping Ivan’s shoulder.
Ivan nodded. “Of course.”
“So, are you two hungry?” Dimitri asked, now in Korean for Till to hear as well. “I have pelmeni if you’re in the mood for lunch, I can make blini with smetana if you want some snacks, or solyanka for something warm.”
Ivan didn’t even hesitate to answer. “How about all of them?” he asked, on his way to his room. “Because I’m starving.”
Dimitri had already walked into the kitchen. “You ask, I deliver,” he mused.
As his dad was turning the stove on, Ivan walked into his childhood room, where Till was observing around inside. Ivan, as well, took his time to observe it a little. It was like his second home, and though he didn’t come here as often now, all of his belongings were at their places, untouched. Back when his parents had first gotten a divorce, Ivan had needed to bring some of his stuff here to make it feel less foreign and more of his own. That was why there were books of Aristotle and Plato on the shelves left from his high school years, and posters of superheroes left from his middle school years.
But despite all of them, Till’s eyes were stuck on something else: a framed picture on Ivan’s study desk.
Ivan remembered what it was. A picture of him in his university graduation gown, posing with Dimitri to the camera. It could be the latest addition to the room, even though it was countable years ago.
When Till took the picture to observe it closely, Ivan leaned on the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Like what you see?” he asked.
Till glanced up at him with a smile. “You know, I have never regretted dropping out of college,” he said, “but maybe it could’ve been nice to see you get that diploma.”
Ivan walked towards him, hopping over the suitcases on the floor. “If you ask politely, maybe I will finish another university and get one more degree just for you.”
Till scoffed, putting the picture down on the desk again. “You’re academically insane, Ivan. Someone needs to put a stop to that.” He easily let Ivan hold him from the waist and pull him closer, enough to give a little peck on the lips. He wrapped his arms around Ivan’s neck. “But still, I like it,” he said. “It’s like discovering a whole new side of you.”
Ivan smiled. “Not really,” he mumbled. “I was still the same old history nerd back then. The only difference now is that you’re head over heels for me.”
Till rolled his eyes at the last bit. Yet still, “Well, I can’t lie. It’s true,” he said. He shortly stared at Ivan, a look of admiration and comfort. “And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier,” he added in a whisper, before embracing Ivan tightly.
Those words lingered in Ivan’s head as he hugged his lover back. If Till hadn’t been happier than this, was that a sign that he could, perhaps, say yes to a proposal? Or was that just Ivan reading things into the way he wanted them to be? Should he try talking to Till about it soon? Well, maybe after his birthday, in case some argument ruined the entire day for both of them.
Ivan kissed his hair, inhaling the scent of their shampoo combined with that soft, unique scent of Till himself.
There was no need to overthink that right now.
It could wait for a while. For a few more days, at least.
. . .
After eating two plates of pelmeni and a big bowl of solyanka , Ivan and Till left the house to travel around Moscow. Their first stop was the famous Red Square, obviously, where Ivan explained to Till that most of the Russian Empire’s tsars were crowned here. They shopped around in GUM department store, and although both could feel a few cameras held up as they passed and a few eyes stuck on them, they decisively ignored it.
That was how things had grown to be after they started dating. The media was always nosy. Maybe now, there was nothing worthy of a scandal in a picture of them holding hands or kissing in public, but for some reason, people still wanted to see it.
But Till had overcome his constant urge to maintain a perfect image in these past years they spent together. He clearly didn’t give a fuck about those people taking pictures of them when his eyes were stuck on an outfit displayed in Hermès.
So, he dragged Ivan into the store and bought himself a few thousand dollar jacket and an even more expensive pair of sneakers, which Ivan couldn’t complain about at all because it did look good on Till.
After GUM, they went to St. Basil’s Cathedral and took so many pictures with the captivating architecture of the building. If it was left to Ivan, he would want to go inside and show Till the labyrinth of narrow vaulted corridors and the patterned art installed on every single wall and ceiling, but he knew Till wasn’t a huge fan of religious history, so there was no point in dragging him along the nine chapels of the huge cathedral.
