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Ivan hadn’t put much thought into who his roommate would be this year. He just knew it couldn’t possibly be worse than freshman year, when his roommate microwaved hardboiled eggs at 2AM and watched Vine compilations on full volume.
So when he walked into their sophomore dorm and found a guy already sprawled out on one of the beds, hood up, boots on, and headphones in—he figured, sure. This might be fine.
The guy didn’t look up. Just flipped a page in his sketchbook and kept drawing like Ivan hadn’t just entered the room dragging two duffel bags and a broken laundry basket.
Ivan cleared his throat. “Hey. I guess I’m your roommate?”
The guy’s pencil paused for one beat too long.
“I guess,” he mumbled, without lifting his head.
Right. Okay.
Ivan dropped his stuff and gave the guy a once-over. Black skeleton shirt. Black jeans. Combat boots indoors. He had rings on three fingers, chipped black nail polish, and his backpack was patched with vaguely threatening icons—one looking like a bleeding heart.
Ivan blinked. “Cool.”
The guy—Till, according to the housing roster—didn’t respond.
🩶
They got through the first week like two strangers stuck in the same elevator.
Till kept to himself, said as few words as possible, and had the social energy of a wet cat. Ivan tried to be friendly, or at least civil, but Till responded to most questions with either a one-word reply or a look that said “Why are you still talking?”
By the end of the week, Ivan had started keeping tally in his head.
It became a sort of game. Ivan would toss him a casual question like, “You ever watch those cooking videos where they scream the whole time?” and Till would respond with something like, “I already hear enough bullshit from you.”
Ivan couldn’t tell if Till hated him specifically, or just hated everything.
🩶
By week three, Ivan was learning to translate Till’s moods like weather patterns.
When he wore his hood up and had his earbuds in, it meant “Do not attempt contact.” When he sat at the desk muttering to himself while sketching, it meant “barely tolerating existence, approach with caution.”
Still, Ivan tried.
“I played football in high school,” he offered one night, tossing a mini football in the air while waiting for their ramen to boil.
Till didn’t look up from his sketchpad. “Yeah, I figured. You’ve got ‘I peaked junior year’ energy.”
Ivan laughed. “Okay, rude. But not inaccurate.”
Till flipped a page.
“You’re like a walking yearbook photo,” he added.
Ivan grinned. “You said that like it was a slur.”
“It is.”
That got a chuckle out of Ivan—real and easy. For the first time, he noticed that Till’s insults weren’t actually bitter. They were dry. Like he was amused in spite of himself.
And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind Ivan as much as he pretended to.
🩶
By October, Ivan had made a game of it.
He tried to get Till to speak first. To insult him. To acknowledge him at all. When Till made tea in the mornings, Ivan would say something like, “Smells like shit,” and wait for a snide remark.
Till always delivered. His sarcasm was practically poetic.
But something started to shift around midterms.
Till came back one night looking like death: eyes ringed dark, eyeliner smudged, black jean jacket soaked from the rain. He didn’t say anything, just collapsed onto his bed with his sketchbook still under his arm. Ivan didn’t ask questions—just tossed a towel at him and said, “You look like you just lost a knife fight.”
Till caught the towel. “Thanks.”
No sarcasm. No eye-roll. Just that one word.
Ivan stared at him for a long second.
“You okay?” he asked, more careful this time.
Till looked over, and for the first time, he really looked at Ivan—eyes a little glassy but focused.
“I failed a critique. Got told my art’s emotionally shallow. Which is stupid.”
Ivan didn’t laugh. He sat down on the edge of his own bed and said, “They’re idiots. Your stuff’s good.”
Till didn’t respond.
But he dried his hair with the towel.
🩶
After that night, things got easier.
They didn’t talk all the time. But they existed in the same space more comfortably. Ivan started recognizing Till’s moods. When he wanted silence. When he needed noise. When to push, when to leave him alone.
Till still acted like he couldn’t stand Ivan. But Ivan started catching moments. Subtle ones. Till would linger when Ivan was cooking mac and cheese. He’d correct Ivan’s playlist by sneaking over and swapping his speaker input with a glare. He’d brush past Ivan in the tiny dorm kitchen and not immediately recoil like he used to.
And once—just once—Till had watched Ivan stretch before heading to the gym and said, “I hate how your shirt does that.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Does what?”
“Makes you look like someone people write bad poetry about.”
Ivan had grinned for a full minute.
🩶
It was near the end of November when Mizi and Sua barged into their dorm unannounced. Ivan didn’t blink—he was used to his sister showing up whenever she wanted.
“Hey,” Sua said, pulling Mizi by the hand. “We’re using your microwave. Ours isn’t working.”
Mizi just waved at Till and said, “You’re the hot roommate, right?”
Till blinked. “I’m the emo roommate.”
“Same thing.”
Ivan watched with interest as Till flushed slightly and scowled. Mizi had that effect on people. Chaos, charm, and too much caffeine.
While Sua insulted Ivan’s laundry pile, Mizi leaned toward Till and whispered something. Till’s eyes flicked toward Ivan, then back to Mizi. He said nothing.
But when they left, Ivan saw Till still staring at the door.
🩶
It snowed early that year. The kind of cold that creeps into your collar and makes your bones ache.
Ivan came back from class one afternoon and found Till curled up on the futon, legs tucked up, hoodie strings pulled tight. A black hoodie, again. Always black.
“Hey,” Ivan said gently. “You look like a burrito of pain.”
Till didn’t lift his head. “I’m fine.”
Ivan flopped down beside him. “You sure?”
