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It is a magic trick of the lowest order: how the wrist quickly curls inward when slipping under the long sleeve of the jacket.
The same gesture that magicians use to swipe the topmost card from the deck right underneath their audience's noses. Performing miracles. A four of hearts revealed at the right moment. Ivan's own sleight of hand serves no such extraordinary purpose. Tailored to his measurements, the fabric still snags on his arms when he pulls it into place. Twisting his wrist only makes the process smoother.The right fit should always be a little snug, his father used to say, resting a heavy palm on Ivan's back. It teaches a young man to stand tall and firm. There are certain places in the world where the body has to learn to do without the extra space. A fleece blanket. A wooden coffin. Or a blue linen suit.
Ivan is used to squeezing into the molds carefully measured for him. 42 inches around the hips. 45 inches for the chest. Over the years, the material has changed: metal, leather, cloth. Never skin. So have the definitions: Cartier, Bottega Veneta, Ralph Lauren. Loftier, velvety syllables, smoothly draping across the tongue. Around his limbs, too. Filling out the shape of his torso. After all, a man must wear ten times what he is worth. At least that they tell him. It is a truth echoed in the bold, embroidered names of the brands, which pull his weight in a way the letters of his own name cannot.
He mouths the shape of each worn letter. I. V. A. N. A perfectly balanced proportion of vowels and consonants. Not one more. Not one less. They need the additional baggage to tip the scales over.
"Ivan," his boyfriend still says, in a single breath. As if the sound is sufficient. As if there is enough of it to fill his whole mouth. "Turn your hand over."
In a magic show, magicians can use the power of suggestion to make the audience members pick a certain card. With just a few words, a person's palm starts drifting toward the most suitable one of the shuffle. Ivan has never claimed to have greater control of his limbs. Of its own volition, his wrist rotates, facing downward. Completing the arc. Thus is the motion of most things in their universe. The wheels, the fans, and the hands of the clock. The moons, the planets, and even their suns. Each just needs a force large enough to compel it into turning around its own axis.
This is the force that makes Ivan move: At the end of the rotation, the tips of Till's fingers, grazing his wrist. Even gravity must meet its limit here.
"A little higher," Till directs, uncaring of the laws of physics. Defiance has been rooted in his being ever since they were children. "Come on, aren't you getting late?"
"Converting to punctuality, Till?" Ivan counters, tilting his head, trying to drag the moment longer. If the mirror is to be believed, the dissipating mist in the bathroom blurs the corners of his smile. "I'm a little touched you care about my potential tardiness so much."
Till only lets out a huff in response, tapping the bump of Ivan's wristbone.
Late, Ivan marvels, belatedly. By seconds, minutes? Or hours? None of these is the right metric to keep count of the time he spends with Till. They need to make something that represents bigger values. Light years, perhaps. Even bigger. But that is an inside thought. It is likely that is what Till would say, right after he berates Ivan for bringing up calculations in the middle of the afternoon.
Obediently, he lifts arm, allowing Till's fingers to grasp his cuff a little tighter. In moments like these, Ivan admires the functionality of the wrist. Pale. Unassuming. So easily breaching the distance to make contact. A sliver of skin at the end of the covered elbow and forearm. Exposed in a single turn. Most practical for reaching the necessary vein when inserting an IV. Make a fist, the doctors normally instruct before tapping the area. Pinching the flesh if needed. They know they don't need to be gentle. The wrist is sturdy, made for such interference.
But Till's thumb scales the skin slowly, pressing against the underlying pulse. Medically confirmed, the wrist is so far from any other more vulnerable, more appealing area. Like the chest. Or the lips. The parts strangers turn to look at in crowded streets. The parts the camera likes to zoom in on during the photoshoots. Could you bend more? Up until here should be fine. We have to show off your best assets, right? There is not much reason to approach with care. Still, Till only applies a slight pressure, softer than a kiss. Now would be the perfect time to make the jab, but his thumb, the world's bluntest needle, only lies there, waiting.
