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The pristine, minimalist walls of Ivan and Till’s shared Brooklyn apartment held exactly three professionally framed photographs.
The first was from their college graduation, featuring a scowling Till holding his diploma like a weapon and Ivan standing beside him, smiling smoothly for the camera. The second was a raw, high-contrast shot from Till’s first sold-out underground rock show, capturing the raw, messy energy of the emo singer mid-scream. The third was from their wedding day—a quiet, candid moment where Ivan was adjusting Till’s slightly crooked tie while Till looked anywhere but directly into Ivan's eyes, his ears flushed a brilliant red.
Looking at their life now, anyone would think Ivan was the blueprint of a mature, composed husband. He was a successful model, the face of luxury campaigns, praised for his effortless elegance and unshakeable poise.
Ivan smiled into his morning coffee, watching Till curse at a stubborn, jammed toaster across the kitchen island. Till was clad in an oversized black hoodie that swallowed his frame, his signature silver piercings catching the sharp morning light. He looked every bit the brooding, unapproachable punk icon the public adored.
Till never had to know about the cheap printer paper.
Years ago, in the cramped, sterile confines of an elite international boarding school dormitory, fourteen-year-old Ivan had possessed absolutely zero chill. His obsession with the grumpy, fiercely independent American boy in his music class had reached a fever pitch. Ivan had sneaked into the school computer lab long after hours, using his advanced coding hobbies to bypass the school's intranet security protocols just to download and print every pixelated photo of Till available on the student database.
Ivan’s middle school dorm room had been a highly classified, private shrine. Pixelated Tills— Till glaring while holding a guitar, Till chewing on a pencil during a math exam, Till looking aggressively annoyed at a school assembly—were taped securely to the inside of his wardrobe, under his desk, and directly onto the ceiling above his pillow.
But the most embarrassing secret—the absolute pinnacle of teenage desperation that Ivan would carry to his grave—was the practice.
Ivan remembered locking his dorm door with a heavy click, turning around to face a freshly printed, printer-ink-scented A4 paper of a scowling Till. He had taped it at exactly Till’s projected eye level on the back of his closet door.
Fourteen-year-old Ivan had spent hours adjusting his angles. He knew Till was easily startled, fiercely defensive, and quick to throw a punch if someone invaded his personal space. Therefore, a standard, clumsy teenage kiss would result in a broken nose. Ivan needed precision.
He practiced tilting his head exactly thirty degrees to the left to avoid their noses colliding. He practiced tilting to the right. He calculated the exact trajectory needed to slide his hand up Till’s jawline, using his thumb to gently anchor Till's chin and bypass his inevitable defensive flinch. He would lean in close, whispering romantic, smooth Russian poetry to a piece of paper, practicing the perfect, breathless cadence right before making contact with the wall.
"Ty moyo vsyo," a young, cracking-voiced Ivan had whispered to a piece of drywall, practicing how to look intensely devastating. He had trained for a future kiss like an Olympic athlete preparing for a gold medal routine.
"Hey. Earth to Ivan."
A piece of lightly charred bagel flew across the kitchen island, tapping Ivan squarely on the chest and snapping him out of his memory. Till was glaring at him over the toaster, though his cheeks were dusted with a slight pink hue. "You're doing that creepy staring thing again. What are you scheming, you freak?"
Ivan caught the stray piece of bagel smoothly with one hand, his signature, camera-ready smile widening. "Nothing, solnyshko (my little sun). Just admiring my beautiful husband."
"Shut up," Till muttered, his sharp American accent cutting through the quiet kitchen, though it was entirely devoid of any real bite. He abandoned the toaster and walked over to the island, leaning his hips against the counter. "You're being weird today. More than usual."
Ivan stood up, setting his coffee mug down with a soft clink. He stepped into Till’s personal space, intentionally closing the distance. The height difference was still there, just like it had been when they were teenagers, though Ivan had filled out into a model's broad-shouldered frame.
Instinct took over—an instinct honed by years of secret, ridiculous, and highly calculated practice against a closet door.
Ivan tilted his head precisely thirty degrees to the left. He slid his long fingers up to cup Till’s jaw, his thumb smoothing over the skin of Till's cheekbone, perfectly blocking Till’s immediate reflex to pull back or swat his hand away. He leaned in, closing the final inch with the exact, effortless grace he had rehearsed a thousand times.
He kissed Till deeply, thoroughly, and with a romantic intensity that completely stole the air from the room. It was a kiss that belonged in a movie, executed with terrifyingly perfect geometry.
It left the tough emo singer completely breathless, his hands automatically gripping the fabric of Ivan’s soft sweater just to keep his balance as his knees went slightly weak.
When Ivan finally pulled back, Till’s eyes were wide and dazed, his dark eyeliner smudged just a fraction at the corner. His breath hitched, his lips parted and flushed.
"Where... where do you even learn to do that?" Till breathed out, flustered, desperately trying to scramble for his usual tough-guy composure and failing miserably. "You're always too good at that. It's annoying. It's like you're a robot programmed for it."
Ivan let out a low, melodic chuckle, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip of Till's pink nose. "Just natural talent, kotyonok (kitten). Just natural talent."
Till huffed, hiding his flaming red face in the crook of Ivan's neck, completely unaware that his perfect husband had spent his entire puberty rehearsing that exact movement against a piece of printer paper.