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It is twelve minutes past nine o'clock on a Saturday evening. Maybe thirteen. The air conditioning system has been out of commission for two weeks now, so Till's apartment is left to face the blistering wrath of mid June alone. Not even the sun's long-overdue departure brings much relief. Poor him, really.
Better news is, the little plastic fan in the corner of his bedroom that Ivan so graciously gifted him as an 'early birthday present', with three crudely drawn hearts, is doing its very best to keep him and whatever insects are without a doubt living in his walls alive. In his vanity, Ivan would prefer to think that best is far better than it actually is.
Perfectly on cue, a modestly-sized bead of sweat meanders a bit down the side of Till's forehead from where he's perched (rather awkwardly) over Ivan's chest, before it settles on the edge of his brow, threatening to fall. Ivan wonders if he could catch it in his mouth.
He continues to stare. Rudely. Till's hair is sticking out in every direction it possibly could, and there's day-old eyeliner smudged all about the outer corners of his just slightly too-big eyes. He's in a shitty thrifted band t-shirt he'd had since probably junior year, the sleeves and neckline long hacked off and the text on it so faded and crumbly now that it's downright unreadable. His eyelids begin to droop a little, the right just a bit more so than the left, silver bangs falling in a thin sheet over both of them as he futzes with the collar of Ivan's own shirt.
He is pretty like this. That's another thought Ivan will keep to himself.
"Are you tired?" He says, mockingly, though it's muffled by his shirt and half of the vowels go unpronounced. Till's face warps into the most raw display of exasperation anyone on the planet (excluding Ivan, of course) has likely ever seen, and he swiftly rolls over onto the other side of the bed, leaving the latter completely bare. Defenseless to the elements. He's going to wither away.
"Fuck you." It's grumbled straight into the mattress, because all of the pillows have been scattered across the room. Every single one. The entire fucking apartment looks like a war zone.
"I'd allow it." Ivan assures, with a brief and really really wide smile thrown in a few seconds later for good measure. He knows he's being thrown a most unsavory glare for this, but he is too busy studying his own fingernails to entertain it. There is a little tiny tear in the cuticle of his right index finger, and it's slightly pink and hurts like hell whenever he pokes it. He pokes it again. "If you so wish. Now come back, I'm cold. And lonely."
Till sits up, lifting a hand to snake through his bedraggled hair. Ivan cannot help but gaze intently as the bones of his shoulders unfurl beneath freckled skin like some sort of divine machinery. "It's a fucking oven in here. You are not cold."
"Cold and lonely…" Ivan drags out the last word for about three and a half seconds, grinning, as he at last reaches over to yank Till back down by his forearm, earning himself a put upon yelp. There's no real resistance. He's still deep in a fit of unbecoming giggles by the time Till rights himself.
"I hope you know I'm sweaty. And gross." Till states, matter-of-factly, as if he's the only one in such a predicament, as he. Oh. Leans forward. Ivan's snickering ceases forthwith. "And it's all your fucking fault." Every second word or so is punctuated with a violent poke to Ivan's ribcage.
He swallows, tasting warmth on Till's breath as it ghosts over his face in a little puff. He's going to faint. "I do know that."
"Weirdo," Till mutters, but Ivan's able to hear the wide smile on his lips as it meets his own, brusquely, in an odd, lopsided peck. And he knows! He knows it.
If only everything those lips were ever to utter were things Ivan knows already. He'd like that. The unknown demands a kind of bravery entirely incompatible with his own cowardice.
Ivan is content with the current state of his knowing, however, loose shapes being traced underneath his untucked shirt by fingers that have, many a time, been fractured and defiled by the resistance of his own bones. None of that has never rendered them any less sacred.
Whatever mercy God seems to be showing him today, Ivan will relish in it even if undeserving. It is improper to leave a meal unfinished. Thus, he lifts Till's chin in both hands and bends downward to kiss him properly.
