Chapter Text
Till stopped in front of a canvas splattered with bold strokes of red and black, his arms folded tight across his chest.
Ivan, standing way too close, tilted his head. “Looks like someone dropped spaghetti on it.”
Till exhaled sharply through his nose. “That’s Pollock.”
“Pollock must’ve had bad pasta.”
Till turned his head slowly to glare at him, but Ivan was already grinning, delighted at the reaction.
It was supposed to be an assignment. Just an easy write-up for their art history class in college, pairs analyzing a handful of modern works and giving their take. Till could’ve done it alone in half the time, but apparently ‘independent projects’ weren’t an option. So here he was. Stuck with the one person in the entire campus who treated everything like a joke.
Except Ivan hadn’t complained once about going to the museum. He’d insisted, actually, flashing that ridiculous grin of his while waving the syllabus. “If you’re the art guy, and I’m the music guy, then obviously you gotta show me around. Enlighten me, maestro.”
Till narrowed his eyes at the painting again, pretending not to hear Ivan hum thoughtfully under his breath. He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. And yet, some traitorous part of him liked the way Ivan fell quiet whenever he explained something, like every word was worth catching.
“You really don’t see it?” Till finally asked, his voice softer now.
Ivan leaned in, close enough that Till felt his shoulder brush his sleeve. “I see you gazing at it like it’s the love of your life.”
Till rolled his eyes and stepped away, ignoring the way his ears burned.
Till exhaled again, this time more of a sigh. He tipped his chin toward the chaotic splatters, his voice smoothing into something steadier, something he couldn’t turn off even if he wanted to.
“Pollock’s work isn’t about the image itself,” he began, arms still folded. “It’s about the process, the movement, the rhythm of throwing paint, letting the accident become the point. The canvas is just a record of him… being. Every line is where his body happened to move. It’s-”
“-like you swallowed the textbook whole,” Ivan cut in, smirking.
Till’s head whipped toward him, glare sharp enough to kill. “I did not-”
“Oh my god, You absolutely did.” Ivan tilted his head, eyes sparkling like he’d just scored some grand victory. “You sound like the audio guide, only prettier.”
Till’s jaw clenched. “I’m not-!”
But Ivan only leaned closer, lowering his voice like they were conspiring. “Don’t worry. I like it. Means I don’t actually have to read the book.”
Till pressed his lips together, turning back to the painting before Ivan noticed the flush creeping up his neck. He wasn’t just parroting the book. He meant every single word. He didn’t think Ivan could ever really understand.
His gaze softened on the violent red and black strokes, and his voice came out quieter this time, almost reverent. “It’s not random. People like to say it’s nonsense, but it isn’t. It’s control and chance at the same time. You don’t have to like it, but… you can feel it.”
Ivan didn’t say anything right away. When Till glanced at him from the corner of his eye, the other boy wasn’t looking at the canvas at all. He was watching him.
Till turned back quickly, throat tight. He told himself he imagined it.
The Pollock turned into a Rothko. The Rothko into a Mondrian. Before Till realized it, hours had slipped by in a steady rhythm of him talking and Ivan interrupting, making inappropriate comments, pretending not to get it, only to fall silent again, listening closer than anyone ever had.
Till had walked him through fauvism, surrealism, dadaism, abstraction. He’d gestured with his hands, frowned at misinterpretations, softened at the works that mattered most to him.
And Ivan… Ivan had just followed, never once looking bored, his grin tugging wider every time Till’s voice grew more animated. Sometimes he threw in a snide remark, like about how expressionists were freaky, or how a painting looked like a butt, and sometimes he didn’t bother, just watching the light in Till’s eyes as though that was the art on display.
By the time Till finally stopped for breath, the museum was hushed. Their footsteps echoed too loudly on the polished floors, and the faint sound of carts rattling and employees chatting in low tones told him they’d overstayed.
He blinked, realizing the bright afternoon light outside the tall windows had melted into a dusky blue.
