Archive of Our Own ^beta

The kitchen is warm and smells like toast. Eggs crack. Coffee brews. Ivan hums a song Till hates as he prepares breakfast, and Till doesn’t tell him to stop. 

This is how Till always likes to start his day. He sits at the counter, as usual, waiting for Ivan to finish. Ivan walks over with two plates of eggs and toast in his hands and slides one over to him, which Till graciously accepts. 

They fall into comfortable conversation over their meal. Till would make a dumb joke, and Ivan would laugh obnoxiously loud. Ivan would try to steal bites from Till’s food, and Till would whine and complain. 

“We’re literally eating the exact same anyway! Eat off your plate,” Till grumbles, half-heartedly pulling his plate away from Ivan. 

“I made both meals so I have the right to eat both meals,” Ivan retorts with a grin, taking another bite out of Till’s toast. Till rolls his eyes but smiles, and ignores Ivan’s further attempts of thievery. 

This is how it is every morning in their little apartment. He wouldn’t change it for the world. Just Till and his best friend living together. Familiar, mundane, normal.

The two had known each other since middle school. They met during a summer camp by the coast. Till had been sitting cross-legged in the sand, sketching quietly while trying to ignore the chaos of everyone else.

Most of the other children had avoided Till, finding his behaviour too brash and erratic—unpredictable. A nuisance. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to fight so much if they just left him alone! He was just finishing what they began…

Being by himself didn’t bother him too much anyway. He’d rather be left alone, tracing the view of the beach in front of him onto paper. The only calm he could hold on to. 

Unfortunately (or fortunately), another one of the campers had noticed him. Ivan. He had noticed Till’s stillness and focus. There was quietness and peace around him despite everyone telling him to stay away from this supposed uncontrollable delinquent. 

Ivan walked over curiously, looked at him for a few moments, then did something incredibly dumbfounding. He snatched Till’s pencil out of his hand and sprinted away like hell. 

Of course, Till chased after him, furious. Who did this kid think he was? Just another bully picking on him for no good reason. Expectantly, they fought. They tussled on the ground, weak punches were thrown, and a desperate tug of war for the pencil occurred. Till shouted all while Ivan grinned like a damn fool. They were covered in sand by the end of it. 

Later that evening, Ivan returned the pencil and mumbled, “Found this, I think it’s yours.”

Till gave him the flattest look in the world. “You literally took it out of my hands, dumbass.”

But, he let Ivan sit next to him anyway, shoulder to shoulder. And when Ivan watched him draw without interrupting, Till didn’t make him leave. 

When they reached the end of summer camp, they were the last two left at the entrance. Despite Ivan’s parents having arrived already, he stood with Till whose mum was incredibly late, as expected. Not that she meant to. It was just difficult for his mother to juggle several jobs and simultaneously look after Till. It’s why she sent him to summer camp in the first place (and to maybe make actual friends…). 

Till demanded Ivan go home and insisted that he would be fine waiting alone. Ivan refused. Although Till was too proud to admit he appreciated the company, he didn’t make any further attempts to change Ivan’s mind. 

As Till’s mum arrived, Till turned to Ivan.

“Are you coming back next year?” Till asked sheepishly. 

Ivan broke into a wide grin, beaming. “Definitely now.” 

And they did see each the next year, and the next. At the end of middle school, Till’s mum and he ended up having to move towns when she finally divorced his father. That town just so happened to have a high school that featured Ivan. From there, a real friendship bloomed and they became inseparable. 

He met Ivan’s group of friends wearily, consisting of Ivan’s cousin, Sua, and another girl, Mizi. Sua was so similar to Ivan yet incredibly different. They seemed to understand each other in a way Till could never grasp. He made some efforts to get along with her, but they silently agreed being on “friendly” terms was enough.

On the other hand, Till had felt an immediate and strong affection towards Mizi. Her pure intentions and genuine smile drew him in when most people in the world were too quick to shun him. However, his schoolboy crush dispersed as fast as it developed when Mizi came out as a lesbian. Moreover, when she and Sua began dating. 

As heartbreaking as it was, Till moved on very quickly, realising his crush was not as deep as he thought it was. Ivan still teased Till about it to this day, about falling in love with a very obvious lesbian. Till just swatted him. Ivan made it very easy to question why they were best friends. 

Till considered them all very decent friends, but Till opted to just stick closest to Ivan. At the end of the day, it was always Ivan that was there. They didn’t have many overlapping classes, so Ivan would wait at the gate after school to walk him home. 

Even when the summer camp shut down, the two still visited that same coast in the summer. It became a sort of tradition that ended the same way every time: soaked, covered in sand, but with inerasable smiles on their faces. 

Eventually, as they graduated and went to university, they moved in with each other out of convenience. The convenience never went away and instead simply became what Till would begin to call home.

Till always thinks of the beach. The exact shade of blue it was each day they visited. The way Ivan would look with seaweed stuck in his hair. Flushed and sweating, but smiling and appealing nonetheless. 

Till held onto those memories like they were his lifeline. No matter what happened, there would be that coastal breeze, warm sand, and Ivan. 

He gets up to refill his coffee, reaching for the white mug on the shelf without thinking. The one with Ivan’s handwriting scrawled across it in ugly green marker.

Only… it’s blank.

He frowns and turns it in his hands. No faded ink. No ghost of a word or letter. Just smooth ceramic, pure white. Like nothing had ever been written on it at all.

“Ivan,” Till says slowly, mug still in hand. “Did you wash this?”

Ivan glances over from the sink. “Yeah? Why?”

“The writing’s gone.”

Ivan peers at it. “I don’t think that one had anything on it to begin with.”

Till stares. “It was the one you signed, remember? When you became a model, I was the first one to get your autograph on this damn mug.”

It had been a very small modeling gig—Ivan’s first one. And despite Ivan claiming it was no big deal, Till knew it meant more than that. It was the first step toward something greater for Ivan, towards the big leagues. Till had to be there to support him no matter what. 

After Ivan had finished shooting, Till picked him up and they ended up at a bar because Till had insisted they celebrate. 

“Trust me, with your killer looks, you’re gonna make it far.” Till slung his arm around Ivan’s back, gleaming. 

“‘Killer looks’?” Ivan echoed, brow raised. 

Till spluttered, “Anyone that has eyes can see you’re conventionally attractive. Maybe even more than that! Your face card is lethal, dude.”

Ivan gave him a grin, a light pink tainting his cheeks. “I’ll take it.” 

When Till first picked up a guitar, it was Ivan who encouraged him to join the music club. He’d even lent Till his garage for rehearsals and showed up to their first “concert” as the only audience member.

Every time Till thought about quitting, Ivan would roll his eyes and talk him out of it. Like he knew better than Till did how much it mattered.

It was only right for Till to return the favour. Besides, Ivan deserved it. Not just because Ivan was objectively very hot, but because Ivan had a way with audiences. Ivan knew how to perform. 

After knowing him for so long, Till could always tell when Ivan was putting on a façade. Especially since Ivan seemed to always be genuine around him— it made the difference easier to spot. 

So when Till went inside the building to pick Ivan up, he saw Ivan accept a box from some agent, his smile plastic and wide. 

But the moment their eyes met, Ivan’s smile changed. Wrinkles formed at the corners of his mouth as it turned genuine. His eyes gleamed as he strode over, and Till couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his own lips.

The box turned out to hold a mug. As thanks for showing up to the gig, the agency had gifted him a plain, white mug. No design, no logo, nothing. Just a mug in its purest form.

“Well, we could always do with a few more mugs at home, right?” Ivan had chuckled back then, stirring his drink half-mindedly beside Till.

“Yeah, well, I’m selling it for ten million won once you’re on billboards,” Till had replied, sliding the mug over to him. “So sign it before you get too famous to talk to me.”

“No fame would ever prevent me from talking to you,” Ivan had responded, almost too sincerely. 

Till had felt the heat rush to his cheeks. “Shut up and sign it.”

It turned out, the only pen in the bar that night was a bright green sharpie. Thus, the mug was then branded with Ivan’s ugly ass signature in an ugly ass colour and became one of Till’s most treasured items. The promise of selling it was promptly forgotten.

It was a dumb little moment. But it happened. He remembers it happening.

He’s sure of it.

...Isn’t he?

Ivan tilts his head at Till, trying to rack his brain for recollection.

After a moment, Ivan gives up.

“Till, you know I don’t give autographs.” Ivan laughs, like it’s obvious, like it’s always been true.

But Till doesn’t laugh. He just keeps staring at the mug. 

Ivan’s right though, he doesn’t give autographs. 

“It didn’t have anything on it when I washed it, alright?” Ivan says easily like it’s a non-issue. He turns to rinse the plate without another glance.

But that only makes it worse. Ivan’s too calm about something that should matter. As if it never mattered to him at all.

Till knows it happened. He swears it did. But the evidence, or the lack thereof, is in his hands. There’s no way he could just dream up something so specific like that. Yet, here it is in its plain glory. With no signature. No remnants of it on the mug nor in Ivan’s memory. 

