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“S-Something happened.”
“I know. I just displayed the best drifting of my Mario Kart career.”
Till groans. “Be serious for a crumb of second and listen to me.”
Ivan sighs, probably dejected at his efforts in showing off going to waste, and pauses the game in the middle of the race, turning on the couch to look at Till. The grey-haired boy can feel his gaze on him, and he clutches his Switch controller to let out some of his restless energy.
“My attention is all for you, my ears will belong to you for the next thirty minutes.”
“What happens in thirty minutes?” he is compelled to ask, but the question is stupid and it only shows how distracted and wrapped up in his own thoughts Till is – food for Ivan’s teasing.
“I have practice. Did you forget? Who is the old man?”
“You are the one who walks with his hands behind the back.”
Black eyes narrow slightly, something like annoyance grasping the ever-present smugness in his gaze and shaping it into a harsh, violent spark. It’s gone before Till can quiver in fright or tease him back.
“So? Why did we pause our Mario Kart race?”
“Someone kissed me.” It’s rushed, makes Till sweat and still keep his eyes elsewhere, studying the black nail polish of his hands with care, teal drifting to the cars on the screen behind the Resume and Quit buttons. He wishes he could press the latter and disappear from this couch, but it’s a discussion that has to happen, if he wants things to move forward.
“Who.” Ivan’s voice sounds flat, disinterested, tight.
“It happened at Mizi’s party.”
“I asked who– Where?”
“Mizi’s party.”
“Oh.”
Till sinks into the couch, eyes resolutely drawn on the controller. “So you know how it was a masquerade party and we were all… wearing masks,” he starts, unhelpfully, stammering over the redundant details.
He hadn’t even wanted to go, but saying “no” to Mizi is a lifetime achievement Till will probably never reach, not even in his grave. So he asked his mom for help and managed to put together something that wouldn’t make him look bad for his best friend/ex crush’s 18th birthday, and he arrived at her villa with black, ripped pants, tight because the only large slack-like bottoms he has are sweatpants and pajamas, and dark grey shirt tucked on one side. He completed the outfit with his favourite deep burgundy fingerless gloves and black leather jacket, bravely holding on despite Till using it everywhere.
“Till! You came!” Mizi had been enthusiastic for his arrival, beautifully cladded in pinks and whites and with an intricate, heavy-looking rose mask that perfectly accentuated her golden eyes – the polar opposite of the simple Chat-Noir-from-Miraculous-Ladybug one Till managed to get his hands on.
Animated by zero expectation, Till followed her around after discarding his jacket, taking care of leaving it where he’d be sure to find it later.
“This suspense is inefficient and unneeded, Till,” Ivan points out. “I was there, I know what you were wearing.”
I know you were, fucker. Till avoided looking for him for all night, over conscious of his boisterous teammates and how they got strange whenever they saw Till and Ivan together at school – as if he doesn’t know already that they look like a stupid, walking high school stereotype, the jock and the emo. The novelty is that instead of mocking each other, they are longtime friends with clashing preferences.
Till peaks, mindful of not meeting Ivan’s eyes. The stupid jock is slanted against the backrest, elbow bent to support his head in a laidback, smug pose. He hates him.
“Well, it was dark, so I’m not sure who he was,” he attempts, picking at his nails. He stresses the he, because Ivan still doesn’t know that Till is bisexual – and neither did Till before that kiss, but the nuisance doesn’t need to know that.
By the time everyone arrived late into the evening, the music was already on and the room became a confusing mix of laughter, shouts, singing and led dancefloor lights. Mizi dragged him in a couple of times, but she knows him better than everyone – except maybe Ivan – and left him be from time to time, taking her girlfriend into her arms instead.
Well after midnight, Till had half a mind to abandon his first resolution and look for Ivan to ask him to bring him home, since he was quite tipsy and tired as hell, but then someone grabbed him from behind, preventing him from falling face-first on the dancefloor, and hauled him in the sea of bodies, encouraging him to keep dancing.
The boy’s mask elegantly covered his entire face, except for his nose and lips, so Till has no idea who it was. Then the lights dimmed and there was an arm around his waist and a chest against his chest and someone’s breath tickling against his nose and the next thing Till knew, he was being kissed.
He remembers with stark clarity the spark in his eyes and the cleft of his lips right before it happened. His grip had been so… strong and confident, it made Till’s head swim, the rush of adrenaline warming his blood, and it felt like a thunder stroke him with the power of a fully raging storm.
But to this spectacular storytelling, a hum is all he gets.