“…What time is it?” Till muttered, reaching for his phone.
Ivan leaned casually against the railing of the nearest exhibit. “Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it.”
Till’s stomach dropped when he saw the hour. “It’s your fault. You kept distracting me.”
“Distracting?” Ivan lifted a brow, grin pulling slow. “I was being a model student.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“And yet,” Ivan stretched, unbothered as the last groups of employees began sweeping the hall, “you just spent three hours tutoring me. You must like my company.”
Till’s glare didn’t quite land the way he wanted it to; the heat rising to his face betrayed him. He shoved his phone back in his pocket, muttering, “Let’s just go.”
The night air hit them as soon as they stepped out of the museum, cool and damp, city lights shimmering off the pavement. Till shoved his hands into his coat pockets, walking briskly like he could outpace the way time had suspiciously slipped through his fingers.
Ivan, of course, strolled at his own pace beside him. “So. Three hours of private lectures, and I only yawned once. You should feel honored.”
Till snorted. “You almost fell asleep standing in front of the Mondrian.”
“Lies. I was meditating.”
“You snored.”
Ivan grinned, unbothered. “Maybe the way of the lines just… spoke to me on a spiritual level.”
Till shot him a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Your spirit must be deaf, then.”
Ivan stopped in his tracks, hand pressed dramatically to his chest. “Was that, hold on, was that a joke? From you? To me?”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“It was. You’re finally learning!” Ivan fell back into step, leaning just a little closer. “Careful, if you keep that up I might think you like me around.”
Till kept his gaze forward, pulse quickening. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.” Ivan grinned wider, but his voice softened, just enough to slip past Till’s guard. “Still… it’s nice, hearing you laugh at me instead of just groaning.”
Till’s throat tightened. He covered it with a scoff, lengthening his stride. “You give me plenty of material…”
They walked on like that, shoulders brushing occasionally, the silence between them broken by bursts of teasing and Till’s reluctant retorts. Somewhere between the cracked sidewalks and the glow of corner street-lamps, the air shifted, lighter, easier.
By the time they reached Till’s building, Ivan tilted his head back, looking at him with a grin that was too gentle to be mocking. “Admit it. That was the best study session you’ve ever had.”
Till fumbled with his keys, refusing to look up. “…You talk too much.”
But there was no bite in it, and Ivan’s low chuckle told him it was obvious.
Till unlocked the door with a quiet click, pushing it open to the familiar creak of old hinges. His apartment wasn’t much; twin bed against the wall, desk cluttered with sketchbooks and stray pencils, a couch that had seen better days, but it was his, and that was enough.
Ivan stepped in behind him, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes sweeping the space with casual interest. “Cozy,” he said, drawing the word out like it meant more than it did.
Till ignored him, dropping his bag by the desk and pulling out a notebook thick with scribbled margins. “We should just pick one artist and be done with it. I already have notes.”
Ivan plopped down on the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. “Lead the way, professor.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Never!”
Till shook his head, flipping through the pages until he landed on one dense with diagrams and underlined phrases. “Rothko. Simple enough. We can cover his use of color fields and emotional resonance in under five pages.”
“Great. I’ll add the part where he makes me feel like I’m staring into the void.”
“That’s… actually not wrong” Till muttered, jotting it down despite himself.
The work went quickly after that. Till spoke, Ivan teased, Till wrote, Ivan pretended to help, and before long the skeleton of the assignment was finished. Till leaned back in his chair, stretching the cramp out of his hand.
“Done!”
Ivan, who hadn’t moved from his sprawl on the couch, grinned. “See? We’re a great team.”
Till gave him a flat look. “You barely did anything.”
“Emotional support counts.”
“Hardly.”
Silence fell for a beat, the soft hum of the city through the window filling the space. Then Ivan yawned, dramatic and unrestrained, before flopping further into the cushions. “Alright. Time for me to crash here.”
Till blinked once. What?
The he blinked again. “What?”
