Archive of Our Own

Till used his reflection in the huge glass windows lining Anakt Co.’s exterior to double check his hair. It was probably…a little messier than would be appreciated for his first day. Till ran his fingers through pale silvery strands in an attempt to fix it into something more presentable.

The early morning air still smelled like last night's downpour, that specific scent of rain on pavement, so different to the earthier wet grass smell he was used to. That was to say, the slightly too-long hems of his slacks were damp. They were also a little too tight in the thighs, but they were the best — and only — pair he owned. He'd ironed his grey button-down with a hairdryer. His boots were scuffed from years of wear.

His reflection looked like a kid playing dress up. He ran a hand through his hair and then attempted to finger-comb the messy strands back down with a grimace.

He'd gotten a call from his mom earlier while he was still getting ready. Just be yourself, sweetheart, she'd said, sounding more worried than Till himself. And be polite. And maybe remember to tuck your shirt in?

He had tucked it in. And then pulled it back out.

Till wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. This was nothing. Nothing! A piece of cake! He had this in the fuckin' bag!

This was a goddamn lifeline thrown by Auntie Mila — no, just Mila now? He hadn't seen her since he was in middle school, but she'd still reached out to his mom with a job offer. A real job. One that came with benefits and everything.

Apparently they were looking for someone bright, someone trustworthy, to be the CEO's Executive Assistant. It was the sort of title that felt a thousand miles away from anything he'd ever expected of himself. Oh fuck, what if they expected him to know how to work a spreadsheet?

For a moment, Till considered just…not walking in. He could get a coffee on the way back home to his shitty little studio to apply for more bar-tending gigs that barely covered his rent. Sorry mom, he’d say, all dejected when he saw her next, I really did try, I guess I just didn’t fit in around there. And then his mom would ruffle his hair, so similar to her own, and tell him to keep his chin up because she knows her son is a fighter and this won’t keep him down.

Ah, fuck it.

Till squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The lobby was all polished marble floors and sterile white lights. A huge sculpture took up a truly baffling amount of space in the center, dark metal jutting out in sharp interlocking angles. There was a single tall potted plant beside the sleek white reception desk.

The woman sitting behind it looked up with a smile. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, uh," Till resisted the urge to fiddle with the strap of his messenger bag. "Till. First day. I'm the new…assistant."

Till was directed to a semi-circle of white leather chairs to wait after he handed over his driver's license. He'd been given a visitor's badge on a lanyard, and he fumbled with getting it over his head. After a few minutes, he was directed to elevator bank C.

Top floor.

After a brief eternity, the elevator doors slid open with a pleasant ding! and Till jabbed the button for the 50th floor. Elevator music played from hidden speakers. Till distantly wondered how many days it would take of muzak and endless office drab for people to lose their minds. He tugged at his too-stiff collar, adjusted his tie, tapped the toe of each of his scuffed boots against the floor.

Around the 40th floor, his ears popped. Jesus christ.

For the first time, Till finally let himself wonder what Ivan would be like. The last time Till had seen Ivan, Till was still in middle school. Ivan had been a lanky college kid home for break, but Till's memories were a haze of childish betrayal that his best friend in the whole world had dared to leave. They hadn't spent much time together over that break, and Ivan hadn't come back home at all after that.

Now he was a goddamn CEO. Ivan used to let him tag along as a kid, never told him to fuck off even when Till was being an obnoxious loud-mouthed little shit. He probably didn't even remember Till's name.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

The floors this high up were all dark wood and frosted glass. Till’s shoes thudded too loudly down the hallway, passing closed door, closed door, break room, open door to a meeting room.

At the very end of the hall, a closed door had a sign with a familiar name.

Till thought to himself, don't be a fucking pussy, and knocked.

A pause. Then,

“Come in.”

The voice was deeper than he remembered.

Till pushed the door open. The first thing that hit him was the scent — something faintly sweet, like vanilla, with a cold biting edge. The office was bathed in soft early morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city a seemingly endless expanse through the glass. Ivan sat behind a desk, typing away on a keyboard. His hair was swept back, longer than Till had ever seen it. A silver watch glinted on his wrist. Even his charcoal gray suit looked tailored to Till’s eyes.

Till knew that he was staring. The last time he saw Ivan in person, he was a lanky kid just a few years younger than Till is now.

"Till." Ivan said.

He remembered.

Till's heart did something stupid in his chest.

Before Till could remember how to form words, Ivan continued. "You're late." Even if his voice was lower, smoother, the way his mouth shaped his words was the same. Then his words registered.

Till blinked. Once, twice. “I was told to be here at eight.”

Ivan’s fingers still. Slowly, he glanced at Till from over the top of his half-lens glasses. A dark eyebrow arched. “You were told to be here before eight,” Ivan corrected, “so you’re ready when I am.”

Till pulled a face. “Right. Because you’re incapable of pouring your own coffee or answering your own emails. My bad, Ivan.”

Ivan was the one staring now. Till fought back laughter because yeah, that was an expression he was used to. Ivan used to give him that same baffled look all the damn time.

"Have a seat." Ivan finally said, gesturing to the single chair in front of his desk.

Till perched on the edge. He kind of felt like he was back in the principal's office.

"Your mother is well?" Ivan asked. His leather chair creaked as he leaned back.

"Yeah. She's great. Sends her love." Till wanted to walk off the building.

"Please extend my regards." Ivan sounded perfectly professional. It made the embarrassment of his own fumbling even worse. "Now," Ivan continued, "your resume. It was rather…unconventional."

Here it comes, Till thought, humiliation prickling at his cheeks.

"However, my mother was insistent." Ivan added. "And she is rarely wrong about people's potential. This position requires discretion, efficiency, and the ability to anticipate needs. My schedule is complex. My tolerance for error is low. Do you understand?"

Till felt the familiar spark of defiance. This was just Ivan. Older, a fuck-ton richer, but still Ivan.

He leaned back in the chair, mirroring Ivan's posture. "So what you’re saying is, you need someone to keep you in line. Make sure you eat lunch, take a piss break, that sort of thing. Got it."

Ivan went very still. “Are you going to be a problem, Till?” he said his name slowly.

A smile tugged at Till's mouth. “Me? Never.”

Ivan’s gaze flicked over him, from his messy hair to the wrinkled shirt and the frayed strap of his bag. His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not a smile. Finally, he said, “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Till lied, because oh, he remembered why he used to be that annoying little brat who would follow Ivan around and all but tug on his metaphorical pigtails.

Ivan shook his head. He slid a folder across the desk. "This contains your access codes, the employee handbook, and my calendar for the next two weeks. Your desk is outside. I have a conference call in ten minutes. You may go."

Till stood, tucking the heavy folder under his arm. "Right. Okay."

The door closed behind him. Till let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He looked down at his own hands. They were trembling, just slightly.

Get it together, he told himself. He's just a guy. A rich, stressed-out, kinda-hot guy who used to let you borrow his comics.

His new desk was, in fact, right outside Ivan’s office. It was a sleek modern thing with a desktop that definitely cost more than Till’s entire wardrobe. Of course, the first thing he did was rifle through every drawer, pawing around at post-its and paperclips and a brand new notepad. Till grabbed a pen and scribbled on the corner of a post-it. Expensive as shit, the ink flowed delightfully smooth from its tip.

There was a slim black lamp beside his monitor. When he flicked it on, its light was startlingly bright. It had a dimmer and Till nudged its bulb from a soft glow to that eye-searing radiance. Fancy, Till thought, flicking the lamp back off. Probably more than his rent.

The chair didn't so much as squeak when Till dropped into it. He spun, taking in the space around himself. There was a shelf with a row of succulents in shiny black pots, as well as a succulent on his desk. Till poked one of the leaves, half expecting it to be fake. It wasn't.

In the black mirror of the fancy frameless monitor, Till saw himself. Pale hair, teal eyes wide. There was a dark stain on the collar of his shirt. Jesus, how long had that been there?

Till jiggled the mouse for a second until the screen lit up and his reflection disappeared. Till fumbled with the heavy folder, pulling out the sheet with his temporary login credentials. He typed them in, his fingers clumsy on the sleek keyboard.

The desktop was simple. A few corporate icons, and a color-coded calendar widget. Ivan’s schedule. Meetings, calls, flights. It was nonstop obligations from 7 am to 9 pm, every day. Board reviews, investor calls, lunch with the CFO. No breaks. Nothing that just said take ten for a breather.

If his own role was even half as exhausting as Ivan's appeared to be, Till understood why position turnover was so high.

Till eyed the expensive pens again. If worse came to worst, he would at least be shoving a few of those in his bag on the way out.

Two weeks in, Till was beginning to consider that maybe working for Ivan wasn't the worst job he could have.

He'd finally figured out how to work the goddamn coffee machine in the break room — mostly by furiously googling the brand name and watching a youtube tutorial with the volume down. It was a nightmare to use, but the coffee was so good it almost made the hassle worth it. Almost.

Till noticed the crooked tie first thing in the morning. Ivan was mid-conversation with Sua, the CFO. Her hair was cut in a short dark bob that almost reminded Till of Ivan’s childhood bowl cut. Which was something that he didn't mention, because he couldn't imagine that it would go over well.

Ivan was usually precise about his tie, his cuff links, the lines down his slacks. Ivan shifted and the leg of his pants rose just a little, showed off the bold VLTN on his socks. Till blinked at the sharp curve of Ivan’s ankle, visible through the cotton, and felt like he was looking at something deeply inappropriate. Till looked back to the navy blue tie where it sat crooked against Ivan's throat — except that view wasn't any safer. The knot was loose enough that Till could see a hint of collarbone above Ivan’s white collar.

Till waited until Sua walked away, her red-soled heels clicking against the hardwood, before stepping into Ivan’s space.

“Hold still.” Till reached up before Ivan could pull away.

