Chapter Text
Lightning flashes. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky is crowded with dark clouds, with nary a hint of light peeking through the curtain of rain.
Ivan jumps at the next blinding bolt. He peers up from his book, the pages illuminated by a pool of light from a reading lamp. He’s all prepared for the weather, snugly embraced by a woollen hoodie and a comfortable pair of slacks, the length of his body hidden under his thick duvet. His nightstand holds a plate of cookies and a hot cup of tea, the smell of chamomile wafting into his nostrils.
He’s made it a point not to do any studying on rainy days. The amount of work he actually gets done is inversely proportional to the heaviness of the rain. On stormy nights, attempting to stuff any amount of information into his overloaded brain is a lost cause. It’s preferable to spend time catching up on sleep, on his backlog of books, or typing up fanfiction of his favourite actor.
Maybe he should invite his new flatmate to play some video games. Even The Great Gatsby can get boring sometimes. He could curl up under the blankets while beating the shit out of Till in Tekken, for sure.
Ivan abandons his book, placing it gently down on his bedside table. Thunder roars again, and Ivan winces, hands flying up to cup his ears. That one was loud. He peels himself from his bed, mourning the loss of warmth, and he shuffles out of his room and into the dark living room.
“Till!” Ivan calls, ambling over to his room and rapping on the door with his knuckles. “Till, you in there? Wanna play some Tekken?”
No answer. Is he asleep? Ivan knows for a fact that he doesn’t have classes today. Did he go out? In this weather? “Are you in there? You’re not dead, are you?”
“I’m busy!” comes the sudden reply.
Ivan frowns. Till’s voice is usually brash, no hint of genteelness behind it, very reflective of his personality. But what he hears through the thin wooden door is wobbly and nasally, everything that Till is not .
“You okay?” Ivan tries again.
“Go away.” His reply is weaker this time, which disturbs Ivan even more. Though he considered that Till could have just woken from a nap, that is not the voice of a man still in the throes of sleep. He has half a mind to just barge into the room, because Ivan is someone who just does whatever he wants, rules be damned. But Till sounds so broken that he can’t bring himself to impose.
Instead, he says, “I’m going to order takeout. You want anything in particular?”
Again, no response. Ivan hears the telltale signs of a sniffle. He wrinkles his nose, vigorously fighting back the urge to grab the knob, twist it, and shove the door open. To calm that desire, he moves to the sofa, plops down on it, and he searches for fried chicken places offering takeout. Order placed, he leans back against the sofa, and he switches the TV on.
The rain continues to patter outside, with the occasional lightning cleaving the sky in two and the accompanying clap of thunder. Ivan chomps on his cookies and sips his tea, but he can hardly bring himself to focus on the drama playing out on screen. There’s something about a convenience store, something about a gang, and something about a romantic getaway. The most entertainment Ivan got out of it was imagining himself and Till in place of the lead actors.
Just as the drama finishes, the rain begins to ease up, the clouds clearing and revealing a canvas of beautiful evening hues. The doorbell rings, and Ivan stands to answer it. The salty aroma of fried chicken makes his mouth water. It’d go very well with the soju in their fridge, he reckons.
He sets the chicken down on the dining table, and he meanders back to Till’s door. He knocks on it again. “Dinner’s here, Till. Come out and get some before I eat everything.”
Ivan waits for a good few seconds. He’s not expecting Till to respond immediately, or at all. After a good cry, one tends to desire sleep. However, just as he turns his back on Till’s room, the door swings open, revealing Till bundled up in a bunch of blankets, his gaze lowered. He pushes past Ivan, perhaps hoping to hide all evidence of his current state, but it’ll be useless since they’ll be eating together anyway—
Or not. Till marches to the plastic bag, grabs one of two boxes of fried chicken, and he makes a beeline back to his room. But this time, Ivan tugs at his wrist, stopping him just as he’s about to step back through the door.
“The storm’s stopped,” Ivan says, and he jerks his chin at the living room. “Eat with me.”
Till must be too tired to argue or to put up any sort of resistance. He lets Ivan guide him to the coffee table, collapsing onto the cushion. Ivan sits opposite him, his own box of chicken placed in front of him. Till’s exhaustion is plain on his face for all to see, in his puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks, dishevelled hair and furrowed brow.
