Chapter Text
Ivan has had what is roughly his entire life to figure out the intricacies of Till.
To trace the outline of every scar on his skin even if his hand is batted away halfheartedly after. To let his eyes linger for far too long— though not enough to feel like enough— on each minute detail of what makes him a person, so much more human than Ivan himself is or ever has been. Every subtle shift in body language has been carefully categorized and noted down in his head over the years to come back to later. And he always comes back. His entire life is revisions upon revisions, every file labeled TILL, with hearts drawn on the margins of his mind.
None of it is lost on him, even at the expense of being called a creep for it, because while he understands the concept of social cues, he’s not personally attached to any of them— and he abandons them all as soon as he catches sight of silver hair and smokey eyes. This is a simple truth of being alive.
Till is the North Star and he follows him with the worship of devotee. Takes and spins every annoyed word into gospel, and uses it to form new and creative techniques of tearing himself apart. Not to reshape himself into something more likable, something soft and pink— but to feel what it’s like to break. First out of morbid curiosity, and later out of addiction, because Till withdrawal is very serious to him.
He prays in the dark of his room, recounts the bible which is written fully with the handwriting of a child discovering color and religion.
And he hates.
It’s been three hours since Till showed up on his doorstep in barely stifled tears and boldly declared they were going to drink until they died, and Ivan has had a migraine for the entirety of it.
This isn’t out of the usual, as Ivan’s default state just is a migraine and even if no medications he’s tried have worked, he’s good enough at acting like he isn’t suicidal.
(Though it’s not enough to fool everyone. When he met Hyuna, the first thing she did was look him up and down, whistle, and go “Who’s this pretty boy? Got a name?” When he told her an hour into talking over drinks that he was gay and yearning, she just went, “I know. I wasn’t trying to score a date, I was trying to make you stop acting like you don’t also yearn for death. Same, though!” and thus began a friendship he will never recover from… and it’s still ongoing.)
However Till, as ruthless of a God as he is, is merciful in the aspect that he doesn’t peer into Ivan’s soul at every chance he gets— though the attention sounds nice in theory, Ivan thinks it would personally kill him with a gun. Instead, Till crashes on Ivan’s couch and laments about things everyone else has already known for years. Nobody ever said he was a particularly smart God, to be fair—
(He is, though, if anyone’s asking. Just another tidbit Ivan has stocked away safely in the Till folder. He’s very intelligent, he just doesn’t ‘apply himself’ correctly. Though, Till himself has grown absolutely sick of hearing that phrase over the years. It’s due to that that Ivan has permanently adopted it into his vocabulary.)
“I’m, like… actually so stupid.” Till drops his head against the couch arm, as if hiding his face means he can disappear completely, and right— Till is here and Ivan is meant to be acting like a person instead of committing the flush of his skin (no doubt from the alcohol, but the thought of it being from something else is appealing) to memory for the fiftieth time.
“Congratulations on finding out, I’m so proud of you.” Ivan purrs, melodic and condescending, just to watch the way Till’s head jerks towards him, the gesture filled with a familiar annoyance that brings him too much comfortable to be normal.
“No, really, I’m—” Till pauses, blinks, and asks with complete seriousness, “Do I just kill myself at this point?”
Ivan isn’t particularly concerned, most of their conversations go about as well as a trainwreck. But, he’s nothing but self destructive, so fuck it.
“Let’s Romeo and Juliet while you’re at it.”
“If only you poisoned the wine.” Till sighs, heavy and not as irritated at the comment as Ivan was expecting. It sends sparks ablaze beneath his skin, and in the moment, he doesn’t have the heart to tell Till that this is isn’t wine. It’s literally hard apple cider, how does somebody mess up that badly.
“I’ll set a reminder on my phone to do that the next time you cry over a lesbian, thank you.” He takes his phone off of the coffee table and ignores the way his movements feel sluggish from drinking, turns it around in his hand as though he’s actually considering making a notes memo.
Till, predictably, takes the bait.
“How was I supposed to know!?” He groans, and promptly hits the phone out of Ivan’s hand. Well, buying a new one probably won’t be too expensive when Till inevitably breaks his one day. Though, he’s been told not expensive by his standards is ridiculous one too many times.
“See, there are these things we typically have,” Ivan starts slow, watches Till squint, catching up to the words. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, but they’re called eyes—”
“There’s no such thing as looking like a lesbian,” Till cuts him off, and Ivan wants to argue because he lived with his sister for most of his childhood, and yeah, she looks, sounds, and breathes like a lesbian. “What visual cues was I supposed to be looking out for!?”
Ivan pauses, and leans in, eyes zeroed in on Till’s face. “When I told you I was into men, you said— and I quote, yeah I figured. The fang kind of cements it, really.” He’s decidedly pretty proud of his Till impression. “And I still haven’t figured out what that meant. It’s been years.”
“Okay, there is a difference. You do look gay.”
“Mind telling me who you borrowed your gaydar from?” Ivan tilts his head, and immediately regrets it because Jesus Christ, ow. Maybe drinking isn’t helping his already aching temple, but he’s never been good at denying Till anything. Sue him. “Might wanna get it checked out if it worked on me but not Queen Yuri the Third.”
Till opens his mouth to reply, falters, and looks at Ivan with an adorably stupid expression. He wants to fucking strangle him. These are very normal, loving thoughts. “Yuri… what, is that a name or something?”
“Oh my…” Ivan has to physically look away, count to ten in his head and breathe, before he can properly reply. He is not having this conversation today. “Case and point, this is a surprise to nobody but you.”
“Yeah, you’ve drilled that into my head by now, you dick— but with your sister? Really?” Till leans back against the couch, and Ivan pointedly ignores the curve of his neck as he does so, because he’s a very well adjusted person, thank you. “My luck is awful.”
Speaking of Sua, Ivan’s going to have to get back at her eventually. He thought they’d both been in the same situation— siblings of unrequited love, but no, she had to go and get herself a girlfriend. What the fuck, Noona?
Instead, he smiles. “I won’t dispute that.”
Till sighs, resigned. “I don’t wanna sound, like, unhappy for them or anything, but—”
“But you are.” Ivan helpfully supplies. Unfortunately, Till doesn’t seem to think so.
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” He rolls his eyes, and Ivan feels a subtle surge of satisfaction at the gesture. He always feels satisfied when he manages to get a reaction out of Till. Lately, that feeling has been just a little bitter, creeping up at the edges. He tries not to think about it too much.
“You could always give them back, you know… mouth to mouth—”
“—I am happy for them. I just think I need… time, or something. I don’t know.”
That makes Ivan pause for a moment. Not long enough to be noticeable, because Ivan has learned to time his mannerisms in a way that’s considered natural.
Being happy for someone, even if it hurts. It’s a thought he’ll have to file away for later. Then inevitably never revisit because it makes him vaguely uncomfortable to do so.
“You’ve got time now. Drink until you’re dead, wasn’t that it?” Ivan hums, voice just a little softer than he willed it to come out. Damnit.
“I’m not dying in your fancy fucking apartment.” Till scoffs. Predictable, easy, Ivan knows him. Things are going to be fine.
“That’s a shame. Since you won’t be dying in Mizi’s, I guess you’ll have to settle—”
“Fuck you.”
Despite the words, Till ends up passed out on Ivan’s shoulder anyway, and Ivan has to hold his breath to avoid making any embarrassing sounds.
It feels like hope. It feels like he’s dying.