Work Text:
It’s seven o’clock on a Tuesday morning when Till issues Ivan an ultimatum. “If you don’t make it to the podium, I’m going to break up with you.”
Ivan stares at him blankly, stunned silent.
With a huff, Till slings his bag over his shoulder and stomps off.
According to Ivan’s instructor, he needs to spend more time with children who aren’t related to him; thus, his mother signs him up for Taekwondo lessons at the Chois’ dojang. The reviews are stellar. Everyone Katrina interviews sings praises.
Coincidentally, the Chois have a son Ivan’s age, give or take a few months. Ivan and Till do not hit it off so much as they quite literally hit each other—which is fine, seeing as how they’re in a martial arts studio.
“You’re an ice dancer? That sounds girly and lame,” Till says.
“I’m an ice skater,” Ivan retorts, small fingers balled into fists. “I bet you couldn’t do it.”
“I wouldn’t even try.”
“If I manage to pin you, I’ll make you.”
“Fat chance,” Till shouts. A moment later, they stumble into a rather undignified brawl.
They’re pulled apart by Till’s mother. Io apologizes on the behalf of her son, quietly asking someone to retrieve tissues. Katrina apologizes too, mindful of the way Ivan is sniffling even though he won.
It’s a surprise, then, when Ivan tells her he wants to go back. It’s even more surprising when Till shows up at their door the following afternoon with dirt-smudged cheeks and a handful of half-crumpled dandelions in his left hand.
Till mumbles an apology. He says that he doesn’t know anything about ice skating rinks so Ivan will have to teach him.
From that day on, the two of them are inseparable.
“I didn’t break up with him,” Till insists, frantically waving his chopsticks around at the dinner table. “I threatened to break up with him. That’s not the same thing.”
Io pinches his ear. “If you really cared about Ivan, you wouldn’t be threatening him in any way, shape, or form.”
Till frowns, stuffing his face at a slower cadence. He fails to see how this is any different from their usual interactions. He says something sour in the midst of annoyed irritation, Ivan goes, ha, ha, ha, in his haughty rich boy way, they pretend the spat never happened then they kiss and make up or—whatever.
“I was just trying to encourage him,” he admits, scowling at his half-eaten bowl of rice like it insulted him personally. It’s not his fault that the qualifiers rolled around months before Ivan’s seventeenth birthday and his stupid boyfriend is first in line to win a medal. Now Till is going to look stupid when he gets his in two years. If, an insidious voice at the back of his head whispers.
Between their respective Junior World competition standings and Till’s latest proficiency test, there is no doubt in his mind Ivan is going to blow the competition out of the water. Ivan’s twin would be competing too, but Till is well-aware that Sua hates his guts, so there’s no need to wish her luck.
“If this drives a wedge between you, you’re going to be sorry,” Io warns.
“It won’t,” Till quips, conviction leading him to proudly puff out his chest.
“I’m not coming,” Ivan says, colder than Till has ever heard him sound.
Till balks, wounded. “You’ve never missed any of my matches.” None of the local ones, anyways. The international exhibitions were dodgy and even some of the other districts were out of the question depending on Ivan’s training schedule, but still.
Without saying another word, Ivan stalks off. Till is so flabbergasted that he’s still standing there gaping when Sua exits the building. “Well, well, if it isn’t the High Kick Boy himself.”
Irritably, Till rolls his eyes. “Ivan does high kicks. Why am I the High Kick Boy?”
“My brother doesn’t usually yell things like, watch out world, I’m going to astound you with the force of my windblades mid-performance.”
His cheeks color. “That was one time!”
“And yet it left such a strong impression,” she drawls.
Sua has a long-distance girlfriend who she keeps away from both of them—Ivan because she doesn’t want to be teased; Till because she fears that Mizi is Till’s type to a T and she’s not interested in watching him fawn over her.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Till spluttered, poorly attempting to defend himself. “I have I-I-hobbies.”
Disgusted, Sua grimaced. “You couldn’t think of any other word that started with I?”
Since Mizi is busy and Till is moping, Sua accompanies him to the fork in the road where she needs to head left and he needs to head right. With a long-suffering sigh, she puts a hand on her hip. “This isn’t going to be a permanent thing, is it?”
Till turns around, looking every bit the part of a sad, soggy dog. “Huh?”
“Your separation,” Sua clarifies.
“We didn’t break up,” Till mumbles.
“Alright. If you say so.”
“We didn’t,” he shouts, watching mournfully as she waves, silhouette disappearing in the distance.
Till pouts as he punches the air, comforting himself by watching old recitals. It’s funny to see Ivan and Sua skating in perfect unison on ice, their symmetrical faces and plastic smiles matching as they do crossovers. Ivan frequently complained about Sua digging her blades into his thighs and Sua complained about Ivan gripping her too tightly, which made it all the more hilarious when Till found out her long-distance girlfriend was a gymnast.