He's counting, Ivan knows. Till has his ideal estimates for many objects. Three for how many times the bathroom cabinet must be closed. Two for the tap. Two again. And then two more. Six for Ivan's heartbeat because Till was wearing Size 240 shoes the night the two of them saw their first meteor shower and each of those happy digits adds up to a happy six. Often Ivan has stepped through Till's doorway to find him sprawled on the floor, next to a set of books only half-stacked, his thumb frantically touching the pad of each finger. I think I got up to fifty-four, but I'm not sure. Six times its own inverse. It takes much prodding for him to even admit to those counts. Let alone what lies at stake if there is a misstep. Loss, perhaps. Of everything bought with pocket change, shoved in the cabinet, the closet, and the drawers, unowed to anyone else. Whatever the consequences are, they are enough to make Till's fingers tremble.
But Ivan notices what else lies in the gaps. A lifetime of being Till's shadow has prepared him to pick up the little bits of himself Till unintentionally drops. Beyond the pen caps and erasers missing from the ends of the pencils. Till has never told him, but Ivan knows: the scuff marks on the doors of the cabinet. The changing size of his shoes. The almost-empty bottle of mouthwash that has been turned over on the side of the sink for weeks, dripping the occasional drop of sticky liquid from its loosened lid. How Till's hands never move to turn it upright or throw it in the trashcan just inches below. How each steady or unsteady element in this cramped dorm room, so far away from Till's father's house, is part of a carefully curated equilibrium, not to be shifted even by half a millimeter. If the smallness of Ivan's own pulse also accounts for this stability, then he doesn't mind standing as he is, letting Till take in the proof of his existence in sixes.
On average, the human heart beats anywhere between 60 to 100 times in a minute. Inhaling, Ivan compels it to be on the lower end, perfectly divisible. All of him has always been under Till's control, even if he knows it is not the kind of control Till desires.
"Stay still," Till reminds him, anyway, after a few seconds. His fingers begin fiddling with the first button on Ivan's right sleeve.
When Till touches him like this, Ivan remembers that the wrist has other names. Articulatio radiocarpalis. Eight carpal bones connected to five metacarpal báthe radiocarpal joint. Underneath the circular gold cufflinks attached to the ends of his cuffs, drawing attention away from the dull off-white buttons, there is his flesh, already anticipating the hefty band of the Rolex watch given on his previous adoption day. Underneath that flesh, the parts of the skeleton that he shares with others of his species. The subtle drag of Till's nails dredges up that restless humanness, leaving behind a faint tickling sensation.
It makes Ivan's fingers twitch, jerking his hand marginally backward. Till pulls it back up.
The wrist is a rather mobile joint, Ivan notes. It is gifted with two or three degrees of freedom, which is more than many of them get. 90° forward and 90° backward. 15° to the side of the thumb and 45° to the side of the little finger. 90° clockwise and 90° counterclockwise leading back to the arm. He recalls the fading names, pressed amidst the pages of his old biology textbook, interrupted by the occasional doodle of flowers or sea waves from the times Till had forgotten to bring his. Listed right below THE VARIOUS MOVEMENTS OF THE HUMAN WRIST: Extens_on, fl_xion, r_dial and ulnar deviation, pronati_n, and sup_nation. The missing letters covered by the scales of the giant fish Till had drawn all over the section. On the side of its shaded wide eyes, the words: Because you keep telling me that I don't draw you enough, stupid.
In their daily lives, humans barely use half of the flexibility granted to them. Just at around 15° should be enough, his golf instructor used to say, helping Ivan perfect his swing in time for the next business outing. That will let you maintain a good drip without overextending your palm. But when he is with Till, each self-limited range of motion feels endless. Extension of the wrist pulls the hand toward the back of the arm, the textbook had informed him. Doing so opens the face of the golf club, his instructor had said. Flexion achieves the opposite. In the recent years, Ivan has discovered the same movements can also be used to swat the fruit flies off the forgotten bananas lying in the corner of Till's desk or splashing water on Till's foamy chin while shaving side-by-side every other morning.
Alternatively, it also makes it possible for him to hold out his palm in the proper position in this moment.
"Left hand," Till says, slipping the third button on his right sleeve into place.