Besides, they were already going to get their dose of history from the Moscow Kremlin Museums anyway, which they were heading towards next. The one they were going to see was called the Armory Chamber, a unique type of museum that consisted more of armory and royal belongings than paintings or sculptures. It wasn’t Ivan’s preferred type of museum to see, but it made history feel more real to look at the crowns tsars once wore, or the armors the soldiers wore to wars in the eighteenth century. It made the stories in his mind solidify, made him face a brutal sense of reality and the tragic poeticism of the rise and the fall of an empire.
Now, as they were walking into the museum, “Who is this?” Till asked, pointing at a black statue set in the entrance of the exhibition. “His name is the same as yours.”
Ivan paused, glancing once at the statue of a tsar sitting on his throne rather thoughtfully. His name was carved on the platform the sculpture was displayed at. Ivan IV Vasilyevich .
Ivan narrowed his eyes at Till. “Since when can you read Russian?”
Till shrugged. “I know how to read your name,” he excused. “It’s on your Russian ID, and I happen to have a good memory. You know, those lines aren’t easy to memorize without some skill.” He grinned, tapping a finger on his temple. “So, who is this man you share a name with? A tsar?”
Ivan nodded. “Ivan the fourth. Actually, he’s more commonly known as Ivan the Terrible.”
That made Till snort. “Terrible, really? Did he rule that bad?”
“Not as in bad,” Ivan corrected. “As in fearsome. He was called Ivan Grozny , which means cruel—but I guess it gets lost in translation, considering the word we use today.” He sized up the statue in consideration. “Though, I don’t have a problem with people calling him terrible nowadays. It suits him. You see, using terror to centralize the Russian state isn’t quite heroic.”
“Oh,” Till let out, his gaze on the statue changing as if it was a real person to scorn at. “You’re right. That does sound grozny .”
As Ivan recalled all the information at the back of his mind about Tsar Terrible, his lips curled into an inevitable smile. “But you know what,” he began, tilting his head, “there were rumors that he had a male lover.”
When he heard that, Till almost burst into a loud laughter that would ruin the silence of the exhibition. Pointing at the statue, “Were you named after him?” he teased.
Ivan glared at him sarcastically. “Not funny,” he said, though he was smiling. “His supposed lover’s name was Fyodor Basmanov, initially a general in the army.”
Till hummed. “Is that the kind of thing you like?” he kept on mocking. “A general in the army type of man? The king’s right hand man?”
Ivan didn’t buy it at all. “No,” he said, taking Till’s hand. “ You are the kind of thing I like. As long as I’m not a king, you don’t need to be a general.”
“That’s very satisfying to know, thank you.”
The two saw every piece of history in every available exhibition in the museum. From a treasure chest the Korean embassy had sent to Nicholas II, to the knight armor tailored just for Alexander II, they observed anything and everything, making up stories as they went.
After the museum, Ivan suggested driving to the Bolshoi Theater, just so he could show Till the architecture of the place. But as soon as they arrived at the historic opera house, Till gripped Ivan’s arm and pointed at a show banner of Hamlet.
In these past few months, Shakespeare had grown to be a special interest of Till. He had read nearly all of his plays, constantly asking Ivan of those Old English words jammed in between the original scripts. Ivan could understand his interest. Of course, he was an actor who had a huge respect for the ancestors of his profession, but also, in some inexplicable way, Till’s humor matched Shakespeare’s. Not to mention how he strictly believed that some characters were purposefully intended to portray homosexuality, such as Bassanio and Antonio from The Merchant of Venice.
So, when they saw the banners for Hamlet, all Ivan did was to glance at his lover. “Want to see the show?”
Till blinked. “What? Really ?”
“Of course,” Ivan said. “Come on.”
The two walked into the theater and Ivan bought tickets from the ground floor—quite expensive, but worth the endeavor. The show was in English, possibly a western production brought to Russia. And truthfully, despite having read the original play, Ivan hadn’t had the chance to watch it. And as always, to see a tragedy he knew so well come to life on the stage was something mesmerizing.
Shakespeare was never easy to read, let alone play. Most of the time, the lines sounded like nonsense, required to be read over and over until you understood what ‘Marry, this is miching mallecho! ’ meant.
But when played right , it created the greatest coherent piece of art on stage. Every rhyme in the lines made Ivan wonder as a writer. Every metaphor he heard was like a firefly to be caught. And every twist in the plot was an arrow of inspiration that sliced through Ivan’s mind, giving him new ideas.
