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This is a story about a good dog.
What makes a good dog? That's important to know. The answer varies depending on the person. Good dogs are loyal. Good dogs are trained. Good dogs have friendly demeanors and love to cuddle. Good dogs don't bite. Well, maybe sometimes, but they don't mean it and will do better after some scolding.
Good dogs adjust. Good dogs listen.
Ivan listens. Not because he wants too, but because people are just so loud. Vocal about their wants even though their mouths don't move.
There's the tapping of a pencil. A woman sits two rows up, two spots to the left. The pencil eraser hits the desk to the rhythm of the clock's second hand. Every two seconds, she taps. She has done this for twenty minutes and will likely keep doing it the last five they had before class ended. Ivan can't blame her. It's one of those long, once-a-week classes, where they sit in a stuffy room for exactly three hours with two ten-minute breaks. To make it worse, they have the most monotone sounding teacher at the front. Statistical equations reflected off the projector screen, some obviously screenshotted from the web and now blurry. Ivan didn't bother writing them down. He didn't bother to bring in anything today.
One row down on the right, a guy Ivan's age. He's been playing with a lighter on and off the last ten minutes. The fidget created a soft click click click as his thumb snapped down against the lighter's fork, opening and closing off the gas coming from its valve. It's only enough to create sparks. The guy was a chain smoker. Ivan saw him every day before class at the same spot; a slight dip in the university's walls that formed a small hideaway overrun by shrubs that hid crushed beer cans and empty vapes. The guy would look at the ground, dazed, taking drag after drag.
Mizi sat right next to Ivan. Smelt of mandarin and vanilla, notes from her favorite perfume. Ivan only knew that because Sua always smelled like it when she came back to the apartment they shared.
Soft blocky sounds came from Mizi's screen. Her and Sua have been texting the majority of class. Bored and having no desire of his own to make noise about, he glanced at her phone screen from time to time. The girls had plans to go to a new cafe that opened up on the south side of town. Afterward they'd go see a movie. It's some new horror comedy Mizi wanted to see, and she assured Sua it wasn't that scary so she would agree to come.
Ivan closed his eyes.
Tap tap tap, click click click, type type type.
He could have told Mizi she didn't have to convince Sua of anything. Sua would have agreed to watch the movie regardless. Though he and his sister bumped heads in a lot of ways, there was an undeniable string between them. A familiarity in the way her dull eyes look from behind wispy strands of dark hair. The way she found something worthwhile and performed very well at being someone worth keeping said worthwhile. Sua was good. Sua was loyal. Sua behaved and laughed when she was supposed to and made herself look pathetic sometimes.
Ivan sucked on his teeth. Reality blurred, his head in some far-off place.
The sibling bond between them was merely a tether. Sua was good at things Ivan wasn't. Ivan was good at things Sua couldn't be.
The smoker got up first. Clock hitting six-thirty sharp, the guy practically tipped backward in his seat trying to get up. Taking the steps down two at a time, it's barely a few seconds after that he's out the door with his lighter in one hand and the other digging in his jeans pocket for a cigarette.
"Hm," an unintelligent noise from the professor. He fixed his glasses and looked at the time. "Seems I got carried away. There are a few other important concepts we need to go over before the midterm, so we'll start that next class. Everyone, make sure to do the practice sheets listed under the assignments tab in Canvas. Everything must be done before we meet again next Thursday."
Half the class listened, making way towards the exit with bags or notebooks in hand. Mizi let out a relieved sigh, sending one last text before standing. She'll inevitably ask Ivan again and he dreaded it. He's good though. So when she looks at him, he gave her a closed-eye smile. He doesn't know why, exactly, but she loves it when he smiles.
"You sure you don't want to come to the movies with Sua and I?" she asked, wide-eyed and sparkling. It's a performance. Mizi holds a certain power in the way she asks things, with the sweet lilt in her tone and the way her head tilts. Ivan sees it. Sees how it causes guys around campus to stammer and the way she attracts attention by walking in. Ever pretty and kind and intelligent. Fragile in a way Ivan was both near envious of and exhausted by.
Ivan was tempted. He knows better, but Mizi would not scold him if he misbehaves.
Yeah Mizi, i'll come, he could say. Then he'd see her face fall only a second. In her mind it would no longer be a date for her and Sua but instead a hangout with her girlfriend and her girlfriend's brother. She would respond with something painfully cheerful and they would go to the cafe and meet Sua there.