“So, you wanna talk about it?” Ivan asks, as he opens his box. The smell of fried chicken and soy sauce is so tantalising that he has to stop himself from wolfing down his meal like an animal.
Till peers up at him from under silver lashes. “It’s nothing much.”
“Hate thunderstorms?”
Till hums, taking a bite of his chicken. Sauce sticks to his fingers, staining them brown with a tinge of red. “Something like that.”
“Did something happen last time?”
“I don’t think I need to tell you my life story.”
Ivan chuckles, and he withdraws, like a hermit crab retreating into its shell. Till’s back to his old self, if the prickliness in his voice is anything to go by. “I suppose you don’t. Wanna drink your sorrows away?”
Till doesn’t say anything, but his eyes light up at the mention of alcohol. Ivan bites his cheeks to suppress the growing grin on his lips.
“Wait here,” he says, and he heads towards the kitchen. He has yet to see Till drunk, and he wonders what kind of drunk this cute hedgehog man would become.
*
The next thunderstorm occurs in the morning a few days later, right after Ivan’s lecture. He shoves his items into his bag, slings it over his shoulder and doesn’t even bother giving his desk-mate, Luka, so much as by-your-leave before he’s rushing out the door and towards the bathroom. Why on Earth must his lecturer turn the temperature down so low all the time? He’s always dashing out the hall when the lesson ends, his bladder fit to burst.
Ivan sighs in relief—as he does every Tuesday morning at precisely ten-oh-two a.m.—in the men’s toilet on the second floor of the Humanities wing. Rain pours like someone in heaven’s opened a tap, a thunderous shower drowning out all other noise. Thunder crackles, and Ivan peers up at the small, squarish window, open ever so slightly for ventilation purposes.
Till hates thunderstorms , Ivan thinks. He wonders where his roommate is now. He did mention that he had a morning lecture, but he left much earlier than Ivan. Till’s a Music major, so he could be somewhere in the Art campus…
Will Till be alright? Ivan wouldn’t find him huddled in a corner, sobbing his eyes out, would he?
Ivan finishes his business, zips up his trousers, and he moves to wash his hands. He turns off the tap, is about to walk out the door, when he hears an audible sniffle and half a strangled sob. Ivan pricks his ears up, glancing back at the only bathroom stall with a locked door. Normally, he would just pretend he heard nothing and leave; he’s not that much of a saint. Yet, the sniffle gives him pause, because he recognises this voice.
“Till? You in there?” Ivan asks, knocking on the door of the stall.
No answer. Maybe Ivan got the wrong guy. Anyone would freeze up if they were taking a dump and some rando mistook them for someone else. Ivan flushes, makes a mental note never to do that again, and he’s about to leave when he hears another muffled sob. That is most definitely Till’s voice.
“I’m gonna go back to our room first, and maybe I’ll get some lunch later at the jjajangmyeon place,” Ivan calls. “You wanna come along?”
The door’s lock turns slowly. Till emerges from the stall, looking worse than the last time he cried. Ivan gives him some space, standing off to the side, hands shoved into his pockets. Till bends over at the basin and splashes water onto his face. His fringe sticks to his forehead, and glistening droplets drip from the tip of his nose. His bloodshot eyes meet Ivan’s in the mirror, but Till glances away just as quickly.
“Let’s go,” Ivan says.
Till stays close to Ivan as they head down the corridor. He looks miserable, staring at the ground the whole time, the hood of his jacket drawn up over his head, casting a shadow on his eyes.
“Why are you here?” Ivan asks. “The Arts campus is a little farther down from here.”
“Gen Ed,” Till says simply.
“We can go out for lunch after our lessons on Tuesday, then.”
Till nods wordlessly.
When they reach the entrance to the building, Ivan pulls out his umbrella, its canopy a light green that complements his hoodie. Till fiddles with the strap of his bag, staring out at the rainwater.
“Something wrong?” Ivan asks.
“I didn’t… bring an umbrella. I should wait here till the rain’s—”
“Don’t be stupid. This umbrella’s big enough for two people.” Ivan clamps an arm around Till’s shoulders, drawing him close. Till shudders at the contact, but he doesn’t pull Ivan’s arm away. Together, they walk out into the rain, headed back to their dorm.