Teeth fall on teeth as it's returned, only pausing briefly for Till to account for a forgotten breath (which he nearly chokes on, in his haste). Warmth and light and all that is good returns to the world as the weight of his little torso crushes Ivan straight into the mattress, and as clammy hands creep beneath his shirt and he forgets which tongue belongs to whom, Ivan thinks, if you were to pull a blade from your back pocket and bury it in my throat right here and now I would use my last breaths to praise you for it. The option is on the table; it is Till's bed, after all. Fate shall decide. Oh, to be immortalized in it almost feels like too gluttonous of a hope.
So, Ivan allows himself to live for the time being, sighing into Till's mouth as one knee falls to the side and the latter replaces it quickly with his own. His fingers slide from behind Till's ears to the back of his neck, one thumb pressed gently against his carotid. He digs the tip of it in a little deeper, not harshly, feeling the rabbiting pulse of the very fabric of his reality fight valiantly against him. Till gasps, a small and pitiful sound, shoulders quivering slightly, and Ivan shifts the fingers wrapped around his throat down to his collarbone, wondering against his will just how hard he could squeeze the fragile flesh without breaking something. He won't try, of course. Not uninvited.
Then Till bites, dragging his teeth across Ivan's lower lip as he finally makes his retreat, dragging from the latter a sound so plaintive and pathetic that he screws his eyes shut, still reeling.
Right before Ivan manages to regain a fraction of the lucidity he was lucky enough to have three minutes before, Till yanks himself backwards and the fingers that had just made themselves a home in the shallow valleys between Ivan's ribs move to lift his shirt clean off. Alright.
"What happened to being sweaty and gross?" Ivan jokes, not before swallowing so hard his chest aches.
"Still am. You don't seem to care." This is correct! He does not! This remains true as half his clothes are transported by air to the foot of the bed and the two of them lay, waist to slicked waist, almost even. The tip of Till's sharp little nose presses firmly into the divot where Ivan's jaw meets his neck as he bites there, too, just a smidge too gently for comfort. If not for shame he would urge Till deeper until his pulse echoes through his teeth. "And besides, if I'm going to kiss you—" Chomp. "—I want to be able to see you when I do."
And before Ivan can rightfully remark that Till cannot, in fact, see him at all with his eyes closed, nor with his teeth sunk into the former's throat, Till robs him of whatever thought may have been attempting to form, or could form, ever, running the tip of his tongue along the shallow dents left by his own incisors. Another sound, an odd cross between a sigh and a sob he would rather die than hear out of himself ever again, tumbles through Ivan's teeth before he can stifle it properly. And, though in the modest form of one hot exhale just north of his collarbone, Till laughs. Laughs! Are you having fun? Does my torment bring you joy? Both questions Ivan will not bother asking anyone but the twisted recesses of his mind as he already knows the answers all too well and would not ever wish them any different.
"Till, Till." Ivan breathes, in line at last with his better judgment. The name bounces around in his head at least four more times before trailing off into quiet gibberish. Face flushed and hair mussed, Till pulls back to stare down at him with wide, curious eyes, reminiscent of a small insect. Ivan bites the inside of his cheek raw. "Do you. Do you see me now?"
Till rolls over to lay at his side again, knees still tangled about with Ivan's own like power cords. He grins and snorts a bit sheepishly, and mumbles, "I don't know. I think I do."
To punctuate, he reaches out, creeping his free right hand into Ivan's left, tepid and sticky. When their palms don't quite meet at every point, he moves his downward, fingertips dipping into the tender flesh between Ivan's knuckles. Ivan mirrors the motion himself, finding his own respite in the tendons stretched taut over Till's bones. He squeezes once, hoping his nails leave no mark.
It is now one score and eight minutes past nine o'clock, and despite the heat and the comfortingly mundane presence of Till's living flesh and consciousness splayed on the messed up sheets next to him, eyes fluttering with sleep he never thought to get the prior night, Ivan feels lukewarm at best. Greedy as he is. In the quiet, he slides his own eyes shut, making sure to close them all the way this time, and he thinks of flowering plants and fingertips and lights and other things that love and do not speak.