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The sound of the clock slowly ticking by was a soft, distant kind of noise amongst the pitter patter rain on the windowsill.
Till found his eyes sliding to steal another glimpse at his tutor, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Their knees gently brushed every time Ivan repositioned to cross his legs, long fingers pushing back the glasses sliding down his nose.
Till can’t help the glances he’s stealing, scraping by unnoticed. The slender bridge of Ivan’s nose, the steady attention to his craft. He’s tidied in a dark brown cardigan with buttons down the center. Underneath, a white turtle neck that covers the shadows of his collar bones, prominent through the tight fabric.
Amongst the quiet is the sound of his pencil eraser tapping the paper he’s grading — another test Till absolutely bombed. On purpose.
Ivan breathes out a gentle sigh as he places his pencil down to the paper after circling another one wrong. One could interpret it as a sign of frustration. Till on the other hand, smiled to himself.
“How am I doing, teacher-nim?” The words come rolling off Till's tongue “hesitantly” as he says them, as if they weren’t premeditated. He feels his eyelashes bat slightly, even if Ivan wasn’t looking. Perhaps to feign his innocence. Or maybe, to hide his underlying mischief that he could play the long game.
Usually by now, Ivan would have immediately smiled and reassured him. After all, he’d told Till time and time again that once he got the hang of things, he’d set him loose. Until the day he no longer needed a tutor, Ivan would be there for him. Not that that’s what Till wanted. Nor, would he allow that to happen, of course.
This time though, Ivan finds himself unable to restrain his frown. Till’s chest falls as Ivan pushes himself out from the studying table, shadow casting over Till as he stands.
“Hyung?”
They’re the same age, but Till can’t help address his teacher with some level of politeness and respect. Simultaneously, he felt Ivan was so mature compared to his peers. This picture-perfect image of somebody who was at the top of their grade. Essentially, too worthy for someone like Till. A mere subject to the lower rung of a totem pole. For fodder at the scraps of what hung in the balance of grades and the mercy of teachers.
In the beginning, Till had struggled with his grades because of his unruly attention span. Staring out windows, eyes darting to the students around him and what they were wearing or doing. Anywhere but where he needed to be. That was, until his eyes settled on the back of the head of the class president, who sat in front of Till.
The back of his head wasn’t particularly interesting. Yet, Till took to the tedious task of counting all the hairs of his head. The ones that stuck up slightly, too. Maybe the class president forgot to slick down the cow licks in the morning like he did, from rolling straight out of bed. Nobody was perfect. But as Till stared at the slightly older boy in boredom, someone whom he never took interest in before, he watched the class president rub at his eyes before removing his glasses. Till’s hand had startled out from under his chin as he stared at the top student in awe.
There was nothing all that special about the top student, but there was a secret between him and Till that formed in that very moment. Even if it wasn’t actually secret, just something Till made up in his head as he felt his heart start to race.
The class president had red eyes. Like those of a scarlet apple, slight hues of yellow and orange splattered among the ring of crimson. Beneath his left eye was a mole on his waterline. His nose bridge was sharp and defined, his gaze unwavering and gentle as the teacher explained a difficult math equation Till wouldn’t even be able to comprehend.
At that moment, Till knew he’d make Ivan his tutor, no matter what it took. Despite this dramatic sentiment to himself, it didn’t take much. Just a bow and plead to the class president after class. To which he quickly began to decline, until Till mentioned money. Money. His eyes had lit up, as if there were dollar signs glittering within them.
“Alright,” he’d agreed immediately.
Although he’d agreed on a whim, he also said he’d just tutor him until Till got a grasp for things. Till assumed it was so he didn’t feel greedy for getting paid to help out a fellow student, so long as it wasn’t prolonged.
The silly part of this all — Ivan was actually a really, really good teacher. Great even. Most geniuses were shitty teachers, because they can learn all they want, but teaching is a whole other ball park. Till hadn’t expected to actually, well, grasp a single thing. Those long, complicated math equations with all the letters and fraction's? Became easy. Till had started messing up the answers to his tests on purpose to prevent Ivan from ending things as his tutor.
Till just wanted . . . some alone time with Ivan. To — sit across the table from each other in a mutual silence. Or even, side by side, shoulder to shoulder like they were now.
He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he wanted to be closer. Maybe it was something that had to do with how calming Ivan felt, almost like a stream of water over the jagged rocks of Till’s mind. Like he were the one skipping stones along the stream, hoping they’d fit into the right places.
