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It’s a late afternoon Saturday when Till is curled up in the corner of his and Ivan’s living room scribbling on various pieces of paper: some drawings, others compositions or lyrics.
He’s aware he looks crazy and that this approach of bouncing back and forth hardly contributes to him getting anything substantial finished, but it’s one of those days where there’s too much going on in his head. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t had anyone to force him to take his meds in the last week. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t eaten anything since waking up. Maybe it’s because his stupid fiancé is on a stupid trip abroad with a bunch of stupid beautiful people for his stupid modelling job, and his flight back has been delayed until later tonight. None of those things are related. Till doesn’t even care.
There’s loud knocking on the apartment door which Till ignores until the third round starts where it turns into banging that he can’t hear himself over. He gets up, drags himself to the door, mouth open and teeth bared ready to skin whoever is there until he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of pink hair and sparkling eyes.
“Mizi?” His voice comes out hoarser than he’d like.
“Surprise!” she says, then pauses. “You look…”
“Like shit?” He laughs, sardonic.
“Tired.” Her smile doesn’t falter but rather softens and with it, Till’s chest. Mizi has that effect; probably why he fell for her so hard as kids. The puppy love had faded with adulthood, but Till is still undeniably weak to her.
She pushes past his arm, moving swiftly through the messy living room, picking things up off the floor and fluffing up pillows. “I was going to go shopping, and it’s no fun when I’m on my own, but Sua’s busy, and you know how it is.” Not that he’s complaining, but Mizi has a list of friends that she can ask out to go shopping before resorting to Till. His insight is never helpful in picking clothes. He wears the same four outfits just rearranged differently. “I think there’ll be some really wonderful things! There’s this new shop that opened up in the mall. New season and all that!” She’s rambling, and usually, she’d go for twenty minutes before even remembering to breathe, but here, she stops abruptly. She stands swaying, staring at Till with big doe eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asks.
“No,” he says too quickly. She blinks. “I mean,” he tries again, “if this is about Ivan–”
“He didn’t tell me anything!” she also says too quickly.
“...Okay?” he says, slowly stretching out the vowels.
She hits her leg against the coffee table as she walks back up to Till and grabs both of his hands in her own, squeezing a little too hard then pulling him over to his bedroom where she grabs a loose fitting shirt and some slacks, and then throws Till along with them into the bathroom. “Wash up!”
She slams the door shut, then opens it just enough to peek her head in. Till, who’d already hiked up his shirt to his chest to take it off, flushes with embarrassment.
“Do you need any help?”
“No? I’m–I’m good,” he stutters out. Despite that, he can hear Mizi nervously pacing just outside the door.
Mizi drives them there in her car, bright pink like the rest of her. The entire way, she’s playing classical music on the car’s audio system. It’s weird because Till almost always plays metal, and she knows it. It’s even weirder because she likes pop, the corny but catchy kind. Classical is the kind of pretentious shit Ivan would play. But who’s Till to say? He doesn’t care. He’s not thinking about Ivan. It’s probably just Sua’s effect on her or something.
When Till reaches a hand for the car screen, Mizi slaps it away and turns the volume up. “It’s good for you.”
Feverishly, Till wonders if he ever woke up this morning, or he’s having some kind of strange dream.
When they get to the mall, Mizi returns to her normal self, excitedly flying from one store to the next. She’s tried on dozens of outfits and bought at least two new bags full of clothes when they pass a big flashing sign.
“Is that the new store you were talking about?” Till asks.
“Yes! I’ve heard very good things about it. Do you want to check it out?”
He bites the insides of his cheeks, eyes skimming the display rack.
“It sells maternity clothes.”
“High-quality, 100% cotton,” Mizi says, nodding.
Mizi can be… Considerate in strange ways, even if Till doesn't understand.
Thus far, Till’s been doing a very good job at ignoring the tempting scent wafting over from the food court. Unceremoniously, his stomach chooses this very moment to voice its complaints. Mizi’s eyes bulge.
“Have you had lunch?”
Guilt riddles Till. He considers lying just to avoid looking more pathetic than he already does, but Mizi, sweet and concerned, is practically glowing enough to blind him, and he instead says, “Not yet.”
So then they’re in a quiet classy cafe. There’s a QR code on the corner of the table to scan for the menu. Till would rather die. Fuck QR codes. Where are the good old-fashioned paperback menus? They used to be a real society.
This is the part where Ivan would butt in, talking about the benefits from both a business and customer perspective. Something about appealing to demographics and user-friendly interface. We’ll see how friendly he feels with Till’s fist in his face. He’s a hypocrite anyway. He never uses the Kindle he got for his quote-unquote birthday, and their shelves are lined with crumbling rare book editions and five different versions of every classic. Whatever. Fuck Ivan.
For some reason, Mizi’s still scrolling back and forth on her phone. She’s usually very quick. Her and Ivan are similar in that sense; they tend to pick the sweetest thing on the menu and then ask to double the sugar. Till asks her if she’s decided on what to order, and she startles. “What?”
“Your order?” he asks again. The waiter has been uncomfortably glancing in their direction.
“Right! Sorry I was looking something up. You should avoid seafood, by the way. And bananas.”
“They serve seafood here?” And Till doesn’t even like bananas.
She looks over the menu. “No. Also don’t have too much coffee.”
They make their order. Till gets black coffee and the cheapest sandwich. Mizi gets something that has a metric ton of whipped cream.
