Chapter Text
Till hadn't moved in about forty minutes.
He was sprawled across the couch, legs hanging over the armrest, phone held above his face in a way that was definitely going to make him drop it on his nose eventually. He hadn't taken off his jeans. He hadn't taken off his rings. He'd kicked his shoes somewhere near the door that evening but that was about as much effort as he was willing to give.
Warm lighting was spreading across the room and the kitchen smelled like garlic and soy sauce. His mom was cooking, humming something in sync with the music coming from the speaker.
She was the perfect example of “your son is a copy of you !”. She was basically Till with a beautymark on her face.
Io was beautiful. She was the kind of mom that stayed soft and determined while being strong and vulnerable at the same time. Till was always proud to hear people saying that he looked like her. It was the best compliment.
He always admired her. That woman who learned to be independent, to make her own choices, to pay attention to others, who didn’t care about what others thought…
She was his example.
"Till."
"What ?”
"Can you set the table, please ?”
Till made a small groan but put his phone on the couch and hauled himself upright. He didn't complain much. His mom was alone to take care of him, so it was, for Till, a duty to be fully part of the house chores, even in his tired teenager mode.
"Fine."
He shuffled toward the kitchen, grabbing plates from the cabinet with practiced laziness, setting them on the small table by the window. It was a little scratched, a little uneven. It had been there since he was a kid. The whole place was like that—nothing expensive, nothing perfect, but everything lived in.
Io set a pan of stir-fry rice down in the center of the table. Nothing fancy, but Till loved it.
"So," she said, sitting down across from him. "School?"
Till made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "Do we have to?"
"Yes. You were late this morning."
"I'm always late."
"You forgot your bag."
"I didn't forget it. I chose not to bring it."
Io raised an eyebrow, spoon halfway to her mouth. "You chose."
"Yeah, I did. As a form of rebellion. I learned from the best."
Io snorted, but she didn't push. She never pushed. That was the thing about his mom—she asked, she listened, she let things sit if they needed sitting. Till didn't think about it much, because it was just how she was. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew other parents weren't like that.
He knew Ivan's weren't.
The thought surfaced without permission. He poked at his food.
"How was the rest of it?" Io asked. "Besides your revolutionary protest against school supplies."
"Fine. Normal." He paused. "Ivan was kind of weird."
Io's spoon slowed. Not a stop. Just a slight change in rhythm. "Weird how?"
"Dunno. Just…off." Till shrugged again, a little unsure this time. "He hesitated at the corner when we split. Like he didn't want to say bye. It was nothing. Probably just tired."
Io didn't answer right away. She took a bite of her food and chewed, thoughtful.
"He's been working hard, I imagine," she said finally. "That family of his..."
It was like a statement. Io knew Ivan since he was a kid, that boy who clinged to Till everyday back then...She always saw him as a member of the family. A boy who had a strange way of life because of his "parents". If it were up to her, she would have kept him with her.
Kidnapping, yeah. But she would have preferred this instead of seeing the child who laughed with Till while eating chocolate ice cream with sparkling eyes, slowly changing to a young man hurting himself with weight of expectations. He never showed it. But she knew.
Till looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"You know. He always seems like he's trying to be very... correct."
Till didn't know what to do with that. Correct. Yeah. That was Ivan. But the way she said it made it sound like something sad. Of course, he knew how were his best friend's “parents” but he never knew how Ivan was actually dealing with it.
It wasn't something they talked about much. It was…a sensitive topic. A taboo. Like a cloud always lingering in the sky that you want to talk about but need time to do so.
A cloud might hide others and they couldn't explore them all at once.
"He's always been like that," Till said. "It's not new but…I'll still try to talk to him tomorrow."
"Yes," Io agreed. "You're right. Good."
She didn't say anything else. Till went back to his food. But the word sat in his head, heavier than it should have been.
Correct
The conversation shifted after dinner. Io talked about work, some coworker drama Till half-listened to while washing the dishes. She asked about the party in two weeks—"Are you going?" "Probably. Mizi won't shut up about it." "You should go. You don't really go to parties, it would be great to know how it goes." "I go to parties." "Till, the last party you went to was in middle school and you spent the whole time in the corner eating chips." "Chips were good." "Yes, but you could discover other things than food…”
Now he was in his room, lights low, earphones in, music playing loud enough to blur the edges of his thoughts.
His phone was in his hand.
He was looking at Ivan's contact.
He wasn't texting him. He was just... looking. The last messages were from two days ago. Some stupid meme Till had sent. Ivan had replied with a single laughing emoji.