But as Ivan continued teaching and Till continued improving, he felt the urge for something more. It wasn’t something he could quite identify.
Frequently, it kept him up at night. He’d stare up at the cycling ceiling fan with his joggers rolled all the way up to his knees, thinking so hard it gave him a headache.
Till wondered to himself, what did he really want from his tutor? What was this something more? Was it just — some sort of fascination? Did he want to become closer to Ivan out of curiosity?
Ivan was always composed. So neat and tidy, never loosening his school tie or undoing the buttons down his shirt. He always wore glasses, without any smudges.
Perhaps internally, Till wanted to see under the surface of this bleak exterior. Because, of course, nobody was perfect. To the point, Till wondered if he was rotten, wanting to tarnish this perfect facade. To rip out the painting, to reveal what was behind it.
Maybe it was a sick obsession — to hold Ivan as a tutor hostage and fake idiocy to get closer to him. Through it all, Till didn’t mind being sick if he could figure out what this something more was.
“I’m going to get some fresh air,” Ivan announces as he rustles in his pocket for something. Till just gazes up at him from where he’s sitting, blinking.
“Yeah?” he finds himself saying, though he wanted to beg Ivan to stay, even if he wasn’t going far.
“Yeah,” Ivan nods. “I’ll be right back.” He leans down, sliding a candy along the surface of the studying table.
Then, finally, he lets slip a small smile.
Reading between the lines of it, Till could tell it was tight-lipped. He felt his own mouth purse. Dry tasting, almost craving the candy Ivan set out for him, but doesn’t reach for it.
“‘Kay,” was all he found himself replying, watching Ivan retreat out the front door.
Till leans back on his palms and allows his head to fall back on his shoulders. He’s wearing a beanie today and it’s hot out, hair sticking to his forehead all sweatily. It’s a stupid choice, but he made a lot of stupid choices around Ivan to look cool.
He lets out a heavy sigh, a groan of sorts because Ivan is already outside and there’s no one to question him about it. He’s studying the pattern of the popcorn ceiling, fingers pressing into the rough edges of the carpet. But he’s all itchy inside and — and this whole thing is bothering him.
If Till didn’t want Ivan to go, he could just follow him. A breath of fresh air could do him some good, too — he could lie and say it was too stuffy inside. Easy — a seamless, clean lie. Follow in Ivan’s footsteps.
So, he did. Quickly standing, causing a pencil to roll off the table at the motion and fall to the carpet. He left the candy behind, stuffing his cold fingertips in the pockets of his oversized hoodie.
He pulls on his all-white vans despite the soft rainfall, peeking out the door. The porch is the only protector from the rain, the sound of it falling along Till’s ears accompanied by the sound of his heart beating a little harder.
And, there he is. Ivan is sitting on the steps, one hand pushing back his hair while the other is holding a cigarette. A cigarette.
Till stares at it with widening eyes.
There it was. A crack in this pretty, well framed picture. The class president smoked.
He wore such an unfamiliar face with it too, eyebrows furrowed at the dark sky and a slight crease in his lower lip as he sucked in the heat of the smoke.
Till watched him inhale, finding his own Adam’s apple bob in his throat in fascination. As he watched Ivan’s delicate fingers lift the cigarette to his pink lips, he wondered what it tasted like. Smoke wasn’t anything of desire, the smell of it even burned his nose in the slightest. But this coil at the bottom of his stomach poked him further, this itch he couldn’t scratch to know what it tasted like. What he meant by that, he wasn’t sure, either.
Something in him compelled him to step forward, sneakers a soft thump along the creaky porch floorboards. Ivan looks up at the sounds, lips parting as Till sits quietly beside him. Ivan is staring at him, but still doesn’t know what to say, tucking his hands between the slots of his ripped jeans for warmth.
“Nice weather we’re having today?” he offers, the pair staring out at the increasing rainfall. There’s puddles forming along the indents of paved cement, swimming down to the grated sewers in a collective pool. Some leaves shake from their beaches with the wind, ripples forming along the puddles as they swirl down the drain.
Till’s voice is shaky, the cool air excuse enough for it. Ivan just shifts his eyes from the steady-fall rain to the side of Till’s face, allowing the cigarette to burn away in between his fingers. The smell is pungent, despite this ache in Till’s stomach.
“You’re not surprised?” Ivan finally breaks the silence, shaking Till from his stare down on the droplets of rain pounding the asphalt. While Till would normally steal a glance from a moment and snap away, he finds himself placing his head along his tucked knees to watch Ivan.
