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“And I’d look up into the sky,” Till stammers.
Ivan’s brows furrow impossibly further inwards. They’re sitting inside the car, Ivan and Till. It’s Ivan’s car, with Till sitting in the driver’s seat and Ivan in the passenger’s. Convenience-store-brand noodle cups sit empty and lopsided on the dashboard. From outside the open car windows, waves clap and sizzle and break into one another as they darken the sand.
“I’d look and stare at those clouds that come in strands, the ones that look like string cheese when I rip it up to eat it.”
It’s the only way Till likes to eat string cheese. Mizi taught him the method back in kindergarten on a rainy day during indoor recess. Sua had sidled over to make some snide remark about how she thought it was dorky that Till’s string cheese had Spider-Man printed on the packaging. Till knows for a fact that his cheese was, in fact, not dorky. Spider-Man could never be dorky. Even to this day, he buys string cheese with Spider-Man printed on the packaging from the grocery store down the street. Which, Till considers now, is not a very financially smart investment. The grocery prices over there are fucking ridiculous.
Not that cheese nor Mizi nor groceries have any relevance right now.
Ivan clears his throat. Till can't decide if he looks confused or constipated with how intensely Ivan's brows are drawn inwards. “Okay, Till. You've established that you like Spider-Man on your string cheese. Okay.”
Wait. Did he seriously say all of that out loud? How mortifying, Till can practically hear Sua mocking him with a deadpan.
He slumps forward in his seat. Well, shit. Now Ivan probably thinks of Till as a cheese fiend.
“Yeah, Spider-Man string cheese is gas. But I guess they could be strands of cotton too, if that’s more up your alley,” he attempts to save face. “The clouds, I mean. Not the cheese.” Sweat beads under his bangs and on the back of his neck.
This is so awkward. Please, God, if I am to drop dead right now, here in this car—please don’t let Ivan’s last thought of me alive be that I am a cheese fiend.
Ivan’s mouth opens, and closes. He nods and remains mute, his face twisted pensively in a manner that has him resembling Donkey from Shrek but if he'd stubbed his toe. Till imagines this. Donkey from Shrek with Ivan’s hair and Vogue model features.
He chokes down a laugh and immediately regrets having done so as his throat burns painfully. “Clouds so white and pure with a stupidly ethereal glow so intense that it leaves stains behind my eyelids when I close my eyes,” Till barrels on. “Those purplish bruise-looking splotches that don’t fade away no matter how much you blink or rub at your eyes."
The ones that stay for a long time and disappear only when they want to, goes unspoken.
"I look at clouds like those, and I think of you," he finishes quietly.
Another pause. Ivan seems to have stopped blinking. Maybe even breathing. Till squints at him. Is he turning purple? It could be a trick of the light.
“Till, aren’t you lactose intolerant?” Ivan blurts.
Somewhere, Mizi is groaning with her head in her hands, and Sua is clutching her stomach as she points at Till and cackles in a very not-Sua fashion.
Till grits his teeth. “What? Okay. Can we focus here? I think of you when I look at them. Clouds like those with their unforgiving sunlight stains. I think of you and keep my eyes shut in some dumb attempt to keep those stains under my eyelids for as long as humanly possible."
Please tell me you understand what I'm saying here, he pleads internally. Please notice how I'm trying to tell you that I like having you around.
A beat. To say that Ivan is stunned would be an understatement.
“And, also—so what if I’m lactose?” Till adds. Incredulously. Perhaps mildly offended.
Ivan explodes with laughter. Till had been so close to sounding profound. So incredibly close, and Ivan fights for his life trying to voice this fact. “And here I thought,” he manages between giggles, “that you’d finally found an earnest bone in your body!” Till cringes at this as he imagines Sua doubling over, wheezing in sync with Ivan. Pathetic!