Sua would scold him at home. From her it held no bearing. No authority. Like barking into a reflection because the dog is scared of the slight warped, transparent version of itself it can't comprehend.
"No, I have plans already," Ivan said, standing up.
Mizi beamed. She always beamed. "Till again?"
Again. Again again again. It makes it sound as Ivan left. Like he decided to talk a walk, teeth sunken into limp leather and nails clicking along the pavement - down the street, around the corner, out of sight. Then he would come back again. Sit outside the door, ask to come in.
Ivan doesn't feel like he's ever left. The leather is in his mouth, his presence unwanted and outside. Waiting.
"No," he glanced to the side. Spied two guys leaving class, one in an old sports jersey too big for his frame and the other snickering at something. "I'm meeting up with some guys who wanted pointers on football. They have shitty throws."
Mizi tilted her head, hugging her textbook to her chest. She looked surprised. "Oh, that's nice! I thought you were over football once we graduated high school."
Ivan hummed, going down the steps one by one. He isn't in a rush. He knows where to go, what to do. "Just got a second wind, maybe. Reminiscing."
They parted at the bottom of the stairs. Mizi left through the exit that led out to the hallway. It's faster to get to the front lot that way, and Mizi would take the bus downtown. Ivan took the exit that spat him out directly into the university's side yard. Frosted grass crunched underfoot and his breath came in little puffs. At six-thirty the sun was already beginning to set. Winter days brought in darker nights, and Ivan looked forward to it. The cold nipped at the exposed skin of his hands and cheeks, seeped beneath the black long sleeves. It's not unbearable. He'd find solace soon enough.
Rounding the corner, he caught sight of the smoker in the darkened corner between the university walls. The guy glanced up, all hollow cheeks and one hand under his armpit to keep warm. For a second, there's a revolting affinity. It's in the gleam of the eyes. The desire in the way his shoulders hunched, how his bony fingers curled around the cigarette. A stance that said bad. That said he doesn't know any other way.
Ivan kept walking. A curl in his lip, his eyes focusing on the two guys he watched leave before.
The university wasn't bad. Nor did it lack funds. It's wide, the campus spanning enough square feet to enroll and serve around twenty thousand students. The buildings were older, but it was rustic and charming rather than rundown and uncared for. Brick walls and oak framed windows, tunnels connecting to dozens of clubs and sports rooms and classes. But a large campus is hard to keep completely secure. Not every spot is going to have a security guard or a camera. Especially not for those who know exactly where to go. For dirty mutts who knew where to do bad things without being caught.
A sharp crack resounded through the air.
Ivan's fist throbbed, but the pain is triumphed by the swell of something vicious. A twisted, carnal desire that had him raise his hand again. The guy he punched crippled on the spot, holding his bloody nose and groaning some profanities. Ivan gripped the other one by the collar of his jacket and slammed him back against the campus wall.
"What the fuck, man!"
His breath stinks. Ivan's nose scrunched, narrowed eyes raking over the stranger in front of him. A frat boy from the looks of it. Square jaw, expensive wristwatch, a jacket with some pompous brand logo embroidered on the bottom hem. His hands came up - tanned, manicured with short nails - and they both gripped onto Ivan's wrist to tug and push. On those same hands were bruises. Painted across the knuckles, already a brownish yellow. The nail on the thumb was chipped.
The guy looked down. Saw what Ivan was looking at.
"Don't tell me that emo fag actually sent someone to beat us up," he let out a shaky laugh. The guy behind, still trying to stop the free flow of blood, swore and spat out red saliva.
The insult from the guy in his grip raises something. It's beneath the skin. A rabid, feral thing. It snarls its teeth and bites, foaming at the mouth with eyes white under the spotlight. Ivan grabbed the guy's head and rocketed it back against the brick wall.
A howl of pain erupted. The man's eyes are wide like they'd burst from their sockets. His breaths are stuttered, body locking in a pain filled shock. The guy groaning in the back said something, but Ivan can only hear his own heart in his ears. Listen to the way it tells him to keep going. To keep being bad. There's no one here to scold him, there's no one to tell him how to behave.
Then he's hit.
Pain spread through his left cheek. Black enveloped his vision for a moment and he thinks he's gone blind. Eye numb, mouth filling with the taste of rusted pennies. His cheek throbbed and he knows it will bruise by tonight.
The guy with a bloody nose looked momentarily victorious. Holding the hem of his jersey to his nose, his other hand still half-curled.
