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Till can’t catch a damn break.
It’s a Monday morning, which is already a tragedy within itself. But then you factor in how Till skipped breakfast to catch his bus only to trip face first on the way there and spent his first period scrambling to finish a project worth half his grade while stressing about a test in his next one, you get something akin to a Shakespearean epic about Till’s crippling will to live. By the time his third period rolls around, he’s fighting back the urge to end it all because his classmates are too loud, the lecture is too long, the ac is too cold, the room is too musty and the lights are too bright.
Till threads a hand through his hair as he props his arm on the table. He tries to jot down his notes but his mind continues drifting away in all the noise.
On most days, Till manages to scrape by with his headphones blasting in his ears loud enough to drown out the school ruckus but of course, he just had to lose them over the weekend. So here he is stuck in health class—a transgression against his own will because the school board just had to mandate health class instead of allowing students to take another elective they actually want—’listening’ to the one and only Ivan blabbering on and on about god knows what right beside him.
A painful ache festers in the forefront of Till’s temple. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to will it away but it’s only exaggerated by the amplification of Ivan’s voice. He opens them only to shoot a potent glare at the blabbermouth. It’s like the guy doesn’t have a single care in the world. He can just do whatever, say whatever because he's the oh so popular star footballer of Anakt High and that just means everyone loves to hear what he has to say twenty-four fucking seven. If it weren’t for the mind-numbing headache, Till would've thought it was impressive how Ivan is nearly six feet tall and yet, the hint still manages to fly over his dumbass head. Till snaps, “Can you shut up?”
Ivan blinks. His ebony eyes don’t have much going on behind them, Till notices. “That was quick. You usually just ignore me for the entire period. What's with the sudden attitude?”
Till rolls his eyes. Has he never been told to shut up before? God, that explains so much. “Well, for your information, I lost my headphones so I can't tune out your stupid voice.”
“Hm.” Ivan seems to consider it for a moment. Then he shrugs, smiling. “Not my problem now, is it?”
Till’s eye twitches. Bastard. “It is your damn problem! You’re the one talking my ear off at seven in the morning!”
“It's eight.” Ivan adds.
“Whatever!” Till throws his hand up in exasperation before slamming it back down to jot his notes. “Just shut up and listen to the lecture.”
“Says the one who never pays attention. You’re the one always asking me for notes~”
“I do pay attention, dumbass! It’s called multitasking.”
“Were you multitasking when you forgot your headphones?”
Till’s pen stops mid-sentence. He never should've told him that, never should've given him the ammunition. He turns back to Ivan, not caring about his volume as he sputters back, “Like you know anything about multitasking—You’re probably too busy, uh—oiling up your—your fatass muscles or chasing balls with the other meatheads to even think of doing anything else!”
“Well, these muscles are what gets the ladies going.” Ivan yawns, not-so-subtly flexing his muscles as he stretches. “Not that I’d expect you to understand with those arms of yours.”
Till’s eyes widened. “Are you calling me weak!?”
Ivan gasps, putting a hand to his mouth. “I never said that!” His shocked expression fades away into a familiar smirk. “But hey, it’s like I always say: if the shoe fits, wear it.”
The chair screeches against the floor as Till yanks Ivan’s collar and prepares to deliver a knuckle sandwich. “Oh, I’ll show you who’s wea—”
“Boys!” the teacher cuts, stopping Till dead in his tracks. “Would you care to volunteer?”
Ivan and Till snap up to meet the teacher’s gaze. She wears a strained smile but her eyes say it all—equal parts disappointed and expectant. A proverbial spotlight shines down on the two of them as the class turns their attention, awaiting an answer. Till’s breath catches between his ribs as the silent scrutiny of the audience sets in. He releases Ivan, uttering a dumb “What?”
“We need a demonstration for the fireman drag.” She backs away from the promethean board to reveal a picture of said fireman drag. It’s, in essence, a picture of two grown men dry humping each other. Till balks, cheeks heating up in record time. There’s no way in hell—
Ivan stands up. His expression is unreadable. Till stares at him, eyes wide and incredulous. He searches for a trace of humanity within Ivan’s gaze but he’s met with nothing. Till’s heart picks up the pace. Ivan can’t. Ivan won’t.
Ivan only smiles like an arsonist given a match as he extends a hand. “C’mon, Till. Let’s show them what we got.”
Till’s eyes dart from Ivan’s face to his hand, then back to his face. It’s not just a humiliation ritual; it’s a challenge. He can see it in his eyes: the amusement, the condescension, the patronization. Ivan’s waiting for him to retreat, to cower. Till does a sweep of the room. Everyone’s staring. Everyone’s whispering. He can’t back down now.
Begrudgingly, Till stands up on his own. He refuses to take Ivan’s pitying hand. “Fine.” He says, heart racing, and he swears he sees Ivan’s smile grow. Before he can think about it, he adds, “I’ll be the one on top though.”
Ivan’s eyes widened the slightest bit. “Are you sure about th—”
“I got it, alright? Worry about yourself.” He grits, making his way towards the front of the class without another word. He didn't get a good look at Ivan’s face but he hoped that annoying smile was wiped clean off his features.