“Didn’t know you were such a big fan,” Ivan teases.“If you want my signature so badly, I’ll sign it now, okay?”

He grabs the Sharpie like it’s a joke. Like it’s just a funny moment.

But Till’s hands feel cold.

Ivan scribbles his signature quickly onto the blank mug and hands it back. 

“There, now don’t look so overjoyed about it,” Ivan continues to laugh. 

“...Thanks, Ivan.” Till makes the effort to smile back. 

“I’ll see you after work, alright? Dinner’s on you tonight.” Ivan calls out as he heads towards the door. 

“Right,” Till murmurs, but his eyes stay fixed on the signature.

It’s there now—ugly as ever, just in black this time. Too clean. Too new.

Like it’s trying to overwrite something.

Maybe the moment really was bound to fade eventually. He should’ve sold it while he had the chance.

The apartment is quiet when Till gets home from the studio.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, that part was normal. He finishes early sometimes and Ivan’s schedule is all over the place. Modeling gigs, photoshoots, and acting classes he insists are “just for fun” (although Till doesn’t think he needs them). They both have their own lives, yet the silence feels heavier this time around for some reason. 

As Till hangs his keys on the hook, he notices a missing pair of shoes on the rack. Not the white ones Ivan wears for running errands, but the ones Till bought for Ivan’s birthday last year. Till remembers texting Mizi excessively for help—asking about style, colour, and shoe size. Till was fighting for his life. 

He remembers Ivan’s exaggerated gasp when he opened the box.

“You do love me,” Ivan had teased, cradling the pair as if it was a newborn baby.

Now, they’re just gone. No note, no “hey, I wore them out,” no trace of them in the shoe rack. Or ever having been there. Till stands there a little too long before walking away.

As the water boils in the kettle, Till swipes his phone off the counter and opens Spotify, looking for something to fill the silence. 

At the top of the recently played playlists, he notices one listed just as “untitled.” Notably, it lacks a playlist cover as well. 

Till frowns. He doesn’t remember making this one.

He clicks on it, yet the list of songs is just as empty. Till sighs internally, perhaps it’s just some glitch. Might as well make a new playlist out of this one.

He quickly names it “waiting,” just because he is literally waiting for the water to boil, and opens his photos for a playlist cover.

Next to recents is a folder named “beach.” Real creative, but it gets the point across. It’s a folder he and Ivan had been adding to every year since high school. He taps it.

Only six photos remain. 

All group shots. All taken by someone else. Not one of just him and Ivan. Not the one where Till fell asleep in the sun and Ivan let him get a stupidly shaped tan. Not the one from three years ago, where Ivan made Till try surfing and Till clutched onto Ivan’s abdomen for dear life. 

All just gone.

He checks the trash folder. Nothing. As if they were never saved in the first place.

The kettle clicks off.

Till doesn’t move at first. He just stares at the screen, at the empty playlist, at the gaping space in the “beach” folder. It’s stupid, maybe. He should just ask Ivan. Maybe he’ll say he archived the photos. Maybe he’ll say he was organising stuff and forgot to tell Till.

Maybe he won’t remember them at all.

Till makes dinner to ground himself. Something simple, something easy. Anything to get his mind off of… whatever was going on. It’s nothing special, but it’s his turn to cook. Ivan had always been the one with more joy in the kitchen between the two of them. 

When Ivan walks in just as Till sets the plates, it’s almost comforting. 

“Hi Till,” he greets easily, taking off his white shoes. He leaves them on the rack where a different pair should be. “Smells nice.”

“It’s not much. Was sort of tired today, sorry,” Till says. Ivan’s face changes to immediate concern. 

“Don’t worry about the food ever. If you didn’t feel well, I could have picked something up on my way home,” Ivan replies, dropping his keys off. “What’s going on? Did something happen at work?”

Till laughs weakly. At least Ivan is still familiar, somewhat. 

“No, it’s–” Till starts, but hesitates. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just photos… and at the moment, he just wants to do something that feels normal again. “No, yeah, it’s just work stuff. Let’s just sit down and eat.” 

Ivan looks like he wants to say more, but relents and agrees. 

They eat on the couch, legs bumped together. There is more room on the couch to separate but the contact is familiar. Comfortable. Till forces himself to not lean in too much to that touch. 

Ivan’s presence should be enough to banish the weakness yet unease still creeps into Till’s stomach. Till is happy to simply be in Ivan’s company, but the missing photos, missing memories, gnaw at him. 

Ivan looks relaxed at least, enjoying his meal in comfortable silence. Ivan never looks more at ease than when he is beside Till. Till likes it that way. It makes him feel special, loved—naturally, as his best friend would.

This is fine. This is normal. 

They’re halfway through a show Ivan picked, something dumb and dramatic. Till’s not really watching, he can’t. It pulls on his insides until the question slips out.

“Did you delete the beach photos?” Till breaks the silence, keeping his voice level, casual. 

Ivan’s eyes stay on the screen. Unusual. “Which photos? With Mizi and Sua?”

“No. Our photos. The ones in the “beach” folder, I can’t find them.”

Ivan frowns. “I haven’t opened any of our old photos in a while.”

“Yes, you have?” Till says, his brows furrowing. ”You always do, you love them–” 

Till cuts himself off, because he isn’t sure anymore either. He knows Ivan, the sentimental bastard, was always going through their old gallery and shoving it in Till’s face. Usually, he’d mock him for something that happened years ago or beg them to recreate an old moment. Ivan just could not let go of things. 

But when Till tries to recall any recent instances of Ivan doing just that, he finds he’s at a loss. 

In fact, he realises he’s at a loss for recollections of anything recent at all. Anything from the past week alone seems incredibly fuzzy to him. He can remember the things at work, the songs they’ve been developing over the past month. Yet, the details are lost. 

He can’t recall who cooked dinner each night (he should know, they always argue about it), he can’t recall what show he and Ivan finished (he swears he remembers crying over it, denying it to Ivan obviously), and more than especially, whether or not the damn mug had the green signature on it. 

Ivan pauses the show and turns to Till curiously, a tinge of concern etching his brow. Till feels heavy under his gaze. 

“Whatever,” Till grumbles, looking away. “Could you just send me all the beach photos from your phone? Mine must be glitched or something.”

“Sure,” Ivan responds, unsurely, and pulls out his phone.

A second later, Till gets only six notifications. His grip tightens around the phone.

 “Ivan, where are the rest of them?”

Ivan looks up from his phone screen. “What do you mean?” 

“The rest of the photos,” Till grits out, patience wavering. 

“That’s all of them, Till,” Ivan says carefully. 

Till’s chest feels tight, burning. 

“No, it’s not!” Till snaps. “Where are the ones at summer camp? The ones during high school? We literally visit that coast every summer!” 

Ivan’s expression doesn’t harden, but it shifts. It’s subtle, uncertain. Till bites his lip. 

“I mean… yeah, we’ve gone a few times,” Ivan says slowly like he’s stepping carefully. “But I don’t remember taking that many pictures. I mean, Mizi made us take a couple of group shots occasionally so she could post them. Those are the ones I sent you, that’s all I have.”

Till stares. “Group shots,” he echoes, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

“What? We’ve always taken group photos. You remember the one from two summers ago when Mizi made us all wear those ugly sunglasses? That one’s hilarious.” And Ivan is laughing again, just like this morning. Like it’s no big deal. 

“Who cares about those ones?” Till says sharply, too sharply. It spills out of him before he can stop it. His voice cracks just slightly, but he doesn’t backpedal.

Ivan blinks, taken aback. “Till…”

He reaches out, slow and instinctive, trying to rest a hand on Till’s shoulder. Till flinches away, not harshly, but enough to make Ivan pause. 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Till says, eyes on his glowing phone screen and those six photos. “It’s not funny.”

His fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles pale. “Our photos. The ones with just us. Like the one where you let me fall asleep on your shoulder and I begged you to delete it, but you made it your lock screen for three months anyway. Or the one in the second year at summer camp—my mum forced us to pose, remember? I was tugging your hair out and you just stood there grinning like a complete idiot.”

Till’s mum had demanded they hug it out afterward, even though Ivan looked unbothered by the whole deal. Then, they moved on and were friends again. Friends on their own terms, of course. 

Ivan would do something to trigger Till, Till would snap, and they would fight. Then, they would make up. Never directly. Just a mutual and silent forgiveness. It’s not like Till had many other options, but he liked it that way. He liked Ivan, his friend. 

It’s just how they were, how they always were. 

Ivan’s brows pull together like he’s trying to sort through something half-remembered. 

“That… kind of sounds familiar,” he says slowly. “I do remember you falling asleep on me, that summer. And your mum always made us take a million pictures.”

Till glances at him. A flicker of hope. It dies as Ivan continues. 

“But I don’t think we ever kept any of them? Maybe your mum still has them.”

Ivan’s voice is gentle and uncertain. Not dismissive, just unsure. 

