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Till dribbles his basketball between his hands absently, staring up at the intimidating mansion in front of him. He’s walked Ivan home before but has always declined to go inside. Somehow it feels like if he just sneezes the wrong way in a place like this he’ll get in trouble for it.
But Ivan wasn’t at school today and hasn’t been answering his texts, and no one in his classes has heard from him. Ivan hasn’t gone a single day without bothering Till in some way, so Till’s genuinely worried. Bouncing his basketball once more, he grips it with both hands, scowling at the front door like it’s an opponent on the court. He can do this.
Inhaling deeply, he marches up the front steps and rings the doorbell. A fifteen second chime plays a melody he doesn’t recognize, and a few minutes later the door opens. A stern-looking woman stares down her nose at him despite being around his same height. Her cold dark eyes scan his outfit, from his hoodie zipped halfway over his faded t-shirt, to his basketball shorts and scuffed sneakers.
“Can I help you?” she asks stiffly.
Till tucks the basketball under his arm, bowing slightly. “Um, I’m Till? Ivan’s classmate? And, uh, friend, I guess . . . he wasn’t at school today?” He grimaces at how those all come out as questions.
“Ivan has fallen ill. If you’ve come to drop off his homework, I’ll take it to him.” She holds her hand out.
Till blinks, startled. “He’s sick? How bad is it? Can I see him?” he asks in quick succession. Ivan never gets sick. He’s always talking about how he must maintain peak physical performance which includes special diets and daily vitamins and exercise. It sounds pretentious as hell, but it’s worked so far.
“No, you may not see him. He needs rest, not to be disturbed by some . . . hooligan.” She gives him that look of disdain once more.
Till flushes, moving the basketball behind his back. “I promise I won’t stay long,” he says, his brain already running through various worst-case scenarios. Is it the flu? Pneumonia? Tuberculosis? Do people even get tuberculosis anymore? Measles? That’s back, apparently.
“The only people allowed to see him are his parents and his doctor,” the woman says.
Till straightens. “You’re not his mom?”
The woman scoffs. “Of course not. Do you think the lady of the house answers the door?”
That’s all Till needs to know, really. He moves to the left before dodging right when she tries to bar his way, used to getting around such defensive blocks on the court. He dashes for the stairs, but before he can climb a single step, a hand grabs his hood and yanks him back.
“Let me go, you old hag!” Till yells, struggling to get away while not losing the basketball. “I just want to make sure Ivan’s okay!”
“No one is to disturb the young master!” the woman screeches, boxing him about the ears with her free hand. “Leave this house at once!”
“No!” Till knows better than to hit a lady, but he wonders if stomping on her foot is permissible.
“Till?”
A familiar voice croaks out from the top of the stairs, and both Till and the woman freeze. Ivan stands clutching the railing in his black pinstripe pajamas, his dark hair and eyes standing out starkly alongside his pale skin, though his cheeks and nose are flushed with fever.
“Ivan!” Till exclaims.
“Young master!” the woman shouts at the same time. “You’re not supposed to leave your bed!”
“I heard yelling . . .” Ivan covers his mouth with his arm as he doubles over, coughing.
Till wrenches away from the woman, dropping his basketball as he runs up the stairs to Ivan’s side. “Shit, you look awful,” he says worriedly, his hands hovering around Ivan’s chest and back, not sure if he should touch him or not. In the end, he rests his palm against Ivan’s sweaty forehead beneath his fringe, frowning. “You’re burning up.”
“Till, you shouldn’t be here,” Ivan says, weakly pushing Till’s hand away. “The doctor said I might still be contagious.”
“I don’t care,” Till declares. “Come on, you should lay down.” He takes Ivan’s shoulders and carefully guides him back toward what he assumes is Ivan’s room, if the meticulous organization and many ice-skating trophies are any indication.
“Why are you here?” Ivan asks, looking confused as he stares at Till through large, glassy eyes.
“You weren’t at school today,” Till explains, helping Ivan back into bed. He pulls the covers up over him. “You didn’t answer any of my texts either.”
