Chapter Text
Following a series of freak accidents disguised as coincidences, Till and Ivan find it in them to talk. Really talk, which is why they've done a couple tequila shots, just the two of them at Ivan's apartment, their fingers stained with lime and salt. Till watches as Ivan revels in the sharp burn of it, watches the line of his neck as he swallows, the glint of his teeth as he bites into lime. For someone that claims he doesn't drink, he downs the shots like it’s second nature. Till matches him and his false bravado, and downs them one by one, until they're out of lime wedges.
Somewhere along the way, they've forgotten that they're technically not together, that Ivan broke up with him, that anything's changed at all. The light banter mellows him out, and so does the alcohol. Till laughs at something Ivan does, and Ivan smiles back. They're close, hip to hip on the couch, and as Till looks at Ivan again, he realises he's willing to give up everything if it meant he could kiss him again.
Till likes the way alcohol softens Ivan, likes how it fixes a smile into Ivan's face like he's really happy. He's slightly lighter with it in his system, the flush across his cheeks killing his serious edge and replacing it with his usual goofiness.
"Did you hate me as a kid?" Ivan asks, and it brings everything back into focus.
Till sighs. Right, they're trying to have a talk. He should be the one interrogating Ivan, but honestly, he doesn't even know where to start. So instead, he tries to follow along with Ivan. "You know my memory sucks. I don't remember." There's a flash of red in black, a scrappy, odd child that would not back off no matter what Till did, no matter how hard Till kicked and pushed. He remembers frustration, and he remembers that familiar presence that's got his arms wrapped around his waist now, practically collapsed on him, close to drooling over his collarbone. Comfort, maybe.
"Anything at all?"
"I don't know. I think I feel the same."
Ivan doesn't seem content with that answer, and grumbles lightly, hiding in the crook of Till’s neck. He’s never behaved this petulantly before, because he's usually not drunk enough. Till finds himself smiling fondly, unable to help it even during the circumstances of it all, drunk and curled up on his ex's couch, the man himself wrapped around him like a serpent that's caught its prey. And as unflatteringly as that metaphor paints him — Till enjoys it. Despite everything, Till enjoys Ivan's clinginess, because he's missed it. He's missed him.
Ivan tries again. "Do you remember the school excursion to the farm?"
"...No."
"Hm." Ivan's hum rumbles through his neck as he continues to bury his face there. With a hand, he rubs circles into Till’s hip and it's a nice, soothing action that keeps him mesmerised and grounded. Till remembers these little motions of Ivan's, his casual, gentle touch that he hasn't felt in too long.
"I pushed you into the river," Ivan continues.
Till jogs his memory. A river, water, Ivan. A faint thing crosses his mind, memories he hasn't fetched in over a decade. He remembers it in brief snippets, Till clambering with Ivan through the tall reeds, Ivan's signature grin, the cold, cold water of the shallow creek. "Shit," he says as he remembers. "Right."
"Do you hate me for it?" Ivan's voice is small, and Till realises that he's actually insecure about this, about some stupid thing that happened distantly in the past, when neither of them were taller than a reed.
Till exhales, and the tension in his body disappears. "No, Ivan," he says, in a tone that's used to tell off a child. "We were, what, seven years old?"
"I would still do it now, just to see your face."
Till smiles into his hair. "Of course you would, you nuisance."
"And you wouldn't hate me?"
"No-"
"If I followed you in and dragged you down under the water with me, just to see what you would do, you wouldn't hate me? You really don't?"
"You're insane," Till says, exasperated.
"I am," Ivan agrees freely.
Till squeezes his hand around Ivan's waist, his arm dragging him even closer. Being drunk has made the both of them so pliant. It's different — but maybe it's good for them.
"You're annoying," Till starts to say. "But I don't hate you."
"Really?"
"I could never hate you, not really." The confession rips itself from his gut. Ivan barely even responds to it.
"Really?" Ivan repeats himself.
"I love you, dumbass." It hurts him to say it, like he's tearing out his heart from his own chest. It hurts because it's terrifyingly true.
"I can't seem to believe it," Ivan whispers. "It would've been easier if you just said you hated me. I don't think I can believe you."
"I hate you then. I hate you." Till feels Ivan smile, a faint twitch of skin against his neck, and his pulse quickens there to meet him. "I hate that you don't believe me."
"I adore you," Ivan replies, as if this is Till's heartfelt confession, and not his blatant 'I love you' from earlier. It hurts, because Till doesn't understand, and even as he keeps trying to reach in, he can already feel Ivan pulling away. And he hates himself for the fact that he can't understand it even when he's trying to. What kind of person pulls away at 'I love you', and brightens at 'I hate you'? Ivan apparently. Only someone as stupid as Ivan could.
"Let me love you," Till pleads, like a wound bleeding out into the open. He does love Ivan, he’s grown to love him in all his aspects, his shit eating grin, the glint in his eye, all the terrible unknown things that laid buried under the surface that he can’t reach. Even now, when it seems that he can’t reach him despite drunkenness loosening both their tongues. Even when Ivan’s dismissal of his feelings is tearing him apart. It scares him, but he still agonisingly loves every inch, still desperately hurts for him.
But Ivan doesn't respond. Till looks down, and sees that his eyes are closed. He should've expected this from the way Ivan's voice had started to slur, and more and more of his body weight had been dropped onto him as their conversation went on. Till nudges him softly, but he doesn't stir. All Till can do is bear Ivan's full weight on him, and hold on tightly for both their sakes.
Them — the two figures melded together so closely they could be considered one. Them — the four legged, four armed creature with two dissenting heads. Them — the stupid amalgamation that just won't talk, no matter how much they’re intoxicated, no matter how much is laid on the line.