Ivan (Figure Skater Version)

Ivan stood in the kitchen with the easy posture of someone who had made himself at home long ago. One hand rested lightly against the counter, the other curled around a mug he had accepted without hesitation. The morning light filtered in soft and pale. He glanced once toward the hallway that led to Till’s room, then returned his attention to Io with that polished, pleasant expression he wore so well in front of family.

“You’ve outdone yourself with the coffee again,” he said, voice smooth and lightly warm. “I keep telling Till he should learn your method. It might improve his mornings considerably.” A small pause, just long enough to feel deliberate. “Though I suppose some people prefer to stumble through the day half-asleep. It suits him, in a way.”

He took a measured sip, dark eyes half-lidded, the faint red in them catching the light. His tone stayed genial, almost affectionate, the way one might speak to a future in-law. Mother-in-law, he had called her more than once, without a trace of irony. The thought still amused him privately.

“I hope I haven’t arrived too early. He mentioned he had a late night. Practice, or so he claimed.” Ivan’s mouth curved slightly. “I thought it best to wait here rather than risk waking him. He can be rather... particular about his sleep.”

Another quiet glance toward the hallway. He shifted his weight just enough to lean a fraction closer to the counter, the picture of polite patience. Inside, something sharper and more restless tracked the minutes. Till was still in bed. Unaware. Vulnerable in that careless way of his. Ivan kept the thought carefully behind his calm expression.

Then the soft sound of uneven footsteps reached him.

Ivan turned his head at the exact moment Till appeared in the kitchen doorway—hair a mess, eyes half-open, dressed in loose pajamas that hung from his lanky frame. For a second Ivan simply looked, taking in the sleep-creased face, the slightly dazed expression, the way the fabric slipped off one thin shoulder. His own expression remained composed, almost mild.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and refined, carrying that familiar thread of quiet amusement. “You look well-rested.”

Ivan sat at the corner table with the easy posture of someone who belonged wherever he chose to be. One arm rested along the back of the booth, the other loosely curled around a cup of something sweet. His dark eyes moved over the group with mild interest, lingering a fraction longer on the teal-haired figure beside him before drifting away again. Mizi leaned forward, pink hair swinging, hazel eyes bright. “You’re unusually quiet today, Ivan. Did the ice finally freeze your personality solid?”

“Hardly,” Ivan replied, voice smooth and lightly amused. “I’m simply rationing my charm. It would be unfair to overwhelm the table all at once.” He glanced toward Sua, who sat with her usual composed stillness, black bob neat, lavender eyes half-lidded in mild distaste. “Though I suspect some of us prefer the silence.”

Sua didn’t look at him. “Some of us prefer fewer unnecessary comments.”

Hyuna laughed under her breath, long brown hair shifting as she tipped her chair back on two legs. “Leave him alone, Sua. He’s on his best behavior. Look at him—practically glowing with good manners.” Her grey eyes cut toward Ivan with the familiar older-sister sharpness. “You’re buying the next round of drinks, by the way. Consider it payment for putting up with you.”

“Naturally,” Ivan said, inclined his head with exaggerated grace. “I live to be useful.”

Luka, pale and languid in the seat across from Hyuna, stirred his tea with one slow finger. His golden eyes flicked up, voice soft and faintly dry. “Useful is a strong word. Decorative, perhaps.”

Ivan’s mouth curved. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.” He shifted slightly, just enough that his knee brushed the side of Till’s under the table. The contact was light, deliberate, and he made no move to pull away. His tone remained pleasant when he continued, “Besides, someone has to keep the conversation from becoming entirely one-sided. Mizi would talk us all into an early grave otherwise.”

Mizi gasped in mock offense, already halfway through a grin. “Rude. Accurate, but rude.” She turned toward Till, clearly about to drag him into the exchange, then seemed to think better of it and simply waved a hand. “Anyway. We’re going to that new exhibit next week. You’re both coming. No arguments.”

“I wouldn’t dream of arguing,” Ivan said. His gaze slid sideways again, quiet and assessing, taking in the way Till sat—shoulders slightly hunched, expression somewhere between resigned and faintly irritated by the noise of the group. Ivan’s voice dropped just enough to feel private, though the others could still hear. “You’ll come, won’t you? It would be a shame to leave me unsupervised with this crowd.”

Hyuna snorted. “As if any of us could supervise you.”

Luka’s pale mouth twitched. “Some of us have tried.”

Ivan only smiled, refined and unreadable, and took another slow sip of his drink. Under the table, his knee remained where it was—light pressure, steady, impossible to ignore. The café noise carried on around them, warm and ordinary. He looked perfectly at ease.

Ivan moved across the empty rink with clean, measured strokes, the sound of his blades the only noise in the vast cold space. Practice had run long. The usual crowd was gone. The stands sat dark and vacant. He should have been focused—edges, speed, the next combination—but his mind kept slipping.

Till’s face after a game. Flushed. Breathing hard. Jersey clinging to that thin frame, damp at the collar and under the arms. The memory landed uninvited and stayed, heavy and vivid. Ivan’s next turn was a fraction tighter than it needed to be. He forced his expression to remain calm, almost bored, as though the ice itself might be watching and judging.

He built speed for a triple, launched, landed clean. The impact traveled up through his legs and settled low in his gut, where something already restless stirred hotter. Another image: Till in the locker room doorway, hair stuck to his forehead, that sharp mouth parted as he caught his breath. Ivan’s pulse kicked. He exhaled slowly through his nose and skated a wide, deliberate circle, trying to bleed the tension out through clean technique.

It didn’t work.

His body felt too warm beneath the thin practice clothes. Every extension of his leg, every deep knee bend, only made the ache more insistent. He could almost smell it—the faint salt of Till’s skin after exertion, the way the fabric of that jersey would feel if he pressed his face against it. The thought was filthy and immediate. Ivan’s jaw tightened. He kept his face schooled into that familiar mild neutrality, red-tinged eyes half-lidded, as if concentration alone could disguise the heat crawling under his skin.

He slowed near the boards, gloved hands resting lightly on the railing, head tipped forward just enough to look thoughtful instead of strained. Breath misted in the cold air. He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, riding out the worst of it, refusing to adjust his stance or press a palm lower the way his body demanded.

“Ridiculous,” he murmured under his breath, voice low and refined even in private. The word carried no real self-reproach—only a thin, frustrated edge. “Completely ridiculous.”

He pushed off again, forcing his limbs back into precise, elegant lines. The ice accepted him without comment. Somewhere far from the rink, Till existed—oblivious, probably half-asleep or scowling at something unimportant. Ivan carried the weight of that absence like a second pulse, sharp and relentless, and skated until the burn in his muscles almost drowned it out. Almost.