Step after step, Till’s state worsens. He pretends he isn't sweating, isn't anxious beyond all hell as he passes by his classmates’ desks but he’s burning up under all the attention. He curses himself for the dozenth time: If only he remembered to bring his headphones; If only he never got into this dumbass situation because now, he has to listen to people whisper and laugh at his expense all around him. Not like that was anything new—after all, when you dress the way Till does, you're bound to get stares wherever you go—but this was different. This was a performance, a spectacle. Something to be openly ogled and gawked at. Something of Ivan’s volition.
As soon as Till makes the connection, his anxiety spirals into a bitter mixture of frustration, annoyance and spite. Annoyance at his classmates because do they seriously have nothing better to do than just sit and judge? At least Till has the courage to get up unlike these normies. Frustration at God because the buildup of stress on stress on stress today has to be a sign He wants him dead. Spite because Ivan deserves to be humiliated, to feel just as embarrassed as Till does.
When he passes by Mizi and Sua’s desk, the former gives him an encouraging thumbs up and his heart skips a beat. Pathetic as it may be, it melts away some of the tension in his chest. He shoots her what he hopes is a convincing smile back, filled with a sense of hope.
Till finally reaches the front of the class. He feels dizzy as the heat of the spotlight beats down on him. When Ivan joins him on stage, he shoots him a glare. The corners of Ivan’s lips curl upwards. Cocky. Teasing.
“There’s still time to back out.” Ivan offers.
Till huffs, “And be the laughingstock of the school? Yeah, no thanks.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Seeing Ivan’s confidence unshaken imbues Till with a new purpose. What was Till thinking before? Of course he can do this. He has to do this. He has to show everyone who Ivan really is: a weak and needy asshole.
(Besides, maybe, just maybe, this is his chance to impress Mizi.)
“Alright, everyone gather around.” The teacher beckons as she turns to Ivan and instructs him to lie down. Till has half the mind to curb stomp him as he rests at his feet. “Now, Till, put your legs around his torso and hands by his head.”
Till grimaces. To everyone else, the change in Ivan’s expression may have been unnoticeable but to Till, it’s obvious by Ivan’s fanged smirk that he was feeling more disgustingly smug than usual. Something about the sight has Till’s chest tightening. When he finally sinks down to Ivan’s level, he hesitates to throw his legs over him, catching the much-too-eager glint in Ivan’s eyes. Till looks back over at the teacher—half out of confirmation, half out of resignation for the task at hand. She only nods, egging him to go on and Till sighs.
As he swings his legs over Ivan, he becomes acutely aware of himself: his back is sweaty, his face is hot, his knees are weak, his arms are heavy. No matter how much he tries to psyche himself out of it, he can’t shake off the tension in his chest or the twitch in his pants the moment he makes contact with Ivan’s thighs. Slowly, he bends over and places his hands beside either side of his head. At first, Till tries not to look at Ivan but it’s impossible given they’re practically in kissing dist—
He recoils at the thought before he can even finish it.
They lock eyes with each other—annoyed teal on amused ebony. For once, Till can see gears running behind Ivan’s eyes and it makes him uneasy. “Don't get any ideas now, got it?” He reprimands.
Ivan doesn’t flinch at his tone, seemingly all too happy as he responds, “No promises.”
Till rolls his eyes.
The teacher claps her hands together. “Perfect! Now, Ivan, put your hands around Till’s neck.” Ivan glances up at the teacher as if to confirm he was hearing her instructions correctly. When she gives an encouraging nod, he promptly wraps his hands over Till’s throat and she immediately backtracks, “No, not like that,” as their classmates laugh.
Till can only scowl as Ivan chuckles along. His touch didn’t hurt—it was actually pretty gentle considering what Ivan was capable of—but Till jolted anyway. He watches as Ivan’s face mends back to his smug expression. He hated the way Ivan’s warmth lingered on his throat long after he pulled away. When Ivan’s hands rise back up on either side of his face, Till fights the instinct to flinch; he doesn’t want to give the bastard more satisfaction after all. Steadier this time, Ivan places his hands over the nape of Till’s neck like a sloth hanging off a branch and Till tries not to mind the heat crawling up his skin, fueled by spite.
“Normally, we’d bind the person’s wrists with rope but for the sake of this demonstration, you can just hold on to him.” The teacher assures before she turns to the class, “Alright, let’s say you’re in a burning house fire and you find an injured survivor on the ground. How do you safely get them out?”
“The firemen drag.” Students answer to varying degrees of enthusiasm and Till is reminded about how many eyes are on them.
She claps her hands together once more. “Correct!”
To really sell the demonstration, Ivan squeals in a shrill, girly voice, “Ahhh, save me, fireman! I’m burninggg~ It’s sooo hot in here!”
Till could barely tell him to shut up before the class erupts with laughter. He buckles under the attention. Every time Ivan is given an inch, he turns it into a goddamn mile at Till’s expense. The clown in question only lays there, smirking wide enough to expose his snaggletooth and Till fights the urge to kick him in the crotch.