Till, as well, seemed to be enjoying the play, so much that Ivan thought he would seriously ask to go to London again just to revisit the Globe Theater, now with the acknowledgment of Shakespeare’s talent and intelligence.
During the final scene of the play, where Hamlet was dying in the arms of his best friend, Horatio, Till leaned closer to Ivan. “Is it just me, or do you think Horatio is in love with Hamlet, too?” he whispered.
Ivan nearly laughed at that, but he could see the reason. Horatio could be the only character to stay loyal to Hamlet until the very end. The only character who didn’t carry a knife to stab the prince in the back. “Now that you said it,” Ivan whispered back, “it kind of makes sense.”
On the stage, Horatio looked down at the body lying in his arms. “Now cracks a noble heart,” he said theatrically. “Good night, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
. . .
After the show, they decided to take a walk. The sky was giving way to darkness already, painted in shades of cold blue. Till wanted to eat something, so Ivan took him to a restaurant he loved so much: White Rabbit.
The dining room was on top of the building, covered by a glass sphere that created a mystical environment where one could watch the entire city, alongside the emerging night. Soft, neon lights were glowing from the bar, tables set with little candles.
Of course, a place as romantic as that was crowded and fully reserved, unless a global celebrity showed up on the counter.
Thankfully, Ivan had a boyfriend who served the purpose.
Till chose a table right beside the windows where they could watch the twinkling city lights from above. They ordered their food, and as soon as the waiter was gone, Till smiled at Ivan. “You see, I wasn’t expecting a gesture like this,” he said, leisurely putting the champagne glasses to the side to lean on the table. “A romantic dinner?”
“It’s only suitable,” Ivan said. “I wanted today to be something memorable.”
Till hummed playfully. “I was thinking the same thing,” he mused. “So, is this my supposed birthday gift?”
When Ivan remembered about that, a welcome nervousness enveloped his heart. For these past few months, he had been working on this gift. And although he was almost certain it had turned out to be something Till would like, it still thrilled him to present it to his lover.
“No,” Ivan said with a smirk. “Not yet. I’m keeping that for later.”
Till glanced at him, his green eyes glinting with curiosity. “I can’t wait for it,” he said.
Their dinner came, and they discussed the production of Hamlet as they ate the food. Till was visibly still in awe of the entire play, and he had even gone on social media and found the actors to give them a follow because he wouldn’t want to miss their future projects.
After dinner, the two lingered around in White Rabbit, ordering an entire bottle of red wine and sharing it. Alcohol didn’t really faze Till, but Ivan always tried to make sure he was being careful with it.
Still, on a night like this, he couldn’t really complain about it. He wanted today to be as Till liked. So, fuck it if they drank. Sharing a whole wine bottle wasn’t new for them, anyway.
Ivan raised his glass for a toast. “To you,” he told Till. “And your birthday, even though it’s technically tomorrow.”
Till, as well, raised his glass to clink against Ivan’s. “And to you being with me today.”
Those words were warm, something pleasant to hear in a night like this. Something that brought the awareness to Ivan that he had the chance to share his dinner with a man he loved, in a restaurant atop of the view of the entire Moscow. He took a sip from the wine, tasting the bitter alcohol. He wouldn’t trade this feeling, this moment to anything.
“Till,” he said, drawing the boy’s attention to himself. As he stared into his expectant eyes, he hesitated at how absently beautiful he was. People used to say that Till was lucky to have someone like Ivan, but they were wrong. The lucky one was Ivan. He was way too lucky to be loved back by Till. Unable to hold back a smile, “Thank you,” he said.
That was enough to soften Till’s expression into sweet surprise. He tilted his head. “For what?” he asked with the trace of a humorous affection.
Ivan wasn’t sure of how to put it into words.
So, he simply shrugged. “Everything,” he said at last. “For everything.”
Of course, Till had understood what he meant by just that alone. Ivan could see it in his eyes. “Thank you for everything, as well,” Till responded knowingly.
And to hear that was all Ivan ever needed.
. . .
By the time the clock was nearing midnight, Ivan and Till were sitting by the Moskva River, watching the city lights reflect on the undulating water running beneath their feet.
As Ivan stared at the pitch black night sky, “You know, we should come here sometime in winter, as well,” he said.