“Oh.” Ivan turns his face away as he coughs. “I’ve been sleeping most of the day. Sorry.”
Till shakes his head quickly. “It’s fine . . .” He shifts on his feet, feeling self-conscious now that the immediate danger of a sick Ivan fainting on him has passed. “I just, you know, didn’t know where you were.” He rubs the back of his neck absently.
Ivan blinks slowly. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he admits. “We don’t have many classes together . . .”
Till bristles. “Why wouldn’t I notice, asshole? We hang out at lunch all the time and walk home from school together when you don’t have to go straight to skating practice . . .” His eyes widen. “Wait, is that why you’re sick? You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, haven’t you?” He points his finger at Ivan as he scolds him. “I told you if you kept skating so much your body would give out! I was right, wasn’t I? Now look at you!”
Ivan laughs softly, which quickly turns into another coughing fit.
“It’s not funny!” Till exclaims, his cheeks growing hot with irritation. “You’ve got a fever and can barely stand up straight and you’re coughing . . .” It sounds bad, honestly. Till chews on his lip, anxiety tightening in his chest. “Are you okay?” he asks in a small voice.
Ivan nods. “It’s just the flu. You’re right, though. The doctor said I caught it because I haven’t been getting enough rest. I just . . .” Ivan’s gaze falls to the blankets. “Father wants me to go to a private school that’s specifically for skaters in like Switzerland or something. He thinks I’m getting too distracted with extracurriculars and . . . other things.” His gaze flits up to Till’s face before dropping away again.
Till stares at him, more irritation bubbling to the surface. He clenches his hands into fists. “The fuck? He can’t do that! You’ve been doing just fine here! I mean, what does he think all these are fucking for?” He waves his hand toward the trophies lining the shelves along the wall.
Ivan smiles faintly. “He thinks I should aim higher. Olympics level.”
Till frowns. “You’re good enough to be in the Olympics already without killing yourself over it,” he says fiercely.
Ivan’s eyes widen. “You really think so?”
Till stares at him, not sure why his chest feels squirmy suddenly. “Uh, I mean, sure,” he says, ruffling the hair on the back of his head. “I don’t really know shit about ice skating, but I’ve seen you do those spin things that they do on TV, and it looks just like them so.”
Ivan sighs, leaning his head back against his pillow as he closes his eyes. “My coach says my body’s too stiff, and my routines lack creativity. I’m technically decent, but I lack the freedom of movement I need to be great. She says I’m too much in my head.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Till admits. “But, I mean, you’re only fifteen. You’ve got plenty of time to get to the Olympic level. You don’t gotta go to a special school for that.” He shakes his head, his chest aching.
If Ivan moves away, will Till ever see him again? He’ll probably end up studying abroad through college if he doesn’t get on the Olympic track right out of high school. A lump rises in Till’s throat, and he stares down at Ivan’s flushed face, watching his chest rise and fall with his shallow breaths.
He doesn’t respond, and a closer look reveals he’s passed out. Till presses his lips together, looking at the bedside table where an empty water bottle sits, along with a trash can full of dirty tissues in front of it.
Sighing, Till picks these both up and walks out of the room. He makes his way downstairs, finding his way into the kitchen after stepping through a few incorrect doorways. Someone’s there, but thankfully it’s not the same woman from before. This is a younger woman, maybe in her twenties, with pretty blue eyes and dark curls pulled back into a bun, leaning over the large island counter as she goes through a cookbook.
“Oh! Who are you?” she asks in surprise.
“Till,” Till says with no further explanation. He holds up the trash can. “Trash?”
“In here,” she says, opening a door and pulling a trash bin out with her foot.
Till nods and dumps the contents of the can inside before turning to the fridge to fill the water bottle from the dispenser.
“Do you go to school with Ivan?” the young woman asks curiously.
Till nods. “Yeah. Since elementary.”
Her eyes widen with recognition. “Oh, you’re Till!”
“Uh, yeah. I said that,” Till says with a confused frown.
She laughs. “Sorry, sorry. I’m Joanna. I work here. Ivan’s told me a lot about you!”