"As you wish," Ivan replies, already bringing up his other hand, twisting it upright. Supination, his mind supplies. The lower end of the radius swinging around the ulna, along an axis stretching from the elbow to the wrist. The gesture one makes when waiting for something to be dropped in their empty grasp. Money. Prayers. Candy. The glasses of wine they will serve at the gala in a few hours. The coffee Till made for him earlier today, poured into a bowl because all the glasses were in the sink. Four and a half spoonfuls of sugar, like Ivan prefers it. Somehow, Till always remembers. For the life of him, Ivan cannot understand why.
"You know, it may not look like it," he continues, as Till lets go of his buttoned cuff, "but I've been buttoning up my own sleeves for a long time now."
It is the sort of taunt that will ensure Till finishes the task. Not that Ivan had any doubts, but he likes to keep his bases covered. Till has been touching him continuously for the last few minutes. His own fragile mind might not be able to bear the contact being cut cold all of a sudden. The loss of Till's fingers on his right wrist is barely sated by how quickly they find his left one.
Sure enough, Till bites. "And you've got me to do it now," he says, looking up, glaring. "Problem?"
Yes, problem, Ivan wants to say, shaking his head instead. There are calluses on Till's palms from hours of practicing the guitar. Their dry, peeling skin scrapes against the hair on Ivan's forearm, making them rise. Till's fingers, roughened from reaching out for the world, brush over the unmarred, privileged flesh of Ivan's body. Surely, they should be doing something grander. Like washing the dishes. Dipping into the tubes of oil paints, spreading it across the canvas. Plucking another chord on the guitar. Instead, they repeat those same plucking motions on the folded sleeve, pushing buttons into their respective holes. The first. The second. Moving toward the third. Taking all the time they need. As if there is nothing else they would rather do. As if they want to keep Ivan in this room longer, too.
"Sorry," Till mutters, suddenly. His thumb hovers over the second button, appearing to be neatly done. There is a furrow between his eyebrows, which twitch a couple times. "I think I need to do that one again."
"It's okay," Ivan says, stretching the fingers of his other hand, then poking Till's forehead. "I was going to say it felt a little stiff, anyway."
Till grunts, dipping his head out of reach. He returns to the second button, pushing it half-way out and fully inside again, almost ripping it off with the force he applies.
Years of holding the neck of the guitar has given Till a strong grip. He never bruises the skin, but Ivan is always aware when Till comes to stand next to him in a circle of strangers, grabbing his arm as a reminder. You don't need to be so careful, their old biology teacher would tell class, when they hesitated to touch the frozen frogs lying on the counter, barely skimming the slimy epidermal layer with their fingers. Mistaking disgust for tenderness. They're all dead. In contrast, the injured moth that once got into their classroom during a lesson had to be picked up by Mizi's cautious index finger and thumb. The living are the most fragile, after all.
Still, Ivan had felt his breath stop every time Till lightly stroked his knuckles, and he was the most aware of his heart when Till strictly circled his wrist, leading him away from the crowd, restrained. You were getting tired, weren't you? Besides even I could tell that was flirting. For so long, he could not tell if one represented revulsion and the other callousness. Even more frightening was the idea that it was neither. That perhaps even Till harbored the absurd urge to confirm Ivan's warmth by his side. These days, he tries to simply bask in the opportunity each gesture provides.
"Done," Till announces all too soon, finishing up with the final button. "It's not too tight, is it?"
He tilts Ivan's hand in the direction of the pinky and the thumb, testing the space. Radial and ulnar deviation, Ivan observes. Best used when swiping a card through a vertical card reader to complete yet another transaction. Or hitting the side of one's palm square against someone else's shoulder when they're sitting on top of one's torso. Till is familiar with such angles, tracing them over and over again on paper with a sharp 0.5 millimeter pencil. But his sketchbooks contain no reflections on their previous fights. Instead, Ivan has found the outline of his own hands, flexed during arm exercises at sunrise. His own fingers, holding onto a bulging plastic bag full of groceries or chopping a slab of lamb meat on the communal kitchen counter. All the ordinary tasks that are forgotten in the repetitiveness of daily routines.