Ivan did , in fact, still. “What — “

“Your tie’s all fucked.” Till explained, unraveling the silk with quick, practiced motions.

“...I was in a hurry.”

Till hummed, mm-hm, sure, noncommittal. He remembered when his hands were much smaller, fumbling with a tie while Ivan knelt down so Till could reach, the way Ivan would encourage him as Till struggled. Looking back on it, Till had no doubt that the knots he tied were disastrous. Still, Ivan had always thanked him with a smile, what would I do without you, Till?

Apparently, end up with a wreck of a tie anyway. Till tightened the knot with a sharp tug. “There you go.”

Ivan exhaled. His long eyelashes cast dark shadows on his cheeks when he looked down like that. The office was too quiet, just the soft hum of the heating system and chatter from behind a closed-door meeting room down the other end of the hall. Finally, he said, “Thank you.”

Till smoothed the silk down Ivan’s chest, over the steady beat of Ivan’s heart. “Next time you need help dressing yourself, you know where to find me.”

It was a joke. Ivan’s wide-eyed look of shock made it fall flat between them. A breath passed, two. Till stepped away. Ivan turned back to his work.

An hour later, Till typed VLTN socks into google. Between answering emails and organizing Ivan’s calendar, Till searched silk navy tie and fancy expensive suit and luxury watch. He ended up with several tabs open to men’s fashion blogs and articles.

Till leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers as he stared at the screen. Of course Ivan’s socks were Valentino, made in Italy, a blend of fabrics with percentages that meant nothing to him. The tie was silk-grenadine sourced from Como, whatever the hell that meant. 

Till shook his head and closed the tabs. He shouldn’t have been surprised — this was Ivan, after all. The same kid whose family had a summer home bigger than Till’s house.

The year Till started kindergarten, his mom worked at a high-end tennis club. The courts were pristine, the grass perfectly trimmed. His mom’s uniform always smelled like chlorine and lemon disinfectant. Despite her tired eyes and aching feet, it was a job she would always say she was lucky to have.

Till didn’t understand how lucky meant blisters on her heels and the kind of frustration that made her curse to herself whenever she thought Till was out of earshot. But he did understand that his mom had a soft spot for one of the regulars, a woman with dark hair always perfectly curled and her designer-brand tennis skirts.

The first time Io brought Till along to their weekly brunches, she’d spent over an hour fussing about his hair and his clothes. Mila's a little out-of-touch, Io had said, snipping off a frayed thread from his shorts, but she’s harmless. If she says something a little strange, you’ll be nice, won’t you?

Till remembers how his mom’s new friend would crouch to his height when she spoke to him, how she never wrinkled her nose at his grass-stained knees or too-loud voice. One time, with a smile on her painted lips, she’d asked if Till would like to meet her son.

And now here he is. CEO.

Till’s gaze strayed to that fancy ass lamp again. It only took a few minutes of googling for him to discover that it was a daylight lamp, made to help artists have a more honest relationship with their art.

Till glanced at the lamp. Glanced at his bag. Glanced back at the lamp.

He added the lamp to his mental list of shit he was definitely shoving in his bag on the way out.

The wheels of Till’s chair squeaked as he spun. His watch told him that it was 11:47 am, which meant Ivan had been in a meeting for almost three whole hours. Till already went through the trouble of reorganizing Ivan’s calendar, answering seventeen emails (by the end of his first day, Ivan had a conversation with him about toning down the passive-aggressiveness in his replies), and had filled the margins of his notepad with doodles of the various unimpressed faces Ivan made when Till inevitably fucked up his coffee.

The elevator dinged. Till stopped mid-spin when he caught sight of Ivan storming down the hallway, his tie loosened and his jaw clenched tight. Till whistled — clearly someone had done a great job at pissing him off.

Ivan didn't even look at him as he shoved his way into his office. Till drummed his fingers on his desk and managed to wait three seconds before following.

Ivan was standing in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, fingers pressed to his temples.

Till used his heel to kick the door shut behind him. “Rough meeting?”

Ivan exhaled sharply. “Go back to your desk, Till.”

Till, of course, dropped into the chair across from Ivan’s desk and stretched out his legs. “You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm, old man.”

That made Ivan look at him, something like disbelief clear on his face. “Old man?”

“Yeah,” Till nodded wisely, “old as hell. Honestly, way too old to be freaking out like this.

Ivan’s shoulders went tense, and Till got the sense that he'd seriously misstepped. “I don’t have time for — “

“For what? Breathing?” Till asked, more firm this time. “Seriously, sit down before you pass out.”

A long silence. Then, Ivan listened. He all but collapsed into his leather chair with a sigh. His hands dragged down his face. For the first time, Till noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

Ivan’s fingers, long and elegant (pianist fingers, Ivan’s mother used to coo over him), stilled where they were massaging his temples. “Excuse me?”

Till shrugged. “Not an insult. When was the last time you slept? Actually slept. Like in a bed, not passing out at your desk.” Till tapped the scuffed toe of his shoe against the sturdy wood.

Ivan’s expression twisted. It was something Till hadn’t seen in years, an expression he struggled to name — “That’s none of your concern.”

Till laughed. “I’m your assistant. It’s literally my job.”

A muscle jumped in Ivan's jaw. He looked like he was debating whether to fire Till on the spot or throw something at him. Instead, he said, "Get out."

Till didn't move.

"I said—"

“Yeah, I heard you. You don’t actually want me to leave, do you?” Till knew that he was right. Because that expression was Ivan pouting. He used to get like that all the time. Small irritations that would turn the charming Ivan everyone adored into a quiet sullen teenager, sulking in his bedroom and refusing to come out. Every time Till would peek into his room, with its curtains drawn and angsty music playing, Ivan would snap at him to get out.

Till never listened. Even as a kid, it hadn't taken long for him to understand that sometimes, Ivan wanted to tell people to leave him alone just so they would prove that they wanted to stay. Ivan always pouted just like this, seriously, Till, I just want to be alone.

They both knew he was lying. Till never minded sitting with Ivan until that pout went away.

Till stood, rounded the desk, pressed two fingers to the pulse point in Ivan’s wrist. “Jesus, your heart’s racing. That meeting really upset you, huh?”

Ivan jerked like he wanted to pull away. Till tightened his grip.

“Breathe.” Till said. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this.” He demonstrated with exaggerated inhales and exhales.

Ivan glared. His cheeks were going pink. After a moment, he copied Till.

“Theeere you go. Not so hard, huh?” Till watched Ivan’s shoulders rise and fall with each breath, his expensive button-up shirt pulling taut over his generous chest just a little at the peak of every inhale. After a minute, Till’s thumb brushed over Ivan’s wrist and found his pulse still racing. “What’d they do in there? Piss in your coffee? Steal your favorite paperclip?”

He was teasing, because Ivan did, in fact, have a favorite brand of paperclips. Ivan scowled and his blush seemed to deepen. “They…questioned my authority.”

Till barked a laugh, delighted. Under all of Ivan’s serious expressions and expensive gold watches and luxury cars, he was still that stubborn kid who always took every insult to heart. “Oh, so it’s personal. Poor baby. Big, scary CEO throwing a tantrum cuz someone questioned his authority.”

Ivan looked outraged. “I am not— ”

“You are.” Till interrupted. “You’re storming around, slamming doors and huffing like you’re about to start crying.”

Ivan’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click of his perfect teeth. Except for his snaggletooth — that charming little fang Till used to poke at every time Ivan smiled at him. It was still noticeable enough for Till to catch glimpses of it. Till wondered if Ivan got adult braces. Wondered how long he had them on for. If his snaggletooth was still so prominent because he forgot to wear his retainer regularly. The thought made his heart ache.

For a long moment of silence, Till thought he’d gone too far. Then Ivan exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders slumping. "I don't...tantrum." he muttered, his voice gone almost petulant in a way that sends an unexpected thrill down Till’s spine.

Till grinned, "Coulda fooled me." He let go of Ivan’s wrist, but only to reach for the coffee cup abandoned on the desk. He took a sip — cold, of course — and made a face. "Ugh. No wonder you’re pissed. This shit tastes like battery acid."

Ivan watched him, something unreadable in his expression. "You were the one who made it." he said, but there was no real bite to it.

Till ruffled Ivan’s always-neat hair into something messier and pretended not to notice how still Ivan went under his hand. “Yeah yeah, I get it. I’ll go make you a fresh cup, properly, if you sit here without doing any work for five whole minutes. Deal?”

Ivan hesitated. Then, with that pout, he nodded.

For a moment, Till lingered. Ivan’s hair was just as soft as it used to be, when he had that charmingly hideous haircut and would steal his mother’s floral-scented shampoo. Eventually, Till pulled away. “Five minutes.” he reminded as he took slow, exaggerated steps towards the door. “Seriously. I’ll know if you cheat.”

Ivan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curled just a little into something close to a smile.

The break room was empty. Till leaned against the counter as the coffee machine gurgled away. He kept thinking back to Ivan’s expression, that mix of irritation and something vulnerable. Till’s stomach did a little flip at the thought of those dark eyes looking up at him.

When Till returned, fresh coffee in hand, Ivan was right where Till left him. His hands were folded in his lap and he was staring out one of the windows at the city skyline. His profile was…pretty. Strong nose, long eyelashes, a soft mouth. He never quite outgrew the roundness of his cheeks. Till smiled as he placed the mug down.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Till teased, just a little.

Ivan blinked, as if startled out of his thoughts. His fingers curled around the mug and for a moment, he just stared at it. Till wondered if Ivan could smell the abundance of sugar added to the caffeine. Ivan’s shoulders relaxed, just a little, as he took a small sip. “It was excruciating.” he finally replied, deadpan.

“Uh-huh.” Till said, laughter clear in his voice, like he was humoring a small child’s ridiculous babbling. “I’m so cruel, making you sit still for five whole minutes, huh? Poor Ivan.”