“Too tired to walk back.” Ivan waved a lazy hand toward the door. “Your fault, keeping me locked in a museum for half the night.”
“That was your fault!"
“Semantics.” Ivan stretched again, all long limbs and smug ease. “So, bed or couch?”
Till narrowed his eyes. “Neither. You’re leaving.”
Ivan grinned up at him, teeth flashing. “You’d kick me out at midnight? Heartless.”
“It’s Realistic, get out”
“I’ll freeze to death out there. You’d never forgive yourself.”
“You live barely three blocks away.”
“And yet… so…far…” He slumped theatrically against the armrest, eyes closed as if already asleep. “You’re stuck with me, Tilly.”
Till groaned, running a hand through his hair. This was going to be a long long night.
Ivan’s dramatic faint into the couch lasted all of thirty seconds before he cracked one eye open and said, “So… bed?”
“No,” Till deadpanned. “Couch.”
Ivan sat up, stretching like a cat. “Your couch is two feet shorter than me. I’ll, like, die.”
“Oh my god, you’ll be fine, you’ll live.”
“I’ll live poorly.” Ivan stood, making his way toward the bed like he’d already won. “Think about it! Beds are for sharing. Couches are for punishment. You wouldn’t punish me, would you?”
Till turned in his chair slowly, voice flat as stone. “I would! Gladly! Do you even hear yourself?”
Ivan only grinned, toeing off his shoes as he flopped onto the bed. “Too late. Claimed it.”
Till’s stomach lurched. “Get the hell up.”
“Mnm…” Ivan rolled over, face buried in the pillow. “Comfy.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But you still keep me arounddd…”
Till was halfway to yanking the pillow out from under him when Ivan suddenly sat up, tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He tossed it aside carelessly before collapsing back down, bare back against the sheets, dark hair mussed, shoulders broad and annoyingly well-defined.
Till froze, every coherent thought short-circuiting.
Oh no. He’s hot.
Oh no…
The realisation hit like a train, though he clamped his jaw shut before anything could slip out. Instead, he turned on his heel, muttering, “Fucking- Unbelievable” as if that would cover the heat climbing up his neck.
Ivan cracked one eye open again, smirking faintly. “What’s unbelievable? You thinking about how the hottest guy on campus is laying in your bed right now?”
“You’re not-” Till’s voice came out sharper than intended, and he snapped his mouth shut.
Ivan chuckled, low and satisfied, before settling back into the pillow. “Don’t worry. You can have the good side of the bed. I don’t mind sharing.”
Till groaned, dragging a hand down his face. This was a disaster. And yet… he still kicked off his shoes, turned off the light, and climbed in beside him.
The lights clicked off, plunging the room into a comfortable dark. For a few long minutes, only the sound of shifting sheets filled the silence.
Then Ivan whispered, “Sooo… do you always let strange men into your bed?”
Till sighed through his nose. “You’re not a strange man. You’re an irritating man.”
Ivan grinned at the ceiling. “I’ll take it. Better than a stranger.”
Till rolled onto his side, facing away. “Go to sleep”
“Can’t. Too wired.” Ivan shifted closer, lowering his voice. “What if I snore? Would you suffocate me with a pillow, or be merciful?”
“…Eh. Merciful, maybe” Till muttered. “But I’d kick you out the window first.”
Ivan muffled a laugh. “Gentlemanly as always.”
They whispered back and forth for a while, until Ivan’s words started to slur at the edges, his teasing stretching into long pauses.
“…hey, Till?” he whispered, quieter now.
“Hm?”
“You don’t really hate me, right?”
Till turned his head slightly, caught off-guard. “…No.”
Ivan exhaled, relieved, and rolled onto his side. His shoulder brushed Till’s arm, the warmth of him pressing closer.
“…Good. ’Cause I like it here.”
His voice was barely audible, on the brink of dissolving into sleep.