At first, Ivan had not thought much of it. Till was an artist. It was only natural for an artist to want to perfect his craft. To so, he needed a model. Ivan had a pair hands, too. They were easily accessible for reference. However, after the 173rd sketch of his fingers doing something as mundane as gripping the air of a chair, Ivan has started suspecting that the hands do have to be attached to the rest of his body.
"It feels fine," he chuckles, shaking his fist out. "I am not going to be doing much other than swirling the same glass of wine for two hours."
"Make that three hours," Till says, flicking the protruding vein. "You know you get an headache when you drink too much."
There must truly be something wrong with Ivan's brain because that only makes him chuckle harder. Ah, what good fortune, to be scolded so rightfully. Ivan is not a stranger to restrictions. From childhood, the yellow measuring tape had been pulled across his shoulders, mapping the extent they should broaden. The plates topped up with balanced meals—vegetables, eggs, and whole grain—even if the seat across the table remained empty. The report card lined in As, without a need to proceed to the other letters of the alphabet. But no one had thought to set the smaller rules. Like: no candy after 10 PM, no agreeing to tutoring classmates in the middle of exams seasons, no more than two glasses of wine at his father's business milestone celebrations. Ivan doesn't mind if his hands are chained with such affection.
Besides, any more than one glass will make his breath smell worse, which means no coming back to his boyfriend. Once, during a particularly lengthy conversation that made his teeth ache from smiling, someone tipsier than him had sloshed their glass over his shirt. Like a fool, he had decided to wash it at the laundromat across Till's dorm. However, the odor had seeped so deep into the fabric that even two wash cycles had not gotten rid of it. A faint trace of it remained in the gap between Till's bed and drawer in which Ivan had stored the jacket, making Till's eyes water continuously.
Given the room's poor airflow, Till had tossed and turned in his sleep for nights after, jolting awake with his hands clutching his chest or his throat. Holding him close and humming his mother's lullabies back to him, Ivan had sworn to be more careful. Those jagged corners of his own his life would not cut Till again.
"Well, I suppose I should leave now," Ivan murmurs, easing his laughter, trying to stick to that oath. He moves his body away from Till's, hips bumping into the sink. "I promise I will only stick to one glass."
In the dirty bathroom mirror, the blue that is not his own glints. Dark. Rich. A shade that covers him entirely. It clashes with the white cracks running down the bathroom wall. It even clashes with Till's maroon tank top (cut from one Ivan's old shirts) and the sunburnt flesh of his bare forearms forearms. If Ivan had it in him, not a single atom of Till's body would touch this part of his world. The minted bills. The clinking glasses. The false laughter dripping off the side of them, glittering like studs. All of it should be kept away from Till, whose eyes crinkle when he laughs.
The coarse fabric makes Ivan itch. He longs to scratch it off. He wonders if this is how Till feels on the days he refuses to touch Ivan because his fingers skimmed a pixelated beer can resting in a model's lap on the front cover of another magazine and now the stench won't come off. On those days, sitting across the run-down bed, Ivan aches to tell Till that he wants nothing more than the messiness inside Till to spill over and for all its murky colors to douse him. He wonders if Till feels the same, with his hand still seizing Ivan's.
Perhaps in time they will realize that contact is indeed contagious, but in the way heat travels through a conducting metal, spreading warmth from one end to the other. Underneath the blue jacket sleeve, along every point where Ivan's body meets Till's, his joints have already started to thaw. Between the lapels of his suit jacket, the lines of his white shirt frame his torso, the edges tucked into his trousers with the help of Till's fuzzy green hair clip. Behind the folds of the shirt, the overbearing cologne that is reminiscent of the fireplace in his father's study. Through the notes of that scent, the faint mint of the bodywash resting on the wet floor of Till's shower, leaking through. Past the appropriateness of his attire, his gray boxers, stained green at the elastic band from being washed in the same cycle as Till's.
Beneath the layers of cloth and skin, somewhere the eyes can't see: the bone in his arm that splintered when Till tripped while trying to carry Ivan around the playground. Till cried the whole of that week and drew red meteors all over Ivan's cast. Years later, the soggy plaster covered in red marks has long been disposed, but the wound and the evidence of his mending remains.