Till grits his teeth, annoyed. Why the lukewarm reaction? Ivan is the one who is always all over him, invading his space with no shame, asking for hugs and kisses and generally clinging to him like an overgrown puppy. And now this? He doesn’t get to give Till the cold shoulder.
“Even if it was dark, I know he had a great body! Better than yours!”
“That’s unlikely,” Ivan comments, sounding delighted for some reason.
“It’s because you didn’t see him!”
“That’s for sure.”
Till turns, furious. “I’ll have you know that it was the best fucking kiss of my life, so move your ass and help me find this person.”
Ivan appears so stunned that it looks like his whole face drops, eyes wide in that pathetic way only he manages to reach, not gaping but halfway between that and normal, the black of his irises even more striking – like bottomless pits Till risks to fall into if he is not careful enough.
Twenty seconds later, the moron bursts out laughing. Till blinks, too dumfounded to react promptly, and his body fills with embarrassment, red blooming everywhere it is visible. He stutters, tries to talk, but Ivan beats him to it.
“It was me.”
Silence.
Till’s brain stops, turns off, reboots slowly. Ivan knows how he works, gives him time – mirth stuck on his mouth.
“What?” Till asks what seems simultaneously like an hour and an instant later.
“I was the one who kissed you.”
This time, the stunning effect lasts less. Perhaps, the hardest blow has been dealt so quickly and Till is so used to Ivan’s antics that even his defensive mechanism is acclimatized to Ivan by now.
Knees digging into the couch, Till is hitting Ivan before he can think otherwise.
“You fucking bastard, of course it was you, you– You even made me say all that!”
“I wanted honest feedback.” Ivan gives him free reign for a while, fully aware that Till needs to vent his frustration and embarrassment in the most violent way he can muster before he can feel on equal footing with Ivan again.
Perhaps there is an admittance of guilt in how the black-haired boy lets Till hit him for longer than usual. At that party, it was actually Till who looked into his eyes as they danced and dragged him down, the clash of their lips hard and awkward, and Ivan would have laughed if the one in his arms wasn’t Till – equally tipsy, tenderly nudging his nose as he looked for his mouth again and again.
Ivan had poured in him all his longing before stepping back and accompany him home. By the time they arrived, though, Till was already sleeping, and Ivan sure that he’d forget about the entire ordeal.
Little did he know Till remembered – still remembers it vividly, not lucidly maybe, but the clarity of those lips, Ivan’s lips, on his, had been a flood of overwhelming sensations he is still battling with.
As the perfect star of the rugby team he is, Ivan blocks him and digs his shoulder against Till, then flips him until his back crashes on the couch, Ivan hovering above him.
“Let me go.”
“Shouldn’t we talk about this?” Ivan reasonably asks.
“Fuck you.”
“I have the perfect reply for that.”
Till snarls loudly, pulling one of the small couch pillows onto his face and screaming against it some more. He can’t look at Ivan in the face.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. It was amazing for me as well.”
“What embarrassed? Who said anything about it being amazing?” Till growls, starting to feel like an animal, but the compliment sags in his belly with a flutter and takes root there. He regrets trying to get Ivan’s attention with this story, but the way his treacherous heart beats elated about the discovery… He should just end his own life.
Ivan’s voice is smug, infuriatingly pleased as he retorts, “What was it that you said? The best kiss of your life?”
“I wouldn’t have said if I knew!!”
“But you said it and I heard it.”
“Why am I even friends with an asshole?”
Ivan laughs again, nosing his way under the pillow until he grazes Till’s cheek, teasingly, asking for permission – that Till grants, tilting his head back and to the side to search for his mouth.
Their second kiss is slow, openly willing, conscious. Ivan settles between his legs, sinuously moving over him in a way that has Till’s toes curl. A moan slips free when a finger presses against his lips and his mouth goes slack. Ivan chuckles, then digs in, lips clicking as he ravishes Till’s mouth slowly, deeply, until they are both out of air.
Till’s grip grows weak, falls from the pillow and clings to Ivan’s biceps, then his back when Ivan jerks against him once more, sending delicious shivers up and down his spine.
Wet lips drag on his jaw, then against his ear, where the low tone of Ivan’s voice almost does it for Till.
“Does this one compare with the first?”
“Shut the fuck up and come back here,” is all Till can grumble out, but it sounds more like a whine when he himself hears it, and Ivan’s chuckle extinguishes every other possible protest on his lips.
Stupid buff toned handsome jock, Till wants to strangle him.
Perhaps he’ll do it later. It would be stupid to kill Ivan before he can wring enough kisses from him to last for a lifetime.