Till lay stiff as a board, torn between exasperation and the undeniable softness tugging at his chest. By the time Ivan nuzzled into his shoulder, Till was staring at the ceiling with the distinct realization that resistance was useless.
This wasn’t a fight he could win.
"Hey till," Ivan spoke again.
"…oh my god, what?" Till sighed into the mattress.
“Tell me something.”
Till heard from the whisper behind him, the words now barely understandable, the soft lips voicing them brushing against the back of his neck.
“Something?”
“-Anything.” Ivan spoke with a hushed tone, calmer than he had ever heard him before.
He could feel Ivan breath tingling his own skin, his heart beating against his spine.
"Do you need a fucking bed time story?"
Till was exhausted, he didn’t have time for…Whatever the hell this was.
A moment froze between them. Till felt the warmth of Ivans shoulder against his arm and the faint pulse of Ivans breath at his neck, searching for words that wouldn’t shatter the quiet.
Anything. Say anything.
“…Do you know why people hate modern art?” He whispered in the same tone as Ivan had spoken. As if he had spoken a harsher tune, the other would dissipate to crumbs too small to catch.
“Mnm” he grumbled, and his hands flexed around Tills abdomen, like a vice grip, only …softer and much more hazardous than he’d ever expected.
He took a light breath then, his eyes opened, and a slit of a dim yellow light entered his vision.
“…They hate it, because they don’t understand it. Something so unknown seems dangerous to them. I guess.” He let his words hover close to Ivans ear, closer than needed.
“Who’s they?” Ivans voice had gone lighter, softer than a feather in the wind.
Till continued,
“The people that hate it. They hate it because they couldn’t be bothered to actually get it. To study it, to embrace it, to make art of their own.”
His voice grew insistent, and he tried so hard to keep it from going any louder.
“Modern art, it isn’t just one category, it’s quite literally history. Thousands of different art movements shoved garishly into one bland category. Modern art could be talking from anything like… like fauvism, to something like De Stijl.”
“De Stijl? I haven’t heard about that one yet.” He could feel ivans voice growing tired, the way he talked sounded as sleepy as ever.
“Really? You haven’t heard of it? We saw Mondrians work in the museum” Till whispered in question. Slightly turning his head to the side, as if he could see his face in the dark.
“…no, to be honest? I don’t really remember” A yawn could’ve been heard from behind. The corners of tills mouth curled upward at the pure, human notion.
“De Stijl fits under the wider category of abstraction, and the even wider category of modernism, like I said before.”
Till took a deep breath in. “…I like it.”
“Hm?”
He buried the side of his head a little deeper into the warm pillow.
“…I like it. De Stijl, I mean.” Tills eyes grew foggy then, and he swore that if his head wasn’t going five miles per second, he might’ve fallen asleep too.
“…why?…” Barely a whisper, he could tell Ivan wouldn’t be able to hear most of his explanation, but he still said it.
“The point of de Stijl, while using geometry, basic colors and simplicity, is to give the essence of a peaceful, simple life.
It’s… a basic theme, newer then, but, it feels oddly important that people back then just wanted to be at peace too…”
He heard no response then, but he just continued.
“De Stijl is trying to emphasise universal harmony through pure abstraction. It’s clean and simple and- like, painfully real, that I don’t think it ever needed any of the usual melodrama to make a change in the world of art. That’s why I like it.”
Only steady breathing and soft, relaxed breaths could be heard from the black haired boy. His chest rose and fell against tills back, his hands slack, still lightly curled around his stomach.
“It’s… it’s kinda like you, I think. Real, but uncertain, so vague to the world…”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Till didn’t say the rest aloud.
It didn’t matter if he were sound asleep.
‘…and yet so clear to me.’
He felt himself grow tired, and an uncomfortable sleep took him like a warm wave of air.
The clock on his nightstand blinked 3 a.m. when he woke up again.
The cold, humid air should have helped with his current condition. He could feel every drop of sweat sticking around his face and his pyjama-clad body.