Ocean waves continue their steady applause from beyond the car, and silence gradually replaces Ivan’s laughter, comes to hang heavy in the two-foot space that separates him from Till. A silence so heavy and stifling that it could almost be compared to a cement wall, the ones you’ll find in those ugly, minimalistic city apartment complexes: imposing, cold, blank. Boring, invasive.
A wall that makes you wonder if there's any chance of something more that’ll come bursting through the cement anytime soon.
Whatever. The carpeted floor of Ivan’s car, Till deems, is suddenly the #1 Most Interesting Thing in the World. Not a single smudge or stain or hair or crumb could be found amongst the fuzz resting under Till’s scuffed-up sneakers. It’s almost as if Ivan had his car cleaned before he let (made) Till drive for today, the prickly little clean freak, but Till digresses. You could say he feels special. Almost.
He squints at the carpeted floor again, takes a cautionary sniff, and swears it smelled faintly of roses. Roses? Are you kidding me? How extra. How meticulous. How utterly Ivan.
Ivan. Till echoes the name in his head and rolls it around in his mouth to taste it. It tastes like overripe cherries and bourbon and too much nostalgia—Ivan does, he tastes like cherry and the haze that comes with being drunk and the very definition of rumination all at once.
Get a load of Sappatron 3000 over here! Everyone, point and laugh, echoes Sua.
Till shudders involuntarily.
Anyway. A cement wall might as well have been stationed between him and Ivan. Realistically, only seconds have passed, but it feels more like entire eons since Ivan last made a peep. Or a squeak. Or even a growl.
Before Till can conjure up twenty-five additional onomatopoeia words to describe Ivan’s muteness, Ivan lunges at him. The shift stick between them nudges sharply into his ribcage, and Ivan grimaces as the steering wheel knocks into his right elbow’s funny bone and his forehead knocks into Till’s and the back of Till’s head slams into the window on the driver’s side of the car and the car itself morphs into an oven instead, set to four-hundred-and-fifty degrees Fahrenheit as Till’s face goes up in flames; a nice Christmas ham (but it’s only August). Ivan’s arms and hands fly down to cage Till in against the car door as a thousand sparks explode behind Till’s eyes and he screams Ivan, what the fuck? He kicks and flails. Thrashes around violently against Ivan's chest and accidentally headbutts his chin in the process. “Ivan, Ivan—what in God’s name are you doing?”
More silence. Another cement wall. Till hesitantly peeks one eye open, only to find Ivan already glaring down at him; mutely, unresponsive.
This is starting to get old.
Ivan’s breaths stagger in and out of tandem with Till’s. All the man does is breathe, and infuriatingly so. Inhales and exhales are all he's willing to give until Till’s eyes fly wide open, tongue positioned on the offensive like an angered viper; ready to strike at a moment’s notice, ready to yell, ready for Ivan, would you just say something, you damn coward.
Except he doesn’t. He never strikes. All of the speed and spunk that Till could possibly muster, only to be stopped full force by the sheer magnetism of Ivan’s stare as Till meets his stare and Ivan bores holes into Till and through the glass of the car window behind him. Wide-eyed, Till stares right back into that vortex, the vortex that is Ivan’s eyes. Curiously glossy nebulae lined with kindness and impatience and glimmering humanity.
"Till," hisses Ivan, eyes impossibly wide. "Till, look at me." He turns Till inside out and bares Till’s soul to the sun with his stare. He also sounds like he's in pain. Or nervous, that's probably more accurate. What the fuck? Why is he nervous? Till's the one with his foot in his mouth here.
And yet, a feather falling to the floor could shatter the tension permeating the air all the same. "I'm already looking at you," Till breathes. "I'm literally always looking for y—at you. Same difference. Uh."
He can never seem to look away first, either. Ivan's breathing hitches at this.
Till forces out a cough. “Forget that last part.”
"Yeah, I will." Ivan lies through his teeth. He blinks harshly. Sucks in a breath.
“Till, can you kiss my eyelids?”
Till’s jaw goes slack. “What?”
“I said. Kiss—my eyelids. Can you—can you do that?”