But he's too good. He's too behaved in a way Ivan wasn't. It's in his stance; in the way his eyes remain bright and fearful.
It's the beginning of a dog fight.
Ivan lunged. He bit. He's all savage movements and untamed momentum. Fists connect with flesh. One of the guys tries to sneak behind, but Ivan whirled around, baring teeth. Blood splattered on the grass, and the cold is replaced by the heat pumping in his veins. There's a flush to his cheeks, a hunger that grows. A large, gaping maw that takes precedence over the anger. Ivan only stops when it becomes too much. When the two guys are beaten, bloody, and they can't defend themselves anymore.
A tense silence settles over the three. Ivan swipes blood from his face, but it's no use. His cheek already feels numb. Bottom lip split.
He took a step forward and crouched down. Grabbed the jersey guy by the scruff and put their faces inches apart.
"Don't touch him again," Ivan whispered, dead eyes staring straight ahead. Seeing but not processing the man in front of him or his curled-up friend.
Ivan gets up. His hands ache and his heart is calm. There are two guys at his feet, moaning in pain and bleeding profusely. Ivan doesn't feel anything except disdain. Barely. "And work on your throws. They're shitty."
The walk to his car - a beat-up mustang with worn leather seats - is slow. During the fight one of the guys managed a kick to his ribs, and it hurt when he stretched or moved certain ways. As Ivan approached the parking lot it's almost a guarantee that someone would see his face and the smear of blood and the awkward walk. Maybe that someone would retrace his steps and go to the side of the courtyard and see the two men who lost.
The seats crinkled as Ivan sat down. Car door shut, there's only the familiar scent of mint and a musky, sandalwood cologne. Ivan turned his head, briefly recognized that his ears were ringing, and spotted Till's hoodie. It's black, threadbare, and there's a hideous skull painted on the back of it.
Ivan took it in hand and pressed it to his face.
The cologne is more potent. If he focused enough, he could imagine the fabric still warm from a body that was not his. Though that might just be the blood seeping into it.
He savors the scraps. The smell only brings awareness to the gaping, demanding hole in his chest.
Ivan catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror. A bruise was already bloomed on his left cheek and blood crusted below his nose. It painted his lips a darker red and smeared beneath on the chin. He blinked. Dark, lidded eyes stared back at him. He's not sure how he's supposed to feel.
Hungry. He's hungry.
The hoodie stays in one hand as he starts the car and slowly turned out of the university parking lot. It's near dark now, with the last of the day's sky a midnight blue. There are no stars tonight in favor of rolling clouds, grey and swollen with rain. It started drizzling as he took it easy, going five under the speed limit and driving away from the university into the suburbs. It's an artsy area; cafes and bookstores and vinyl shops he's been in too many times because Till insisted there was new stuff there every week. There was hardly ever new stuff. Music just fascinated him, and Ivan didn't mind going because he was with Till and anything was okay as long as Till was within sight. As long as Till looked at the same record of Nirvana with that gleam in his eyes and then put it back. Ivan would tell him to buy it. Till always said how he didn't need a limited edition and he was saving money for a new guitar. The last one broke in a stage accident, and he's been restlessly working side gigs to get enough money for another.
Ivan made a pit stop. A quick minute, then he's back in his car with damp hair and wet hands.
Till lived in a three-story house turned into sublets. The building was all chipped white paint and grimy windows. Vines crawled up from the unkept yard, and it choked the house little by little. It's not a dump, per say, but the only thing a poor college student can afford that's somewhat close to campus.
The front yard is tidier. No trash, grass mowed. There's nothing above average about it; there's no garden, not even a flower. Just trimmed square blocks of grass on the left and right, split by a cracked sidewalk. It went up to worn wooden stairs, and the paint chipped there too. Planks creaked under Ivan's feet as he walked up, car parked behind half on the street and half on the sidewalk. The police don't come here often enough for him to worry about getting a ticket. Even if he did get a write up, it was fine.
The small area in front of the door wasn't covered. It had been, at one point, with two rusted metal rods holding up a thick plastic covering. One day the poles had decided they had enough and collapsed. No one in the rental spaces nor the landlord bothered to fix it.
So it left Ivan standing there. Rain wetting his hair, rolling across his cheeks. Dripping on his shirt and having it stick to the skin. He didn't mind. It might be better, actually.