Till's thumb hovered over the screen.
you good?, he typed.
He stared at it.
Deleted it.
That was stupid. Ivan was fine. Ivan was always fine. Ivan was the most fine person Till had ever met. That was the whole thing about Ivan. He was perfect. He was untouchable. He didn't need Till asking if he was "good" like some kind of worried—
Till locked his phone and tossed it onto the bed beside him.
He turned the music up louder.
He didn't think about it. He didn't want to think about it. He was worrying too much.
Ivan was fine, right? He didn't need him. Ivan was stronger than him.
For sure, he didn't have any problems…
Right?
Friday started better than Thursday had.
Till actually remembered his bag this time. He'd even brought a notebook. It was the wrong notebook—it was from last semester and half the pages were already filled with doodles and notes he'd never read—but it was a notebook. Progress.
Ivan was already at the gates when Till arrived. Same place. Same posture. But something was different. Till couldn't put his finger on it at first.
His clothes were perfect, as always. His hair was perfect, as always. His expression was calm, as always. Ivan is perfect. As always ! Why do I even-
But there was something about his eyes.
The eyes never lie.
And they looked tired.
Not the kind of tired that came from staying up too late playing games or studying. It wasn't Ivan's type to look tired.
Or this tired at least.
That made Till slow down a little as he approached.
"...Yo."
Ivan looked up. That small smile. Present. "You're on time."
"I'm a changed man."
"You forgot your bag yesterday."
"I said I'm a changed man, not a different person."
Ivan huffed a quiet laugh. It sounded real. Till decided he'd imagined the tiredness. Or maybe he hadn't. Either way, Ivan was being Ivan, and that was good enough.
"Come on," Till said, nudging him with an elbow. "Mizi's back today. She's gonna be insufferable."
"She won her competition."
"Yeah. That's why she's gonna be insufferable…”
They walked inside together, the same way they always did. But Till noticed—without quite looking deep into it—that Ivan kept a little more space between them than usual.
Not much. A few centimeters. Nothing you could point to.
Nothing.
Mizi found them in the hallway between the second and third period.
She appeared like the sun in a room—sudden, bright, impossible to ignore. Her pink hair was still slightly windswept from the morning, matching with her top, her bag slung over one shoulder and her smile taking up half her face.
"I WON!"
She announced it to the entire hallway, arms spread wide, as if the school had been waiting for this information. A few random students turned to look. She didn't care.
Till leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, a small smile playing on his lips. "We know."
"You don't look excited enough!"
"I'm thrilled. This is my thrilled face."
Mizi squinted at him. "You look constipated."
"What–no–."
She smacked his arm without any real force, then turned her attention to Ivan, who was standing slightly to the side, watching the exchange with that calm, faintly amused expression he always wore around them.
"Ivan ! Tell me I'm amazing."
"You're amazing," Ivan said, and it was warm enough that Till glanced at him.
Mizi beamed, leaning to hug his arm in a brief second, "Thank you ! Finally, someone with manners."
"I have manners," Till said.
"You don't show it much, Till~”, she answered, giggling.
Sua appeared behind Mizi then slid into the group. Her black hair was pushed back with a purple headband, probably gifted by her girlfriend with how many times she had been wearing it. She was holding two cups of vanilla-coffee from the school cafeteria and handed one to Mizi without a word.
Mizi took it, smiled, and pressed a quick kiss to Sua's cheek. "Thank you, love."
It was casual. Automatic. A two-second gesture.
Till didn't think anything of it. Why would he? Mizi and Sua had been together since the beginning of junior year.
Everyone knew. It wasn't a secret. It wasn't a scandal, even though in this school, a lot of people stayed stupid and "didn't like that", but they didn't care. It was just... them. Mizi talked about it openly. Sua didn't talk about it much, but she didn't hide it either. They held hands in the hallway, they went to events together…they were, as far as Till could tell, disgustingly happy.
Good for them, even though Till had a hard time accepting his childhood crush could never be his but hey, he would have been a dumb boy if he had stayed like this forever…after all, it gave him new opportunities and a way to grow up from this childish first love.
He glanced at Ivan.
He was looking at the floor.
Not in a weird way. Not obviously. But his gaze had dropped the moment Mizi kissed Sua's cheek, and he hadn't looked back up yet.
Till noticed.
He didn't know why he noticed.
Then Ivan looked up again, and the moment was gone. Mizi was already launching into a detailed account of her competition—the rival school, the bad calls, the winning shot—and Ivan was listening with polite attention, asking the right questions at the right times.
Till told himself he'd imagined it.