Ivan’s grip tightened on the mug. His lips parted —

The phone on his desk rang. Ivan put his drink down to reach for it.

Till groaned, loud and frustrated. “Ignore it.”

Ivan hesitated. Till’s pulse kicked up the longer Ivan spent staring at the phone without moving. For a second, Till thought Ivan might seriously let it ring out.

Finally, Ivan sighed and picked up the phone.

Till returned to his desk with a roll of his eyes, groaning when he found several new emails.

Ivan was clearly a work in progress. Luckily, Till had always been even more of a stubborn asshole than Ivan himself, and a work in progress was better than no progress at all.

The sizzle of garlic hitting oil was loud in Till’s tiny kitchen. He had his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, and he missed a few words in the time it took for the food to return to a low simmer.

“— and you're eating properly, right? Actual meals?”

Till rolled his eyes, and then felt bad for it because his mom was always just looking out for him. “Yes, mom. I’m literally making dinner right now.”

She clicked her tongue, and he could so clearly see that unimpressed expression on her face even from the other side of the country. “That’s what you used to say in college, you know.”

Till flipped a piece of chicken in the pan, frowned when it didn't flip the whole way, and prodded it with the tip of his spatula. “In my defense, I was making dinner. It just happened to be shitty microwave meals and cheap ramen.”

His mom sighed, long-suffering. After a moment, she began, “And how’s Ivan?”

Till’s hand stilled. He could hear her smile through the phone. “...He’s fine.”

“Hmm.”

“What? He’s fine. Total workaholic. Needs someone to remind him to eat.” Till frowned at his food and wondered what Ivan was having for dinner — if he was eating at all.

Silence. Then, his mom’s voice, soft, “He always did push himself.”

Till thought about being six the first time he noticed the dark circles under Ivan’s eyes, his yawns after sleepless nights spent studying. Till tightened his grip on the spatula and gave a quiet hum of agreement.

“Remember,” his mom laughed suddenly, that same loud barking laugh Till got from her, “remember when you were, what, seven? And I got you that skateboard for Christmas, and you told Ivan he had to ride it. And then you cried because he fell off and skinned his knee, and you kept crying until he let you put a band-aid on it.”

Till ignored the warmth in his cheeks. “Didn’t happen.”

“You kissed it better and everything.”

“Gross.”

“It’s true!”

Till dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, mom, that was like…twenty years ago.”

“And now you’re bringing him coffee and making sure he eats."

“It’s my job.” Till insisted.

“You’ve always liked looking after people, Till.” His mom went quiet for a moment. Then, softer, she said, “Don’t tell Ivan, he might end up thinking differently of his mom, but…I think that’s why she wanted him to hire you. It’s tough on her, you know? With Ivan so far away. And she knew that you’d take care of him.”

The thought made something twist in his chest. He pictured Ivan at his desk, shoulders tight with stress, fingers rubbing at his temples like he was trying to press the exhaustion out of his skull.

"Yeah, well," Till muttered, "someone’s gotta."

His mom hummed. "And how’s that going?"

Till scowled at his chicken. "He’s stubborn as hell. Acts like basic human needs are optional."

"Sound familiar?"

"Mom."

She laughed. "I’m just saying! You used to forget to eat for days when you got wrapped up in your art. Drove me crazy."

Till opened his mouth to argue — then stopped. Because, well. Shit. He had been like that. Still was, sometimes. Finally, he just said, “Ugh.”

In a tone like she was agreeing with him, she replied, “Ugh.”

The printer jammed with a sound like a dying animal.

Till looked up from his screen just in time to see Ivan crouched beside the communal printer, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a smear of toner across his cheek. There was a stack of crumpled, half-printed contracts by his side.

Till watched, smiling just a little, as Ivan jabbed at the touchscreen. His sigh was loud enough that Till could hear him from the other end of the hallway. Ivan yanked open the paper tray and frowned intensely at whatever he found. The plastic creaked worryingly in his grip.

Chin propped in hand, Till let Ivan’s mini-tantrum continue for another minute before he called out, “Need an adult?”

Ivan’s head snapped towards him. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, gel brushed away by Ivan dragging frustrated hands through it. “It’s broken.” he grit, like the printer had personally betrayed him by daring to jam.

“Uh-huh.” Till rounded his desk with a grin. Ivan looked away as Till rolled up his own sleeves. He nudged Ivan aside with his hip and smacked the side of the printer, hard. It made another worrying noise before whirring back to life, then spitting out a perfectly printed contract.

Ivan stared at it.

Till took the piece of paper, looked it over, and said, “What do we say when someone does something nice for us?”

Ivan stared at him like he thought Till was crazy. Till shifted his body weight to lean against the printer, making it clear that he was settling in until Ivan used his manners. Silence stretched between them.

“Just two little words.” Till prompted. He saw Ivan’s pulse jump in his throat, and oh, wasn't that interesting.

“Were you always this much of a mouthy brat?” Ivan finally said. His cheeks were flushed pink and splotchy.

“Yes,” Till agreed easily, “literally always. Since the day I was born, probably.”

Ivan turned his face away, staring resolutely out the window like he thought this was some trick question and the outside world would provide the answer.

Till gave the paper a little shake. “C’mon, princess,” he teased, like his own words didn't have his heart racing. “Please and thank you — you really need me to teach you how to use your manners?”

A muscle jumped in Ivan’s jaw. His gaze flicked from the paper to Till’s grin, then to the floor. “...Thank you.”

“Thank youuuuu….?” he trailed off.

Ivan’s shoulders hiked up around his ears. Till didn't think he’d ever seen Ivan this embarrassed in his life. He was enjoying every second of it. He wished he could pull out his phone to take a picture — or fifty — without Ivan trying to kill him for it. “Thank you, Till.”

Till handed over the paper. “See? Was that so hard?”

“Don’t call me princess.” Ivan said belatedly, clutching the contract. It crumpled in his hands. He was going to have to reprint it anyway. His brows were furrowed, cheeks still pink.

“Sure thing.” Till agreed, easy, reaching out to thumb the toner off Ivan’s cheek. Ivan looked startled. Till couldn't resist pushing just a little more, “You’re a mess today, huh?”

Ivan’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I have work to do.” he said, without moving away.

Till wiped his thumb clean on his own dark pants. “Yeah? How’s that goin’ for you?” He nodded towards the quietly humming printer. “Need me to hold your hand in case the scary printer tries to get you again?”

The flush had spread its way down Ivan’s neck, disappearing beneath his collar. “I can manage just fine.”

Till hummed, considering. “Sure you can.” He plucked the ruined contract from Ivan’s grip and crumpled it into a ball. “Go sit down. I’ll handle this.”

For a moment, Ivan’s brows furrowed and he looked ready to argue. His mouth formed a tight, frustrated line. Then, finally, he nodded.

Till watched him walk back to his office, past Till’s abandoned desk.

When Till dropped off the stack of documents to Ivan’s office, he found Ivan staring blankly at his monitor. Till set the papers down with a casual, “You’re welcome, princess.”

No protest. Ivan’s breath hitched, just barely audible.

Till moved to leave, already dreading all of the emails that were sure to have filled his inbox while he was away. Before he could take another step, there was a tug at his sleeve.

Till froze.

Ivan’s fingers curled into the fabric of Till’s shirt, just for a second, just long enough for Till to feel the warmth of his broad hand through the thin material. Then Ivan jerked away like he’d been burned. He cleared his throat, dark eyes fixed stubbornly on the stack of freshly printed documents, flipping through them as though nothing had happened.

Till stared.

The late afternoon light poured through those tall windows, threading gold through Ivan’s lashes, catching on the curve of his jaw and how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked…fuck, he looked pretty like this, flushed and caught out.

Till wanted to tease, you can just ask if you want me to stay. It was something Ivan used to say when they were much younger, when Till would cry himself hoarse at the idea of his best friend going home after spending hours together. A gentle hand in his pale hair, voice warm, thumbs wiping away his tears, you miss me already?

But there was something fragile between them. Till knew that a joke right now would shatter whatever it is.

Ivan glanced up at him for just a second. Whatever he saw on Till’s face seemed to fluster him. He looked away just as quickly, shifting in his seat, tucking a longer strand of hair behind his ear. When he lowered his head to keep reading, that strand fell forward again.

Till left Ivan's office without saying anything.

The moment Till’s apartment door clicked shut behind him, he was already stripping off his wrinkled dress shirt, letting it drop to the floor in a heap. His belt buckle clinked as he unbuckled it and toed out of his shoes. By the time he reached the bathroom, he’d left a trail of clothes from the entryway. He turned the shower to hot, steam rising in the small, cramped space as Till stepped under the spray.

The water was scalding, just how Till liked it. He tilted his face into it, trying to focus on anything other than his half-hard cock heavy between his thighs. He only lasted a minute before he caved, bracing a forearm against the tile as his other hand slid down his stomach, through a thick tuft of pale hair, to wrap around his flushed cock with a rough stroke. He groaned, forehead dropping to the cold porcelain tile.

He’d thought about Ivan before, in the kind of way you can’t help but notice people who are objectively beautiful. Never like this. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. But fuck, the way Ivan had looked at him. Those dark eyes wide with embarrassment, those pretty pink lips parted like he was shocked that he’d reached out, the way he struggled to even look at Till afterwards.

Till tightened his grip, thumb swiping over the swollen head of his cock, smearing wetness down his length on the next stroke. He was big — thick enough that his fingers didn't quite meet when he fucked his fist like this, long enough that the tip brushed against his stomach when he was fully hard. And fuck, he got wet, on every stroke his cock throbbed and precum dripped over the backs of his knuckles.

The water ran in rivulets down his back as he stroked himself faster. His breath came in ragged gasps. He pictured Ivan in his lap, pliant and warm, his face tucked against Till’s neck as Till murmured praise into his hair.