Till pulled a leg to himself. “In winter?” he asked.
Ivan nodded. “Yes. It reminds me of my childhood, you know. I used to come to see my dad every winter and we would go skiing. My mom has never been big on Christmas, but it was some sort of a tradition in my father’s family. Decorating the tree and buying presents. I kind of miss it.”
“We can do that this year,” Till suggested. “We’ll buy a tree, decorate it, and get presents for each other. Hell, we can even invite people for a Christmas party! What do you say about inviting Mizi, Sua, and Hyuna?”
Ivan chuckled. “I love that, but the girls would probably be busy, considering the amount of parties Mizi is invited to on a weekly basis.”
“If we become the first people to invite her, she will have to come,” Till decided. “Good thing we thought of this six months in advance.”
With that, Ivan couldn’t argue. “You’re right,” he said, giving it a thought as he watched the glowing cityscape in front him, beyond the river. “Then, we will have a Christmas party this year.”
“Consider it done,” Till assured.
In the comfortable silence, Till laid his head on Ivan’s shoulder. He casually took out his phone from his back pocket, presumably to check the notifications.
With the side of his eye, Ivan glanced at the screen too, checking the time on top of Till’s lock screen. There were two minutes left until midnight.
Ivan tried to gather himself. He was stiff, the type of nervousness he would feel before walking on the red carpet or going to meet with producers for a script feedback. A part of him knew it would mean a lot to Till, yet he still couldn’t keep his hands from fidgeting, his heart from thumping against his ribs.
“Smile,” Till said, drawing Ivan’s attention to the phone in his hands. His camera was open, ready for a picture to be taken.
Ivan took a deep breath as if to wash away all his anxiety, and managed to smile sincerely for the camera.
Yet before clicking the screen to take the photo, Till suddenly raised his head from Ivan’s shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. The photo clicked right then.
Ivan was caught off guard. “Hey!” he said, making Till laugh.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Till countered. He tapped on the photo, showing it to Ivan. “You look so cute in it. I think I deserve to have this.”
Ivan’s eyes shifted to the corner of the screen, where the time was. The moment the eleven and fifty nine turned into twelve and two zeros, Ivan swallowed. “I think you deserve to have something else, too,” he said. From the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a rolled up piece of paper, wrapped with a thin red ribbon.
Till blinked absently “What is that?” he asked, eyes on the paper.
Without a doubt, Ivan extended it to him. “It’s a poem I wrote for you,” he said.
When Ivan had first brought up that he used to write poems, they were in London. The night before Till kissed him on top of the London Eye. Ever since that, Till had occasionally insisted that Ivan should read him some of his old poems, or maybe try to write something new because he was curious, but Ivan had always rejected it by saying he wasn’t good enough with poetry. This year, though, he wanted to try it again. Because when he thought of a gift for Till, the only thing that came to him were words.
So, the least he could do was to write them down.
“Happy birthday, Till,” Ivan said. “I love you, and I wanted you to read it yourself.”
Till was baffled, his eyes shifting between the paper and Ivan. His mouth hung half open as if he was trying to find words to say, but nothing seemed to come to him. In the end, he just scoffed, lips curling into a smile. “Ivan, I…” He couldn’t continue. He didn’t even reach to take the poem. All he did was to wrap his arms around Ivan, embracing him tightly. “When did you even write it?” he asked, pure happiness draping from those words.
“Well, I have been working on it for several months. Had to scrap a lot of first drafts, but in the end, I think I came up with something I liked.” He stroked Till’s back, holding onto the warmth of his touch for a few more seconds before Till pulled back and took the rolled up paper.
He tugged on the red ribbon softly, helping it come loose. Once the ribbon was just a string between his fingers, Till twirled it around his own ring finger, as if it was an unspoken promise.
That sole action made Ivan’s heart skip. Once again, it made him imagine an actual silver band on Till’s finger.
With a soft smile, Till unfolded the thick paper and ran his eyes over the handwritten poem.
The paper itself was too big for a four verse poem, so Ivan had dried a red flower and stuck it on the right side of the paper, right above a polaroid picture of them taken in Los Angeles last year.
Ivan could see Till’s smile widen as he gently tilted the paper, his eyes move over the lines as he read the poem.