No answer. Just a shrug.
So Ivan did the only thing that made sense. He sat a little closer. Close enough that their knees brushed.
Till didn’t move away.
Ivan tried not to overthink that.
🩶
By the last week of classes, things were obvious. At least on Ivan’s side.
He liked Till.
More than liked.
He liked the way Till talked with his hands when he was mad. The way he drew ugly little bees in the margins of his notebook. The way he always pretended not to care about anything, but Ivan could tell when something mattered. He liked how quiet things felt when Till was in the room.
And maybe Till still acted annoyed with him. Still rolled his eyes and made comments like, “You have jock brain rot.” But Ivan had caught the looks. The way Till lingered. The way he never really turned away anymore.
So he waited. Just a little longer.
🩶
The last night before winter break, the dorm felt quieter than usual. The usual hum of life was subdued beneath the weight of packing and unspoken thoughts. Till sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully sliding his manga and vinyl into a worn cardboard box. Ivan was stuffing sweatshirts and highschool varsity jackets into his duffel bag, the sound of fabric rustling filling the small room.
Music played softly from Ivan’s phone—an indie playlist Till had forced Ivan onto it weeks ago. The melodies filled the space between them, neither quite daring to speak.
Till paused, fingers lingering on the edge of a sketchbook. He glanced up, eyes catching Ivan’s across the room.
“You’re not gonna miss this, are you?” His voice was low, almost hesitant.
Ivan froze mid-swing, his hoodie half stuffed. “What? The dorm?” He shook his head with a small laugh. “Nah, not really.”
Till’s gaze sharpened. “Me.”
Ivan froze for a second. Something in his chest twisted.
He set his phone down slowly. “What kind of question is that?”
Till didn’t move. His arms stayed tucked in his hoodie, but his posture leaned just slightly toward Ivan, like he was waiting to see if he’d close the gap.
Ivan stood.
Now they were eye to eye, only a few inches apart. The space between them was so charged, it felt like one wrong word might shatter it.
“Of course I’ll miss you,” Ivan said, voice soft but certain. “You’re—” He hesitated. “You’re the most annoying, interesting person I’ve ever met.”
Till raised an eyebrow, but there was no sarcasm in his face for once. Just… something a little raw.
Ivan swallowed. “You act like I’m the loud one, but you’re the one who takes up all the space.”
“That’s disgustingly poetic,” Till muttered.
Ivan smiled. “It’s true, though.”
The silence after that stretched just a little too long—but Till didn’t move away. He looked at Ivan like he was waiting for him to do something, but also like he didn’t need him to. Like he’d show up here anyway.
Ivan’s fingers brushed the edge of Till’s hoodie pocket. Till’s breath hitched so softly Ivan barely caught it.
Ivan leaned in just slightly, waiting.
The silence between them had stretched long enough to say everything neither of them was brave enough to admit out loud. Till didn’t move back. Ivan didn’t either.
He could feel the heat between them—just a breath apart now. Till’s lashes were lowered, his jaw tight, like he was biting down on something he couldn’t swallow. The fabric of Ivan’s shirt twisted slightly where Till’s fingers had clenched it, the smallest anchor keeping him steady.
Ivan didn’t speak. He just leaned in, slow and careful—close enough to feel the warmth of Till’s breath on his lips. He gave him time. A second. Then another.
And then Till closed the space.
It started soft—more of a question than a kiss. Their mouths barely brushed, lips sliding just enough to make Ivan’s heart lurch into his throat. There was hesitation, a pause so fragile it felt like breathing wrong might end it. Till’s lips were dry and warm, the slightest tremble betraying how hard he was pretending not to care.
Ivan made a soft sound—something between a sigh and a hum—and tilted his head, deepening it just a little. That was all it took.
Till exhaled shakily against his mouth before kissing him back with more certainty. His hands left the safety of his hoodie pocket and rose to the back of Ivan’s shirt, gripping the material like he’d been holding back for weeks. His mouth moved more urgently now, lips parting just slightly as he leaned into the kiss with a tension that felt months in the making.
Ivan matched it easily. His hands slid up to cradle the back of Till’s neck, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. He tilted Till’s chin up gently as he kissed him again—deeper this time, slower, until there was no doubt left in either of them.
It wasn’t messy or rushed. It was deliberate. A careful unspooling of everything they hadn’t said. The sarcasm, the tension, the way Till looked at him when he thought Ivan wasn’t paying attention. It was all there, between their mouths, in the way they held onto each other like the room had finally fallen still.
When they broke apart, their lips were still touching—just barely. Till’s breath hitched against Ivan’s cheek. His hands stayed curled in the fabric of Ivan’s shirt like he didn’t trust himself to let go.
They were quiet for a moment.
Till didn’t speak right away. He looked at Ivan like he was trying to memorize the shape of what just happened, like it didn’t fully make sense to him yet. His eyes were sharper now, but not with sarcasm—for once, it wasn’t a defense.
Ivan gave him a crooked half-smile. “Well?”
Till blinked once. Then: “I didn’t think you’d taste like cinnamon sugar.”
Ivan raised a brow, caught between a laugh and something warmer. “You gonna complain about it?”
Till’s lips twitched. “Not yet.”
A pause. The air between them hummed.
Then, quieter: “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
Ivan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.”
Till stared at him for a long second, like the words hit somewhere deeper than he expected.
“…Okay,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “Then I guess I’m fucked.”
Ivan grinned, eyes soft. “Guess you are.”
Till leaned in again—not to kiss, just to rest his forehead against Ivan’s for a breath.
And he didn’t let go.