He pressed the third button down. It's a lazy doorbell system. The landlord might have thought he was doing something fancy and high tech, wiring three doorbells with one going to each of the floors. But it's loud and the beep is grainy. Even when inside, Ivan has heard the doorbell ring for the second and first floor. It does nothing but annoy the fuck out of Till.
One of the window's opened at the top. Brown hair peeked over.
"Here for Till?" Acorn asked, voice carrying down. He sighed then. "I don't even know why I ask. Gimme a second."
The window shut. Ivan waited. Waited outside in the rain, his bruised cheek pulsing with the rhythm of his heart. Blood no longer rolled over his tongue, but he can taste the bitter leftovers with it. Tongue sliding across teeth, prodding at the split lip. He caught sight of himself in the small window on the door. The pane breaks it up into four smaller squares and his face is warped in the glass.
He's not sure how to feel, staring at this thing that looked so much like him and so much like something else. Rain splattered over his image. Blurred the lines between the vacant expression and the desire that sticks out like the ribs of a starving dog. It is so, so apparent. It curled in his stomach, a nauseating feeling he doesn't know how to detangle. All he knows is that he is waiting. He is waiting outside the door, having done his deed of calling out for someone to come open it. He thinks his feet might be stuck there. That he will wait outside the door in the rain for as long as it takes, because that's loyal. Because that's good. He wished, then, that he had brought more. More of himself. More of something he had lost years ago when he was a child.
He is no better than a dog who brings dead things to the feet of someone he loves. Except the dead thing is him and he is dragging himself to Till's doorstep, again and again, waiting to be let in.
He doesn't know when it became like this. Can't remember when he became a hollow, desperate thing.
The door opened. Till is on the other side, the dim entryway light shining behind him. It gives a soft halo around his freshly dyed hair, the flimsy plastic gloves on his hands smeared with the same color. He looked annoyed.
Then his eyes catch the bruise and the blood and the sad sight of Ivan standing at the door, and he frowns. Concerned even though he'd deny it if Ivan teased him about it.
"What the fuck happened to you?" he asked, stepping aside to let Ivan in. "You look like shit."
Ivan smiled and stepped inside. Shook his hair out, making Till swear when some drops flung onto him. "Someone took their time coming down to open the door."
"I was dying my hair, moron. Text me next time so I know." Till should have known anyway, really. More times than not, Ivan came over on any given evening after classes.
Ivan can't do much now with being soaked, so he holds up the plastic bag in his right hand. "I brought snacks."
Till's eyes lighten. He is tempted to snatch the bag but doesn't, gaze going back to the water dripping off Ivan's shirt. "Whatever. Come upstairs before you flood the entry and my roommates get pissy."
The stairs groan horrendously as they make their way up. The carpet is so worn and threadbare, a forest green turning into a dull black and muddish color that did no favors. The paint on the walls was fresh, at the very least, but poorly done. A pastel yellow that came off unhygienic rather than happy, and the paint overlapped with some of the base boards and electrical outlets.
They get to the third floor and Till shakes off his slippers. Ivan too, stepping out of his sneakers and making way to Till's room without so much as asking. Not like Till minded, though he always made a face. Tried to be annoyed when Ivan shook out the bottom drawer of an oak wardrobe and found a neat pile of his shirts. Only three, and Ivan left them here after the umpteenth time of sleeping over and needing a fresh change of clothes. Till hadn't fought about it when Ivan brought them over one day and smushed Till's bunched, unrolled socks to the side to make room. He just huffed, muttering something under his breath, and Ivan was happy because he left another part of himself there. Right along the extra toothbrush and the large house slippers and the instant coffee packets he left in the kitchen cabinet closest to the sink.
Till asked the day Ivan brought over the coffee packets, telling him they had the ground beans for their drip pot. Ivan responded, saying that the ground beans tasted like shit. Till had thrown a book at him.
After sloughing his soaked shirt into the hamper and grabbing a dry one, Ivan went to the bathroom where Till already was. Instead of continuing to touch up his roots, the flimsy gloves were off and he was rifling through the bottom of the sink for the med kit.
"Sorry to ruin your pamper session," Ivan hummed, grabbing a clean towel off an overhead shelf and wiping himself dry. "I would have come with champagne and chocolate strawberries if I knew."
"Could you shut up?" When Till straightened, med kit in hand, he glanced back. Breath stuttering at the sight of a bare-chested Ivan and the expanse of pale skin. Faded scars. The bruise on his ribs. Till turned away sharply, fumbling the med kit open. "You started another fight, didn't you?"