Till exhales. It’s quiet, controlled. “We did.”

A pause.

“I know we did.”

An album of photos, of memories, can’t just disappear like that. 

Ivan doesn’t argue, just looks at Till. There’s a look on his face Till can’t quite place. His eyebrows are crinkled in confusion or sadness, but his eyes seem desperate, pleading. 

“It’s fine,” Till finally says. “I’ll clean up now, alright?”

Ivan gets up with him. “Let me help–”

“I’ve got it, okay? Dinner was on me.” 

“Till, I’m helping.”

Till doesn’t respond. He lets him help. They wash the dishes, sweep, and wipe the counter together. It’s quiet. It’s how it usually is again. This is their routine again. 

But the silence is too heavy, too noticeable. It’s unbearable.

The apartment smells like coffee and eggs again. It’s morning and light streams into Till’s room through the blinds. He can hear Ivan humming in the kitchen again, as usual. It’s the same song as yesterday. 

Till should be beside him at this point. Mug in hand (the one with the wrong colour now) and sipping comfortably.

But today, Till sits on the edge of his bed unmoving. His phone is in his hand, reading a text Mizi sent him not too long ago. 

[mizi]: hi till! can we meet quickly b4 rehearsal? got smth to go over

Till stares at it a bit too long. There weren’t any problems with the song at the last practice and they hadn’t done any projects together in a long while, so he doesn’t know what there is to go over. 

But it’s another change in his routine again that causes him to reconsider. 

“Till, you up?” He hears Ivan call from the kitchen. 

“Yeah.”

He gets dressed too fast, puts on the first shirt his hand lands on. Doesn’t check his hair. Doesn’t even bother to look at the mug.

Ivan blinks at him from across the table when he comes out. “No breakfast?”

“I’m meeting Mizi early. I’ll eat with her.” Mizi doesn’t know that, so he should try to text her as soon as he gets out of the apartment. 

Ivan’s eyebrows twitch upward. “Since when do you two–”

“It’s about rehearsal stuff.”

Ivan nods slowly. “Okay.”

Till grabs his bag and slips on his shoes like he’s in a hurry. He can’t help it. 

“Later,” he says.

“See you.”

Ivan watches him go, and Till doesn’t look back.

As soon as the door closes, he shoots Mizi a quick text.

[till]: sure. meet at the cafe below the studio?

The café is playing music when Till steps inside.

It’s way too early and he can tell on the sign that it just opened. The air smells like espresso and old syrup, all too sweet and sharp for this hour.

He scans the booths until he spots the only one taken, palms sweaty even though it’s warm inside.

Mizi’s tucked into the corner, sipping something pink and sugary through a straw. She notices him before he notices her and waves him over with a bright smile. 

“Hi Till,” she says, warmly. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Hey,” Till greets, taking the seat in front of her. He drops his bag down beside his chair but doesn’t take off his coat. “What’s going on?”

“I– huh?” Mizi looks caught off guard. 

“I know there's nothing wrong with songs,” Till presses, trying to sound gentle but it comes off sharp. “Did something happen to you?”

“No– no! Nothing happened… to me at least,” Mizi laughs nervously as if she’s trying to deflect. 

Now, it is Till’s turn to be confused. “Is something wrong with the band?” 

“No!” Mizi blurts, too loud for a practically vacant room. She winces. Then adds more quietly, “Well– sort of?” 

A brief silence falls between them, only broken by the soft piano playing in the overhead speakers. 

“What’s wrong then?” Till asks, softer now. 

Mizi fidgets with her cup, stirring it around with the straw. She exhales. 

“Till…” Her eyebrows furrow. “I asked you to meet to check in on you.”

Till stares. “... Me?”

She nods firmly. 

“I’m fine.”

Mizi frowns. “Are you sure?” 

Till stiffens. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Mizi huffs, crossing her arms. “Till, I mean this is the nicest way possible, but last week, you were a mess.”

“Wha–I was?” Till tries to think back but like last time, the details are lost to him. All he remembers was working on the song. 

“Yes,” Mizi sets her drink on the table. “I figured something happened between you and Ivan, but yesterday you showed up like nothing was wrong.”

“Nothing happened between me and Ivan.” He says, because nothing has! Well, nothing besides the lack of photos, signature on the mug, and other stuff… but that all happened yesterday. Nothing went wrong before that. 

“Till, you can talk to me,” Mizi says earnestly, reaching for his hand on the table.

Till pulls his hand back a bit too aggressively. “I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Last week, you looked like you hadn’t slept in days,” Mizi continues, gentler now. “You kept zoning out. You were late to rehearsal, which you never are, and when you did show up, you looked like you were about to cry. Like–like you were barely keeping it together.”

Till opens his mouth. Closes it again. He tries, he really does try, to remember. But nothing. Absolutely nothing comes up. 

He shifts in his seat, suddenly too hot in his coat. “That doesn’t make sense. That… I would remember that.”

“I knew you didn’t want to talk about it, I thought I should just give you time. But yesterday, you showed up and everything was fine. Like nothing ever happened at all.”

Her voice trails off as she searches his expression, but Till isn’t looking at her anymore. He’s staring past her, into the space between them.

Like nothing ever happened at all. 

His eyes snap towards her. “You’re sure it was last week?”

“Yes, Till, I’m sure,” she looks exasperated. “How could I forget something like that?”

Till feels like he’s been slapped in the face. He grimaces.

“And I said something? About Ivan?”

“Not exactly. You just... you looked wrecked.” Mizi says. “But it was obvious. You wouldn’t even look at your phone. You just kept saying ‘it doesn’t matter anymore.’”

“I never said that,” he whispers.

“I swear, you did. You were–”

“No. No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t– why would I? Nothing happened.”

His chair screeches as he stands up too fast. He grips the back of it. His breathing is shallow.

“I would’ve known. I would’ve felt it. Don’t you think I’d feel it if something like that happened?”

Mizi looks at him, mouth agape.

“Till, tell me, please. What’s going on?” She pleads. She attempts to take his hand again, and he lets her this time. 

“I don’t know, Mizi.” His throat burns and he grips her hand tightly. His other hand curls into his coat sleeve like he’s bracing for impact.

“I really don’t know.”

Mizi squeezes his hand once, then stands and walks around the table. Till barely registers it until her arms are around his shoulders.

He doesn’t move at first. 

Then slowly, like muscle memory, he leans into it. He feels like he should cry, but he doesn’t. Cry about what? There’s nothing to cry about. 

He wraps his arms around her, accepts it. 

“You’re scaring me,” Mizi says quietly, half-laughing against his shoulder. “Please don’t disappear like that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Till says, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to.”

She pulls away first, looks at him with concern. 

He lets out a shaky breath and they take their seats again.

“I wish I could explain it,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what’s happening. I think…” He trails off, lips parting but then he closes his mouth again.

Mizi tilts her head. “You think what?”

He shakes his head. “Forget it. It doesn’t make sense.”

Mizi watches him for a beat longer but doesn’t press. Instead, she folds her hands around her cup again. Her voice is cautious when she speaks next.

“I did try asking Ivan. That week you were off.”

Till looks up, sharp. “What did he say?”

“Not much, you know how he is.” Till does. “He said something vague about ‘taking it back’ but when I tried to press further, he brushed me off and left.”

“He didn’t do anything else? Was he upset?”

Mizi shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He looked... I don’t know, kind of sad? Guilty, maybe? I thought maybe you two fought.”

“No,” Till says immediately. Then quieter, “I don’t think so.”

He and Ivan fought all the time. Mizi knew that, everyone knew that. But nothing that would ever break Till like that. If he and Ivan fought seriously, he thinks he would be screaming and shouting and not be so… dejected. 

He stares at the table. His reflection in the sheen of her drink.

It blurs when he blinks, and it seems that even his own face doesn’t want to stick around.

If something did happen, where did it go? Why is it affecting the mug, the shoes, the pictures?

There’s a version of him that remembers, one that completely broke down after… whatever happened. 

And something, or some one, cleaned it all up.

Things keep going missing, not unnoticed by Till, but completely inconspicuous to Ivan. 

The apartment is cold so he looks for the hoodie Ivan let him borrow years ago. It had been the night after one of Till’s band gigs, and Till’s costume was not made for the chill of the night. Ivan demanded Till wear his hoodie when they walked home so he wouldn’t get sick. 

He had tried to return it, but Ivan insisted it fit Till better (it didn’t–it was too big on him). 

Till looks in his closet, the laundry basket, under his bed, everywhere. But it’s gone. He asks Ivan, who doesn’t even remember owning it.

The notes on the fridge change. Sometimes they’re in Ivan’s handwriting. Other times, they aren’t.

Till doesn’t say anything. He just takes a picture, then checks again in an hour, and the photo doesn’t match what’s there anymore.

When Till sits down and opens his sketchbook in the evening, he finds pages once filled to the brim with portraits– all empty. The sketches of Mizi from his high school years remain, even the occasional Sua is there. Yet, there is not a single trace of Ivan. 