*
By the third thunderstorm towards the tail end of the month, Ivan has already come to expect it, so he orders food in ahead of time and drapes the sofa with blankets and cushions. He drags Till out from his room where he was studying amidst his tart protests with excuses and pleas of not having done anything together in a while.
“What are we watching?” Ivan asks, setting a bowl of caramel popcorn between them and two cans of Coke on the table. Till is mindlessly flipping through the channels, already wrapped up in his own blanket, his limbs barely visible underneath it.
“Dunno. What are you feeling?” Till asks, his attention focused entirely on the TV.
Ivan settles down beside him, his arm brushing Till’s through the blanket. “Hmm, how about an action movie?”
Till picks a movie that Ivan has never heard of, with a nameless director and next to nameless actors. He stuffs popcorn into his mouth by the handful, finishing half the bowl before they even finish the prologue. Ivan’s attention is far too divided to even consider understanding what the movie is about. His glances dart between the window and the popcorn, and sometimes, it’d flit to the TV for a split second before lingering on a Till so utterly focused on the mediocre car chase happening on screen with way too many gunshots and screaming.
Ivan could watch Till forever, he begins to realise. It’s interesting, really, the way Till’s jaw sets at a tense scene, or how his brow wrinkles at an emotional one. He’s more expressive than most other people that Ivan knows, wearing his heart on his sleeve. Perhaps that’s what he finds so fascinating about Till.
The first growl of thunder coincides with an explosion on screen. Till doesn’t even so much as flinch, eyes trained on the TV as agents run about the casino, detonating more bombs and firing submachine guns. The rain batters the window, running down the panes like mini comets across space.
A fork of white streaks across the sky. Till doesn’t even so much as glance towards the window. Relief spreads through Ivan, and he sags, drooping against Till. He rests his head on Till’s shoulder, but Till remains unmoving.
“Hey, get off. You’re blocking the view,” Till says, blindly shoving at Ivan’s head with a free hand.
“What do you mean? I am the view.”
“Bastard,” Till mutters. When it’s obvious Ivan isn’t moving, Till gives up. He crunches the last of the popcorn, scooping up the remaining kernels in the bowl. Ivan takes a whiff of his scent of sandalwood and earth. It’s strangely addictive, and Ivan finds himself nuzzling into Till’s neck and breathing in more.
The movie ends with an upbeat song and the credits roll. Till leans back against the sofa, stretching his limbs and punching Ivan across the face. Ivan yelps, his cheekbone throbbing. For such a small guy, Till certainly packs a punch.
“That was surprisingly good. I thought it’d be super lame,” Till says.
“Wanna watch another one?”
Just then, lightning flashes, and thunder roars. Till freezes, only then noticing the storm. He curls into a tighter ball, fidgeting restlessly under his blankets. Ivan throws the curtains closed, and he slings an arm around Till’s shoulders.
“Relax,” he says. “Let’s watch another movie.”
Ivan picks the next one, a crime thriller with, apparently, a fantastic plot and characters, according to online reviews. He lets Till burrow into him, wondering if the man even knows he’s doing it. But Ivan doesn’t mind.
This might be the first thunderstorm in a while where Till hasn’t cried.
*
The next thunderstorm takes Ivan by complete surprise. He’s studying in his room, his midterms coming up in a week’s time. Autumn is almost upon them, and the weather has taken a turn for the chilly. Red-orange canopies rustle and shake in the wake of the sudden gale, and carpets of leaves ripple with the wind.
Ivan checked the weather report the night before; it was supposed to be cloudy all day, with no indication of precipitation. He dives for his phone, finding Till’s number and shooting him a text. Where are you now?
There is no immediate reply, but Ivan is already grabbing his coat, two ponchos, and his bag. He snatches his phone from his desk, slipping on his trainers, and barrelling out the door and down the corridor. Ivan takes the stairs two at a time, his phone gripped tight in his hand. He soon reaches the ground floor, and he throws the door open, assaulted by the sheets of rain blowing full force into his face.