Slipping on the shirt, Ivan isn't careful enough to not brush against Till. It's a small, cramped bathroom, and Ivan doesn't feel like doing a dance of distance. There's the heat in his busted face, a clawing between his ribs. "I didn't start it."
"Who threw the first punch?"
Ivan smirked.
Till rolled his eyes. "So you did fucking start it. You're always starting shit."
"No. They pissed me off first."
"How could anyone piss you off?"
"You piss me off all the time."
That earned him a hit. A slap on the shoulder, barely enough to actually hurt. Ivan wanted the impact to linger. The brief warmth of a hand, the fingers over his shirt.
"Just sit on the damn toilet."
Ivan did. Elbow leaning against the sink counter, hand in his hair. It smelled of Till's cologne and bleach.
Till ripped open an alcohol wipe and smoothed it over Ivan's face. Light over the bruise, uncharacteristically tender as the crusted blood flecked off. There's a sharp sting when the wipe grazes over the wound on his mouth. Ivan bit the inside of his cheek, gazing up.
Till stood above him, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth. Light brows furrowed, face scrunched. Always so expressive, even for the smallest things. He wore a baggy band shirt and sweatpants, the thick fabric sagging at the hips. Ivan reached his hand up, played with the hem of Till's shirt. A slight stiffening comes to Till's shoulders, but that's it. Ivan was still behaving. Still within bounds but edging the line.
"Who was it?" Till repeated then, after he threw the wipe away and got some aspirin and cream from the kit.
Ivan stared. Till only returned the gaze for a few seconds before pursing his mouth. Irritated.
"I dunno their names," Ivan lied. The fingers on Till's hem stretched. Brushed warm skin.
"Quit that." A swat at Ivan's hand. It's not hard to see the tips of his ears pinken. "So now you're letting some nobodies piss you off? Weren't you in stats with Mizi? Did they say something about her?"
Ivan frowned. His hand stayed on his lap approximately ten seconds before going back to the shirt hem. Till's eyebrow twitched, but he didn't swat again.
"No. It had nothing to do with Mizi." So stop talking about her. Ivan didn't want the Mizi fascination to come up. Not ever, but especially not right now. Knowing Till wouldn't let the topic drop and the fact he would figure it out sooner or later, Ivan relented. "It was the two guys who gave you issues last Wednesday."
The same fingers flex. Ivan knows Till will be upset by both his confession and the touch. But he wants it, badly, fingertips skimming across the yellow and brown bruise on Till's stomach.
"Why the fuck would you do that?" Till stepped back. Ruined the close proximity. Stared down at the mutt in his bathroom that limped from campus to his door, blood under the nails and in his teeth.
"I wanted to."
"Doesn't give you the right." He's pissed. Ivan knows this. Knew he would be the second he decided to fight the two guys who had ganged up on Till last week. He found it hard to regret it, even when Till curled his lip and turned away. "It was fine. I'm not some fucking damsel in distress where you clean up my shit. I don't need protection."
"I didn't say you were or that you did," Ivan said.
Till's teeth clicked together. "Clearly you thought so, being a dumbass and going to fight them and then coming here. Bet you got your fucking ass beat."
Ivan tilted his head. Watched the rage in Till's eyes, the way his hands stuffed the cream and meds back in the med kit. The disinfectant sat on Ivan's split lip, numbing it already. He didn't like the feeling, didn't like how it made his skin prickle.
"I did," Ivan lied. "They hit me pretty hard."
Till let out a noise of frustration. Threw the med kit under the sink and let the wooden cabinet bang shut. "You're a lying asshole. Don't take care of my fucking problems."
"Then you fight them next time instead of letting them walk away," Ivan frowned, voice low. "They were talking shit. I could hear them in class."
"I don't - I was going to do something, alright? Just stay out of my fucking business, Ivan. I'm serious. Stop...stop doing weird fucking shit in my name. I would have taken care of it." Till's face is flushed. It's clear he wants to strangle Ivan. Use those hands that just patched him up and ruin it all over again. Give him another shiner, another bruise on the skin.
Ivan would be mad. He'd let the punch hit anyway. Would bite back, desperate, a rush in his veins and the intense emotions blooming into something that made his heart race. He would leave a mark on Till's skin, all red and dented with the shape of his teeth. There would be a sliver of satisfaction, then, knowing that when he inevitably leaves in the morning Till will still see the mark and remember the dog who bit him.