He can’t even ask Ivan about it this time, because he never showed him any of it. 

One morning, Ivan hums a different melody in the kitchen. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

“Where’s that from?” Till asks.

Ivan tilts his head. “What?”

“The song. You were humming it.”

“I wasn’t humming anything.”

Till stops asking after that.

On his phone, Till goes through his old messages with Ivan, except they’re all different. Some are shorter, conversations end abruptly, and others are gone entirely. 

He finds himself staring at Ivan when he thinks Ivan isn’t looking. If he focuses hard enough, he’ll catch something slipping—any breakthrough of the past. But Ivan just smiles at Till like he always has, soft and simple and ordinary.

None of this feels ordinary.

He writes things down now. Hides notes under books, inside pillowcases, and writes texts to himself, never to be sent. Just in case.

But even those don’t always stay.

The only thing that stays intact is his memory, but that’s never been too reliable either. 

It’s useless without evidence. It’s his word against the goddamn universe.

One night, Till arrives home late. 

He drops his bag by the door, shrugs off his coat, and steps into the kitchen. The lights are low. Ivan’s sitting at the table with his arms crossed over a book, a half-drunk mug of tea cooling beside him.

Ivan stares at Till intently, an unusual expression on his face. Not angry, not surprised. 

Just… concerned. 

“Hey,” Ivan says. “Can we talk?” 

Till stiffens, halfway to the fridge. “About what?”

Ivan unfolds something from the table and slides it forward. A familiar scrap of paper, creased and shaky in his handwriting.

Till doesn’t move.

“I found it in the poetry book,” Ivan says quietly. “Didn’t mean to go looking, but… this fell out when I was cleaning up.”

Till feels the panic crawl up his spine.

The poetry book was one Ivan had gifted him in high school. Till is not much of a reader, never has been. That is Ivan’s thing. 

Ivan thought it could help with his songwriting back then, so Till begrudgingly gave it a shot and enjoyed it a lot more than he liked to admit. It was especially helpful because Ivan had annotated almost every single page (he was a nerd like that). Till thought it was cute (not that he would ever say it out loud).

Now the book is empty of those annotations and is just as bare as the day Ivan had bought it. 

Ivan reads it aloud. “‘I don’t know what’s real anymore. But I know you wrote in this. I know it. I remember every note you left. I remember you. I–’”

“Ivan, stop. Please.” Till’s voice is quiet, his hands shaking. He doesn’t have it in him to yell. 

Ivan puts the note down, observes the look on Till’s face. Till knows Ivan is trying to decipher every minuscule action Till makes. Ivan never needed to calculate his words with Till before, an unusual thing that seemed to be familiar as of late. 

“Till, I know you. You’ve been acting strange for weeks and I’m worried. We’re– we’re best friends… you can tell me anything,” Ivan says, voice low. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

And Till feels like he’s back with Mizi again. That same damn question, what’s going on?

How can he possibly answer that? It seems like the only person in the whole world is noticing what’s going on. Not even Ivan notices and Ivan notices everything. 

Any slight change in Till’s behaviour, Ivan would point it out. As obnoxious as it was, it meant a lot to Till. To have someone who could just understand him, no words needed. It’s a rare find. 

And now, it’s like nothing they ever did matters. Like none of it ever happened.

Maybe it didn’t. 

He’s trying, by gods, he’s trying to hold on to those moments. But is it worth it if Ivan doesn’t even remember?

Those moments were only special because of him, because of Ivan. What use are memories when he doesn’t have someone to share them with? Till wants to lie. He wants to shrug it off and move on like he did with Mizi. But, he can’t.

Not when Ivan’s looking at him like that. 

Like he’s scared of what he doesn’t understand, but even more so of Till slipping away with it. It’s like he’s already losing him and doesn’t know how to stop it. 

Even as their past slips away from them, here Ivan is. Still watching Till. Still there to pick him apart. 

Till exhales, slow and uneven, his voice nearly cracks when he speaks.

“I’m scared, Ivan.”

The words gush out of him before he can even think. All because of one look. Damn Ivan. 

Ivan blinks. “Of what?”

Till laughs bitterly, looks down.

 “Of forgetting. Of losing things. Every day, I wake up and something new is missing. Something that used to mean everything.” He swallows hard. “I look around, I ask around, I ask you , and no one notices a thing.”

He doesn’t face Ivan, he can’t. 

“I thought I was just making it up at first. Just stress, sleep deprivation, or whatever. But it keeps happening. ” Till’s fists clench into the hem of his pants. “It was a mug, then shoes, a playlist, photos, a hoodie— fuck, even the notes on the damn fridge can’t stay the same for more than an hour.”

He glances over to the fridge again. This time, there are multiple notes on the fridge. All blank. This morning, there was only a single note that said “don’t forget to buy milk” in Ivan’s stupid handwriting. Till lets out a shaky breath. 

“It’s not even just stuff, it’s you. It’s us ,” Till says. “There were things said. Things we did. Moments that mattered and you—you don’t seem to remember any of it!”

A pathetic laugh leaves Till’s throat as he runs a hand through his hair. 

“And… and I can’t even blame you! Everything is just gone! Like nothing ever happened at all.”

Till’s eyes sting. He doesn’t know if he can stop himself. 

“I mean, look around Ivan!” Till flails his arms around. “Does any of this stuff mean anything to you? We’ve known each other for years and we have nothing– nothing to show for it!”

Where did it go? The question burns. 

When Ivan doesn’t respond, Till finally looks up. Ivan’s face is creased with something unreadable. His eyes are wide, lips parted like he’s halfway through a thought he doesn’t know how to say. Till sees him hesitate. 

“You do,” Ivan says softly. “You mean a lot to me.”

Till flushes. A mixture of frustration, embarrassment, and something else.

He sighs, turning away. 

“That’s not–” Till breaks off, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

He’s not mad. He’s just… tired. Defeated. 

Till slumps into the chair, rubbing at his temples. Ivan’s gaze stays on him, quiet and searching. And for the first time in a while, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating. 

Eventually, Ivan breaks it, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“I think I’ve noticed more than you think.”

Till looks up, startled. “What?”

Ivan shifts, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he says, eyes flicking away. “It’s not like… big things. Just… little moments that don’t line up. That I can’t quite hold onto.”

Till breath catches, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“It’s not the same. I haven’t noticed anything off, besides you,” Ivan continues slowly, carefully. “But sometimes… sometimes I’ll be doing something ordinary, like the dishes. Then I blink, and all of sudden, I’m in the car on the way to work.”

Till doesn’t want to hope. That could be normal, exhaustion is typical in Ivan’s line of work. 

“I thought it was just stress, like you, but…” Ivan hesitates. “When I try to think back to it, something aches in my chest. A hole I’m unable to fill as if something’s been stolen from me.”

And Till perks up, because isn't that exactly what’s been happening to him? There’s something wrong with the world. Ivan’s song that he doesn’t even remember humming, is that what it is?

There is something that just keeps taking things away from Till, things that used to exist, and he’s utterly helpless about it. 

“The same sinking feeling happens every time you try to mention moments. Moments that never happened,” Ivan glances down at his hands. “I thought it was just you, but maybe… we both lost something.” 

Silence falls again. Till relaxes his fingers, just realising how tightly he’d been holding onto the counter. He recuperates his thoughts. They have lost something. They’ve lost so many things, he knows they have. The note still on the table speaks for itself. 

But Ivan finally notices it. At least he knows something is missing , something is wrong , and Till can finally breathe. 

When Till’s eyes meet Ivan’s, Ivan’s already looking at him intently, how he’s supposed to be. His gaze is soft, yet focussed. Familiar. 

Till leans back in his chair, staring back at Ivan. “Mizi said we might’ve fought a while back.”

Ivan seems baffled. “What?”

“I don’t know either,” he says because it’s all he seems to say lately. “When I met up with her, she said she was worried about me. She said I was a mess at one of our rehearsals, that I might’ve been crying, that it had something to do with you.”

Ivan frowns, brow furrowing. “I don’t… we never fought.”

“Exactly,” Till murmurs.

“I would’ve known,” Ivan says, more to himself than anything. “I always know when it comes to you.”

“I know , Ivan, that’s the problem.”

Till drags the words out, his throat feels sore.

“You don’t know, and I don’t know. We don’t know what’s going on, we don’t know what’s happened, because nothing’s happened at all apparently!”

Till slams his fits against the table. The sound is loud, cracking in the quiet, sharp and hollow. 

His knuckles sting. Ivan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just quietly reaches over and takes one of Till’s hands in his. 

His thumb brushes over Till’s skin, warm and steady. Grounding. 

Till looks up, tears threatening to spill. Ivan only looks back, a gentleness in his eyes. He’s as patient as ever. Till thinks it’s only a matter of time before he forgets this too. 

“I just…” Till’s voice is quiet. “I just wish everything would go back to the way it was.”