Among all of Ivan's misgivings, at least this one has been fixed.
"Till?" He calls, tugging his arm when he realizes it has still not been released. Of course, he doesn't do it hard enough for Till to actually let go.
But Till doesn't respond. He keeps his green pupils trained the slight gap between the buttons. At the barely admissible peek of what lies underneath. Ah. Ivan longs to squeeze his cheeks, so he'll admit to the unsaid secrets he has stuffed between.
It's funny; through the loose collar of Till's top, Ivan can see the beginnings of his chest. It is almost the end of autumn and yet this is the average coverage of Till's upper body. Yet Till is the one often infuriated by glimpses of flesh. Ivan will never understand why he continues to be affected by something so minimal. Even before they had started dating, Till used to avoid his eyes every time another tabloid released a picture of Unsha's son at the entrance of a gala, arm hooked with another's. It took months for Ivan to name the emotion on his face annoyance. A year to call it anger. Even today, he still hesitates to say that it is jealousy.
"Till."
The other boy only hums, lowering his head in answer.
It's a ridiculous premise: Jealousy implies a fear of losing another's interest. But the shiny chandeliers in the hall could never draw his eyes away from the flickering bulb in Till's shower, under which he gets to lather Till's hair. An even more ridiculous premise: the idea that there is any part of Ivan that is yet unclaimed by Till.
Still, Ivan lets Till bend his arm, pulling it close enough to his own face.
At such a short distance from Till's lips, Ivan feels the dampness of Till's breath settle over his skin. Somehow, Ivan suspects that his body was never meant to bend this way. A boy raised only to be the next in line. Wrists trained to be flexed enough to take hold of the pen, deviating to sign at the cross mark on the bottom the page. But in this room, his hands have extended to push open the flaps of Till's jacket. Maintaining a flexed position, they have tilted toward the ulna, dragging the zipper down. They have pronated and supinated, pinching the bare expanse of Till's ribs with various degrees of intensities.
Within these four walls, his limbs have discovered all the movements that are possible for them. A body that was perhaps never meant to cherish another has somehow learned to do the same.
Now, he knows to keep his wrist stationary, so Till's jaw can softly clamp down.
"Ouch," Ivan intones, immediately, to camouflage the underlying gasp. It's misdirection of the highest order.
In his life, Ivan has known many people who have wanted to put their mouths on him. The most kissable lips, the list being passed around during third period had declared next to his name. A title generously bestowed by his high school peers. Moron. That had been Till's title for him. Only one of the two he had carried around proudly in the breast pocket of his uniform shirt.
Objectively, he understands that he has a proportionate facial bone structure that present day beauty standards may deem attractive. When things had progressed with past partners, they had usually sought the curve of his jaw or the lipgloss on his lips. None had thought to even glance at the wrinkles on his wrist, appearing far more unkept under the uncreased sheath of the suit. But Till's mouth, likely still tasting of the grape soda he sipped from Ivan's can, only affirms its position on Ivan's skin, sealing the contact with spit.
Desire is explainable. One might consider it expected. Ivan thinks this every time Till's mouth traces the path from his elbow to his knuckles, lingering over the uneven thrum of his pulse. The body has its longings, and it does not have many hesitations when an opportunity to satiate them presents itself. Besides, such cravings are much easier to digest.
Desire is legible. Even for those as far-sighted as himself. Being loved is not.
It is just like Till to do something so unnecessary.
Through the lasting sting, Ivan thinks of all the milk teeth Till has lost in sandpits. He thinks of the cavity Till got in third grade. Tooth 20, the dentist reports had read. He thinks of the year Till got braces and refused to open his mouth when he laughed. He thinks of the wobbly molar he had helped Till pluck out in his childhood bedroom, which he had then planted among the tangle of anemones in his mother's garden. Till has long outgrown all those teeth, but Ivan still feels all the years sink into his bones.
He wonders what his face is doing. None of the etiquette lessons had prepared him for this. Steady hands, Ivan, the instructors used to say, showing him the right way to hold a fork and a knife. His piano teacher had the same sound advice.