They switched to singles in middle school. Ivan celebrated his newfound freedom by dragging Till into the bathroom, kissing him stupid, and rattling off some ancient quote about emancipation.
Reflexively, Till punched him in the stomach. Then, he kissed Ivan back, of course.
“If you’re going to practice, you really should do it in the dojang,” Io says, calling up the stairs.
Till stops, caught-out. “Sorry.”
His mother finishes climbing up the steps, lingering in the doorway. “It’s okay, honey. I know you’re upset with yourself.”
This is no excuse for slacking off on his homework, but, well—it’s hard. He hasn’t had to study by himself since…okay, he’s never had to study by himself.
Abruptly, hot tears well up on Till’s lashes. “I miss him, Mom.”
Io slides into his room. She pulls him in for a hug. Pets his hair. “You should apologize.”
Every bone in Till’s body roils against this concept, but dammit, if that’s what it takes to restore karmic balance to the universe, he’ll do it.
The thing about apologizing is that it requires the other party to be present, but Ivan fucks off to Russia.
Till types a dozen angry texts. russia?! r u serious? n u couldnt be bothered to tell me?
I didn’t think it was prudent.
JACKASS, he says, promptly throwing his phone at the wall with enough force to break the screen protector.
There are six weeks left before qualifiers. Nine weeks before the Olympics proper.
The universe shows him the slightest bit of mercy. Till’s schedule is filled to the brim with competitions of his own. This is a good thing. He will not be able to rest until he pummels someone to death.
“Half-dead, please,” Io advises.
Three days before the Men’s Singles are due to start, Ivan’s mother stops by the dojang. “Here,” she says, forking over a plane ticket.
Till’s name is printed on it. The accompanying purchase receipt says it was obtained months ago. Hours after Till’s declaration, as a matter of fact.
“Awfully cocky of him, I know,” Katrina hums. “I could have left these with Io, but he strong-armed me into handing them over personally. Said he wanted it to be a surprise. I’m headed to the airport myself. Safe travels.”
Flabbergasted, Till watches her climb into a limousine. With Ivan and Sua overseas, she’s the last bastion, eager to see her overachieving children succeed.
The minute reality dawns on him, Till falls to the floor. Relieved, his eyes get glossy. “Asshole,” he whispers to no one. He crushes the ticket in his palm, staining it with sweat.
Till watches both of Ivan’s programs with bated breath, grateful for the scant amount of English Ivan beat into him. He has a simulcast pulled up on his phone that feeds him Korean news. He curses as the judges mock Ivan’s poor interpretation and expression skills, but the difficulty of the jumps and Ivan’s precision timing carry him through.
The favorite to win flubs, and so Ivan gets second place.
Till rushes to the rink, pulling him in for a bruising, biting hug. “You barely made it, jerk. Had me worried.”
“I wouldn’t say barely,” Ivan retorts, threading his fingers through Till’s hair. It’s been too long—way too long—since they touched or kissed and Till is absolutely miserable about it. He cannot refrain for a single second longer.
“There was a half-point difference between you and the guy in third.”
“Do you realize how significant half-points are in this sport?”
Till doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Ivan has explained the bullshit point system to him a hundred times. Till has retained a whopping zero-percent of the information. Nuzzling at Ivan and tugging on his hair and mauling Ivan’s neck is so much more important.
Ivan pulls away with a fond, sticky smile. “You do realize we’re on television?”
Abruptly, Till pushes him away, or he tries to. Harmlessly, Ivan remains rooted.
“I hope you understand that the same conditions apply,” Ivan taunts him, pinching Till’s ass just to watch him yelp. “However, if you attempt to follow in my footsteps, you will find it very difficult to get rid of me.”
“Nobody told you to go to Russia for a crash-course. I’m still mad at you, by the way.”
“The first thing you did was kiss me,” Ivan sing-songs. “It’s going to be all over the news. Young Olympians In Love.”
“Don’t put the cart before the horse.”
“Win gold and everything will be fine.”
Till colors. “Why are you setting the bar higher? Do you want to break up with me, is that it?”
Ivan squeezes his waist. “No, no, I simply admire my partner’s incredible skills. What was it you said? I’m going to take the world by storm with the force of my windblades—”
“Ahhh, shut up! Why won’t you and Sua let that die?”
Ivan giggles. “It was incredibly funny.”
Till pouts. “Man, whatever.”
He kicks up a fuss, but he doesn’t drop Ivan’s hand. Till battles against final exams and Olympic tryouts back-to-back, bagging a gold medal for his efforts.
Ivan, of course, has a front row seat to the action, retying Till’s dobok because Till gets warm easily and he likes to carelessly flash his pink, delicious nipples to the world and Ivan is a possessive mutt.
It’s a good thing we made love yesterday, Ivan thinks, annoyed. He hopes Till’s opponent got distracted by the imprint of his teeth around Till’s clavicle.
It was the least he could do.