Chapter Text
Me gustan mucho las Gabriela', las Patricia'
Las Nicole', las Sofía'
Mi primera novia en kínder, María
Y mi primer amor se llamaba Thalía
One of Till's earliest memories, aside from his mother holding him in her arms, was in kindergarten.
That day, the yard was exploding in a festival of color and scent. His clumsy, dirt-stained fingers toiled around flowerbeds overflowing with anemones, their deep red, velvety petals swaying in the wind. His small hands moved to pluck them and weave them into a crown that, like everything else there, was destined to wither.
With a concentration that transcended simple play, Till stained himself in green and crimson as he braided the stems with instinctive devotion, as if his hands remembered an ancient ritual. The crown that emerged was fragile and asymmetrical, yet vibrant with a life that was only just beginning to pale at the edges of the petals.
His gaze sought out, almost by instinct, the new boy who was always alone: Ivan. He found him sitting in the shade, watching the hustle and bustle of the others with a seriousness uncommon for his age. Till didn't say a word; he simply held out the crown with determination, a universe of red petals fluttering in the breeze.
Ivan looked up. His eyes, a black that was also far too deep, settled on the offering. There was no surprise, and he didn't examine it as a gift, but rather as a specimen. His fingers traced the stems, brushing against the silk.
"They'll die," he said, his voice calm and cruel. "Tomorrow they'll be black and shriveled. It's stupid to make something that only serves to rot."
And then, with devastating coldness, his hands closed. The wet crunch of the snapping stems was a small, obscene sound. The petals tore, descending to the ground like drops of blood on the earth between his feet. He dropped the rest and trampled them, leaving no trace of what they used to be.
What exploded in Till's chest was—thinking back years later—a rage akin to burning fire. It was bewildering, an emotion too strong to be controlled.
He didn't hesitate when he threw a punch at Ivan's face, knocking him to the ground. Ivan was quick to return the blow, and they ended up rolling in a whirlwind of legs and arms, of nails scratching mercilessly and brutal strikes intended to cause harm.
The idiot smiled while he bled.
When the teacher pulled them apart, panting and disheveled, their eyes met for a moment that stopped time. In Till's eyes burned the confusion of a fury and pain he didn't understand.
While the teacher scolded Till more harshly for starting the fight, he spat out a bit of dirt and blood, his gaze fixed on Ivan, wanting to break his nose. But Ivan, instead of looking angry, watched him with a new, almost rapt attention, slowly tilting his head. It wasn't the empty stare from before; it was the look of someone who had just found a toy that was both fascinating and unpleasant. Till's skin crawled.
Never, he vowed to himself, the taste of grass and copper still in his mouth, I will never be friends with that jerk.
But Ivan began to follow him everywhere.
In class, he always sat next to him, much to Till's misfortune, and his things began to disappear. Mostly his pencils—the ones his mother worked so hard to buy him, especially the drawing ones. This infuriated Till because he knew someone was stealing them. Once, he was forced to ask Ivan for one, and his pride felt trampled.
The worst part was when that weirdo "found them" days later, acting as if he weren't the thief. He pretended he was doing Till a favor, smiling with those perfect teeth Till wanted to punch.
"You're a liar!" Till shouted in his high-pitched six-year-old voice.
"I haven't even done anything." Ivan smirked, and they both knew it couldn't be more false or vile.
They fought with their fists over serious and mature things at least twice a month. It was hard to hold back, so they always ended up bloody, with throbbing bruises and scratches. Every time it happened, both were punished, but Till got the worst of it for "starting it"—just because Till landed the first blow didn't mean it wasn't self-defense against Ivan's senseless words. This continued until their parents were called, and it stopped—with a three-month record—temporarily.
He couldn't forget the sense of betrayal he felt when his mother told him Ivan didn't seem so bad after talking to him, and the black-haired boy's intimidating father who, though he seemed worse than his son, looked at Till as if he were the problem. Everyone had lost their minds, and Till was living in a nightmare.
How could they not understand that Ivan was evil?
"I'll show everyone your true face, you'll see!" Till pointed at him, like the heroes in the shows he watched facing the villain of the week.