Ivan opens his mouth like he’s going to respond. But before he gets the chance to, a soft fluttering sound interrupts him. 

Both their heads turn.

It’s one of the sticky notes on the fridge, one of the blank ones, and it just falls. 

Then another. 

Then the last one drifts down gracefully, curling slightly, and settles face-down beside the other ones. 

Till blinks, staring. He feels Ivan’s thumb pause on his hand.

The notes stay locked in their pile on the floor. 

Till stands first. The chair creaks faintly as he pushes it back. He doesn’t let go of Ivan’s hand until the last second.

He crosses over to the kitchen hastily, crouches down. Ivan trails behind him and kneels down without a word. 

Till hesitates, then flips one over.

It’s blank.

He checks the next. Also blank.

But on the last one, his hand freezes as he holds it in his hand. 

It’s Ivan’s handwriting, unmistakable. 

This time, it reads: “low tide.” 

Ivan leans in, reading it too.

“That… wasn’t there before was it?” Ivan asks, carefully. 

“Yeah.” Maybe Till shouldn’t, but a part of him feels relieved. Relieved that he isn’t alone. Someone else is finally picking up on it. “It wasn’t.”

“I don’t remember writing that.”

Till sighs. “I know you don’t.”

“Low tide…” Ivan murmurs, repeating it as if it would make a difference. “What does that mean?”

Even though he expected Ivan’s question, it hurts anyway. What does that mean?

Till remembers. Of course, he does. 

It was the week before winter break of their senior year. The air was cold, the sky low and grey and dim. 

Till sat in the bleachers alone. He didn’t particularly fit in with the rest of the audience. He had a loose black shirt on with a ribcage printed on it, slick eyeliner over his eyelids, and a guitar case attached to his back like it was a part of him. Honestly, the emo phase was not something he ever really lost, just toned it down over the years.

In the end, Ivan’s team lost their last football game of the season. It wasn’t a championship match or anything, but they still wanted the win.

Ivan had fumbled a pass during the final quarter. A small slip, a second too slow. The other team took full advantage and won, by two points. 

Normally, Ivan brushed that kind of thing off with a shrug and a tight-lipped smile. But that day, Till watched as he walked off the field with his shoulders a little too straight, jaw clenched a little too tight. 

Till knew it wasn’t the loss itself that bothered him. It was the fact that it was Ivan’s mistake. His fumble. 

Ivan held standards so high for himself that Till couldn’t see where it ended. Captain of the football team, top of the grade (usually battling it out with Sua), head of the student council… the list went on and on. 

Obviously, Till had followed after him, waited outside the locker rooms for Ivan to come out on his own terms. 

When he eventually did, Ivan was in his normal clothes again, hair slicked back and dry as if he was trying to erase the match entirely from himself. The only remnants of it were the red varsity jacket wrung over his shoulders and a solemn look on his face. 

To others, Ivan would seem perfectly content. But Till, Till knew him better than that. 

The beach was a summer thing for them. They never usually went earlier or later than that. They enjoyed the rhythm, the tradition. 

But, Till didn’t like seeing Ivan like this. It was a bad look on him. If he frowned too much more, the creases could become permanent on his face. Till couldn’t let Ivan ruin those perfectly cut features…

Comfort was not Till’s strong suit. They both knew that, Ivan knew that. So, Till offered the only thing he could think of. 

“I think it’s low tide today,” Till had said as they walked away from the school. 

“Low tide?” Ivan glanced at him curiously. His eyes were lighter now. Till could see a knowing smile forming on his lips. 

“Yeah.”

Till had tried to keep his tone light as if it was just something he happened to know for no particular reason, like he hadn’t been saving it just in case. 

Ivan had just looked at him for a long moment, the warmth returning to his face. He hummed. 

“Well, what are we waiting for then?”

They didn’t end up doing much at the beach. Didn’t swim, didn’t build sand castles, or even start any arguments. They just strolled beside the water, side-by-side, hands brushing occasionally. Damp footprints trailed behind them, close together. 

The game went unmentioned, the cold ignored (Ivan did end up forcing his jacket over Till), but Till remembers it was peaceful. It was nice. 

The details of their conversation, however, are lost to him. 

Ivan is studying his expression closely, as calculating as ever. Always so careful, always trying to understand, even when the world seems to be falling apart. 

Till doesn’t respond, doesn’t know what to say.

Then suddenly, Ivan gets up abruptly. He grabs his coat and shrugs it on carelessly, already marching towards the door. 

“Ivan, wait–”

Ivan doesn’t halt. He just snatches the keys off the hook before they disappear too. 

Till follows, catches up, and yanks his arm just before he can twist the doorknob.

“Ivan, what are you doing?” 

Ivan turns around fast. His eyes are wet, breathing unevenly. Till’s hand falls away on instinct, taken aback. 

“We’re figuring this out today, Till,” Ivan says sternly. It comes out desperate. “I may not know what’s going on, but I can tell it means something to you. And I feel like– I know it means something to me too. I don’t want to wake up and forget any of this happened again.”

Ivan’s voice cracks, his fist around the key clenching harder until it might leave a mark. To make proof of something. 

“I am not– I can’t – let whatever this is take this from me.” Take you from me. 

Till’s heart aches. He doesn’t need it to be said out loud. 

“So, please…” Ivan holds the keys out in front of him. Not as a demand, but as a plea. “Let’s go.”

Till doesn’t ask where. He already knows. 

He puts on his coat.

The tide is low and the ocean… looks exactly how it always does. 

Waves pull in slow and steady, moonlight breaking clean across their surface. They’ve taken off their shoes and the sand is cold and damp beneath their feet. The wind howls in their ears, lifting gently at their sleeves.

It’s too late to be night yet too early to be morning. An empty space in time that gives them the peace of mind to finally take a pause. To take it in. 

Till stares at the water, glistening under the moonlight. He stares and waits, waits for it to tell him something. Anything. 

It doesn’t.

There is no sudden recollection, no magical realisation. Not a flicker. Just salt on his tongue and the scent of seaweed and a gaping hole in his chest. 

He looks back, but the footprints are already gone, smoothed away as if they were never there at all. 

And Till looks forward again, reaches out anyway. His fingers gently brush against Ivan’s, barely a touch at first. A silent ask for permission. Testing if the world would let them have even this. If Ivan would let him.

And really, wasn’t that the same thing? 

Ivan startles slightly, turning towards him.

His hair’s tousled by the wind, barely luminated by the moon and faraway street lights. In the dark, it’s hard to see clearly, but Till catches the softest flush on his cheeks.

Ivan’s eyes are wide and searching, his bottom lashes long and dark. Even under the darkness, Ivan looks… pretty. So pretty that Till can even admit it to himself for once. 

Till his turns fast, ears burning. Yet, Ivan doesn’t pull away. So Till laces their fingers together, like they’ve done this before. Maybe they have a hundred times. Maybe never. 

The quiet is broken up only by the waves lapping at their feet. 

Till closes his eyes, just feels the cool breeze against his face. Ivan’s warmth in his hand. He squeezes it, trying to hold onto the one thing he hopes won’t ever disappear from him.

He may not have the years behind them anymore, but he hopes that the universe will let him keep this. Keep this moment. Keep Ivan. 

Till leans his weight into Ivan’s, lets his shoulder rest on his. Ivan’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t say anything. They both want to savour this. 

Even if it’s just for a little bit, it’s nice.

Till allows himself to pretend. To pretend that it’s just a nice moment, that the memory will last any longer than day. That Ivan remembers as much as he does. That this will mean anything more to Ivan than it does to Till. 

“We were here,” Ivan’s voice is soft, just enough to be heard above the hush of the tides. “I know we were.”

Till nods solemnly, a light smile forming. “We come here every summer.”

“No, that’s not it,” Ivan shakes his head.

He looks away, toward the shore, but keeps their hands linked. It shimmers a little less, as if the tide itself is recoiling, disturbed by Ivan’s notion. 

“I think…” Ivan hesitates, his eyes fixed on the view ahead. “I think we fought here.”

“We always fight at the beach,” Till tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow. 

“No. I mean a real disagreement,” Ivan’s voice drops lower. “Something serious. Something that… changed us.”

“What would we even fight about?” Till asks.

Because what was there to be mad about? Sure, Ivan was a pain in the ass all the time—always has been. But, that was just Ivan. And there’s so much more than that, isn’t there?

Ivan puts up the front of a Prince Charming. He’s perfectly handsome (though he got lucky with that one), decently polite (when he has to be), and effortlessly charismatic (annoyingly so).

To Till, Ivan used to be an enigma. How could this guy, who stole his pencils, teased him endlessly, and bruised him more times than he could count, seem utterly flawless to everyone else? 

But the years passed and Till got to know him better. He saw Ivan unravel at the loss of his football game. Saw him shift from rehearsed authenticity and poise into complete indifference in mere seconds. 

Ivan is a lot of things. Ivan is infuriating. He is thoughtful. He makes Till breakfast in the mornings, he waits with Till when he could go on without him, and he takes him to the beach when Till, and the world, starts to slip away. 