He shrugs on the poncho, and he begins running. Water splashes with each step, staining the hems of his trousers. There are a few places he knows Till would be—Lecture Hall number three, the Tchaikovsky music room in the Arts building, the fried chicken place he always goes with Mizi and her girlfriend Sua, or the fifth cubicle on the second floor of the library to study when his room gets too stuffy.
The fried chicken place is the nearest. It’s not as crowded as it usually is, perhaps owing to the rain. It almost makes Ivan guilty, ignoring the elderly lady in charge of the shop when he ducks out and hurries down the cobblestone path headed for the rest of the campus.
The Tchaikovsky music room yields no results, and neither does the empty Lecture Hall number three. The last place that Ivan can think of is—
Till: Library.
Ivan bursts into the library dripping wet and panting, taking in large gulps of air. He strips himself of the poncho at the librarian’s indignant insistence, stuffing the damp article into his bag. Students glance up at him from their books, but Ivan pays them no mind. His trainers squeak against the smooth flooring, leaving black prints where he steps.
Ivan sees Till seated at the fifth cubicle as soon as he reaches the second floor, hunched over his desk, his hood pulled over his head. Ivan rushes up to him, grabbing him by the shoulder. Till jolts, lifting his head, eyes wide. His features relax when he recognises Ivan, and he doesn’t even seem to mind Ivan’s slippery hand getting his shirt all soggy.
“Are you alright?” Ivan asks.
“I’m fine,” Till gets out, just before he stiffens at the deafening thunder. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he stares blankly at the wall in front of him. “Why’d you come?”
“I was worried.”
“Hey, I’m twenty. I can take care of myself.”
It doesn’t matter how old Till is, not when it comes to matters like this. Ivan purses his lips, but he asks himself the same question. Why is he so concerned that he’d race out the dorm in search of him? It was all Ivan could think about when he felt the onset of the storm, the need to distract him from the torrential downpour and the angry bellows of the gods above and make sure he’s alright.
Ivan and Till are just flatmates, friends for slightly over two months. Ivan wouldn’t even do this for Luka, whom he’s known for a good nine years. What is so special about Till that has him acting up this way?
“Sorry for making you come all the way out here… must’ve been cold and shit,” Till says, and Ivan can almost see a hint of red on the tips of his ears. Till’s gaze drops to his books lying open on the table, his hands fidgety. “But thanks.”
Ivan’s chest tightens, and there is a slight churn in his stomach. The sensation is foreign, but not unwelcome. “No problem.”
“We should get you something warm to drink,” Till says, gaze trailing to the massive blotches of water on Ivan’s clothes, and the puddle of water pooling where he stands. “There’s a cafe on the first floor.”
“You don’t have to—”
“C’mon, it’s the least I can do,” Till says, and he’s already standing, packing his notes and stationery into his bag. “You must be freezing.”
Till removes his jacket—Ivan gets a peek of the little sliver of skin showing as his shirt rises with the motion—and he drapes it around Ivan’s shoulders. It’s too small for him, seeing as Ivan’s taller than him by half a head and definitely more muscular, but it’s infused with Till’s scent and Till’s body heat. If it were entirely up to Ivan, he’d keep it for eternity.
“You coming or not?” Till says, his bag resting against his hip, strap slung across his chest.
“Yeah,” Ivan says.
He and Till walk side by side, so close their hands could brush. At the next crack of thunder, Till doesn’t even flinch.
*
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” Till asks on a fine winter’s day over a lunch of grilled pork belly and beef bulgogi, a celebratory meal after their midterms. “Tomorrow.”
“Go… somewhere?” Ivan can hardly breathe the words. Is Till…
“Yeah,” Till says, staring down at the grill between them as he drops more meat onto the mesh. Oils drip into the fire below, and an orange flame licks the strips of meat. “It’s in Incheon.”
“And what are we going to do in Incheon?”
“Visiting my parents.”
Ivan’s eyes widen, and a flush spreads across his cheeks. His focus on food wanes, instead concentrated entirely on Till, who doesn’t seem to notice the gravity of what he said. They’d barely known each other three months, and Till’s thinking of bringing him home to see his parents?
“Um, are you sure your parents would be alright with it? Like—”
“Eh, it’ll be fine. I’m sure they won’t mind.”