They ate lunch outside. The weather was nice—spring creeping toward summer, the air warm but not hot, a breeze that kept things comfortable.
Mizi and Sua sat on one side of the bench, shoulders touching. Till sat across from them, legs stretched out, picking at a sandwich he'd bought from the vending machine, while Ivan sat beside him.
"—and then the referee, this guy with the worst mustache I've ever seen in my life, calls it out. Out! It was on the line! Sua was there, she saw it, tell them—"
"It was on the line," Sua confirmed, forever a loyal witness for her girlfriend. "By a lot."
"By a lot!" Mizi repeated, gesturing emphatically with her coffee cup, her bracelets clinking against each other. "I almost committed a crime. Right there on the court. I was ready."
"You were very restrained," Sua said, with the faintest trace of a smile.
"I was. I deserve an award for restraint."
"You just won an award for tennis."
"That too. I'm very talented."
Till snorted. "And humble."
"I won. I get to be insufferable for at least three days. It's in the contract." Mizi said, pointing her fork at him.
"Whose contract?"
"Mine. With myself."
Till laughed. He couldn't help it. Mizi was ridiculous. She was always ridiculous. But she was also genuine in a way that was rare at this school. She didn't pretend. She didn't perform. She was just... herself. Loud and bright and completely unashamed.
He wondered, briefly, what that was like.
Beside him, Ivan laughed too. It was a quiet laugh, but it was real. Till caught it and felt something loosen in his chest. Ivan was fine. Ivan was normal. Whatever had been off yesterday was gone.
Then Mizi shifted, leaning her head against Sua's shoulder, and Sua's hand came up to rest on her knee. The gesture was small.
It was…unthinking. Intimate in the way that came from being comfortable with someone for a long time.
Ivan's laugh faded.
He didn't look away this time. He watched them—just for a few seconds —and his expression was unreadable. Not disgusted. Not uncomfortable exactly. Something else. Something Till couldn't name.
Then, he stood.
"I'm going to grab water. Does anyone want anything?"
Head shakes. He nodded and walked toward the cafeteria doors.
Till watched him go.
"You okay?" Mizi asked, and Till realized he'd been staring.
"Yeah. Fine. Why?"
"You looked weird for a second."
"I always look weird."
"No, you always look like a raccoon. That was different."
Till rolled his eyes and threw a chip at her. She ate it. Ew.
Why not. No food wasting.
But Sua was watching him now, her eyes thoughtful. She didn't say anything. Sua never said anything unless she meant it. That was the difference between her and Mizi. Mizi talked about everything. Sua talked about the things that mattered.
Till didn't know why Sua was looking at him...
He didn't want to know.
The last class of the day was history. Till had a desk near the window. Ivan was in front of him. The teacher was droning about something—a war, a treaty, dates that blurred into each other—and Till was drawing in the margins of his notebook.
He wasn't drawing anything specific. Shapes. Lines. The curve of a jaw. The angle of a shoulder.
He stopped when he realized what it looked like. He scribbled over it and drew a skull instead. Much cooler.
He made a small ball with it and threw the crumpled piece of paper on Ivan's desk.bTill watched him open it.
The paper landed on Till's desk a moment later.
> You're not paying attention.
Till grinned. Wrote back.
> neither are you if you're writing notes to me.
Ivan opened it. Read it. For a moment, Till thought he saw him smile.
But Ivan didn't write back. He folded the paper carefully, slid it into his pocket, and faced the board again.
Till waited.
No reply came.
He kicked the back of Ivan's chair. Once. Light.
Ivan didn't lean back. Didn't murmur something dry. Didn't even acknowledge it.
Till stared at the back of his head.
Okay.
They walked home together again. Friday afternoon, the streets a little busier than usual, people heading out early, the weekend stretching ahead...
Till talked about nothing—something about the party in two weeks, whether Mizi was going to be insufferable there too, whether there'd be decent food or just chips…
Ivan listened. He responded when he was supposed to. He even laughed once.
But when they reached the corner, he didn't hesitate.
"See you Monday," he said, and he said it immediately. No pause. No delay. As if he'd been programmed to say it.
Till stopped.
“...Yeah. See you."
Ivan turned and walked away.
Till stood there for a moment, watching.
The light caught in Ivan's dark hair. It didn't turn silver like Till's did—just... softer. For a second, Ivan almost looked like he did when they were kids. Less composed. Less perfect.
Then he turned a corner and he was gone.
Till pulled out his phone and opened Ivan's contact. He stared at it for a moment before typing :
you sure you're good?
…
He deleted it.