"What are you talking about?" Ivan smiled, his face a perfect mask of innocence.
That moron.
However, not everything was bad; there was a girl in his class named Mizi. Till always watched her from afar. She spent her time around Sua, a serious girl who had stayed mostly alone until Mizi arrived. He remembered watching them together the day he made the flower crown. To him, the best part of Mizi was her very real bangs and how cheerful she was, standing with her hands behind her back, lighting up any room.
The few times he spoke to her, she encouraged him with his grades—some subjects were hard for him—said his drawings were good, and occasionally, they would talk for five minutes while waiting to be picked up. There was a connection, which was better than nothing. However, he couldn't help but be a nervous, red-faced mess around her.
So, he decided to give her a drawing that showed how he felt. Well, that was the plan.
"Pass me the pink pencil," Till said one day, nonchalantly.
Ivan was a menace, but for some reason, when Till drew, Ivan watched him in silence. He was always a slightly unsettling presence to his right.
Recess smelled like freshly cut grass. Till was intensely focused on coloring Mizi's hair, which looked like cotton candy. Under normal circumstances, Ivan would have handed him the pencil and his masterpiece would be finished.
But there was no response.
Till blinked, irritated, and turned his head. "Hey..." he complained.
Ivan wasn't holding the pencil case as he usually did, acting as a human pedestal for Till's art. Instead, he was standing in front of a girl with pigtails whose name Till didn't remember. The girl was blushing like a tomato and holding a sandwich wrapped in napkins with a crooked bow.
"I... I really like you, Ivan," she whispered, holding out the tribute. "Will you be my boyfriend?"
Till let out a nasal snort; what a waste of time. Ivan didn't even eat strawberry jam that often; sometimes he said it was too bitter. Till was about to say, "He doesn't want your sandwich," so they could get back to Mizi, but then Ivan spoke:
"Okay," Ivan said. His voice was flat, devoid of the emotion a six year old kid would normally show during his first "relationship."
He simply reached out, took the sandwich, and, with a calmness that made Till's hair stand on end, allowed the girl to take his other hand.
What.
"Hey!" Till exclaimed. "What about Mizi?"
Ivan looked over his shoulder. His dark eyes, always so hard to read, locked onto Till's for a second too long. "She asked me first, Till," Ivan replied simply. "And I'm hungry."
"But...!"
"Let's go to the swings," the girl told Ivan, ignoring Till's outburst of indignation.
Till stayed sitting in the dirt with his half-finished drawing and a strange, acidic feeling in his stomach. But it didn't matter; he didn't need Ivan. He would finish Mizi's drawing on his own. She would value his dedication.
He spent the rest of recess alone while Ivan disinterestedly pushed the girl on the swing, Till casting occasional glances. He finished his drawing and stood up, his heart racing. If Ivan thought he was better than him, he was wrong. He was about to see what Till was capable of.
"P-please, accept this!" Till held the piece of paper out to Mizi, who was sitting next to Sua.
Mizi seemed fascinated by the drawing, holding it excitedly. "Is that me?"
"Yes!" Till said in a high pitch.
"Look Sua, my hair!" Mizi pointed to it, happy.
Sua leaned her head over Mizi's shoulder. "It's pretty."
"Yes, and...!" Mizi began to ramble.
The plan was going perfectly. Soon Mizi would understand the intentions behind it and they would start... he had never gotten this far. But the mere idea excited him. What if he had a real chance? He never saw her as very interested beyond friendship—in fact, her attention was always fixed on Sua.
But what if...?
"Thanks, Till, you're a great friend!" Mizi emphasized.
It was over.
The words rang in Till's ears like the echo of an old bell: resounding, final, and a bit painful. She kept smiling, oblivious to the small fire she had just extinguished in his chest, while Sua watched him with an analytical gaze that seemed to see right through his nerves, annoyed that he was acting this way.
Till muttered something incoherent, turned around, and walked to the other end of the yard, feeling his feet heavier than usual.
"It's the end..." Till bumped his head against a tree trunk, defeated.