Halfway through his meal Till notices that Mizi is damn near vibrating, heels clicking under her feet, her drink untouched, and most alarming of all, she’s been quiet. She hasn’t talked about how perfect Sua is, or how perfect Ivan is, or brought up work or celebrity gossip. She hasn’t even shown him a single cat picture on her phone.
“Hey, Mizi,” he says, scratching his nape sheepishly, “are you okay? You know I’m, like, here for you.”
She takes in a sharp inhale that strangely sounds like a sniffle. “Thank you. I’m okay. I just… I’m so happy.”
“Right.”
“For you! I’m so happy for you.” Till nods with pinched brows as he sips his coffee. His new album hasn’t been selling that well. “I’m sorry I should’ve waited until you told me yourself, but Ivan and I were talking, and it just happened, and I couldn’t help it! I mean, I didn’t expect it at all.” She grabs a tissue to dab at the corner of her eyes. “But, wow, you’re having kids.”
Till chokes and drops the cup onto the saucer. “What?” His left hand claws at the table. “Huh? I’m going to have what?” He’d really like to wake up right about now.
“Kids?” Mizi says, head tilted. She beams. “I’m going to be an aunt!”
“No.” is all that Till says.
“No?” She looks distraught but for all the wrong reasons.
She doesn’t understand. Till can’t be a dad– A prime example of bad adulting, at best. Or a convict. But a dad? Does he have to tone it down with the cursing? But he doesn’t even take his vitamins or mood stabilizers unless Ivan hides it in his food like he’s some kind of dog. And Ivan? Co-parenting with Ivan? At a freak show, maybe. Not to mention that Till only has an unfinished business degree and experience performing shitty rock music in cheap bars. He has no wisdom to pass down. It can’t happen. It just can’t.
When Ivan arrives at the apartment, it’s eerily quiet. Till is a loud tenant. It’s never bothered Ivan enough to soundproof any rooms, although some neighbors have complained.
Furthermore, tonight specifically, Ivan had been excitedly expecting a thorough chewing out from Till. He’s not jealous, at least according to himself; he just doesn’t think Ivan should be traveling around with models. The fact that he is one himself is irrelevant. Though, in between his words, he always kisses Ivan, making sure to use teeth. Some bark, some bite: a balanced affair of all good things Till.
The living room and open kitchen are hazardous. More so than usual, anyway. A list of probabilities runs through Ivan’s head as he pushes his suitcase inside. Till could be asleep: relatively unlikely; he sleeps at the late hours into the night and wakes up at noon. He could be outside: possible; Ivan hadn’t left enough groceries to last his entire trip, and even if he denies it, Till does require human sustenance. There are a dozen other small things, but Ivan’s mind keeps circling back to the worst of them.
The bathroom is empty. He doesn’t find Till sprawled on the bed. Ivan’s rapid heartbeat turns unrelenting.
Then, a noise. From the closet.
Ivan quirks a brow. He looks around before reaching for the closet and sliding it open. On the floor, sat on a pile of clothes is Till hugging his knees with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m going to be a horrible dad,” is what he says, voice high, raspy, and miserable. Ivan clenches his jaw and blinks slowly before leaning down. He feels dizzy, seeing Till in person again. Withdrawal symptoms. And, of course, Till does turn an ever so pretty shade of pink when he cries. If Ivan could contract himself into a molecular size, he would force himself into the open pores of Till’s face.
Belatedly, Till’s words catch up and crash right into him. Why’s he talking about being a father? Not that Ivan is opposed to it, per se. Just surprised. Till always manages to do that.
“Do you want kids?” This makes his frown deepen, and he puts his face into his hands, letting out a winded wail.
Unhelpfully, Ivan’s phone vibrates twice with texts from Sua: I’m not going to help you change diapers have fun lol and When in 18 years, they take you to court, i’ll testify in their favor then bold red letters stating that she blocked him. Hm.
“What the hell did you say to make her think we’re having kids?” Till yells. He raises his arms to allow Ivan to pull them through the shirt before crossing them against his chest.
“How would I decide to have kids without telling you?” Ivan says, toying with Till’s waistband.
A blush blooms from his ears all the way down to his shoulders, and he slaps Ivan’s hand away. “I don’t know! I asked first!”
Ivan hums, switching off the lights before tugging Till towards the bed. Hotel bedrooms could never compare to the crumpled sheets that smell of Till’s discount lime conditioner. He pulls a protesting Till into his arms. In retaliation, Till pinches the skin of Ivan’s arm but then also softly brushes his lips against the dip of Ivan’s neck.
“The last shoot was a summer one,” Ivan says. “Swimsuits and all. I was telling Mizi it took longer because the children’s photoshoot before mine was proving troublesome. My wording might’ve bloomed a misunderstanding or two. Apologies.”
Till’s attention is diverted elsewhere. “Swimsuits,” he says bitterly. Ivan smiles, fond.
“Full-body,” he says, running his fingers through Till’s hair. Till mumbles annoyed gibberish but concedes.
Overall, it was a somewhat startling but amusing fallacy. All’s well that ends well, as they say. And it’s provided its benefits: food for thought. For one, Mizi thought he’d managed to get Till pregnant, which–
“Don’t even think about it,” Till says, face nuzzled against Ivan’s chest. Ivan pecks the top of Till’s head. Give it a few more years.