Ivan would shiver as Till touched him. Ivan’s soft mouth would part around the prettiest sounds, his long fingers would clutch at Till’s shoulders, his thighs would tremble on either side of Till’s narrow hips.

He would be sweet, shy, embarrassed by his own reactions. He would let Till be gentle with him, make him feel good, take care of him —

Fuck, Till liked this. Liked knowing that Ivan needed him, not as an assistant, but that he needs to be worried about and doted on and for Till to take control of all the little things Ivan won’t let himself ask for. He wants to kiss Ivan’s pretty mouth, trace the line of his spine, whisper filth in his ears, bend him in half, buy him something soft to match the sweet gentle boy Ivan is at his core.

He thought of Ivan, red-cheeked, cradling some soft little thing because Till told him to. Because Till knew he needed it.

Till's hips stuttered as he came with a groan, his cum striping the shower wall in thick white streaks.

When he finally turned off the water and stepped out, the bathroom mirror was completely fogged. Till wiped a hand across it, staring at his own reflection. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead, his lips bitten red. His eyes always looked more blue when his face was that flushed.

Till toweled himself dry and left the bathroom with a trail of steam. His apartment was just as dark and quiet as he’d left it. In his room he pulled on an old band t-shirt and a pair of boxers with a small hole near the waistband. Picking up his trail of clothes from the entryway was…embarrassing, even if no one else knew just how desperate he’d been to get a hand on his cock with thoughts of Ivan in mind.

He should be embarrassed about it. Embarrassed, mortified, whatever word fits best when someone rubbed one out thinking about their boss. Till couldn't bring himself to care.

The microwave read 8:37 pm when Till flopped onto his bed. When he checked his phone he saw a text from his mom asking if he wanted to facetime over the weekend. Till typed out a quick yes, then hesitated over Ivan's contact.

Till locked his phone and tossed it down the bed.

It buzzed again five minutes later. Till ignored it in favor of the trashy reality drama on his TV, a guilty pleasure he loved to indulge in. He ignored another buzz at 9:12pm. At 9:45pm, he finally caved and checked. Spam text, youtube notification, a sticker his mom sent in reply to his text.

The drama continued on the TV as Till sprawled atop his sheets, one arm thrown over his eyes. He could still feel the warmth of Ivan’s cheek under his thumb, still see the pink of his face when he'd insisted don’t call me princess. And then a few minutes later, when Till had done it again, he’d reached out, clung to Till’s sleeve for just a moment, like he wanted Till to stay, like he needed — 

Till groaned and dragged a pillow over his face.

Finally, when he felt a little like he was burning alive under the pillow, he threw it aside and grabbed his phone. He opened google and tapped aimlessly at the keyboard before typing, soft stuffed animal.

Well. He had always liked taking care of people.

The elevator doors slid open with a now-familiar ding, and Till stepped inside with a yawn. He was earlier than usual, but he hadn't slept well. Not with thoughts of Ivan in his mind.

The doors started to close —

A hand caught the doors at the last second and they slid right back open. Ivan stood there, his usually pristine hair still damp and curling a little at the ends, the top button of his shirt undone just enough to reveal the sharp line of his throat. There was a faint shadow under his eyes, a tired slant to his mouth. The broad expanse of his chest rose and fell quickly, like he’d been rushing.

For a moment they stared at each other. Then Ivan stepped inside and the doors finally closed.

The air was thick between them. Till could smell the clean, soapy scent of him, something faintly sweet beneath it. His own pulse thundered in his ears.

Ivan leaned against the opposite wall, rubbing his temple.

Till swallowed. Say something normal. Don’t tell him that you want to lick the water on his neck.

“The hell happened to you?”

Ivan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. That only made it messier. “Busy morning.”

His voice was low, sleep-soft. Till wondered how long ago he rolled out of bed. Till wanted to press his thumb to the delicate bruises under Ivan’s eyes, to feel the warmth of him, to see how well their mouths fit together —

Till stared straight ahead. He refused to so much as look at Ivan’s reflection, not when his thoughts were still full of him, of the way his own hand had felt on his cock when he’d cum imagining Ivan soft and sweet in his arms —

Ivan shifted beside him. Till could feel the warmth radiating off him, hear every quiet breath.

“Wild night?” Till asked, forcing his voice into something playful.

Ivan made a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Sure. Something like that.”

Till risked a glance in the mirrored doors. Ivan was blinking slow, like he was still half asleep. 

Till burned with the knowledge of what he wanted to do, what he could do. He could step forward. He could press Ivan against the wall, could fit his hands around that tiny fucking waist, could taste the salt on his skin.

The screen above the doors read 40. Till's ears popped. Ivan's eyes had closed for a second too long before he jolted and shook his head. He'd all but fallen asleep standing up.

God, Till could…could hold him up. Could reach out to steady him, guide Ivan's head to his shoulder, could murmur it's okay, I've got you, take a nap. Ivan looked like he needed a goddamn nap.

50th floor. The doors opened with that pleasant little chime.

Till stepped out first. Ivan looked set to fall back asleep, or maybe faceplant right to the floor.

With a sigh that sounded way too affectionate, Till stuck a hand out to hold the doors open. "C'mon, princess."

Ivan blinked a few times. He walked past Till without a word. Till followed, staring at the way Ivan's hair curled at the nape of his neck right above the collar of his suit jacket.

Before Ivan stepped inside his office, he paused at the doorway. "Till."

"Yeah?"

Ivan was silent for so long, Till wondered if the man had genuinely dozed off standing right there — again. "Coffee." Ivan finally said. "Please."

It wasn't am order. It was a request, the please quieter, softer, almost shy.

"Yeah," Till repeated, a little breathless, ""yeah, I can do that."

Ivan jerked his head in a nod and closed the door behind himself.

Jesus fucking christ, Till mouthed to himself. Finally, he shook his head and walked down the hall to the break room. He fumbled with the stupid piece of shit coffee machine.

Till leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He knew he was being ridiculous. Annoying at best, possibly harassing his boss at worst. This was just…barely even a thing at all. An intense, confusing, frustrating barely-a-thing that he couldn't stop thinking about.

Till nodded to himself. Till thought about Ivan's sleep-soft voice saying please. Till groaned and dragged his hands down his face.

You're so fucking fucked, man.

When Till carefully carried the mug into Ivan's office, he found Ivan at his desk. That wasn't surprising. What did surprise Till was that Ivan was slumped forward, tablet open to his calendar beside his face on the desk. The early morning light caught in his hair, the soft curve of his cheek.

Till exhaled slowly. He set the coffee down on the coaster Ivan always used. Time to leave, he thought to himself, without leaving.

Ivan's fingers twitched in his sleep. He gave a soft little sigh, his broad shoulders rising and falling. For a second, Till wanted to shake him awake gently, just to see those dark sleepy eyes slowly blink open to focus on him again.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Till left.

He spent probably (definitely) too long aimlessly messing around on his desktop, clicking and dragging blue squares, typing random gibberish to delete it all just for something to do with his hands. At some point, he heard movement behind the closed door, followed shortly by Ivan's voice.

Till pulled up Ivan's calendar. Back to back meetings until 7 pm, then a dinner with investors. Till grimaced.

He tapped at the mouse for a long minute without actually clicking anything. Finally, he chose a thirty-minute block in the afternoon. It was, of course, color coded yellow for Strategy Review. Till changed it to BREAK TIME — all caps, very necessary — and set it to a shade of teal.

Ivan would definitely notice. He would probably change it back.

Till would just change it again. They could have their own mini war waged on the field of Ivan's digital calendar.

The thought was so ridiculous it even made Till smile.

By the time Strategy Review rolled around, the calendar was still blocked off in teal.

Till stared at the clock in the bottom of his monitor. A minute passed.

Ivan's office door opened. Ivan's tie was perfectly straight, his hair neatly swept back from his face, glasses perched on his nose.

"You changed my calendar."

"Yup." Till agreed.

Ivan's mouth tightened at the corners. "Why?"

"Because you need a break." Till said, in a very duh tone of voice.

"I have a strategy review in fifteen minutes." Ivan said, in a very are you fucking stupid tone of voice.

"Reschedule it."

"I can't —"

"Yeah, you can." Till spoke over him. He pointed the pen he'd been fiddling with at Ivan. "You are the CEO. You can move one little meeting. Something came up. You have a killer headache. There's a floating cat in the men's bathroom and you need to deal with it or contemplate the void or whatever. I don't care. You're not going to that meeting."

Ivan stared at him. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Finally, he said, "Your job isn't to dictate my schedule."

"Too bad." Till focused on his screen, finally replying to an email that he'd left sitting in his inbox for too long. "Go back in your office. Sit on your couch. You have thirty minutes."

"I'm not —"

"Ivan." Till looked back at him. Ivan's expression was…something. Disbelieving, frustrated, and something. Till softened his voice. "Ivan. Thirty minutes. For me."

Ivan swallowed. His gaze dropped, just for a moment. "For you?" he asked quietly.

Till's hand spasmed, fingers hitting random keys on the keyboard. "Yeah. Do it for me."

Ivan's shoulders slumped a little. He nodded, turned, and walked back into his office. This time, he didn't close the door.

By 3 pm, Ivan still hadn't made a sound. Till peeked his head in, feeling a little ridiculous — and oh. Oh, Ivan was on the sofa, right where Till had told him to go. He was curled up on his side, one arm under his head for cushioning, his suit jacket carefully draped over the back of his desk chair. He'd even loosened his tie a little.

Till blocked off the next hour in teal.

It had been years since Till had celebrated anything other than Valentine’s Day on February 14.