“ The word belief itself
Is sometimes make believe
The human mind tends to be deaf
To what it doesn’t want to perceive
My mind used to play deaf, heart play mute
They chose not to admit that all I wanted was you
Maybe they were scared that I’d take the wrong route
But with you, whatever is wrong, I bet I could refute
Because you proved to me that the moon shines with the sun
That maybe we’re in a reality where the stars do align
That my heart can be a sword to symbolize all the battles won
And not only a glass shattered under a loaded gun
The word belief itself
Can sometimes be make believe
But when I’m with you, it’s too real
It leaves the dictionaries deceived .”
As soon as Till finished reading, he raised his head from the paper. “Ivan,” he mumbled senselessly. He looked like he could cry, but also like he didn’t want to get sentimental just yet. “I—fuck, this is the best thing I’ve ever read. It’s the best gift somebody has ever given to me.” He wiped his sleeve to his eyes.
With a proud smile, Ivan pressed his hands on the grass behind them, leaning slightly backwards. “I want to give you many more,” he said. “As long as we’re together.”
The next time Till met his eyes, there was a glimpse of scheming on his face. There was a fragment of courage, of determination. He lowered the poem to his lap. “Ever thought of making that ‘till death do us part’?” he asked.
Ivan’s heart sank to his stomach at those words. “What?” he barely managed to ask as Till dug his hand into the pocket of his coat.
He took out a velvet box, and before he even opened it to reveal the ring inside, Ivan knew what was coming. This time, it was his eyes that were blurring with tears. “Till—”
“Ivan,” Till began, holding the ring with slightly shaking hands. He opened his mouth as if to make a speech, but he couldn’t seem to be able to get the words out as his eyes remained interlocked with Ivan’s. So, in the end, he just exhaled with a smile and gave a shrug. “Want to get married?” he asked, a question so soft, so intimately spoken.
Ivan couldn’t shake the sweet shock off of his limbs. He tried to blink away the tears. “Till, are you—since when—”
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, but I wasn’t sure just when would be the right time,” Till said in one breath. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to propose now but when you gave me that poem I just couldn’t help myself, because I just know that you’re the one for me, and I—”
Ivan didn’t need another word to be spoken. He cut Till off with a deep, sudden kiss, and pushed him back on the grass they were sitting on.
It was almost as if Till had read his mind, almost as if he had given him all he could ever ask for in this past minute. Ivan held onto his lips, tasting the wine they had drunk earlier during dinner.
With the ring box still in his hands, Till hugged Ivan and pulled him closer, enough to feel his heartbeats against his own.
When Ivan pulled back, just enough to take a breath, “Does this mean you’re saying yes?” Till asked.
Ivan couldn’t help a laugh. “Of course it does,” he said, burying his head to the crook of Till’s neck, planting kisses on his skin, burning hot with the thrill of the moment.
Till took a deep breath. “God, I was so scared you wouldn’t want it,” he let out, sliding a hand to Ivan’s nape. His fingers threaded between his dark hair.
“ I’m the one who should say that,” Ivan countered. “But now I can’t believe you beat me to it.”
That made Till laugh. He tossed his head back on the grass, holding Ivan tighter. “You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life now.”
Ivan couldn’t believe those words were true. He couldn’t believe he and Till were going to be married . “Wouldn’t want it to be anybody else,” Ivan whispered.
Till’s arms loosened around him, so Ivan rolled off of him and laid by his side on the grass. The black box was still in Till’s hand. He took the ring out of it and turned to Ivan on the ground. Gently, he took his hand and brought it to his lips. A tender kiss on the knuckles, before he slid the silver band into his ring finger.
Ivan was never going to forget how the cold silver felt against his skin the first time Till put it on his finger. It was fresh, solid, and contrasting the warmth of his now fiancé’s touch.
His fiancé . They were engaged.
God, even that sentence did something to Ivan’s heart.
Ivan took a long time staring at the ring on his finger, watching the silver reflect the golden city lights beyond the river each time he moved his hand. He looked up at Till. “Do you know where the word fiancé comes from?” he asked.
Between them, Till’s hand closed over Ivan’s, his thumb running over the ring. “Tell me,” he muttered. “Where does it come from?”