“What?” Till stiffens, not sure how to take that.
“Oh yes, he talks about you all the time,” Joanna says with a smile. “It’s always, ‘Till said this’ or ‘Till told me that’ or ‘Till’s team won their basketball game today. He’s so cool.’” Her smile softens. “You two must be good friends.”
“Oh. Um, I-I guess,” Till mutters, blushing furiously. What the fuck, Ivan . . .
“I was just going over a recipe to make him some soup,” Joanna says, gesturing to the cookbook in front of her. “Would you like to help me?”
Till hesitates, knowing he probably shouldn’t linger. Then again, it seems like Ivan’s parents aren’t home and that old hag from before can go fuck herself, so in the end he nods and steps over to the sink to wash his hands.
Joanna shows him how to properly cut the vegetables and goes to start making the broth with some chicken stock. Till watches what he’s doing carefully, both to not nick himself with the sharp knife but also to focus on something that’s not the fact that Ivan apparently tells people about him.
“How old are you, Till?” Joanna asks curiously as she stirs the pot at the stove.
“Um. F-fifteen. Same as Ivan. He’ll turn sixteen before me, though.”
“Ah, the young teenage years. I remember them well,” Joanna says with a twinkle in her eyes. “I bet the two of you get into all sorts of trouble. Going to parties, flirting with girls, playing pranks on teachers.”
“Uh, not really,” Till admits with another blush. “I mean, Ivan’s pretty busy with his honor roll classes, student council, and skating practice. He’s really disciplined about it. He’ll go to like school events and shit, but not any parties . . . and I’ve never heard him talk about girls.” The only pranks he plays are on Till when he feels like being extra annoying.
“Mm, I see,” Joanna says, like she knows why that is.
Till blinks. “What?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” she says with a smile. “Here, dump those in here.” She gestures for him to bring the vegetables over to the pot.
Till does carefully, not wanting any boiling water to splash up on either of them. Joanna smiles and turns the burner down to medium. “You cut these up perfectly! Have you cooked before?”
Till shrugs. “I help my mom sometimes,” he admits.
Joanna hands him the ladle she’s using to stir. “Here, take this while I shred the chicken.”
Till nods, stirring the broth and watching it thicken. He bites his lip. “Ivan said he might be going to a private school overseas . . .”
“Oh. Yes, I’ve heard something to that effect,” Joanna admits.
Till can feel tears burning the corners of his eyes, and he does his best to hold them back. “Is it a for sure thing or . . .?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just heard them talk about it,” Joanna says, glancing sidelong at him. “I do know that Ivan doesn’t want to go. They’ve been arguing almost nightly about it ever since the Boss brought it up.” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure that’s why he got sick. He’s been spending more hours at practice to prove he can stay and still get the quality of skating the Boss and the Coach want from him.”
Till scowls down at the pot. “Idiot,” he mutters. If it’s between Ivan’s health and him leaving, Till would rather Ivan leave, as painful as it is to think about.
Joanna pours the shredded chicken into the pot before turning the heat on low and setting the lid over it. “Let that simmer for a while.”
Till leans back against the island counter, chewing on his lip. His chest aches. He’s never seen Ivan look so weak and helpless before, and he hates it. Ivan’s supposed to be larger than life, strong and elegant, needy and annoying, reliable and comforting. Till’s supposed to be able to lean on him.
When he’s stressing out about upcoming games, Ivan’s there to talk him through the worst-case scenarios with his logic of how they probably won’t happen. When Till agonizes over his homework, Ivan’s there to go over the difficult problems with him. When Till’s team loses and Till blames himself, Ivan’s there with a shoulder to cry on.
He teases Till in every scenario, but he’s also patient and dependable.
Till doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses that, but he also can’t let Ivan sacrifice his health for Till’s benefit. There must be a way to keep Ivan here while also making sure he doesn’t burn himself out.
Once the soup’s ready, Joanna helps him build a small tray with the water bottle and a bowl of the soup, along with some medicine. Till takes the stairs one step at a time, carefully balancing the tray in his hands, as Joanna follows with the trashcan and a second bowl with water and a washcloth.
