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The apartment was quiet, a rare occurrence. Usually, the air was thick with the tension of unfinished game scripts and the ghosts of Ivan’s past. Today, however, the heavy curtains were drawn, and the only light came from the soft glow of Andrew’s laptop screen.
Ivan was sitting on the edge of the worn-out sofa, his arms resting on his knees. He was staring at them, specifically at the faint, lines that mapped his forearms. They weren't fresh, but in the dim light, they felt like neon signs pointing to everything he despised about himself. He’d been having a bad day—one of those days where the memories of his father and the crushing weight of his own insecurities felt too heavy to carry.
He felt a familiar warmth settle beside him. Andrew didn't say anything at first, just sat close enough that their shoulders brushed, his hand hovering near Ivan’s before finally settling over one of his wrists.
Ivan flinched, not out of fear, but out of shame. He tried to pull away, to hide his arms under his sleeves, but Andrew’s grip was gentle, yet firm.
"Don't," Andrew said softly, his voice lacking the sharp edge it sometimes held during their arguments. He was calm, focused, his gaze on the skin he was holding.
"They're ugly," Ivan whispered, his voice cracking. He hated how vulnerable he sounded. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one looking out for them, but right now, he felt like a broken child.
Andrew shook his head slightly, moving his hand to trace the lines with his thumb, not with pity, but with a kind of reverence. "They're not,"
Andrew said quietly. "They’re just… proof. Proof you survived something really, really bad."
Ivan felt tears prick his eyes. He leaned sideways, burying his face in the crook of Andrew’s neck, breathing in the comforting scent of computer fans and old coffee. He felt Andrew wrap an arm around him, pulling him closer.
"I tried so hard to be better," Ivan choked out, his shoulders shaking. "I just keep making… bad shit happen."
"Shh," Andrew murmured, rubbing soothing circles on Ivan’s back. "You're not a bad person, Ivan. You're just... hurting."
Andrew pulled back just enough to look at Ivan’s face. With his other hand, he took one of Ivan’s hands, spreading his fingers out to look at the palm, then turning it over to look at the arms again. He kissed the inner part of Ivan’s wrist, right over a particularly old scar.
Ivan shivered, a gasp escaping him.
"You're here," Andrew said, his voice firm and steady. "You didn't go. You're here with me. That’s what matters."
Ivan, overwhelmed by the sudden, gentle affection, finally let the tears fall, sobbing into his “friend's” shoulder. Andrew didn't try to stop him, just held him tightly, whispering quiet reassurances about the new game, about the future, about how he wouldn't leave.
Slowly, the sobs died down into quiet sniffles. Ivan looked down at his arms again. They still felt like a mark of shame, but with Andrew’s arm securely around him, they felt a little less like a monster’s tattoo and more like a story he was still writing.
"Thank you, Andrew," Ivan whispered, leaning into the warmth.
"Just keep breathing," Andrew replied, resting his head on top of Ivan’s. "That’s all you have to do."
For the first time in a long time, the apartment felt like a home, not just a place to hide.
The silence that followed was no longer heavy; it felt like a shared breath. Andrew didn't pull away, his thumb still tracing the map of Ivan’s history with a rhythmic, grounding pressure.
"I used to think they were the only honest thing about me," Ivan admitted, his voice barely audible above the hum of the nearby refrigerator. "Everything else felt like a lie I was telling the world. But these... these were real."
Andrew hummed low in his throat, a sound of understanding that didn't require words. He shifted, reaching for a small bottle of unscented lotion he kept on the coffee table for his own restless hands. He squeezed a bit onto his palm and began to massage it into Ivan’s skin.
"Let’s give them some better memories then," Andrew murmured. His touch was clinical yet incredibly tender, moving over the raised ridges of the scars with a focus that made Ivan feel seen rather than scrutinized. "We’ll take care of them. Take care of you."
Ivan watched, mesmerized by the contrast of Andrew’s steady hands against his own. The shame that usually curdled in his stomach was being slowly replaced by a strange, buzzing warmth. It was the feeling of being handled like something fragile and precious, rather than something discarded.
"You don't have to do this," Ivan said, though he didn't pull back.
"I want to," Andrew countered simply. He looked up, his eyes locking onto Ivan’s. "I'm not just here for the games, Ivan. Or the code. I'm here for the person who writes them."
Ivan felt a small, genuine smile tug at the corner of his mouth—a rare sight. He shifted closer, resting his forehead against Andrew’s. The proximity was safe, a sanctuary built of four walls and the presence of the one person who didn't look away when things got dark.
"I'm glad you're here," Ivan whispered, closing his eyes.
"Nowhere else I'd be," Andrew replied, his voice a tether to the present.
He continued the gentle massage until the tension fully bled out of Ivan’s frame, leaving him slumped comfortably against Andrew’s side, finally at peace in his own skin.
The air in the room shifted, growing thick with a tension that was no longer about pain, but about a desperate, grounding need for closeness. Ivan didn't just want to be held anymore; he wanted to disappear into the safety Andrew provided.
Ivan shifted, turning his body fully toward Andrew. His breath hitched as he looked up, seeing the raw, unfiltered devotion in Andrew’s eyes. Without thinking, Ivan reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed the hair back from Andrew's forehead.
"Andrew," he breathed, the name a fragile prayer.
Andrew didn't hesitate. He reached out, his large hands framing Ivan’s face with a reverence that made Ivan’s heart hammer against his ribs. He leaned in slowly, giving Ivan every second to pull away, but Ivan only leaned forward, closing the distance until their lips met.
It wasn't a kiss from a movie; it was desperate and salty with leftover tears. It was the taste of coffee and shared secrets. Ivan let out a low, broken whimper, his hands sliding from Andrew’s face to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between them.
Andrew groaned softly into the kiss, his hands sliding down to Ivan’s waist, hoisting him up slightly so Ivan was draped across his lap. The intimacy was overwhelming. For Ivan, who had spent so long hurting his own body, the sensation of someone else’s hands treating him like a treasure was almost too much to bear.
"I've got you," Andrew whispered against his lips, his voice ragged. "I've got you, Ivan. You’re safe. I promise."
Andrew began to trail kisses along Ivan’s jawline, moving down to the sensitive skin of his neck. Every touch was a claim—a promise that these patches of skin belonged to someone who loved them, not someone who wanted to destroy them. Ivan arched his back, his fingers tangling in Andrew’s hair, his eyes fluttering shut as a wave of pure, golden warmth washed over him.
In the quiet of the apartment, the "Bad Shit" felt a million miles away. There was only the sound of synchronized breathing and the heat of two bodies finding solace in the one place they finally felt they belonged.