Put the phone away.
And walked home.
The church smelled the same as it always had.
Incense. Old stone. Polished wood. Something faintly sweet, like candles that had been burning too long.
The air was thick with it, the way it had been when Ivan was small, the way it had been every Sunday since.
He knelt when he was supposed to kneel. He stood when he was supposed to stand. His responses came at the right time, his voice blending with the others, indistinguishable from the faithful around him. He had been doing this for ten years. His body knew the rhythm better than his mind did, by now.
Beside him, Mrs. Unsha knelt with perfect posture, her head bowed, her lips moving silently. On his other side, Unsha stood when the time came, his large frame steady, his voice low and measured when he spoke.
They looked like a family.
Ivan's hands were folded.
His eyes were on the altar.
He was thinking about Friday.
Till kicking his chair. Till's voice. Till's laugh. Till leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, squinting at Mizi. Till walking beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.
Mizi kissing Sua's cheek. Sua's hand on Mizi's knee. The ease of it. The simplicity. Two people who loved each other and didn't seem afraid of it.
Two people. Of the same gender. Loving each other. Without caring.
Ivan blinked.
The priest—Father Peter—raised his hands in blessing. He was a man in his forties, average height, thinning grey hair, a face that was neither handsome nor unpleasant. His voice carried well. It was a calm voice, steady, the kind of voice that sounded wise about everything.
"Let us pray."
Ivan bowed his head.
He tried to pray. He tried to find the words, the shape of them, the meaning. But all he could hear was his own heartbeat, and all he could feel was the warmth of that afternoon outside the church, years ago, when his stepmother had knelt beside him and told him what rot looked like.
You'll know when it happens.
He knew now.
He'd known for a while.
The mass ended. The congregation began to shuffle toward the doors, voices rising in soft conversation. Ivan stood, smoothing his jacket and preparing to leave when—
"Ivan."
Mrs. Unsha's hand landed on his arm. It was too sudden.
"Father Peter has invited us to stay for a moment," she said. "He'd like to meet you. It's been years since the last time you two had a conversation !”
Ivan's stomach tightened. "I see."
"We'll wait by the sacristy," Unsha said, already steering them toward the side of the church. "It won't take long."
They stood near a heavy wooden door, waiting. A few other parishioners passed, nodding respectfully at the Unshas. The family was known here.
A respected, devoted, generous family.
The door opened and Father Peter stepped out.
The first thing Ivan noticed was that he had a soft face. He'd expected something—some aura of authority or menace or holiness—but the man in front of him was simply... ordinary. His cassock was black, clean, unadorned. His smile was gentle. His eyes were small and clear. His handshake, when he offered it to Unsha, seemed firm but not aggressive.
"Mr. and Mrs. Unsha ! So good to see you both !”
"And you, Father," Unsha replied. "We're so grateful for your time."
"Nonsense. It's my pleasure !"
Then his eyes moved to Ivan.
"And this must be Ivan."
His gaze was...not invasive, but... It was like he was looking at something interesting.
Something worth paying attention to.
Ivan inclined his head. "Father."
"Your parents have told me wonderful things about you. The last time I saw you, you were so small," Father Peter said, and his smile widened slightly. "Very impressive what you've become, I must say. Your dedication to your studies, your discipline, your faith... You're quite the model young man !"
Model.
The word landed somewhere in Ivan's chest and sat there.
"Thank you," he answered.
"I understood that you serve at the altar sometimes," Father Peter continued. "Or you did, when you were younger. I can tell you have the temperament for it. Calm. Focused."
He paused.
"Obedient."
Something flickered in Ivan's stomach. He didn't know why. The word was a compliment. It should have been a compliment. But in his mouth, it sounded much deeper than that.
"We'd love to have you for lunch, Father," Mrs. Unsha said smoothly. "If you're available, of course~. It would be such a blessing for Ivan to speak with you more, don't you think so darling ?”
He frowned his eyebrows. “For lunch–”
Father Peter's smile widened even more, if that was possible. "I would be honored."
The Unsha dining room was as perfect as the rest of the house. White tablecloth. Polished silverware. Food arranged with care—roasted vegetables, a cut of meat, fresh bread, wine and water. Everything in its place.
Father Peter sat across from Ivan. Unsha at the head of the table. Mrs. Unsha to Ivan's right.
The conversation was light at first, about the upcoming church fundraiser and Father Peter's work with young people in the diocese.
"I've always believed mentorship is essential," he said, cutting his meat into precise pieces. "Especially for young men. The world is... confusing. There are so many influences. So many temptations."