“No—wait, yes, but I heard you the first ti—”
“Oh, but only if you’d like to—”
“Yeah,” Till exhales, eyes crinkling tiredly. “Yeah, Ivan, I can.” Oxygen leaks out of the half rolled down car windows. “I want to,” he adds quietly, as his gaze flits to the empty ramen cups sitting on the dashboard. One looks to be on the cusp of rolling off. Till reaches a hand up to catch it—
“Really? You really mean that?”
—and jolts as Ivan leans in, his movements hesitant and tone cautious—like Till’s a wild animal he’s trying to win over. Like he’s scared Till will suddenly sit up to laugh in his face and say Uh, no? Like I’d ever do something as sappy and gross as that, and get out of his car and walk away, never to look back and spare Ivan a second glance.
…Or drive Ivan back home, but that’s a concern of lesser importance. “Till, are you sure?”
Bless his heart, Ivan really just couldn't help asking again. Till’s eyes flash murderously, but he makes no move to protest. The ramen cup falls and bounces off the top of his left sneaker. He shrugs. His right shoulder nudges Ivan’s left. “Sure.”
Ivan stares at the inch of space where their shoulders meet.
“Are you absolutely certain? Are you feeling unwell? Sick in the head, perhaps?”
“I literally just said—sure. Yes. Are your ears working? Were you even listening?”
“Yes—yes, they are, of course I was.” Ivan closes his eyes, drops his head to rest in the crook of Till’s neck, and lets out a breath he was unaware he had been holding in. It takes every ounce of self-control Till has in his body to stop himself from flinching.
A beat.
Then, Till, in a whisper so strained: “But why?”
Ivan's eyes instantly snap back up to meet Till’s.
“What you said earlier—about how clouds can stain your eyelids. I’ve never experienced that before.”
Till nods tentatively. “Okay.”
“And I think—” Ivan pushes, “I think that’s something I would like to see for myself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, I'm asking if you can demonstrate this sensation for me. Could you?”
The sigh that exits Till comes bearing the force of a thousand sneezing elephants. “Yeah, okay. Can you move?”
Wordlessly, Ivan retracts. Catches his ribcage on the shift stick again, lets out a yelp. Grumbles and pouts when a chuckle slips out of Till at this.
Upon stepping out of the car, the setting sun garners Till’s attention as it lights the ocean’s surface on fire, sending a million stars zipping to and fro atop the bubbling tide as waves destroy and rebuild one another.
The setting sun, Till notes. This very sun that's going to traverse the horizon once more come tomorrow morning. This star with a presence no less than eternal—all-enduring for any who live and breathe, lest Earth's eyelids remain closed in slumber should it ever fail to rise again.
Against his better judgment, Till stares straight into the sunset.
And subsequently blinds himself. Not that he didn't see this coming (not that he could see anything at all), but his stupid heart had yearned, from the very moment the sun's rays had caught his eyes, for confirmation of one stupid thing—and confirmation he’d received indeed.
Despite the purpling blotches blooming across his vision, Till smiles. Even without clouds, it all still looks like Ivan. If anything, staring straight into the sun seemed to better mimic whatever feeling it is that consumes Till’s head and heart whenever Ivan comes into his line of sight. Stunned, warmed, entranced; in total awe.
“Till?”
—is the question carried to his ears by a passing whistle of wind.
And just like that, Till is brought back down to Earth. Once again grounded by Ivan’s presence.
As Till yanks the door to the passenger's seat open and shifts to kneel in front of him, Ivan starts up again. "Really, it's okay if you don't feel like—"
"Ivan. Please, just shut the fuck up and let me do this. I do want to… kiss your eyelids," Till mutters with a huff, "so quit dragging this out, unless you really don't want it—"
Hands find the collar of his jacket, and Till barely registers hearing Oh my god Till please stop talking and just kiss me already before his forehead slams into Ivan's nose and Ivan's lips barely graze Till's left cheek before Ivan flinches backwards hard and lets out a primal screech of pain.