“Surprised?” he repeats, eyes meeting Ivan’s familiar, warm colored eyes. They match the glowing cigarette, a glow of sunset orbs.
Till shakes his head.
“It makes you look cooler, you know?”
Ivan snorts a laugh, covering his mouth to hide his grin.
“Really? It’s a bit rebellious, isn’t it?” he says quietly to himself, offering his voice loud enough for Till to hear it. He blinks softly at Ivan, whose eyes fall to his fingers on the ash littering the soft wisps of the wind.
“What’s so wrong with that?” Till asks. He says it so easily, the squint in Ivan’s eyes not going unnoticed. He knows it’s easy for him to say, with the way he dresses to the piercings tightly wrought around his lips that brush the creases of his front teeth. The secret tattoos along his spine and forearms, peeking out from his rolled up sleeves. Freedom of expression in the home was a blessing Till knew all too well.
He knew that there was something festering in Ivan. Something about his look of composure was tightly spun, not an act of self resilience. Rather, a teaching passed along his family. From the last name that carried along, expecting only the best of their offspring with what little they had to offer.
Till didn’t know of the misfortune of being without — a large roof over his head, loving parents that were fine with his grades as long as he was a teenager that kept his head on straight. Ivan was different, in so many ways. He was someone that never let his head slip in the clouds in fear of drowning in the condensation. Since grade school, he did whatever it took to be at the very top, above all else with nowhere to fall upon.
Like everyone else, he was just a kid too.
What’s so wrong with that?
At Till’s words, Ivan places his head against his knees, tucking them to his chest so he’s eye level with Till, watching him silently.
Like how Till found comfort in Ivan’s calming demeanor, Ivan found comfort in Till‘s watchful eyes, that never expected anything of him. That only watched him because they could, allowing him to exist as he was.
Maybe it’s something really small and minuscule to Till, but to Ivan, it meant so much more.
“Want to try?” Ivan holds out the cigarette. Till’s eyes flicker to it, watching the smoke drift between them in soft swirls and puffs. He hums aloud, reaching forward but lets his fingertips fall short in hesitation.
“It’s okay,” Ivan smiles. It’s an easy and soft smile, not one that was formal and rehearsed. Perhaps, something reserved for Till and only Till.
“I can help you,” he says as he brings the cigarette to his mouth, inhaling.
Till watches the action, wondering if he was demonstrating how to do it. His lips purse around the cigarette, inhaling gently as Till watched intently.
His heart skips a beat — he’s not sure why. He just wanted a taste, a small taste. That’s it. He wouldn’t be greedy for . . . something more.
Ivan removes the cigarette, eyes slitting to halves as he gazes back at Till.
Till parts his lips, as if to prepare for Ivan to press the cigarette into his mouth. He waits for the exhale of smoke — yet, it doesn’t come.
Ivan reaches forward, fingertips threading into Till’s hair as he gently tugs him in. His heart seems to jump at the action, eyes dating back and forth in Ivan’s, desperate for an answer of some kind, frantic at their proximity.
Ivan’s leaning toward him, head lifted slightly from his knees. So close, so much as a graze would send Till spiraling. And it does. Ivan’s eyelashes flutter close, fingertips tightening along Till’s strands of hair beneath his beanie. His hat falls to the porch floorboards, a pair of warm lips hooking around his piercings.
Ivan exhales.
The smoke floods Till’s senses, throat restricting, a cough rising a gag in his throat. Ivan’s eyes flicker open, red slitted like a snake poised for a bite, a predatory creature watching as he pulls away.
Ivan’s tongue darts along his lower lip, licking a line across the front of his teeth as Till’s eyes water over his arm that covers his coughing mouth. He wants to curse out the sting of his throat, but he can’t deny the heat building in his stomach at this taste that could hardly be nullified by Ivan if he didn’t give him something sweeter.
Ivan’s lips drawl into a smile, somewhat of a half smirk as his fingers spread along Till’s sweaty hair, tracing down the arch of his neck. Till feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise, widened eyes fastened on the raging crimson, feather light touches sending shivers down his spine.
Ivan reached the back of his collar, dragging his hand along the front to pull Till closer. He can feel his breath along his lips, the soft scent of his cologne and the taste of smoke. It’s all consuming in a way, but more so is his hungry gaze on Till as he presses his smiling mouth back to his.
He doesn’t close his eyes this time, nor does Till, wide gaze into slitted. He’s wearing that look again — something composed and perfect, unwavering. But this time, there’s an underlying venom in its cracks, pouring out into Till’s soul as he drinks him in. He can feel the curve of his smile against his lips, cold piercings bumping against his skin.