Then, in the quiet, he would caress the marks Till left on his own skin. Remember the face Till made when he hit him and how that hand touched him, even for a second.
Some bad dogs tried to be good, but at the end of the day they can't help the selfishness that gnaws at their bones, desperate for attention and a touch, even if it hurt.
Acorn popped around the corner. He looked half sheepish, half exasperated. "Can you guys keep it down? I'm trying to study for a test tomorrow."
"Sorry," Till looked like the word was dragged from his lips, thorny and bitter.
Ivan doesn't say anything, but the half-assed apology is enough for Acorn, who promptly leaves the two back to their bickering.
It's quiet. The bathroom is too small and Ivan thinks it isn't small enough. He wants Till to step back between his legs, for those fingers to graze his face. Wants Till to look at him.
Look. Look at me. Tell me what you see and tell me it's something you want to keep around. Tell me i'm something you can feel something for.
"Did you need help finishing your hair?" Ivan asked instead, standing up. The hair dye supplies sat pushed to one side of the sink counter space; box for the dye, a small plastic bowl, and a shitty brush. The dye looks a little dried, foil in cluttered clumps in the corner and in the trash.
"No. I just need to rinse it out." Till's voice is still clipped.
Ivan stepped closer. Not in a way that aimed directly for Till, but with an angle that brushed their shoulders together. Hovering with an angle that looked like he meant to leave the bathroom.
"Did you eat dinner yet?"
Till worked his jaw. Stared at the ground, the counter, the shelves. "No."
"I'll make something then."
Ivan shut the door behind him. Kept his feet moving but didn't go anywhere. Slowly, slowly, did his feet stop moving. The sound softer, as if he had actually left.
Till sighed. It's a small breath Ivan could practically feel, hot and damp on the skin. The swear words that follow have his mouth crooking in a smile, and Till tears the shower curtain open. Mutters under his breath the words Ivan wants to hear, wants to swallow. He wants to taste every single one and let it wash over him. Let it help him understand Till's frustration and fear and care.
It doesn't. Ivan can't hear anything anymore as the showerhead turned on, water pelting at the ceramic tub.
Ivan leaves then, making his way past Acorn's room and the cramped living area, curving into the kitchen. It's somewhat clean and there's food in the fridge. Ivan picks through leftovers and a plethora of sauces, some eggs, and milk. He checked the pantry, seeing rice and noodles and dry cans of food bought months ago. Gross.
He settled on the frozen bag of chicken wings and rice. It's the best in there, and Ivan would force Till to eat some greens but apparently those were banned from the kitchen given there wasn't a single vegetable in there.
By the time Till came out, hair ruffled and damp and a new shirt on, the wings are sizzling in the pan and the rice is done. He also appeared to be in a better mood.
"Smells good," he muttered, eyeing the wings Ivan plated. He just put it on one plate instead of two, knowing they'd split. "Hell of a lot better than Acorn's cooking. He tried to make some dish when his girlfriend was over last night and almost set off the fire alarm."
Ivan forgot Acorn had a girlfriend. He saw her a few times when he came over for Till, but she mostly stayed in Acorn's room and Ivan didn't pay too much to anything in the unit besides Till.
"They still together? It's been..." he scooped the rice in two separate bowls. Slid one over to Till who caught it and grabbed forks from the drawer. Ivan can't remember how long Acorn had been dating. "What, years?"
"A year," Till corrected, padding over to the fridge. It opened, light inside flickering on. "And they're already talking about moving in together. Acorn's been looking at different places nearby, so i'll have to find another roommate."
Ivan hummed. He came close, bending over Till until his chest is against his back. Until he's salivating, tongue and teeth and lips inches from the skin. He grabbed the two beers Till was looking for, felt the slight tremor in Till's body beneath him.
"You can come live with me."
Till shot him an exasperated look. Shouldered him off. "No."
Ivan pouted. A grown man, trailing after Till once the fridge shut. "Why not? We have a spare bedroom, but Sua might be moving out soon to live with Mizi."
"Because I can't afford the rent where you live, and..." Till grabbed the rice bowls off the counter after sticking the forks in each. Ivan grabbed the plate of wings.
"And?"
"You're insufferable enough. It's like you fucking live here, with how much you come over," Till snapped.
Ivan smiled, pleased. "That's a great idea. I'll come live here and Mizi can move in with Sua back at the apartment."
"No!"