Growing up, Ivan’s birthdays were small celebrations; just Till and both of their moms, a cake from the grocery store because Mila always seemed to forget about her tendency to spend big whenever her son's birthday rolled around, and Ivan promising that it didn’t matter that no one else was there. Sometimes Ivan’s father would show up as well, though he was always more concerned with spoiling his wife than his son. Till remembered Ivan’s mother cooing over a new necklace while seventeen year old Ivan got a hand on his shoulder and a reminder not to slack off for his upcoming exam.

Six year old Till cried and promised that he would never celebrate Valentine’s Day. Ivan laughed and thanked him. Five years later, Till broke that promise when he gave a card to one of the girls in his class.

Twenty-three year old Till leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers. Overnight, someone had covered the break room in pink and red decorations. A basket of heart-shaped cookies sat beside the goddamn coffee machine. Walking through the lobby on the way in, Till had spotted several bouquets of flowers and balloons with romantic slogans.

Till tapped his shoe against his messenger bag where he’d tucked it away under his desk and checked the time again.

1:28 pm. Ivan had been stuck in a meeting with The Board — Ivan always sighed at him, I can hear you capitalizing those words when you say them, Till, but it wasn't his fault they were some…ominous group who seemed to exist solely to make Ivan’s life harder — for almost two full hours. Definitely not the longest meeting Ivan had been trapped in but jesus, did they ever give the guy a break?

Till knew that the answer was no. Or, as was becoming more and more apparent by the day, it was that Ivan never gave himself a break.

Till smiled to himself. Just a little. Then pressed his hand to his mouth like he could wipe away the smile, and the tight warm feeling in his chest at the thought of being the one to decide Ivan got to take breaks.

The elevator dinged. Till’s chair squeaked at how quickly he sat up straight. Ivan looked…not as rumpled as he usually did after his meetings. His tie was still knotted neatly, his hair only slightly mussed, no lines of distress around his mouth or between his brows.

“Good sesh with The Board?” Till asked. Ivan shot him a look as he passed, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“It was…fine.” Ivan hesitated before admitting, “They were mostly concerned with getting the whole thing over with so they could go home.”

Till whistled. “Bet that’s a foreign concept for you. Not gonna take Valentine’s off, mister CEO?”

Ivan’s expression didn't change. “No.”

Till hummed, leaning back in his chair again. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

Ivan hovered in his doorway for a moment. Till pretended to be very interested in the endless stream of boring text on his screen.

A few minutes after Ivan had gotten settled in his office, Till grabbed the surprise out of his bag.

Over those past few weeks Ivan had become accustomed to Till walking in without knocking, so the poor guy didn't bother looking up when Till strode right up to his desk. With a grin, Till dropped his gift beside Ivan’s monitor.

A small stuffed rabbit sat on Ivan’s desk.

Ivan stared at it. After a long moment, Till tweaked one of its ears and said, “It reminded me of you.”

Ivan’s fingers hovered over the stuffed rabbit. Till watched Ivan’s thumb brush over its soft ear, right where Till had touched it.

“Why?” Ivan finally said. There was something guarded in his expression, in the tightness around his mouth.

I spent three days looking online, Till thought, I visited four different toy stores and almost bought fifty different stuffed animals but this one has floppy ears like your hair when you forget to gel it back. It’s the same shade of blue as your favorite tie. Sometimes your eyes are so dark when the light hits them just right, they almost look red like wine, like the rabbit’s bow. I want you to hold it and to feel safe and to think of me when you do.

“Can’t I give something nice to the birthday boy?” Till said instead.

Ivan’s mouth flattened into an even thinner line. “A stuffed rabbit? I’m not…I’m not a child, Till.”

Till leaned against the desk, grinning when Ivan glared at him. “No? Then why are you pouting like one?” He flicked the rabbit’s ear again and didn't miss how Ivan’s hands curl around its small body, almost protective. “It’s just a gift, Ivan. You used to like this stuff.”

“That’s— ”

“And you’re holding it.” Till nodded to the white-knuckled grip Ivan had on it, “You scared I’m gonna take it back?”

A flush spread across Ivan’s face. “I’m not — ”

“You could just say thank you, Till.” Till suggested. Ivan stared at him and Till stared back, watching that pink spread to the tips of Ivan’s ears.

Finally, when it became clear that Till wasn't going to back down, Ivan cut his gaze away and mumbled, “Thank you…Till.”

For a moment, Till considered goading him. What was that? I didn’t hear you, say it again? But there was something so vulnerable in those pretty eyes, similar to when he’d clung to Till’s sleeve for just a moment, so he settled for a gentle, “You’re welcome, Ivan.”

Ivan was still gripping the toy like he was unsure of what to do with it but couldn't bring himself to let it go, just in case Till did end up stealing it away. His thumb stroked absently along its soft fur.

“It’s yours to keep.” Till promised, folding his hands behind his back as though to demonstrate that he had no intention of taking it back — and maybe, just a little, to stop himself from taking Ivan’s face between his hands to feel the warmth of those pink cheeks.

A beat of silence. Then Ivan lifted the rabbit just slightly, pressing its soft face briefly against his before setting it carefully in the center of his desk. The motion was quick, almost embarrassed.

Till's chest did that funny tight thing again. Sweet boy, he thought, almost unbearably fond.

"You're such a mouthy brat." Ivan muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He adjusted the rabbit's bow.

Till grinned. "Happy birthday, princess."

Ivan shifted in his chair but didn't argue.

Till left before he did something stupid. The door clicked shut behind him and Till exhaled, slumping into his chair and pressing his forehead to the cool glass surface. He'd seen it — the way Ivan's shoulders had relaxed just slightly when he thought Till wasn't looking, the way his fingers had lingered on that stuffed rabbit.

Maybe — 

Till couldn't be sure. Not yet. He didn't want to jinx it, or to be wrong entirely. But maybe.

Over a week later, the rabbit was still on Ivan’s desk.

Till noticed it every time he walked into Ivan’s office; it sat perched ever so neatly beside the monitor, not hidden away in some drawer to never be seen again.

Till hovered in the doorway with a stack of paperwork still warm from the printer and watched Ivan’s thumb trace the curve of the rabbit’s ear. He was on the phone to someone from another department — accounting, maybe, judging by the jargon Ivan was spouting off. The touch was absent, like Ivan didn't even realize he was doing it.

The thing was, Till had…dabbled in the kink scene before. More when he was in college than anything else. Nothing long-lasting or serious — but enough to know what he liked. The rush of control, the way his pulse raced when someone trusted him enough to let go. But it had always been transactional. Play partners, negotiated scenes, late-night hookups when safewords were traded between kisses before the real show began.

A few times, he’d had partners want something specific. Beyond masochism and simple kneel when I tell you to kneel submission. The kind of play where his sub would cling to a stuffed animal during aftercare, nuzzling into it when they were small and vulnerable and his. The same way Ivan seems to reach for the stuffed rabbit every time he encountered something that set him on edge, craving the comfort of its soft fur under his fingers.

Maybe Till was projecting. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see because he liked the idea of Ivan like that, pliant and trusting and sweet — but only for him. Till tapped his fingers on the stack of paperwork. He’d been known to be impulsive. He had the habit of jumping to conclusions. He might have been seeing patterns where there were none.

The call ended. Ivan put the phone down with a sigh. Till was still leaning in the doorway, watching Ivan squint at his screen, adjust his glasses, mutter something under his breath.

After a long minute, Ivan finally said, “You’re staring.”

Till hummed and pushed off the doorway, “Just admiring your new coworker. I’ve heard great things about him. Very productive, great at meetings.”

Ivan’s mouth twitched. He glanced at the rabbit and then away just as fast. “It’s — ”

“Cute.” Till dropped the papers on the desk beside the rabbit, standing a little too close to Ivan’s chair. “I said he reminded me of you, didn’t I?”

Till watched Ivan shift in his chair, almost squirming.

He’d done this before — the playful push-pull of dominance, the testing of boundaries. But never like this. Never with someone who tenses when Till invades his space but doesn’t tell him to fuck off. Never with Ivan.

Till leaned a hip against Ivan’s desk, close enough that he could feel Ivan’s warmth. He tapped the rabbit’s soft head with one finger. “He got a name yet?"

Ivan looked at him like he'd said something exceptionally stupid. “It’s a stuffed animal, Till.”

“Hey, don’t be rude.” Till tweaked the rabbit’s little red bow. “He’s a very professional businessman, you know. He needs a name to go on his fancy little office door.”

Ivan glanced away. “What? You’re being ridiculous.”

Till leaned closer, lowered his voice into something softer. “You've totally named him, haven't you? C’mon. Tell me.”

Silence dragged. Ivan’s mouth twitched. Then, quiet, “...Ibanny.”

“...Ibanny?”

Ivan wouldn't meet his eyes. “It’s — stupid. Just…Ivan and bunny. Combined…” His voice trailed off at the end.

Till stared at him. Then the rabbit. Then back at Ivan, where he seemed to be trying to shrink into his chair. Till’s chest felt too tight, for a second he could've sworn he couldn't breathe around how his heart was aching.

Ivan watched Till like a hawk as he reached out to pick up the rabbit, as gently as he possibly could, and said, “Nice to properly meet you, Ibanny.” He ignored Ivan mumbling something about how Till was the one who had bought the rabbit, and continued, “You’re looking after our Ivan pretty well, huh? Making sure he doesn’t work too hard, keeping him company when he’s stressed. That’s good, someone needs to be here to remind him that stuffed little bunnies aren’t the only ones who deserve nice things.”

Ivan’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the desk.

Carefully, Till set Ibanny back in his spot, taking a few extra moments to make sure his bow was sitting straight. When he looked at Ivan, the man seemed like he was caught between embarrassment and something devastatingly vulnerable.

Till exhaled slowly. Then, he reached out and messed up Ivan’s hair — the same way he used to when they were kids, the same way he’d been doing more recently because Ivan kept letting him.