"Urgk—my nose!" He all but whines with his face in his hands.
And all Till can do is curse and laugh. Curse at Ivan for how stupid he is, at the bruise steadily blooming across his own forehead, and laugh until his stomach clenches tautly in warning. Laugh, as he brings his own hands up to Ivan's and gently pries his fingers away from his face so that Till can finally, properly, grace his eyelids with a flurry of quick little pecks. Complaints of oh my God, that tickles! bleed into the endless river of giggles that flow from Ivan's mouth as Till, undeterred, plants one kiss after another—though he'd initially planned to kiss each eyelid only once, but God help him—he found himself unable to deny Ivan from receiving just one more kiss (on whichever part of Ivan’s face as he demanded, at this point) upon hearing each quiet protest that fell from the man's lips at every attempt Till made to pull away from him, until he’d simply lost the urge to cease his attacks.
Pft. As if Till's ever even had enough willpower to do such a thing in the first place, Somewhere-Far-Off Sua and Mizi whisper knowingly amongst themselves.
They end up being the last ones to leave the beach tonight, Ivan and Till.
As Till reverses the car out of their parking spot, Ivan throws a glance out his window at the fading sunset. "Till, look, it's beautiful!" Ivan grins, as he rolls down his window and sticks an arm out to point at it, and tries staring into it himself, only to flinch away after a beat, pressing his palms to his eyes as he chuckles. "Goodness, I can't see anything! How do you survive doing this so often, Till, if the habit you speak of is one you truly enjoy frequenting?"
Again, Till can only laugh in response. Yes, the sun is beautiful. His sun is beautiful. Really, Till doesn't even have to look to know, but he indulges Ivan regardless, and turns—right on cue—to catch the final blip of sunlight disappearing beneath the waves.
He watches Ivan's smiling face as twilight paints his cheeks with a subtle glow, and suddenly, this buzzing warmth is scaling up, up, up Till's neck, rapid and overgrown like ivy. The laughter chokes and dies within his throat as this heat carefully engulfs his heart and morphs into something dangerously close to love.
Love. Till? Loving Ivan? Heaven knows Till can't avoid this fact any longer, the fact that he loves Ivan.
But he tries to outrun it anyway as he floors the gas pedal.
The engine roars to life as Till practically boomerangs the car around a bend with a sharp pull of its steering wheel, and Ivan's eyes blow up into bowling balls with a shriek and he digs his heels into the floor and clutches his seatbelt for dear life, his smile widening into a terrified grin as he screams, "Till! Remember that you're driving my car! My car, and not yours!"
"Which means that you're the one paying for insurance if we crash!" Till yells over the incessant rumbling of the engine as he slams the gas pedal into the floor of Ivan's car once more, as if to emphasize.
Ivan shrieks again in loud protest—pure, unadulterated joy leaking from between his teeth as that damned grin of his stays firmly plastered onto his face. "We? Till, do mind the speed limit—what if there's a squadron of cops waiting to catch drivers like you waiting behind some exit? Oh, Till, we're going to crash—!"
One car wheel catches on some random pebble comically placed in the middle of the otherwise spotless road, and Ivan's car ought to be classified as a pegasus with how it takes flight off into the sky upon making contact with said pebble.
"Till, holy shit!" Ivan, who rarely curses, screeches with wild abandon, his voice scratchy and spiked with adrenaline. "Oh my God, ohmyGod ohmyGod please we're going to die—"
God, is right, Till thinks for a glorious moment as the car soars through the air with all its windows fully down, and he's powerless to do anything besides return Ivan's terror-stricken smile at full intensity.
God, as Till can do no more than let out an euphoric howl of his own alongside Ivan's bloodcurdling screams as the car finally slams back down onto solid ground and sends crippling shocks of pain shooting up both of their spines.
God, if the sun isn't just drop-dead gorgeous tonight.