Acorn glowered at them as they walked by. Ivan didn't spare a glance back, trotting after Till until they got back into his bedroom. It's dark, with black sheets and posters plastered over the wall. An empty guitar case leaned against his closet door, which Ivan knew was a mess inside. Half of it was only used for clothes and the other half filled with music papers and trinkets and old shit Till refused to part with. It made Ivan smug, knowing that in that pile of stuff was a plushie he bought Till in middle school. It's an ugly bunny with dark fur and a jingling red collar. Ivan got it as a prank, but Till loved it. He brought it around with him for months afterward, until he got picked on one too many times by classmates and then kept it at home.
Now it's tucked in the closet. Right at the top so nothing smushed it.
"Why not? I don't have a lot of stuff. I'll just pack my clothes and move in when Acorn decides to drop you."
Till collapsed with a huff against the headboard of his bed. The frame creaked under the weight. Plates were put in the center as Ivan sat at the end of the bed and he tossed a beer to Till, who placed it on his bedside.
The space between them never felt greater. Ivan also feels like this is the correct place for him; at the end of the bed, close. Never what he wants, but something he is desperate enough to settle for.
"You're not moving in here either," Till takes an exaggerated bite of rice and winces at the hot food.
It'll burn the roof of his mouth. Ivan wished he could lick into it, feel the ridges and the way the skin tightened.
"Why?"
Till glared. "You have a nice place already. This is a shithole. There's no point of you moving over here when your place works just fine."
"But you still need a roommate," Ivan took a sip of beer and put it to the side. "Fine. What if it's not me? What if your landlord allows some slob into Acorn's room? What if it's some nerd who never showers and leaves plates everywhere and tells you your music is too loud?"
Till's face scrunched up at the mere thought. He glances to his empty guitar case, the semi clean state of his room. Till isn't the cleanest person ever, so if his potential new roommate was a bit messy then it's fine. But his music? Acorn was a saint; he never complained when Till was into his third hour of guitar practice or mixing tracks late into the night. He would tell Till of times he couldn't, like if he had a meeting or was having people over, but otherwise it was fair game.
When he swallowed some chicken, he did so with a sour face. "I'll worry about it when I get to it."
Ivan understood why Till was so against him moving in, and it frustrated him. Would it matter if he promised to behave? If he promised to listen, to be good?
No. Ivan's teeth scraped against the chicken bone. Juices covered his fingers and he felt ravenous.
Till knew what kind of person he was. Promises didn't do anything except make him more defensive. It doesn't do anything except make Till angry. Ivan wants him to listen to the words that bubble up like foam at the mouth:
I would do anything for you. I don't understand this feeling inside me and I don't understand you. I do everything and somehow, I am still always wrong.
"When you get to it," Ivan repeated. He is not foaming at the mouth. He feels a tightness around his throat, but he is not snapping and he is trying very hard to be good. "Just remember that i'm offering. It would be easier, but if you don't want me around, that's okay."
Till glanced up. The dim light from the lamps around his room create a glitter in his eyes. For a second, Ivan cannot read him. Not in the way he usually knows, where Till's nose wrinkled and his mouth twists and there's a hundred feelings bubbling up just for one thing. It's empty. He stared back, and he is painfully aware of how Till might be able to see him. Might be able to see the rotten, mangy thing he is, and how he carries the need and something feral in the marrow of his bones.
"Did Unsha reach out?" Till asked.
Ivan blinked. Set the chicken bone to the side, thinking. "No. Last time was about a month ago. He might be getting updates from Sua."
Till blew on his rice. Lessoned learned. "Don't know why you don't block the bastard."
Ivan had his reasons. A number of them, and he didn't want to think about a single one at the moment.
"Can you hand over the bag I brought?" he asked. When he came in he had put it on Till's bed, knowing they'd get around to it later. It laid closer to Till, but he could have easily gotten it himself if he wanted.
Till rolled his eyes and leaned forward. "Lazy ass."
When he gripped one of the plastic hand holds, the contents shifted. Teal eyes locked onto the beige and red flat square that tipped over.
"No fucking way."
Till tore open the bag. A few snacks did fall out, yes, but his hands grappled for the limited-edition Nirvana vinyl. It's wrapped in plastic, the anatomic body of the woman clear as day with burgundy wings fanned across the cover.
"Ivan."
"Say my name again, just like that."
Till fluttered his hand, as if half between slapping Ivan and - impossibly, Ivan thinks - hug him.