“Till —“

“Shut up.” Till said, but there was no bite to it. Even he could hear the affection in his own voice. His hand slid down to cup the back of Ivan’s neck. “You’re fine.”

Ivan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed roughly.

Till’s thumb swept up, down, again and again, over the line of Ivan’s throat. “You hungry?”

“...Yes?”

“You want Thai?”

Ivan blinked a little rapidly, “I — yes.”

Till hummed, low and pleased, watched how Ivan squirmed again but still didn't pull away. “Good.”

Good, he said, not good boy. Ivan still went pink. Still pressed white teeth into his plush lower lip. Still hunched his shoulders a little, shy and sweet.

Yeah, Till thought, a thrill racing down his spine. He was pretty damn sure.

It was another late night. Everyone else had already gone home hours ago — but Ivan, of course, was still hidden away in his office.

Which, of course, meant Till was still there.

Till had long since given up even pretending to work. He'd scrolled aimlessly on his phone until his eyes hurt, and now sat spinning slow endless circles in his chair. The office was silent, other than the occasional sound of Ivan typing or writing something with one of those fancy ass pens.

Till spun another full rotation, one foot after the other.

If Till was keeping track right, and he was, Ivan had been in his office for fourteen goddamn hours. The bullshit presentation wasn't even until ten tomorrow morning. Ivan had skipped lunch. When Till had managed to shove a protein bar from the break room into Ivan's hand, Ivan had eaten it without looking away from his screen.

All of Till's firm commands had gone in one ear and out the other.

Another full rotation.

Maybe Till should have left. Maybe he should've shrugged and gone home when everyone else did. But the thought of leaving Ivan here alone had made his chest feel tight in a very different, very bad way.

A sharp crack came from Ivan's office.

Till stopped spinning.

Ivan didn't make a sound. Didn't curse, didn't complain, didn't call out to Till.

It could have been anything. It could have been nothing at all.

Till pushed open Ivan's door.

Ivan was sitting at his desk, perfectly still. The lights were off, except for the desk lamp. For a second, Till wasn't too sure what he was looking at. For a second, Till's heart stopped.

But the dark glistening stains on Ivan's shirt weren't blood. They were ink stains. Ivan's favorite pen was in two pieces on the desk. Ink covered Ivan's left hand, the cuff of his shirt, a few splatters on his jaw.

Till didn't have time to be relieved before he noticed that Ivan was just…staring at the broken pen.

"Ivan?" Till tried.

Ivan didn't so much as twitch.

Till crossed the room. "Hey," he said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers through the soft hair at Ivan's temple, pushing it back from where it always fell across his forehead this late into the night. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"

Ivan's breath hitched. His lower lip trembled. And then he cried. Ivan curled in on himself, shoulders shaking, burying his face in his hands. He cried like Till had never seen before — heaving sobs, loud and messy and devastated.

"Oh, baby." Till murmured, feeling a little close to tears himself. He pulled Ivan's chair back from the desk enough to turn it, then knelt in front of him. Ivan resisted when Till tried to pry Ivan's hands away from his face. "It's okay, I've got you."

Ivan shook his head and tried to pull away. Till didn't let go of his wrists. With a miserable sound, Ivan all but collapsed forward, burying his face in Till's shoulder. His sobs were muffled now, and Till felt tears wetting the fabric of his shirt.

Till held him the best he could with the awkward angle, firmly rubbing over his back. "You did so good." he said, an endless stream of soft words whispered into Ivan's hair. "You worked so hard, didn't you? You did. And now it's over."

The chair creaked as Till rocked them a little, a soothing swaying rhythm. Ivan's hands were clutching at his shirt, almost definitely staining it with ink as well. Till could've have given less of a shit. All that mattered was this, Ivan's violent sobs turning to shaky breaths and wet sniffles.

Eventually, Ivan went quiet and stopped shaking. He was limp in Till's arms.

Till pressed a kiss to his hair. "All done." he whispered.

Ivan sniffled again. He moved his head, a clumsy little nod.

Till helped Ivan to his feet, a hand on his lower back guiding him to the private bathroom attached to his office.

The lighting was too sterile, too intense, Ivan looked so devastatingly small and vulnerable perched on the edge of the closed toilet lid while Till carefully used a hand towel to wipe the ink and tears off his face.

"Just getting you nice and clean." Till murmured, cupping Ivan's jaw gently to tilt his face up. Ivan's eyes focused on him before they closed, and he leaned into Till's touch with a soft sigh. Till closed his own eyes for a moment, just a moment, then moved on to wiping his hands clean.

By the time Till finally tossed the hand towel in the sink, Ivan still hadn't moved.

Till brushed his thumb over Ivan's soft cheek. "I'm taking you home tonight. Don’t even think about saying you’re staying here."

Ivan’s breath hitched, his eyelashes fluttered. “But —”

Till gave a slight squeeze. “Hey. I said don’t.”

Ivan closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth. Till watched his hands curl into loose fists, then relax again. He seemed to be fighting himself. Finally, Ivan nodded.

“Good,” Till said, because a little praise never hurt, fingers stroking the thin sensitive skin behind Ivan’s ear. “You want me to get your coat?”

Another pause. Then Ivan nodded again, a sudden jerk of his head. Till missed his warmth as soon as he stepped away. He led Ivan back out of the bathroom and let Ivan put the coat on himself instead of offering to do it for him. Small steps, letting Ivan make his own little decisions, just dipping their toes in. Ironically enough, Till was treating Ivan like a startled rabbit; no sudden movements, no big gestures that could spook him out of wherever his mind had taken him with the breakdown.

“You wanna bring Ibanny?” Till suggested, shutting down Ivan’s desktop for him, rearranging all of his desk supplies as neatly as possible so Ivan wouldn't have an aneurysm when he came in tomorrow.

Ivan blinked a few times, a line forming between his furrowed brows.

After a handful of seconds, Till lightly added, “I think he’d like to come, too. Little guy doesn’t get to leave the office often, huh?”

Finally, Ivan nodded again. Till carefully picked Ibanny up with one hand and put his other on the small of Ivan’s back to guide him toward the door. At his own desk, Till moved things around in his messenger bag to make room for Ibanny to get neatly tucked away. Till zipped the bag carefully, making sure no little tufts of fur got caught. When he stood, Ivan was watching him with an expression so soft it almost hurts to look at.

“C’mon,” Till ushered Ivan towards the elevator, hand at his lower back again. “Let’s get you home, sweetheart.”

Even now, Ivan didn't protest the name. Till’s heart was thundering in his ears so loud that for a second, he swore it was all he could hear.

The ride down was quiet. Ivan stood close enough that their shoulders brushed — or at least, Till’s shoulder brushed Ivan’s upper arm. Till watched their reflection in the mirrored doors, saw Ivan’s tired eyes flicker away a second too late, saw his cheeks still flushed pink.

The lobby was nearly empty, just a security guard who nodded as they passed. The night air was cool against Till’s skin when they exited the building, and he didn't miss how Ivan shivered even in his fancy expensive coat.

For a moment, Till almost reached out, to warm Ivan’s hands between his own, to trace the curve of his jaw again. Instead, he tilted his head towards the parking garage, and Ivan followed without a word.

Till’s car smelled like the cheap air freshener he bought last week in the hopes of covering up the scent of weed. It…hadn't worked as well as he’d hoped. If Ivan noticed, he didn't mention it. Till watched Ivan buckle himself in, long fingers fumbling with the clasp. Till almost broke, almost reached over to buckle Ivan’s seatbelt before he could do it himself. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel.

Slow, slow, slow. Tiny steps. Baby steps, he thought, and turned away to hide his smile.

When Till put his bag in Ivan’s lap, Ivan simply blinked at it. “Would you like to help me keep Ibanny safe for the drive?” Till suggested. This time, Ivan nodded after a moment. He held the bag closer, almost protective. Till buckled his own seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition.

"Back to your place?" Till asked.

A pause. Ivan nodded again.

"Good." Till let something sweet bleed into his voice, let Ivan hear how pleased he was. Till knew Ivan's address, but he also knew the man never let anyone inside his personal space.

Ivan didn't say anything. His dark hair was falling into his eyes where the strands had come loose from his usual professional swept-back style.

The drive was quiet, just the hum of the engine and Till’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

Till couldn't keep his eyes off Ivan for long. Every time he glanced across, he was hit with the reminder of just how beautiful Ivan was all over again. His profile was stark in the passing streetlights, long eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks, highlighting the soft pout of his mouth.

Till himself struggled with dry lips. Ivan didn't seem to have that problem.

When they parked, Till finally caved and unbuckled Ivan's seatbelt for him. He walked around to open Ivan's door, offering a hand to help him out. Ivan took it without hesitation, his fingers warm in Till's grasp.

In the elevator, Till swiped Ivan's keycard over the censor and pressed the button for Ivan's floor, then leaned against the wall, studying him. Ivan swayed slightly on his feet, his eyes half-lidded. Till reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Ivan's ear, letting his fingers trail down the side of his neck.

"You with me, sweetheart?"

Ivan nodded, leaning ever so slightly into Till's touch. The elevator dinged, and Till guided him down the hall to his door, taking the keys from Ivan's limp fingers to unlock it.

Inside, the penthouse was dark and quiet. It was also empty. Not actually empty, but utterly devoid of any signs that Ivan actually lived there. Till's own studio was a cluttered space, every surface covered in dog-eared books and art supplies and wrinkled clothes. Ivan's plain white shelves held rows of books with grayscale covers and uncracked spines. A single abstract painting hung on one of the walls. Till would've bet his abysmal life savings that the painting came with the rest of the pre-furnished apartment.

Till helped Ivan out of his coat, hanging it on the minimalist metal frame coat rack in the entryway. Then he toed off his shoes by the door where Ivan's own much nicer shoes were neatly lined up. He wiped his hands on his thighs and turned.

