Chapter Text
“You’re the last person I want to see right now,” Till whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Ivan’s hand cradled his face. His thumb swiped gently over tear tracks—but that couldn’t be right. Till wasn’t a crier. Not in years.
“Don’t look, then.”
And Till’s lashes fluttered over Ivan’s palm. His eyes burned with the cool touch, and the world spun as he was turned around and brought against his friend’s chest.
The falling snow kissed his cheeks and crunched under their feet.
And his thoughts lay to waste.
***
“Are you okay, Till?”
Fuck you, he wanted to say. But the words were overthrown with the upheaval of his stomach.
His fingers dug into the mulch as he waited for the shaking to pass. From above, gentle hands rubbed soothing circles down his back.
How had they gotten to this point? His mind had been a blissful buzz one second, then a spiraling punishment the next. Snippets of everything in between had been clipped teasingly.
“Why would you drink when you can’t handle it?” A sigh.
Till raised a fist weakly, and if he had the energy, he would’ve thrown it over his shoulder. Fact of the matter was that he didn’t, though. And his bravado was a touch more than false as he sat curled up near the bush.
Death by choking on his own vomit.
Surprisingly, not the worst way to go. He and Sua had drafted a whole list during their long shifts, under the ticks of the impatient clock as they sprawled in the empty space after rush hour.
Narwhal impalation was the contender.
All alone in the Arctic where you can’t even brag about it. Doesn’t that just suck, she’d argued. He had nodded, of course, with the goodwill of an employee enduring their bosses’s bullshit for a pay raise.
Months later he was still left waiting.
The runner-up for the list was dying in front of a loved one. It was supposedly morbid, and as he had put it down, Sua looked at him like she would start keeping a helpline on speed dial.
“Why do people die for love?” He muttered to himself. “Useless.”
A thoughtful hum. “I’ll find out and let you know.”
Till smacked him.
If you loved someone, wouldn’t you rather live for them? It seemed to take more courage than the former.
Unfortunately, Till was a coward in more ways than one.
“Do you feel better?” A warm voice from overhead—Ivan’s, his brain supplied. That small tidbit stirred him, and he mumbled some expletive under his breath while his friend hoisted him up.
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He countered, words more garbled than he would’ve liked.
Till’s legs went jelly-soft as gravity coaxed him, but Ivan was firmer. He pulled Till up against him and laughed lowly near his ear.
A bottle was pressed to his lips, and his head was tipped back with nimble fingers. Water dribbled down his chin.
“Good?”
“Mn.”
Till blinked to make sense of his surroundings. Looked past the sprawling mess of cars, gleaming in the dark, and turned to the rising building in front. Warm blocks of light filtered out from windows, spanning so far upwards that his eyes failed to gauge.
“Here, the scarf is suffocating you. Let me take it off?” Ivan reached out, but Till’s gaze sharpened.
He slapped Ivan’s hand away and wrapped the red scarf around his neck tighter. Where had it come from? As far as he knew, he didn’t own anything remotely warm or winter-appropriate in his closet.
“Alright,” Ivan huffed with endearment.
Gently, his hands cupped Till’s face. His thumbs rubbed under Till’s eyes with familiarity, and his fingers pressed up the side of his neck, easing the tension that lay there.
When the hand moved lower, Till reflexively leaned into it. Bit his thumb.
“Are you still mad?”
Till stared at him reproachfully. Through the haze, he was able to make out the sharpness of his friend’s pale jaw, the cut of his dark coat, and the small crisp sounds it made as the wind blew past them.
His tongue flitted out, tasting Ivan’s thumb.
Cold and sweet.
“Should I coax you some more?” Ivan’s free hand roamed Till’s face, determined to mold softness into the stubborn, hard lines. He tilted his head down. “Will you forgive me, then?”
Ivan had garnered an impressive height on Till over the years. Even though, as children, puberty had graced him later.
Pretentious asshole.
“Ah!” Ivan winced as Till dug his teeth in. Laughed. “So fierce.”
Till spit out his thumb and mumbled, “Where?”
“Outside my place. Let’s get you upstairs.”
Right. Outside. They were outside and it was cold even as he was burning up inside and shaking all over like a dried leaf.
Ivan slipped his coat off and drew it around Till’s shoulders.
Vaguely, he recalled flashes of soju bottles, cracked over hotpot, footsteps crunching in the snow, and a blur of disjointed sentences—whispered, spoken, yelled.
Then, the rest of it blanked out like a movie strip cut short.
“Fair warning,” Ivan spoke near his ears, in a manner that wasn’t warning enough at all.
Next thing he knew, Till was tucked close against Ivan’s chest, legs drawn in and arms instinctively thrown around his friend’s broad shoulders.
His neck was tipped back, a loose extension of his body, and the inky sky stretched endlessly in front of his eyes. He narrowed them in search of the moon but to no avail.
“Fucker,” he mouthed accusingly.
The sky hid from him, acquiesced. Harsh overhead lights replaced it, and the chill was swapped for the inviting warmth of a lobby. His nose tingled from the latest piny scent, as the days transitioned from seasonal—the pumpkin spice he was sick of choking on—to overly festive.