"Shut up. You didn't...you didn't?" It's a question that's already very clearly answered. He flips the album over carefully, sees the splash of faint red organs and limbs and flowers on the backside of the cover. It's real and it's sitting in his hands.
A breath leaves Till, as if to deflate the confused high he feels. The excitement, the rush. He can hardly figure out how to adjust his body, as if the reaction is growing outside of him. It can't be contained in all the limbs and the big heart and the way his lungs expanded.
Ivan waits.
"Ivan," Till repeats despite himself, "You -"
"If you tell me to return it, i'm snapping it in half. Right in front of your face."
Till makes a pained noise and clutched the vinyl close. "This is expensive. Way too expensive."
"I got promoted recently."
"...you don't have a job?"
Ivan tapped his finger against the duvet. "I'll snap it."
"Fuck, don't! Fine, i'm keeping it." Till smoothed his palm over the cover. The plastic sifts with the touch.
"And what do we say when someone does something nice?" Ivan teased, fully expecting Till to scoff or tell him to fuck off.
Instead, Till looks up with eyes that hold such softness Ivan can't help but choke. His fingers freeze on the mattress, muscles in his shoulders taunt. The gaze, wide and genuine and so tender, knocks him down. Leaves him more breathless than when the guy had kneed his ribs.
"Thanks, Ivan," he murmured, glancing back down at the vinyl, "I really love...I really love it."
Ivan wants to lunge.
He wants to rip that vinyl from Till's grip and make him see the way he's suffocating. The rabid way his pupils dilated, gleaming, hungry. He's starved, and Till had tossed him a bloody steak. He has pulled at the leash and Ivan is frothing, desperate, digging his nails into the feeling as it slips away far too quickly. He doesn't know how to savor it. The crumbs, the scraps, the attention thrown at him. He scarfed it down the moment Till set it at his feet. He fears he will never know how to slow down. If it'll ever be enough.
"Play it," is all Ivan managed to say, his voice a rasp.
Till looked ready to, only hesitating when a loud groan of frustration comes from down the hall.
"Acorn's studying. We can play it tomorrow."
"Play the damn vinyl, Till," Ivan said. Pleaded. He needed something. Something bigger than this, a distraction, some noise to keep his mind from spiraling.
Till snorted. "And I thought I was excited."
He goes to the vinyl player in his room, brimming with enthusiasm. He lifts the glass, then the tone arm. The plastic over the vinyl crinkled as he tore it open. Carefully, like holding jewels, he slides out the first disk. It shines under the light and he holds it by the sides. Slides it so the center spindle sits dead center.
Instrumentals from Serve the Servants float into the room when the needle touches down. A clack of drumsticks, a chaotic clash of strings and drums. Then it falls into a cohesive harmony and Till flops back on the bed, careful not to land on any of the food. Lyrics come soon after. Till had put the volume at a lower level, still careful of Acorn's judgement.
Ivan didn't care. He hardly listened to the lyrics. His gaze was focused on Till's outstretched hand and how easy it would be to grasp it. Would Till let him? Ivan thinks he would, with how elated he is. Till might not even feel it.
Ivan wants to risk it. He feels the impulse in his chest. Feels his fingers twitch, sliding an inch closer on the smooth fabric of Till's blanket. Ivan slowly sinks until he is laying down too, black hair fanning on the surface. Like this, the fingers are centimeters apart. He can do it. He can swallow back the beastly thing crawling up his throat and touch -
Bad.
He hesitated. Shallow breaths have the scent of Till washing over him. Ivan turned his head a miniscule, nose brushing the bedding.
Till, Till, Till.
He smells him. Sees him. Wants to know if he can touch and taste and if Till will ask him to stay forever, right at the edge of his bed. He can be good, curled up here and waiting. He would be in the same bed and that would be enough. It has to be.
Ivan tried to be good. Tried to understand what can make him good.
Is wanting to be good enough? Has Ivan ever been good? Maybe the story isn't about a good dog, but one that lost its way. Got roughed up. A dog who learned to play tricks that left him empty even when others praised him for it. And he bit. No one wanted to be with a dog that bit, even if it's because that's what kept him alive. Ivan wonders if that's what it is. If he is stuck in some dark place, looking out, and Till knows. Till takes pity. Till looks at him with those achingly tender eyes and Ivan can feel himself caving in, wanting to do better. Wanting to give more than he is.
But old dogs can't learn new tricks, after all.