After that, he stayed there, in his usual spot—the shaded corner where he used to draw—but suddenly he stopped short; it was empty. There was no one to hold his pencils, no one to judge his strokes with that oppressive silence that, strangely, served as his fuel.
A few yards away on the swings, Ivan was still with the girl in pigtails. She talked nonstop, moving her hands enthusiastically, while he simply swung rhythmically, staring forward with the expression one uses to watch a blank wall.
Till sat in the dirt and took out a piece of charcoal. He tried to draw something, anything, but the tip snapped on the first contact.
"Darn," he hissed.
He threw the charcoal away. Loneliness felt like an oil stain: sticky and hard to remove. He hated to admit it—even think about it—but the playground felt like a cardboard stage without Ivan's gaze fixed on the back of his neck.
Days passed where Ivan was the most efficient and boring "boyfriend" in history. He ate the jam sandwich the girl brought him, walked beside her, and listened to her stories about kittens and cartoons. It was monotonous.
Was this the life of superheroes without a villain?
"Now he's being stupid and hanging out with a girl," Till complained at the dinner table while he and his mother ate.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Aren't you happy for him?"
"He looks ridiculous," he grumbled, leaning his head on one hand.
He had to endure seeing them together in class as partners for assignments. At nap time, Ivan no longer lay beside him staring at him—his girlfriend dragged him away, and occasionally Till would find Ivan staring at the ceiling, not that Till cared about the weird things Ivan did. At lunch, Till was alone.
There was absolutely nothing to do. What a drag.
To top it off, his teacher looked at them strangely.
"Did you fight with Ivan?"
"No, he has a girlfriend now," Till snapped.
"How sweet..." she said happily.
"That relationship is stupid; they didn't even talk until two days ago." He kicked a pebble on the ground.
"Someday you'll understand, Till."
He made a face of disgust. "I'll never be like that with anyone!"
Unless it was with Mizi. But whatever.
Four long days passed where he watched whatever that was unfold before his eyes; it was truly pathetic. Until, to his surprise, things changed.
Till was near the slide when he heard a sob. It was the girl with pigtails, standing in front of Ivan. He stood with his hands in his pockets, as expressionless as a marble statue.
"You're a weirdo!" the girl shrieked, her cheeks soaked. "You don't even talk! I tell you things and you just look at me like I'm a bug! I don't want to be your girlfriend, you're scary!"
Ivan didn't move, didn't try to apologize, and didn't even blink at the insult. "I understand," he accepted in that flat voice Till knew so well. "Then, I don't have to eat jam anymore."
The girl let out a scream of frustration and ran toward her friends. Ivan stayed there, alone under the midday sun. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off his uniform and turned his head toward Till.
Their gazes locked. Till, who had been watching everything with his mouth slightly open, felt a wave of triumph mixed with renewed irritation.
Ivan walked toward him. He didn't ask permission; he simply sat to Till's right, in his usual spot, and reached toward the pencil case.
"She's gone," Ivan announced.
"Of course she's gone, you idiot!" Till exploded, though inside he felt the knot in his stomach loosen. "You're so inconsiderate! You made her cry!"
"She wanted a boyfriend. I did what boyfriends do and she got bored." Ivan tilted his head, observing Till's new drawing: an aggressive, dark scribble. "Did Mizi give you a kiss?"
Till turned red instantly, the memory of "you're a great friend" stinging like an open wound.
"Shut up! It's none of your business!"
"She didn't give you anything," Ivan concluded. His long fingers searched through the pencils and, with an exasperating familiarity, pulled out the pink one Till had been looking for minutes ago. "Here, use it for her cotton hair."
Till snatched the pencil, his fingers brushing Ivan's. The black-haired boy's skin was cold, but the contact sent a spark of adrenaline up Till's arm.
"Don't ever accept sandwiches from strangers again," Till grumbled, concentrating on the paper so he wouldn't have to see the tiny smile beginning to form on Ivan's lips.
"Then make something better."
Till didn't answer, but his strokes became firmer. Normalcy had returned: a cycle of broken drawings, charged silences, and a black shadow that refused to leave him alone. They weren't friends, Till reminded himself, while Ivan—finally—handed back the pencil sharpener he had stolen a week ago.