“ Fiancer ,” Ivan said in French. “In Old French, it means to promise. I mean, obviously, it serves the purpose of engagement, but I think it’s abstractly beautiful. To think that I’m promising you a life with mine.” He held Till’s hand tighter, where the red ribbon was still wrapped around his ring finger. “Promising you my heart and my devotion.”
“I love the way that sounds,” Till said, closing his eyes. “It’s poetic.”
Ivan slowly reached to brush the hair out of Till’s face. “Maybe I’ll write about that next.”
That made Till smile. “You should try it,” he said. “Don’t forget to give me credit.”
“As if I ever could,” Ivan responded, leaning in to press another kiss on Till’s lips. The fulfillment he felt in kissing him didn’t differ: it was still as strong as before. But at the same time, it did feel different.
Now, they were promised to one another. Now, there was a ring on Ivan’s finger, placed by Till. This kiss was the same as the million others that came before it, but also, it was brand new.
It belonged to both of them.
Even though putting it like that didn’t really make much sense, Ivan thought, it also did. It made so much fucking sense.
“I love you,” Till whispered in between kisses.
It was like a vow that would never be broken.
Ivan smiled against his lips. “I love you too,” he whispered, before interlocking their fingers to kiss him again.
. . .
When they came home that night, it was nearing three in the morning. Dimitri was already asleep, and so, Ivan and Till tried to be as quiet as possible as they walked in and got to Ivan’s room.
“I hope you’re fine with sharing my childhood bed,” Ivan quipped as soon as Till closed the door behind his back.
“If we weren’t sharing the bed, then I would doubt the terms of our engagement,” Till mocked.
For some reason, each time Ivan remembered the weight of the ring on his finger, it brought a smile to his face. He hopped onto the twin size bed and held the covers out for Till to get in, as well.
Till didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed onto the sheets and without a doubt, pressed his head on Ivan’s chest as he hugged him.
Ivan returned the hug. “What happened to feeling too hot in summer?” he whispered. “That personal space you constantly talked about?”
“Fuck my personal space. We got engaged just a few hours ago, and it’s my birthday. I get to ignore it for tonight,” Till mumbled. “Plus, good thing Moscow is in the north because it’s not as hot. It’s a win-win situation.”
Ivan giggled at that. “Now about that, you’re right,” he said. One of his hands found Till’s hair. The tips of his fingers played with the strands gently. “You know, my dad will be helping me prepare something for you tomorrow,” Ivan mentioned.
“Like, a birthday party?” Till asked.
Ivan hummed in agreement. “I may have given you my gift, but you know it’s not a real birthday without a cake on which you can blow candles.”
Till raised his head to look up at Ivan. “You know, I like the way you take these things seriously. Celebrations and national events.”
“Of course I take them seriously,” Ivan said. “It always means something, whether it’s your birthday or Maslenitsa or Chuseok . Every celebration has a purpose, and I want to make sure my contribution lives up to it.” He grinned at his fiancé. “So, don’t be shocked when I ask for a proper wedding.”
The room could be dark, but Ivan could still select the smile painting Till’s face. “A wedding,” he echoed thoughtfully. “God, stop talking. It’s making me excited.”
Ivan kissed his temple. “Imagine how my dad will react when we tell him tomorrow morning,” he said.
Till laughed. “Oh my god, we should just say nothing and wait until he notices the ring,” he suggested. “Also, we should facetime Mizi. I bet you she would freak out once she finds out. And Sua would cry, for sure. Not to mention Hyuna, because she would throw a party…” He yawned, leaving the sentence stranded.
Ivan pulled him a little closer. “All of that, we’ll do tomorrow,” he told him. “But it’s three in the morning now, and you’re exhausted. Let’s sleep.”
Till hummed. He shifted in the bed just a little, enough to give Ivan a kiss on the lips. “Good night, my sweet prince,” he whispered, imitating Horatio.
It brought a smile to Ivan’s lips. “Good night, my love.”
To say it out loud felt unrealistically, inexplicably beautiful.
It was eudaemonic—a Greek word used for something that brought happiness. But in a deeper meaning, it meant the ultimate goal of human beings. The kind of happiness one felt purely for the sake of themselves. As Aristotle had said, human beings could flourish like flowers.
If Ivan was a flower, Till was his sun and water.
He was his god, and his universe. From the beginning of his life to eternity, he would be.