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The weight lays heavy in Till's palm, short fingers envelop the gift his heart is thumping at the thought of giving.
It's nothing fancy, nothing like what he probably already owns, but something Till thinks necessary if he wants there to be a stop at him losing time to draw in search of a new pencil.
He could still back off, leave. Let the pencil lay down at his doorstep in hopes that it reaches him. An anonymous gift he could reveal the next time Ivan annoyed him. If it reached him—what if it got lost? What if someone stole it?!
Shy knuckles meet his solid dark-wood door that shields the tidy room from the outside—Ivan doesn't like loud noises, so unless mandatory, he has his door closed at all times.
They used to share a dorm, and Ivan had never complained about the noise that Till gets scolded for by their teachers to this day.
"You need sleep, it's bad for your health to stay up this long," they'd say, but neither were collars, neither were the bruises. If he had the choice between getting hoarse from crying and getting hoarse from singing songs he isn't supposed to sing, he'd choose the latter every time. No matter how often he was collared for it again. Besides, sleep was easier said than done.
He remembers the time when the Segyein gave him something weird, a horrible tasting thing to make him sleep. It worked, but it made him upset, how is wanting to sing his fault? When that is half they teach anyway, shouldn't he actually be rewarded for the effort?
He could've gotten lost in the thoughts, the questions he'd never get an answer to because the reply he'd likely get would always be more violence.
But he didn't. And groggy, crimson eyes with a pouty face looking at him were the reason.
"Yeah?" Ivan whispers, and Till realises that maybe it wasn't the best idea to come over in the middle of the night between the shifts of the Segyein walking their rounds.
"I—" Till shifts, a sudden heat in his cheeks, but Ivan's eyes dart past him frantically, like a very fast bird he'd later learn humans used to call hummingbird.
A shadow creeps up the sterile walls, illuminated by the nightlights. Till finds himself yanked by soft hands wrapping around his sleeve before be knows it.
Till's jaw got tighter while Ivan's face stays blank when he closes the door—its hinges screeching terribly shrill through untreated rust.
Ivan moves away from the door, his face looks a little tense in the dim light on his desk. It's an unusual sight that makes his heart take a leap somewhere down the drains of the shared bathrooms.
He tries to speak again but a warm palm shuts him up with a quiet shush and a pointer to the door.
Light falls through the slit beneath it, cold and unloving, before getting turned to darkness by a figure walking past. The shadow from before, Till realises; shuddering. If he had been caught—
He had known the risks, and he came here anyway. For a reason! Sweaty hands still tightly clasp the gift.
"It's late." Ivan's voice continues to stay low, his gaze intense as always. Its crimson drew over to Till's cheeks once more.
"I—I got a gift for you!" His voice is way too loud, but neither of them care. Which means safety, in a way, because Ivan always seems to know when danger approaches. However he does.
Thick brows furrow. "For what?"
"It's nothing big. I just," Till trips over the words like they're stones in his way. "You—You always steal my pencils."
Ivan stays silent through the accusation, just looking at Till with a glint in his eyes Till couldn't place. He had seen it before, but only ever when Ivan watched him draw. Why is it there now?
"—And you're insufferable for doing that!" Till continues, voice shaky, but Ivan just nods (why does he nod while being insulted?! Till's mind tries to frighten him, but he swallows it down). "But—I figured there must be a reason for that! So I thought… if I give you your own pencil… You can draw yourself or something."
The heat in his whole head—right to the tips of his ears!—is so embarrassing, he has to break eye contact. The green pencil far more interesting. So much so that his hand kept it wrapped in its embrace. Rip the bandaid or however that weird saying goes, right? He doesn't remember where he had heard it, but it's right in this moment.
"Or… we can draw together!" He says, right as he holds out his hand for Ivan to take the pencil. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if he was giving Ivan a sacrifice. Unfortunately Till is nothing if not curious, so one eye opens to see his reaction.
Ivan's expression is… monotone, but Till sees something akin to shock at the edges—Was this the wrong thing to do? Did he upset Ivan? Did he hate him now?
He hears a sniffle, and his heart breaks, but his arm remains upward until Ivan takes the gift into his hands and examines it like he found a flower he couldn't discern.
"It's pretty," Ivan notes, and his voice is only a little less shaky than Till's was.
Whether that was good or bad, he doesn't know. His heart ricochets from his ribcage, thrown by anxiety and hope mixed together.
Ivan moves over to his desk and presses the pencil down on a stray page.
"Is it really for me?"
Did Till not talk clearly enough?
"Yes, dumbass!" He scoffs, arms crossing. All of this was so… it felt good but he just wants to go to bed and get it over with.
"Thank you." Ivan's voice is weak; crimson eyes glisten in the light. Is he about to cry?!
No, no, no, no! Till doesn't want to make him cry! He just—
His arms wrap around Ivan's frame without much thought. It's pure impulse when he bursts forward with two tippy-taps of naked feet and falls the other around the neck.
Ivan lets him, even returns the hug! And for a while, Till just has his head inside the crook of Ivan's neck. He smells familiar, like the grass of the garden, its flowers, and the symbiotic shampoo his guardian provides him with and he sometimes shares with Till.
When he looks at Ivan, he really is crying. And Till instantly retreats out of Ivan's arms.
"Why… why are you crying?" It's a question full of caution. "I know you probably have a lot of stuff but—"
"No." Black strands shake with the underlining motion of his head. He takes Till's hand, a firm grasp. "It's a nice gift."
Till has the urge to wipe the stray tear streaming down Ivan's face away. He doesn't do it. He will find to regret that later on, but right now, the feeling of Ivan's hand and Ivan's words have his focus.
"That's good." His mouth forms words without him thinking about them. And Ivan pulls him to the bed.
"Sleep here tonight," he says, and Till gets pushed onto the bed before he can protest.
It reminds him—just for a moment—of one of their biology lessons. What humans would do to procreate. But nope, that's gross. The unsettling thought stuns him for long enough, though, for Ivan to put the pencil safely onto his desk, and to look expectantly back at Till.
The only path away from the situation is by scooting up to the wall, and Ivan joins him onto the bed soon after.
"It's dangerous with the Segyein outside," he explains. Not like Till is unaware of it.
Honestly, he is aware of everything right now. The rough fabric of the bed sheet, the softer one of the pillow and the untouched cold from the blanket that would turn warm soon enough; but especially the shifting of the pillow once Ivan lays down on it too, the ruffling of the blanket once Ivan pulls it upward—Till thinks to feel him purposely throw more of it over to him, but he has no way to prove it—and ultimately Ivan's warm breath that lands directly on his own cheek.
Till turns to him to find their eyes already locked.
"Are you okay?" Till asks, tears are never a good sign, after all.
Ivan nods, and scoots closer to Till, slowly, as if waiting for his reaction.
Till will die of a heart attack, but he lets it happen.
Until he finds Ivan's head on his shoulder. Now he absolutely had no idea what to do. He lies there, an oversized, living and breathing pillow to that guy.
Moments pass, Till doesn't know how long they are as Ivan's even breath cradles him into a long overdue sleep as well, but his hand finds black hair—and it feels right to keep it there.
He falls asleep like that. And it is probably the most soundly he sleeps in a while.