It all fails in this instance. Ivan worries that Till can feel the little quakes in his carpal joint.
"There," Till mumbles, lifting his head, holding Ivan's wrist against his flushed cheek. Ivan keeps his eyes on the gray hair falling across his forehead. Is that a white one right next to it? Ivan's thumb spasms with the urge to pluck it out. "So you don't forget."
As if there is anything else worth remembering, he wants to reply. Instead, humiliatingly, he has to clear his throat.
"Hey, where are you looking?" Till says, a little louder now. His trembling form rushes ahead when he realizes someone else is trembling harder. Ivan can still his silhouette standing between Mizi and the three barking dogs. "Don't tell me you're feeling shy. Guess you get embarrassed like the rest of us, huh?"
"You're acting rather brave," Ivan says, rapidly recalling language, "but I fear you might break into a run the moment we make eye contact and you realize what you've done. You're quite impulsive, aren't you, Till?"
"What, I won't do that!" Till gasps, eyebrows twitching again. His nostrils flare. "It's only k-kissing. You. My boyfriend. Isn't it? I can tell you are trying to distract me. Don't do that."
His voice grows softer again on that third-to-last sentence. Absently, Ivan observes that it's interesting to keep track of the particular truths Till voices at a particular volumes. Presently, he is unable to do much with the information. No one told him relationships turned both individuals into see-through mirrors.
The skin of his wrist tingles. Till must have really bit deep. Ivan almost feels a little prouder. From up here, he can make out the contours of a half-crescent crater. It makes sense that the indentation of Till's teeth resembles a phase of the moon.
Boyfriend, Till stuttered. A title Ivan only uses when his college classmates ask why he can't go to the mixer or party with them. He thinks it even less. Designations have always been a little lost on him. Friend, a six-year-old Till had explained to him, was someone who shared crayons with you in art class. Ivan, who used to chew on all his blue crayons, had relied on Till when it came to coloring his sky. He just hadn't known there was a word for it.
By the time he found out, the snot on Till's nose had already dried, but the seat next to Till had still been empty the next class, covered by a damp handkerchief. His mother's signature threadwork on its border. Somehow, Ivan had been given a second chance. Forgiving as Till was, he had kept giving it over the years.
The transition friend to boyfriend had been similar. It had consisted of the following: Till's ears, reddening a touch darker whenever Ivan pulled on his lobes. An increase in the use of Ivan's name, preferred over the usual insults. The umbrella Till claimed to have forgotten even though Ivan had reminded him of the rain the night before. All the little clues that Ivan had caught up on but not known what they added up to.
From the start, Till was the one who decided the upper limits of their equation. Handing Ivan the the second half of his orange at lunch. Announcing that they should have a sleepover. Reciting the names of all the glow-in-the-dark constellations on Ivan's bedroom ceiling.
A few months ago, the barbecue restaurant. The stranger who had bumped into Till at the entrance, sending him stumbling into Ivan's chest. But Till stayed there, tucked in the hoodie Ivan had lent him, pushing back against Ivan's shirt. Such less space between them. The kiss had made for an even tighter fit, but Ivan had had no formal complaints. Three weeks later, after nibbling on the mole under Ivan's eye, Till had whispered, "Boyfriend?" Like the first time he had told Ivan he could ride on the back of his bicycle.
Soon after, the anniversaries. One week. One month. A hundred days. Curiously marked by red circles on the calendar and paper crowns snuck into his backpack. Ivan hadn't realized his prolonged companionship had been a milestone to celebrate. Ivan's own milestones tended to look different, ranging from the number of times Till had chosen the table by the window in their usual cafe to the number times he had reached for his glass of water while eating spicy buns.
As the months pass, there is yet another date. Another step. Another permission. In truth, Ivan would have been content knowing they could exchange kisses like they had once traded marbles. But Till had solidified those fleeting gestures into a single term.