She sets these down beside the bed, giving Till a wink and a smile before stepping out of the room and quietly shutting the door behind her. Till’s not sure what all that’s about, but he places the tray on the bedside table and picks up the washcloth, squeezing out the surplus water before sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing back Ivan’s fringe to dab at his forehead and cheeks with the cloth.
Ivan’s features flinch at the touch. “Till . . .” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
There’s no response. He’s still asleep. Shaking off the weird fluttering in his stomach, Till dips the washcloth in the water again, twisting out the excess and pressing it lightly against his neck, then, hoping that it’s helping cool him down some.
He repeats this a few times before taste-testing the soup to check the temperature. “Ivan, hey,” he says, shaking the boy’s shoulder gently. “Wake up. You need to eat and take your medicine. Ivan.”
It takes a moment before Ivan opens his eyes blearily. “Till? You’re still here?” he asks, sleepy and confused.
Till nods. “Come on, sit up. You gotta drink some water with your medicine. I brought you soup, too.”
Ivan pushes himself up slowly, and Till hastens to adjust his pillows so he’s lying back propped up against the headboard. He picks up the pill cup, then, and holds it and the water bottle out to Ivan. He takes them both and downs the pills dutifully, sipping on the water before handing it back.
“Now you gotta eat,” Till instructs, moving the tray from the table to Ivan’s lap.
Ivan stares at him, his eyes still glassy but sharper than before. “Why are you still here?” he asks.
Till frowns. Ungrateful bastard. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks sharply.
Ivan’s eyes widen. “No!” His hand latches onto Till’s wrist, startling him. “Please . . . stay.”
Till’s cheeks feel warm. He looks down at the soup. “I was already gonna, stupid,” he says, shaking his head. He puts the spoon in Ivan’s hand, waiting, but Ivan just continues staring at him. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and snatching the spoon back. He gets a spoonful of soup, holding it up to Ivan’s lips. “Open.”
Ivan obeys, his gaze still fixed on Till’s face, as he carefully feeds him the soup.
“I know you’re not too weak to feed yourself,” Till says pointedly, even as he feeds Ivan another spoonful. “You’re taking advantage of me.”
Ivan’s lips twitch in a faint smile.
Till points at him. “Aha! See! I knew it. You’re just pretending to be helpless, aren’t you?” he frowns. “Do this yourself!” He shakes the spoon at Ivan.
“But you’re taking such good care of me.”
“Yeah, well?! Why wouldn’t I?!” Till asks, flustered, though he’s honestly relieved to hear the usual teasing lilt in Ivan’s tone. “We’re friends, aren’t we?!”
“. . . It’s nice. Thank you.”
Ivan’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Till catches it, and his ears grow hot.
“Whatever,” he mutters, scooping up another spoonful of soup and holding it up to Ivan’s mouth, watching him eat. “Just promise me you’re gonna take care of yourself better from now on. I don’t want you to go to Switzerland, but you’re not gonna prove that you’re good enough to stay if you break your body down like this.”
Ivan takes Till’s hand before he can dip the spoon back into the bowl. His palm’s warm and sweaty, so unlike his usual dry, cold touch, but Till doesn’t pull away, simply looks up to meet his gaze.
“Do you really want me to stay, Till?” he asks softly.
Till swallows hard. With his other hand, he reaches up to flick Ivan’s forehead. “Idiot.” He maneuvers the spoon into Ivan’s hand before pulling away. “Eat your soup.”
Ivan hesitates before doing so, moving slowly but steadily. Till watches him closely until he notices Ivan’s strength starting to flag about halfway through the bowl. He takes the spoon from him, then, lifting the tray and setting it back on the table by the bed.
“I promise I won’t overexert myself again,” Ivan says, watching him.
Till nods. “Good.”
He stands and gestures for Ivan to lie down. When he does, he pulls the covers up around Ivan’s shoulders, tucking him in snugly.
“Get some rest. I’ll bring your homework tomorrow after school. Tell your prison guard to let me in next time.”