He didn't look at Ivan when he said it. He didn't need to.
Ivan felt it in his chest like a hot weight.
"Discipline and guidance," Unsha agreed. "That's what shapes character."
"Precisely. And Ivan clearly has an excellent foundation. His parents have done remarkable work."
Mrs. Unsha giggled, pleased. "We've tried to raise him with strong values..."
"It shows." Father Peter's eyes moved to Ivan. "Tell me, Ivan. Do you feel prepared? For the world? For whatever challenges you may face? I hope I'm not scaring you, but that's a whole thing out there !"
Ivan set down his fork. His hands were moist. "I think so."
"It's a difficult age, seventeen. The body changes. The heart changes. Desires emerge that can be... confusing."
The word hung in the air.
Desires.
"Sometimes," Father Peter continued, "young people experience things they don't understand. Feelings that seem to come from nowhere. Attractions that don't align with God's plan."
Ivan didn't move.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of ! We all face trials. What matters is how we respond to them."
Mrs. Unsha nodded. "We've always told Ivan he can come to us with anything."
"And he can," Father Peter said. "But I also understand that sometimes it's easier to speak with someone outside the family. Someone neutral. Someone trained for this."
He leaned back slightly, his posture wanting to be open.
"I've worked with many young men over the years. I've seen what happens when these things are addressed early—properly—with prayer and accountability. And I've seen what happens when they're left to... fester."
Fester.
A cousin of "rotten".
Ivan reached for his water glass. He tried to keep his hand steady.
"I would be happy to meet with you," Father Peter said, leaning on his elbows on the table. "Regularly. As a mentor. Just to talk ! To help you navigate whatever you might be experiencing."
It wasn't a question. It was an offer. A generous, kind and impossible offer to refuse without explanation.
"We think it's a wonderful idea !" Mrs. Unsha said. "Ivan could really have someone like you to guide him in those difficult times, Father. Twice a week, perhaps? Wednesdays and Sundays, after mass? What do you say, darling ?"
Unsha nodded, raising his glass of wine to his lips, “It wouldn't be useless to give him a few more hours of wisdom…We're never too careful...And as long as it's free, it means that it costs nothing to be guided, right?"
Father Peter nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, naturally. And that would work well. Also, two times a week would give us time to build trust. To go deeper. It's a good idea !"
He looked at Ivan.
"Only if you're comfortable, of course."
Everyone looked at him. His parents were looking at him. Unsha, calm and expectant. Mrs. Unsha, smiling with that thin, too-white smile.
And this man. Father Peter, his steady gaze unchanged.
Ivan could feel the shape of the word no in his mouth. He could feel what it would cost to say it.
"Of course," he answered. "Thank you, Father."
Father Peter smiled.
"I look forward to getting to know you better, Ivan."
Better.
And Ivan smiled back. Because that was what good boys did.
Father Peter left in the early afternoon.
Handshakes at the door, promises to see everyone on Wednesday, and the door closed behind him with a soft click.
Ivan stood in the hallway.
His parents had retreated to the living room, satisfied. The house was quiet again. That heavy, polished quiet. The quiet that meant everything was in order.
He walked upstairs slowly.
He closed his bedroom door. And he stood in the center of the room.
Wednesday.
Sunday.
Wednesday.
Sunday.
The words pulsed in his head like a second heartbeat. He stood there, perfectly still, perfectly composed, and felt the walls of his life contract around him.
Somewhere across town, Till was probably lying on his messy bed, music loud in his earphones, scrolling through his phone without a thought in his head about churches or priests or rot.
Ivan thought about texting him.
He didn't.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at nothing until the light outside his window began to fade.
That evening, Till's phone buzzed.
He was on the couch, some show playing in the background that he wasn't really watching. His mom was in the kitchen, humming again.
He picked up the phone.
Ivan: Do you have the history notes from Friday?
Till stared at the message. Frowned.
Till: since when do YOU need notes from ME
A pause. The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Ivan: Since I forgot to write them.
Till: bullshit. you never forget anything.
Longer pause. Till watched the screen, waiting.
Ivan: I guess I was distracted.
Till's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed: you good?
Looked at it.
Deleted it.
Typed: come over tomorrow.
And sent it.
Ivan: Okay.
Just "Okay." No dry comment. No joke.
Till put his phone down and stared at the ceiling.
"You okay?" Io called from the kitchen. Moms had a radar for silence.
"Yeah," Till answered her. "Fine."
He wasn't looking at his phone anymore. But he was thinking about it.
Something was wrong.
He didn't know what.
But something was wrong.