In the same vein as Ivan’s goofy voice, the teacher bellows, “Don’t worry, little girl, we’ll get you out!” Though the class is less receptive, some groaning at the corniness. She coughs, voice fading back to normal, “Ahem, Till, try to crawl forward.”
An anvil of realization drops on Till’s head. Of course he knew he had to drag Ivan but he didn't realize just how arduous it would be until he was staring right at the dead weight’s perfect black hair splayed out on the floor, ebony eyes bored into his own with his jaw poised into a confident smirk and his toned arms accompanying each side of Till’s head like a twisted game of gay chicken. All at once, Till's resolve drains away.
He swallows, hoping Ivan doesn't feel the rivets of nervousness passing down his throat. Slowly, Till’s sweaty palms peel away from the floor and he winces at the stickiness. His bony knees dig painfully into the solid ground as he pushes forward. It’s not that Till’s weak; it’s that Ivan is six feet of pure muscle and is as stubborn as a mule. He can only get so far before he can’t lug Ivan any further.
As if the combined pressure on his neck, weight on his hands and the strain on his back weren't already bad enough, when he finds Ivan giggling—giggling!—beneath him, he crumbles. Right away, Till notices the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, notices the genuine glee (adoration?) in the ebony. He notices the harmonious timber of the sound, notices the way it burrows into his head like a catchy pop song he reluctantly likes. He notices the slightest swipe of Ivan’s thumb against his nape, the way it burns when he presses against the bone.
Till doesn't know what’s wrong with him—why his skin is on fire wherever Ivan touches him or why he can't stop the sound from echoing in his mind. He feels hot all over and the audience’s whispers only make it worse.
A familiar burning sensation creeps below the bridge of his nose as his eyes begin to water. He bites the inside of his lip. He doesn't mean to cry, doesn't mean to show Ivan what he does to him but his body has a way of unloading the overwhelming mix of frustration, embarrassment, and another emotion he can't describe all on its own.
Till has enough restraint to hold himself back. Nothing spills. He won't let it. However, he’s sure the heat radiating off his skin betrays his emotions anyway.
At this point, he’s so entirely sure that Ivan is sabotaging him—he has to be! It shouldn’t be this difficult to drag him unless the meathead was intentionally holding himself down. Till’s not that weak—he can’t be.
Maybe Till can’t read Ivan well but he swears there’s not a single shred of sympathy in his eyes. If anything, he only looks more interested in his expression, taunting, “Cheer up, Till,” as tilts his head towards the crowd and tightens his hold. “Mizi’s watching.”
Mizi was honestly the last thing on his mind but even the mention of her from Ivan—Ivan of all people!—has him seething even more than before. He’s been crushing on the party girl since middle school and yet, Ivan is closer to her than Till ever was. The fact he’s a footballer to Mizi’s cheerleader doesn't help either. Everyday Till’s reminded of just how much he sticks out in Ankt high. Feeling the tears brimming his eyes, he grits, “How about you watch my fist in your face next?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, fireman.” Ivan winks.
Till falters. He racks his brains for a good comeback but he runs blank, too busy with the realization his heart skipped a beat. Tired and flushed, he only grumbles, “I’m seriously going to kill you.” And Ivan smiles like it was a promise.
For what felt like forever, Till struggled to move him. But suddenly, Ivan pushes forward. Till almost feels proud of himself.
Almost.
Because lo and behold, he looks down the space between their bodies to discover Ivan using his feet to push himself forward. Ivan smiles as if to say you’re welcome and Till snarls at him. Goddamn it. To make matters worse, he hears their peers beginning to clap and cheer them on in mock enthusiasm.
Fucking typical.
The moment the teacher says it’s enough, Till scrambles off of Ivan, quickly weaving his head out of his hold and the jock’s head thuds against the floor. Ivan lays there for a second, as if stunned, then follows him up. When they stand, they're met with more applause and laughter from the audience. Till has never thought of a better time to kill himself.
The bell rings soon after. The moment he heard its deafening trill, Till snatches up his bag and rushes out of the room, not caring for Ivan’s meaningless bid for attention behind him. He planned to stop by his locker, drop off his shit and skip the rest of the day in the art room but then he’s suddenly trapped by Ivan, who stationed himself right in front of his locker. Till feels the frustration, the embarrassment, the…something all over again as he sets his eyes on his larger build.
He scowls. “What do you want now? Wasn’t humiliating me in front of the class enough?”
“First off, you were the one who insisted on being on top,” Ivan insists and Till is prepared to explode on him when he’s cut off. "And before you go off on me,” Ivan starts and Till’s furrowed brows deepen. He’s made it crystal clear that Ivan is the last person Till wants to talk to and yet, he’s still here digging through his bag like he has all the time in the world. Till just rolls his eyes and attends to his own locker. “Will this make it up to you?”
Till turns to Ivan, “Nothing you do will make me forg—"
Till’s eyes widened. His eyes run over it once, then twice. He trails up to find Ivan’s satisfied smile.
It’s his lost headphones.
Till can never catch a goddamn break.