Still, Ivan tends to use it the most around other people because it is makes their relationship comprehensible If Ivan had his way, he would say: The longest bone in the arm, holding everything up. The direction a compass needle points toward after spinning listlessly. The tiny star that had kept glowing in his bedroom even when the rest of them had died down. But none of these captures a fraction of it. Besides, Till has always admired the concreteness of words and their sounds. Between the two of them, he is the one who says it more. In Ivan's mind, it's usually just Till, Till, Till.
"I said I won't run," his Till repeats, squeezing Ivan's right hand, placing it on his other cheek. Staring straight at him. Till's mother has taught him to look his bullies in the eye. It seems that Till tends to the same for his lovers. Perhaps Ivan commands such complicated attention. "Got anything else to add?"
Like this, both of Ivan's wrists are captive to Till. Ensnared thoroughly, they have no choice but to keep cupping Till's face. Still, given the freedom, there is not a single other place they would rather be.
"I have no further comments," Ivan states, surrendering to his fate.
There had been 27 bones in the diagram of the hand and wrist on Page 21 of the textbook. That makes a total of 54 bones when counting both sets. It is almost 1/5th of the all the bones in a human skeleton. Like this, Till is holding almost 1/5th of Ivan's whole being. He imagines gloating to Till about this fact. Idiot, Till's voice echoes in his mind, stubborn. Don't be satisfied with just this much. He attempts to shake the thought out of his head. A little goes a long way for some of us.
But the real Till is right within reach, unmoving. The room is so small. There really is nowhere else for him to go at all. Later, Ivan will wonder if it was growth or self-indulgence that convinced him to cross the distance. Right now, with his nose nuzzling Till's cheek, the right answer hardly matters.
Inside the bathroom, there is the sound of clanging old pipes. The bottle of mouthwash, still lying on its side. The leaky faucet Till has tried to fix countless times. Outside, the rest of Ivan's world. The sturdy alder door to the condo his father bought him before college, which stays empty most days in favor of the rickety door to Till's own room. The chauffeured car parked around the corner of the narrow street, right by the hotteok stall they liked to visit late at night. The polyester car seat and flimsy chair at the gala, miles apart from Till's twin-sized mattress where both their limbs can slot together. In the throes of sleep, Ivan might even assume a comfortable enough position for his t-shirt to ride up.
The people, waiting to touch him. The people, waiting to shake his hand, pat his shoulder. The people, waiting to sink their claws into him, wondering if he will yield. Conversely, Till's arms are gentle and unyielding, so easy to lean into. For the first time since he was six-years-old, Ivan imagines saying, I don't want to go. Please don't make me go again.
"When you come back," Till whispers, like he has heard Ivan, turning his cheek into Ivan's, finishing a puzzle Ivan didn't know he had started. "When you come back, we'll put on one of those horror movies you like to make fun of, and we'll eat galbi-jjim while watching it. My mom's recipe. We'll put your clothes in the wash and you can go back to those weird turtlenecks you wear even in summer. I'll show you the song I'm working on, and you'll pretend that it doesn't freak you out that it's about you. Okay?"
Crayons, Ivan remembers. Oranges. Sleepovers. Friend. Boyfriend. The back of a creaky bicycle going down the same neighborhood.
"Okay," Ivan says, as he has said to all that came before this.
On his wrist, the crescent moon throbs. As a child, Ivan used to envy the same moon and its surrounding stars, flaring outward like a palm. But stars are so big, he supposes. They don't get to see this up close.
The stars don't get to feel the texture of waxy crayons. Nor the rough rind of oranges. How the scent of both clings to one's fingers for hours. They don't catch how the hand curls when peeling a orange for someone else. Splitting it into one half. Then two. The second a little bigger. They don't taste the generosity of four and a half spoonfuls of sugar. They don't hear the squeaky door swinging open. They don't know the empty bowl stained brown with crushed coffee beans. The plastic stars that children learn to wish on, the ones they have to peel off one by one when they move out. The fish fins doodled over wrist bones. The lamb grilling on the stove. The movie playing past midnight. The two shadows on the bedroom walls. Nebulous.
When Ivan turns his wrist over, all he wants is for his fingers to fit in between Till's.
It is a dream so small, not even the stars can imagine it.