He’s reckless and warm and always just a little out of reach.

He’s–

Till’s best friend. 

“Maybe not a fight but…” Ivan says, chewing on his lip. “We must have… I’ve never seen you look so–” Ivan falters. “So dejected. So alarmed.”

Till blinks. “What?” 

“I don’t know. The moment we stepped foot here, I felt this… indescribable emptiness,” Ivan continues. “Whatever was stolen from—whatever I left behind—it happened here.”

And maybe, just for a second, the moonlight dims. The water stutters, a wave crashes too early, the tide rolls in too short, before everything settles again. 

“Slow down, Ivan,” Till steps in, pulling Ivan’s wrist to face him properly. “What are you talking about?”

Ivan’s eyes meet his. They’re misty, lost in something ineffable. 

“I… remembered something. I don’t know exactly what happened,” Ivan says, his eyes flickering between Till and the sea. “But you looked at me like I’d done something frightening. Horrible.”

Till stays quiet, watching him carefully.

“I don’t know if I said something, or if I crossed a line, but–” Ivan stops, breath catching. “The way your face changed… I felt it. Even now. Like I lost you, like I was about to.”

The ocean murmurs in the pause, pulling at the sand beneath their feet like it’s trying to undo something.

“You’re not losing me, Ivan,” Till says firmly, and he means it. 

And he does. He truly does, because that’s the thing that he’s been so afraid of this whole time, hasn’t it? The fear that Ivan had let him go without knowing. But to hear Ivan say it, to feel the weight of that same fear mirrored back at him-–it steadies something in his chest.

“But I did, Till,” Ivan’s hand curls tighter around Till’s. He can feel them trembling. “Whatever happened… it destroyed you. The others noticed it, but I didn’t. You didn’t.”

“It doesn’t mean it was because of you, Ivan,” Till urges. “Maybe we didn’t fight, maybe something else happened, maybe–”

“But I know it was me,” Ivan cuts him off. “I can feel it. And that’s when I–”

Ivan chokes on the words. Till keeps holding on. This time, Till gets to ground him, holding both of Ivan’s hands in his. 

“That’s when I think I…” Ivan lets out a shaky breath. “That’s when I wished it all away.”

Till gasps involuntarily. 

Then, something cracks. Not just something buried deep in his mind, deep in his chest, hidden away without his permission. But the world itself cracks. 

The waves freeze before they can turn to foam. A lamp post flickers behind them. The sand sinks a little deeper beneath their feet. 

Suddenly, it’s not only the moonlight or the sea or Ivan’s voice in his ears. 

It’s the same beach, but brighter. Daytime. There’s distant laughter, gulls screeching high above.

A flash of heat. His heart pounding like it’s ready to burst from his ribs. 

Ivan’s face, too close. 

The world tilts–

And they finally remember. 

It was the week before. 

A faint smile was playing on Till’s lips and he made it to their apartment door. He was trying to hold it in, he really was, but the excitement had his heart racing. 

Till paused at the door, practically willing himself to a smooth and calm exterior (or at least that’s what he told himself). He breathed in and out, hoping to slow his heart rate as best he could, then stepped inside.

Ivan was already in the kitchen and spoke before Till could even dare take off his coat.

“So, how’d it go?”

Till tried (keyword: tried) to feign nonchalance. “We got invited to play at the showcase next month. The one downtown.”

Ivan’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Till tried to shrug it off like it was no big deal, but he could already feel himself smiling again. 

Then, before he could say anything else, Ivan crossed the room in two quick strides and swept him off the ground in a tight hug, spinning him in a wide circle. 

“Ivan!” Till let out a startled yelp. His fists thudded against Ivan’s shoulders, caught somewhere between laughter and mortification. “Put me down!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ivan said, not really meaning it but doing exactly that. He was grinning, afterall, like a fool. Bright and stupidly pretty (as always). “I’m just really excited for you.”

Till squirmed until he felt the solid floor and was out of his grasp again. He rolled his eyes at Ivan but he felt a flush had already formed on his cheeks.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, running his hands through his hair to fix it after Ivan messed it all up (and to hide his expression). 

Ivan clapped him on the shoulder. “We should celebrate! This is huge. What if we hit that new restaurant by the coast tonight?”

Till hesitated. “It’s kind of far, don’t you have an early shoot tomorrow?”

“Nonsense, you always come first.” 

Till ignored the flutter in his chest at that comment. He was just guilty. 

“We’re going.” Ivan said firmly, before giving Till a cheeky grin and adding, “Plus, I heard it’s low tide, today.”

Till scoffed. “You’re such a dumbass.” 

He wanted to keep arguing, but the fight had long since left him.

He probably should be celebrating with the band, it was their combined efforts for this accomplishment afterall. But as he looked at Ivan, who was still grinning like the world had just handed him a gift, he realised, not for the first time, there was no one else he’d rather be with. 

“Alright then,” he finally relents. “Let me redo my makeup first.” 

Not because he wanted to look good in front of Ivan (it wasn’t a date), but they were celebrating. Might as well look like it. 

Ivan beamed. “Of course. I’ll bring a jacket for you just in case you get cold.”

The restaurant was too fancy.

That was Till’s first thought as they were shown to their table. The tablecloth was crisp white, the napkins folded like origami swans, and right in the center of their two-person table sat a lone candle flickering in a glass holder. It was filled with other people, yet the conversations all stayed low and quiet, all cramped up in their own spaces.

Till scanned the menu, it displayed no prices.

He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Ivan. Ivan was already looking at him, fighting back a smirk. 

“When you said restaurant by the coast, this wasn’t exactly what I was imagining,” Till leaned over, keeping his voice low as well. 

“Wasn’t exactly what I pictured either, honestly,” Ivan shrugged, still grinning. “One of my colleagues had mentioned it in passing. I heard ‘coast’ and I was sold.”

“You didn’t even look it up first?”

“Nothing besides the location,” Ivan responded unbothered. “Fancy and coastal? That sounded like the perfect place to celebrate with you.”

Till blinked. He glanced around briefly, at the too long tablecloths, warm towels, dim lighting, and sighed, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth. Ivan was such a showoff. 

“You’re so stupid,” he said, laughing under his breath.

“And yet you willingly live with me.”

Till rolled his eyes, reaching for the menu. “Let’s just order.”

The food arrived, looking like it came straight off a pinterest board. It was artfully arranged in delicate portions and a sauce he couldn’t name was swirled over atop all of it. 

He eyed his plate, then wordlessly pulled out his phone. 

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking a picture?”

“Yeah, so what?” Till muttered, angling the camera. “Mizi would kill to see this.”

Ivan gave a soft laugh. Till adjusted the shot, pretending to focus on the composition, but really, his eyes lingered on Ivan just a beat too long. The dim lighting framed his face perfectly, outlining the curve of his jaw, and highlighting the red glinted in his eyes. He rested his chin lazily against his hand, looking delightfully at ease. 

When Till snapped the photo, Ivan somehow ended up in the corner of the frame.

As he lowered his phone, Ivan’s shit-eating grin was even wider (if that was even possible). 

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Eat your damn food.”

The food ended up tasting amazing, and thank god, because it better be worth whatever outrageous bill they were going to get. 

Conversation slipped easy between them. Their plates were already half-cleared, and Till barely noticed the time that had passed between them. Ivan was mid-story about a disastrous shoot from last week, waving his fork around for emphasis. Till was laughing more than he probably should’ve been, garnering a few ‘shush’s from the nearby tables. 

“And she still kept trying to kiss me,” Ivan said, incredulous. “Even though there was nothing about that in the directions.”

Till nearly choked on his drink. “What? Does she not know you’re gay?”

“Apparently not. Do I not make it obvious enough?”

Till leaned in, smirking. “You’re too much of a lady’s man. I mean, I didn’t even know.”

Ivan gave him a look. “But that’s just because you’re oblivious, Till.”

“Hey!” Till protested, but he couldn’t even argue that much. Especially because it was partially true. 

He thought back, half-laughing, to when Till had gotten mad at Ivan for ‘trying to steal Mizi from him.’ Till had ignored Ivan for a whole week over it! Turns out, Mizi and Ivan both ended up being attracted to only their respective genders. 

Till was halfway reaching for another bite when he realised there was nothing left on his plate. 

Ivan laughed. “That good, huh?”

“You were distracting me,” Till muttered, pushing the plate away. 

The room was too quiet, too uptight, as though one sound too loud could shatter its pristine nature. After a while, Ivan finished up as well. 

“Well, this place was kind of a bust,” Ivan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Till shrugged, averting his gaze. “Had a good time anyway.”

Ivan leaned forward on his elbows, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“How about we ditch this place and go have some real fun?” Ivan asked, tilting his head towards the window. 

Till’s eyes flickered over at the glass. Outside, right beyond the road, was the beach where they had spent every summer together. The waves crashed against the shore in a way that this stuffy and orderly place could never tolerate. 