Ivan stood in the middle of the living room, backlit by the sprawling cityscape out the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was clutching Till's messenger bag to his chest.

Till exhaled slowly. He crossed the room. "Hey," he murmured, gently tugging at the bag. Ivan let him take it. He placed it on a sleek glass coffee table, keeping one of Ivan's hands in his own. He rubbed his thumb over Ivan's knuckles. "Let's get you comfortable, yeah?"

Ivan just stared at him, wide-eyed and unsure.

"Yeah." Till confirmed to himself, guiding Ivan to the massive sectional sofa. "Sit." he put a little pressure on Ivan's shoulders, and Ivan sank right down into the cushions.

Till knelt in front of him again and reached up to undo Ivan's tie. He moved slowly, carefully, watching Ivan's pupils blow out in real time at seeing Till kneeling between his spread knees.

"You're so pretty like this." Till said, his voice low and pleased. He finally pulled the tie free and dropped it on the cushion, a loose pile of expensive silk. He went for the buttons of Ivan's ink-stained shirt next. One, two, three, four, five, six. Each one revealed a little more of his chest. Ivan shivered but he didn't pull away, didn't tell him to stop. He just kept watching Till with those dark eyes.

Till finally pushed the shirt off Ivan's shoulders. The white undershirt clung to his chest, stretched across the broad expanse. The faint outline of his nipples were visible. Till's mouth watered.

"Lift your arms for me, baby." Till tried to sound composed. He was pretty sure he fell somewhere closer to sounding two seconds away from fucking Ivan's brains out.

Ivan's breath caught. He raised his arms. Till pulled the shirt up over his head, tossing it aside.

A groan rumbled in Till's chest. Ivan's nipples were a soft dusky pink, rapidly peaking in the cool air. Till leaned in and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his sternum. He tasted the salt of Ivan's skin on his tongue, felt the rapid pounding of his heart.

"So fucking good for me." Till whispered, hands settling on Ivan's waist, fuck, that fucking waist. Till flexed his hands, wondered if he could wrap all the way around him if he tried hard enough. He dragged his gaze up to Ivan's dazed eyes. "You're such a sweet boy."

Ivan shivered. His teeth pressed to his lower lip, a peek of that cute little fang.

Till kissed him again, closer to one of his nipples, tongue brushing over the swollen nub as he pulled away. "You like that, baby?"

Ivan's throat bobbed. He gave a tiny nod.

"Use your words." Till prompted breathlessly, feeling insane. His cock was aching, a hard line along his own thigh, trapped in his stupid fucking too-tight slacks he'd never gotten around to replacing.

"I like it." Ivan whispered, his voice wobbling towards the end.

Till's hands spasmed on Ivan's hips. Ivan squirmed a little at the tighter grip but still didn't pull away.

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart." Till coaxed.

Ivan obeyed, a sweet almost whiny sound slipping from between his lips as he raised his hips for Till.

Till hooked his fingers in the waistband of his trousers and dragged them down. The shape of Ivan's cock was clear through his boxers, the soft gray fabric stained several shades darker where the tip had been dripping. Till groaned, burying his face between Ivan's thighs. Ivan jerked, his hands settling in Till's hair.

"Till —" Ivan said, in a voice that was close to a whimper.

"You're so fucking wet for me," Till breathed, nuzzling him through the cotton.

"Yeah." Ivan agreed, and there it was, that whine. Small, pathetic, needy. Till's vision blurred a little at the edges. He didn't think he'd ever been so unbearably turned on before. He dragged his tongue over the wet spot before dragging those boxers down, too.

Ivan's cock was just as pretty as the rest of him, thick and flushed, with a sweet little curve. Till leaned forward to press a kiss to the tip. Ivan whimpered, hips jerking, chasing after Till as he pulled away.

"Be patient." Till said, delighted, as he stood. He unbuttoned his own slacks, pushing them down with his boxer briefs. His own cock was just as big as Ivan's, but definitely wetter, leaking steadily from the tip and dripping down the length.

Ivan made a sound Till couldn't decipher.

"See something you like, princess?" Till asked, because he was pretty sure the sound was a positive one. He just needed to make sure.

Ivan's frantic nod made Till grin.

Till stepped out of his pants and knelt on the sofa, manhandling Ivan further back against the seat and dragging those perfect fucking thighs up so he could kneel directly between Ivan's legs. He greedily ran a hand over the soft hairs of Ivan's upper thigh where it was draped over Till's waist. His other hand braced against the backrest of the sofa, caging Ivan in. Ivan didn't seem to mind, his cock jerking and dribbling against his abdomen.

When Till finally kissed him, Ivan moaned and finally went pliant beneath him. Till kissed him, and nothing else existed. Ivan was clumsy in the sweetest way, Till was sure this wasn't his first time but the man was so eager his every movement was too fast, too hard, too needy.

Till fucking loved it. He pulled away just long enough to grab a sachet of lube out of the inner pocket of his bag. Ivan still whined like he was dying, like being alone for fifteen whole seconds was the worst torment he could ever possibly suffer.

When Till returned, he pressed their bodies together like he was trying to fuse them. "Sorry, baby," he panted, fumbling to tear the sachet. "I went too far, huh? Left you all alone? Poor princess."

Ivan sniffled, face buried in Till's shoulder, knees pressing into Till's sides like he wanted to wrap himself around Till there too.

Till wet his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it. "Deep breath." He instructed, holding onto the last thread of sanity stopping him from just shoving his cock in. He pressed a finger inside instead. He paused. He pulled his finger out and added a second. They both glided in, eased by the lube but more so by the lack of protest from Ivan's own body.

"Oh," Till breathed. "You sweet little thing."

He added a third finger. Ivan's breath hitched, his hips rolling. Ivan opened up so fucking sweet for him, slick and wet and twitching so perfectly around his fingers.

"Have you been playing with yourself, baby?" Till rasped, his own cock throbbing where it was pressed against Ivan's hip. "What do you do, fuck yourself on your fingers? Do you think about this?"

Ivan nodded frantically, face still hidden. "Yeah, yes, Till, I do —" he choked out, using his words because Till had fucking told him to, fuck.

Till panted, curling his fingers. He found Ivan's sweet spot and Ivan cried out, his hole body jerking and shivering.

"There it is," Till said, fevered, rubbing his fingers over that spot. "That's my good boy."

Ivan made another one of those devastated little whiny sounds when Till pulled his fingers out. Till guided him to lay back properly along the cushions, wanting him relaxed and comfortable. Till slicked his cock and notched the head to Ivan's soft pink hole, feeling it open for him at just the slightest hint of pressure.

When Till finally pressed inside, Ivan's back arched. He was so fucking tight, so hot, every inch Till nudged inside forced a new needy noise from Ivan's throat.

"This is what you needed, huh?" Till panted, "Just needed your daddy to take care of you?"

Ivan sobbed like he was dying. He nodded frantically, smearing tears and drool on the cushion. Maybe it should've been gross. But Ivan was pushing back against Till, meeting every press with desperate little rocks of his hips, and all Till could think was my baby, my fucking baby, my needy little princess.

Till swore as he finally reached the hilt, his hips pressed to Ivan's ass. Till curled forward, pressing kisses to Ivan's temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "You okay, sweetheart?" he asked breathlessly.

Ivan nodded, bumping their heads together a little in his attempt to nuzzle into Till's kisses. "Okay." he whispered back, his voice small and wrecked.

Till fucked Ivan slow, each thrust a deep grind that made Ivan gasp and clutch at his shoulders, his biceps, anything he could get his hands on. One of Till's hands was still braced on the back of the sofa, the other tangled into the back of Ivan's hair, holding him close.

"Taking me so well," Till was whispering, an endless stream pressed to Ivan's skin like he was trying to make them seep inside him. "You were made for this, huh? Just for your daddy?"

"Uh-huh." Ivan whined. Till thrusted a little harder, a little faster. He lost himself in it for a while, in the perfection of fucking his sweet boy.

Eventually, Ivan's noises went quiet. Till raised his head, dragging a hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes.

Ivan’s whimpers were muffled by his own tie. He'd taken the end between his teeth. Till thought about gently scolding him for silencing his own noises but then he realized — Ivan wasn't deliberately doing it, he was comforting himself by suckling on the fabric needily.

“Fuck,” Till muttered to himself, “fuck.” And he had no idea why that got to him so bad, why he felt pleasure burning at the base of his spine at the sight of Ivan seeking comfort from a bit of fabric. It’s his blankie, a deeply perverted voice whispered.

Till grabbed Ivan's hips and adjusted them both for a better angle, pounding into him. The apartment filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, Till's panting and cursing and his streams of praise, Ivan's muffled whimpers.

Each thrust jostled Ivan's body, the swell of his pecs bouncing a little with the force. Till groaned, leaning down again to finally get his mouth on those perfect tits. Ivan cried out, a muffled daddy! as Till pressed a messy kiss to his nipple. Till dragged his tongue over it, sealed his lips around the bud, pressed his teeth to it just enough to hear Ivan's noises go high and pathetic.

At one point, Ivan made a devastated sobbing noise, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. It took Till a few moments to realize Ivan was arching desperately for the soaked bit of fabric. Till's thrusts had jostled his body too hard, Ivan's own cries had freed the tie from his mouth. He was too out of it to realize that he could reach out to bite at another part of the fabric, instead making wounded sounds like the loss of his blankie had torn him apart.

“Ivan,” Till pressed his hips against Ivan’s ass to feel him shake as his eyes rolled back in pleasure. “Ivan, baby, put your fingers in your mouth.”

Ivan’s pretty dark eyes were glazed over. His next blink freed a tear that slid down the side of his face.

“Fingers in your mouth.” Till prompted, nudging his hips forward again. Ivan’s hand trembled as he liftsed t to his mouth, sliding two fingers between his lips. He made a whiny noise, relieved like having something in his mouth had fixed the hurt.

