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“I’m reclining.”
“Then un-recline.”
Ivan sighed, long and theatrical. The kind of sound that belonged in a cathedral at midnight or a courtroom minutes before sentencing. He pressed a hand to his temple, not because it hurt, but because he liked imagining himself in oil portraits.
“Before we begin,” Ivan said, “can we agree that the word strumming is vulgar?”
or, Till gets paid to tutor Ivan in guitar. It goes about as well as you'd think.
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Bookmark Notes:
OMG OMG OMG OMFG?????? THIS FIC IS SO GOOD????
love me some age gap tillivan🤤 -
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