“Absolutely,” Till replied immediately, feeling a smirk on his lips. 

As soon as they stepped onto the sand, Till felt all the tension of the restaurant fall from his shoulders. The sun hung low above the sea, casting a mixture of orange and pink hues over the water.  

With one glance at Ivan, who was smiling just as brightly as he was, Till kicked off his shoes carelessly and ran ahead. Ivan called out after him, but Till could barely hear him over the sound of his own laughter. 

Soon enough, Ivan caught up to him, bumping into him with his shoulder, and Till shoved him back, grinning. 

It was all too familiar, all too easy, to fall back into rhythm like this. There was something about the beach. Every time he went back, it was as if he never left in the first place. 

Or maybe, it wasn’t the beach at all. Maybe it was Ivan.

Ivan, who always ran ahead and looked back to make sure Till was keeping up. Ivan, who knew when to push him into the waves and when to leave him alone. Ivan, who could make anywhere feel like it was exactly where Till was supposed to be. Even in that fancy new restaurant. 

God, he was getting too sentimental. He was starting to sound like his mum or Ivan when they looked back at old pictures. 

Till chased Ivan down the shore, both of them kicking up sand like they were kids again.

Ivan skidded to a stop, hands on his knees, laughing breathlessly. “Man, we’re too old for this now.”

“Speak for yourself,” Till smirked, though he was just as out of breath.

“Couldn’t we just take a walk instead?”

“What, like we did after you messed up the last match?” Till pointed out cheekily. 

“Yes…” Ivan said, exasperated. 

“Sure,” Till laughed breathlessly. “The tide is low after all, isn’t it?”

Ivan nodded, smiling, and linked their hands easily. Till didn’t object. 

They walked along the waterline, shoulders bumping into each other occasionally. They didn’t say anything much, didn’t need to. Till felt perfectly content, perfectly fine to be in the ocean breeze, to be in Ivan’s presence. 

Their hands stayed linked longer than Till expected. Long enough that it should’ve been weird, but somehow wasn’t. 

“Congrats again by the way,” Ivan broke the silence. “For your invitation. You deserved it.”

“Thanks, this was really fun, by the way,” Till chuckled, feeling the colour in his cheeks. “You know, despite everything.”

Ivan nodded. He looked best like this. Hair unkempt, clothes rumpled, smiling freely. Till wished they could just stay at the beach together forever. 

Till squeezed his hand without thinking. Just once, a small press of his fingers, and Ivan looked at him. Really looked at him.

Something warm and overwhelming crossed Ivan’s face.

Till’s mouth went dry under his gaze, trying to decipher that look. He could feel his heart beating as the blood rushed to graze his cheeks, warming his entire being. 

He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it.

And before Till could figure it out, Ivan leaned in.

Ivan’s hand curled around the back of his neck, tugging him forward—and then Ivan was kissing him. Soft, eager, like he couldn't stop himself.

For a second, Till stood frozen. 

Ivan’s mouth was warm, careful and desperate all at once, as if Till would shatter if he pushed too hard.

Till’s heart crashed against his ribs. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. There was only the salt of the sea, the heat of Ivan's hand, the dizzying press of lips against his.

A small, startled sound caught in Till’s throat.

Then instinct kicked in. It wasn’t meant to be rejection–not exactly–just confusion, and he jerked back sharply, pushing against Ivan’s chest. 

Ivan’s hand dropped away immediately, like he’d been burned. His eyes went wide, horrified.

“I—Sorry,” he choked out, stepping back as if that would undo it, like he could take it all back if he just moved fast enough. “I didn’t—I thought—”

He shook his head once, sharply, and turned, retreating down the shore without looking back.

Till stood there, stunned, the lingering feel of Ivan’s mouth still pressed against him.

He pressed the tips of his fingers against his lips. The waves rolled in and out, cold against his ankles. He hadn’t even realised they’d gotten that close to the water.

“You–” Till gasps for air, choking. “You kissed me.” 

He remembers stumbling into a cab alone, something hollowing his insides, and Ivan…

Ivan never came home.

Almost immediately, Ivan pulls away, the grip on his hands loosening. 

Till holds both Ivan’s hands tighter, forcing him in place. 

“Stay,” he urges, desperate, fierce. 

They stand face to face. Ivan’s eyes flicker up to meet his, and Till can see it. The fear, the guilt, the ache. 

“What did I say, Ivan?” Till asks, his voice cracks, barely above a whisper. 

You’re not losing me.

“We’re figuring things out today, aren’t we?” Till feels his own hands shaking, yet he keeps his eyes on Ivan. “Let’s talk about it, please.”

After brief hesitation, Ivan nods, staring back at him with the same intensity. 

“So,” Till’s breath comes out shaky. “How…when—why did you…”

Till tries, but he finds himself at a loss for words. 

His eyes flicker downwards, because where does he even begin?

A whole day, completely forgotten, by the both of them. That doesn’t happen. It was barely even a week ago. How can they just wake up and everything be completely fine?

Even if that was arguably plausible, that didn’t explain… everything else. Everything else that disappeared, things Till was more sure about than ever now that happened. Items Till found sacred, simply tossed away, erased. 

And now, suspicious notes fall off their fridge and they come to the beach and they just remember? 

None of it makes any sense.

But there was one thing Ivan had mentioned, what had triggered it in the first place. 

Till glances back up, Ivan looking back at him as patient as ever. Yet, a tinge of fear lingers on his face. 

“What did you mean when… when you said you had wished it all away?” Till asks tentatively. 

Ivan swallows hard.

“I don’t know for sure. I just…” He bites his lip. “I didn’t want to just forget. I wanted to undo it. I wanted to erase the moment I had… ruined everything.”

Till’s chest twists. “The kiss,” he says, barely audible.

And Ivan can’t bear to look at him anymore. 

“I crossed a line I thought I couldn’t take back,” his voice cracks. “I saw your face and I knew it was a mistake. I ran. I thought that if that moment didn’t happen, we could still be… us.”

Till’s gaze falls down to their hands, still intertwined together. 

“But how did that–” Till forces himself to breathe. “How did that take away everything else?”

None of those were tied to the day at the beach. Didn’t have anything to do with the kiss. So why did everything else go with it?

Ivan flinches. 

“I don’t know, Till,” Ivan says hoarsely. “I just wished I could take that moment back. I didn’t ask for this. To be physically robbed of my other memories with it. All my memories with you.”

He laughs, but it’s a broken sound. “I thought it would just... stop me. From messing things up. Just take away one bad night… not us. Not you.

“It’s like the world heard you,” Till says quietly. His voice trembles as the waves suddenly itch a bit closer than usual. “And the world listened.”

“Maybe it did,” he says, a broken whisper. “Tried to help me for once in my life.”

“But it didn’t stop at that day,” Till grits out. “It started taking everything else. The photos, our summer trips, the little things… ”

“It shouldn’t have gone like this,” Ivan says, exasperated. 

Till squints at Ivan, trying to piece it together. 

“You said you wished you could erase the moment you thought you ruined everything,” Till says, slow and deliberate. “So why did the rest of it go too?”

“Maybe because…” Ivan starts, halts, and tries again. “Maybe if I had really crossed a line, if I’d seen something that was never there… it had to compensate for that.” 

“It was me. It was every stupid thing I thought meant more than it did. Every time I thought you—” He stops himself, looking away, jaw tight.

Till’s breath catches painfully in his chest.

Ivan continues, softer now, ashamed. “The wish must've... must’ve erased the things that made it easy to imagine more. So I wouldn't—”

He bites down on the next word.

“So I wouldn’t have ever thought you might have felt the same.”

Till stares at him, his heart thumping in his chest so loudly he can barely hear the sound of the waves crashing beside them. 

He should reassure him, he should apologise. That he can’t reciprocate, that their friendship still means a lot to him regardless. That Ivan’s feelings won’t change anything. That they could still go back to how they were. 

Instead, he finds himself replaying every interaction they’ve ever had together. 

Insisting Ivan signed that stupid mug, telling him was going to sell it, but treasuring it in their apartment forever instead. Overthinking what colour the shoes he was going to get Ivan should be. Refusing to go to bed so he could stay up watching dumb shows huddled up on their couch. 

Yearning for summer to arrive sooner so he could spend every minute with just Ivan on this timeless shore. 

Had he really only ever thought of it as friendship?

Till’s grip tightens around Ivan’s subconsciously. 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what any of it means. All he knows that it all disappearing was just… unbearable. 

“Then why–” Till asks, desperation lacing his voice. “Why do I remember? Why do I remember things when not even the world does?”

Because he shouldn’t remember.

Nothing in his memories should have ever happened in the first place. So if it truly hadn’t meant anything more to Till…

Ivan looks down, blinking fast to bat away the mist in his eyes. 

“I don’t…” he says finally. “I don’t know why you remember. Maybe… it was easier to keep when it didn’t mean as much.”

Till shakes his head, frustration welling up.

