Work Text:
The painting is him.
Ivan knows that, in a very conceptual way, he looks good enough to be drawn.
But it's not just technically perfect. It's... loving. Every detail is so beautiful in a way he isn't sure he really is.
"You don't have to look at it if you don't want to," Till says quietly from behind him, and Ivan can hear the nervousness beneath his words, as if Ivan could even judge him for drawing so beautifully.
"I don't... I don't understand why you'd want to paint me."
He knows it's selfish, asking these questions when the important thing is how Till is so good at painting. But he can't help it.
Till goes quiet for a moment, and Ivan feels him fidgeting behind him. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, "Because you're beautiful. And I like... I love looking at you."
"You don't have to say things like that." Ivan says really fast.
"What?"
"Pretty words. I know you think you have to, but-"
"Ivan." Till's voice cuts through. When Ivan finally turns around, Till's eyes are wide, almost hurt. Ivan feels guilt. "What are you talking about?"
"I just..." He tries to smile, "You don't have to pretend I'm something I'm not. I know what I am."
The silence stretches, and it feels uncomfortable. He should take it back, he should just look at that painting like a normal person, he should-
"What do you think you are?" Till asks, steps closer, and Ivan can smell the pain on him.
The question catches Ivan off guard. He opens his mouth, then closes it, because how can he explain? How can he explain there's something fundamentally flawed in him that can't be captured through painting.
"I'm..." Ivan starts, then stops. "I'm not the person you painted."
He's awful. He's taken Till's beautiful gift and made it about his own stupid insecurities. Why couldn't he just fake a normal reaction? Why couldn't he just say "thank you" and "it's beautiful" and let Till feel proud of his work? Why does he have to ruin everything by being so pathetically needy?
Till reaches for his face, and Ivan's breath catches. Till's hands are warm and slightly paint-stained, and they cup Ivan's face like he's something precious. Ivan can't help but blush despite it all. The touch makes Ivan want to cry. Makes him want to lean into it and never pull away.
"Why do you think that?" Till asks.
"You painted me like I matter," Ivan whispers, the words barely audible. He does know why, but if he actually said it aloud, it would feel too... real. "I don't. Not that much."
"You do," Till says, and his voice has that stubborn quality that Ivan knows means he won't let this go. It's the same tone he uses when defending something he firmly believes in. "You matter to me. You matter so much I can't even... I can't even explain it properly!"
The words feel too big, too much. His body wants to believe them, wants to sink into the warmth of Till's hands and the certainty in his voice. It feels like the truth, bit still-
"Till..." he starts, but Till shakes his head.
"No, listen. You think I painted you like this because I'm being nice? Because I feel sorry for you?" Till's voice gets stronger, more insistent, and Ivan can see the flush of color in his cheeks that means he's getting worked up. "No! I painted you like this because this is how I see you. This is how you look to me every single day. Beautiful."
Oh...
This is nice.
This feels so nice.
The words wrap around Ivan like a warm blanket.
"I don't know how to believe you," Ivan admits. It feels like confessing to a crime.
"I'll keep saying it until you do."
He doesn't know what he wants to say. What he should say. "Thank you" feels too small. "I love you so much" feels too obvious. Everything feels completely wrong for this moment.
"You're such a dummy. Do you know how many times I've wanted to just grab you and shake you and tell you how amazing you are?"
"Please don't shake me,"
Till laughs, and the sound vibrates through Ivan's chest where they're pressed together. "I won't shake you. But I'm going to keep telling you." He takes a deep breath, "You're worthy of love. You make me happy. And..."
He pauses, probably gathering his thoughts.
"And you're beautiful," he says finally.
"Till..." he starts, but his voice comes out shaky.
"I really mean it,"
Suddenly, he's crying.
What has he ever done to deserve someone so perfect?
Ivan wants to apologize, wants to explain that he's not usually like this, that he's stronger than this. But the words stick in his throat because Till is looking at him like he's precious, like his tears matter, like his pain is worth tending to.
Till's fingers find Ivan's hair, combing through it slowly. Ivan leans into the touch. Relieved by the comfort, the proof that this is real.
"The painting is really beautiful," Ivan says quietly. "I'm sorry I couldn't just say that."
"It's okay." Till says, and he seems to mean that as well. "I'm glad you told me how you felt. I want to know stuff."
They stay like that for a while, and really, it does feel okay.
"I'm starting to believe it, it's really... much." He says suddenly, hoping Till will understand.
"You're lucky we have all the time in the world." Till says, smiling at him.
And somehow, that's exactly what Ivan needs to hear.