It didn’t matter. In the past few days, he’d come to hate all festivities in equal measure. He was no more of a Grinch than he was a nihilistic asshole.
“Loud,” he whispered to Ivan.
Despite nearing midnight, the lobby was abuzz even now. Rendezvous couples and businessmen clambered on the couches and filled passing halls.
For a few reluctant beats, people glanced over. But when Ivan’s gaze swept over, they hurried to turn.
Such was Seoul, a city that never stopped breathing—especially when it clashed with what Till called the modern-day aristocracy: fucking rich people
“Let go,” he mumbled, weakly thumping a fist against Ivan’s chest. “I have work. Can…not get fired.”
Being twenty-six and working as a barista in the depths of sketchy alleyways—under Sua, of all people—was humbling. But, it was his best bet. Side-gigs in music didn’t pay the bills Seoul demanded, after all.
How dare life be so expensive when he’d never willingly subscribed.
Ivan huffed a laugh. “It’s a Saturday night.”
“My boss, she’s going to kill me.”
“When have you ever worried about that, Till?”
Ivan shifted and started walking. Whatever Till said got buried into his coat.
He took a single reflexive breath, inhaling remnants of Ivan’s cologne, mixed with the smell of grease and alcohol from the diner they’d just come from.
It was a revolting mixture in general, but Ivan, of course, had the audacity to smell good. To smell like comfort.
“Did you say something?” Ivan’s breath tickled his ears, low and throaty.
He weakly shoved a hand at Ivan’s shoulder, mumbling, “Close. Too close.”
After years of being friends, Till knew of his clingy tendencies; his determination to be the living, breathing antonym of personal space.
His habits hadn’t lessened. If anything, his subtle touches had gotten bolder, more assertive.
Now especially.
Till grumbled under his breath, deciding right then and there that when the world finally stopped spinning and his legs decided to work again, he would murder Ivan. It was a promise.
For now, though, he was content with burying his neck in the crook of his friend’s neck, greedily stealing warmth and delighting in the thrilling weightlessness of his own body.
“Just what are you mumbling about, even now?” Ivan’s voice was even lower this time, softer, in a way that was meant for no one else.
Was he saying something? He couldn’t remember.
“Asshole,” Till managed.
“Okay,” Ivan agreed.
“Fucker.”
“If you say so.”
There was amusement in Ivan’s unchanging tone and, as if seared into Till’s eyes, a shit-eating grin; the glint of his fang, mocking.
They came to a stop in front of the elevator. Ivan studied Till who was queasy in his arms, and decided to round the corner and take the stairwell. His steps were slow, careful.
“You know? Really can’t…stand you.” Till lazily blinked.
He wanted to flail his limbs. Roll away out of Ivan’s grip. But the thoughts were enough to soothe him when strength had left him otherwise.
“I know,” Ivan whispered back, swiping a thumb across Till’s nape. “Sleep. You’re going to wear yourself out this way.”
Till shivered. “Stop talking.”
He lifted a hand, trailing it up his friend’s chest. Wrapped it around his throat.
More often than not, he’d fantasized about choking him. But even through the confusion, something about that sentence didn’t sound right.
“Mn.” The vibrations tingled, itching his fingers.
He slapped his hand over Ivan’s mouth. “Shut up. Stop, talking—just.”
Ivan smiled against his hand.
His steps echoed in the stairwell, and the emergency lights flickered just as Till bit down on the smooth expanse of Ivan’s neck. He dug his teeth in for good measure.
There, that should shut him up.
He clung there, satisfied and lazy, as Ivan pushed open the doors to their floor.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Till.”
In response, he only pressed his tongue and felt Ivan’s grip tighten around him.
As they reached 605, Till dug his hands into Ivan’s back pocket for his wallet and slid out the room card.
Before he could hand it to Ivan, the door to the room behind them opened with a startling thud.
Till stirred, angling his head to where Pigtails had bounced out from.
It was way past her bedtime. She stared, and he stared her down, taking in the sight of her princess dress and cakey, attempted makeup. Her hand paused mid-air, holding a lit-up wand playing a pre-recorded song.
"Can you feel the love tonight…”
Her chubby cheeks were opened in horror, eyes bouncing between them. From where his hand was tucked by Ivan’s ass, to where his mouth was latched onto.
Till expected Ivan to be mortified by the turn of events, with the way he’d had successfully debased his reputation as a morally upstanding man of the floor. He knew for a fact that he certainly was.
Instead, he heard Ivan laugh—felt it vibrating against his teeth.
Light, airy, delighted.
Till’s shoulders eased, and the fog clouding his heart was scratched away, piece by piece.
Ivan turned, grinning down at the girl knowingly. He pressed a finger to his lips, don’t tell, before pulling Till through the door.
Pigtails screams erupted through the halls, activated lights in nearby rooms, and rattled the framed paintings lining the walls.
“Mommy!”
The door for room 605 shut with a resounding thud.
***
“I hate you, you know.”
“Do you, now?”
“I think I always have.”
“So…”
“What?”
“Hm, it’s nothing.”
“I’ll bite you again. Stop laughing—”
“You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you?”
“I—what? I hate you, really, really .”
“Hate is an emotion as any.”
“...shut up.”
“Careful. You know what they say about fine lines between—”
“Shut up.”