Ivan smirks faintly. “Only Mother likes Mrs. Kwon because she’s so strict. You’re a much better nursemaid. Prettier, too.”
Till’s cheeks flush pink. “Shut up,” he says, gently pushing Ivan’s head to the side with his fingers. “. . . Joanna’s pretty. Make her your nursemaid.” He’s not sure why he brings that up so bitterly, looking off to the side.
“Mm. I prefer you,” Ivan says softly, and his hand sneaks out from under the covers despite Till’s expert tucking, his warm fingers trailing lightly across the back of Till’s hand.
Till shivers, pulling away. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He picks up the tray, leaving the water, intending to take it down with him. He’s only gone a few steps before he hears Ivan call out weakly.
“Can you stay?”
Till pauses, glancing back to find Ivan watching him once more.
“Please?” Ivan continues softly. “Just . . . until I fall asleep?”
The vulnerable look on Ivan’s face isn’t one Till’s ever seen before. His chest seizes, and he finds himself setting the tray back down as he returns to the bed before he can think better of it.
“Until you fall asleep,” Till agrees, sitting back down on the edge of the mattress. He tucks Ivan back into the covers.
Ivan continues staring, not seeming to blink. It’s unsettling, but Till’s used to such looks from Ivan. He’s given them to Till their whole lives.
“Go to sleep,” he instructs.
Ivan finally blinks, slowly. “Sing to me?”
“What? No,” Till says quickly, shaking his head, as the back of his neck prickles with heat.
Ivan’s lower lip pokes out in a slight pout. “You used to sing to me.”
“Yeah, when we were kids.”
“We’re still kids.”
“We’re teenagers!”
“Please Till?” Ivan blinks up at him again, his snaggletooth catching on his lip as he bites it. “It’ll help me sleep.”
“Argh.” Till runs a hand through his hair, frowning down at Ivan, his neck still feeling warm. “Close your eyes,” he instructs.
This time, Ivan obeys, his eyes fluttering closed, long lashes casting dark shadows against his flushed cheeks. Till sighs, looking out the window to avoid having to see Ivan’s face. He hasn’t sung for anyone in a long time, not since early middle school. He still enjoys music, but since getting better at basketball, he’s thrown himself into it wholeheartedly, and his other hobbies have fallen by the wayside.
His gaze catches on the corkboard above Ivan’s desk by the window. It’s a collage of color-coded notes and photos of Mizi, Sua, and Till, and the four of them together. There’s a tear-away calendar pinned to the corner, covered in practice times, workout routines, and diet schedules.
At the very center of the board, though, is a photo of just Ivan and Till. They’re about twelve or thirteen, and Till’s taking the selfie, grinning widely at the camera as he holds up a peace sign. Ivan’s leaning into him, smiling and using his hand to form half a heart against his cheek, but his eyes aren’t on the camera, they’re on Till.
Beneath the photo is a drawing Till remembers making in elementary school, of Ivan as a bunny and himself as a cat chewing on the bunny’s face. He remembers showing it to Ivan and laughing, to which Ivan responded by biting Till’s cheek. Till shoved him off his chair in retaliation and got sent to the principal’s office as a result.
He didn’t see the drawing when he returned, so he assumed the teacher who scolded him threw it away. Ivan must’ve kept it for some reason.
Till swallows hard past the lump in his throat.
“Tiiiiill,” Ivan whines softly.
“Okay, okay,” Till says quickly, taking a deep breath.
He begins to sing, an old lullaby his mom used to sing to him whenever he got sick and had trouble sleeping through the discomfort. It’s a simple melody, but he’s always found comfort in it. He hopes it helps Ivan, too.
As the last notes drift away, he chances a look over at his friend. Ivan’s asleep, his breathing deeper and steadier than before. Till bites his lip, reaching down to grab the washcloth from the bowl again, squeezing it tightly before folding it and brushing Ivan’s hair back from his forehead. He hesitates before bending over to kiss it lightly, quickly putting the washcloth over the spot as his face burns.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, standing and hastily leaving the room, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.