Every thrust pushes a broken ah-ah-ah from Ivan, garbled around his own fingers.

“Daddy,” Ivan whimpered around his own thumb. Till cursed, only managed two more short sharp thrusts before sinking his teeth into Ivan’s shoulder as he spilled inside his baby’s ass. Ivan said it again, daddy in that fragile little voice as he wiggled away from the spot of pain. Till licked at the teeth marks he’d left behind.

“Sorry, baby. Just made daddy feel so good.” Just saying it made pleasure light up the base of his skull again and he shuddered, still absently rocking into Ivan’s ass. Till blew his hair out of his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

Ivan blinked hazily up at him. He was still squirming, still hard, steadily leaking onto his own stomach. He was making those soft, desperate little noises, his pretty mouth pushed into a pout around his thumb.

"Oh, baby." Till breathed, slowly pulling out. Ivan whined, hips jerking. "I know, I know. Daddy's got you."

Till gently pulled Ivan's hand away from his mouth, replacing it with his own fingers. Ivan sniffled, tears clinging to his lashes, tongue pressed to the pad of his thumb. Till guided Ivan's hand down, fingers still wet from his saliva, to wrap around his own cock.

"There you go, sweetheart." Till breathed. He wanted to see how Ivan touched himself, how he made himself squirm when he was all alone thinking of Till.

Ivan's broad hand moved clumsily along the length of his cock. After only a few strokes, he stopped. He looked up at Till with wide pleading eyes, his lower lip trembling.

"Daddy." he whimpered. "Help?"

Till groaned, caving immediately. His other hand wrapped around Ivan's, guiding his grip a little tighter, a little faster. "Of course, baby," he whispered. "Daddy loves helping his princess."

That was all it took. Ivan's hips jerked, his lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back. His cock jerked in their grips as he came all over his own stomach. Ivan slumped back against the cushions, panting, eyes closed as tears dripped down his temples. Till kissed his cheek.

Ivan was a fucking mess, covered in sweat and cum and tears and a little snot from how hard he'd been sobbing. He was the most beautiful goddamn thing Till had ever seen.

Till carefully sat him up and pulled him into his lap. Ivan was taller, broader, heavy. But he curled into Till's lap so perfectly, like it was right where he belonged. Till gently rocked him for a while, until Ivan stopped shaking and shivering with aftershocks, stopped sniffling every so often.

When Ivan was able to stand, Till guided him to the bedroom. It was as minimalist as the rest of the penthouse. Ivan immediately curled onto his side on the bed, clutching a pillow to his chest.

Till found the ensuite bathroom. It was more marble and smooth chrome. He cleaned Ivan again, for the second time — except this time he was wiping away a mix of their cum, not ink splatters. Ivan was already half-asleep, eyes closed, breathing soft and deep as Till cleaned off his face.

Ivan squirmed a little, making a soft noise and trying to close his thighs when Till got to them.

"Shh, it's okay." Till coaxed, pressing a kiss to his knee. "It'll only take a second."

Ivan hesitated. That dazed look was gone from his eyes. After a long moment, he let Till clean him there as well.

Ivan got under the covers while Till put the washcloth in the bathroom sink to clean…at some point. Later. Till found him bundled up, sheets covering him all the way to his dark eyes. Till sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to smooth the blanket where it bunched up around his shoulders and brush his hair back from his forehead.

"Daddy?" Ivan whispered, voice small, like he wasn't sure if it was still the right thing to say.

"Right here, baby." Till promised, gently brushing fingers through his hair.

Ivan peeked out at him, face pink. "Ibanny." he mumbled.

Till could have sworn his heart melted right out of his chest. "Of course, princess." he said breathlessly. He found his messenger bag where he'd left it on the glass coffee table and carefully lifted Ibanny out.

Ivan brightened when Till returned. He took Ibanny with a whispered thanks and curled the little bunny to his chest, pressing his face to soft fake fur.

Till watched him for a moment, his chest aching with the urge to crawl into bed with Ivan, whisper sweet nothings, and hold him while he slept. But he didn't know if that was even…allowed. Ivan was still his boss. It was one thing to fuck a man's brains out, it was something else entirely to cuddle him to sleep.

Finally, he leaned down to press a kiss to Ivan's forehead. "Sleep well, sweetheart."

Ivan's hand shot out to grab his wrist. Till blinked, looking down at the firm grip Ivan had on him. It was nothing like the time Ivan had tentatively tugged at Till's shirt, but it was the same. It was Ivan asking him to stay.

Ivan didn't look up. His face was still half-hidden. He was tense, like he was afraid Till would pry his grip off and leave anyway.

"Okay." Till whispered, his voice thick. He couldn't imagine a world where he said no to his baby. "Okay, sweet boy. I'll be back in a second, okay? I'll leave the door open the whole time. You can even watch me."

Ivan peeked out at him again. He nodded, loosening his grip. Till went back to the living room just long enough to find their phones. When Till returned to the bedroom, Ivan was still staring at him. He sighed, a soft gusty little sound of relief. Till could've choked on how sweet Ivan was. Till set Ivan's phone to charge and placed his own phone on the nightstand — Ivan only had one cord, so Till would charge his phone in the morning before work.

He slid into bed beside Ivan, bare skin to bare skin again. Ivan went willingly when Till held his arms out, Ibanny clutched between their chests. Till stared at the ceiling in the dark, stroking a hand down the line of Ivan's spine.

Till listened to Ivan's breathing even out as he drifted off. Exhaustion dragged Till under not long after.

When Till woke up, he didn't know where he was for a second. The sheets were too soft, without the usual subtle weed scent of his studio, the warmth of another body pressed along his side.

Then he remembered.

Ivan was still curled against him, his head pillowed on Till's shoulder. An arm was thrown over Till's waist. His hair was a mess. A thin line of drool made its way to Till's chest. Ibanny was still carefully tucked between them.

Till's chest did that tight warm thing. He didn't move. He breathed as shallowly as he could. He just…watched. Ivan's eyelids flickered every so often. His fingers curled on Till's waist in his sleep. Those perpetual stressed lined around his mouth were gone. Till was pretty sure his arm under Ivan's head was asleep, but he didn't move it.

This was…a lot. This was so far beyond Till's usual casual hook-ups, even further from a professional relationship. Till had fucked his boss. Till had called his boss princess and baby. Till's boss had called him daddy in the sweetest little voice Till had ever heard. And now Till was waking up in his fucking trillion thread count sheets.

Maybe the right move in this situation was to get the fuck out. Maybe quit his job. Maybe return to the office just long enough to figure out how to shove that goddamn fancy ass lamp in his bag without getting stopped by security on the way out.

Instead, he pressed a kiss to Ivan's head.

Ivan stirred with a soft sound, nuzzling deeper into Till's chest. After a long moment, his eyes fluttered open, bleary with sleep. Till watched the pink flush spread across his face as Ivan realized where he was, and who he was with.

"Hey." Till said, because what the fuck else was he meant to say?

Ivan swallowed. "Hi." he whispered.

They stared at each other. Neither of them pulled away. Neither of them seemed entirely sure what came next.

A phone alarm interrupted the silence. They both blinked and looked away. Till waited for Ivan to tell him to leave, or to get out of bed to start his day — Till knew how strict Ivan's schedule was, broken down into ten minute increments in the mornings.

Ivan finally moved, reaching over Till to pick his phone off the nightstand. The alarm cut off. Ivan returned to his position, phone clutched tightly in his hand. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight.

Ivan silently held out his phone. It was open to his calendar. Till's breath caught.

After a moment, Till took the phone Ivan was offering. He changed one of the blocks to teal. Ivan's shoulders rose as he inhaled, and he went boneless on Till's chest, a puppet with its strings cut, pure relief. Till was sure Ivan could feel his heart pounding. He changed another block, then another. Ivan watched. Ivan didn't stop him.

Till closed his eyes. He breathed. He deleted every carefully color-coded block for the entire day.

When Ivan moved, it was only to curl in close, tucking his head under Till's chin. Till felt the sweet little kiss Ivan pressed to his throat.

Till didn't dare risk moving his arm under Ivan's head. He placed Ivan's phone back on the nightstand and settled a hand into his dark hair, brushing through the messy waves. "Gonna do a whole lot of nothing today." he murmured.

Ivan nodded quickly. Till kissed his head again, then again.

"My sweet baby. Such a good boy for your daddy." He tried. Ivan pressed even closer. His face was going pink again, right to the tips of his ears. Till trailed a finger along the curve of a his ear, and Ivan shook his head a little as he shivered. Till grinned and did it again. Ivan made a sound like a whine and Till caved immediately, returning his hand to Ivan's hair.

Till blinked when Ivan held Ibanny up with one hand.

"He needs a kiss, too." Ivan mumbled.

I'm going to fucking eat you, Till thought, hit with a wave of cuteness aggression so hard he very briefly wanted to set the goddamn apartment on fire. "Of course, baby." he said, tilting his head to press his lips to the soft space between Ibanny's ears, where Ivan always pressed his cheek. Ivan cradled Ibanny to his chest again. Till felt Ivan's feet moving under the covers, shy pleased movements as he rubbed his feet together. Cricket legs, delighted stimming, happy little piano pedal presses. Ivan used to do the same thing as a kid — an actual kid.

Something warm settled in Till's chest. Yeah, the man in his arms was his boss, his baby. The man in his arms was also his Ivan.

A minute later, Ivan's moments stilled as his breathing evened out again.

Till picked up his own phone and sent out the necessary emails. Someone else would cover the presentation, or it would be delayed. He didn't give a shit which one. Ivan had let Till — let his daddy decide that he needed a break, and that was exactly what Ivan was going to get.

With a smile, Till opened google. He typed bunny themed adult pacifiers. He hit search.

Written by a human in Ellipsus.