Ivan’s fingers travel his skin, to grasp the small of Till’s back, squeezing. A gasp falls from his throat at the action, allowing space for Ivan’s tongue to dart between his teeth. Ivan licks along them, pants and spit mixing together as he explores Till’s mouth. He reaches the roof of his mouth, pulling back to fan his hot breath over Till’s piercings. The air between them is frigid, unfeeling from the heat of their mouths and heavy gasps of air.
Till almost feels like he’s being swallowed whole by Ivan, consumed by this snake that had gobbled up the prey rabbit he was.
Ivan breaks the kiss by leaning back, eyes falling along Till’s panting mouth, gazing on softly. He can’t still his heart, shaky hands coming up to the clench the fabric of his shirt as he searches the stillness of Ivan’s eyes.
“Don’t call me hyung anymore,” Ivan breaths, but Till can hardly hear him over his spinning vision.
“What?” he finds himself sputtering, feeling dizzy. It’s so stupid and uncool — a panting, frantic mess in front of his teacher who was always composed. He always knew the steps and order of things, as if he knew what came next.
What came next apparently, was to press Till along the porch steps so his back arched over them, eyes frantic on Ivan’s as he smirked.
“Just call me Ivan-oppa.”
His voice is distant to Till’s ears as he presses his fingers under the hem of his shirt, along the skin of his back. His eyes follow his cool fingertips, dilating.
The name request is silly — something for a younger girl to call an older boy. But Till was a boy, and so was Ivan.
“Ivan…”
”Oppa,” Ivan finishes with the flash of his teeth, something sinister and teasing.
Till swallows the lump in his throat.
“Ivan-oppa.” His voice is weak in his throat and the desperate plea is almost akin to a girl’s. Ivan smirks in satisfaction. It’s a parallel to his usual tight-lipped smiles, a perfect match to light his cigarettes.
Till can tell his teeth are chattering by now, scraping along his piercings as they tremble. The wind has picked up, it’s raining harder and the heat from Ivan’s body was causing a storm to rise within Till. The friction of their clothes rubbing together, the intensity of Ivan’s eyes as his fingertips grazed over the bare skin of his tattoos.
The trees surrounding them are hardly visible, the screeching of tires causing the moment to halt to a stop. Headlights graze their backsides, lighting them up in a soft yellow amidst the gaps of rain.
They freeze.
“Mom,” Till blurts. “My mom’s home.”
Ivan leans his weight off Till, who quickly shoves past him, stumbling along the steps into the rain.
His parents are home, bright red station wagon parked on the driveway as his parents shield their heads with suitcases.
“Mom!” Till calls out, shrill voice coming out sharp. He can hear Ivan giggling behind him, but the searing heat in his cheeks wills him to not look back.
“You’re — home so soon!” Back quickly from their trip, Till is flustered to see them as they hurry through the rain. They don’t pay him much mind, Io calls out a greeting, quickly passing Till up the stairs through the merciless downpour.
Ivan watches them, giving them a small acknowledgment as they huff from running, kicking their shoes off at the entrance. The car headlights dim, Till shuddering as he turns to look at Ivan who is still gazing up at him, eyes silent. There’s a quiet bustle from the kitchen, Io calling for Till to close the door and come inside quickly before the wind comes in. The rain is dotting the fabric of his shirt, hair sticking to his forehead. His beanie is long discarded, somewhere lost along the porch steps they fell on.
“I didn’t know you had a tramp stamp?” Ivan grins, a toothy grin that sends a shot of heat to Till’s lower half.
He flusters, a surprised sound catching in his throat. Ivan looks amused at his reaction, eyes training down to the hands now covering the crotch of his ripped jeans.
“I guess we all hide things, huh?”
Till screeches — the sound of a rodent caught in the daggers of a snake by his throat, spinning on his heels to slam the porch door behind him.
Till had started this entire thing, but Ivan wasn’t in the slightest surprised when he got a perfect score on his next handmade test.
Ivan leans his head into his palm, eyes slitting as Till tries to look away, only to be captivated by his gaze. His lips are wobbly, desperate to get away.
“Trying to get rid of me already?” Ivan smiles.
“You won’t get off that easy.”
At the horrified, yet complete tomato-red and adorably embarrassed face Till was making, Ivan’s gentle fingers find his silver hair again. He laughs against his piercings as he pulls Till in for another opened-mouth kiss.
”Hehe.”