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The surgeon assures Till that it’s a relatively safe procedure.
Ivan scrutinized the office and its affiliate hospital to high hell before Till booked an appointment. As a runner, a torn ACL is a common injury, but it’s funny, in an ironic way, that Till is the one to suffer his muscles breaking down before Ivan, who’s notorious for pushing himself too hard.
The only reason Ivan doesn’t pace around the waiting room is because Till’s mother is politely knitting beside him. She affixes him with kind, crinkle-eyed smiles every time Ivan's legs jostle. When at last the staff tells them they’re allowed to enter the room, relief rolls off Ivan so potently that Io sighs.
It’s a gradual process. The nurses provide water and an array of snacks, but Till remains largely disinterested. There’s a long period of silence wherein Till, pupils blown wide, stares at him.
Get me a coffee, jackass, Ivan expects, or perhaps, tell me if the album I was waiting on finally dropped.
He absolutely does not expect a raspy, innocuous compliment. “Hey. You’re pretty.” Till slurs every word, but the sentiment is intelligible.
Io stifles a snort. Ivan goes blank, bag falling out of his hands and onto the floor. It’s no secret that Till finds him attractive—he complains about Ivan’s face every week without fail—but it’s unusual for him to be so forthright.
Apparently, Till isn’t finished. “I mean really pretty. Like, crazy pretty. Ille-lega-whatever. Mega hot. So hot it’s wrong. Where are the police?”
Till’s mother is positively rolling with laughter, phone in hand. Thank goodness one of them had the wherewithal to record. Ivan can’t breathe.
Suddenly, he becomes pouty. “I’m sure you’re not single.”
If Till isn’t careful, Ivan is going to wind up in the next hospital room over. “Well, no. What brings this on?”
Despite his surly, bratty attitude, Till reaches for his hand. The right one, mercifully. “It’s ‘cause—cuz people like you are barely real. Like fairies.” Ivan is trembling with suppressed something. Rapidly onset delirium, possibly. “You live in fairy lands with. With fairy wives. Flowing hair and nectar and shit.”
The return of Till’s potty mouth is a good sign. “I don’t have a wife.”
Till scowls. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Ivan laughs, brushing Till’s hair out of his face. He’s going to be desperate for a shower when they get home. “I have a husband,” he clarifies.
Aquamarine eyes boggle. “Woahhh,” he says, like the thought never occurred to him. Fair enough. Till wrestled with his own sexuality for years. “That’s cool. Is he nice?”
“He’s interesting.”
Till wrinkles his nose. “That’s the kinda stuff people say about jerks.”
“He can certainly be a jerk sometimes,” he continues, tone breezy, “but then again, so can I. Love is blind and all that.”
“You’re blind?”
“It’s a metaphor, Till.”
“Oh.”
So cute. So silly. Ivan adores him.
The conversation tapers off after that because Till gets sleepy. Io promises to send Ivan the footage later; the file is too big for a text transfer.
The first thing Till does when he regains full cognizance is beg for a cup of coffee. As expected, Ivan thinks.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says, helping Till sit up before offering him a tray filled with breakfast. Till’s leg is stuck in some mobility machine, keeping the muscles from getting stiff while he sleeps.
He frowns. He has never been fond of surprises. “What?”
With his phone carefully out of Till’s reach, Ivan presses play. Till squawks, blushing red down to his chest. “What the—screw you! Who the hell let you record this?”
“Your mother recorded this, obviously,” Ivan sing-songs, positively buoyant. “Notice how both of my hands are in frame.” Including, of course, his left hand, whereupon the obnoxious ring Till bought for him sits. Astonishingly, Till had beaten him to proposing.
Embarrassed, Till scowls. “You’re going to be on a fat fucking ego trip about this forever, aren’t you.”
“Of course,” Ivan says, tone cheery. “What’s the matter, Till? Is your husband’s face too lovely for you to comprehend? Do I stun you with my otherworldliness?”
Till nearly spills his breakfast. Ivan, expecting the outburst, steadies the tray. Snarling ensues and is followed by a whole bunch of bickering, but there’s fondness woven in. Till doesn’t deny anything he said freshly freed from the trappings of anesthesia.
Ivan nuzzles him. Plants a wet kiss on his cheek. Till huffs and complains but he can’t fight off the smile that takes over as he eats good food and is largely doted upon by his spouse.
Pyrrhic victory.