Ivan would need to go shopping, then. What sort of present should he buy? Fruits, probably. Maybe something sweet like pastries or cakes. He can think of a few specialty shops and bakeries off the top of his head that aren’t too far and have a wide selection of goodies. What do Till’s parents like? Should he—
“You don’t have to bring anything, by the way,” Till says. “We’re going to a cemetery.”
*
The cemetery is peaceful, the scent of incense rife in the air. They’re the only visitors as far as Ivan can see. He walks past graves engraved with both hanja and hangeul, the stone and marble chipped at the edges. Farther into the grounds is a columbarium, the path leading up to it dusted with dried leaves.
Ivan trails behind Till, one hand stuffed into his pockets, the other holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums. Though Till told him that he needn’t bother with gifts, it still feels disrespectful to his parents, especially since they’re Till’s parents.
Till makes a beeline for the columbarium; inside, it’s a straight corridor, with several hallways branching out, housing tens of hundreds of urns. Till turns down a hallway, familiarity bled into his ease of movement. They pass a woman shedding tears, holding a framed portrait in her hand, standing in front of her late partner’s urn. At the end of the branch, Till pauses at a pair of urns, one gold, and the other silver.
Till greets his parents, asks them whether they’re well, his voice the only sound in this sacred hall. Ivan fidgets with the bouquet, running his fingers along the crinkling cloth holding the flowers together.
“And this is Ivan,” Till says with a sweeping gesture. “He’s my flatmate and a good friend, and he’s helped me a lot these past few months.”
Ivan bows a full ninety degrees at the urns, yet warmth spreads across his chest at the thought of Till introducing him to his parents. He holds out the bouquet, wishing he’d prepared a speech in advance. “Um, I’m Ivan, and I’m glad Till brought me here to meet you both. He’s a very good friend of mine too. I’ll take good care of him, so don’t you worry about that.”
He leaves the bouquet with Till’s, the petals brushing the urns. With that, they take a bow, and they say their goodbyes.
As soon as they reach the entrance of the columbarium, the first signs of a brewing storm plops onto Ivan’s forehead. He glances up, furrowing his brow at the sudden onset of rain. It takes only a second for the showers to come down full force, splashing noisily against the ground, the shimmering veil so thick that Ivan can hardly see past the walls surrounding the cemetery.
“That’s a bummer,” Till mutters. “I’m not going out in this rain even if I had an umbrella.”
Ivan concurs. He and Till retreat back into the columbarium, finding dry seats on a short flight of steps. They sit in silence, listening to the beat of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. With every blinding bolt of lightning, every subsequent roar, Ivan glances over at Till, who seems so much more relaxed. His legs are stretched out over the steps, his hands behind him, fingers splayed, palms flat against the ground as he stares contemplatively out at the rain.
“My parents died during a thunderstorm,” Till says. “We were returning from a trip to Busan, and it happened along the highway. The rain was coming down strong, the roads were slippery, and the driver of this other car was asleep at the wheel.”
Ivan can imagine what came next. He listens to Till as he recounts his tale of woe, about how he was still painfully alive when the rescue team arrived. How his life turned upside down in a single instant one unfortunate rainy day. How he has been shuffled from relative to relative, none of them eager to spare a thought for this orphan. Hearing Till’s story, told in a light yet melancholic tone, starts a throb in Ivan’s heart.
“I think back to that day when I hear thunder,” Till says, and he runs a hand through his hair. “My memory’s fuzzy, but the fear’s not gonna go away. It’s not so much the details, but it’s the little things that really stick out, you know. Like, blood, screams, and all that.”
“That’s okay,” Ivan says, and, with a burst of courage, pulls Till closer to him such that their sides are pressing up against each other. The faintest pink tinges Till’s cheeks, an utterly adorable sight on his face. Ivan rests his cheek against Till’s head. “Call me when there’s a storm, and I’ll be right there.”
“U-Um, okay.” Till makes no move to pull away, and Ivan doesn’t want to suggest such a thing. He and Till watch the rain, huddled together to stave off the encroaching chill. Hopefully the rain stops soon, or they’d have to share Ivan’s one tiny umbrella and run for the station with all their might.
Then again, it’s not like Ivan is opposed to staying like this. Just for a little while longer.