His hair was glued to his forehead, with grey spikes sticking out messily. He opened his eyes and tried to adjust to the darkness of his room.
Till turned slightly, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sensation creeping into his skin. He didn’t have a lot of room to work with; his measly twin-sized bed was good enough for just him, but now, with an added extra body right next to him, it felt almost impossible to move at all.
Plus, Ivan was always bigger than he’d like to admit.
Till sighed softly, his position unchanged.
He realised then that, they must have changed positions during the course of the night. He was facing Ivans bare back now, and said Ivan was snoring away, probably already on his third dream.
He glanced out his room’s window, black skies slowly drawing him in, getting him lost. He turned to look at Ivan again.
The sight of Ivans toned back was a light contrast to the rest of the darkness of his room.
The conversation from before still quietly sat in the back of his mind.
Till looked closely, gazing at the slight curves and bumps of his…friends? Rivals? figure.
He couldn’t fight the urge to bring his hand up, placing it right above Ivans naked skin, hovering over his upper back.
Dazed, maybe by the warmth of the night or his lack of satisfying rest, he made the decision to give in and touch. Ivans body was much colder than his own sweating mess, and as his fingers traced the curve of his tail end, he felt Ivan, blissfully unaware of all this, breathing rhythmically. His entire body rocking just a bit with every breath.
He couldn’t help but think that Ivan would’ve had a field trip if he knew that this was happening. Not that all this was anything but innocent curiosity. But, he’d smile and go bright like he usually does if he knew that Till was touching him so softly. Like a delicate flower or a wave to the shore.
He didn’t know if he had ever seen someone sleep so soundly beside him before. He didn’t know if he had ever let himself.
Till knew his own habits; he was fully and utterly aware that he felt too much, that he knew too little, and that he somehow expressed even less properly. Every fiasco regarding Mizi was proof of that. Ivan… Ivan was so, so painfully different, he dwelled and joked and expressed most of his emotions, with nothing holding back his unbearably energetic and, most usually perverted, demeanour.
And he rarely saw Ivan like this. Calm. In an all-consuming peace. He was always so full of himself that he didn’t even rest properly.
His fingers found the way to Ivans vertebrae like a map in the dark.
He closed his eyes, feeling every bump of his spine, an even warmer feeling overtaking his head.
As he reached to the back of Ivans neck, he realised that he was breathing harder than he should. A flush made its way all the way down to his chest. …Huh.
This…was weirder than usual. Maybe Ivan was rubbing off on him.
His hand paused, and he took a deep, cool breath for good measure. His eyes opened, unintentionally alert beforehand, now slack, thinning out as he breathed through his nose.
He pulled his body closer to the black haired boy in front of him, and he brought his face towards the back of his neck. Nuzzling his nose against Ivans cool skin, brushing away the short, black hair that got in the way, he felt oddly at peace.
Ivan smelled like candy, sweat and a hint of gasoline, and he felt soft, even on this part of his body.
Till was not… worked up, like he usually was with Ivan in such… situations. He wasn’t mad or irritated or hot and bothered like he found himself during the daytime.
It was like a calm wave had suddenly brushed over him, and all it made him think about was this exact moment.
He will probably cringe or shiver at his own actions tomorrow, finding them unnecessary and a bit odd, but all he could think of was the present: Ivan in front of him, heavenly serene against his touch, forever and always, at least in this moment.
His eyes were burning without reason, and his body overheated more and more, so he pulled back.
He distanced himself as far away from Ivans built form as he could (which was only a few centimetres, because of his tiny bed).
He breathed quietly as he stared down at Ivan one last time before he closed his eyes again and tried to fall back asleep.
But he couldn’t shake off this feeling, like this moment was much more important than he gave it credit for, more than he wanted to admit.
But that thought slipped his mind too, as he found himself seeping into a dreamless sleep.
His breath steadied, and his heart beat just the same as Ivans, becoming one, only layers of skin keeping them apart.
This wasn’t so bad after all.