“Don’t say that,” he doesn’t mean to, but he snaps. “Ivan, those moments meant everything to me.”

Ivan stills. Till’s throat burns, furious. 

“Do you really think I would be losing my mind like this if it meant nothing?” He forces out. 

He sees Ivan falter, his face scrunching up with something Till can’t place. 

“If anything,” Till says, voice breaking. “I thought it meant nothing to you.” 

Ivan had been the one to forget, had been the one to not notice the erasure. 

“If anything…” Till lets out a breath. “It meant too much to me.”

And that was the thing, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t just bad luck. It wasn’t just him being too sentimental. 

Ivan had wished it away. Wished to forget, to protect them, to protect him.

And it worked. Too well.

It started stripping away not just the moment, but every chance, every moment that might have led them there. Not just for Ivan, but for them both. 

Yet, against all odds, Till had remembered.

Not because he was stubborn, or because he was immune.

But because he couldn’t let go.

Because he didn’t want to.

Because every moment with Ivan had been sewn so tightly to his heart, so implicitly tied to his entire being, that pulling out a single thread would unravel the whole thing. 

Till couldn’t imagine a world without Ivan.

Couldn’t imagine himself without Ivan. 

And it turns out it was just as impossible as he thought it was. 

“I’m sorry,” Ivan finally says, voice cracking open. 

And for some bizarre reason, Till hears himself laugh. A weak, short, and pathetic sound. 

Ivan stares at him, startled. 

“You should be,” Till mutters, voice rough.

Ivan looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. 

Stepping closer, he lets go of one of Till’s hands. He lifts his hand to Till’s face, his thumb brushing under his eye. The touch is gentle and light. Careful.

Till blinks, startled by the contact, and only then does he feel it. The wetness on his cheeks. He hadn’t even realised when the tears began to fall. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Till says, but there’s no bite to it, and Ivan smiles lightly. 

For a brief moment, everything feels normal again. The tides reel in, low and just before their feet. And it feels like a do over. It feels like a second chance. 

Till closes his eyes, breathing in the salty air, feeling Ivan’s warm hand against his cheek. He leans into that touch, cupping it with his free hand. 

Ivan shivers before him, but doesn’t move away. 

Till sighs, opening his eyes once more. The flecks of red in the middle of Ivan’s iris are highlighted by the gentle glow of the moon, and his pupils are blown wide. 

“Next time you're gonna kiss me,” he says, tracing his fingers along Ivan’s hand. “Don’t run away and make a wish about it. Just tell me.”

Ivan exhales shakily, like he’s been waiting for permission to breathe.

“Okay,” Ivan says, almost reverent. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The world feels impossibly fragile between them.

It’s quiet, almost too quiet. Like the whole world’s holding its breath with them. Waiting. 

Till swallows hard, feeling the warmth of Ivan’s skin against his. Ivan’s hand stays against Till’s cheek, trembling slightly.

“Ivan,” Till breathes. “I want to kiss you.”

Ivan freezes. His eyes flicker down to Till’s mouth, then back up. But he doesn’t move. 

Till bites his lip, hesitates for just a second. Then, he pushes onto his toes, reaching for him. 

The second Till moves, Ivan shudders and instinctively leans down—just a little. 

Their lips meet, just barely. It’s soft, too soft—uncertain. The angle is wrong, awkward, Till straining upward.

Frustrated, Till fists the front of Ivan’s shirt and yanks him down properly, forcing him to finally lean in. 

Ivan stumbles forward with a soft sound—and this time, when their lips find each other, Ivan melts. 

His hands find the back of Till’s head, tangling in Till’s hair, almost tugging like he can’t get close enough. Till gasps against his mouth, the sound raw and desperate.

Years and years of want and yearning piled up, and all Ivan can do is take. 

And Till lets him. And Till takes as much as he wants in return. 

Till’s fingers trail up along Ivan’s collarbone, brushing over rumpled clothes and warm skin, until they find the back of his neck. He pulls him even closer, letting him drown in the feelings he had unknowingly repressed for so long.

It all pours out onto the surface, his skin lighting up, burning like it's on fire. And Ivan, his one and only cure. 

It’s not like anyone else he’s ever kissed before. They had been nice, sure. But this? This was electrifying. A hunger, a thirst he’s never noticed before, finally satiated, finally quenched.

Ivan’s sharp snaggletooth grazes against the bottom of Till’s lip, and Till tastes something metallic. But he doesn’t pull back. He only leans into it, relishing it instead. Savouring it all. The pain, the heat, the desire—he needs every drop, needs it to consume him. 

They lose themselves in each other, their kisses frantic and insatiable. Till would carve this moment into his bones if he had to. He won’t let it slip away again. 

Till’s hands stay curled at the back of Ivan’s neck even as they pull apart, foreheads pressed close. 

He eyes Ivan’s lips, swollen now—parted and panting just as heavily as he is.

Ivan’s gaze flickers downwards, to the blood trickling over Till’s bottom lip. 

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. The hinges of a smirk form on his face regardless. 

Till huffs a laugh, tasting copper. He licks over the wound without thinking. 

“I can’t believe you’re apologising right now,” he grumbles, but even he’s smiling too. 

Ivan laughs, a little breathless, a little giddy. 

“Why didn’t we do that the first time?” He teases, voice hoarse. 

Till scoffs, nudging his forehead lightly against Ivan’s.

“You caught me off guard,” he mutters. “I barely even understood what I was feeling.”

His thumb brushes the edge of Ivan’s jaw, slower now. Less desperate, more… real.

Ivan’s smile fades into something softer, hesitant. 

“And now?” he asks. 

“Now?” Till says, his voice low but steady. “I’m pretty fucking sure.”

He glances at the waves as they settle over the shore, turning into foam. They’re calmer now, at ease. Rolling in and out. Normal.

He looks back at Ivan, whose arms have drifted down to wrap his sides. Ivan’s gaze falters, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. 

“Do you think it’s done?” he asks quietly. “The world. The... glitching.”

Till exhales. “I don’t know what the hell the world is doing,” 

He pauses, then a light smile tugs at his lips. “But it should know it’s going to take a lot more than that to take you from me.”

Ivan laughs, bright and unguarded. Just the way Till likes it. 

“One thing’s for sure though…” Till adds lifting his gaze to meet Ivan’s with mock sternness. 

Ivan’s smile wavers again, just slightly. 

“No more wishes,” Till says firmly, brows furrowed. “You got that?”

Ivan sighs dramatically, before breaking into a wide grin. 

“Well… I do have one more wish.”

Till’s face falls. “What is it?”

Ivan leans in close, practically glowing. “For you to be my boyfriend.”

And Till punches him in the chest, half-heartedly. 

“Dumbass,” Till mumbles. “You don’t need a wish for that.”

Ivan pulls him in by the waist, beaming. “So… is that a yes?” 

“Obviously,” Till rolls his eyes.

Before Ivan can say another word, Till grabs his face and they’re kissing once more. 

Sure, the world may or may not be broken. 

But he has Ivan.

And Ivan… Ivan is incomparable to the world.

Epilogue

The kitchen is warm and smells like toast again. Eggs crack. Coffee brews. Ivan’s humming a song Till hates as he prepares breakfast, but it sounds sweeter in Ivan’s voice. 

This is how Till likes to start his day. 

Yet today, somehow, it feels even warmer. Softer.

As if the apartment is letting them breathe.

Like the world is, finally, leaving them alone.

He pads into the kitchen quietly, wearing one of Ivan’s shirts that hangs too loose on his frame. The tiles are cold beneath his bare feet. 

Ivan stands by the stove, the morning light catching in his hair. His shoulders are relaxed, his focus on the pan. 

Till crosses the room without a word and slips his arms around Ivan’s waist from behind, resting his cheek between his shoulder blades.

Ivan startles slightly, then laughs under his breath. “Morning.”

Till closes his eyes, breathing him in. His hold tightens.

“Do you… remember?”

Ivan sets down the spatula and turns. He takes Till’s hands in his own, eyes soft and sure. 

“Of course I do, love,” Ivan says and he smiles so sincerely, it aches in Till’s chest. 

Till blinks. “Already with the nicknames?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No–” Till cuts in, a bit too quick for his liking. His cheeks flush. “I do… Just wasn’t ready.”

Ivan laughs, soft and genuine. 

He closes his eyes and brings one of Till’s hands to his lips, giving it a gentle kiss. 

Till didn’t think it was possible to burn this much at this time in the morning.

“You’re so cheesy,” Till scoffs. 

“Can’t help it around you,” Ivan says, smirking as he turns back to the stove. “Oh, there’s something you might want to see.” 

He gestures towards the counter.

Till glances over and spots two mugs. One for him and one for Ivan, filled with cooling coffee. Ivan’s brewed it just for them. Like always.

He walks over, dragging his feet along the floor. Yawns as he drops into his chair. 

Till picks up his favourite mug.

And there, right behind the familiar black handwriting is another signature. 

Ivan’s signature.

Written in bright green Sharpie.