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Ivan leans against the bars, arms stretched out as if he owns the hallway. Like the cell was built for him, not merely around him. The corridor beyond is quiet, all concrete and harsh fluorescent lights. The air around him is stale with the scent of corroding metal and damp stones with sweat soaked in too deep to ever be washed clean.
His jumper is rumpled, collar opened to reveal a flush creeping down his neck. His cheeks are equally as warm with a redness that only comes from someone’s personal stash of prison hooch. Terrible aftertaste with more than questionable quality, but well worth the risk. His boot taps against the bars out of either boredom or impatiences.
He hums under his breath, his eyes half lidded while the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. Waiting is part of the ritual.
Then, he hears familiar footsteps.
His eyes light up.
“Officer Till,” Ivan drawls, his voice thick with amusement and wine. It’s too smooth to be innocent and too slow to be sober. “You’re looking serious today. That for me?”
Till rounds the corner with the kind of walk that says he’s already out of patience. His uniform is crisp like it always is at the beginning of his shift, but there’s a crease between his brows that looks like it’s been there for hours.
He doesn’t look surprised to see Ivan waiting for him, but then again, he never is. His eyes scan the cell before narrowing with the resignation of someone who knows exactly what kind of bullshit he’s about to be dragged into.
His expression is flat, eyes brimming with a familiar mix of irritation and restraint.
Till doesn’t break his stride. “Back against the wall, inmate.”
“Don’t be cruel,” Ivan murmurs, ignoring the command. As Till passes, he lets one hand drift down, catching the edge of his sleeve with a light tug. “You always walk by so fast. I miss you when you’re gone.”
Till jerks his arm free and shoots Ivan a warning glare, though there’s no real heat behind it. It’s more bark than bite, and they both know it.
“You’re drunk.”
“Guilty,” Ivan confesses, making no effort to hide his satisfaction. Protocol requires Till to confiscate the wine but he doesn't bother questioning him about it. There’s no point. He’s tried before, too many times. Ivan always finds a way to get more and all Till ever has to show for it is a frustrating amount of paperwork.
As Till moves to step past, Ivan’s fingers hook into the belt loop at his hip. Another tug, pulling him back. “You should stay and chat, Officer.”
“…Back against the wall. Last warning.”
Ivan smiles, unbothered, and rests his forehead against the bars. “So mean,” he pouts. “And yet, you always humor me.”
Till doesn’t reply but he doesn’t walk away either.
Ivan peeks through the bars, his smile widening like he’s just won something. “See?” he says softly. “You’re thinking about it.”
Till huffs through his nose, the faintest crack in his armor. He shifts his weight but doesn’t speak.
Ivan hums, leaning in as if confiding a secret. “Tell you what. If you stay and chat, I’ll let you take my cell phone.”
That gets a reaction.
Till straightens. “Your what?”
“My cell phone,” Ivan teases, grinning like a boy who’s just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or rather, one who had just announced to the world that he had his hand in a cookie jar. “You know, the contraband kind?”
Till’s eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”
Ivan lifts one brow, all innocence. “Am I?”
Till steps closer, just enough that the toes of his boots graze against the edge of Ivan’s cell. “Where would you even hide a phone in here?”
Ivan’s grin turns sly. “Now, that’s a much more interesting question.”
Till exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Ivan says, voice dropping as he leans his weight into the bars again, “here you are.”
Their eyes lock. There’s a flicker of something not quite said hanging in the air between them.
“I should report you,” Till says, but his hearts not in it.
“You won’t.” Ivan’s reply is quiet, but certain.
A muscle in Till’s jaw flexes in clear irritation. He’s not sure if he wants to punch Ivan or close the distance between them. Maybe both.
Ivan tilts his head against the bars, his eyes hazy with something that softens the edges of his smugness. “It’s not just the wine speaking, officer,” he muses. “I really do miss you when you’re gone.”
Till swallows. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Till bites out, then falls silent. His jaw clenches with the effort it takes to not blurt out something utterly stupid. “Because it makes it harder for me to do my damn job.”
Ivan’s smile fades into something fond, with only the lightest undercurrent of smugness. “Then maybe don’t try so hard.”
Till doesn’t move. His hands twitch at his side like he’s about to reach for something, someone, right in front of him.
Instead, he sighs. “Where’s the phone?”
Ivan perks up, grinning once again. “So now you believe me!”
“I believe you’re annoying enough to actually smuggle one in.”
“Your words are daggers, Officer. Straight through my heart.” Ivan pouts dramatically.
Another silence.
“Check under the mattress.”
Till blinks.
“I’m not kidding,” Ivan adds. “It’s old, it barely works, and the battery’s shit, but it’s there. I pinky promise, Officer.”
Till studies him for a long moment. Then, with a slow step back, he says, “If I find it, I’m confiscating it.”
“Yeah? Why else do you think I went through the effort of smuggling it in?”
That one lands. Till’s expression is stuck between exasperation and something slightly more dangerous.
He turns toward the door but pauses to shoot Ivan a look. “Back against the wall. Next time I walk by, I want to see you there. I’m checking that mattress tomorrow. If it’s there, it’s mine.”
Ivan’s eyes gleam. “Yes, Officer.”
And for a heartbeat, Till’s lips twitch like he might smile but he’s gone down the hallway before Ivan can claim it.
Ivan stays where he is, head against the bars, grinning to himself like a man who’s already well on his way to winning.