Till

Till genuinely thought he was handling it better this time.

After the last fight—after telling Ivan to fuck off with a coldness he didn’t even know he was capable of—after weeks of silence, of ignoring messages, of refusing to even look at him, Till had started to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was finally getting over it. Over him. Over whatever this thing was that kept twisting in his chest every time Ivan got too close, or too distant.

He told himself it was just a bad habit. A stupid phase. Something temporary that would fade if he ignored it long enough. He almost believed it.

He thought that if he stayed away, if he cut things off cleanly, if he forced himself to stop thinking about it—about him—then everything would fall back into place. His routine would feel normal again. His chest wouldn’t tighten every time he caught a glimpse of Ivan across the hallway. The days wouldn’t feel so… dull. Empty.

He thought he could just move on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Because Ivan’s absence didn’t bring peace. It brought silence—and the silence was worse. Too loud in its own way. Too heavy.

Till started noticing things he shouldn’t care about. The way Ivan walked with his shoulders slightly slouched when he thought no one was paying attention. The way he tried to act normal, like nothing had changed, when it was painfully obvious that something had. The forced indifference, the quiet tension beneath it.

And it got under Till’s skin in a way he hated. What made it worse was the dreams.

They wouldn’t stop.

Restless, intrusive, humiliating dreams that dragged Ivan back into his mind every night, leaving him awake in the early hours, heart racing, body tense, frustration clawing at his throat. It felt like his own mind was betraying him, undoing every bit of distance he tried to build during the day.

Without Ivan, everything felt off. Muted. Hollow. Like something important had been ripped out, leaving behind a space that refused to close.

And he had promised himself he wouldn’t fall back on cigarettes.

For two reasons—first, Acorn had asthma, and Till wasn’t that much of an asshole. Second, he hated the smell. Always had. The thought of it clinging to his clothes, his skin—it made his stomach turn.

So instead, he just… sat with it. With the frustration. The restlessness. The gnawing, persistent ache that refused to settle.

Until that night.

Or rather, that early morning.

Till woke up abruptly, breath uneven, skin warm, sheets tangled around his legs. Another dream. Another one he didn’t want to think about but couldn’t fully ignore either. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, trying to ground himself in the dark, quiet room.

It was too quiet.

His gaze shifted to the other side of the room. Empty. Acorn wasn’t there. Good.

Probably off in Marty’s dorm, doing whatever it was they did at this hour—which meant Till was alone. Alone enough to make a bad decision without anyone there to stop him.

He reached for his phone. Stared at the screen for longer than he should have, thumb hovering over Ivan’s contact. His jaw tightened slightly.

This was stupid. Pathetic. A mistake. And yet— Inevitable.

Because Till knew.

He knew Ivan would pick up.

Not out of politeness. Not out of obligation. But because whatever this was between them—it never really ended. It just… paused. Stretched. Waited.

Ivan always came back. Till pressed call. It rang once. Twice.

His chest tightened for a brief second when he heard Ivan’s voice on the other end—low, rough with sleep, but instantly alert the moment he realized who it was. Till shut his eyes for a second. “…Come over.” Till swallowed, staring into the darkness like it could somehow hide the weight of what he was doing. “I’m alone.”

That was all he said. Because he knew Ivan would understand. It wasn’t just an invitation. It was a crack in the wall he had been trying so hard to build. And Ivan —like always— didn’t hesitate for long. He showed up. Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.

Till heard the footsteps, the door, the quiet shift in the air as Ivan stepped inside. That familiar presence filled the room before a single word was exchanged. It was frustrating how easily it happened—how everything seemed to fall back into place without effort. They looked at each other. For a second. Or longer. Till couldn’t tell.

There was too much packed into that silence—tension, irritation, something dangerously close to relief. Neither of them pretended this was casual. Not anymore. Whatever this was, it had never been simple. What followed was messy in the way it always was—intense, impulsive, charged with everything they refused to say out loud. There was no softness to it, not really. No clear tenderness. Just something raw and complicated, like they were both trying to prove something neither of them fully understood.

Till lay there afterward, staring at the ceiling, breathing slowly, trying to ignore the weight of everything settling back in. The room felt different now—warmer, heavier. The air carried a familiar, lingering tension that made his chest feel tight all over again. He cursed Ivan in his head. Then himself.

Then whatever this was that kept dragging him back.

Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, there was something almost unbearable about the absence of Ivan—and something equally unbearable about his presence.

Till turned his head slightly, eyes adjusting to the dim light as he looked at the figure beside him.

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, quietly— “Ivan… are you asleep?”